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Saying “I will go with thee
To yon isles of mystery.”
Always fond of the marvelous, I conceived a strong desire to go to the
North Pole.
To obviate the dangers of the trip I invented a coach, that was also
ship and balloon. Its silken canopy is inflatable to strong wings or
wide sails. Its wheels are wide rimmed, to glide over snow, and paneled
for water paddles. When it is finished and stored I select some friends
to accompany me. My most personal loved ones. A volatile fair-haired
gent—my husband, and a fair-haired little maiden friend, sit on the
front seat. On the back seat are sitting my aged father and myself, our
black eyes snapping with expectation.
Waving my hands to the few gathered to see us off, I say: “This
undertaking is of desire to gain knowledge. Success, surmounting all
obstacles will take us to the summit of the round earth, where, ages
past as ages future will accord us first record.”
Charley turns levers to start, as little Mae’s mamma says: “You will be
the Mascot, Mae Searles. But I do not think you will go very far,”
dubiously.
“You will change your mind, mamma, when I bring you home a little bear,”
makes us laugh.
“I will be glad to get you for my little bear.”
“All the rest of us,” I answered, “will take care of her.”
“No doubt,” she replies, “as far as you go in your odd rig,”
facetiously.
Our wheels turn slowly and silently. Then with a low tinkling of the
strain, “Good Bye, Sweet Heart,” Mae had slipped her music box in one,
wound to that harmony.
We are Californians and take the C. P. railroad for our eastward route,
our wheels being grooved to fit the track. Speeding merrily, we give
vent to our imaginations of coming events.
“Will there really be a pole, Auntie?”
“That is for us to find out, dear. I sometimes think there is a stem
there covered with ice, that holds the earth to an apple planet tree.”
“But the astronomers would have seen the tree,” argues my father.
“They could not look so far. Only as far as the other star apples. May
not the Milky Way be a branch?” I suggest.
We now become aware that a train is approaching on the single track that
is hanging over the grade on the canyon side. We have no choice but to
unfurl our wings and rise in the air, as the engineer wildly blows his
whistle. Brushing the pine tree tops, we cross over the peak and seek
the track on the other side of it, selecting an opening in a thicket for
that purpose.
Finding it occupied by miners digging away, we hallo, when they look
every way but up, as we land in their midst as though dropped from the
sky. Their consternation is depicted in set jaws, as we give military
salute and roll off.
This feat, so skilfully accomplished, denotes an expert hand in our
motorman, who had been practicing faithfully, as a bird to fly, a
swimmer or cyclist. As exhilarant to him as to us, and much lessened our
distance, causes Mae to clap her hands and ask, “Why not fly all the
time?”
“We want to save that force until we have more serious need,” Charley
replies. “I hope that poor boy who fell over the log while eating his
breakfast and ran away, will recover and go back,” makes us all laugh
uproariously, when zipp! whir-r!! over we go and lay on our side, the
wheels still revolving.
The grade just here, level from the ground excavated by the miners,
saved us from a serious mishap. To have rolled to the Canyon River would
have damaged us greatly. As it is we cannot recover the track without
that descent. So we twist our car upright (we are fastened in our
seats), square it to the hill and down we go, losing our breath as we
plump splashing into the water.
Our bonny wheels take paddle stroke and carry us, laughing over, and up
the opposite bank to the track there, in its sinuous course.
“We laughed too quick,” says father. “That friend at whom we laughed
dropped that fork on the rail. I see him behind that boulder.”
We leave the narrow-gauge track at its terminus without stopping, and
have no other special accident in this vicinity.
The sun has chased frost and rose hues the higher snow peaks. Sierra
Nevada (snowy) in its most interesting locality is around. Having come
on the narrow-gauge railroad that connects the two largest and oldest of
the mining cities with the broad-gauge of the Central Pacific, we are
rounding out on the latter over the famous Cape Horn. Spring is in her
first freshness. We sniff its fragrance, as we shall continue to do,
following its pioneer march until our arrival at our destination to
enjoy our summer at the pole, where it is most enjoyable and the only
tolerable season. From apparently bare ground are flying the cyclamen
banners of the johnny-jump-up. The blue sage (sun dial) gives a lake of
national colors, interspersed with the scarlet of the gorgeous fireweed,
whose leaves and blossoms glow alike. Mae gleefully reaches to a dogwood
lily (artist’s favorite), then snatches a tuft of pink primrose that
covers a bank and decorates its edge, while I cook the breakfast upon
our steam heater. It is so late I make it serve for dinner also. Putting
omelette and ripe strawberries beside the spinach and wild duck. As I
finish Mae emits a long whistle, as a red-breasted linnet—the
first—flies close to us to get our sweet food company, then sings, to
earn it and call its family.
The chapparal is faintly green. But the manzanita—sung of poets, or
ought to be—in its immaculate green leaves adorning the winter, with red
stems of eternal beauty, is covered with pink waxen sprays, as fragrant,
as it is like, the lily of the valley. A momentary regret comes to leave
in California this worshipped shrub. Its blossoms develop to little
green-apple fruit, the size of peas, of edible flavor. Manzanita is the
Indian name for little apple.
