Apollonius, Around the World in 80 Days

Citizen Journalism with a Better Flavor


Volume XIII, Issue VI

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

In which Phileas Fogg Astounds Passepartout, His Servant

Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.

Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, “Passepartout!”

Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour.

Passepartout!” repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice.

Passepartout made his appearance.

I’ve called you twice,” observed his master.

But it is not midnight,” responded the other, showing his watch.

I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.”

A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master.

Monsieur is going to leave home?”

Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.

Round the world!” he murmured.

In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.

We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!”

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: “That’s good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!”

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt — but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto!

By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg.

Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go.

You have forgotten nothing?” asked he.

Nothing, monsieur.”

My mackintosh and cloak?”

Here they are.”

Good! Take this carpet-bag,” handing it to Passepartout. “Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down.

Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, “Here, my good woman. I’m glad that I met you;” and passed on.

Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master’s action touched his susceptible heart.

Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform.

Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I’m off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon.”

Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph politely. “We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour.”

You do not forget when you are due in London again?” asked Stuart.

In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.

Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.

What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

Alas! In my hurry — I— I forgot —”

What?”

To turn off the gas in my room!”

Very well, young man,” returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; “it will burn — at your expense.” 
(to be continued)



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

Introduction: A Bit More Reckless Engineering

The establishment of the Alaska Republic in the mid-Twenty-first Century opened up a time of new growth and prosperity for mankind. Tundra farms, biospheres and determination tamed the world's Northernmost frontiers and created homes for millions. Rupert Zimmerman had been one of the initial visionaries but his daughter Elizabeth, his son-in-law Martin and his granddaughter would go even further. The Summer sun never set on the gleaming tower taking shape on Cape Lisbon and crews were working round the clock to complete the gigantic linear accelerator launch complex... a bridge, as it were, to other worlds. On drawing screenpads in Wales, the schematics for the Great Northern, a space ship of epic proportions were being developed. Since the days of Jules Verne, people dreamed of traveling into space and exploring her riches. The American space program set men on the moon in 1969 but there was no economic reason to go further. Great Northern would be built slowly, and the completed ship would be able to make the nine month long journey to the orbit of Mars. There the technology developed to tame the Earth's North; greenhouses and biospheres, would be tested as a means of beginning to terraform the red planet. There were always those thinkers who felt that mankind needed to extend their presence to other worlds to assure survival. Though Zimmerman felt the survival of mankind was in the hands of Someone much higher, he welcomed the investment of such people in the space program.

Indeed; Rupert saw it more as the same need he had first identified in his seven month old granddaughter... the need to go further. The need to move forward! He noticed that the girl was fussy as an infant, but as she learned to push herself up, to roll, and eventually scoot along the floor, she became quite content in her quest for adventure! Humankind seemed created with an almost insatiable need to reach out and that was reason enough for Rupert Zimmerman.
(to be continued)


This composite image of Earth and its moon, as seen from Mars, combines the best Earth image with the best moon image from four sets of images acquired on Nov. 20, 2016, by the High Resolution Imaging Science Experiment (HiRISE) camera on NASA's Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter. NASA Photo


The Linear Induction Launch System at Cape Lisbon. [1.]

Terraforming Mars
National Geographic


For some time there has been a fascination with the idea of colonizing Mars.

In 1952, Wernher von Braun wrote a book called "Project Mars" [1.] which imagined that human colonists on Mars would be led by a person called "Elon." Starting with A Princess of Mars [2.] in 1917, Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote eleven novels that portrayed an arid world he called Barsoom made habitable by an “atmosphere factory” (these books were the basis for the recent Disney movie John Carter). The stories in Ray Bradbury’s 1950 collection The Martian Chronicles [3.] were set on a desert planet crisscrossed with canals built by an alien civilization to distribute water from the polar caps. Arthur C. Clarke’s 1952 novel The Sands of Mars [4.] also presents a transformation of the Red Planet to support human life. Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars/Green Mars/Blue Mars trilogy was published in the period of 1992-1996. [5.]


Chasma Boreale, a long, flat-floored valley, cuts deep into Mars' north polar icecap. Its walls rise about 4,600 feet, or 1,400 meters, above the floor. Where the edge of the ice cap has retreated, sheets of sand are emerging that accumulated during earlier ice-free climatic cycles. Winds blowing off the ice have pushed loose sand into dunes and driven them down-canyon in a westward direction. NASA Image


The Orb of Mars. NASA Photo


This is a screen shot from a high-definition simulated movie of Mojave Crater on Mars, based on images taken by the High Resolution Imaging Science Experiment (HiRISE) camera on NASA's Mars Reconnaissance Orbiter. A 3-D surface model was created using stereo pairs from the HiRISE camera. Mojave Crater has a diameter of 60 kilometers (37 miles). NASA Image

My Cathedral in Four Seasons
Photos by Bob Kirchman


Winter


Spring


Summer


Fall

O sing unto the Lord a new song: sing unto the Lord, all the earth.

Sing unto the Lord, bless his name; shew forth his salvation from day to day.

Declare his glory among the heathen, his wonders among all people.

For the Lord is great, and greatly to be praised: he is to be feared above all gods.

For all the gods of the nations are idols: but the Lord made the heavens.

Honour and majesty are before him: strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.

Give unto the Lord, O ye kindreds of the people, give unto the Lord glory and strength.

Give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name: bring an offering, and come into his courts.

O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness: fear before him, all the earth.

Say among the heathen that the Lord reigneth: the world also shall be established that it shall not be moved: he shall judge the people righteously.

Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad; let the sea roar, and the fulness thereof.

Let the field be joyful, and all that is therein: then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice

Before the Lord: for he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth: he shall judge the world with righteousness, and the people with his truth.” -- Psalm 96

Beauty and Desecration
By Roger Scruton
[Click to Read]

At any time between 1750 and 1930, if you had asked an educated person to describe the goal of poetry, art, or music, “beauty” would have been the answer. And if you had asked what the point of that was, you would have learned that beauty is a value, as important in its way as truth and goodness, and indeed hardly distinguishable from them. Philosophers of the Enlightenment saw beauty as a way in which lasting moral and spiritual values acquire sensuous form. And no Romantic painter, musician, or writer would have denied that beauty was the final purpose of his art. (read more)

Paradigm Shift
Should Christ’s Followers be Futurists?
By Bob Kirchman

Roger Scruton points to a time when the transcendent informed the direction of the present. The disciplines of Art, Music and Design in particular sought to lift our existence. Cathedrals aspired to Heaven in their very design, warping stone into a visual depiction of the intersection of nature and Supernatural. Modern thought has usurped all of that.

