The crystal button : or, adventures of Paul Prognosis in the forty-ninth century

Front matter

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Part II. A Day’s Ramble With Professor Prosper

III. Pavui’s REMARKABLE INTRODUCTION TO THE City or Tone... : te Be

VY. Tue Exprecrep ADVENT OF A Gatinetat, VISITOR. . . Layer? y OR “VI. Turer THousanp Pek ye A > on are OO VIL. THe Tower or PEAcE AND ae » 41 VIII. A Brrp’s-Eyve View or tHe City. .. . 48 IX. THe UNDERGROUND Ramuway ..... 55 EEPRIOGEYUATC 6. 6 es ee eve oe 6G XI. Tue Prramips... OS eres XII. A DINNER AT THE eee pa eee 89

XIII. THe Meerine or tHe ScHoou or aes 98 XIV. A Guimpse oF Country Lire... . . 112

XIV CONTENTS.

Part III. The Crystal Button

XVI. Tot DownFaLt oF OLD rosea — XVII. APPEARANCE OF JOHN a THE APos-

TLE OF TRUTH .. . |e 6

XVIII. Foe ORDER OF THE CRYSTAL ‘Boe -. « 26@

XIX. Tue New CrvivizaTion. . . » 5) eee

Part IV. A Day’s Ramble With Marco: Mortimer

XXIII. Toe TransconrinenraL Rampway. . . .« 193 XXIV. Mounr Enercy. . . . oh ole an XXV. THE SoLar Swine toeeeree | : | lke ee XXVL Toe PALAce oF THE SUN. . . « 5 =a

Part V. The Celestial Visitor

XXVIL. An Eventnea at Home . . >... » ts oe XXVIII. Tue ADMINISTRATION oF LAw ... . .« 240 XXIX. Tue GovERNMENT OF SETTLED Forms . . 204 XXX. MONEY . ‘ ee XXXI. Tuer PassacE OF THE eee, «3 ib

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CHAPTER I. Paul Prognosis meets with an Accident

“ MamMa, isn’t it a nice Christmas present ? Don’t you think papa will like it?”

“17m sure he will, dear.”

The door-bell gave a sudden sharp alarum that was like ascream. Mrs. Prognosis sprang from her chair. “I suppose,” she said, ‘it’s another telegram asking your father to hurry over to the broken drawbridge. But he must be there by this time. Ido wish they would give Paul an hour’s rest on this day before Christmas.” She went to the door, her daughter following. ~

‘Your pardon, ma’am,” spoke up a hoarse voice, “but I’ve bad news for you.”

*“ Bad news? Oh, about the broken draw ?

Qs THE CRYSTAL BUTTON.

I know about that. My husband is at the bridge now, attending to repairs.”

“It’s another sort of bad news that I’m bringing you, ma’am.”’

‘*¢ Another sort? Paul — my husband — what has happened to him? Is he in any trouble? —is he dead? Tell me, man, is Paul Prognosis dead ? ”

“No, not dead, ma’am; but he’s been hurt.”

“* How ?— Where ?— At the bridge? I will go with you to him.”

“He is coming to you. They are bringing him to you. No, ma’am, you mustn’t go.” He put up his left hand, in which he held his cap, as if to detain her; then dropped it respectfully, and repeated with a pleading voice, while tears trickled down his pockmarked cheeks: “No, no! ma’am, you mustn’t go. Dr. Clarkson is coming, and he sent me to tell you about it.”

“Tell me quickly, then, and tell me the truth.”

They stood close together on the trellised doorstoop of the contractor’s house, on one of the steep hill-streets in the older part of the city —the slight woman with her earnest, troubled face, to whose skirts clung the shivering child, and the coatless workman, dripping wet, and with particles of ice in his beard and long hair. His right hand was concealed in a handkerchief, and a dark stain gradually spread about its folds, until a scarlet drop fell upon the icy coating of the stoop. But Mrs. Prognosis did not notice this, and the man made no allusion to it. The December wind that whistled through the latticework and dead leafage, chasing little whirls of fine snow, was biting cold; but only the child seemed to feel it. “ Patty, go indoors, and wait for mamma.” The child silently obeyed.