Charley appreciates my feelings as he calls out, “Take a last look,”
when father, to turn the tide, passes the muffins. Our glance down the
mountain side falls upon a ranch, tiny in the depths; a maid of midget
size throws invisible corn to mice-size chickens that flock around;
Charley hurls deftly a cracker toward them that falls far short upon the
mountain side. My spirits rise. To be here sings a grateful pæan in my
breast. To write it is not half the story.
I remember lovingly the sister cities left behind. Mining born and
golden reared, with their Californian continual lawns, social halls and
grand hotels for the floating population, this last much improved by the
efforts of the Salvation Army, who have charmed the crowd to good
behavior as they enjoy appreciatively their sweet-voiced pleadings.
I look out at the country, dotted with quartz-mill chimneys, with their
heavy roar, as the heavy stamp crushes the granite to free the gold
imprisoned in their bastille. To all we bid good-bye, as we turn Cape
Horn, and though still among the clouds, we see and hear the rushing
river below. As all streams here are given to chatty hilarity, I think
once more of the one where oft I have walked on trailed path.
I muse on until in time we salute the desert plain, with its sage brush
and dog cities. Stations are not hailed by us (as in time a small crowd
awaits us). Silently we appear; like a shadow disappear.
Our seats are so constructed that we can stand and exercise, rock or lie
down at ease. Partaking our meals without alighting, we have no occasion
to lose time. Our casing open, banners flying. I have brought handwork
and books. Father is carving on some queer rotary wheel that gives three
separate motions. Charley and Mae, on the seat in front, amuse each
other and call us to the special sights.
Chicago! We leisurely arrive and traverse silently, street after street,
sadly impressed that the continuous magnificence in equality of
buildings, found nowhere else, was dearly bought.
Citizens are crowding our path; obstructing our progress by their
progressive ardor, for some one has telegraphed them of our intended
exploration; to our unexpected aspirations, unheeding our desires, they
hurrah lustily for our success.
Thanking them, we start on, grateful in our hearts for their sympathy.
We do not stop in any other city, even passing over the suspension
bridge quite silently, though lost in ecstasy at its cataract view.
Evading detention in New York, we whirl over the Brooklyn Bridge without
minding the many curious gazers.
Arriving at Coney Island beach, though a storm is coming on, we light
our interior and in the dusk are about to drop into the sea. A shout
goes up outside and strong hands hold us. Near us is a carriage whose
horses we had frightened. In it is an aged man of martial bearing, who
recognizes my father.
“Oh, it is _you_, is it, meandering at night like a firebug. Turn around
now and go home with me,” he said, cordially.
“Haven’t time; we are bound to the North Pole.” Hurrying up so quickly,
we break away and sink beneath the toppling waves.
Pelted and tossed all night we welcome daylight; but flash, crack, roar,
we draw ourselves closer together, and sink in the depths beneath the
turmoil, to find other disturbance. A massed army of swordfish hold
battle-front with glowing eyes to an opposing array of giant whales, who
ponderously coming, lash the sea into a vortex.
The two columns colliding, the first leap in white streaks, curl, and
land on the latter’s backs, dip and dye their swords. The whales shake
them off and beat them to death in myriads, to be followed by myriads
more, until the sea is red, when suddenly the cavalry swords fly,
disappearing in the distance.
The victorious artillery, the whales, blow themselves, weariedly. We go
closer to them—too close—as they are a warrior band. A big general opens
his mouth towards us, disconcerting to our stomachs; we beat a hasty
retreat to a safe distance, where we watch the camp followers, a
jumbling mass of veritable sea monsters.
When all is quiet we rise to the surface, to find it quiet there, too.
The sun shining brightly on an iceberg, whose edge, sending up a few
whale spouts, resolves it into a fountainous white island.
I muse aloud! “Does the under war cause the upper war, or _vice versa_?
What is war? Ocean’s elements and life as restless as man. Plant-life
and rocks, also, struggle and upheave. Why is war? Resulting only to
change. God’s evolution but a program of variety.” I study it thus, in
inspiration, hoping it leads to fore-destined improvement.
I am hearing the word Arbitration. “Oh, yes, papa; when arbitration
stops men’s wars, will the elements follow, and what then?”
[Illustration: Decoration]
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“Those starry choirs that watch around the pole.”
—_Casimir_.
The first iceberg is but the precursor of many that block our way. Then
block the land to perpetual imprisonment. Giving us first taste of this
specialty of our trip. As we stop a few days in the last place of
civilization.
We find good entertainment with pleasant people who are willing to aid
us in our endeavor for knowledge, yet solemnly warn us not to dare the
dangers ahead. They stock us with dried meat; supply us with double
sealskin outfits; in fact, sealskins line our sleigh to aid in keeping
us warm. They end by giving us their uttermost paths.
