Special Advent Edition, Astound the Age

Volume XIII, Issue XXI

A Repeat of One of Our Favorite Issues

The Forgotten Season

The turkey leftovers were still cooling when the much media hyped 'Black Friday' events began. In a Long Island Wal Mart, a young associate was trampled to death as bargain hunters literally broke down the doors. A young man had to die because twenty dollars could be saved on flatscreens. Managers closed the store and someone actually was irate that he couldn't get in. Come on, if a colleague has died, its 'Game Over' on the shopping frenzy. Close the store and try to help the poor man's significant others. To hell with reopening for the remainder of the day! Management reopened the store at one o'clock that afternoon. Satirical publication 'The Onion' came out with a story where thousands were 'reported' to have died in Black Friday shopping. I did not find it funny. One death to satisfy the greed gods is too many. Our prayers go out to the family and friends of this young man. May they find comfort.

Lost in the madness of Black Friday, Cyber Monday and yes, even Small Business Saturday is the wonderful celebration of Advent. The high churches still celebrate it. It is a time of waiting and preparation for the miracle to come. It is so un-modern! It ties us to history. The traditions of Judaism are full of waiting. Abraham and Sarah saw the child of promise when they were way past the age of child bearing. I sometimes think of one-hundred year old Sarah as a preschool parent and join her in her laughter! Then there was Joseph and his imprisonment, followed by hundreds of years of exile in Egypt. We often think about the Promised Land, but we forget that all Promised Lands seem to require a prep!

In fact, there came a time when people forgot the lessons of the brick kilns and lost the Promised Land to the Babylonians and the Persians. The Temple, center of worship, was destroyed. But it was in this time of living as expats that the community of the Synagogue strengthened the people anew. Ezra and Nehemiah presided over a return to the land of promise. Again, the promise required a prep. As the exiles built the prosperity of Persia, they prepared themselves for the time when they would build their own.

A second Temple was built. The exiles returned. Then came the great empires of the Greeks and the Romans. The Temple was rebuilt, but the heavy hand of Roman rule presided over a time of trouble. Many looked to the future Messiah to put things aright. Indeed, there were many who claimed to BE Messiah. They came and went. But in a time when Heaven seemed so distant, there came another child of promise... to a couple way past child bearing. John the Baptist, a "Voice crying in the wilderness," came saying: "Prepare ye the way of the Lord." At the same season of history, his mother Elizabeth's cousin Mary came to visit.

Mary had been visited by an angel and told that she, a virgin, would bear the child of promise. Though this was an incredible blessing, she faced the prospect of unwed motherhood... in a culture that stoned you for it. Her betrothed, however, had also been given a message from Heaven, that he should take her for his wife. What incredible faith and love! When I chose my Confirmation name, as a boy, I took the name Joseph. It was not that I ever thought I could match such selfless love, but that I so admired it! Even to this day, some of the people I admire the most are those men who have stepped into the lives of children they did not physically father, and yet have earned the name Dad nonetheless! These men live as both an example and a challenge to me. Some of them are my juniors in years, but they far surpass in their maturity!

Such are the lessons we miss if we merely content ourselves with instant gratification. There is an old saying: "Rome wasn't built in a day." Indeed our own nation cast off from its sure position as an English colony to pursue an uncertain future. In 1812 England returned to burn the young country's capital. The White House is so called because its sandstone outer walls had to be painted after the burning left them permanently blackened. By the middle of the Nineteenth Century, however, Isambard Kingdom Brunel was building great ships to strengthen Bristol's trade with America. A hundred years after barely surviving her revolution, the nation we know had taken her place as a world power.

Why Advent is Important to Artists [click to read]

Advent is a celebration of the incarnation. It is perhaps the greatest of Christian mysteries, that the Creator G-d would voluntarily and willfully become Man. The Infinite would clothe Himself in the finite. G-d would love us to such a degree that He would become one of us, G-d with Us, Emmanuel." -- Manuel Luz

We do well to celebrate Advent, though it is largely forgotten in the popular narrative, because it causes us to pause and prepare. In a world where preparation is limited to four years it does us good to remember the lessons of centuries. Advent allows us to step back from our busy lives and ponder timeless truths... like the man that the Bethlehem baby grew to be. He too died, some say on a Friday, but his death was not just his own. Did He indeed carry the sins of the world? The account of His Resurrection causes us to ponder mysteries far greater than ourselves and our puny wants. We should indeed consider the life of this man.

Art is incarnational by nature. Art is the incarnation of concepts and ideas and emotions onto a canvas or a page or a stage or a screen. The act of art is to take these ideas and flesh them out in our artistic mediums—the visual arts, the literary arts, dance and movement, cinema and videography, music, theater. In the same way, our Artist G-d takes His love for us and fleshes it out by entering into the universe by becoming human. Jesus, “through Him all things were made,” becomes man." -- Manuel Luz


Autumn Evening. Photo by Bob Kirchman.

Photos Around Staunton


Snow highlights this house in Staunton, Virginia, designed by noted architect T. J. Collins. Photo by Bob Kirchman


The firm of T. J. Collins also designed The Church of the Good Shepherd which was built in 1924. The sanctuary originally had oil lamps. Photo by Bob Kirchman


Isn't this a great message! When I saw this, I smiled back!  
Photo by Bob Kirchman

Paul Smith's Typewriter Art


A man with severe cerebral palsy creates amazing compositions on a typewriter!

Astound the Age



Michel Dufrénoy's Guide to Our Past Century
By Bob Kirchman

Copyright © 2017, The Kirchman Studio, all rights reserved

In 1863, right after the publication of Five Weeks in a Balloon, Jules Verne presented his publisher Jules Hetzel the manuscript for Paris in the Twentieth Century. Hetzel rejected it. Verne’s great-grandson, Jean Verne discovered the manuscript and published it. The story follows young Michel Dufrénoy through a future world that has forgotten the influence of true art and fallen into a harsh utilitarianism. The story ends with Dufrénoy collapsing in the snow. Here I engage in a bit of ‘fan literature’ as I offer a sequel to Paris in the 20th Century.

So this is what death is like” thought Michel Dufrénoy. His hand turning blue clutching the ruined violets. The demon of electricity no longer tormented his mind. Instead he heard what must have been the voice of an angel. As his life ebbed away the young poet heard a lovely voice… strangely familiar. Something stirred him to a heightened consciousness and the voice grew stronger. Now imperative! “Wake up!” His mind jolted to alertness and Michel thought to himself “this cannot be!” Yet, in the thoroughness of his search, he had stumbled into this precinct most thought deserted… yet there was the voice… again! Begging him to rouse! Dufrénoy struggled to rise and fell unconscious back into the snow.

Consciousness returned and Michel found himself lying on a mat in some sort of subterranean conduit. It was a round tube lined with brick and its walls bore the evidence of seeping water, the stains confirming the young man’s suspicion that he was indeed underground. At this moment, anyway, the tunnel was dry. Michel was wrapped in blankets and surrounded by heated bricks. He was coming back from the dead! A single light dangled from a wire in the tunnel and though it was electric, it was dim – an antiquated device which gave a very limited light to the catacomb in which it shown. As he stirred, an old woman emerged from the darkness to check on him. “How do you feel?” she asked. Michel Dufrénoy could only manage a groan.

