A Guest at the Ludlow, and Other Stories

by Bill Nye

  THE AUTOMATIC BELL BOY

  XXVIII

  Little did B. Franklin wot when he baited his pin hook with a goodconductor and tapped the low browed and bellowing storm nimbus with hisbuoyant kite, thus crudely acquiring a pickle jar of electricity, thatthe little start he then made would be the egg from which inventors andscientists would hatch out the system which now not only encircles theglobe with messages swifter than the flight of Phoebus, but that anonthe light of day would be filtered through a cloud of cables loaded withdestruction sufficient for a whole army, and the air be filled withdeath-dealing, dangling wires.

  Little did he know that he was bottling an agent which has since pulledout the stopper with its teeth and grown till it overspreads the sky,planting its bare, bleak telegraph poles along every highway, carryingday messages by night and night messages when it gets ready, filling theair with its rusty wings--provided, of course, that such agents wearwings--and with the harsh, metallic, ghoulish laughter of thesignal-key, all the while resting one foot on the neck of the sender andone on the neck of the recipient, defying aggregated humanity to do itsworst, and commanding all civilization, in terse, well-chosen terms, toeither fish, cut bait or go ashore.

  Could Benjamin have known all this at the time, possibly he might haveconsidered it wisdom to go in when it rained.

  I am not an old fogy, though I may have that appearance, and I rejoiceto see the world move on. One by one I have laid aside my ownencumbering prejudices in order to keep up with the procession. Have Inot gradually adopted everything that would in any way enhance myopportunities for advancement, even through tedious evolution, from thepaper collar up to the finger bowl, eyether, and nyether?

  This should convince the reader that I am not seeking to clog thewheels of progress. I simply look with apprehension upon any greatcentralization of wealth or power in the hands of any one man who notonly does as he pleases with said wealth and power, but who, as I aminformed, does not read my timely suggestions as to how he shall usethem.

  To return, however, to the subject of electricity. I have recentlysought to fathom the style and _motif_ of a new system which is to beintroduced into private residences, hotels, and police headquarters. Inprivate houses it will be used as a burglar's welcome. In hotels it willtake the mental strain off the bell-boy, relieving him also of a portionof his burdensome salary at the same time. In the police department itwill do almost everything but eat peanuts from the corner stands.

  I saw this system on exhibition in a large room, with the signals orboxes on one side and the annunciator or central station on the other.By walking from one to the other, a distance in all of thirty or fortymiles, I was enabled to get a slight idea of the principle.

  In hotels it will take the mental strain off thebell-boy, relieving him also of a portion of his burdensome salary atthe same time (Page 256)]

  It is certainly a very intelligent system. I never felt my owninferiority any more than I did in the presence of this wonderfulinvention. It is able to do nearly anything, it seems to me, and themain drawback appears to be its great versatility, on account of whichit is so complex that in order to become at all intimate with it apoliceman ought to put in two years at Yale and at least a year atLeipsic. An extended course of study would perfect him in this line, buthe would not then be content to act as a policeman. He would aspire tobe a scientist, with dandruff on his coat collar and a far-away look inhis eye.

  Then, again, take the hotel scheme, for instance. We go to a dial whichis marked Room 32. There we find that by treating it in a certain way itwill announce to the clerk that Room 32 wants a fire, ice-water, pens,ink, paper, lemons, towels, fire-escape, Milwaukee Sec, pillow-shams, acopy of this book, menu, croton frappe, carriage, laundry, physician,sleeping-car ticket, berth-mark for same, Halford sauce, hot flat-ironfor ironing trousers, baggage, blotter, tidy for chair, or any of thosethings. In fact, I have not given half the list on this barometerbecause I could not remember them, though I may have added others whichare not there. The message arrives at the office, but the clerk isengaged in conversation with a lady. He does not jump when the alarmsounds, but continues the dialogue. Another guest wires the office thathe would like a copy of the _Congressional Record_. The message is filedaway automatically, and the thrilling conversation goes on. Then No.7-5/8 asks to have his mail sent up. No. 25 wants to know what time the'bus leaves the house for the train going East, and whether that trainwill connect at Alliance, Ohio, with a tide-water train for Cleveland intime to catch the Lake Shore train which will bring him into New York at7:30, and whether all those trains are reported on time or not, and ifnot will the office kindly state why? Other guests also manifest morbidcuriosity through their transmitters, but the clerk does not getexcited, for he knows that all these remarks are filed away in the largeblack walnut box at the back of the office. When he gets ready,provided he has been through a course of study in this brand ofbusiness, he takes one room at a time, and addressing a pale young"Banister Polisher" by the name of "Front," he begins to scatter totheir destinations, baggage, towels, morning papers, time-tables, etc.,all over the house.

