Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged. In particular the spelling of proper
names viz. Catharine of Arragon remain.
In chapter XI:
"By the bye," I put in, "it seems to me the
Morman has the biggest kick coming against
his wives' mothers, yet I've never heard a word....
Morman is almost certainly Mormon or Mormon man.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.
THE ASBESTOS SOCIETY
OF SINNERS
The Asbestos
Society
of Sinners
Detailing the Diversions of Dives and others on the Playground
of Pluto, with some broken threads of Drop-stitch
History, picked up by a Newspaper man
in Hades and woven into a Stygian Nights’
Entertainment.
BY
LAWRENCE DANIEL FOGG
MAYHEW PUBLISHING COMPANY
92-100 Ruggles Street
Boston, Mass.
Copyright, 1906
by
Lawrence Daniel Fogg
_All Rights Reserved._
Dedicated to
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
Who first made Hades a pleasant place of abode and aroused
in his reader a desire to go cruising on the Styx
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. THE SUMMONS FROM SATAN 3
II. SHADY SINNERS OF THE STYX 15
III. JOHN BROWN’S BODY AND THE BONES
OF JOHN PAUL JONES 31
IV. HENRY THE EIGHTH AND HIS HAREM
IN HADES 47
V. WHAT METHUSELAH THINKS OF
DR. OSLER 63
VI. THE VIRGIN THRONED IN THE WEST:
A TABLOID TANGLE OF LOVE
AND HISTORY 75
VII. “BOSS” TWEED ON TAINTED MONEY,
WITH SOME NONSENSE DEFINITIONS
OF FADS AND FINANCE 95
VIII. HOW THE CREATION CENTERED ABOUT
A PETTICOAT: A REVISED VERSION OF
DARWIN’S “ASCENT OF MAN” 107
IX. WHEN ADAM WAS A BOY: RANDOM
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OLDEST
INHABITANT 119
X. ELECTION DAY BEYOND THE STYX 129
XI. NOAH’S PERSONALLY-CONDUCTED
EXCURSION TO EARTH 143
XII. THE MAN WITH THE MEGAPHONE 153
EPILOGUE. THE LAND OF FULFILLED DESIRE 167
_Pleasantries in Passing._
_John Kendrick Bangs, House-boat-on-the-Styx, care The Century
Association, New York—Perhaps you, as self-elected jester at the court
of the Son of the Morning, will wonder that a newspaper man should
deliberately set out on a pilgrimage to Hades. I have often been told I
ought to go there, but I pause on the banks of the Styx for reflection
ere I rush in where all but fools fear to tread. Yet in mirroring
forth the doings of the diocese of Bishop Beelzebub, I shall cast no
reflections save on the dead, who can reflect no more, and like that
other clown, more famous than I, will “use the devil himself with
courtesy.” Having been an iconoclast, and as it is only a step from the
breaking of idols to the smashing of trusts, I have had the temerity to
dream of ending the monopoly of the particular section of the universe
hitherto sacred to Lucifer and Bangs. As you have a copyright on Hades,
you could make it hot for me if I invaded your territory without
permission, so I ask you for a “dead head” pass. I don’t claim more
than my rightful share; there will still be room enough for both of us
to roast chestnuts on the other side of the Styx._
_Pardon this discomfiture of sense by nonsense, yet I am not going
to make an excuse for this abuse of absurdities, for what is nonsense
but the flower of sense, the wine of wit, the harmony of humor sounded
by an organ crankless, the pipe of Pan replaced by one of briar
wood? But as Princess Scheherazade might have said: “That’s another
kind of a smoke as well as another kind of a story.” Even in this
“Stygian Nights’ Entertainment,” I cannot hope to equal her record of
a “Thousand Nights and One”—whether I mean spent in story-telling or
smoking in Hades I leave to your imagination. But then, I am not a
woman!_
_As Hell has ceased to have a place in theology, there is no reason
why the devil should not get his due in fiction. Emigration will set
his way as soon as the character of the Cimmerian climate becomes
definitely ascertained, but my trip to Hades will be more than a
climatological tour. While in the interest of science, my subterranean
explorations ought to point a pun and tangle a tale._
_Your “farthest south” was to the Styx. I shall not linger there, but
if I can elude Cerberus, I shall slip through the gates where we are
told to “abandon hope,” and take up my habitation in Hades, with daily
commutation to New York. Methinks the inquisitor of the fountain pen
ought to have as much fun from a frolic with the heroes of history in
their present abode as the inquisitor of the fork and flame._