‘* You see, ma’am, there was an accident at the bridge, where the Boss put in his new patent draw last summer. A schooner, loaded with lumber, got caught by the tide and jammed in, side on, and chocked the draw so that the keeper could n’t work her back, and travel was stopped. They sent fer the Boss, and he and I— I’m his foreman, ma’am —were at work down below there, when Jake Cummings, — you know him, perhaps — he’s the draw-keeper, an old fellow with rheumatism, and five children, and the old woman dead a twelvemonth, — he slipped on one of the guys, and pitched head-foremost in among the ice.”

“ Yes, yes — but my husband ?”

*¢ Well, the skipper on the schooner threw a rope to the old man as he drifted past, but he missed it, and went downstream with the current. Then the Boss plunged in and followed him, swimming hand over hand in a way that made the crowd cheer. There they both were, in among the ice-cakes and some floating logs and lumber that had got loose from the schooner; and the Boss soon had hold of Jake, but he could n't seem to make any headway when he turned upstream. When I saw that, in I went

too, with Smudge at my heels; and we all brought up ina bunch, with the ice crunching about us, and a small boat from the schooner, that was trying to get at us, shoving the drift against our shoulders. It looked like we had seen our last Christmas, the whole lot of us, dog and all. Well, at last, [—we got him out and aboard the boat.”

“« Who — who was it you got out?”

“The Boss, ma’am.”’

“Thank God! and thank you, my friend!”

“ And Smudge, too; he ought to be thanked. He stuck to the Boss through it all. As for old Jake, 1 could n’t get at him.”

‘And my husband did n’t succeed in saving him, after all?”

“That I don’t know.”

“He must have. Paul always succeeds.”

‘““T hope so, ma’am. Smudge went in again after the old man. As for me, I could n’t see much after I got aboard the schooner, till Dr. | Clarkson poured something hot into me. He will tell us. Here they come.”

Without another word the woman ran to meet the approaching file of men, bowed by the weight they bore between them on an improvised stretcher. Every hat came off as she drew near. It was growing dusky now, so she could scarcely distinguish the white face that lay there, but she kissed the cold lips, shivered, and gave a piteous look toward Dr. Clarkson, who only said: “* Have courage, Mrs. Prognosis. I think a warm bed is all that is needed.” She stooped, and clasped in hers one of the cold hands, that gave no response. In that hand, clenched, while all else hung nerveless, she found a little rag of linen, with a buttonhole, in which clung a small glass button. She thrust this in her bosom, again took the chilly palm in hers, and accompanied the procession of silent men as they mounted the stoop and the front staircase to the south chamber, where a few neighbors gave what assistance they could, under the direction of the doctor, and then quietly retired. Beside the bed sat Smudge, the only spectator.

For the next hour, Dr. Clarkson kept the tearless wife busily employed in doing whatever small tasks he could think of, whether helpful or not, and especially such as related to her child. He saw that she was calm —so calm that a stranger might have misjudged her. But the family physician knew.

Just before midnight, when breathing had been fully restored, he left her, saying: “I find no injury of any kind. He no doubt received a severe blow on the head from the ice or a drifting log, though I do not find even a scalp-wound. What the result will be, I cannot now foretell. But keep up courage, Mrs. Prognosis. I have’ known your husband many years. He is a strong man, in robust health, with everything in his favor, and I believe he will be spared to you unharmed. Fact is,a man like that we can’t very well get along without. Everybody respects him, and the only ones who ever disliked him were a few malcontents who, atone time, imagined they had reason to fear his truth-telling. But some of these very men are now his best friends. There’s that Tom Haggerty, for instance, — he followed in after him with Smudge, and I hardly know which proved the better water-dog. Well, he seems to be perfectly comfortable for the present. To-morrow morning we shall know more about the case. In the mean time I leave him in your care. I ean do nothing further to-night, and you can do nothing but watch, wait, and hope. He helped to save old man Cummings like a hero, as he is; and I think he ’ll be able to receive thanks in person before the holidays are over. I hope so—lI believe so. Good-night.”’