Had our home friends in California been more solicitous, and amused
themselves less at our expense, at this juncture we would have returned
to them, for our hearts are dropping like lead. But our pride aids us,
as our eyes bravely scan the pole star ahead.
“Mae, do you want to go home?” as I see her wipe the tears out of her
big blue eyes.
“Not I; this is the best part of it. Only the frosty air makes me cry.”
“Do you not want to see your mamma?”
“Yes, but I will have so much more to tell her,” waking to enthusiasm
and paramount faith.
Polished ice-glass in hand I firmly wave adieu.
In the last few days of our stay have been finished preparations for
what, to the nation, is a centennial celebration. A barbecue is held on
an ice glittering plaza. Emerald ice tables, chamois-clothed, hold a
wondrous feast. Whole reindeer rigs, the sledge a pastry; great
Christmas trees are confections. This now engages the crowds.
We rub our hands together, and, shall I say it, our noses, in local
fashion of “good bye,” as our prow points north.
We have carefully selected this season of the year, with intent to
follow the continual dawn light—night and day—of this region, which yet
faint, is hardly sufficient to keep us moving swiftly, when, lo, near us
darts up a bright glare, followed by others, around and ahead, as far as
we can see, illumining the air. They are bonfires of the celebration.
Heaps of cones, added to yearly, surround a ring of pine trees, the
center a tall, hollow trunk as chimney. The gorgeous flickering of
glory, I feel to believe, is miles in extent.
Climbing miles up the heavy atmosphere, it is advanced to iceberg peaks,
beyond and below the horizon. Visited thus only for ages, do they
inclose the pole? Are they the goal we seek? Springing up the crystal
shafts in warmth of welcome are reflected back again and beckon us on.
Our minds in sublime mood, to silence, are disturbed, as father suddenly
jerks up his head. “It is the red fire of the north.” The rare mystery
the superstitious ancients believed to be a sign of war is now solved,
and the simple in fact is most beautiful of sight.
Our path is strangely smooth, as though some hitherto sea had congealed
and left a frozen plain, which gives us grateful relief until our
direction ceases and the last marked path stops, and an icy lobe rears
high before us.
Clamp-spurring our wheels we climb its height, to find a table
formation, level graded, an unmistakable sign of ice-locked land, as if
an island included in the cold grasp that holds the sea. We do not go
far, when a pile of ice rocks hem in a space. We proceed to inspect.
Hastily curving by, we are suddenly brushed by a bush, and berries
rattle lusciously on our window-pane. Flinging it open a balmy air
salutes us, forcing us out upon a bright-hued snow-flower carpet.
“What, berries in spring! in Arctic forcing-houses! no cold night to
delay matters!” as Charley is about to cram his mouth. But I, on closely
examining, fail to identify them, and jot in my book a new name,
“Onigogies.” He looks over to read. “Gogies, gogies, gorge us, please.”
“Tu whu a whu,” wavers our brains and quivers our eyes, as we see a
great white owl perched on our banner, blinking. I see near by an apple
vine. I reach out and take a most beautiful red specimen, before I am
aware that it is already in the mouth of a serpent, coiled around the
twig. Unconsciously an Eve, as unconscious, also, is the reptile, who
looks at me with kind, appreciative eyes. But I drop the apple and get
into the sleigh, quite weak, unable to prevent Mae from taking and
eating another, giving one to father. Seeing me in, Charley gets ready
to enter, by loading the bottom. The owl has gone, but approaching is a
gorgeous stork of orange plumage. Of camel size, it coolly steps over
us, as the rest quickly step in and we move forward.
Thinking this may be a lost Eden, I look curiously to discover the life
tree, to see Mae and father, who have turned deathly pale, reel in their
seats. Stopping quickly, we put snow on their heads and bind it by
leaves of a high shrub we are under. Shuddering, they grasp the leaves
in their teeth and swallow the juice as their breath revives. A red glow
on their cheeks. Was it the leaves of healing? Much trampled beneath had
given us roadway. As expected, we enter a herd of foxes, who are barking
in play and basking in the unusual light; as all else, unnoticing us, we
glide along quite securely.
Charley has studied the lesson of the apple, as he audaciously reaches
down and takes one, and calmly eats it in conjunction with the leaves,
to my perturbed attention.
We reach the edge of the island and go down to the sea plain again,
which is here more rough in icy waves, making the travel quite
difficult. The waves grew larger until mountains high, then lessen and
gradually disappear, having unfolded to us a frozen storm at sea.
The surface is smoother and smoother; so that we start up swiftly. A
gale scurries toward us from behind. As it strikes us Charley opens
valves and we all rise in our seats, unable to contain our ardor, as
miles are covered in our exceeding speed, which continues as the moments
and hours pass, father’s speed-measure marking a mile a second. Hundreds
of miles are covered and the ice is still smooth. Knowing we are not so
far away from the peaks that point the pole, we hourly anticipate a view
as of masts arising at sea, but instead, we are shocked to see the
flame-hued sky settle densely in a fog. So long our friend, its warmth
had melted the congealed air and now clouds our nautical bearings. Our
compass is our sole northly guide. But what—what is the matter with it
that it hangs its head and stops? We are lost!
