The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 11
Utis and I did not sit out on the roof this evening. He proposed, instead, to help me unpack my trunks, and arrange the contents. Hitherto I had scarcely looked into them; nor, in spite of my host's assurances, could I gain any strong sense of propriety in them. Yet while Utis, by the brilliant electric light, unpacked those things that, I felt certain, had never been packed by my hands, a strange feeling of familiarity with the different objects would grow upon me. Surely those books, writing-implements, table-ornaments, and pictures, had once been mine. Alt, however, had undergone a peculiar change,—a change analogous to the difference between my personal history as present to my consciousness, and that attributed to me by Utis. Last of all, he produced from the second trunk, and placed on the table, an article having some resemblance, both in size and shape, to a writing-desk that was once mine. On being opened. however, the interior presented a most unfamiliar appearance. It was a phonograph of the latest construction.
"This instrument, or, rather, the first crude idea, was known as early as your period. In its present form it serves almost as a second memory. Its introduction into legislative balls, and similar places, in the course of the twentieth century, led to many and beneficent changes. There ensued an enormous curtailment in the length of speeches, simultaneously with great improvement both in matter and manner. Orators found in this a reporter that could neither be bullied nor bribed. Bad grammar, vulgar pronunciation, disjointed logic,—all were reproduced with pitiless accuracy.
"Would-be legislators soon found that it would be needful, both to have really something to say, and to know how to say it, if they would escape deserved ridicule. With wits sharpened by alarm and disgust, they were not. long in discovering grave constitutional objections to the presence of the phonograph in the legislative chamber. They held it up to reprobation as an aristocratic device of 'literary fellers and Sunday-school politicians,'—phrases by which they expressed their loathing of any standard of knowledge or decency beyond their own. But for once the 'practical pollertishuns,' as they styled themselves, found they had made a serious mistake. The people were decidedly of different opinion from them, and let them know it. The attempt to remove the phonograph led to the political extinction of the party that tried to interfere with free audience. The instrument, and the metallic sheets containing the records, were placed under special constitutional safeguards.
"The effect upon oratory at first resembled, in some degree, that produced upon epistolary correspondence by the general use of the telegraph. To the one extreme of careless verbosity succeeded the opposite one of a dry concision bordering on obscurity. Audibility of tone was cultivated at the expense of all other vocal qualities. In course of time, however, it was rediscovered, that, though a trope is not an argument, it may be efficiently employed to illustrate an argument, or even be used as an elegant substitute for one."
"What was the effect upon the press?" inquired I, greatly interested.
"Upon the press,—that is, the press militant,—the effect produced was analogous to that of electric power upon the factory system,—not so much extinction as organic change. By means of the phonograph, the orator was, to a great extent, restored to the position once occupied by a great speaker in Greece or Rome. Instead of addressing his real audience by means of the imperfect medium of type, he knew that every word, every tone, accent, and inflection of his voice, would fall, exactly as uttered, upon the ears of listening millions,—might possibly thrill the ears and fire the souls of a distant posterity. The greatest speeches were no longer delivered in public. In the seclusion of his closet, standing or walking, untrammelled by the presence of a critical audience, the orator could indulge in the wildest gesticulation, or assume any position likely to aid in the enunciation of his ideas. The phonograph recorded his words, which were presently borne on the wings of lightning to every part of the world."
"You speak of oratory in the past tense," said I.
"Is it no longer cultivated?"
"Most great questions have been so thoroughly discussed, if not settled," replied Utis, "that oratory, as implying an appeal to the emotions, is practically a thing of the past. As a means of establishing a theorem in exact science, an appeal to the passions is scarcely appropriate. The men of those early periods seem to us like children passionately urging absurd arguments to enforce crude notions. All we desire in a speaker is, a thorough knowledge of his subject, with exactitude and clearness of statement."
While yet speaking, he had approached the phonograph, and made some adjustment, besides connecting it with the tachygraph.