The Faithful, for their part, seem to have surrendered.

A George Barna poll suggests that only a single digit percentage of those who profess to be believers actually have a Biblical worldview. Read between the lines and that statistic suggests that something else informs them. Another statistic says that most people get their news from the big three networks in spite of the recent profusion of alternative sources which question the narrative being put forth both by the academy and popular media. I want to look specifically at the church, and how it has possibly abdicated its role as a shaper of the human experience.

Without being overly critical, and mainly as a point of discussion, I would like to look at the modern interaction of church and culture. First of all, the secular society has in so many ways told the Faithful that while they are free to worship, they are not welcome in the public square. The church, for its part, has too quickly and quietly left the shaping of culture to the Barbarians, so to speak. In order to be ‘relevant’ we take on the music and trappings of the society around us more often than we offer alternative. Our architecture, once rich with transcendent imagery, has become increasingly metal buildings with a theater inside. We have to find older structures to be inspired by stained glass and pipe organs.

We rationalize this on the basis of stewardship (metal buildings are cheaper) and evangelism (most people today don’t listen to Handel and movies/music are the language and literature of the young). The reaching out into our culture is not a bad thing at all and we should not be extravagant in our building programs, but I would suggest that our modern paradigm has left us with a noticeable poverty in illuminating the pathway to things Divine.

Some of our brothers are too quick to jump into eschatology and too slow to practice practical economic development. We sometimes seem too preoccupied with apocalyptic visions and ‘getting out of here.’ As Christ’s ambassadors, we cease to man the embassy. The sad thing is that only reinforces the view of many around us that we are irrelevant. We want to be raptured; they can't wait for us to go!

If in centuries past, the call of Transcendent Truth shaped how we built things as well as how we thought about them, can we not find value in that today? If I should drop dead this moment, will not my unrealized visions still have inspired someone to ‘look up?’ I sincerely hope so. To that end, should we not seek to fulfill our calling on this Earth well, knowing that the call to ‘come higher’ is not an end but a beginning? That calling might indeed drive us to envision great things… not from hubris but rather from a sense that we serve a great Master. We are here creating our sample work. One day we shall stand in His studio. Will he indeed say: “Well done, good and faithful servant!” Then might He not continue: “Come see what I am working on!”

While I am obviously not advocating an over-zealous Asceticism that creates a very utilitarian culture aimed at simply doing our job here, surviving this horrible world and getting out; neither is it a call to the opulence that has characterized some television ministries. It is possible to offer our best, within our means, and create things that are in themselves an expression of worship. I think of the many country churches with their fine craftsmanship and simple lines. Can we find that elegance again? I believe we can. I believe we can create works in keeping with our profession of the richness of the Divine. I believe we will do the world a great service by doing so.

Yes, we should dream dreams and inspire our young people to do so as well. We should help revitalize communities on other continents. We should offer beauty and purpose to our own. Young people need to stand in our churches and sing beautiful solos that move us to tears. We should remember the lessons of times past, where the hope of Heaven fueled our passion to make our world a better place as a testimony to that hope. We, of all people, should indeed be ‘Futurists.’

Around the World in 80 Days, Angus Buchan

Citizen Journalism with a Better Flavor


Volume XIII, Issue V

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

In which a Conversation Takes Place which Seems Likely to Cost Phileas Fogg Dear

Phileas Fogg, having shut the door of his house at half-past eleven, and having put his right foot before his left five hundred and seventy-five times, and his left foot before his right five hundred and seventy-six times, reached the Reform Club, an imposing edifice in Pall Mall, which could not have cost less than three millions. He repaired at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which open upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were already gilded with an autumn colouring; and took his place at the habitual table, the cover of which had already been laid for him. His breakfast consisted of a side-dish, a broiled fish with Reading sauce, a scarlet slice of roast beef garnished with mushrooms, a rhubarb and gooseberry tart, and a morsel of Cheshire cheese, the whole being washed down with several cups of tea, for which the Reform is famous. He rose at thirteen minutes to one, and directed his steps towards the large hall, a sumptuous apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings. A flunkey handed him an uncut Times, which he proceeded to cut with a skill which betrayed familiarity with this delicate operation. The perusal of this paper absorbed Phileas Fogg until a quarter before four, whilst the Standard, his next task, occupied him till the dinner hour. Dinner passed as breakfast had done, and Mr. Fogg re-appeared in the reading-room and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg’s usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England — all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance.

Well, Ralph,” said Thomas Flanagan, “what about that robbery?”

Oh,” replied Stuart, “the Bank will lose the money.”

On the contrary,” broke in Ralph, “I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he’ll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers.”

But have you got the robber’s description?” asked Stuart.

In the first place, he is no robber at all,” returned Ralph, positively.

What! a fellow who makes off with fifty-five thousand pounds, no robber?”

No.”

Perhaps he’s a manufacturer, then.”

The Daily Telegraph says that he is a gentleman.”

It was Phileas Fogg, whose head now emerged from behind his newspapers, who made this remark. He bowed to his friends, and entered into the conversation. The affair which formed its subject, and which was town talk, had occurred three days before at the Bank of England. A package of banknotes, to the value of fifty-five thousand pounds, had been taken from the principal cashier’s table, that functionary being at the moment engaged in registering the receipt of three shillings and sixpence. Of course, he could not have his eyes everywhere. Let it be observed that the Bank of England reposes a touching confidence in the honesty of the public. There are neither guards nor gratings to protect its treasures; gold, silver, banknotes are freely exposed, at the mercy of the first comer. A keen observer of English customs relates that, being in one of the rooms of the Bank one day, he had the curiosity to examine a gold ingot weighing some seven or eight pounds. He took it up, scrutinised it, passed it to his neighbour, he to the next man, and so on until the ingot, going from hand to hand, was transferred to the end of a dark entry; nor did it return to its place for half an hour. Meanwhile, the cashier had not so much as raised his head. But in the present instance things had not gone so smoothly. The package of notes not being found when five o’clock sounded from the ponderous clock in the “drawing office,” the amount was passed to the account of profit and loss. As soon as the robbery was discovered, picked detectives hastened off to Liverpool, Glasgow, Havre, Suez, Brindisi, New York, and other ports, inspired by the proffered reward of two thousand pounds, and five per cent. on the sum that might be recovered. Detectives were also charged with narrowly watching those who arrived at or left London by rail, and a judicial examination was at once entered upon.