In frenzy, now, the hours go by as we circle blindly, when a luminant
point attracts us far away. Is it the serried guide shaft? It is.
Famished and cold—our steam spent and wheels broken—we make but slow
speed toward the flickering gleam. Attaining it, we have only left us
our wings, by which we rise up the cliff side of the topping pinnacle—to
see others, massed in braided and arcaded confusion before us.
Weakening, while above their splintering and crashing avalanches, we
drop on the side of the sheerest bayonet of all, as hundreds of hues are
changing and ranging in glistening sea waves in a deep, long valley
below us. Not long, but a round level plain, girdled by this ring of
bergs that hem it in.
Our pained eyes watch father stolidly take our local bearings, then with
him shout in audible voice: “The North Pole!”
[Illustration: Decoration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Lead, kindly, light!
Lead thou me on.”
The north star in the heavens, shining faintly through the half-clear
atmosphere, has decided us on our locality at the dearly attained goal,
costing us friends, and country, and possibly our lives.
The sound of our voices falls dead around and echoes into the deep
valley below. No sign of the beautiful city we had fancifully pictured.
Thankful to die in the light, with the stars to take our last breath, is
only left us.
Mae complainingly whimpers: “There isn’t a pole at all!”
“Nor open sea,” growls Charley, hoarsely.
“The width of the valley determines the flattening of the earth,
though,” sighs father.
Fall dead around, did I say? our voice—I level the glass down the berg
side beneath me. I see at the sound a snowy mass turn about, with a
human face uplifted toward me.
So great the size and wondrous fair the countenance I believed myself
deceived, as it quickly turns back. But I see two hands clasp together
in signal. Then low organ notes swell from below, which, when loudest
grown, suddenly stop.
When the sun in hailing gleam lights a tall spire, supporting a ring of
gold points arising from the valley center, which I now trace for the
first time. Led to examine the valley around it, I see shapes of domes
and wall—signs of a buried city. What are they doing? Whirling and
shaking? Presto! the snow canvas rolls off, unveiling a full-fledged and
much-alive city to my amazed mind. From last extreme of despair my hopes
suddenly arise to so sudden height! I fall forward and cover my eyes, to
keep my brain intact. The city at last. City of Zion! Sung of poets and
portrayed of artists inspired of its contour and elysian beauty. Hope
raises a hosanna in my breast that is chorused around me, where I now
give my attention.
The human presence below, with feather-plume robes, so like snow,
swaying back, is hastening up in giant strides, anxious expectation on
his face. As he reaches the ledge on which we lodge the choral voices
around disclose a throng of people similar to him lining all the
mountain sides. Their pæan of praise to their city’s prowess ended, with
shouts and conversation they prepare to descend. Nearly running over us,
babes to them in size, they at last spy us, as the first kneels in
adoration, his hands over us in protection and token of possession.
With tender emotion he essays to quiet our alarm, managing at last to
emit words that sounded like “Welcome, Unions!” For a moment I wonder if
other Americans are here lost before us. Then we bow low in reply.
Assured of our trust in him he takes charge and lifts us from our ruined
vehicle to another, standing near, which is no less than a great white
albatross, one of many now being mounted by the throng. Robes are drawn
about us, after we are presented to a lady, also in his charge, who,
with less success, attempts the words he first used. Feeling quite among
friends, as he lifts a feather-tufted guiding wand resting on the bird’s
head, I turn to the lady by my side, whose first glance, as though in
bitterness, before our arrival, has changed to liveliest sociability in
gestures, nods and smiles upon Mae, who is cuddled in her lap.
With womanly curiosity I essay to learn the city’s name. Understanding
my desire she essayed to reply, in cordial, harmonious tones, “Arc.”
Farther inquiry in my eyes, I get the farther delineation, “It circles
Aurora,” meaning, no doubt, the electric centre. Content with this, I
scan the dimensions growing, as we approach, and ride high above, the
snowy pinions of the bird throng clouding the air.
Courts are numerous, covered with great glass domes and domes rolled
back. As we turn down to one of these I hear father whisper to our host,
“How do you know English?”
With effort he kindly gives the following: “My father, when younger,
explored a great deal upon the iceberg sea around. Venturing too far one
day, he became lost in an island garden, to find camped there a people
like you, who fed and cared for him.” How simple; his kindness is in
gratitude.
“But where are the people?” father farther inquired.
“I do not know. He became lost again from them to find his own city.”