So, what had befallen our young protagonist? Though he would not remember it, his new benefactor told him the story as he regained his faculties. Indeed he had fallen in the snow of the cemetery and was almost dead when a member of their group returning to the catacombs found him. This person tried to rouse him but when she could not, convinced some of the community to risk bringing him inside. The tombs of major cities often were places not inhabited – but providing shelter to those outside of the civilization proper. In Rome, the catacombs had provided space for the faithful to worship during the harsh reign of unfriendly emperors. Here in the mausoleum district was a bit of abandoned air and steam tunnel in which lived a community in exile.

The entrance to this place was a well-hidden shaft built for maintenance that was inside the precincts of the cemetery. The falling snow had made it imperative that they refrain from sorties outside the tunnels so as not to leave footprints but one of their members required medicine and so a close relative had volunteered to carefully leave the community and return. She was the one who found Michel. There are many stories, particularly from the great American war a hundred years before, of departed loved ones appearing in dreams to their most cherished as they leave this world and Michel pondered the voice he recalled so clearly in his brief moment of regained consciousness in the snow. Indeed the ruined violets spoke to a love that would sacrifice – a higher love from an abandoned time.

He thought about the modern technocrat’s abandonment of faith in the Divine – and the ‘miracles’ recorded in the past that the moderns derided. Even Michel was no strong believer. The church existed to instill order in society and bury the dead. It was not a good thing to have religious fervor as that was often the stuff of conflict. But the Twentieth Century had experienced great travail as a result of diminishing faith in other ways. True, there were no longer wars over doctrines but the life of family and community had withered as personal satisfaction became the only motivator in society. Michel had never thought much about the Divine, but now he pondered his strange new circumstances and the vision that had preceded them.

Chapter Two

When Michel Dufrénoy regained a bit more consciousness he was delighted to see his old friend Monsieur Richelot! The old professor warmly embraced his pupil and after some amazed pleasantries, told his story. “Indeed I was being evicted for not paying my rent. My tenure as a teacher came to an end with the withdrawal of my last miserable student. One of my old colleagues came to visit me as I was cleaning out my office and let me know of this place. Lucy and I have joined the classics in exile, I fear. You must, however, be extremely grateful that she dared to go out for my much needed medicine, for it was she who found you, almost frozen to death! Be assured she convinced us to go outside at great risk and bring you inside. Thankfully the snow keeps falling and we have other entrances when we need them.”

At that moment Lucy emerged from the darkness, her eyes saying more than any words, even those of a great poet, could ever hope to express. Michel tenderly squeezed her hand, apologizing for not successfully conveying the violets to her. At that she raised her other hand displaying the ruined blossoms. Sweet laughter filled the illuminated space in the tunnel!

What followed was a long and slow period of healing. The three friends discussed their cherished literature and read aloud from volumes Richelot had been able to bring into the catacomb. Meals were bland, assembled from a forgotten cache of survival grains, primarily rice, that had been discovered in a forgotten shelter from times when men still waged war. Mushrooms, grown in the tunnels, provided flavor and some additional nourishment but alas, there was no way to create the richness of flavor that most had enjoyed above ground. Michel asked about Quinsonnas. Was there any news of his old colleague? Richelot knew nothing. Would the pianist emerge to ‘Astound the Age?’ No one knew. Gradually Michel met the other members of the community. There were poets, painters, musicians and dreamers. Misfits all!

As the young man grew stronger, it was time for him to enter into the life of the community. Richelot’s recommendation was all that it required. Now he was party to the deeper discussion of what would become of them. It was already decided that modern France held no place for them, but the plan was to immigrate to French America. How would they pay for passage in steerage of some vessel like Leviathon IV, the young man wondered? Richelot explained, “There are others, who you will not see. They are still in the employ of industry and commerce, but their hearts are with us. We have entered into a pact that will take us all to the wilds of Quebec and the acquisition of some land on which we may farm… and create! Will you come with us?”

Dear Monsieur Richelot! You know my answer.”

And so, young Dufrénoy entered into the life of the community. He often ran the dangerous errands necessary to maintain contact with the working members of the resistance. His skill at stealth made him an important agent of the little group and though there was no wealth to the group as yet, he mustered his courage to pursue talk of a future with Lucy. He could make no promise of established wealth, but he could offer the strength of a pioneer. He would work like a dog to provide for his family and in a new world, Hopes would become reality. Though he had lost the manuscript, Michel recalled the best of his words and began to write anew.

The Winter of the great freeze grudgingly came to an end. For the next year the group continued to work and save. Dufrénoy made his way into the outlying suburbs of Paris and secured employment as a clerk. He was able to rent a bunk in a modest dormitory and so contribute more to the cost of passage. With the blessing of the community he purchased some new clothes as well. His trips to the catacombs were of necessity few, but one day he appeared in his new clothes with a bouquet of local violets and a basket of nice foods and wine. “Monsieur Richelot,” he began, “I have to ask you a very important question.”

So began the engagement of Monsieur Dufrénoy and Lucy. The wedding would take place on the first day the ship was in international waters!

Chapter Three

Dufrénoy returned to his work a man with a mission. His employers thought him ambitious and seeking advancement. He soon rose to the level of the management he despised but kept to his simple lodgings. This required no small feat of stealth in itself, for an upwardly mobile young man was expected to live in the high opulence of self-indulgence he was entitled to. Michel deftly acquired a set of house plans and spent a bit of break-time in marking them up, changing room dimensions and moving walls. Possibly the dwelling so rendered could be built in Quebec. On weekends he sometimes went to look at land. His coworkers, convinced of his energies being expended in pursuit of the perfect dwelling, wondered not at his current economy of living.

His closest comrade at work was a Monsieur Jean Dumont, a clerk as he was, who had some interest in the arts, though he professed no talent. They occasionally discussed literature together though Dumont’s tastes disturbingly favored such works as ‘Song of the Turbines.’ Still, he was eclectic enough in his tastes that he possessed some of the old volumes. His reading included the works of the great engineer Claudius Crozet, who had built railroads in America and Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Rather than a crass fascination with industrialism in itself, Dumont admired these engineers of French descent for the poetry of their designs. Brunel’s bridges, though works of infrastructure, were works of art as well. Often his bridges incorporated Egyptian themes and his arches were graceful to behold. His Clifton Suspension Bridge was so beautiful it became the Iconic symbol of an English City.

Dumont and Dufrénoy worked for a large company that specialized in building bridges and highways. They both lamented the utilitarian nature of the projects they built in 1962. They also seemed to share a more frugal outlook in personal matters than their colleagues and often enjoyed a drink together, eschewing the lavish evenings enjoyed by their fellows. Jean had a modest house near the company which he lived in with his wife and children. Eventually he offered Michel a very reasonable rental of his extra bedroom. Since it was not much more than the dormitory and there was no commuting expense, it was a deal quickly sealed. On the occasional weekends when he went to see Lucy, there was nothing at all suspicious about it, save he simply disappeared from view for a few days.

The next year progressed rapidly and soon it would be time to sail. Since he lived ‘above ground,’ there was nothing unusual about Michel’s resignation and announcement that he was off to the Americas. Surely he would find employment with those audacious companies proposing even bigger motorways and a bridge from America to Asia! The future was bright indeed and Monsieur Dufrénoy would be there to take part in it! Passage was secured on a German vessel, the Wilhelm, for the Spring of 1964.
(to be continued)


In 1961, Russian engineer Peter Borisov proposed a dam across the Bering Strait that would carry a superhighway between Siberia and Alaska. The dam was planned as a climate modifying proposal that Borisov believed would warm Siberia. [1.]

