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Title: With the Eyes Shut
Author: Edward Bellamy
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Language: English
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Title: With the Eyes Shut
Author: Edward Bellamy

RAILROAD rides are naturally tiresome to persons who cannot read on
the cars, and, being one of those unfortunates, I resigned myself, on
taking my seat in the train, to several hours of tedium, alleviated
only by such cat-naps as I might achieve. Partly on account of my
infirmity, though more on account of a taste for rural quiet and
retirement, my railroad journeys are few and far between. Strange as
the statement may seem in days like these, it had actually been five
years since I had been on an express train of a trunk line. Now, as
every one knows, the improvements in the conveniences of the best
equipped trains have in that period been very great, and for a
considerable time I found myself amply entertained in taking note
first of one ingenious device and then of another, and wondering what
would come next. At the end of the first hour, however, I was pleased
to find that I was growing comfortably drowsy, and proceeded to
compose myself for a nap, which I hoped might last to my destination.

Presently I was touched on the shoulder, and a train boy asked me if I
would not like something to read. I replied, rather petulantly, that I
could not read on the cars, and only wanted to be let alone.

"Beg pardon, sir," the train boy replied, "but I 'll give you a book
you can read with your eyes shut. Guess you haven't taken this line
lately," he added, as I looked up offended at what seemed
impertinence. "We've been furnishing the new-fashioned phonographed
books and magazines on this train for six months now, and passengers
have got so they won't have anything else."

Probably this piece of information ought to have astonished me more
than it did, but I had read enough about the wonders of the phonograph
to be prepared in a vague sort of way for almost anything which might
be related of it, and for the rest, after the air-brakes, the steam
heat, the electric lights and annunciators, the vestibuled cars, and
other delightful novelties I had just been admiring, almost anything
seemed likely in the way of railway conveniences. Accordingly, when
the boy proceeded to rattle off a list of the latest novels, I stopped
him with the name of one which I had heard favorable mention of, and
told him I would try that.

He was good enough to commend my choice. "That 's a good one," he
said. "It 's all the rage. Half the train's on it this trip. Where 'll
you begin?"

"Where? Why, at the beginning. Where else?" I replied.

"All right. Didn't know but you might have partly read it. Put you on
at any chapter or page, you know. Put you on at first chapter with
next batch in five minutes, soon as the batch that 's on now gets

He unlocked a little box at the side of my seat, collected the price
of three hours' reading at five cents an hour, and went on down the
aisle. Presently I heard the tinkle of a bell from the box which he
had unlocked. Following the example of others around me, I took from
it a sort of two-pronged fork with the tines spread in the similitude
of a chicken's wishbone. This contrivance, which was attached to the
side of the car by a cord, I proceeded to apply to my ears, as I saw
the others doing.

For the next three hours I scarcely altered my position, so completely
was I enthralled by my novel experience. Few persons can fail to have
made the observation that if the tones of the human voice did not have
a charm for us in themselves apart from the ideas they convey,
conversation to a great extent would soon be given up, so little is
the real intellectual interest of the topics with which it is chiefly
concerned. When, then, the sympathetic influence of the voice is lent
to the enhancement of matter of high intrinsic interest, it is not
strange that the attention should be enchained. A good story is highly
entertaining even when we have to get at it by the roundabout means of
spelling out the signs that stand for the words, and imagining them
uttered, and then imagining what they would mean if uttered. What,
then, shall be said of the delight of sitting at one's ease, with
closed eyes, listening to the same story poured into one's ears in the
strong, sweet, musical tones of a perfect mistress of the art of
story-telling, and of the expression and excitation by means of the
voice of every emotion?

When, at the conclusion of the story, the train boy came to lock up
the box, I could not refrain from expressing my satisfaction in strong
terms. In reply he volunteered the information that next month the
cars for day trips on that line would be further fitted up with
phonographic guide-books of the country the train passed through, so
connected by clock-work with the running gear of the cars that the
guide-book would call attention to every object in the landscape, and
furnish the pertinent information--statistical, topographical,
biographical, historical, romantic, or legendary, as it might be--just
at the time the train had reached the most favorable point of view. It
was believed that this arrangement (for which, as it would work
automatically and require little attendance, being used or not,
according to pleasure, by the passenger, there would be no charge)
would do much to attract travel to the road. His explanation was
interrupted by the announcement in loud, clear, and deliberate tones,
which no one could have had any excuse for misunderstanding that the
train was now approaching the city of my destination. As I looked
around in amazement to discover what manner of brakeman this might be
whom I had understood, the train boy said, with a grin, "That's our
new phonographic annunciator."