Alighting, we are led through conservatory halls to an apartment-like
hall. Of great magnificence, it is yet quite homelike, with great
cushions strewn about that are seats for the great people but beds in
size for us. I fall on one and am soon fast asleep. Awaking partially, a
melody is soothing my senses. Sitting up, I see a fountain whence issues
the sounds. In it I bathe face and hands, when the water, acting
medicinal, I feel revived and buoyant, also quite hungry. Father and
Charley are talking, the latter ending with “It suits me.”
Mae, still asleep, talks spasmodically. “Oh, auntie! Oh, mamma!” At the
last a pain enters my heart, never more to leave. Opening her eyes, she
slowly takes in the situation. Seeing the pain in my face, she throws
her arms about my neck and says, gently, “No matter, auntie; it is a
sweet place here, anyway.”
The rest now giving way to hunger, as our hosts duly regard us with
infantile solicitude, I put my hand in my mouth, as in the latter’s
fashion. Immediately wheels of itself into the room a table laden with
food. Staring at its wizard-like action, we are seated to it. No dish,
knife or fork, or board. Probably not in the land. An enameled lily
leaf. The food, light and solid, piled in little fruit cups. One is put
in each our mouths, cup and all. I taste and find it palatable. Our
appetites satisfied, out wheels the table, making Mae smile and become
merry. Seeing us still high perched, our jolly friends rally around us,
pull our toes and pinch our cheeks, until I wish I had refrained in
initiating this program. Soon in comes a hassock and wheeling to us,
gives us an opportunity to alight. Mae down last, remains seated on it,
when it starts around the room with her, pirouetting in mazy figures,
giving its occupant mazy face.
When stopped, the host whistles, to bring from a corner two great white
mice, kitten size. As he twirls his fingers, they fall to the floor, a
green sward; folding their four pink paws to their breasts, they become
round balls, thus roll about, greatly to our amusement.
This has suggested to the lady, who proposes to “go out in town to an
entertainment that is funny, oh, so funny.”
The host, in gleesome impulse, elects to take me. Raising me on his
hand, he asks my name. Charley, quite diverted, gives it, “Anna.”
“Ah, you are angel, Anna!” when Charley reads the puzzle, remarking, “He
means ‘English.’” Then he kisses me squarely in the mouth, to my
immediate struggle to get down, which I succeed in doing while he is
taking Charley in his other hand, who now, unlike other husbands,
proceeds to lecture me. “Do not be odd; you see it is all right. It is
evening hour in America (swallowing); we will enjoy this, our first
evening here.”
Mae, who has taken to the hand I have left, reaches and pinches him; at
which I laugh and spring into a pocket in front of the lady, upon whose
shoulder sits my father, his hand holding her feather cap. So utterly
without matronly dignity am I, I am glad for once that home friends
cannot see my position.
Getting into the center of the street, she stops, (I nearly fall) and
sits upon a chair, raised from the road-bed by the man, who takes
another. The object is plain, when we move swiftly along as on a track.
Mae asks ingenuously her bearer’s name; he gives it in Arc language,
what sounds to us like “Show Off,” which we shall now call him. Then
looking to my bearer he says: “She is Aunt Robet, a dear old maid, who
is always taking care of us, papa and I, when mother is away.” He goes
over and squeezes her shoulders. As father innocently sticks a pin into
his hand, he looks so queerly at the hurt, it is plain he does not know
the cause, or never felt the like before. In our childish role we still
question: “Where is your papa?” “Oh, he is always in his house (room).
You can live with him,” looking at my father. Seeing us unwilling at
such an arrangement, his aunt explains: “He is a student, a very great
savant, who is always busy in his office or study.” This alters the
matter; father’s eyes glisten with expectation.
Arrived at the hall I see a great space in the floor, that is grooved in
pattern. I look to see if a cable line is drawing through, when I am
deposited on a chair directly above. The rest have chairs near by. Mae
retaining her place in Show Off’s lap. The other chairs in the room are
being rapidly filled. I cannot determine the entertainment so wait
developments. Not long. The word is given, the chairs start off, getting
a swift gait. I suddenly remember Mae’s hassock, but she is watching
Charley, who takes a firm hold, as the important look, assumed at our
departure, goes slowly off his face, ejaculating but once “Shake.” I
think, too, shake, for quiver, jerk, jump, all in rotation; music
playing is the order. Enjoying our mutual discomfiture, our chairs
opposite, we are treated at the last to a grand bounce, that sends us
into each other’s arms, so close. Had not Mae been held firm, she would
have fallen, in her convulsion of mirth.
We lose no time in getting down, and close to our bearers. Aunt Robet,
placid in demeanor, I calculate how to get even with her. Though she had
declared it funny, I look at her viciously, when she condescends to
graciously explain: “This is our outing celebration; the city shakes off
its veil to greet the sun; shaking is, therefore, the order of the day.”
Hence this little exercise, I was happy to have amused her.
We ride now leisurely home, viewing the heavy buildings of great blocks
of ice, shining in the sunlight. Why they do not melt I cannot tell.
Afterwards I learn they are covered with an enamel that preserves them.