Special Thanksgiving Issue, Jules Verne

Volume XIII, Issue XX

A Repeat of One of Our Favorite Issues

Thanksgiving is Good for You

Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise; give thanks to him and praise his name. For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations.” -- Psalm 100:4-5 NIV

The 'other' Weekly News Magazine [click to read] once featured the story: "Why ANXIETY is Good for You." We at THYME see this one a bit differently. In the Bible, Philippians 4:6 exhorts us NOT to be anxious. Rather we are to view our needs in light of our relationship to a loving G-d. Indeed, our requests are presented in light of the gratitude we feel as we consider the goodness and provision to be found in the Divine.

Not be anxious? In today's world? That is precisely the direction given the believer. We live in a stress-filled world and we are not commanded to shut ourselves away but rather to interact with it... becoming a conduit for G-d's Love to reach it. Indeed History shows us people of Faith fighting plagues, caring for the helpless and generally DOING things, often navigating the best course we can in unclear situations. We are NOT helpless, though we often seem to labor in insufficient light.

Fitting thoughts as we celebrate the feast of Thanksgiving. These are indeed anxious times, and it is easy to become overwhelmed by the general angst of the period we live in. History tells us of Divine promise and fulfillment. The Patriarchs piled up stones to remind them of G-d's faithfulness in the past and to keep them faithful as they waited to see His faithfulness in their present lives.

And it shall be on the day when ye shall pass over Jordan unto the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee, that thou shalt set thee up great stones, and plaister them with plaister: And thou shalt write upon them all the words of this law, when thou art passed over, that thou mayest go in unto the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee, a land that floweth with milk and honey; as the LORD God of thy fathers hath promised thee." -- Deuteronomy 27:2-3

Indeed, one must recount the stories of how G-d met needs in times past. One must also tell of the promises of G-d. Faith needs fuel, and Gratitude is the substance that makes our faith burn bright, even in the darkest of times.

Standing on the Promises [1.]

Standing on the promises of Christ my King,
through eternal ages let his praises ring;
glory in the highest, I will shout and sing,
standing on the promises of G-d.
Refrain:
Standing, standing,
standing on the promises of Christ my Savior;
standing, standing,
I'm standing on the promises of G-d.

Standing on the promises that cannot fail,
when the howling storms of doubt and fear assail,
by the living Word of G-d I shall prevail,
standing on the promises of G-d.
(Refrain)

3. Standing on the promises of Christ the Lord,
bound to him eternally by love's strong cord,
overcoming daily with the Spirit's sword,
standing on the promises of G-d.
(Refrain)

4. Standing on the promises I cannot fall,
listening every moment to the Spirit's call,
resting in my Savior as my all in all,
standing on the promises of G-d.
(Refrain)

The staff of THYME wish you a most blessed Thanksgiving!

The 'Common Course and Condition' 
America's First Experiment with Socialism

When the Pilgrims first set up their economic system in Plymouth they opted for a system where all the results of their labor were held in common. All of the colonists then drew from the common store what they lived on. The Common Course and Condition, as this system was called, resulted in some bad feelings on the part of those who produced effectively and some lack of initiative on the part of those who were happy to have the food without the work.

The system produced constant shortages and a man who rose early and worked diligently came quite naturally to resent his neighbor who slept in and contributed less effort. Friction was high among the colonists and in 1623 Governor William Bradford declared the common course a failure.

The colonists were next assigned plots by families. Larger families were given larger plots. Everyone was responsible for the production of his own land and growing food for his own family. The results were notable. Far more crops were planted and tended. There was plenty instead of shortage and all in response to this new sense of ownership.

Church Found where 
Pocahontas was Married


Her eyes meet yours as you enter the Virginia Executive Mansion. A young girl from days long ago, yet her presence in the foyer immediately captured my attention. There are two portraits of Pocahontas in the room, one in English clothing (below) and the more familiar rendering seen above.


Pocahontas's formal names were Matoaka (or Matoika) and Amonute. Pocahontas is a childhood name that perhaps referred to her playful nature. After her marriage to John Rolfe, she was known as Rebecca Rolfe.

Archeologists say that they have Discovered the Church [click to read] where Pocahontas married Jamestown planter John Rolfe.

Harvest Hymn Written 
in 1844 by Henry Alford


“Come, Ye Thankful People, Come” is a harvest hymn written in 1844 by Henry Alford. It is often sung to the tune “St. George's Windsor” by George Job Elvey. So I created this in light of Thanksgiving to remind us of what we should really be thankful for. Two of my photos are overlayed with the text of the hymn added." -- Kristina Elaine Greer Photo Graphic by Kristina Elaine Greer

View Larger Image [click to view]

The First Thanksgiving... in VIRGINIA!

It wasn't a grand feast, but rather a time of giving thanks! on December 4, 1619, almost 2 years before the pilgrims held the feast with their Native American benefactors, Captain John Woodlief came ashore near the present site of the Berkeley Plantation. He had sailed from Bristol, England in the Good Ship Margaret with 35 men. They had survived a harrowing storm on November 29th and felt great gratitude for their deliverance. Here is Their Story [click to read].


Lessons from Squanto for Today

The Man Who Taught the Pilgrims Offers Wisdom


In this 1911 illustration, Tisquantum teaches the settlers how to plant maize.

Here is an interesting ebook: Squanto's Garden [click to read] from Off the Grid News. Most of us know some snippets of Squanto's story... how he taught the settlers how to successfully cultivate the soil of their new home, but Bill Heid actually shares some practical gardening tips and garden layouts that Squanto might have shared with the Pilgrims. He also fills out Tisquantum's story, giving us insight into a man who's unusual life uniquely equipped him to teach others.


The Sun burns through a morning mist on Thanksgiving Eve.

A Native American's Amazing Story

" ... a special instrument sent by God for their good beyond their expectations ..." -- William Bradford

Today millions of Americans will dine on turkey and celebrate Thanksgiving. Most people will realize that it has some connection to the Pilgrims in Massachussetts, but the story of G-d's provision and the reason for the celebration seem to have faded in our collective memories.

The Pilgrims came to the New World for their kids. They were a Christian group who sought to live for G-d rather than be seduced by the culture around them. They lived in Holland for a while but they saw their children falling away from the faith.

So they moved. They sought passage on a ship bound for Virginia. The ship went off course and they landed in Massachussetts instead. They had a rough time of it their first winter and almost half of them died. Still, when offered the chance to return to Europe, they declined. Then one of the indigenous people walked into camp and spoke to them in English!

The man's name was Samoset, and he introduced the Pilgrims to Squanto, who taught the Pilgrims many things to help them survive in the new world. Squanto spoke even better English than Samoset. His story is amazing.

Squanto had first met Europeans around 1605 when Captain John Smith made his famous voyage. He travelled to England with him but when he returned to America he was captured into slavery and returned to Europe. Spanish monks bought his freedom and sent him to England where he found passage back to America. Sadly, his village was now gone, the people wiped out by disease. He found people nearby to live with but one day heard that a new group of people were living where his old village had stood. What's more, they spoke that funny new language that he had learned.

Samoset made the introduction and the rest, you might say, is history. Thanks to Squanto the Pilgrims survived and began to do quite well in the new world. Their relations with the Native people were quite good and their Thanksgiving was for the amazing provision they found in Squanto, of whom it was said:

" ... He desired honor, which he loved as his life and preferred before his peace ..."

