“What are they stuffed with?”
“Air,” replied his companion.
“And have you no railways at all, now?” asked Langschlaf, when they got underway.
“Oh yes‘ Plenty of them over the gardens and plains; but they are no longer the railways of your days. Our airships are not much used for transportation except to and from the Stars. We bring goods by them only when we are in immediate want of them. Ices, delicate confectionaries, and fine wines, which are injured by a sea-voyage from their principal freight. I will show you a rail-road tomorrow, for I want to take you to see a friend of mine who lives near the Pyramids.”
“I suppose there are no such things as steamships?”
“Well, no, not steamships. Our ships are compelled by condensed air. This does away with cumbrous machinery, smoke, explosion, and other disagreeable things. But here we are at Calcutta.”
They alighted before a large and tastefully decorated building, and entered the pretty grounds which were ornamented with statues representing youth and old age. Over the door of the house was a beautiful bas relief of Ponce de Leon and his men grouped round a fountain; underneath this was carved a word, Eureka. The grounds were also adorned with various fountains of rare beauty, all having reference to stories of those who at various times have gone in search of the Fountain of Eternal Youth. Statues of youth and health filled niches on either side of the hall as they entered the house, and a bronze statue of Cagliostro stood in the center.
A tall, stately man of about thirty-eight or forty years, came forward to meet our friends as they entered. He, like everybody else they met, seemed to be well acquainted with the Professor, and greeted him cordially.
“I have brought you a subject, Mr. Neuman,” said the Professor, presenting his companion.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Neuman, “I had no idea there was one on this planet. I have been thinking strongly of emigrating to the moon if the new Climate Equalizer succeeds there as well as it has elsewhere.”
“As it undoubtedly will,” said the Professor, “advices from there to-day announce a decided improvement already.”
Mr. Langschlaf here reminded the gentlemen that he was not there for the purpose of hearing news from the moon. With a polite stare of surprise at his haste, Professor Thornfield related his friends singular story, and surrendered him to Mr. Neuman, and saying, “I will wait for you at the entrance,” took his leave.
Mr. Neuman then turned to his subject and asked what age he would prefer. Mr. Langschlaf answered “twenty-five.” Mr. Neuman suggested that from thirty to forty was the favorite age for gentlemen, but Mr. Langschlaf persisted in being quite a young man; he would be thirty soon enough.
“Not unless you wish to,” answered the operator, “but we will proceed to the preparatory bath-room, if you please.”
When the bath was over, which Mr. Langschlaf enthusiastically said was elysium, the “subject” was led to a soft couch, where he fell asleep. When he awoke he was standing dressed near a door-way in which stood his friend, the Professor, who inquired “how he felt now.”
“Like a new man,” answered Langschlaf, joyfully.
“Well, that’s just what you are,” said the Professor, laughing. “Have you looked at yourself?”
“No!”
“Why, turn round, man, and take a look!” and he pointed to what Langschlaf thought was an open door. He approached, and met a handsome young man coming towards him.
“Will you let me pass, if you please,” said Langschlaf, bowing politely to the stranger. The latter only returned the bow, but did not move from his place in the door.
A burst of laughter made him turn round, and perceiving as he did so that the stranger imitated him, he suspected the truth, and, stretching out his hand, encountered the mirror. But he was too much delighted with the reflection before him to get at all vexed with his friend’s laughter. Turning to Mr. Neuman, he grasped his hand, and said, “Sir, all my fortune, were it ten times as great as it is, would not repay you for what you have done; but all I have I will freely give you, if you should require so much. What do I owe you, sir?”
“Nothing at all,” said Mr. Neuman with a bow. “The scientific fund affords me an ample support.”
The two took leave of Mr. Neuman with many cordial invitations for him to come and see them, which he promised to do.
On the way home the Professor explained to Mr. Langschlaf that all scientific or useful discoveries of every kind, were most liberally paid for by the grand central academy of Science. That a fund was set apart for the support of all who made useful inventions or discoveries, and that they were not allowed to receive any other fees.
“This,” he said, “humbugging, as it was formerly called, has been entirely abolished.”
“By the way,” exclaimed Langschlaf, “abolishing makes me think of the negroes. What did you do with them?”
The Professor laughed. “That was a puzzle,” said he. “Such a time as we had! They were colonized first in one place and then another, but a race of people called the ‘Universal Yankee,’ because they seemed to have been scattered all over the globe, but principally in America--would follow them up, and push them out, until we began to think that they would be pushed into the ocean. The invention of air ships, however, and the discovery of the Respirator rendered the most distant climates accessible, and we packed them off bag and baggage to Jupiter. The climate of that planet being twice as warm as ours, and very little diversified, even the Yankees could not stand it, and there the negro race lives and flourishes. They furnish us with an abundance of cotton, rice, sugar, coffee, and many other tropical productions. There lived at that time a singular race of people called ‘Radicals,’ and they were so perfectly devoted to the negro race, we thought of course they would like to go with them. So far from that, they were violently opposed to sending them away, or in fact, doing anything at all with them. They seem to have been a very strange sort of being: constantly talking one way and doing another--wanting to annihilate inoffensive white people in order to confer very questionable benefits on the black. But they are all gone now. I don’t think there is one left.”
