“You do. What uncanny freak has taken possession of you to-night that
you start in to write on your own hook, having resolutely declined to do
any writing for me ever since I rescued you from the dust and dirt and
cobwebs of the attic?”
“You never rescued me from any attic,” the machine replied. “You'd
better go to bed; you've dined too well, I imagine. When did you rescue
me from the dust and dirt and the cobwebs of any attic?”
“What an ungrateful machine you are!” I cried. “If you have sense enough
to go into writing on your own account, you ought to have mind enough
to remember the years you spent up-stairs under the roof neglected, and
covered with hammocks, awnings, family portraits, and receipted bills.”
“Really, my dear fellow,” the machine tapped back, “I must repeat it.
Bed is the place for you. You're not coherent. I'm not a machine, and
upon my honor, I've never seen your darned old attic.”
“Not a machine!” I cried. “Then what in Heaven's name are you?--a
sofa-cushion?”
“Don't be sarcastic, my dear fellow,” replied the machine. “Of course
I'm not a machine; I'm Jim--Jim Boswell.”
“What?” I roared. “You? A thing with keys and type and a bell--”
“I haven't got any keys or any type or a bell. What on earth are you
talking about?” replied the machine. “What have you been eating?”
“What's that?” I asked, putting my hand on the keys.
“That's keys,” was the answer.
“And these, and that?” I added, indicating the type and the bell.
“Type and bell,” replied the machine.
“And yet you say you haven't got them,” I persisted.
“No, I haven't. The machine has got them, not I,” was the response. “I'm
not the machine. I'm the man that's using it--Jim--Jim Boswell. What
good would a bell do me? I'm not a cow or a bicycle. I'm the editor of
the Stygian Gazette, and I've come here to copy off my notes of what I
see and hear, and besides all this I do type-writing for various people
in Hades, and as this machine of yours seemed to be of no use to you I
thought I'd try it. But if you object, I'll go.”
As I read these lines upon the paper I stood amazed and delighted.
“Go!” I cried, as the full value of his patronage of my machine dawned
upon me, for I could sell his copy and he would be none the worse
off, for, as I understand the copyright laws, they are not designed to
benefit authors, but for the protection of type-setters. “Why, my dear
fellow, it would break my heart if, having found my machine to your
taste, you should ever think of using another. I'll lend you my bicycle,
too, if you'd like it--in fact, anything I have is at your command.”
“Thank you very much,” returned Boswell through the medium of the keys,
as usual. “I shall not need your bicycle, but this machine is of great
value to me. It has several very remarkable qualities which I have
never found in any other machine. For instance, singular to relate,
Mendelssohn and I were fooling about here the other night, and when he
saw this machine he thought it was a spinet of some new pattern; so what
does he do but sit down and play me one of his songs without words on
it, and, by jove! when he got through, there was the theme of the whole
thing printed on a sheet of paper before him.”
“You don't really mean to say--” I began.
“I'm telling you precisely what happened,” said Boswell. “Mendelssohn
was tickled to death with it, and he played every song without words
that he ever wrote, and every one of 'em was fitted with words which he
said absolutely conveyed the ideas he meant to bring out with the music.
Then I tried the machine, and discovered another curious thing about
it. It's intensely American. I had a story of Alexander Dumas' about his
Musketeers that he wanted translated from French into American, which is
the language we speak below, in preference to German, French, Volapuk,
or English. I thought I'd copy off a few lines of the French original,
and as true as I'm sitting here before your eyes, where you can't see
me, the copy I got was a good, though rather free, translation. Think of
it! That's an advanced machine for you!”
I looked at the machine wistfully. “I wish I could make it work,” I
said; and I tried as before to tap off my name, and got instead only a
confused jumble of letters. It wouldn't even pay me the compliment of
transforming my name into that of Shakespeare, as it had previously
done.
It was thus that the magic qualities of the machine were made known to
me, and out of it the following papers have grown. I have set them
down without much editing or alteration, and now submit them to your
inspection, hoping that in perusing them you will derive as much
satisfaction and delight as I have in being the possessor of so
wonderful a machine, manipulated by so interesting a person as “Jim--Jim
Boswell”--as he always calls himself--and others, who, as you will note,
if perchance you have the patience to read further, have upon occasions
honored my machine by using it.
I must add in behalf of my own reputation for honesty that Mr. Boswell
has given me all right, title, and interest in these papers in this
world as a return for my permission to him to use my machine.
“What if they make a hit and bring in barrels of gold in royalties,” he
said. “I can't take it back with me where I live, so keep it yourself.”