  It is also supposed to be a great time-saver. For instance, No. 8 wantsto know the correct time. He moves an indicator around like thecombination on a safe, reads a few pages of instructions, and thenpushes a button, perhaps. Instead of ringing for a boy and having towait some time for him, then asking him to obtain the correct time atthe office and come back with the information, conversing with variouspeople on his way and expecting compensation for it, the guest can askthe office and receive the answer without getting out of bed. You leavea call for a certain hour, and at that time your own private gong willmake it so disagreeable for you that you will be glad to rise. Again, ifyou wish to know the amount of your bill, you go through certainexercises with the large barometer in your room; and, supposing you havebeen at the house two days and have had a fire in your room three times,and your bill is therefore $132.18, the answer will come back and beannounced on your gong as follows: _One_, pause, _three_, pause, _two_,pause, _one_, pause, _eight_. When there is a cipher in the amount I donot know what the method is, but by using due care in making up the billthis need not occur.

  For police and fire purposes the system shows a wonderful degree ofintelligence, not only as a speedy means of conveying calls for the firedepartment, health department, department of street cleaning, departmentof interior and good of the order, but it furnishes also a method oftransmitting emergency calls, so that no citizen--no matter how poor orunknown--need go without an emergency. The citizen has only to turn thecrank of the little iron marten-house till the gong ceases to ring, thenpush on the "Citizens' button," and he can have fun with most anyemergency he likes. Should he decide, however, to shrink from theemergency before it arrives, he can go away from there, or secretehimself and watch the surprise of the ambulance driver or the firedepartment when no mangled remains or forked fire fiend is found in thatregion.

  This system is also supposed to keep its eye peeled for policemen andinform the central station where each patrolman is all the time; also asto his temperature, pulse, perspiration and breath. It keeps a record ofthis at the main office on a ticker of its own, and the information maybe published in the society columns of the papers in the morning. Itenables a citizen to use his own discretion about sounding an alarm. Hehas only to be a citizen. He need not be a tax-payer or a vox populi.Should he be a citizen, or declare his intention to become such, or eventhough he be a voter only, without any notion of ever being a citizen,he can help himself to the fire department or anything else by ringingup the central station.

  Electricity and spiritualism have arrived at that stage of perfectionwhere a coil of copper wire and a can of credulity will accomplish agreat deal. The time is coming when even more surprising wonders will beworked, and with electric wires, the rapid transit trains, and theEnglish sparrows all under the ground, the dawn of a better and brighterday will be ushered in. The car-driver and the tr
uck-man will then liedown together, Boston will not rise up against London, he thatheretofore slag shall go forth no more for to slug, and the czar willput aside his tailor-made boiler-iron underwear and fearlessly canvassthe nihilist wards in the interest of George Kennan and reform, nit.

  THE END.

  * * * * *

  AN ARTICLE ON THE WRITINGS OF

  James Whitcomb Riley

  BY "CHELIFER"

  THE AMBROSIA OF JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

  "Chelifer" in "The Bookery."--Godey's Magazine.

  There are writers that take Pegasus on giddier flights of fancy, andwriters that sit him more grandly, and writers that put him throughdaintier paces, and writers that burden him with anguish nearer that ofthe dread Rider of the White Horse, and there are writers that make hima very bucking broncho of wit, but there is no one that turns Pegasusinto just such an ambling nag of lazy peace and pastoral content asJames--I had almost said Joshua Whitcomb--Riley. If you want a panaceafor the bitterness and the fret and the snobbishness and pretension andunsympathy and the commercial ambition and worry and the other cankersthat gnaw and gnaw the soul, just throw a leg over the back of Riley'sPegasus, "perfectly safe for family driving," let the reins hang looseas you sag limply in your saddle, and gaze through drowsy eyes while theamiable old beast jogs down lanes blissful with rural quietude, throughfarmyards full of picturesque rustics and through the streets of quaintvillages. Then utter rest and a peace akin to bliss will possess yoursoul.