Hamage had written me that he would be at the station, but something
had evidently prevented him from keeping the appointment, and as it
was late, I went at once to a hotel and to bed. I was tired and slept
heavily; once or twice I woke up, after dreaming there were people in
my room talking to me, but quickly dropped off to sleep again. Finally
I awoke, and did not so soon fall asleep. Presently I found myself
sitting up in bed with half a dozen extraordinary sensations
contending for right of way along my backbone. What had startled me
was the voice of a young woman, who could not have been standing more
than ten feet from my bed. If the tones of her voice were any guide,
she was not only a young woman, but a very charming one.

"My dear sir," she had said, "you may possibly be interested in
knowing that it now wants just a quarter of three."

For a few moments I thought--well, I will not undertake the impossible
task of telling what extraordinary conjectures occurred to me by way
of accounting for the presence of this young woman in my room before
the true explanation of the matter occurred to me. For, of course,
when my experience that afternoon on the train flashed through my
mind, I guessed at once that the solution of the mystery was in all
probability merely a phonographic device for announcing the hour.
Nevertheless, so thrilling and lifelike in effect were the tones of
the voice I had heard that I confess I had not the nerve to light the
gas to investigate till I had indued my more essential garments. Of
course I found no lady in the room, but only a clock. I had not
particularly noticed it on going to bed, because it looked like any
other clock, and so now it continued to behave until the hands pointed
to three. Then, instead of leaving me to infer the time from the
arbitrary symbolism of three strokes on a bell, the same voice which
had before electrified me informed me, in tones which would have lent
a charm to the driest of statistical details, what the hour was. I had
never before been impressed with any particular interest attaching to
the hour of three in the morning, but as I heard it announced in those
low, rich, thrilling contralto tones, it appeared fairly to coruscate
with previously latent suggestions of romance and poetry, which, if
somewhat vague, were very pleasing. Turning out the gas that I might
the more easily imagine the bewitching presence which the voice
suggested, I went back to bed, and lay awake there until morning,
enjoying the society of my bodiless companion and the delicious shock
of her quarter-hourly remarks. To make the illusion more complete and
the more unsuggestive of the mechanical explanation which I knew of
course was the real one, the phrase in which the announcement of the
hour was made was never twice the same.

Right was Solomon when he said that there was nothing new under the
sun. Sardanapalus or Semiramis herself would not have been at all
startled to hear a human voice proclaim the hour. The phonographic
clock had but replaced the slave whose business, standing by the
noiseless water-clock, it was to keep tale of the moments as they
dropped, ages before they had been taught to tick.

In the morning, on descending, I went first to the clerk's office to
inquire for letters, thinking Hamage, who knew I would go to that
hotel if any, might have addressed me there. The clerk handed me a
small oblong box. I suppose I stared at it in a rather helpless way,
for presently he said: "I beg your pardon, but I see you are a
stranger. If you will permit me, I will show you how to read your

I gave him the box, from which he took a device of spindles and
cylinders, and placed it deftly within another small box which stood
on the desk. Attached to this was one of the two-pronged ear-trumpets
I already knew the use of. As I placed it in position, the clerk
touched a spring in the box, which set some sort of motor going, and
at once the familiar tones of Dick Hamage's voice expressed his regret
that an accident had prevented his meeting me the night before, and
informed me that he would be at the hotel by the time I had

The letter ended, the obliging clerk removed the cylinders from the
box on the desk, replaced them in that they had come in, and returned
it to me.

"Is n't it rather tantalizing," said I, "to receive one of these
letters when there is no little machine like this at hand to make it

"It does n't often happen," replied the clerk, "that anybody is caught
without his indispensable, or at least where he cannot borrow one."

"His indispensable!" I exclaimed. "What may that be?"

In reply the clerk directed my attention to a little box, not wholly
unlike a case for a binocular glass, which, now that he spoke of it, I
saw was carried, slung at the side, by every person in sight.

"We call it the indispensable because it is indispensable, as, no
doubt, you will soon find for yourself."