The picturing on their sides is done by fracturing; the graceful
cornices and other trimmings are in imitation of snowflake crystals,
relieving to beauty their solidity. Quite exhausted on our return, we
are given apartments to ourselves, in which we prepare to rest.
Convinced that false positions are unfortunate, I resolve to adopt a
dignified bearing, suitable to my maturity, my short experience in
babyhood, however remunerative, proving quite objectionable in excess of
bestowment.
Hearing father sigh, as he watches the dawn that beckons to arise
instead of sleep, I essay to comfort him. “Dear father, has not God sent
us here to convert them?” “Too intelligent,” he mutters; “they will
convert us.” Science is his religion.
[Illustration: Decoration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Know’st thou the house?
On columns rest its pile;
Its halls are gleaming
And its chambers smile.”
—_Goethe_.
Waking early, my prayer goes up to God, with my whole consciousness
borne intact. So when we miss a link in our self-calculated program of
events, we look to Him, the holder of the links of us—his marionettes
below.
Charley rushes in with a bundle. I speak: “Are you up, dear, and not
sorry that we came?” “Haven’t time. Get up and see your new dress.” I
sit up. “Invisible garments,” he explains. I hurry to him to find only
the usual feathered robes, that in tint and style give all an appearance
of the feathered tribe. Tufted cap and sweeping train; wing sleeves,
with which, could we fly, we would be the angels we are called.
“But where is the invisible?” I inquire.
“Dressed like everybody else, not visible, because not conspicuous,”
settles that problem.
I take the hint and hastily get into the suit assigned me, but not as
quick as he, for he is dressed, and out, and down the hall, while I
admire myself in the glittering ice-mirror walls, vanity for a moment
overcoming homesickness to forget that such an unhuman-like attire,
though beautiful in heaven’s songsters, is more beautiful, even, in a
civilized American.
In bounds Saucy—that is what we nickname Mae. “Where is my dress?”
“Here.” She is soon in it, her flowing hair making her a canary. Bowing
to me in mockery, she says:
“We belong here now. Where is Charley,” looking around.
“Gone out,” I reply.
“I am going to catch him.”
“So am I.”
She calls him Charley, because I do, and that he is not her uncle; nor
am I her aunt, which she uses in lieu of Anna. Running out so hastily we
run smack into the arms of Show Off, which we immediately see is not
him, but probably his father, from the likeness, who grasps us in each
hand, holding us out for inspection, saying, “I have caught two little
birds that have flown to me.” (Like pigeons, I wish we could fly home
again.) “We have no cage here, only freedom; so now I let you go,”
suiting the action to the word. Cordial as sedate, I watch him as he
walks down the hall and disappears. In trying to find Charley, we find
ourselves in the city street.
“Mae, dear, to-day is Sunday; let us find a church,” as we inspect the
various houses. We select a large domed enclosure as a temple to God.
Stepping to its crystal doors it opens itself to us. Within is a rest
scene. Standing or sitting, all look serene, as sacred dreamy notes of
melody fill the air, flower perfumed. A soothing sense of peace takes
possession of us. Instead of high altar, Hebraic, or idol, or Hindoo
custom, a lady and gentlemen are passing among the people, speaking kind
admonitions, solemn adoration, or cheering responses. I reflect; this
may be their manner of service.
The lady passing us, (who I see is our hostess) chucks us under the chin
playfully, saying, “Sweets, have you come to court?”
“Court? I thought it was a church,” I explain.
“What is a church?” she asks.
“Where we pray to God.”
“Oh, we should do that everywhere. The earth is His court. This is only
an Arc court,” as she passes on. I still think it a church.
“Auntie, some are dancing; do you see?” I did. She tried the step in
childish glee.
Is it a church dance? A worship mode suitable to the Arctic locality.
How the Unitarians and Catholics would enjoy it. But I—my M. E. founder,
Asbury, was lame, so could not dance, therefore we preach it down.
Saucy, as Episcopal, sees no harm.
But now she pulls me out and waltzes me around. (I had learned the art
before I joined the M. E.’s.) The glow of circulation raises my spirit
to a desire to shout. I do so in M. E. denominational style, solacing my
conscience thus far. Soon it pricks again.
When tired and resting I study out the scripture of this new service.
Would Jesus (if here) adapt a sermon to its beneficial principles, as He
had done to baptism (bath) of the crowds drawn to the river side for
that purpose, obligatory in their sweltering climate? Are not all church
rites illustrative of adaptations of the one worship—Spirit and Truth?
These thoughts adding so much of scriptural interpretation of new modes,
adding, therefore, new program to my former stereotyped observances, I
become at first slightly confused, but reserve my settled decision,
until I have farther and more deeply weighed the subject. Until then, I
wonder.
“What is best for us to do in such a church as this?”
I turn as I speak aloud, to see Charley by my side, who has overheard
all, and coaches me. “Do? Make the earth a church, as do these people.”
The noon hour arrived. Refreshments of light and solid food are passed
to all.