There were real grounds for supposing, as the Daily Telegraph said, that the thief did not belong to a professional band. On the day of the robbery a well-dressed gentleman of polished manners, and with a well-to-do air, had been observed going to and fro in the paying room where the crime was committed. A description of him was easily procured and sent to the detectives; and some hopeful spirits, of whom Ralph was one, did not despair of his apprehension. The papers and clubs were full of the affair, and everywhere people were discussing the probabilities of a successful pursuit; and the Reform Club was especially agitated, several of its members being Bank officials.

Ralph would not concede that the work of the detectives was likely to be in vain, for he thought that the prize offered would greatly stimulate their zeal and activity. But Stuart was far from sharing this confidence; and, as they placed themselves at the whist-table, they continued to argue the matter. Stuart and Flanagan played together, while Phileas Fogg had Fallentin for his partner. As the game proceeded the conversation ceased, excepting between the rubbers, when it revived again.

I maintain,” said Stuart, “that the chances are in favour of the thief, who must be a shrewd fellow.”

Well, but where can he fly to?” asked Ralph. “No country is safe for him.”

Pshaw!”

Where could he go, then?”

Oh, I don’t know that. The world is big enough.”

It was once,” said Phileas Fogg, in a low tone. “Cut, sir,” he added, handing the cards to Thomas Flanagan.

The discussion fell during the rubber, after which Stuart took up its thread.

What do you mean by ‘once’? Has the world grown smaller?”

Certainly,” returned Ralph. “I agree with Mr. Fogg. The world has grown smaller, since a man can now go round it ten times more quickly than a hundred years ago. And that is why the search for this thief will be more likely to succeed.”

And also why the thief can get away more easily.”

Be so good as to play, Mr. Stuart,” said Phileas Fogg.

But the incredulous Stuart was not convinced, and when the hand was finished, said eagerly: “You have a strange way, Ralph, of proving that the world has grown smaller. So, because you can go round it in three months —”

In eighty days,” interrupted Phileas Fogg.

That is true, gentlemen,” added John Sullivan. “Only eighty days, now that the section between Rothal and Allahabad, on the Great Indian Peninsula Railway, has been opened. Here is the estimate made by the Daily Telegraph:

From London to Suez via Mont Cenis and
Brindisi, by rail and steamboats . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 days
From Suez to Bombay, by steamer . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 ”
From Bombay to Calcutta, by rail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 ”
From Calcutta to Hong Kong, by steamer . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 ”
From Hong Kong to Yokohama (Japan), by steamer . . . . . 6 ”
From Yokohama to San Francisco, by steamer . . . . . . . . . 22 ”
From San Francisco to New York, by rail . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 ”
From New York to London, by steamer and rail . . . . . . . . 9 ”

Total . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 days.”

Yes, in eighty days!” exclaimed Stuart, who in his excitement made a false deal. “But that doesn’t take into account bad weather, contrary winds, shipwrecks, railway accidents, and so on.”

All included,” returned Phileas Fogg, continuing to play despite the discussion.

But suppose the Hindoos or Indians pull up the rails,” replied Stuart; “suppose they stop the trains, pillage the luggage-vans, and scalp the passengers!”

All included,” calmly retorted Fogg; adding, as he threw down the cards, “Two trumps.”

Stuart, whose turn it was to deal, gathered them up, and went on: “You are right, theoretically, Mr. Fogg, but practically —”

Practically also, Mr. Stuart.”

I’d like to see you do it in eighty days.”

It depends on you. Shall we go?”

Heaven preserve me! But I would wager four thousand pounds that such a journey, made under these conditions, is impossible.”

Quite possible, on the contrary,” returned Mr. Fogg.

Well, make it, then!”

The journey round the world in eighty days?”

Yes.”

I should like nothing better.”

When?”

At once. Only I warn you that I shall do it at your expense.”

It’s absurd!” cried Stuart, who was beginning to be annoyed at the persistency of his friend. “Come, let’s go on with the game.”

Deal over again, then,” said Phileas Fogg. “There’s a false deal.”

Stuart took up the pack with a feverish hand; then suddenly put them down again.

Well, Mr. Fogg,” said he, “it shall be so: I will wager the four thousand on it.”

Calm yourself, my dear Stuart,” said Fallentin. “It’s only a joke.”

When I say I’ll wager,” returned Stuart, “I mean it.” “All right,” said Mr. Fogg; and, turning to the others, he continued: “I have a deposit of twenty thousand at Baring’s which I will willingly risk upon it.”

Twenty thousand pounds!” cried Sullivan. “Twenty thousand pounds, which you would lose by a single accidental delay!”

The unforeseen does not exist,” quietly replied Phileas Fogg.

But, Mr. Fogg, eighty days are only the estimate of the least possible time in which the journey can be made.”

A well-used minimum suffices for everything.”

But, in order not to exceed it, you must jump mathematically from the trains upon the steamers, and from the steamers upon the trains again.”

I will jump — mathematically.”

You are joking.”

A true Englishman doesn’t joke when he is talking about so serious a thing as a wager,” replied Phileas Fogg, solemnly. “I will bet twenty thousand pounds against anyone who wishes that I will make the tour of the world in eighty days or less; in nineteen hundred and twenty hours, or a hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred minutes. Do you accept?”

We accept,” replied Messrs. Stuart, Fallentin, Sullivan, Flanagan, and Ralph, after consulting each other.

Good,” said Mr. Fogg. “The train leaves for Dover at a quarter before nine. I will take it.”

This very evening?” asked Stuart.

This very evening,” returned Phileas Fogg. He took out and consulted a pocket almanac, and added, “As today is Wednesday, the 2nd of October, I shall be due in London in this very room of the Reform Club, on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine p.m.; or else the twenty thousand pounds, now deposited in my name at Baring’s, will belong to you, in fact and in right, gentlemen. Here is a cheque for the amount.”

A memorandum of the wager was at once drawn up and signed by the six parties, during which Phileas Fogg preserved a stoical composure. He certainly did not bet to win, and had only staked the twenty thousand pounds, half of his fortune, because he foresaw that he might have to expend the other half to carry out this difficult, not to say unattainable, project. As for his antagonists, they seemed much agitated; not so much by the value of their stake, as because they had some scruples about betting under conditions so difficult to their friend.

The clock struck seven, and the party offered to suspend the game so that Mr. Fogg might make his preparations for departure.

I am quite ready now,” was his tranquil response. “Diamonds are trumps: be so good as to play, gentlemen.”
(to be continued) 


National Cathedral. Photo by Bob Kirchman

William Desmond
on Beauty and Being
[click to read]

It makes no sense to confront the possibility of radical evil without raising, as an equally astonishing perplexity, the possibility of radical good.” – William Desmond
(read more)

The National Cathedral
Photos by Bob Kirchman











National Cathedral Gardens
Photos by Bob Kirchman







O come, let us sing unto the LORD: let us make a joyful noise to the rock of our salvation.

Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, and make a joyful noise unto him with psalms.

For the LORD is a great God, and a great King above all gods.

In his hand are the deep places of the earth: the strength of the hills is his also.

The sea is his, and he made it: and his hands formed the dry land.

O come, let us worship and bow down: let us kneel before the LORD our maker.

For he is our God; and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand. To day if ye will hear his voice,

Harden not your heart, as in the provocation, and as in the day of temptation in the wilderness:

When your fathers tempted me, proved me, and saw my work.

Forty years long was I grieved with this generation, and said, It is a people that do err in their heart, and they have not known my ways:

Unto whom I sware in my wrath that they should not enter into my rest.” – Psalm 95


Angus Buchan

God's Farmer, Great Miracles

The condition for a miracle is difficulty, however the condition for a great miracle is not difficulty, but impossibility." -- Angus Buchan

Last night we watched the movie Faith Like Potatoes which is based on the true story of Angus Buchan, a Scottsman by ancestry born in Zambia who was forced to leave his large farm there because of the unrest. He moved to the land of the Zulu in South Africa and bought another farm where he struggled to build it up from scratch. The place he bought didn't even have a house on it so he lived in a little camping trailer with his wife Jill and their three children.

With grit and determination, he built up the new farm and established himself in the community. But something was missing in his life. He was working long days and fighting depression. The doctor gave him pills but there was an emptiness to his life that medication could not make go away.

Angus and Jill visited the local Methodist Church and it happened to be a Lay Witness Sunday. When Angus heard building contractors, businessmen and farmers talk about the work of God in their lives, he wanted what they had. The tough Scott walked forward at the invitation, given by one of the men and prayed to receive Jesus into his heart.

Angus began to read the Bible. He was not a college graduate and he simply studied the Bible like he'd study a publication from the local extension office on planting potatoes or corn. He found that this study, honestly pursued, led him to change his life and give his heart and energy to the one who redeemed him.

He discovered the power of prayer. More accurately, you could say he discovered the power of God through prayer. He found a Faith that carried him through times of great triumph and great tragedy, such as the death of his little four-year old nephew Allistair, who was run over by a tractor.

Angus saw Scripture speaking to the racial tension in his country. As farmers in South Africa were being hammered by a prolonged drought, he organized prayer meetings to pray for Rain and Reconciliation. He found new strength in his relationship with his farm manager, Zulu Simeon Benghu, who became a true brother to him. "His Children are mine, my children are his," Buchan says of his dear friend who is more than a friend.

Today, his farm is known as 'Shalom,' and includes a home for about 25 AIDS orphans who live in houses with housemothers. Buchan takes seriously this promise from 2 Chronicles 7:14:

If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land."


A decaying stump becomes a magical mountain in miniature.  
Photo by Bob Kirchman

Paradigm Shift
The Call to Build a Better World

A fundamental change in approach or underlying assumptions."

As I write this it is the eve of another popular novelist's latest book release. [1.] His message, no doubt, will be the same. His previous works all consist of laying out 'prophecy' that essentially says our world is a terrible place. Repent and hunker down... "God's gonna judge us!"

Oh, I believe in Divine judgement all right, but I don't believe we have to look so far to find it. We're losing our children. Six decades ago we accepted the values of the Divine as the pillars of our society. I do not believe that everyone then was necessarily a believer but the culture was shaped by the values held by believers. When we decided to create a 'secular' society, our children suffered. They were given moral relativism in place of moral absolutes and the results have not been healthy. We taught them to laugh at sexual restraint and do what they felt like. The results were an explosion in teen pregnancy and STDs, not to mention a lot of unnecessary emotional damage.

We replaced a sense of duty to God with self-actualization. The result has been a generation that is more confused than ever. We have cities that are war zones. Young people are dying in the crossfire of their own communities and the media ignores it -- unless it classifies as a 'hate crime.'

The incarceration rate is out of control. Politicians want to build more prisons.

I believe the Divine is actually going to ask us "What did YOU do about it?"

Our church helps a community in Zambia as it struggles to renew itself. We've provided resources so ladies can buy treadle sewing machines and learn to be tailors. Tim Keller says that Economic Development is a Deaconate Ministry. I agree with him. When I see youth struggling and wondering what to do with their lives -- often settling for an endless cycle of 'entry level' situations and I hear Dr. John Downey of Blue Ridge Community College in Virginia say "We can't get enough students interested in our career track programs." I feel compelled to seek a solution.

But I would go so far as to say we cannot 'build a better world' without Divine help. We need to build HIS Kingdom and let the fruits of it flow into our society around us. 2 Chronicles 7:14 says:

If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land."

Bejeweled Daisy
Photos by Bob Kirchman

Around the World in Eighty Days

Citizen Journalism with a Better Flavor


Volume XIII, Issue IV

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

In which Passepartout is Convinced that he has at Last Found His Ideal

Faith,” muttered Passepartout, somewhat flurried, “I’ve seen people at Madame Tussaud’s as lively as my new master!”

Madame Tussaud’s “people,” let it be said, are of wax, and are much visited in London; speech is all that is wanting to make them human.

During his brief interview with Mr. Fogg, Passepartout had been carefully observing him. He appeared to be a man about forty years of age, with fine, handsome features, and a tall, well-shaped figure; his hair and whiskers were light, his forehead compact and unwrinkled, his face rather pale, his teeth magnificent. His countenance possessed in the highest degree what physiognomists call “repose in action,” a quality of those who act rather than talk. Calm and phlegmatic, with a clear eye, Mr. Fogg seemed a perfect type of that English composure which Angelica Kauffmann has so skilfully represented on canvas. Seen in the various phases of his daily life, he gave the idea of being perfectly well-balanced, as exactly regulated as a Leroy chronometer. Phileas Fogg was, indeed, exactitude personified, and this was betrayed even in the expression of his very hands and feet; for in men, as well as in animals, the limbs themselves are expressive of the passions.

He was so exact that he was never in a hurry, was always ready, and was economical alike of his steps and his motions. He never took one step too many, and always went to his destination by the shortest cut; he made no superfluous gestures, and was never seen to be moved or agitated. He was the most deliberate person in the world, yet always reached his destination at the exact moment.

He lived alone, and, so to speak, outside of every social relation; and as he knew that in this world account must be taken of friction, and that friction retards, he never rubbed against anybody.