In the breakfast-room a number of ladies and gentlemen were engaged as
they sat at table in reading, or rather in listening to, their
morning's correspondence. A greater or smaller pile of little boxes
lay beside their plates, aud one after another they took from each its
cylinders, placed them in their indispensables, and held the latter to
their ears. The expression of the face in reading is so largely
affected by the necessary fixity of the eyes that intelligence is
absorbed from the printed or written page with scarcely a change of
countenance, which when communicated by the voice evokes a responsive
play of features. I had never been struck so forcibly by this obvious
reflection as I was in observing the expression of the faces of these
people as they listened to their correspondents. Disappointment,
pleased surprise, chagrin, disgust, indignation, and amusement were
alternately so legible on their faces that it was perfectly easy for
one to be sure in most cases what the tenor at least of the letter
was. It occurred to me that while in the old time the pleasure of
receiving letters had been so far balanced by this drudgery of writing
them as to keep correspondence within some bounds, nothing less than
freight trains could suffice for the mail service in these days, when
to write was but to speak, and to listen was to read.

After I had given my order, the waiter brought a curious-looking
oblong case, with an ear-trumpet attached, and, placing it before me,
went away. I foresaw that I should have to ask a good many questions
before I got through, and, if I did not mean to be a bore, I had best
ask as few as necessary. I determined to find out what this trap was
without assistance. The words "Daily Morning Herald" sufficiently
indicated that it was a newspaper. I suspected that a certain big
knob, if pushed, would set it going. But, for all I knew, it might
start in the middle of the advertisements. I looked closer. There were
a number of printed slips upon the face of the machine, arranged about
a circle like the numbers on a dial. They were evidently the headings
of news articles. In the middle of the circle was a little pointer,
like the hand of a clock, moving on a pivot. I pushed this pointer
around to a certain caption, and then, with the air of being perfectly
familiar with the machine, I put the pronged trumpet to my ears and
pressed the big knob. Precisely! It worked like a charm; so much like
a charm, indeed, that I should certainly have allowed my breakfast to
cool had I been obliged to choose between that and my newspaper. The
inventor of the apparatus had, however, provided against so painful a
dilemma by a simple attachment to the trumpet, which held it securely
in position upon the shoulders behind the head, while the hands were
left free for knife and fork. Having slyly noted the manner in which
my neighbors had effected the adjustments, I imitated their example
with a careless air, and presently, like them, was absorbing physical
and mental aliment simultaneously.

While I was thus delightfully engaged, I was not less delightfully
interrupted by Hamage, who, having arrived at the hotel, and learned
that I was in the breakfast-room, came in and sat down beside me.
After telling him how much I admired the new sort of newspapers, I
offered one criticism, which was that there seemed to be no way by
which one could skip dull paragraphs or uninteresting details.

"The invention would, indeed, be very far from a success," he said,
"if there were no such provision, but there is."

He made me put on the trumpet again, and, having set the machine
going, told me to press on a certain knob, at first gently, afterward
as hard as I pleased. I did so, and found that the effect of the
"skipper," as he called the knob, was to quicken the utterance of the
phonograph in proportion to the pressure to at least tenfold the usual
rate of speed, while at any moment, if a word of interest caught the
ear, the ordinary rate of delivery was resumed, and by another
adjustment the machine could be made to go back and repeat as much as

When I told Hamage of my experience of the night before with the
talking clock in my room, he laughed uproariously.

"I am very glad you mentioned this just now," he said, when he had
quieted himself. "We have a couple of hours before the train goes out
to my place, and I 'll take you through Orton's establishment, where
they make a specialty of these talking clocks. I have a number of them
in my house, and, as I don't want to have you scared to death in the
night-watches, you had better get some notion of what clocks nowadays
are expected to do."

Orton's, where we found ourselves half an hour later, proved to be a
very extensive establishment, the firm making a specialty of
horological novelties, and particularly of the new phonographic time-
pieces. The manager, who was a personal friend of Hamage's, and proved
very obliging, said that the latter were fast driving the old-
fashioned striking clocks out of use.

"And no wonder," he exclaimed; "the old-fashioned striker was an
unmitigated nuisance. Let alone the brutality of announcing the hour
to a refined household by four, eight, or ten rude bangs, without
introduction or apology, this method of announcement was not even
tolerably intelligible. Unless you happened to be attentive at the
moment the din began, you could never be sure of your count of strokes
so as to be positive whether it was eight, nine, ten, or eleven. As to
the half and quarter strokes, they were wholly useless unless you
chanced to know what was the last hour struck. And then, too, I should
like to ask you why, in the name of common sense, it should take
twelve times as long to tell you it is twelve o'clock as it does to
tell you it is one."