Not having got over the impression of its being a church, Mae, who has
not heard the explanation, turns and says:
“Auntie, it is a sacrament! The little gum paste cups hold drink. I do
not think it will harm me.”
A sacrament! Would that all the churches would give each Sunday as
substantial a one to Jesus’ sheep and lambs, which are the poor, who go
poorly fed all the week.
Seeing how strangely people sit down, by some contrivance or stiffness
in their back drapery, I try my own, and being successful, am become
quite at ease, as I eat, prayerfully, until satisfied. Then looking
around at the beaming, social faces, I suddenly take a distrust and
grasp Mae’s hand: “Child, this is a saloon!” in great trepidation.
“No, auntie,” she replies firmly. “No one is drunk or disorderly. It may
be a hotel.”
Show Off pulls my sleeve. I turn to him in benignant, grave demeanor,
causing him to step back in wonder and gracious deference.
“We are Americans, I want you to know. Have you a President?”
He looks wistfully at us, to brighten soon and ask: “Do you mean your
God? My mother is goddess this year. Aunt Robet takes her place when she
is away visiting.”
I study out the whole problem. This wayside sitting-room is a
courthouse, a saloon—the latter purified—and a church in one. I am quite
converted and wish ours at home would become the same, but Charley, who
is still by my side, impatiently waiting to get my full attention,
remarks, jokingly: “Little folks should keep out of the parlors!”
“Parlor? How do you know this is the parlor? I am sure I walked some
distance to get here,” I reply evasively.
“But this palace occupies some distance; you will have to look farther
for a church, if there is one at all. Wait until you are better
acquainted, but to-night we will attend the masque,” meditatively.
“Masque? What can you imagine to be that home dissipation in this cold
and pure, and pure as cold city; certainly less advanced, I hope, less
perverted section of the earth. But that it is Sunday I would accompany
you to investigate for missionary purposes,” I reply devoutly.
“Well, it will last a week; there is no hurry,” as he leaves me free to
muse. So utterly definite in dissimilarity are all things here—arts,
amusements, devotions, etc. I do not expect to encounter social dangers
in similar guise, but must guard as conscientiously from evil under new
guise. Show Off, our attending friend, does make so remarkable blunders
in his attempt to apply our cultured phrases, I quite despair to get out
of him by question what I wish to know. I reflect deeply, what can their
church be? Can it be in happy unison, as is this human social church—to
wit, parlor?
Presently I recollect that here is but one city, one people. Allowing
one church to be feasible, what about different races, who have
different forms of devotion that to them take the place of religion or
its comparative manifestation, though religion itself is solely an act
of the heart.
I imagine present before me this heterogeneous crowd. A Catholic crosses
himself, a Shaker shakes, a dervish howls; Buddhists, Mahometans, and
Confucians appear. Closing my eyes I wonder, could they not, one and
all, do their several forms in the same building? The same “free for
all” church in the same “free for all” country. Trading and walking
together with mutual respect, why not worship also?
I look around and see Charley coming back. He stops short at my
expression. “What are you now conjuring up?” he asks. I told, “a church,
where all kinds of people worship in one building.”
“Very good; when we go back home we will get one up; call it a church
fair, or carnival of churches. Each and all sects to have a booth of
their own. The Hindoos would put up an ox as a symbol. The
Mahometans—what? a goat. The Jews a sheep. The Christians a lamb. The
Chinese a roast pig. Egyptians a cat. Other pagans, somewhere—a snake.
Taken altogether, an animal fair, and as all have good points, even a
snake, Americans would accept all, and could, by protecting each, make
them a happy family. As a cat and dog of one family live in peace under
one roof, and the church symbolic animals in one farmyard, so could the
principals they symbolize aid in its several good, in one church
building.”
I look prayerfully to him and say, regretfully, “But you don’t believe
Jesus is coming back.”
“Yes, I do,” he replies. “_Then_ is He coming. For this is He waiting.
Peace on earth, among the churches. Upon the cross His arms were spread.
To reach around the earth, to join all churches in peace, which is
brotherhood; children of God—Father.”
“What would the Jew say to that?”
“They started it before Jesus. The Jewish High Priest Hillel composed
the prayer, ‘Our Father.’”
“Yes; but he meant it only for the Jews.”
“Well! he can still be a Jew, in the new world church,” and walked
briskly around.
I muse. Where would be my father’s place, as he is an infidel, in this
many-sected or membered church. Would Jesus enfold him as a neighbor of
kind heart? I think so. Entirely rejoicing in this selection of God’s
following, I charmingly ask Show Off, who now appears, “How long do
these churches hold open?”
“Always, with Gods as relief.”
“You mean ministers—but does nobody work?”
“Yes; at the schools until noon.”
What! half of time for God, instead of seventh? Can the millennium have
come here? Has, most likely, no one told them of the Sabbath? One day of
seven? Well, we can keep both—certainly our Sabbath, and explain to
these people why we do.