Jules Verne’s ‘Lost’ Novel
Imagine a World without Art

By Bob Kirchman



Jean Verne is the great-grandson of the famous author and futurist Jules Verne. In 1989 Jean was getting ready to sell a family home and made an amazing discovery. There was a huge bronze safe that the keys to had long since been lost. Although it was believed to be empty, the young Verne opened it with a blowtorch anyway. There in the safe was a manuscript. It was a novel called ‘Paris in the Twentieth Century,’ which Verne had submitted to his publisher Jules Hetzel right after the success of his first novel: Five Weeks in a Balloon.’ Hetzel had rejected it in 1863 saying “It’s a hundred feet below ‘Five Weeks in a Balloon.’ Hetzel went on to say “No one today will believe your prophecy!”

Verne’s vision of a modern Paris in 1960 indeed predicts skyscrapers and technology that came to be, but it is even more amazing to note that Verne’s dystopia predicts a future world where the great art, literature and music – the rich fruits of centuries of Western culture – have been all but forgotten! Instead, the culture of the day celebrates technology and commerce. ‘Old’ things have nothing to say to us anymore! The hero of the story, young Michel Dufrénoy, goes into a modern bookstore and asks if they have anything by Victor Hugo. The clerk responds by asking “what did he write?”

Jules Verne predicts most damningly our society’s modern intoxication with ugliness. Go to any modern art school or venue and you find more of a cold mechanical sort of art aimed more at ‘expression.’ Roger Scruton has written on this phenomenon and how the great works of the past have been pushed aside. [2.] Scruton opines: “The current habit of desecrating beauty suggests that people are as aware as they ever were of the presence of sacred things. Desecration is a kind of defense against the sacred, an attempt to destroy its claims. In the presence of sacred things, our lives are judged, and to escape that judgment, we destroy the thing that seems to accuse us.”

Thus Michel and his friends, artists of the ‘old’ school, are faced with the challenge of preserving the old and instructive culture in the face of a modern world that distains it. Verne’s work finds itself specifically troubling in its prediction of modern society’s distaste for a past that would inform it! And so, much like Dufrénoy’s friend and colleague Quinsonnas, we find ourselves as artists frustrated by the modern culture. We long, as he did to somehow ‘astound the age!’

Early industrialization did not of itself produce bad art. The Brooklyn Bridge, the Eiffel Tower and classicized ironfront buildings all carried forward a certain sense of beauty and proportion. The revolt against the traditions of the past was more intentional as in 1917 when Marcel Duchamp sought to parody traditional art’s over-concern with technique. He signed a plumbing fixture ‘R. Mutt’ and entered it in an exhibition. What he meant as a paradoxical statement, however, the art intelligentsia took for a serious movement. Ever since Duchamp’s urinal the world of art has itself destroyed the place of beauty.

For its part, industrialization has had a mixed effect. The 1962 Seattle World’s Fair’s ‘Hall of Science’ is as beautiful as the Eiffel Tower. It is in its own right quite a contrast to Frank Gehry’s ‘Experience Music Project.’ The 1964 New York World’s Fair was the ‘great cathedral’ of modern progress. In fact, it featured a ‘Carousel of Progress’ which had its own hymn: “Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow.” Men were headed to the moon. Technology was indeed going to end want and darkness.

But this new world, secured by ‘mutually assured destruction,’ created questions of its own. Technology created pollution. The promise faded into disillusionment and forced upon us a new conundrum. We had discarded ‘antiquated’ notions such as EX NIHILO creation – science was still our new god – but now science informed us that technology was a source of evil. Thus the Twentieth Century inherited a new Cosmology and has found it wanting!

The problem is that we have discarded the Wisdom of Centuries, even as we lean unapologetically on ‘modern’ science to inform us. We seek naturalistic answers or philosophical ones. We shun the truly transcendent ones. Indeed, Paris in the Twentieth Century looks at our present time and asks the hard questions.



Around the World in 80 Days
By Jules Verne, Chapter XXXV

In which Phileas Fogg Does Not have to Repeat His Orders to Passepartout Twice

The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible.

After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile.

He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour’s sake than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him.

Mr. Fogg’s course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained for him to do.

A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector’s misfortune. From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious project.

Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing.

First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear.

The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful dog, at his master’s door.

Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda’s breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment’s conversation with the young lady.

Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg, and had betrayed Fix’s projects to him, his master would certainly not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then —

Passepartout could hold in no longer.

My master! Mr. Fogg!” he cried, “why do you not curse me? It was my fault that —”

I blame no one,” returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. “Go!”

Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he delivered his master’s message.

Madam,” he added, “I can do nothing myself — nothing! I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps —”

What influence could I have?” replied Aouda. “Mr. Fogg is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?”

Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England.”

We shall see,” replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive.

Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven.

Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit.

Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master’s door, and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do, and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment. Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly.

Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda’s door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive.

About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with her.

Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same impassibility.

He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda, “Madam,” said he, “will you pardon me for bringing you to England?”

I, Mr. Fogg!” replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart.

Please let me finish,” returned Mr. Fogg. “When I decided to bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined.”

I know it, Mr. Fogg,” replied Aouda; “and I ask you in my turn, will you forgive me for having followed you, and — who knows? — for having, perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?”

Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could not take you.”

So, Mr. Fogg,” resumed Aouda, “not content with rescuing me from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a foreign land?”

Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service.”

But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?”

As for me, madam,” replied the gentleman, coldly, “I have need of nothing.”

But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?”

As I am in the habit of doing.”

At least,” said Aouda, “want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends —”

I have no friends, madam.”

Your relatives —”

I have no longer any relatives.”

I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience.”

They say so, madam.”

Mr. Fogg,” said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, “do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?”

Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, “I love you!” he said, simply. “Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!”

Ah!” cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart.

Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held Aouda’s hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith.

Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening.

Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, “Never too late.”

It was five minutes past eight.

Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?”

For to-morrow, Monday,” said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda.

Yes; for to-morrow, Monday,” she replied.

Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.
(to be continued)


Gateway Arch, St. Louis, MO. Painting by bob Kirchman 1985

The Longest Structure on Earth



Around the World in 80 Days
By Jules Verne, Chapter XXXVI

In which Phileas Fogg’s Name is Once More at a Premium on ‘Change

It is time to relate what a change took place in English public opinion when it transpired that the real bankrobber, a certain James Strand, had been arrested, on the 17th day of December, at Edinburgh. Three days before, Phileas Fogg had been a criminal, who was being desperately followed up by the police; now he was an honourable gentleman, mathematically pursuing his eccentric journey round the world.

The papers resumed their discussion about the wager; all those who had laid bets, for or against him, revived their interest, as if by magic; the “Phileas Fogg bonds” again became negotiable, and many new wagers were made. Phileas Fogg’s name was once more at a premium on ‘Change.

His five friends of the Reform Club passed these three days in a state of feverish suspense. Would Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten, reappear before their eyes! Where was he at this moment? The 17th of December, the day of James Strand’s arrest, was the seventy-sixth since Phileas Fogg’s departure, and no news of him had been received. Was he dead? Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing his journey along the route agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold of the Reform Club saloon?

The anxiety in which, for three days, London society existed, cannot be described. Telegrams were sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg. Messengers were dispatched to the house in Saville Row morning and evening. No news. The police were ignorant what had become of the detective, Fix, who had so unfortunately followed up a false scent. Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value. Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was drawing near his last turning-point. The bonds were quoted, no longer at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at five; and paralytic old Lord Albemarle bet even in his favour.

A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the neighbouring streets on Saturday evening; it seemed like a multitude of brokers permanently established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded, and everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial transactions were going on. The police had great difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as the hour when Phileas Fogg was due approached, the excitement rose to its highest pitch.

The five antagonists of Phileas Fogg had met in the great saloon of the club. John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the bankers, Andrew Stuart, the engineer, Gauthier Ralph, the director of the Bank of England, and Thomas Flanagan, the brewer, one and all waited anxiously.