The manager laughed as heartily as Hamage had done on learning of my
scare of the night before.

"It was lucky for you," he said, "that the clock in your room happened
to be a simple time announcer, otherwise you might easily have been
startled half out of your wits." I became myself quite of the same
opinion by the time he had shown us something of his assortment of
clocks. The mere announcing of the hours and quarters of hours was the
simplest of the functions of these wonderful and yet simple
instruments. There were few of them which were not arranged to
"improve the time," as the old fashioned prayer-meeting phrase was.
People's ideas differing widely as to what constitutes improvement of
time, the clocks varied accordingly in the nature of the edification
they provided. There were religious and sectarian clocks, moral
clocks, philosophical clocks, free-thinking and infidel clocks,
literary and poetical clocks, educational clocks, frivolous and
bacchanalian clocks. In the religious clock department were to be
found Catholic, Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, and Baptist time-
pieces, which, in connection with the announcement of the hour and
quarter, repeated some tenet of the sect with a proof text. There were
also Talmage clocks, and Spurgeon clocks, and Storrs clocks, and
Brooks clocks, which respectively marked the flight of time by phrases
taken from the sermons of these eminent divines, and repeated in
precisely the voice and accents of the original delivery. In startling
proximity to the religious department I was shown the skeptical
clocks. So near were they, indeed, that when, as I stood there, the
various time-pieces announced the hour of ten, the war of opinions
that followed was calculated to unsettle the firmest convictions. The
observations of an Ingersoll which stood near me were particularly
startling. The effect of an actual wrangle was the greater from the
fact that all these individual clocks were surmounted by effigies of
the authors of the sentiments they repeated.

I was glad to escape from this turmoil to the calmer atmosphere of the
philosophical and literary clock department. For persons with a taste
for antique moralizing, the sayings of Plato, Epictetus, and Marcus
Aurelius had here, so to speak, been set to time. Modern wisdom was
represented by a row of clocks surmounted by the heads of famous
maxim-makers, from Rochefoucauld to Josh Billings. As for the literary
clocks, their number and variety were endless. All the great authors
were represented. Of the Dickens clocks alone there were half a dozen,
with selections from his greatest stories. When I suggested that,
captivating as such clocks must be, one might in time grow weary of
hearing the same sentiments reiterated, the manager pointed out that
the phonographic cylinders were removable, and could be replaced by
other sayings by the same author or on the same theme at any time. If
one tired of an author altogether, he could have the head unscrewed
from the top of the clock and that of some other celebrity
substituted, with a brand-new repertory.

"I can imagine," I said, "that these talking clocks must be a great
resource for invalids especially, and for those who cannot sleep at
night. But, on the other hand, how is it when people want or need to
sleep? Is not one of them quite too interesting a companion at such a

"Those who are used to it," replied the manager, "are no more
disturbed by the talking clock than we used to be by the striking
clock. However, to avoid all possible inconvenience to invalids, this
little lever is provided, which at a touch will throw the phonograph
out of gear or back again. It is customary when we put a talking or
singing clock into a bedroom to put in an electric connection, so that
by pressing a button at the head of the bed a person, without raising
the head from the pillow, can start or stop the phonographic gear, as
well as ascertain the time, on the repeater principle as applied to

Hamage now said that we had only time to catch the train, but our
conductor insisted that we should stop to see a novelty of
phonographic invention, which, although not exactly in their line, had
been sent them for exhibition by the inventor. It was a device for
meeting the criticism frequently made upon the churches of a lack of
attention and cordiality in welcoming strangers. It was to be placed
in the lobby of the church, and had an arm extending like a pump-
handle. Any stranger on taking this and moving it up and down would be
welcomed in the pastor's own voice, and continue to be welcomed as
long as he kept up the motion. While this welcome would be limited to
general remarks of regard and esteem, ample provision was made for
strangers who desired to be more particularly inquired into. A number
of small buttons on the front of the contrivance bore respectively the
words, "Male," "Female," "Married," "Unmarried," "Widow," "Children,"
"No Children," etc., etc. By pressing the one of these buttons
corresponding to his or her condition, the stranger would be addressed
in terms probably quite as accurately adapted to his or her condition
and needs as would be any inquiries a preoccupied clergyman would be
likely to make under similar circumstances. I could readily see the
necessity of some such substitute for the pastor, when I was informed
that every prominent clergyman was now in the habit of supplying at
least a dozen or two pulpits simultaneously, appearing by turns in one
of them personally, and by phonograph in the others.