“One question more. Have you jails in this city? What do you do to
people vicious in hot anger!”
He turns partly to me to see what I am asking; then, understanding me,
he answers gravely: “Freeze them.”
Aunt Robet, now off duty, takes charge of us, conducting us to her
sitting-room.
But two days pass, in which we endeavor to learn the Arc language, as
none except the three already mentioned can converse with us, when
Charley brings forth the masque.
“Oh, yes; but it cannot be a ball nor a domino party. I am curious at
your idea. If it is beneficial and delightful as what I have already
seen, I will be pleased to participate,” I reply, cautiously to my
gentle mate, who, devoted to social assembly, and believing ennobling
dancing as consistent as ennobling singing, he has no patience with my
doubts.
“What am I to do?” I ask in prayer. Silent a gentle whisper breathes in
answer, “It is one of the ten talents! beware of letting it rust!” One
of talents, loaned us of God, and not a sin of the world? Or are the
sins of the world perverted use of honorable talents, to be redeemed by
us by honorable use? its omission, of condemnation.
Can I burnish and enlarge my consecration to Thee, oh God, in gay
circle? Dost Thou truly love, also, happy faces? At the hall we don our
costumes and are shown into a green bower, so banked with trees, shrubs,
and plants there seems no space for guests. These, I soon discover,
encostume everywhere about; I discover, also, much relieved, that the
object is educational, only—to put us in touch with “the least of these”
that God noteth.
A huge butterfly lights in front of me, greeting me cordially. So like a
host I feel quite at home as a concourse of bugs, bees, and insects
arise around, with waving wings, until I think I never saw before so
moving a sight. A bee hummed in my ear—a sound like Charley; a mosquito
sung in glee—a note like Saucy; a wasp with saucy eyes—Show Off. Moths
in the windows, locusts in shady nooks, and a cricket adds its refrain.
Sitting upon a scarlet ottoman, it moves off on its four feet—a live
cochineal. Standing under an umbrella tree I was “darned” by a “needle”
to a branch; a hopper hopped to a sheaf of wheat; lady-bugs minced;
graybeards stalked around; a black-coated beetle handed me (as a weevil)
a rose conserve, saying: “A ‘flour’ for you.” I accepted it, making room
for him by my side. But soon the hostess, bringing to me a “bigbug,” who
asked a promenade. Replying to him “May bee,” the beetle gets up and
snaps spitefully away.
I could see no harm, as the hours passed swiftly, teaching us a social
sympathy, with this (insect) realm of the Creator, who now, as I apply
my mind (talent?) to them, have always, as us, displayed love to their
kind, dislike of pain, and gratefulness to benefactors. The younger
danced in buoyant evidence of youthful being, the elder in touch with
their delight. I saw no harm, and wished that all dancing in America
could be so eminently cultivating in bodily exercise and polite
demeanor.
The rooms are not close. We did not stay late to become weary.
Returning, I discover I have acquired a home interest. I see an enclosed
balcony greenhouse, that line the fronts of the buildings, filled with
ferns and foliage, new to me, that the sun is marvelously unfolding.
They seem to grow up from the ground that must be far beneath the snow,
and clinging to the ice-block wall, do not wither, for an enamel surface
on the walls prevents. I then perceive why the late deep snow has spared
them, snow that has been let below in covered trenches. Charley is going
to pompously interview me.
“You are not so dreadfully horrified, I see. There are, you see,
different grades of parties. At this you were intellectually amused and
society edified. I wonder this people do not drink. I must teach them
the thickening of wine blood,” slightly wavering.
“Thickening of wine-tongue and brain; how did any human being ever adopt
it? I earnestly believe it was water and not wine that Jesus
recommended. (That has been mistakenly translated.) That being plain
God’s design.” I speak prophetically.
“Dear,” he says, “you are right; I will let the people here be
temperate; thus, I believe, more enjoyable.” Then coming close to me he
says: “I was at the party to protect you in safety of ease, you know, so
give me that due for your unrestrained mirth.”
He is so autocratic in his manly assertions I become slightly overawed,
when Show Off, who has had no lesson of him to regard his dignity, comes
up and snaps his ear playfully. The fire darts from his eye, but I
quickly make peace, using his own words: “You see, it is all right; do
not be odd.”
Thus quickly, everywhere, wrath arises innocently, to burn often in high
flame—to indite some deed of evil intent.
Seeing Charley still cross, I converse with Show Off—ask him where my
father is, that I have missed these three days. “Has he found your
father’s room? and is he quite happy?”
“Quite. You will never get him again,” meaning that I am substituted.
This talk, though rather un-English in phrase, is so intentionally
jolly, I become quite familiar, so ask: “Dear Show Off, why did the
sweet Aunt Robet never get married?”
“She is going to be, when her lover comes down out of the sky.”
This mysterious news sets Charley off into a roar of laughter, so I
proceed: “What does he do in the sky? ride about on a star?”
“Yes; and fishes below with a line for pastime.”