Chapter VIII. A Hand-Book to Hades

The Enchanted Typewriter

by John Kendrick Bangs

"Boswell," said I, the other night, as the machine began to click
nervously. "I have just received a letter from an unknown friend in
Hawaii who wants to know how the prize-fight between Samson and
Goliath came out that time when Kidd and his pirate crew stole the
House-Boat on the Styx."

"Just wait a minute, please," the machine responded. "I am very
busy just now mapping out the itinerary of the first series of the
Boswell Personally Conducted Tours you suggested some time ago. I
laid that whole proposition before the Entertainment Committee of the
Associated Shades, and they have resolved unanimously to charter the
Ex-Great Eastern from the Styx Navigation Company, and return to the
scenes of their former glory, devoting a year to it."

"Going to take their wives?" I asked.

"I don't know," Boswell replied. "That is a matter outside of
the jurisdiction of the committee and must be decided by a full vote
of the club. I hope they will, however. As manager of the enterprise
I need assistance, and there are some of the men who can't be managed
by anybody except their wives, or mothers-in-law, anyhow. I'll be
through in a few minutes. Meanwhile let me hand you the latest
product of the Boswell press."

With this the genial spirit produced from an invisible pocket a
red-covered book bearing the delicious title of "Baedeker's Hades: A
Hand-book for Travellers," which has entirely superseded, according
to the advertisement on the fly-leaves, such books as Virgil and
Dante's Inferno as the best guide to the lower regions, as well it
might, for it appeared on perusal to have been prepared with as much
care as one of the more material guide-books of the same publisher,
which so greatly assist travellers on this side of the Stygian
River.

Some time, if Boswell will permit, I shall endeavor to have this
little volume published in this country since it contains many
valuable hints to the man of a roving disposition, or for the
stay-at-home, for that matter, for all roads lead to Hades. For
instance, we do not find in previous guide-books, like Dante's
Inferno, any references whatsoever to the languages it is well to
know before taking the Stygian tour; to the kind of money needed, or
its quantity per capita; no allusion to the necessity of passports is
found in Dante or Virgil; custom-house requirements are ignored by
these authors; no statements as to the kind of clothing needed, the
quality of the hotels--nor indeed any real information of vital
importance to the traveller is to be found in the older books. In
Baedeker's Hades, on the other hand, all these subjects are
exhaustively treated, together with a very comprehensive series of
chapters on "Stygian Wines," "Climate," and "Hellish Art"--the
expression is not mine--and other topics of essential interest.

And of what suggestive quality was this little book. Who would
ever have guessed from a perusal of Dante that as Hades is the place
of departed spirits so also is it the ultimate resting-place of all
other departed things. What delightful anticipations are there in the
idea of a visit to the Alexandrian library, now suitably housed on
the south side of Apollyon Square, Cimmeria, in a building that would
drive the trustees of the Boston Public Library into envious despair,
even though living Bacchantes are found daily improving their minds
in the recesses of its commodious alcoves! What joyous feelings it
gives one to think of visiting the navy-yards of Tyre and finding
there the ships concerning the whereabouts of which poets have vainly
asked questions for ages! Who would ever dream that the question of
the balladist, himself an able dreamer concerning classic things,
"Where are the Cities of Old Time," could ever find its answer in a
simple guide-book telling us where Carthage is, where Troy and all
the lost cities of antiquity!

Then the details of amusements in this wonderful country--who
could gather aught of these from the Italian poet? The theatres of
Gehenna, with "Hamlet" produced under the joint direction of
Shakespeare and the Prince of Denmark himself, the great Zoo of
Sheolia, with Jumbo, and the famous woolly horse of earlier days, not
to mention the long series of menageries which have passed over the
dark river in the ages now forgotten; the hanging gardens of Babylon,
where the picnicking element of Hades flock week after week, chuting
the chutes, and clambering joyously in and out of the Trojan Horse,
now set up in all its majesty therein, with bowling-alleys on its
roof, elevators in its legs, and the original Ferris-wheel in its
head; the freak museums in the densely populated sections of the
large cities, where Hop o' my Thumb and Jack the Giant Killer are
exhibited day after day alongside of the great ogres they have
killed; the opera-house, with Siegfried himself singing, supported by
the real Brunhild and the original, bona fide dragon Fafnir, running
of his own motive power, and breathing actual fire and smoke without
the aid of a steam-engine and a plumber to connect him therewith
before he can go out upon the stage to engage Siegfried in deadly
combat.

For the information contained in this last item alone, even if
the book had no other virtue, it would be worthy of careful perusal
from the opening paragraph on language, to the last, dealing with the
descent into the Vitriol Reservoir at Gehenna. The account of the
feeding of Fafnir, to which admission can be had on payment of ten
oboli, beginning with a puree of kerosene, followed by a half-dozen
cartridges on the half-shell, an entree of nitro-glycerine, a solid
roast of cannel-coal, and a salad of gun-cotton, with a mayonnaise
dressing of alcohol and a pinch of powder, topped off with a
demi-tasse of benzine and a box of matches to keep the fires of his
spirit going, is one of the most moving things I have ever read, and
yet it may be said without fear of contradiction that until this
guide-book was prepared very few of the Stygian tourists have
imagined that there was such a sight to be seen. I have gone
carefully over Dante, Virgil, and the works of Andrew Lang, and have
found no reference whatsoever in the pages of any of these talented
persons to this marvellous spectacle which takes place three times a
day, and which I doubt not results in a performance of Siegfried for
the delectation of the music lovers of Hades, which is beyond the
power of the human mind to conceive.