Mr. Langschlaf did not think it necessary to mention that he had been slightly tinctured with radicalism himself.
“Does it ever get dark now?” presently inquired Mr. Langschlalf, who was by this time prepared for any revelation.
“Not in our Aeolines,” answered the Professor, “because the propelling force is light and its irradiations make daylight around us.”
Mr. Langschlaf no longer found himself the center of attraction when he walked in the streets; and as he had no ambition to represent Methusaleh or old Parr, in the present enlighted age, he was quite satisfied, nay delighted, with the change. The Professor, however, suggested that a more becoming costume than the one his friend wore, might possibly be procured, to which Langschlaf assented, and, hailing an Aeolita, which was quite strong enough for so short a journey, they flew over to London, and our hero was soon dressed in a suit very becoming to his style, grave, elegant, but with a slight dash of uniqueness in it. When they returned home the Professor insisted on taking his (literally) new made friend home with him.
Mr. Langschlaf found a most interesting group assembled in the pleasant library at the Professors house. Mrs. Thornfield was charming, the daughters lively, pretty, and exceedingly interesting. The boys were--oh, wonder of wonders! quiet, decorus and agreeable. One of them was reading a drama which the others were criticising with great good humor and wit. They all turned bright faces of welcome to the door as the gentlemen entered, and greeted their father with enthusiasm.
The introduction of a stranger caused no embarrassment to the family group. They received him cordially and soon found himself entering into their joy and badinage with equal spirit and zest.
“Whose pl
ay were you reading as we entered?” asked the father.
“Bertha’s,” answered the reader. “It is called ‘The Reign of Genius’. The scene is laid in England and Greece, and the time is that in which Bryon and Shelly lived.”
“Good!” said the father with an approving smile on the blushing authoress.
“So your daughter is an authoress,” said Langschalf.
“No, not particularly, though she writes very well. All the advanced scholars are required to write dramas in which their various studies are introduced; for we no longer have schools such as they had in your day, but theatres. Instead of the dry, dull books, which were enough one would think to stupefy the brightest intellect, or disgust the most enthusiastic lover of learning, we have dramas, written by the greatest geniuses of our time, performed by the very best actors. Nothing mediocre is admitted either in composition or performance. The scenery is painted by the best artists from nature. The dresses and properties are in strict keeping with the times represented. Knowledge is thus made both attractive and impressive. The scholars, too, as you see, write plays and perform them; and you have no idea how charmingly even the dryest sciences can be introduced into a play. Genius illumines everything it touches. It is the magic wand of the magician of olden days. Although customs and manners have changed, and empires have vanished from the earth, genius never changes; her favored children are ever young.”
“I noticed no churches in our travels,” said Langschalf after a pause: “has religion become obsolete, also?”
“God forbid,” said the Professor reverently. “You saw no churches because
the world has become one vast Temple. Science, literature and art have become teachers too potent to resist. Every theatre, every lecture-room, every pleasure, speaks to the world of Him who gave us all things. Yet we still have what I suppose you would call sermons, divine inspirations, glorious visions, which will not be repressed. Some men endowed with the glorious gift of eloquence, illumine our mind and hearts with words that burn. These sermons are spread over the whole earth by means of the Pschycometra, the very grandest invention of the age. Every orator or writer has in his study a grand Lucistral Centre--that is a concentration of electric currents from all parts of the earth. In this centre the Pschycometra is placed. The sermon, or poem or lecture is read aloud in the study, and the Pschycometra repeats the words thus spoken to all the world; for in every house is an annunciator which repeats the sentences as they fall. The electric current conveys the sound nearly as rapidly as it does vision. We have also another messenger, called Fausta, because it supplies the place of newspapers, which became entirely too large and numerous for comfort, and failed to keep us en rapport with the old parts of the earth. We have Faustas in every room.--Perhaps you would like to see one? Mr. Langschlaf would be charmed,” the Professor continued, as he rang a sweetly sounding little bell which stood on a table. “This is about the hour for the morning lecture in the Pekin Theatre. We will receive one of them, Ernest” (to one of the boys), “attend the Fausta, if you please.”
Ernest rose and stood by a line bronze statue of Faust, which stood in a niche near the mantle-piece. ln a few moments the statue slowly lifted his arm to the wall; a pretty painted panel flew open, and the statue received in its hand a printed paper, which it handed to Ernest. Many of these printed sheets were thus received--some of which were beautifully illustrated. Having finished its work the statue shut the panel and resumed its original position. Ernest went to a distant corner of the room where stood what appeared to be an ordinary work table. He placed the leaves in a drawer, and in a few moments returned with a neatly bound book entitled “The Poetry of Beauty; a lecture delivered in the Aesthetic Theatre at Pekin,” with the date. The lecture was read aloud by the second son, and when it was finished the Professor remarked:
“The art of beauty occupies a very important space in the learning of the present day. It is owing to this fact, sir, that your house has remained untouched, and your grounds kept in such order. The quaint old grey stone house was a picturesque feature in the landscape, and your park possessed great natural beauty--so it has been carefully tended and the house kept in repair--but still its original appearance preserved.” It was late when Mr. Langschlaf re tired. His host had many questions to ask and many things to tell--but the sleep which visited him was sweet and refreshing.