The inventor of the contrivance for welcoming strangers was, it
appeared, applying the same idea to machines for discharging many
other of the more perfunctory obligations of social intercourse. One
being made for the convenience of the President of the United States
at public receptions was provided with forty-two buttons for the
different States, and others for the principal cities of the Union, so
that a caller, by proper manipulation, might, while shaking a handle,
be addressed in regard to his home interests with an exactness of
information as remarkable as that of the traveling statesmen who rise
from the gazetteer to astonish the inhabitants of Wayback Crossing
with the precise figures of their town valuation and birth rate, while
the engine is taking in water.

We had by this time spent so much time that on finally starting for
the railroad station we had to walk quite briskly. As we were hurrying
along the street, my attention was arrested by a musical sound,
distinct though not loud, proceeding apparently from the indispensable
which Hamage, like everybody else I had seen, wore at his side.
Stopping abruptly, he stepped aside from the throng, and, lifting the
indispensable quickly to his ear, touched something, and exclaiming,
"Oh, yes, to be sure!" dropped the instrument to his side.

Then he said to me: "I am reminded that I promised my wife to bring
home some story-books for the children when I was in town to-day. The
store is only a few steps down the street." As we went along, he
explained to me that nobody any longer pretended to charge his mind
with the recollection of duties or engagements of any sort. Everybody
depended upon his indispensable to remind him in time of all
undertakings and responsibilities. This service it was able to render
by virtue of a simple enough adjustment of a phonographic cylinder
charged with the necessary word or phrase to the clockwork in the
indispensable, so that at any time fixed upon in setting the
arrangement an alarm would sound, and, the indispensable being raised
to the ear, the phonograph would deliver its message, which at any
subsequent time might be called up and repeated. To all persons
charged with weighty responsibilities depending upon accuracy of
memory for their correct discharge, this feature of the indispensable
rendered it, according to Hamage, and indeed quite obviously, an
indispensable truly. To the railroad engineer it served the purpose
not only of a time-piece, for the works of the indispensable include a
watch, but to its ever vigilant alarm he could intrust his running
orders, and, while his mind was wholly concentrated upon present
duties, rest secure that he would be reminded at just the proper time
of trains which he must avoid and switches he must make. To the
indispensable of the business man the reminder attachment was not less
necessary. Provided with that, his notes need never go to protest
through carelessness, nor, however absorbed, was he in danger of
forgetting an appointment.

Thanks to these portable memories it was, moreover, now possible for a
wife to intrust to her husband the most complete messages to the
dress-maker. All she had to do was to whisper the communication into
her husband's indispensable while he was at breakfast, and set the
alarm at an hour when he would be in the city.

"And in like manner, I suppose," suggested I, "if she wishes him to
return at a certain hour from the club or the lodge, she can depend on
his indispensable to remind him of his domestic duties at the proper
moment, and in terms and tones which will make the total repudiation
of connubial allegiance the only alternative of obedience. It is a
very clever invention, and I don't wonder that it is popular with the
ladies; but does it not occur to you that the inventor, if a man, was
slightly inconsiderate? The rule of the American wife has hitherto
been a despotism which could be tempered by a bad memory. Apparently,
it is to be no longer tempered at all."

Hamage laughed, but his mirth was evidently a little forced, and I
inferred that the reflection I had suggested had called up certain
reminiscences not wholly exhilarating. Being fortunate, however, in
the possession of a mercurial temperament, he presently rallied, and
continued his praises of the artificial memory provided by the
indispensable. In spite of the criticism which I had made upon it, I
confess I was not a little moved by his description of its advantages
to absent-minded men, of whom I am chief. Think of the gain alike in
serenity and force of intellect enjoyed by the man who sits down to
work absolutely free from that accursed cloud on the mind of things he
has got to remember to do, and can only avoid totally forgetting by
wasting tenfold the time required finally to do them in making sure by
frequent rehearsals that he has not forgotten them! The only way that
one of these trivialities ever sticks to the mind is by wearing a sore
spot in it which heals slowly. If a man does not forget it, it is for
the same reason that he remembers a grain of sand in his eye. I am
conscious that my own mind is full of cicatrices of remembered things,
and long ere this it would have been peppered with them like a
colander, had I not a good while ago, in self-defense, absolutely
refused to be held accountable for forgetting anything not connected
with my regular business.