In the stillness of that night before Christmas, Mary Prognosis thus found herself in her chamber alone with her husband — with him, and yet alone, for, up to this time, he had given no sign of life other than his breathing and a low sigh now and then. Yet still not wholly alone, for in the next room she could also hear the breathing of her child—their child. “O God, spare my child’s father!” She knelt beside him, and felt relief as a few tears gushed from her eyes. “This will never do! —I must be strong.”

She passed downstairs and locked the doors of the house; listened to the buffets of snow against the windows; went into the child’s room and put the little hands under the coverlet; and again returned to her husband’s bedside, where the dog still kept patient vigil. The bell in the city-hall boomed the first hour. She looked at the watch that had been taken from the drenched clothing. The hands recorded thirteen minutes past three. That stilled minute-hand must have stopped just there when the crash came. She found the key, and was about to wind it— and then, suddenly changing her mind, shut it in a little jewel case. Reopening the case, she put beside it the glass button, and then turned a key on both. ~ Howcold it was! She spread another blanket on the bed. As she did so, the sleeper turned himself wearily, opened his eyes and raised them to hers with a confused look, that gradually calmed into a faint smile; and he made a movement with his hand to take hers. Then, with a voice somewhat strange from weakness, he asked, with a pause after each word: “Is —Jake — all — right?”

“ Jake is all right, dear.”

“Then all’s well. I am very tired. Good-night, darling.”

** Good-night.”

CHAPTER II. Paul bids his Wife “ Good-night.”

FRoM the time of that accident on Christmas Eve, Paul Prognosis never spoke an intelligible word, and never showed a sign of recognition of those about him, for a period of ten years. His life was spared, and his general health continued good, but the current of his thought was broken. Was it broken, or merely diverted? Could a man, having the intelligence and training of Paul Prognosis, lose all power of connected thought while the engine of his heart still performed its functions, and his brain, apparently uninjured, continued to receive its full supply of vitalized fluid? Could concussion of the brain mean death to its tissues, while every other part of his body throbbed with vigorous life ?

From boyhood, he had displayed a degree of mechanical knowledge that was closely allied to the intuition of a genius. His friends called him such ; if he had foes, they probably thought him a * crank,” but no one ever heard that term applied to him. The small competency his father left him, he had devoted to gaining instruction in his chosen pursuit. He had next worked in the car-shops, and been gradually promoted until he became master-mechanic, and then mechanical engineer. In every position he occupied, he soon became master of it. The more abstruse the problem presented to him, the greater the pleasure he found in solving it. His inventions were numbered by scores, and many of these were patented ; but he seldom took much further interest in a question he had once answered to his own satisfaction. He would hand the patent-papers to his wife, saying: “Well, Molly, you’re a better hand than I am at keeping things safe and snug. Put this where you can find it, and it may perhaps come handy some rainy day.”

Later, he began to be called on by corporations all over the country to act as an expert in matters requiring mechanical keenness, and he finally left the car-shops, to become a contractor on his own account. Thus far, he had not realized the profits he deserved. But his fame was worth a fortune, and he was just beginning to understand how it might be coined. And now, to be struck down in his thirty-fifth year, with the best part of his life before him and everything to live for,—and from no fault of his own, but the reverse,—all who knew him agreed that it was one of those dispensations of Providence that are unintelligible to those who have confidence in divine justice and compassion.

For a time his friends showed active sympathy for him and for the woman who was well-nigh a widow, and also for the daughter who might as well have been fatherless. But the months became years, and calls for sympathy in other directions were many and pressing, and people gradually ceased to remember the Boss’s misfortune — all but Dr. Clarkson. Oh! old Jake, he never forgot; but he was too old and too poor todo more than look and speak his sympathy. |

And the wife? She hoped against hope until it died in her heart, and then set herself to work to eke out the small quarterly income she received from his annuity, and to give her daughter such training as she knew he would have approved.