_Nor do I fear that this Stygian sequel to “the history that is
written” will be shunned as something sacrilegious, for the average
American is so generous regarding bookmakers that he will buy anything,
concerning anything, at any time and in any place. He will not even
register a protest on the ledger of the Hotel Hereafter!_
_If you will permit a newspaper man to go on a second “Pursuit of the
Houseboat,” I would like to dedicate this account of a trip to the
playground of Pluto to the man who blazed the way to Hell. May I have
a shady corner in Hades, with the degree—three above zero—of A. S. S.,
meaning, of course, member of the Asbestos Society of Sinners?_
_Till death do us unite beyond the Styx, and assuring you of a warm
reception, weatherwise and otherwise, when you too shall get a summons
from Satan, believe me, happy to go_
_After you, my dear Bangs_,
_LAWRENCE DANIEL FOGG_.
_Castle Craig,
The Hanging Hills,
Meriden, Connecticut.
All Fools’ Day (April 1)._
* * * * *
_My dear Mr. Fogg—Although many critics have given me Hades, I have
never recorded any exclusive claim to its possession. You are therefore
wholly at liberty to go there yourself—for literary purposes only, I
hope—in so far as I am concerned. As for the dedication, I feel highly
honored and send you my most cordial thanks for the compliment._
_Faithfully yours_,
_JOHN KENDRICK BANGS_.
_The Century Association,
New York, N. Y.
Moving Day (May 1)._
THE SUMMONS FROM SATAN.
CHAPTER I.
The Summons from Satan.
While waiting for an assignment, in the local room of the New York
Universe, I began to while away the time by reading the fulsome
effusions of the press agent of Greater Luna Park. They aroused in me
the spirit of covetousness—I envied the press agent his vocabulary,
which put the supply of superlatives into bankruptcy; and I was jealous
of the success of Thompson & Dundy, whom I hoped some day to rival.
Their first success had come with “A Trip to the Moon;” why might not I—
“Go to Hell,” I read on the paper which the “copy” boy just then thrust
into my hand. Before I could question him, the “devil” had gone.
I glanced suspiciously at my fellow-scribes to see who had perpetrated
the joke, if such it was, but no one seemed to be watching what effect
the command had upon me. I again examined the odd message. It was in
the handwriting of Mr. Burroughs, the city editor, so to him I went.
Holding out the slip of paper, I said:
“I have just received an assignment to ‘cover’ a certain subterranean
resort named after the box in which printers throw battered type, but
as the route there is unfamiliar, I have come to you for instructions.”
The “czar” of the city room frowned, but on reading the missive the
frown was succeeded by an amused smile.
“Who gave you this?” he asked.
“The ‘devil’.”
“That is evident from its contents. It must have been that new boy
Jake, who took the slip off my desk when a telephone call interrupted
me as I was writing. Had I completed the message it would have read ‘Go
to Hellgate.’ A wreck has just occurred there and our marine reporter
has telephoned for assistance. However, you are aware that I have made
it a rule never to change an assignment. I make no exception in your
case to-night.”
“What!” I gasped.
“Remember also that this paper never accepts an excuse. You must either
hand in your story or your resignation. Perhaps I ought to explain
further, though the Universe has no place for the newspaper man who
cannot achieve the impossible or for the reporter who wants a reason
for what he is told to do. We want men who can carry ‘a message to
Garcia’—or to Lucifer, if need be.
“The ting-a-ling of my desk telephone at the psychological moment when
I had unconsciously consigned you to a colder climate than that of New
York, was a summons from Satan. Why it didn’t come through the medium
of the ‘printer’s devil’ is a mystery, unless His Majesty desired
to show me that he is up-to-date in having a system of telephones
installed by a famous electrician who recently crossed his wires and
the Styx. I tried to transfer him to the managing editor by telling him
that he had got a wrong connection, as my jurisdiction is limited, but
he assured me that Hades is less than a hundred miles from New York,
which makes me responsible for what happens there! Not a very pleasant
thought, is it?