When the clock indicated twenty minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart got up, saying, “Gentlemen, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between Mr. Fogg and ourselves will have expired.”

What time did the last train arrive from Liverpool?” asked Thomas Flanagan.

At twenty-three minutes past seven,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and the next does not arrive till ten minutes after twelve.”

Well, gentlemen,” resumed Andrew Stuart, “if Phileas Fogg had come in the 7:23 train, he would have got here by this time. We can, therefore, regard the bet as won.”

Wait; don’t let us be too hasty,” replied Samuel Fallentin. “You know that Mr. Fogg is very eccentric. His punctuality is well known; he never arrives too soon, or too late; and I should not be surprised if he appeared before us at the last minute.”

Why,” said Andrew Stuart nervously, “if I should see him, I should not believe it was he.”

The fact is,” resumed Thomas Flanagan, “Mr. Fogg’s project was absurdly foolish. Whatever his punctuality, he could not prevent the delays which were certain to occur; and a delay of only two or three days would be fatal to his tour.”

Observe, too,” added John Sullivan, “that we have received no intelligence from him, though there are telegraphic lines all along is route.”

He has lost, gentleman,” said Andrew Stuart, “he has a hundred times lost! You know, besides, that the China the only steamer he could have taken from New York to get here in time arrived yesterday. I have seen a list of the passengers, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Even if we admit that fortune has favoured him, he can scarcely have reached America. I think he will be at least twenty days behind-hand, and that Lord Albemarle will lose a cool five thousand.”

It is clear,” replied Gauthier Ralph; “and we have nothing to do but to present Mr. Fogg’s cheque at Barings to-morrow.”

At this moment, the hands of the club clock pointed to twenty minutes to nine.

Five minutes more,” said Andrew Stuart.

The five gentlemen looked at each other. Their anxiety was becoming intense; but, not wishing to betray it, they readily assented to Mr. Fallentin’s proposal of a rubber.

I wouldn’t give up my four thousand of the bet,” said Andrew Stuart, as he took his seat, “for three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

The clock indicated eighteen minutes to nine.

The players took up their cards, but could not keep their eyes off the clock. Certainly, however secure they felt, minutes had never seemed so long to them!

Seventeen minutes to nine,” said Thomas Flanagan, as he cut the cards which Ralph handed to him.

Then there was a moment of silence. The great saloon was perfectly quiet; but the murmurs of the crowd outside were heard, with now and then a shrill cry. The pendulum beat the seconds, which each player eagerly counted, as he listened, with mathematical regularity.

Sixteen minutes to nine!” said John Sullivan, in a voice which betrayed his emotion.

One minute more, and the wager would be won. Andrew Stuart and his partners suspended their game. They left their cards, and counted the seconds.

At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth, still nothing.

At the fifty-fifth, a loud cry was heard in the street, followed by applause, hurrahs, and some fierce growls.

The players rose from their seats.

At the fifty-seventh second the door of the saloon opened; and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd who had forced their way through the club doors, and in his calm voice, said, “Here I am, gentlemen!”
(to be continued)

Around the World in 80 Days
By Jules Verne, Chapter XXXVII

In which it is Shown that Phileas Fogg Gained Nothing by His Tour Around the World, Unless it Were Happiness

Yes; Phileas Fogg in person.

The reader will remember that at five minutes past eight in the evening — about five and twenty hours after the arrival of the travellers in London — Passepartout had been sent by his master to engage the services of the Reverend Samuel Wilson in a certain marriage ceremony, which was to take place the next day.

Passepartout went on his errand enchanted. He soon reached the clergyman’s house, but found him not at home. Passepartout waited a good twenty minutes, and when he left the reverend gentleman, it was thirty-five minutes past eight. But in what a state he was! With his hair in disorder, and without his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout.

In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg’s room.

He could not speak.

What is the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

My master!” gasped Passepartout —“marriage — impossible —”

Impossible?”

Impossible — for to-morrow.”

Why so?”

Because to-morrow — is Sunday!”

Monday,” replied Mr. Fogg.

No — to-day is Saturday.”

Saturday? Impossible!”

Yes, yes, yes, yes!” cried Passepartout. “You have made a mistake of one day! We arrived twenty-four hours ahead of time; but there are only ten minutes left!”

Passepartout had seized his master by the collar, and was dragging him along with irresistible force.

Phileas Fogg, thus kidnapped, without having time to think, left his house, jumped into a cab, promised a hundred pounds to the cabman, and, having run over two dogs and overturned five carriages, reached the Reform Club.

The clock indicated a quarter before nine when he appeared in the great saloon.

Phileas Fogg had accomplished the journey round the world in eighty days!

Phileas Fogg had won his wager of twenty thousand pounds!

How was it that a man so exact and fastidious could have made this error of a day? How came he to think that he had arrived in London on Saturday, the twenty-first day of December, when it was really Friday, the twentieth, the seventy-ninth day only from his departure?

The cause of the error is very simple.

Phileas Fogg had, without suspecting it, gained one day on his journey, and this merely because he had travelled constantly eastward; he would, on the contrary, have lost a day had he gone in the opposite direction, that is, westward.

In journeying eastward he had gone towards the sun, and the days therefore diminished for him as many times four minutes as he crossed degrees in this direction. There are three hundred and sixty degrees on the circumference of the earth; and these three hundred and sixty degrees, multiplied by four minutes, gives precisely twenty-four hours — that is, the day unconsciously gained. In other words, while Phileas Fogg, going eastward, saw the sun pass the meridian eighty times, his friends in London only saw it pass the meridian seventy-nine times. This is why they awaited him at the Reform Club on Saturday, and not Sunday, as Mr. Fogg thought.

And Passepartout’s famous family watch, which had always kept London time, would have betrayed this fact, if it had marked the days as well as the hours and the minutes!

Phileas Fogg, then, had won the twenty thousand pounds; but, as he had spent nearly nineteen thousand on the way, the pecuniary gain was small. His object was, however, to be victorious, and not to win money. He divided the one thousand pounds that remained between Passepartout and the unfortunate Fix, against whom he cherished no grudge. He deducted, however, from Passepartout’s share the cost of the gas which had burned in his room for nineteen hundred and twenty hours, for the sake of regularity.

That evening, Mr. Fogg, as tranquil and phlegmatic as ever, said to Aouda: “Is our marriage still agreeable to you?”

Mr. Fogg,” replied she, “it is for me to ask that question. You were ruined, but now you are rich again.”

Pardon me, madam; my fortune belongs to you. If you had not suggested our marriage, my servant would not have gone to the Reverend Samuel Wilson’s, I should not have been apprised of my error, and —”

Dear Mr. Fogg!” said the young woman.

Dear Aouda!” replied Phileas Fogg.

It need not be said that the marriage took place forty-eight hours after, and that Passepartout, glowing and dazzling, gave the bride away. Had he not saved her, and was he not entitled to this honour?

The next day, as soon as it was light, Passepartout rapped vigorously at his master’s door. Mr. Fogg opened it, and asked, “What’s the matter, Passepartout?”

What is it, sir? Why, I’ve just this instant found out —”

What?”

That we might have made the tour of the world in only seventy-eight days.”

No doubt,” returned Mr. Fogg, “by not crossing India. But if I had not crossed India, I should not have saved Aouda; she would not have been my wife, and —”

Mr. Fogg quietly shut the door.