While firmly believing my course in this matter to have been
justifiable and necessary, I have not been insensible to the domestic
odium which it has brought upon me, and could but welcome a device
which promised to enable me to regain the esteem of my family while
retaining the use of my mind for professional purposes.

As the most convenient conceivable receptacle of hasty memoranda of
ideas and suggestions, the indispensable also most strongly commended
itself to me as a man who lives by writing. How convenient when a
flash of inspiration comes to one in the night-time, instead of taking
cold and waking the family in order to save it for posterity, just to
whisper it into the ear of an indispensable at one's bedside, and be
able to know it in the morning for the rubbish such untimely
conceptions usually are! How often, likewise, would such a machine
save in all their first vividness suggestive fancies, anticipated
details, and other notions worth preserving, which occur to one in the
full flow of composition, but are irrelevant to what is at the moment
in hand! I determined that I must have an indispensable.

The bookstore, when we arrived there, proved to be the most
extraordinary sort of bookstore I had ever entered, there not being a
book in it. Instead of books, the shelves and counters were occupied
with rows of small boxes.

"Almost all books now, you see, are phonographed," said Hamage.

"The change seems to be a popular one," I said, "to judge by the crowd
of book-buyers." For the counters were, indeed, thronged with
customers as I had never seen those of a bookstore before.

"The people at those counters are not purchasers, but borrowers,"
Hamage replied; and then he explained that whereas the old-fashioned
printed book, being handled by the reader, was damaged by use, and
therefore had either to be purchased outright or borrowed at high
rates of hire, the phonograph of a book being not handled, but merely
revolved in a machine, was but little injured by use, and therefore
phonographed books could be lent out for an infinitesimal price.
Everybody had at home a phonograph box of standard size and
adjustments, to which all phonographic cylinders were gauged. I
suggested that the phonograph, at any rate, could scarcely have
replaced picture-books. But here, it seemed, I was mistaken, for it
appeared that illustrations were adapted to phonographed books by the
simple plan of arranging them in a continuous panorama, which by a
connecting gear was made to unroll behind the glass front of the
phonograph case as the course of the narrative demanded.

"But, bless my soul!" I exclaimed, "everybody surely is not content to
borrow their books? They must want to have books of their own, to keep
in their libraries."

"Of course," said Hamage. "What I said about borrowing books applies
only to current literature of the ephemeral sort. Everybody wants
books of permanent value in his library. Over yonder is the department
of the establishment set apart for book-buyers."

The counter which he indicated being less crowded than those of the
borrowing department, I expressed a desire to examine some of the
phonographed books. As we were waiting for attendance, I observed that
some of the customers seemed very particular about their purchases,
and insisted upon testing several phonographs bearing the same title
before making a selection. As the phonographs seemed exact
counterparts in appearance, I did not understand this till Hamage
explained that differences as to style and quality of elocution left
quite as great a range of choice in phonographed books as varieties in
type, paper, and binding did in printed ones. This I presently found
to be the case when the clerk, under Hamage's direction, began waiting
on me. In succession I tried half a dozen editions of Tennyson by as
many different elocutionists, and by the time I had heard "where
Claribel low lieth" rendered by a soprano, a contralto, a bass, and a
baritone, each with the full effect of its quality and the personal
equation besides, I was quite ready to admit that selecting
phonographed books for one's library was as much more difficult as it
was incomparably more fascinating than suiting one's self with printed
editions. Indeed, Hamage admitted that nowadays nobody with any taste
for literature--if the word may for convenience be retained--thought
of contenting himself with less than half a dozen renderings of the
great poets and dramatists.

"By the way," he said to the clerk, "won't you just let my friend try
the Booth-Barrett Company's 'Othello'? It is, you understand," he
added to me, "the exact phonographic reproduction of the play as
actually rendered by the company."