“Lucifer wants you to go to Cimmeria and interview Henry the Eighth.
His much-married Majesty is angry at the liberties the historical
novelists have taken with his wives and wants to divorce himself of
his wrath through the columns of the Universe. Satan also wishes us to
decide a dispute between Adam and Methuselah as to whom is the oldest
inhabitant.”
“But how in the name of—”
“Don’t say it,” warned the city editor. “That word is always expressed
by a blank in the paper, so you might as well leave it blank in your
speech. Besides, to say it would be justification for keeping you
down there, and we want that interview without fail, even if you have
to write it on asbestos and deliver it to mortals at a seance of the
Society for Psychic Research. We want the work well done, so you will
have to take your chances of being scorched.
“Discussions regarding Hades have waxed almost as hot as the subject
of dispute itself. Most people believe it is built on the Turkish bath
plan with departments of varying temperature. Those are the kind of
people who swallow the thermometer of Dr. Doubt and die by degrees. If
you find it as pleasant as John Kendrick Bangs did, you will want to
stay and join the Stygian smart set, so I’ll transfer your insurance
from the Equality to the Rock of Gibraltar and see to it that your
sister does not starve or freeze, whatever may be the climatic fate of
her brother.
“Don’t take the subway route to the under world, for then your chances
of coming back would be grounded. You are to take the Twenty-third
Street Ferry for the Jersey shore. New York and Hell are said to be
convertible terms, but I’ve never before heard New Jersey given that
distinction. However, Bangs says that’s the route, and as he plays golf
with good intentions over there every summer, he ought to know.
“Don’t take any baggage, except perhaps your sister’s sunshade, as only
shades and shady characters are permitted to cross the River Styx. You
more nearly come under the second category than any other member of the
staff, so I have chosen you. As you may need ‘money to burn,’ call on
the cashier for a ‘sinking fund’ before you start on your journey.
“By-the-by, while you are in Hades you might ask John Paul Jones
whether he would prefer burial in New York, Washington, Annapolis,
Philadelphia or Ocean Grove. That would be a ‘scoop’ worth more than
the marital intemperance of the Mormon king. Get his signature so
that if ‘our friends, the enemy,’ cry fake we can show them ‘what’s
in a name.’ As Mr. Bangs, by the exercise of his imagination, was
enabled to penetrate the Stygian regions, a newspaper man should have
no difficulty in doing likewise by the exercise of his nerve; but if
Charon bars the gate owing to your being still in the flesh, this will
admit you. It’s a skeleton key.”
Half an hour later I stood on the deck of a ferryboat which was plowing
the waters of the North River. Obedience to the commands of the “czar”
of the city room soon becomes second nature to a newspaper man, and I
had often boasted that I would go anywhere on earth or under the earth
if sent there by Mr. Burroughs. I squared my shoulders to the breeze
from the bay and resolved that I would not fail now that I had been put
to the test, even if—A shudder finished the sentence; my mind stood
palsied as I faced the Unknown.
It was a night of Stygian blackness, just the one to be chosen for such
a dark mission. We were now nearing the Jersey shore and could hear the
lap of the waves on the piling in the slip. A blaze of light astern
showed that one of the boats was on its return trip. The hands of the
clock on the ferry building pointed to midnight.
Out of the inky blackness suddenly loomed a great battleship which
struck as much terror to our hearts as if it had been the Flying
Dutchman. Had it been a merchantman we should have thought it was
indeed the famous phantom ship, for it displayed no lights and the
decks were deserted. Our captain signalled to reverse engines, but the
order came too late. The two vessels collided with a mighty crash.
There was a rending of timbers, an inrushing of water, a cry of despair
from the passengers, then a stampede for the life preservers.