"Now listen," he said, at the same time pulling a knob. To my astonishment, the early part of the conversation just related was repeated with a precision of intonation almost ludicrous. The effect upon me of becoming, as it were, a listener to myself, was not unlike that said to be produced upon a savage by the first view of himself in a mirror. According as the slide was moved, the tone swelled or sank; though there was a medium pitch of maximum distinctness.
"Come near," said Utis, as he caused the sound to lie away to an almost inaudible murmur.
I approached, and found the tachygraph in busy operation. Utis stopped the machine, drew out a sheet of paper, and showed it to me covered with printed characters. These, I understood, represented the words just repeated by the phonograph; though I was not able to decipher the peculiar short-hand in which they were reproduced.
"Wonderful!" I exclaimed, as all the advantages of this invention rushed upon my mind. Here, indeed, was every man his own stenographer and printer! I was no longer surprised at the hundred millions of volumes in the great library. The real wonder was, that, with such facilities for book-making, their number was comparatively so moderate. At my host's suggestion, however, I postponed further trial of the powers of the machine to another occasion.
"It is past nine," said Utis, "and would be time for us to retire if we purposed rising at four o'clock. For a while, however, as we shall need to sit up somewhat later, I propose that we do not rise till six. In that way, without cutting short our evenings down-stairs, as we have done, I shall be able to devote the two hours between nine and eleven to imparting the information you require. We shall have only two hours of morning exercise, it is true; but we may exert ourselves the more while we are at it, and take opportunities of exercise during the day.
"Every evening, during these hours, I will set the phonograph. You will thus be enabled to go over my instructions when I an absent. These metallic sheets will, in fact, be a permanent record of our conversations, to which you can refer at any time."
"I should wish to obtain some insight into your social system," said I, after going through the usual daily summary. "Some glimpses I have, but these serve merely to excite my curiosity to know more. I understand that all among you are equal, socially, politically, and, to a large extent, in wealth also. Now, granting that such a state of things could once be brought about, how is it made permanent? How, in fine. are you able to arrest the operation of that economic law, once considered inevitable as the law of gravitation,—the tendency of some to rise above the average, of others to sink below it?"
"You have there stated in a few words," replied Utis, "a question requiring volumes of history for a fair answer In the first place, however, I would warn you to disabuse your mind of those crude generalizations once known as economical laws. A few thousand years before your period it was, no doubt, regarded as an inevitable economical law, that the stronger should eat the weaker. Yet you know, that, in your time, numbers of fat and tender weaklings went about fearlessly in the sight of strong and hungry men. A person never beholding any surface but that of the ocean would be apt to discover a general law, that there exists an inevitable tendency in certain particles of water to rise above the general level, and in others to sink below it.
"The society of your days, as compared with that now existing, was unstable as ocean compared with land. All was fluctuating, and individuals were largely at the mercy of circumstances. Some, without effort on their part, were born to virtue, happiness, and honor: others, through no apparent fault of theirs, seemed born to vice, misery, and degradation. Yet, all imperfect as it was, the civilization of your day was far in advance of that of any former age. Amid much wrong, there were genuine aspirations after justice: amid darkness, an earnest, though blind, groping toward light; amid much selfishness, much self-sacrifice and heroism. I believe, indeed, that could men have become convinced, even at that early period, of a permanently beneficial result from their self-sacrifice, the possessors of what the world had would have been willing to share equally with their less fortunate brethren. Such a partition would then, it is true, have resulted merely in disappointment. The baser elements of society had first to be sifted out. It was chiefly the dim perception of this that rendered many so hopeless of improvement. The gradual advance perceptible, in spite of many fluctuations, in the history of our race since that time, was the effect, not of any far-reaching plan, but of the earnest endeavors of earnest men to combat evils immediately pressing on their attention. At last came a time when so much had been effected, that the task could be completed on a prescribed plan, and has since been carried towards completion with a minimum waste of effort."