As for Passepartout, he was a true Parisian of Paris. Since he had abandoned his own country for England, taking service as a valet, he had in vain searched for a master after his own heart. Passepartout was by no means one of those pert dunces depicted by Moliere with a bold gaze and a nose held high in the air; he was an honest fellow, with a pleasant face, lips a trifle protruding, soft-mannered and serviceable, with a good round head, such as one likes to see on the shoulders of a friend. His eyes were blue, his complexion rubicund, his figure almost portly and well-built, his body muscular, and his physical powers fully developed by the exercises of his younger days. His brown hair was somewhat tumbled; for, while the ancient sculptors are said to have known eighteen methods of arranging Minerva’s tresses, Passepartout was familiar with but one of dressing his own: three strokes of a large-tooth comb completed his toilet.

It would be rash to predict how Passepartout’s lively nature would agree with Mr. Fogg. It was impossible to tell whether the new servant would turn out as absolutely methodical as his master required; experience alone could solve the question. Passepartout had been a sort of vagrant in his early years, and now yearned for repose; but so far he had failed to find it, though he had already served in ten English houses. But he could not take root in any of these; with chagrin, he found his masters invariably whimsical and irregular, constantly running about the country, or on the look-out for adventure. His last master, young Lord Longferry, Member of Parliament, after passing his nights in the Haymarket taverns, was too often brought home in the morning on policemen’s shoulders. Passepartout, desirous of respecting the gentleman whom he served, ventured a mild remonstrance on such conduct; which, being ill-received, he took his leave. Hearing that Mr. Phileas Fogg was looking for a servant, and that his life was one of unbroken regularity, that he neither travelled nor stayed from home overnight, he felt sure that this would be the place he was after. He presented himself, and was accepted, as has been seen.

At half-past eleven, then, Passepartout found himself alone in the house in Saville Row. He begun its inspection without delay, scouring it from cellar to garret. So clean, well-arranged, solemn a mansion pleased him; it seemed to him like a snail’s shell, lighted and warmed by gas, which sufficed for both these purposes. When Passepartout reached the second story he recognised at once the room which he was to inhabit, and he was well satisfied with it. Electric bells and speaking-tubes afforded communication with the lower stories; while on the mantel stood an electric clock, precisely like that in Mr. Fogg’s bedchamber, both beating the same second at the same instant. “That’s good, that’ll do,” said Passepartout to himself.

He suddenly observed, hung over the clock, a card which, upon inspection, proved to be a programme of the daily routine of the house. It comprised all that was required of the servant, from eight in the morning, exactly at which hour Phileas Fogg rose, till half-past eleven, when he left the house for the Reform Club — all the details of service, the tea and toast at twenty-three minutes past eight, the shaving-water at thirty-seven minutes past nine, and the toilet at twenty minutes before ten. Everything was regulated and foreseen that was to be done from half-past eleven a.m. till midnight, the hour at which the methodical gentleman retired.

Mr. Fogg’s wardrobe was amply supplied and in the best taste. Each pair of trousers, coat, and vest bore a number, indicating the time of year and season at which they were in turn to be laid out for wearing; and the same system was applied to the master’s shoes. In short, the house in Saville Row, which must have been a very temple of disorder and unrest under the illustrious but dissipated Sheridan, was cosiness, comfort, and method idealised. There was no study, nor were there books, which would have been quite useless to Mr. Fogg; for at the Reform two libraries, one of general literature and the other of law and politics, were at his service. A moderate-sized safe stood in his bedroom, constructed so as to defy fire as well as burglars; but Passepartout found neither arms nor hunting weapons anywhere; everything betrayed the most tranquil and peaceable habits.

Having scrutinised the house from top to bottom, he rubbed his hands, a broad smile overspread his features, and he said joyfully, “This is just what I wanted! Ah, we shall get on together, Mr. Fogg and I! What a domestic and regular gentleman! A real machine; well, I don’t mind serving a machine.”
(to be continued)

Elysian Lilies
Photos by Bob Kirchman









Building a Better World
By Bob Kirchman

The Summer Reading Program at the Augusta County Library caught my attention. The theme was 'Building a Better World.' I eagerly went to their web page in the hopes of finding some of the excitement that had propelled me towards literature as a young person. I was a bit disappointed that the program description on the website merely told the young people that if they kept a log of their reading hours that they would be in the running for prizes to be announced at the end of the Summer.

Now there is nothing wrong with logging one's reading hours in itself, if one so desires. And there is nothing wrong with giving out incentives, but as one who avoided such programs like the plague myself, I'd like to open this up for discussion.

When I was a young fourth grader, a kindly librarian opened up new worlds for me by freeing me from the restrictions of 'age appropriate' literature. She led me to a section for older readers and helped me pick out a book about people exploring Mars. She freed me from the twattle that was bogging down so many of my peers. At home, my Dad would read to me from a big volume of King Arthur. I am happy to see my son-in-law reading the same to my granddaughter. There was an exciting world to explore that not everyone wanted me to have access to. I was shown a path and it led to adventure.

I discovered Gulliver's Travels and wondered at imagining myself a friendly giant to a similar people. I discovered Tom Swift and his endless parade of outlandish inventions. I discovered Jules Verne and his Voyages Exraordinaires! It would be years before I grasped that Gulliver's Travels was a political satire and other fine points, but the seed had been planted. My enthusiasm, though dulled by the school system's required reading program for classes, was rekindled when I discovered C. S. Lewis and Tolkien!

The Voyages extraordinaires (literally Extraordinary Voyages or Extraordinary Journeys) is a sequence of fifty-four novels by the French writer Jules Verne, originally published between 1863 and 1905.

According to Verne's editor Pierre-Jules Hetzel, the goal of the Voyages was "to outline all the geographical, geological, physical, and astronomical knowledge amassed by modern science and to recount, in an entertaining and picturesque format ... the history of the universe."

Verne's meticulous attention to detail and scientific trivia, coupled with his sense of wonder and exploration, form the backbone of the Voyages. Part of the reason for the broad appeal of his work was the sense that the reader could really learn knowledge of geology, biology, astronomy, paleontology, oceanography and the exotic locations and cultures of world through the adventures of Verne's protagonists. This great wealth of information distinguished his works as "encyclopedic novels".Wikipedia

The stories of Les Voyages Extraordinaires were originally published as serials in magazines. Later they would find their place as lavishly illustrated special editions but the point is that they had a more organic beginning than much of today's literature. They are fascinating because they are predictive of a fair amount of modern invention and technology. No doubt, if I were in charge of the library program, I would be engaging the services of local radio voice John Ihrig to read passages from Jules Verne. There would be a Fantastic Flying Machine contest and other events to inspire.