Upon his suggestion, the attendant had taken down a phonograph case
and placed it on the counter. The front was an imitation of a theatre
with the curtain down. As I placed the transmitter to my ears, the
clerk touched a spring and the curtain rolled up, displaying a perfect
picture of the stage in the opening scene. Simultaneously the action
of the play began, as if the pictured men upon the stage were talking.
Here was no question of losing half that was said and guessing the
rest. Not a word, not a syllable, not a whispered aside of the actors,
was lost; and as the play proceeded the pictures changed, showing
every important change of attitude on the part of the actors. Of
course the figures, being pictures, did not move, but their
presentation in so many successive attitudes presented the effect of
movement, and made it quite possible to imagine that the voices in my
ears were really theirs. I am exceedingly fond of the drama, but the
amount of effort and physical inconvenience necessary to witness a
play has rendered my indulgence in this pleasure infrequent. Others
might not have agreed with me, but I confess that none of the
ingenious applications of the phonograph which I had seen seemed to be
so well worth while as this.

Hamage had left me to make his purchases, and found me on his return
still sitting spellbound.

"Come, come," he said, laughing, "I have Shakespeare complete at home,
and you shall sit up all night, if you choose, hearing plays. But come
along now, I want to take you upstairs before we go."

He had several bundles. One, he told me, was a new novel for his wife,
with some fairy stories for the children,--all, of course,
phonographs. Besides, he had bought an indispensable for his little

"There is no class," he said, "whose burdens the phonograph has done
so much to lighten as parents. Mothers no longer have to make
themselves hoarse telling the children stories on rainy days to keep
them out of mischief. It is only necessary to plant the most roguish
lad before a phonograph of some nursery classic, to be sure of his
whereabouts and his behavior till the machine runs down, when another
set of cylinders can be introduced, and the entertainment carried on.
As for the babies, Patti sings mine to sleep at bedtime, and, if they
wake up in the night, she is never too drowsy to do it over again.
When the children grow too big to be longer tied to their mother's
apron-strings, they still remain, thanks to the children's
indispensable, though out of her sight, within sound of her voice.
Whatever charges or instructions she desires them not to forget,
whatever hours or duties she would have them be sure to remember, she
depends on the indispensable to remind them of."

At this I cried out. "It is all very well for the mothers," I said,
"but the lot of the orphan must seem enviable to a boy compelled to
wear about such an instrument of his own subjugation. If boys were
what they were in my day, the rate at which their indispensables would
get unaccountably lost or broken would be alarming."

Hamage laughed, and admitted that the one he was carrying home was the
fourth be had bought for his boy within a month. He agreed with me
that it was hard to see how a boy was to get his growth under quite so
much government; but his wife, and indeed the ladies generally,
insisted that the application of the phonograph to family government
was the greatest invention of the age.

Then I asked a question which had repeatedly occurred to me that
day,--What had become of the printers?

"Naturally," replied Hamage, "they have had a rather hard time of it.
Some classes of books, however, are still printed, and probably will
continue to be for some time, although reading, as well as writing, is
getting to be an increasingly rare accomplishment."

"Do you mean that your schools do not teach reading and writing?" I

"Oh, yes, they are still taught; but as the pupils need them little
after leaving school,--or even in school, for that matter, all their
text-books being phonographic,--they usually keep the acquirements
about as long as a college graduate does his Greek. There is a strong
movement already on foot to drop reading and writing entirely from the
school course, but probably a compromise will be made for the present
by substituting a shorthand or phonetic system, based upon the direct
interpretation of the sound-waves themselves. This is, of course, the
only logical method for the visual interpretation of sound. Students
and men of research, however, will always need to understand how to
read print, as much of the old literature will probably never repay

"But," I said, "I notice that you still use printed phrases, as
superscriptions, titles, and so forth."

"So we do," replied Hamage, "but phonographic substitutes could be
easily devised in these cases, and no doubt will soon have to be
supplied in deference to the growing number of those who cannot read."

"Did I understand you," I asked, "that the text-books in your schools
even are phonographs?"

"Certainly," replied Hamage; "our children are taught by phonographs,
recite to phonographs, and are examined by phonographs."

"Bless my soul!" I ejaculated.

"By all means," replied Hamage; "but there is really nothing to be
astonished at. People learn and remember by impressions of sound
instead of sight, that is all. The printer is, by the way, not the
only artisan whose occupation phonography has destroyed. Since the
disuse of print, opticians have mostly gone to the poor-house. The
sense of sight was indeed terribly overburdened previous to the
introduction of the phonograph, and, now that the sense of hearing is
beginning to assume its proper share of work, it would be strange if
an improvement in the condition of the people's eyes were not
noticeable. Physiologists, moreover, promise us not only an improved
vision, but a generally improved physique, especially in respect to
bodily carriage, now that reading, writing, and study no longer
involves, as formerly, the sedentary attitude with twisted spine and
stooping shoulders. The phonograph has at last made it possible to
expand the mind without cramping the body."