So the years slowly wore on, bringing many another Christmas eve and morn, but the man who had been a master among men now looked upon the faces of his nearest and dearest, and knew them not; looked upon the electrical engine which his own hands had made, and which at last began to find work wherever there was work to do, and saw not that it was an engine ; gazed from undulled eyes, and with a contented smile upon his lips, but gave no sign of recognition to anything around him. He spoke — spoke often and connectedly, but seldom responsively. “Thank you,” he would say to Dr. Clarkson; “your conversation, Professor, interests me exceedingly. I do not think I fully follow you in your description, but the mechanical progress you indicate suggests wonderful development since the plodding steps of inquiry pursued in my day.” The Doctor often sought to lead him further when he spoke in this manner; but he would branch off into some irrelevant remark, such as: ‘ Wonderful, indeed! but it precisely fills a need that we felt in the nineteenth century. Isee that it means economy of energy as well as of time.”

When, in the later years, the Doctor’s son Will became a frequent visitor at the house, he always » addressed him as Marco, and often appealed to the young man for information in regard to the workings of anything he happened to hold in his hand, seeming to regard it as some mechanieal wonder. To his imagination, a waste-basket became a colossal tower; a toy wagon, a railway train; his wife’s jewel-box, a mammoth tenement house; or so it seemed to those around him, judging from his fragmentary comments. All faces, all things, were changed to him, but apparently in no way unpleasantly. He took untiring interest in every new object to which his attention was called, and the same object always retained the new guise in which he first viewed it. The same waste-basket was always the same colossal tower. The only living thing that seemed to maintain quite the same relations in his inner as in his outer world, and that he always called correctly by name, was his dog Smudge. Smudge was his constant companion, both in the street and in the house; and the intelligent devotion of the dog was such that Dr. Clarkson was wont to remark that “Smudge evidently lives in dreamland as well as his master. And,” he would add, “ it must be a pleasant sort of place to live in, for a happier couple of friends you won’t find in all Boston.”

It was quite clear that the windows of Paul’s mental dwelling-place were closely shuttered. But inside those darkened shutters — what was going on there? There was life still there. And why not? If nothing material can be utterly destroyed —not even the delicate fabric of this rice-paper, which burns and _ leaves no ash — how much less should we expect to see the immaterial blotted out of existence. Was the precious knowledge, so laboriously stored beneath the white dome of Paul’s rugged forehead, thus instantaneously annihilated? Might not the swift current of his mental activity, accidentally diverted from its normal confines, have made for itself an underground course, where no eye, however sympathetic, could follow its secret windings? Might not his former projects in the realm of mechanics, and his prophecies that others had considered wild fancies, —might not these, when no longer fettered by limitations of matter and mechanical means, have finally, materialized? Might not his could be of yesterday have become the now is? Might not all possibilities he formerly dreamed have thrown aside their shadowy veils and become realized in the domain he now occupied, where thought could be continued uninterruptedly and unhindered? Might not the occasional mutterings of his lips, although unintelligible to his hearers, be vague hints from a world unseen and unknown to those around him, yet none the less real to him? So Dr. Clarkson sometimes thought, and so he once told the weeping wife when she confessed to him that all hope had left her. Was it not within reason to consider that last greeting: ‘ Good-night, darling!” a token that life still flickered in the paralyzed brain after the injury, and a prophecy that, under favorable conditions, it might Some time flash again and disclose the guest of the darkened chamber — once more himself — once more Paul Prognosis, the mechanical expert — with a ‘“ Good-morn-

° 1»

ing!” on his lips ?

Pe TT:

A DAY’S RAMBLE WITH PROFESSOR PROSPER.

—

Chapter III

- Paul’s Remarkable Introduction to the City of Tone.

“ WELL, as my name’s Paul Prognosis, this is a pretty predicament for a respectable citizen of Boston to find himself in, tramping about the streets at day-dawn, and with nothing but a nightgown on. And cold—it is cold! I must get into one of these houses by some means. [| wonder where my house is! And where am 1? — that’s a still more important question.”