La Minerve was designed by the French aeronaut Etienne Robertson in 1803. Robertson's self-contained aerial community represents the hopes which many Europeans had in the bright future of air travel. This modern model of Robertson's design is in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

To be fair, I did not actually follow up with the library. Hopefully their program incorporates such elements but if I were running it, they would be front and center on the website. If I'm a reluctant reader, I'm simply not getting past the hours logging. I work with young people and. they tell me straight-up that nobody reads anymore. Films are their literature. I've challenged a few of them that they can get past this. There are those young people who have actually been in my studio who are avid readers and who can discuss it well.

Then there is PONTIFUS. I was a bit distressed by the over-saturation of the youth offerings with dystopian themes, particularly as I saw that the noble ideals that once propelled our society were being discredited in the academy. A number of people in our church seemed preoccupied with the 'Prepper' movement and as a result were (perhaps unthinkingly) no longer offering hope based in timeless truth to our young people. So PONTIFUS is my feeble attempt to offer the possibility of building a better world. It was quite inspired by Verne's Voyages Extraordinaires, for it is predictive of a new inventiveness leading to a 'New World' in the tundra regions. It incorporates ideas I have found in sources such as City Journal and elsewhere that point to new horizons.

I did not write PONTIFUS to sell books. I do not even know if it is good enough to stand as literature, but like Les Voyages, it is encyclopedic of things I would pass along to young hearts in the world today. It is important to me as a repository for that body of ideas. I realize now that it is something I HAD to write... something burning within me. That is a desire to build for young people a bridge to the Kingdom that for me inspires those lofty aspirations!


Magic Garden Visitor. Photo by Bob Kirchman

J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis
Reconciling Reason and Imagination

Two friends, J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis had a common love of the great myth. The two observed that for many centuries cultures communicated their greatest truths through myth and legend. They lamented the rational society they lived in’s relegation of these myths to ‘children’s stories,’ as they knew grown men and women… even great warriors relished these tales and the great thoughts they conveyed. These tales connected emotionally with their readers and tellers. These stories contained great insight into life and truth that could be observed as well as providing a glimpse into the world unseen, the spiritual realm.

Before coming to faith in Christ, Lewis lamented to Tolkien that it was a shame that the great myths were not true. Tolkien responded that they indeed contained great truths, and walking on Addison’s Walk on the grounds of Magdalen College, Tolkien helped the struggling Lewis reconcile reason and imagination. “The Gospels had all the qualities of great human storytelling. But they portrayed a true event - God the storyteller entered his own story, in the flesh, and brought a joyous conclusion from a tragic situation. Suddenly Lewis could see that the nourishment he had always received from great myths and fantasy stories was a taste of the greatest, truest story — of the life, death and resurrection of Christ.” —Chris Armstrong writes in Christianity Today. Lewis and Tolkien insisted that reason and imagination must be integrated — in any understanding of truth, the whole person must be satisfied.

In 1936 J. R. R. Tolkien had just written The Hobbit and the two friends began to think of a scheme to reignite myth in modern culture. They decided upon science fiction as a vehicle of ‘modern myth’ and assigned themselves topics that would inspire serious works for modern readers. Lewis would write about ‘Space Travel’ and Tolkien ‘Time Travel.’ Out of the Silent Planet, Perelandra, and That Hideous Strength — the “Space Trilogy” or the “Ransom Trilogy” was Lewis’s offering for ‘Space Travel.’ It fictionalizes a very serious line of thought that he develops in The Abolition of Man, which is really just the publication of a series of lectures he delivered.

Tolkien’s Trilogy became The Lord of the Rings and departed somewhat from the assignment, but it is a great work that has become a classic mythology for modern readers. Tolkien and Lewis sought most of all to bring the type of literature they themselves loved to modern readers. Tolkien himself said to Lewis: “I relish stories that survey the depths of space and time.” I discovered Lewis’s Narnia as a young adult and it brought me to a deeper feeling/understanding of my own faith. My young granddaughter knows these stories as a child and her world is the richer for it. In my youth I had read quite a bit of Jules Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaire and they certainly fueled my imagination. In Around the World in Eighty Days he deals not so much with time travel per se, but the concept of global travel and the ‘lost’ day.


The Inuit live on both sides of the International Date Line. Before travel was restricted by the world's two great superpowers they could literally cross the Bering Strait into another day. Journey to Jesus Mural by Kristina Elaine Greer and Bob Kirchman

Looking at a mural that I was painting with Kristina Elaine Greer of the world’s children ‘around the globe’ that point where you can literally ‘step into tomorrow’ became the inspiration for what I originally intended as a short story — Dinner Stop at the End of the World which originally offered itself as an alternative to some of the dystopian apocalyptic ‘Christian’ literature that was coming out at the time. I was notably concerned that there were people in Bible studies I knew taking all too seriously the work of one author in particular who mixed mysticism with prophecy to create a bit of an alarmist message as his protagonist would continually meet a mysterious ‘prophet’ figure who would give him a new piece of the ‘puzzle’ concerning the judgement of America. It was an intriguing work of fiction — not much on plot, mind you, but it did get you thinking about Biblical prophecy. The problems I had with it were twofold, first of all it created a dark scenario and did not offer much in the way of light or hope. Secondly, it based much of its proclamations not so much on scripture but a form of mysticism that is found in Judaism.

It wasn’t that great a story. Still, the author was appearing on Jim Bakker’s show (yes, he’s still around) and his message was punctuated by advertisements for ‘survival food.’ The publisher produced a companion ‘study guide.’ People were actually directing their lives in response to an interesting work of fiction! What I found tragic was that we were putting aside the inspiration of the younger generation who must have dismissed a lot of this adult behavior as ‘over the top.’ I’m not writing this to dump on someone who’s published a lot of books but rather to say that he did me one great favor — he pushed me to write out of my own imagination and yes a sense of reason that is rooted in the 23rd Psalm which states that “The Lord is my shepherd.” That drove me to do my own study of history. I found that though indeed there were terrible things that sinful man had done, there were the great stories of Redemption as well. Redemption, I would discover, is the ultimate story of time travel for it takes us from death to life — from finite existence to the very doorway to eternity. my own little story grew into PONTIFUS.