Phileas Fogg had won his wager, and had made his journey around the world in eighty days. To do this he had employed every means of conveyance — steamers, railways, carriages, yachts, trading-vessels, sledges, elephants. The eccentric gentleman had throughout displayed all his marvellous qualities of coolness and exactitude. But what then? What had he really gained by all this trouble? What had he brought back from this long and weary journey?

Nothing, say you? Perhaps so; nothing but a charming woman, who, strange as it may appear, made him the happiest of men!

Truly, would you not for less than that make the tour around the world?
THE END

Apollonius, Around the World in 80 Days, Josiah

 
Volume XIII, Issue XIX

Apollonius
By Bob Kirchman
Copyright © 2017, The Kirchman Studio, all rights reserved

Chapter 14: New Beginnings

The Great Northern was home. She was reassigned to her original destination as SS/AC006 and crews came aboard to install the Iron Dome system that would allow her to be a part of the defense against rogue missiles. Abiyah and some of the original crew made a few trips up to ‘hand her off’ but the station now was staffed on a rotation of one month on, one month off by Alaska Space Program regulars. No more would man spend prolonged time in space with its unknown consequences. The only deference to the mission to Mars was the decision to preserve the nursery. It was a welcome touch of home… particularly for some of the women crew members who set up the SKYPE lounge there with the running children in the mural as a backdrop. There they would talk to their own children on Earth and their children felt connection as they saw the playful scene surrounding their parent. The crew now was more like those in merchant service who can count on regular extended time at home when their tours are over. Mars was really the last world nearby that was explorable by humans. The large planets such as Jupiter had dense toxic atmospheres and intensely strong gravity. The service would return to their original plan and build sophisticated probes and rovers designed to survive the harsh conditions. Abiyah and Sarah wound up their report writing and their official assignment was coming to an end. They walked one evening a few houses down in Shalom to the home of Rupert and Pat Zimmerman for dinner, little son in tow. There they engaged in an interesting dialogue with the old engineer.

Well, I think it is safe to say that you two will go down in history as the first humans to set foot on Mars, but I am afraid we will not want to send you back.”

Sarah stifled a chuckle: “I should only want to make that journey once anyway.”

Yes, when our forefathers and mothers set sail for new worlds,” Zimmerman continued, “They did not find empty lifeless wastelands. They found rich lands inhabited by people who could show them the riches to be found there. Squanto was there to teach the Pilgrims how to farm, and Sacajawea was there to guide Lewis and Clark. Though it is disputed today, it is pretty clear that the first men and women crossed the Bering Strait upon a land bridge of some sort. They settled the land little by little and when others came they learned from the ones who went before how to survive there. Sadly, human nature being what it is, there was always conquest, land grabbing and killing… and that went on before the Europeans showed up and engaged in even more of it.”

History shows us that venturing forth into new worlds is never a sure thing. In 1587, John White brought more than 100 men, women and children with him in a small ship in the first attempt to found a permanent English colony in the New World. The group settled on Roanoke Island, one of a chain of barrier islands now known as the Outer Banks, off the coast of North Carolina. Later that year, White headed back to England to bring more supplies, but England’s naval war with Spain would delay his return for nearly three years. When he finally arrived on Roanoke Island, on August 18, 1590, White found the colony abandoned and looted, with no trace of the settlers. Only two clues remained: The word “Croatoan” had been carved on a post and the letters “CRO” scratched into a tree trunk. The settlers of Jamestown and Plymouth almost starved to death.”

So,” Sarah said, “There is no gradual and logical migration of humanity to the planets?”

No. And I was a fool to be taken in so quickly by George Apollonius in thinking that it would happen because we had a new space technology. Mankind needs to gain some real benefit from going out and I’m afraid Apollonius could only spin vain promises of undiscovered riches. His true motive was always to recast society in a way that he could control it. He thought if you could create the best all-powerful centralized government it would usher in a new age for mankind. The problem is that some of the darkest societies in the past century began with the same promise. Unfortunately control of mankind appears to be a poor substitute for actual redemption.”

God rest his soul, he and his fortune perished as the rocket fell back to Mars.”

Well,” said Rupert, “He left a sizable deposit in the bank of Wales to cover unforeseen costs of maintaining the colonies. He was so afraid of issuing bonds and having to answer to stockholders. We have been able to cover our costs from the Mars mission out of that and now there is enough left over to fund a couple of teaching endowments at the school of aerospace engineering.”

But, as you say, isn’t that pretty much a science that has been already pushed to its limits?”

Oh NO,” Replied Zimmerman, “I merely said that manned missions were done with, at least for the time being. Think about all of the old science fiction stories. They’d go to Mars and meet Martians and so space was like a giant world in itself. We’ll not meet anyone else in those hostile worlds we’ve actually seen so far. No Squanto… no Sacajawea! But that does not mean an end to exploration? On the contrary, we now have the ability to expend a reasonable amount of resources and learn incredible things. Who knows, we might even find a reason for mankind to venture out there again, but it shall not be over a challenge received at a dinner at the Reform Club!”

Epilogue: Joshua Adam Cohen-Ben Gurion

It was a bright Summer day a few years later on Big Diomede. Sarah and Abiyah’s son was playing in the attic bedroom of his favorite babysitter. The Greene’s eldest daughter and he played in a closet that Mrs. Greene had painted to look like the wardrobe doorway into Narnia and little Adam was enthralled by it. The boy often stared into the painting’s horizon… looking into another world it seemed. Major Cohen and her husband had settled in the biosphere upon their retirement, taking positions as professors of aerospace engineering at the college. They lived next door to the Greenes and Adam was quite happy with his new sitter! Sarah Cohen had just returned to pick up her son and she stood quietly in the doorway with Kris Greene watching the wonder.

Do you suppose he knows he was born in a most miraculous way?” Sarah Cohen mused.

I would be hard pressed to answer that.” said Kris, “But then, isn’t EVERY child’s birth a miracle… and aren't their little lives a glimpse into that unspoiled world of God’s creative Glory?”

Do you mean by that, Kris, that there is more of a connection to the Divine in this world than we suppose?” Sarah continued, “Could it also be true that our children are more adept at showing us the doorway than we give them credit for?”
The End



Around the World in 80 Days
By Jules Verne, Chapter XXXIII

In which Phileas Fogg Shows Himself Equal to the Occasion

An hour after, the Henrietta passed the lighthouse which marks the entrance of the Hudson, turned the point of Sandy Hook, and put to sea. During the day she skirted Long Island, passed Fire Island, and directed her course rapidly eastward.

At noon the next day, a man mounted the bridge to ascertain the vessel’s position. It might be thought that this was Captain Speedy. Not the least in the world. It was Phileas Fogg, Esquire. As for Captain Speedy, he was shut up in his cabin under lock and key, and was uttering loud cries, which signified an anger at once pardonable and excessive.

What had happened was very simple. Phileas Fogg wished to go to Liverpool, but the captain would not carry him there. Then Phileas Fogg had taken passage for Bordeaux, and, during the thirty hours he had been on board, had so shrewdly managed with his banknotes that the sailors and stokers, who were only an occasional crew, and were not on the best terms with the captain, went over to him in a body. This was why Phileas Fogg was in command instead of Captain Speedy; why the captain was a prisoner in his cabin; and why, in short, the Henrietta was directing her course towards Liverpool. It was very clear, to see Mr. Fogg manage the craft, that he had been a sailor.

How the adventure ended will be seen anon. Aouda was anxious, though she said nothing. As for Passepartout, he thought Mr. Fogg’s manoeuvre simply glorious. The captain had said “between eleven and twelve knots,” and the Henrietta confirmed his prediction.