He looked about him in search of a doorway that might serve asa haven. To his surprise, he found himself standing in a public square, that was wholly unfamiliar to him, surrounded by buildings vast and magnificent. Everywhere novelty, everywhere order, everywhere beauty ! Great structures on every side, aglow with the morning sunshine, appalled him by their majestic proportions; while unbroken vistas of wide avenues, opening up on every side, revealed the extent and grandeur of the city. With eyes of wonder he gazed upon colonnades, triumphal arches, monuments, towers, facades alive with sculptured decorations, and domes like cumulus clouds that wall the horizon. And in the centre of the square rose a white column that pierced the very zenith.

Such harmony and richness of color on every side — was mortal ever before permitted to gaze upon them! such elegance of form, yet apparently so substantial — such graceful and dreamlike proportions throughout all these vast architectural piles!

“This is all very well, but I must find a place where I can dress and warm myself.”

Something warm touched his hand. He gave a spring to escape, but the warmth continued — it was the warmth of breath. He looked down, and gave a joyful ery. ‘“ Why, Smudge, old fellow! You are indeed a friend in need. You ll lead me home, won’t you?”

But Smudge merely gazed up into his face, and made no movement to lead anywhere.

“TI believe, Smudge, that you are lost too. We are both lost. Where have we been, and where have we now come to? Did I lead you, or did you lead me? In any case we’re in trouble now together; and, whatever further happens, we must stand by one another. But this is certainly the most beautiful architectural display I ever saw. If this is Boston, then I’m no Bostonian. But where, then, can we have got to?”’

He involuntarily glanced down to see if the street was paved with gold.

*‘ No, this is not the new Jerusalem.”

At this moment his attention was attracted by multitudes of oddly dressed people, who thronged the sidewalks, even brushing against him. Strangely enough, he had not before noticed them; and, still more strangely, his previous obliviousness to their presence did not excite his surprise. It was enough that they were there, and that some one would now be able to afford him shelter.

** But are they men and boys, or men, women, and boys? And if the latter, which are the boys and which the women? They all seem to be dressed very much alike. And how handsome they all are! This one must be a girl. Dear me, what a pretty face! But who ever saw such queer clothes? Yet they are as simple and becoming as they are queer.”

These observations renewed the unpleasant remembrance that he himself was in undress uniform, and he gathered his gown about him, crouched within it, and withdrew to an archway.

“JT would n’t mind exchanging this costume for one just like theirs. What must these people think of me? I shall certainly be arrested if I don’t succeed soon in finding my house, or somebody’s house.”’

And he continued to creep along stealthily, vainly trying to hide himself in corners and doorways, while the blaze of day grew steadily brighter, and the populace passed to and fro in increasing numbers. Very strangely, however, no one gave the slightest attention to him. Indeed, they did not seem to notice him any more than if he were an impalpable spirit. But he knew they would, and a terror began to possess him that he would be stoned and beaten. Standing about in this way would never do. He began to run—to run wildly, Smudge bounding beside him, up and down unending streets and avenues, until the breath was well-nigh out of his body,—until a brazen gateway suddenly opened before him without effort on his part, and he darted through it, then up a broad winding staircase, through another open doorway, and found himself, with Smudge at his side, in the midst of a snug library, where the warmth of an open fire cheered his eyes, and where, face to face with him, sat an elderly man at a table littered with papers, occupied with inspecting what appeared to be a small coffee-mill.

CHAPTER IV. Paul makes the Acquaintance of Professor Prosper

THE gentleman whom he thus unceremoniously confronted did not notice him at first, and he tried to attract attention by speaking, but not a word could he utter. At length, he laid his hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, and with great effort managed to find his voice, though it startled him by its harsh and far-away sound; his words seemed to him to have that strained formality that one hears from a prisoner at the bar, addressing the judge.

“| beg pardon, sir, for this intrusion, which must appear to you wholly unwarrantable, but I have lost my clothes, and do not know where I am. Can you please direct me, sir?”

The old gentleman looked up without any visible surprise — certainly without any appearance of annoyance. He made no reply, but seemed as if waiting to have the question repeated. Paul again made an apology for his appearance, and again humbly asked for assistance in finding his way.

“Why, this is odd,” said the gentleman at last, using a strange accent and a language that was not quite familiar to Paul, although he found that he could understand it readily enough, —‘“you are talking in Old English, and you speak as though you were well acquainted with it. I thought I was the only living man who could do that.” Then he added, reflectively : “ Poor fellow, he must have escaped from some madhouse. But he speaks Old English remarkably well— better, I admit it — much better than I can.”