  To make readers content with life and glad to live is one of the mostdazzlingly magnificent deeds in the power of an artist. This is toolittle appreciated in the melodramatic theatricism of our life. Thisgenius for soothing the reader with a pathos that is not anguish and ahumor that is not cynicism, this genius belongs to Mr. Riley in adegree I have found in no other writer in all literature.

  Of course, Mr. Riley is essentially a lyric poet. But his spirit is thatof Walt Whitman; he speaks the universal democracy, the equality of man,the hatred of assumption and snobbery, that our republic stands for, ifit stands for anything. Now downright didacticism in a poet is anabomination. But if a poet has no right to ponder the meanings ofthings, the feelings of man for man and the higher "criticism of life,"then no one has. If to Pope's "The proper study of mankind is man," youadd "nature" and "nature's God," you will fairly well outline the poet'sfield.

  Mere art (Heaven save the "mere"!) is not, and has never been, enough toplace a poet among the great spirits of the world. It has furnished anumber of nimble mandolinists and exquisite dilettantsfor lazy moods. But great poetry must always be something more thansweetmeats; it must be food--temptingly cooked, winningly served, wellspiced and well accompanied, but yet food to strengthen the blood andthe sinews of the soul.

  Therefore I make so bold as to insist that even in a lyrist there shouldbe something more than the prosperity or the dirge of personal _amours_:there should be a sympathy with the world-joy, the world-suffering, andthe world-kinship. It is this attitude toward lyric poetry that makes methink Mr. Riley a poet whose exquisite art is lavished on humanity sodeep-sounding as to commend him to the acceptance of immortality amongthe highest lyrists.

  Horace was an acute thinker and a frank speaker on the problems of life.This didacticism seems not to have harmed his artistic welfare, for hehas undoubtedly been the most popular poet that ever wrote. Consider themagnitude and the enthusiasm of his audience! He has been the personalchum of everyone that ever read Latinity. But Horace, when not exaltedwith his inspired preachments on the art of life and the arts of poetryand love, was a bitter cynic redeemed by great self-depreciation andjoviality. The son of a slave, he was too fond of court life to talkdemocracy.

  Bobby Burns was a thorough child of the people, and is more like Mr.Riley in every way than any other poet. Yet he, too, had a viciouscynicism, and he never had the polished art that enriches some of Mr.Riley's non-dialectic poetry, as in parts of his fairy fancy, "TheFlying Islands of the Night."

  Burns never had the versatility of sympathy that enables Mr. Riley towrite such unpastoral masterpieces as "Anselmo," "The Dead Lover," "AScrawl," "The Home-going," some of his sonnets, and the noble versesbeginning

  "A monument for the soldiers! And what will ye build it of?"

  Yet it must be owned that Burns is in general Mr. Riley's prototype. Mr.Riley admits it himself in his charming verses "To Robert Burns."

  "Sweet singer, that I lo'e the maist O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste I smacket bairn lips ower the taste O' hinnied sang."

  The classic pastoral poets, Theokritos, Vergandil, the others, sang withan exquisite art, indeed, yet their farm-folk were really Dresden-chinashepherds and shepherdesses speaking with affected simplicity or withimpossible elegance. Theokritos, like Burns and Riley, wrote partly indialect and partly in the standard speech, and to those who are neverreconciled to anything that can quote no "authority," there should besufficient justification for dialect poetry in this divine Sicilianmusician of whom his own Goatherd might have said:

  "Full of fine honey thy beautiful mouth was, Thyrsis, created Full of the honeycomb; figs AEgilean, too, mayest thou nibble, Sweet as they are; for ev'n than the locust more bravely thou singest."