If, then — for there were “ifs” still — the sea did not become too boisterous, if the wind did not veer round to the east, if no accident happened to the boat or its machinery, the Henrietta might cross the three thousand miles from New York to Liverpool in the nine days, between the 12th and the 21st of December. It is true that, once arrived, the affair on board the Henrietta, added to that of the Bank of England, might create more difficulties for Mr. Fogg than he imagined or could desire.

During the first days, they went along smoothly enough. The sea was not very unpropitious, the wind seemed stationary in the north-east, the sails were hoisted, and the Henrietta ploughed across the waves like a real trans-Atlantic steamer.

Passepartout was delighted. His master’s last exploit, the consequences of which he ignored, enchanted him. Never had the crew seen so jolly and dexterous a fellow. He formed warm friendships with the sailors, and amazed them with his acrobatic feats. He thought they managed the vessel like gentlemen, and that the stokers fired up like heroes. His loquacious good-humour infected everyone. He had forgotten the past, its vexations and delays. He only thought of the end, so nearly accomplished; and sometimes he boiled over with impatience, as if heated by the furnaces of the Henrietta. Often, also, the worthy fellow revolved around Fix, looking at him with a keen, distrustful eye; but he did not speak to him, for their old intimacy no longer existed.

Fix, it must be confessed, understood nothing of what was going on. The conquest of the Henrietta, the bribery of the crew, Fogg managing the boat like a skilled seaman, amazed and confused him. He did not know what to think. For, after all, a man who began by stealing fifty-five thousand pounds might end by stealing a vessel; and Fix was not unnaturally inclined to conclude that the Henrietta under Fogg’s command, was not going to Liverpool at all, but to some part of the world where the robber, turned into a pirate, would quietly put himself in safety. The conjecture was at least a plausible one, and the detective began to seriously regret that he had embarked on the affair.

As for Captain Speedy, he continued to howl and growl in his cabin; and Passepartout, whose duty it was to carry him his meals, courageous as he was, took the greatest precautions. Mr. Fogg did not seem even to know that there was a captain on board.

On the 13th they passed the edge of the Banks of Newfoundland, a dangerous locality; during the winter, especially, there are frequent fogs and heavy gales of wind. Ever since the evening before the barometer, suddenly falling, had indicated an approaching change in the atmosphere; and during the night the temperature varied, the cold became sharper, and the wind veered to the south-east.

This was a misfortune. Mr. Fogg, in order not to deviate from his course, furled his sails and increased the force of the steam; but the vessel’s speed slackened, owing to the state of the sea, the long waves of which broke against the stern. She pitched violently, and this retarded her progress. The breeze little by little swelled into a tempest, and it was to be feared that the Henrietta might not be able to maintain herself upright on the waves.

Passepartout’s visage darkened with the skies, and for two days the poor fellow experienced constant fright. But Phileas Fogg was a bold mariner, and knew how to maintain headway against the sea; and he kept on his course, without even decreasing his steam. The Henrietta, when she could not rise upon the waves, crossed them, swamping her deck, but passing safely. Sometinies the screw rose out of the water, beating its protruding end, when a mountain of water raised the stern above the waves; but the craft always kept straight ahead.

The wind, however, did not grow as boisterous as might have been feared; it was not one of those tempests which burst, and rush on with a speed of ninety miles an hour. It continued fresh, but, unhappily, it remained obstinately in the south-east, rendering the sails useless.

The 16th of December was the seventy-fifth day since Phileas Fogg’s departure from London, and the Henrietta had not yet been seriously delayed. Half of the voyage was almost accomplished, and the worst localities had been passed. In summer, success would have been well-nigh certain. In winter, they were at the mercy of the bad season. Passepartout said nothing; but he cherished hope in secret, and comforted himself with the reflection that, if the wind failed them, they might still count on the steam.

On this day the engineer came on deck, went up to Mr. Fogg, and began to speak earnestly with him. Without knowing why it was a presentiment, perhaps Passepartout became vaguely uneasy. He would have given one of his ears to hear with the other what the engineer was saying. He finally managed to catch a few words, and was sure he heard his master say, “You are certain of what you tell me?”

Certain, sir,” replied the engineer. “You must remember that, since we started, we have kept up hot fires in all our furnaces, and, though we had coal enough to go on short steam from New York to Bordeaux, we haven’t enough to go with all steam from New York to Liverpool.” “I will consider,” replied Mr. Fogg.

Passepartout understood it all; he was seized with mortal anxiety. The coal was giving out! “Ah, if my master can get over that,” muttered he, “he’ll be a famous man!” He could not help imparting to Fix what he had overheard.

Then you believe that we really are going to Liverpool?”

Of course.”

Ass!” replied the detective, shrugging his shoulders and turning on his heel.

Passepartout was on the point of vigorously resenting the epithet, the reason of which he could not for the life of him comprehend; but he reflected that the unfortunate Fix was probably very much disappointed and humiliated in his self-esteem, after having so awkwardly followed a false scent around the world, and refrained.

And now what course would Phileas Fogg adopt? It was difficult to imagine. Nevertheless he seemed to have decided upon one, for that evening he sent for the engineer, and said to him, “Feed all the fires until the coal is exhausted.”

A few moments after, the funnel of the Henrietta vomited forth torrents of smoke. The vessel continued to proceed with all steam on; but on the 18th, the engineer, as he had predicted, announced that the coal would give out in the course of the day.

Do not let the fires go down,” replied Mr. Fogg. “Keep them up to the last. Let the valves be filled.”

Towards noon Phileas Fogg, having ascertained their position, called Passepartout, and ordered him to go for Captain Speedy. It was as if the honest fellow had been commanded to unchain a tiger. He went to the poop, saying to himself, “He will be like a madman!”

In a few moments, with cries and oaths, a bomb appeared on the poop-deck. The bomb was Captain Speedy. It was clear that he was on the point of bursting. “Where are we?” were the first words his anger permitted him to utter. Had the poor man be an apoplectic, he could never have recovered from his paroxysm of wrath.

Where are we?” he repeated, with purple face.

Seven hundred and seven miles from Liverpool,” replied Mr. Fogg, with imperturbable calmness.

Pirate!” cried Captain Speedy.

I have sent for you, sir —”

Pickaroon!”

— sir,” continued Mr. Fogg, “to ask you to sell me your vessel.”

No! By all the devils, no!”

But I shall be obliged to burn her.”

Burn the Henrietta!”

Yes; at least the upper part of her. The coal has given out.”

Burn my vessel!” cried Captain Speedy, who could scarcely pronounce the words. “A vessel worth fifty thousand dollars!”

Here are sixty thousand,” replied Phileas Fogg, handing the captain a roll of bank-bills. This had a prodigious effect on Andrew Speedy. An American can scarcely remain unmoved at the sight of sixty thousand dollars. The captain forgot in an instant his anger, his imprisonment, and all his grudges against his passenger. The Henrietta was twenty years old; it was a great bargain. The bomb would not go off after all. Mr. Fogg had taken away the match.

And I shall still have the iron hull,” said the captain in a softer tone.

The iron hull and the engine. Is it agreed?”

Agreed.”

And Andrew Speedy, seizing the banknotes, counted them and consigned them to his pocket.

During this colloquy, Passepartout was as white as a sheet, and Fix seemed on the point of having an apoplectic fit. Nearly twenty thousand pounds had been expended, and Fogg left the hull and engine to the captain, that is, near the whole value of the craft! It was true, however, that fifty-five thousand pounds had been stolen from the Bank.