"It is a striking comment on the revolution wrought by the general
introduction of the phonograph," I observed, "that whereas the
misfortune of blindness used formerly to be the infirmity which most
completely cut a man off from the world of books, which remained open
to the deaf, the case is now precisely reversed."

"Yes," said Hamage, "it is certainly a curious reversal, but not so
complete as you fancy. By the new improvements in the intensifier, it
is expected to enable all, except the stone-deaf, to enjoy the
phonograph, even when connected, as on railroad trains, with a common
telephonic wire. The stone-deaf will of course be dependent upon
printed books prepared for their benefit, as raised-letter books used
to be for the blind."

As we entered the elevator to ascend to the upper floors of the
establishment, Hamage explained that he wanted me to see, before I
left, the process of phonographing books, which was the modern
substitute for printing them. Of course, he said, the phonographs of
dramatic works were taken at the theatres during the representations
of plays, and those of public orations and sermons are either
similarly obtained, or, if a revised version is desired, the orator
re-delivers his address in the improved form to a phonograph; but the
great mass of publications were phonographed by professional
elocutionists employed by the large publishing houses, of which this
was one. He was acquainted with one of these elocutionists, and was
taking me to his room.

We were so fortunate as to find him disengaged. Something, he said,
had broken about the machinery, and he was idle while it was being
repaired. His work-room was an odd kind of place. It was shaped
something like the interior of a rather short egg. His place was on a
sort of pulpit in the middle of the small end, while at the opposite
end, directly before him, and for some distance along the sides toward
the middle, were arranged tiers of phonographs. These were his
audience, but by no means all of it. By telephonic communication he
was able to address simultaneously other congregations of phonographs
in other chambers at any distance. He said that in one instance, where
the demand for a popular book was very great, he had charged five
thousand phonographs at once with it.

I suggested that the saving of printers, pressmen, bookbinders, and
costly machinery, together with the comparative indestructibility of
phonographed as compared with printed books, must make them very

"They would be," said Hamage, "if popular elocutionists, such as
Playwell here, did not charge so like fun for their services. The
public has taken it into its head that he is the only first-class
elocutionist, and won't buy anybody else's work. Consequently the
authors stipulate that he shall interpret their productions, and the
publishers, between the public and the authors, are at his mercy."

Playwell laughed. "I must make my hay while the sun shines," he said.
"Some other elocutionist will be the fashion next year, and then I
shall only get hack-work to do. Besides, there is really a great deal
more work in my business than people will believe. For example, after
I get an author's copy--"

"Written?" I interjected.

"Sometimes it is written phonetically, but most authors dictate to a
phonograph. Well, when I get it, I take it home and study it, perhaps
a couple of days, perhaps a couple of weeks, sometimes, if it is
really an important work, a month or two, in order to get into
sympathy with the ideas, and decide on the proper style of rendering.
All this is hard work, and has to be paid for."

At this point our conversation was broken off by Hamage, who declared
that, if we were to catch the last train out of town before noon, we
had no time to lose.

Of the trip out to Hamage's place I recall nothing. I was, in fact,
aroused from a sound nap by the stopping of the train and the bustle
of the departing passengers. Hamage had disappeared. As I groped
about, gathering up my belongings, and vaguely wondering what had
become of my companion, he rushed into the car, and, grasping my hand,
gave me an enthusiastic welcome. I opened my mouth to demand what sort
of a joke this belated greeting might be intended for, but, on second
thought, I concluded not to raise the point. The fact is, when I came
to observe that the time was not noon, but late in the evening, and
that the train was the one I had left home on, and that I had not even
changed my seat in the car since then, it occurred to me that Hamage
might not understand allusions to the forenoon we had spent together.
Later that same evening, however, the consternation of my host and
hostess at my frequent and violent explosions of apparently causeless
hilarity left me no choice but to make a clean breast of my
preposterous experience. The moral they drew from it was the charming
one that, if I would but oftener come to see them, a railroad trip
would not so upset my wits.


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