APOLLONIUS is my attempt to delve into ’Space Travel.’ As in PONTIFUS, I find myself looking to Lewis a lot… as to Jules Verne who had been my inspiration in youth. I used to draw fanciful flying machines and such. But in all of this, I rather liken to fancy a conversation ongoing at ‘Eagle and Child’ that can inspire us even in our day. Sitting on top of a mountain in Shenandoah Park with my friend Ebenezer Murengezi, we met a hiker. He walked up to the place we were sitting — a gentleman from Alaska, the son of dairy farmers, and he was hiking the entire Appalachian Trail. We were enjoying pleasant conversation when Ebenezer and I remarked at how much nature showed you the wonder of God. “What do you think?” Ebenezer asked the gentleman. “I’m a scientist.” he replied. By that he meant he had no use for our “fables.” He said he had believed as a child but that he was taught “better” by the university he attended. I asked him if he’d ever simply asked God to show Himself to him and he said “I’ve already been there.” I replied “Perhaps God hasn’t finished yet.” At this point the poor gentleman made a hasty exit. I bring this up merely to point out that I DON’T think the issue was resolved for him. In the realm of Reason, God had been discarded. In the realm of Imagination, however, questions had NOT been sufficiently put to rest.

Lewis had his childhood faith put to rest by his mentor William Kirkpatrick, or "The Great Knock," who appears in the Narnia books as Digory Kirk — and far more open to possibilities beyond our world because he’s been there. It was that time of rediscovery with Tolkien that brought C. S. Lewis to great faith. I pray that the gentleman we met on the mountain will find his J. R. R. Tolkien, The resolution of reason and imagination, and most of all FAITH!

Magnolia Blossom
Photos by Bob Kirchman







Day Lily
Photos by Bob Kirchman

Phantasies, Around the World in 80 Days

Citizen Journalism with a Better Flavor


Volume XIII, Issue III

Phantasies
By George Macdonald, Chapter 25

Our life is no dream; but it ought to become one, and perhaps will."
~ Novalis

And on the ground, which is my modres gate,
I knocke with my staf; erlich and late,
And say to hire, Leve mother, let me in."
~ Geoffrey Chaucer, "The Pardoneres Tale".

Sinking from such a state of ideal bliss, into the world of shadows which again closed around and infolded me, my first dread was, not unnaturally, that my own shadow had found me again, and that my torture had commenced anew. It was a sad revulsion of feeling. This, indeed, seemed to correspond to what we think death is, before we die. Yet I felt within me a power of calm endurance to which I had hitherto been a stranger. For, in truth, that I should be able if only to think such things as I had been thinking, was an unspeakable delight. An hour of such peace made the turmoil of a lifetime worth striving through.

I found myself lying in the open air, in the early morning, before sunrise. Over me rose the summer heaven, expectant of the sun. The clouds already saw him, coming from afar; and soon every dewdrop would rejoice in his individual presence within it.

I lay motionless for a few minutes; and then slowly rose and looked about me. I was on the summit of a little hill; a valley lay beneath, and a range of mountains closed up the view upon that side. But, to my horror, across the valley, and up the height of the opposing mountains, stretched, from my very feet, a hugely expanding shade. There it lay, long and large, dark and mighty. I turned away with a sick despair; when lo! I beheld the sun just lifting his head above the eastern hill, and the shadow that fell from me, lay only where his beams fell not. I danced for joy. It was only the natural shadow, that goes with every man who walks in the sun. As he arose, higher and higher, the shadow-head sank down the side of the opposite hill, and crept in across the valley towards my feet.

Now that I was so joyously delivered from this fear, I saw and recognised the country around me. In the valley below, lay my own castle, and the haunts of my childhood were all about me hastened home. My sisters received me with unspeakable joy; but I suppose they observed some change in me, for a kind of respect, with a slight touch of awe in it, mingled with their joy, and made me ashamed. They had been in great distress about me. On the morning of my disappearance, they had found the floor of my room flooded; and, all that day, a wondrous and nearly impervious mist had hung about the castle and grounds. I had been gone, they told me, twenty-one days. To me it seemed twenty-one years. Nor could I yet feel quite secure in my new experiences. When, at night, I lay down once more in my own bed, I did not feel at all sure that when I awoke, I should not find myself in some mysterious region of Fairy Land. My dreams were incessant and perturbed; but when I did awake, I saw clearly that I was in my own home.

My mind soon grew calm; and I began the duties of my new position, somewhat instructed, I hoped, by the adventures that had befallen me in Fairy Land. Could I translate the experience of my travels there, into common life? This was the question. Or must I live it all over again, and learn it all over again, in the other forms that belong to the world of men, whose experience yet runs parallel to that of Fairy Land? These questions I cannot answer yet. But I fear.

Even yet, I find myself looking round sometimes with anxiety, to see whether my shadow falls right away from the sun or no. I have never yet discovered any inclination to either side. And if I am not unfrequently sad, I yet cast no more of a shade on the earth, than most men who have lived in it as long as I. I have a strange feeling sometimes, that I am a ghost, sent into the world to minister to my fellow men, or, rather, to repair the wrongs I have already done.

May the world be brighter for me, at least in those portions of it, where my darkness falls not.

Thus I, who set out to find my Ideal, came back rejoicing that I had lost my Shadow.

When the thought of the blessedness I experienced, after my death in Fairy Land, is too high for me to lay hold upon it and hope in it, I often think of the wise woman in the cottage, and of her solemn assurance that she knew something too good to be told. When I am oppressed by any sorrow or real perplexity, I often feel as if I had only left her cottage for a time, and would soon return out of the vision, into it again. Sometimes, on such occasions, I find myself, unconsciously almost, looking about for the mystic mark of red, with the vague hope of entering her door, and being comforted by her wise tenderness. I then console myself by saying: "I have come through the door of Dismay; and the way back from the world into which that has led me, is through my tomb. Upon that the red sign lies, and I shall find it one day, and be glad."

I will end my story with the relation of an incident which befell me a few days ago. I had been with my reapers, and, when they ceased their work at noon, I had lain down under the shadow of a great, ancient beech-tree, that stood on the edge of the field. As I lay, with my eyes closed, I began to listen to the sound of the leaves overhead. At first, they made sweet inarticulate music alone; but, by-and-by, the sound seemed to begin to take shape, and to be gradually moulding itself into words; till, at last, I seemed able to distinguish these, half-dissolved in a little ocean of circumfluent tones: "A great good is coming--is coming--is coming to thee, Anodos"; and so over and over again. I fancied that the sound reminded me of the voice of the ancient woman, in the cottage that was four-square. I opened my eyes, and, for a moment, almost believed that I saw her face, with its many wrinkles and its young eyes, looking at me from between two hoary branches of the beech overhead. But when I looked more keenly, I saw only twigs and leaves, and the infinite sky, in tiny spots, gazing through between. Yet I know that good is coming to me--that good is always coming; though few have at all times the simplicity and the courage to believe it. What we call evil, is the only and best shape, which, for the person and his condition at the time, could be assumed by the best good. And so, farewell.