  I have no room to argue the _pro's_ of dialect here, but it always seemsstrange that those lazy critics who are unwilling to take the trouble totranslate the occasional hard words in a dialect form of their owntongue, should be so inconsistent as ever to study a foreign language.Then, too, dialect is necessary to truth, to local color, to intimacywith the character depicted. Besides, it is delicious. There issomething mellow and soul-warming about a plebeian metathesis like"congergation." What orthoepy could replace lines like these?:

  "Worter, shade and all so mixed, don't know which you'd orter Say, th' _worter_ in the shadder--_shadder_ in the _worter_!"

  One thing about Mr. Riley's dialect that may puzzle those not familiarwith the living speech of the Hoosiers, is his spelling, which ischiefly done as if by the illiterate speaker himself. Thus"rostneer-time" and "ornry" must be AEolic Greek to those barbarians whohave never heard of "roasting-ears" of corn or of that contemptuoussynonym for "vulgar," "common," which is smoothly elided,"or(di)n(a)ry." Both of these words could be spelled with a suggestiveand helpful use of apostrophes: "roast'n'-ear," and or'n'ry.

  Jumbles like "jevver" for "did you ever?" and the like can hardly bespelled otherwise than phonetically, but a glossary should be appendedas in Lowell's "Biglow Papers," for the poems are eminently worth evenlexicon-thumbing. Another frequent fault of dialect writers is thespelling phonetically of words pronounced everywhere alike. Thus"enough" is spelled "enuff," and "clamor," "clammer," though Dr. Johnsonhimself would never have pronounced them otherwise. In thesemisspellings, however, Mr. Riley excuses himself by impersonating anilliterate as well as a crude-speaking poet. But even then he isinconsistent, and "hollowing" becomes "hollerin'," with an apostrophe tomark the lost "g"--that abominable imported harshness that ought to begenerally exiled from our none too smooth language. Mr. Riley haswritten a good essay in defense of dialect, which enemies of this formof literature might read with advantage.

  But Mr. Riley has written a deal of most excellent verse that is not indialect. One whole volume is devoted to a fairy extravaganza called "TheFlying Islands of the Night," a good addition to that quaint literatureof lace to which "The Midsummer Night's Dream," Herrick's "Oberon'sEpithalamium," or whatever it is called, Drake's "Culprit Fay," andother bits of most exquisite foolery belong. While hardly a completesuccess, this diminutive drama contains some curiously delightfulconceits like this "improvisation:"

  "Her face--her brow--her hair unfurled!-- And O the oval chin below, Carved, like a cunning cameo, With one exquisite dimple, swirled With swimming shine and shade, and whirled The daintiest vortex poets know-- The sweetest whirlpool ever twirled By Cupid's finger-tip--and so, The deadliest maelstrom in the world!"


  It is a strange individuality that Mr. Riley has, suggesting numerousother masters--whose influence he acknowledges in special odes--and yetall digested and assimilated into a marked individuality of his own. Hehas studied the English poets profoundly and improved himself upon them,till one is chiefly impressed, in his non-dialectic verse, with hisrefinement, subtlety, and ease. He has a large vocabulary, and hisfelicity is at times startling. Thus he speaks of water "chuckling,"which is as good as Horace's ripples that "gnaw" the shore. Note themastery of such lines as

  "And the dust of the road is like velvet."

  "Nothin' but green woods and clear Skies and unwrit poetry By the acre!"

  "Then God smiled and it was morning!"

  Life is "A poor pale yesterday of Death."

  "And O I wanted so To be felt sorry for!"

  "Always suddenly they are gone, The friends we trusted and held secure."

  "At utter loaf."

  "Knee-deep in June."

  --But I can not go on quoting forever.

  Technically, Mr. Riley is a master of surpassing finish. His meters areperfect and varied. They flow as smoothly as his own Indiana streams.His rimes are almost never imperfect. To prove his own understanding hehas written one _scherzo_ in technic that is a delightful example of badrime, bad meter, and the other earmarks of the poor poet. It is "EzraHouse," and begins:

  "Come listen, good people, while a story I do tell Of the sad fate of one I knew so passing well!"

  The "do" and the "so" are the unfailing index of crudity. Then we haverimes like "long" and "along" (it is curious that modern English is theonly tongue that finds this repetition objectionable); "moon" and"tomb," "well" and "hill," and "said" and "denied" are others, and thewhole thing is an enchanting lesson in How Poetry Should Not be Written.