The hand-book has an added virtue, which distinguishes it from
any other that I have ever seen, in that it is anecdotal in style at
times where an anecdote is available and appropriate. In connection
with this same Fafnir, as showing how necessary it is for the tourist
to be careful of his personal safety in Hades, it is related that
upon one occasion the keeper of the dragon having taken a grudge
against Siegfried for some unintentional slight, fed Fafnir upon
Roman-candles and a sky-rocket, with the result that in the fight
between the hero and the demon of the wood the Siegfried was
seriously injured by the red, white, and blue balls of fire which the
dragon breathed out upon him, while the sky-rocket flew out into the
audience and struck a young man in the top gallery, knocking him
senseless, the stick falling into a grand-tier box and impaling one
of the best known social lights of Cimmeria. "Therefore," adds the
astute editor of the hand-book, "on Siegfried nights it were well if
the tourist were to go provided with an asbestos umbrella for use in
case of an emergency of a similar nature."

In that portion of the book devoted to the trip up the river
Styx the legends surpass any of the Rhine stories in dramatic
interest, because, according to Commodore Charon's excursion system,
the tourist can step ashore and see the chief actors in them, who for
a consideration will give a full-dress rehearsal of the legendary
acts for which they have been famous. The sirens of the Stygian
Lorelei, for instance, sit on an eminence not far above the city of
Cimmeria, and make a profession of luring people ashore and giving
away at so much per head locks of their hair for remembrance' sake,
all of which makes of the Stygian trip a thing of far greater
interest than that of the Rhine.

It had been my intention to make a few extracts from this
portion of the volume showing later developments in the legends of
the Drachenfels, and others of more than ordinary interest, but I
find that with the departure of Boswell for the night the treasured
hand-book disappeared with him; but, as I have already stated, if I
can secure his consent to do so I will some day have the book copied
off on more material substance than that employed in the original
manuscript, so that the useful little tome may be printed and
scattered broadcast over a waiting and appreciative world. I may as
well state here, too, that I have taken the precaution to have the
title "Baedeker's Hades" and its contents copyrighted, so that any
pirate who recognizes the value of the scheme will attempt to pirate
the work at his peril.

Hardly had I finished the chapter on the legends of the Styx
when Boswell broke in upon me with: "Well, how do you like it?"

"It's great," I said. "May I keep it?"

"You may if you can," he laughed. "But I fancy it can't
withstand the rigors of this climate any more than an unfireproof
copy of one of your books could stand the caniculars of ours."

His words were soon to be verified, for as soon as he left me
the book vanished, but whether it went off into thin air or was
repocketed by the departing Boswell I am not entirely certain.

"What was it you asked me about Samson and Goliath?" Boswell
observed, as he gathered up his manuscript from the floor beside the
Enchanted Typewriter. "Whether they'd ever been in Honolulu?"

"No," I replied. "I got a letter from Hawaii the other day
asking for the result of the prize-fight the day Kidd ran off with
the house-boat."

"Oh," replied Boswell. "That? Why, ah, Samson won hands down,
but only because they played according to latter-day rules. If it had
been a regular knock-out fight, like the contests in the old days of
the ring when it was in its prime, Goliath could have managed him
with one hand; but the Samson backers played a sharp game on the
Philistine by having the most recently amended Queensbury rules
adopted, and Goliath wasn't in it five minutes after Samson opened
his mouth."

"I don't think I understand," said I.

"Plain enough," explained Boswell. "Goliath didn't know what the
modern rules were, but he thought a fight was a fight under any
rules, so, like a decent chap, he agreed, and when he found that it
was nothing but a talking-match he'd got into he fainted. He never
was good at expressing himself fluently. Samson talked him down in
two rounds, just as he did the other Philistines in the early days on
earth."

I laughed. "You're slightly off there," I said. "That was a
stand-up-and-be-knocked-down fight, wasn't it? He used the jawbone of
an ass?"

"Very true," observed Boswell, "but it is evident that it is you
who are slightly off. You haven't kept up with the higher criticism.
It has been proven scientifically that not only did the whale not
swallow Jonah, but that Samson's great feat against the Philistines
was comparable only to the achievements of your modern senators. He
talked them to death."

"Then why jawbone of an ass?" I cried.

"Samson was an ass," replied Boswell. "They prove that by the
temple episode, for you see if he hadn't been one he'd have got out
of the building before yanking the foundations from under it. I tell
you, old chap, this higher criticism is a great thing, and as logical
as death itself."

And with this Boswell left me.

I sincerely hope that the result of the fight will prove as
satisfactory to my friend in Hawaii as it was to me; for while I have
no particular admiration for Samson, I have always rejoiced to hear
of the discomfitures of Goliath, who, so far as I have been able to
ascertain, was not only not a gentleman, but, in addition, had no
more regard for the rights of others than a member of the New York
police force or the editor of a Sunday newspaper with a thirst for
sensation.