There suddenly occurred to Paul the similar thought, that he must have entered a retreat of some kind, and that he was now in the presence of one of the patients. But any apprehensions he might otherwise have felt on this account were relieved when the gentleman calmly continued . —

“ Yes, I will gladly help you all I can. You say you are lost. Tell me where your home is.”

“Where my home is? That’s it,” said Paul, brightening, — “‘ where my home is? Yes, yes.” He felt his mind wandering a little, as every man’s mind is apt to do when he is suddenly relieved from some great anxiety, and then confronted by the simplest possible question of every-day life. “I live on Cedar Avenue, number 201. And if you will be good enough to send for a hack, I can go home at once without troubling you further.”

“Strange, very strange!” repeated the old gentleman — “such perfect command both of Old English words and also of old phrase-forms! But, my dear sir, where is Cedar Avenue ?”

“Why, don’t you know? It’s not far from the Common, and is nearly as old as the city.”

“TI never heard of it, or of the Common you mention ; and it can’t be in this city, for all our avenues are named systematically, and Cedar is a name that does n’t belong to the system.”

This was somewhat bewildering. Remembrance of the great city through which he had recently prowled flashed across Paul’s mind. It had not seemed like his native city. “Is this not Boston, sir?”

The gentleman again looked at him sharply, without replying; and Paul, who once more began to waver between doubts as to whether he had been transported or whether his questioner was demented, could only find words to add, in a hopeless sort of way: “If Iam not in Boston, please tell me where I am, and how I came here, and how I can get away.”

«Why, my dear sir, do you not know that you are in the good city of Tone? Such is the fact. You say you live in Boston. Is it possible that you do not realize that the ancient city ot Bosip THE CRYSTAL BUTTON, ton, like the ancient language you speak, is merely an historical fact of the remote past? One would think you were a relic strayed from a former age. But allow me to ask you a few questions, and see how far we can understand one another.”

“J will try to answer them, sir.”

“ What year is this?” |

*“ Why, eighteen hundred and seventy-two,” answered Paul quickly, glad to be thus led off with an easy one. ‘ You see I have not altogether lost my wits.”

*¢ And who is the chief officer of state?”

*“ Ulysses S. Grant.”

‘“¢ Mention, if you please, some notable persons now living in other parts of the world.”

“ Well, in England there is Queen Victoria ; Emperor William in Germany, Alexander in Russia, and Victor Immanuel in Italy. -In France — I have forgotten who is at the head of affairs in France just now, or in Spain either, for they turn so many political somersaults that it is difficult to keep track of affairs in those countries.”

“¢ And you say that you live in Boston ?”

“ Yes,” answered Paul, more at ease, and no longer annoyed at his questioner’s reiteration, although now convinced that the other was hopelessly beside himself.

* And Boston is where?”

“In the good old Bay State, Massachusetts,” said Paul, smiling for the first time.

“Marco!” called out the old gentleman, — *‘ Marco, I wish you would come here for a few moments.”

Through the curtains from an adjoining room soon advanced a handsome young fellow, about twenty years old, and an athlete in build, whose fine figure showed to advantage in his simple flowing garments. “This is my young friend Marco. And this is a stranger whose conversation interests me more than I can tell. I wish, Marco, you would look up a few facts for me. Please examine the chronological tables of Blackmole’s Ancient History, and see in what year of the Christian Era there was a President of the ancient Republic of Washington, named Grant, — was it not Grant you mentioned ?”’

“Yes, Ulysses S. Grant.”

“This stranger, Marco, who is no doubt a recent inmate of some asylum, but who appears quite harmless and is evidently a person of rare erudition, particularly interests me because he speaks with wonderful fluency and correctness the old English language, on which, as you know, I pride myself. It is of course possible that a demented person, and especially one versed in ancient history, might fancy himself transported to the field of his former researches, and living in the days of Grant and Queen Victoria; but what I now want to do is to see how far he is consistent in his imaginings.”