  Mr. Riley is fond of dividing words at the ends of lines, but always ina comic way, though Horace, you remember, was not unwilling to use itseriously, as in his

  "----U- Xorius amnis."

  Mr. Riley's animadversions on "Addeliney Bowersox" constitute afascinating study in this effect. He is also devoted to dividing anadjective from its noun by a line-end. This is a trick of Poe's, whoseinfluence Mr. Riley has greatly profited by. In his dialect poetry Mr.Riley gets just the effect of the jerky drawl of the Hoosier by usingthe end of a line as a knife, thus:

  "The wood's Green again, and sun feels good's June!"

  His masterly use of the caesura is notable, too. See its charmingdespotism in "Griggsby Station."

  But it is not his technic that makes him ambrosial, not the loving care_ad unguem_ that smooths the uncouthest dialect into lilting tunefulnesswithout depriving it of its colloquial verisimilitude--it is none ofthese things of mechanical inspiration, but the spirit of the man, hisdemocracy, his tenderness, the health and wealth of his sympathies. Ifhe uses "memory" a little too often as a vehicle for his rural pictures,the utter charm of the pictures is atonement enough. He has caught thereal American. He is the laureate of the bliss of laziness. His childpoems are the next best thing to the child itself; they have all theinfectious essence of gayety, and all the _naivete_, and all theknife-like appeal. It could not reasonably be demanded that his proseshould equal the perfection of his verse, but nothing more eerie hasever been done than the little story, "Where is Mary Alice Smith?" withits strange use of rime at the end.

  Of all dialect writers he has been the most versatile. Think of theauthor of "The Raggedy Man" or "Orphant Annie" writing one of the finestsonnets in the language! this one which I must quote here as a nobleending to my halt praise:

  "Being his mother, when he goes away I would not hold him overlong, and so Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay, Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow;

  "Let his remembered features, as I pray, Smile ever on me. Ah! what stress of love Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise: Its fullest speech ever to be denied Mine own--being his mother! All thereof Thou knowest only, looking from the skies As when not Christ alone was crucified."

  Life is the more tolerable, the more full of learned sympathy, andthereby of joy and value, for the very existence of such a man.

  * * * * *

  LIST OF MR. RILEY'S BOOKS.

  A CHILD WORLD. (NEW.) Tales in verse of childhood days. Cloth, 12mo,$1.25. Half calf, $2.50. Hand-made Paper edition, bound uniform with"Old Fashioned Roses," $2.

  NEGHBORLY POEMS, including "The Old Swimmin' Hole," by Benjamin F.Johnson, of Boone (James Whitcomb Riley.) Cloth, illustrated, 12mo,$1.25. Half calf, $2.50.

  SKETCHES IN PROSE, and Occasional Verses. Cloth, $1.25. Half calf,$2.50.

  AFTERWHILES. Sixtieth thousand. With Portrait. Cloth, $1.25. Half calf,$2.50.

  PIPES O' PAN AT ZEKESBURY. Five Sketches and fifty Poems. Cloth, $1.25.Half calf, $2.50.

  RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD. Dialect and other Verses. With Portrait. Cloth,$1.25. Half calf, $2.50.

  THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT. A Fantastic Drama in Verse. Cloth,$1.25. Half calf, $2.50.

  GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS. Dialect and Serious Poems. WithPortrait. Cloth, Illustrated, $1.25. Half calf, $2.50.

  ARMAZINDY. Hoosier Harvest Airs, Feigned Forms, and Child Rhymes. Cloth,$1.25. Half calf, $2.50.

  OLD FASHIONED ROSES. A selection of popular Poems, from Mr. Riley'sWorks. Printed in England. 16mo, uncut, $1.75.

  AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE. Illustrated in colors. Oblong 4to, $2.50.

  A UNIFORM EDITION of Mr. Riley's Works in 9 volumes, 12mo, cloth, perset, $11.25. Half calf, 9 volumes, 12mo, per set, $22.50. Published byThe Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis and Kansas City. Sent post-paid toany address on receipt of the price.