I had no sooner got a cork belt properly adjusted, as I thought, than
the ferryboat sank. The suction drew me down and down and down; then
I shot up to the surface again, feet foremost. I expected that the
life belt would right me as soon as I came to the surface, but as I
continued to hang head downward, the awful truth flashed over me—the
belt had not been sufficiently tightened under my arms and had slipped
down. Convulsively I struggled, but in the effort only succeeded in
swallowing more water. The blur of a thousand lights danced before my
eyes in the floating bubbles of the phosphorescent water, a roar as of
a mighty artillery thundered in my ears—then all became a blank; in
newspaper parlance, I had ceased to be “live matter.”
That sinking fund with which I had provided myself before leaving the
mundane earth must have carried me a long distance downward, for when
I opened my eyes I was upon the banks of the River Styx. Presently
Charon’s yacht came in sight. There was no one on board but Captain
Charon himself, for with the exception of Lazarus, John Kendrick Bangs,
and myself, no round trip tickets have ever been issued to Hades.
“Step lively, please,” yelled Charon, who had evidently been a Broadway
trolley conductor earlier in his career. His success in knocking down
fares had prompted Satan to employ him to transfer “fares” over the
River Styx. The American invasion has extended downward as well as
outward. To hear the motto of New York on the banks of the Styx made me
feel quite at home, especially when Charon added: “Plenty of room up
front.”
A number of shades had stepped aboard the yacht. I was following them
when Charon halted me.
“Stop your whistling,” he commanded. “Do you think this is a Sunday
school picnic or a political rally? I don’t believe you are eligible
for the journey, anyway. Hades is the only place within the fifty-mile
limit that is not a side show for New York tourists. This yacht
transports shades only.”
“Well, you see,” I began hesitatingly, “Lorimer says clothes don’t make
the man, but that they make three-fourths of him, and this suit is of
the very latest shade of blue.”
“I’ve been told gray is fashionable just now,” he commented,
critically. “Everybody in Hades has the blues, so you won’t be off
color,” he added, somewhat mollified.
“Then you know my ancestors are all shades,” I pleaded, “and our city
editor says I have a shady reputation.”
“A newspaper man!” Charon gasped, his face growing pale. “I’ll have to
let you come aboard, or you will go back and ‘roast’ me, and I get all
the ‘roasting’ I can stand in Hades between trips. A newspaper man!
“Nuff said. Jump aboard.”
“Where is the house-boat?” I asked, ever on the lookout for “copy.”
“Everyone nowadays asks that fool question,” Charon retorted, angrily.
“I believe John Bangs, like George Eliot, is a woman, for he can’t keep
a secret, while Harper & Brothers offer him royalties for it. Shortly
after the ‘Pursuit of the House-boat’ that craft disappeared from the
river and Sherlock Holmes with it. He went back to haunt Conan Doyle, I
guess. I hope he won’t come back again in a hurry, for he made no end
of trouble with his inferences and his deductions.”
“What—”
“No more questions, if you please. I am not on the witness stand, nor
will I consent to be interviewed. Besides, talking is an infraction of
the rules of the Asbestos Society.”
“Do they seek to muzzle the press?” I asked indignantly.
“So few newspaper men come this way that that isn’t necessary,”
returned Charon. “We have a free press. It is said that ‘the devil
frequently becomes a publisher by way of diversion.’ This is the Styx,
not the Delaware, and we are going to Hades, not to Philadelphia, thank
goodness! The order was framed to muzzle some one more formidable than
reporters or devils—woman!”
“The Asbestos Society is quite a suggestive name.”
“Its formation was quite recent. A learned scientist up on the earth,
by tapping on the ground to invoke Pluto, discovered extensive deposits
of asbestos in Hades. As soon as the news reached the Styx, nothing
would satisfy ‘Boss’ Tweed but the formation of a society for the
purpose of robbing cremation of its traditional terrors. As to wish is
to have, every denizen of the domain of the departed is now wearing
an asbestos suit. Dives must have his diversion, even if the devil is
cheated out of his own.”
We had crossed over the Styx. Charon quickly made fast to a wharf and
prepared to disembark. As I landed I noticed on the dock a legend which
read: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
At last I was in Hades!
SHADY SINNERS OF THE STYX.