Next morning sweet music awakened him--he turned towards a window and looking out, saw the children starting off to school, singing as they went. Their voices were excellent and well cultivated, and they sang a chorus from Lucia.
“Music too, like poetry, is imperishable,” mused Mr. Langschlaf, as he listened to the familiar strains.
“Bless me! What’s this?” A pretty table laden with coffee, cakes, and fruit, rose slowly out of the floor by his bedside. A gilt statue of Minerva turned in its niche at the head of his bed, and handed him a paper. Mr. Langschlaf rubbed his eyes. “Oh, yes, I remember now. You madam, are a Fausta I suppose, and this,” turning to the little table, “is a waiter with my morning coffee,” and he helped himself to coffee and oranges--coolly took the paper from the statue, and after looking at it, said facetiously:
“You needn’t trouble yourself to hand me any more, Mrs. Minerva Fausta, for I can’t read a word except the date and names. Well keep on, Madame, if you wish,” he continued as Minerva quickly dropped the papers on his pillow.
Presently she placed a little pamphlet by the papers, and then became motionless.
Langschlaf picked up the pamphlet which proved to be a key to the characters in which the papers were printed. They were simple abbreviations, and he soon mastered the secret; whereupon he thanked Mrs. Minerva Fausta very politely, and read till time to dress for breakfast.
“Quite a pleasant day for our visit to the Pyramids,” said the host, as his friend entered the cheerful breakfast room.
“Charming,” answered the latter. “I heard your children going off to their Theatres quite early. Do they have far to go?”
“My oldest son is at present in a Theatre of Art, in Italy, and my oldest daughter has a few moments since reached Paris. They do not remain more than a day at a time in any one place, and sometimes visit two or three theatres in one day.”
“Is education expensive?” asked Langschlaf.
“It costs nothing,” answered his host. “All children are provided for by the Grand Central Committee on support and education. Parents are simply the natural guardians of their children’s manners and morals. Children are regarded as the true wealth of the world, and nurtured accordingly. These funds are supplied by taxation. But we will not discuss this further, for my daughter tells me there is to be a grand matinee concert at the Theatre of Music in Paris, and we must hear it.”
Then they adjourned to the library where they were soon joined by a number of the Professor’s particular friends, who came in to listen to the music. “Because,” said one, “you have the finest auricula we know of anywhere.”
“What is an auricula?” asked Langschlaf.
“You will soon find out,” said the Professor as he pressed a spring in the wall. Instantly the room was filled with melody. For an hour the audience was entranced.
“Perhaps you would like to see the performers,” said the Professor to Langschlaf.
“I would indeed,” replied the latter.
Whereupon the host drew aside a curtain, and revealed a large stage, upon which stood a quartette of singers.
“Marvellous!” exclaimed the astonished Langschlaf. “This looks indeed like magic.”
“Only the magic of science,” answered his friend. “This is the occularium, and the only magic necessary to its use is an accurate knowledge of the laws of light. I can show you any public exhibition of any kind, now going on anywhere in Universalia. Also, any picture gallery, public garden or any other object of public interest
because these are all put in communication with every house by means of occularia. In the same manner we listen to all public concerts, operas, etc., by the means of auricularia.”
“I see you still have to go to the dead languages for names for your inventions,” observed Langschlafwhen the concert was over.
“My dear friend there are no dead languages. No language can die, into which thought has been infused. Dialects perish, leaving only relics behind them, but a language which has once been the vehicle of thought can no more perish than can a body while the soul is in it. Genius is immortal, and immortalizes all it touches. As I said before, music and poetry cannot die, nor can the words and sounds thus wedded, ever perish. English is the universal language, it is true, but every one understands and speaks all languages as you have remarked, doubtless, before this. The human mind cannot be idle, and since we are no longer obliged to work, we have ample leisure to acquire all sorts of information. The industry and energy formerly expended in earning a support are now directed to cultivating the mind and beautifying the world in which we live.”
“Yet somebody must cultivate the soil. I have several times intended to ask you where you grow the produce this vast city consumes. I have seen some fields, but they seem meant more for ornament than use.”
“We have one field,” answered the Professor, “which more than suffices for
our wants, and that is the planet Mars. The long seasons and equable temperature of this planet, render it peculiarly fitted for an agricultural district. One of the Asteroids—Ceres—having been equalized by the great climate Regulator, serves for our vegetable garden and orchard, though we raise great quantities of fruit here, as you will see in our journey to the Pyramids. A complete system of irrigation has made the ‘Great Desert’ literally ‘bloom and blossom as the rose’.”
“In a few years your city will be too crowded for comfort, for I believe the whole earth is covered with buildings now.”
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