When Andrew Speedy had pocketed the money, Mr. Fogg said to him, “Don’t let this astonish you, sir. You must know that I shall lose twenty thousand pounds, unless I arrive in London by a quarter before nine on the evening of the 21st of December. I missed the steamer at New York, and as you refused to take me to Liverpool —”

And I did well!” cried Andrew Speedy; “for I have gained at least forty thousand dollars by it!” He added, more sedately, “Do you know one thing, Captain —”

Fogg.”

Captain Fogg, you’ve got something of the Yankee about you.”

And, having paid his passenger what he considered a high compliment, he was going away, when Mr. Fogg said, “The vessel now belongs to me?”

Certainly, from the keel to the truck of the masts — all the wood, that is.”

Very well. Have the interior seats, bunks, and frames pulled down, and burn them.”

It was necessary to have dry wood to keep the steam up to the adequate pressure, and on that day the poop, cabins, bunks, and the spare deck were sacrificed. On the next day, the 19th of December, the masts, rafts, and spars were burned; the crew worked lustily, keeping up the fires. Passepartout hewed, cut, and sawed away with all his might. There was a perfect rage for demolition.

The railings, fittings, the greater part of the deck, and top sides disappeared on the 20th, and the Henrietta was now only a flat hulk. But on this day they sighted the Irish coast and Fastnet Light. By ten in the evening they were passing Queenstown. Phileas Fogg had only twenty-four hours more in which to get to London; that length of time was necessary to reach Liverpool, with all steam on. And the steam was about to give out altogether!

Sir,” said Captain Speedy, who was now deeply interested in Mr. Fogg’s project, “I really commiserate you. Everything is against you. We are only opposite Queenstown.”

Ah,” said Mr. Fogg, “is that place where we see the lights Queenstown?”

Yes.”

Can we enter the harbour?”

Not under three hours. Only at high tide.”

Stay,” replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune.

Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers.

Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way. Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening.

The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o’clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for.

The party went on shore at once. Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not. Why? What struggle was going on within him? Had he changed his mind about “his man”? Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake? He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg. They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them.

Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December. He was only six hours distant from London.

But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg’s shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said, “You are really Phileas Fogg?”

I am.”

I arrest you in the Queen’s name!”
(to be continued)


Icy trees along the Skyline Drive near High Top Mountain.
Photo by Bob Kirchman

Ex Nihilo
Did God Create From Nothing? --William Lane Craig



In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” (Gen. 1.1). With majestic simplicity the author of the opening chapter of Genesis thus differentiated his viewpoint, not only from that of the ancient creation myths of Israel’s neighbors, but also effectively from pantheism, panentheism, and polytheism. For the author of Genesis 1, no pre-existent material seems to be assumed, no warring gods or primordial dragons are present--only God, who is said to “create” (bara, a word used only with God as its subject and which does not presuppose a material substratum) “the heavens and the earth” (et hassamayim we et ha ares, a Hebrew expression for the totality of the world or, more simply, the universe). Moreover, this act of creation took place “in the beginning” (bereshith, used here as in Is. 46.10 to indicate an absolute beginning). The author thereby gives us to understand that the universe had a temporal origin and thus implies creatio ex nihilo in the temporal sense that God brought the universe into being without a material cause at some point in the finite past.” – William Lane Craig

Around the World in 80 Days
By Jules Verne, Chapter XXXIV

In which Phileas Fogg at Last Reaches London

Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day.

Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman’s heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly.

As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not.

The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix’s errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out.

Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.

That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.

If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting — for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?

However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught.

Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, “21st December, Saturday, Liverpool,” he added, “80th day, 11.40 a.m.,” and waited.

The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours too fast.

Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled.

At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout’s voice was audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg’s eyes brightened for an instant.

The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who hurried towards him.

Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak. “Sir,” he stammered, “sir — forgive me — most — unfortunate resemblance — robber arrested three days ago — you are free!”

Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down.

Well hit!” cried Passepartout, “Parbleu! that’s what you might call a good application of English fists!”

Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at the station.

Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.

There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three o’clock.

At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his faithful servant.

It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine.”

Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He had lost the wager!
(to be continued)



Josiah
By Bob Kirchman
Copyright © 2017, The Kirchman Studio, all rights reserved

Chapter 1: A Mystery Appears

You wanted to see me right away?” Abiyah Ben-Gurion said as he walked into the Zimmerman offices in Wales, Alaska. Elizabeth O’Malley’s assistant Hannah replied, “Yes, I did! I just received this communication from our office on Space Station/Assembly Center 005. It seems they’ve observed something you need to look at on Mars.”

She continued: “As you know, we’ve done periodic flyovers of the abandoned colony ruins… sort of a chance to observe decay in the Martian environment… and, Oh, I am so sorry. I recall how painful that was for you, but please indulge me. There is a mystery here we need you to weigh in on. Let me bring up the images.”

Hannah’s deskpad displayed two views of the colony ruins taken from orbit. The first was a photo Abiyah’s wife Sarah had taken several decades ago. The second was freshly processed from an unmanned probe that was orbiting Mars as they spoke.

See those surviving greenhouses in the shadow of that rock mass. That was all that remained of the APOLLONIUS Colony when you returned to Earth after it had been tragically destroyed by the missile. Look at the footprint carefully. Now look at the view from our probe as it flew over yesterday. See the difference?”

Abiyah’s keen eye caught it at once, “The footprint is different!” he exclaimed. “How can that be?”

We’re perplexed as well. It is BIGGER! We wondered if blast sand had covered some greenhouses and now has blown off, but Sarah’s images of the colony before destruction show no greenhouses there!”

Well, I’m stymied,” said Abiyah, “we scanned repeatedly for signs of life and you know how thorough Sarah is!”

The 3D printers we sent up then were pretty primitive by today’s standards. There was not the AI to self-duplicate anything. As I recall, the greenhouses involved a fair amount of human manipulation to construct. They could manufacture the struts and clear panels from local soils heated in the kiln, but that too required a lot of human oversight.”

So, obviously we have someone… or someTHING adding on to the remains of the colony!”

That’s it sir, we have a riddle on our hands.”

Well, Hannah, let’s use Occam's Razor to begin with. Someone has been adding greenhouses to our colony… or what’s left of it. Who would be the simplest to suspect. We have not tracked any ships from other nations going out to Mars. Space Aliens are always invoked in a case like this… but we’ve never actually seen one… EVER! I would have to say that someone survived the blast that destroyed the colony, incredible as that may sound. The reason we didn’t detect them was that they remained in an underground bunker… perhaps aware of the radiation danger outside. They had no communication ability as that was totally destroyed.”

He continued, “It would have had to have been one of the more technically inclined colonists, to be sure -- Someone who could keep the oxygenation going in the greenhouses and run the 3D printers. I daresay there is more than one survivor.”

So, what do we do next?” Hannah mused.

We need to make contact, if we can. Remember they launched the missile to destroy our ship in orbit. It fell back to Mars and exploded on the colony… we thought it exploded destroying everyone. We don’t know if they are so poisoned by the leadership of APOLLONIUS that they believe we are tainted and they are the enlightened ones.”

Hannah looked up at the painting of Rupert Zimmerman, the mind behind the enterprises that now required their oversight and wondered what Mr. Z would have said at this moment, but it had been some time since Rupert passed after taking pneumonia following the ceremonies to commence construction on the St. Lawrence Island Crossing. Rupert had always been somewhat of an enigma to those closest to him in life, and his painted eyes gazed down at Hannah giving nothing away.
(to be continued, look for JOSIAH, coming in 2018)


The Island in Sherando Lake. Photo by Bob kirchman.