The End


Thomas Jefferson said of Falling Spring Falls in the Alleghany Highlands of Virginia:“The only remarkable cascade in this country is that of the Falling Spring in Augusta…it falls over a rock 200 feet into the valley below.” -- Thomas Jefferson, ‘Notes on the State of Virginia’ written in 1781. The falls are actually 80 feet high.

Regional Travel Map
A Different Trip Planning Resource


Regional Travel Map by Bob Kirchman.

Sometimes it is nice to have a good old flat paper map in front of you when you are planning a regional road trip. GPS and electronic maps are great, but they sometimes fail to give you the 'overview' you had with a good old-fashioned map. As you plan your Summer travels, you can download the Journey Regional Map [click to read], print it, and plan a few road trips.


Find LOVE at Alleghany County Virginia's 160 year-old Humpback Bridge.[1.]


Paint Bank, in Craig County, Virginia got its unusual name from the iron ochre and red clay taken from the banks of Potts Creek that was used by Native Americans, notably the Cherokees, as war paint, and to make their pottery with a distinctive red color. Photo by Bob Kirchman


The General Store in Paint Bank, Virginia. The Swinging Bridge Restaurant is located in an extension of this building and features delicious buffalo dishes. Photo by Bob Kirchman


Tingler's Mill in Paint Branch, Virginia. Photo by Bob Kirchman

Why Beauty Matters



Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." -- Phillipians 4:8

Let thy work appear unto thy servants, and thy glory unto their children. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us: and establish thou the work of our hands upon us; yea, the work of our hands establish thou it." -- Psalm 90:16,17

Around the World in 80 Days
by Jules Verne
[click to read]


1841 Lithograph of the interior of London's Reform Club. Here Phileas Fogg enters into the wager that begins his attempt to circumnavigate the globe. The Reform Club is a private members club on the south side of Pall Mall in central London. As with all London's original gentlemen’s clubs, it comprised an all-male membership for decades, but was the first to change its rules to include the admission of women on equal terms in 1981. Since its founding, the Reform Club has been the traditional home for those committed to progressive political ideas, with its membership initially consisting of Radicals and Whigs. However, today it is no longer associated with any particular political party, and now serves a purely social function.

In 1832, Parliament passed a law changing the British electoral system. It was known as the Great Reform Act.

This was a response to many years of people criticising the electoral system as unfair. For example, there were constituencies with only a handful of voters that elected two MPs to Parliament. In these rotten boroughs, with few voters and no secret ballot, it was easy for candidates to buy votes. Yet towns like Manchester that had grown during the previous 80 years had no MPs to represent them.

In 1831, the House of Commons passed a Reform Bill, but the House of Lords, dominated by Tories, defeated it. There followed riots and serious disturbances in London, Birmingham, Derby, Nottingham, Leicester, Yeovil, Sherborne, Exeter and Bristol.

The riots in Bristol were some of the worst seen in England in the 19th century. They began when Sir Charles Weatherall, who was opposed to the Reform Bill, came to open the Assize Court. Public buildings and houses were set on fire, there was more than £300,000 of damage and twelve people died. Of 102 people arrested and tried, 31 were sentenced to death. Lieutenant-Colonel Brereton, the commander of the army in Bristol, was court-martialed.

There was a fear in government that unless there was some reform there might be a revolution instead. They looked to the July 1830 revolution in France, which overthrew King Charles X and replaced him with the more moderate King Louis-Philippe who agreed to a constitutional monarchy.

In Britain, King William IV lost popularity for standing in the way of reform. Eventually he agreed to create new Whig peers, and when the House of Lords heard this, they agreed to pass the Reform Act. Rotten boroughs were removed and the new towns given the right to elect MPs, although constituencies were still of uneven size. However, only men who owned property worth at least £10 could vote, which cut out most of the working classes, and only men who could afford to pay to stand for election could be MPs. This reform did not go far enough to silence all protest. -- UK National Archives

Around the World in 80 Days (French: Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours) is a classic adventure novel by the French writer Jules Verne, first published in 1873. In the story, Phileas Fogg of London and his newly employed French valet Passepartout attempt to circumnavigate the world in 80 days on a £20,000 wager set by his friends at the Reform Club. (read more)




The Reform Club was founded in 1836, in Pall Mall, in the centre of what is often called London's Clubland. The founders commissioned a leading architect of the day, Charles Barry, to build an imposing and palatial clubhouse. It is as splendid today as when it opened in 1841. Membership was restricted to those who pledged support for the Great Reform Act of 1832, and the many MPs and Whig peers among the early members developed the Club as the political headquarters of the Liberal Party.

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

In which Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Accept Each Other, the One as Master, the Other as Man

Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron — at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.

Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on ‘Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the “City”; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln’s Inn, or Gray’s Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen’s Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan’s Association, or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.

Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.

The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough.

He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush.

Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.

Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit.

It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes.

Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club — its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy — aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.

If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity.

The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past.

Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.

A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.

The new servant,” said he.

A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.

You are a Frenchman, I believe,” asked Phileas Fogg, “and your name is John?”

Jean, if monsieur pleases,” replied the newcomer, “Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I’m honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I’ve had several trades. I’ve been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout.”

Passepartout suits me,” responded Mr. Fogg. “You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?”

Yes, monsieur.”

Good! What time is it?”

Twenty-two minutes after eleven,” returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.

You are too slow,” said Mr. Fogg.

Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible —”

You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it’s enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service.”

Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.

Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville Row.
(to be continued)



The Vision of Jules Verne
[click to read]

He was born in 1928 in the port city of Nantes, France. His father was a pragmatic lawyer but his mother nurtured his creative inclinations. Though he followed his father’s wishes and trained to be a lawyer, he would go on to meet publisher Pierre-Jules Hetzel who would serialize his stories. These Voyages Extraordinaires would eventually become his famous novels earning him the title: “Father of Science Fiction.” Although Verne died in 1905 his works continued to be published and he would become the second most translated author in the world. Verne saw the technological revolution of the Nineteenth Century as it unfolded and crafted new applications of it as he charted his ‘Voyages.’ It is not surprising that as a youth I was drawn to his work.

This Biography Presentation [click to watch] of his life gives even more insight into the life of Jules Verne. I have to give him much credit for inspiring PONTIFUS and my upcoming APOLLONIUS, which debuts here as a serial feature in the weeks to come.