A. D. 2000

by Alvarado M. Fuller

“True. Your status is so different from that of any other man, that I would not be surprised if you had been his bosom friend.”

Then turning to Lyman, he continued:

“Come; it is time we were attending to business. Let us go at once and see about our transportation and check. Cobb will excuse us for a few minutes, will you not?” to the latter.

“Certainly. By all means get our tickets as soon as possible, for I will then feel that we are soon to be on the road.”

Saying this, he lighted a cigar and watched them depart.

A few moments later he went to the window and pulled aside the heavy lace curtains and gazed out upon the busy street below him. This was his first view of the outside world, in daylight, since 1887. A hundred and thirteen years ago he had had rooms at this very same hotel. Was it possible that he was not dreaming? Was he, in fact, alive and well, and again standing in a place that had known him so many years ago—that had been his home at a time so long since that every mortal man who then lived was now dead and crumbling into dust? His thoughts wandered back to the years long past, to his old friends, to the happy days passed in their society; and then to the darling girl whom he had left in Duke’s Lane—his betrothed. Alas! they were no more! But he: he was here, and alone in the world!

So many years must have made a great change in the history of his country and in the manners and condition of the people. Until he should have learned them, he would be practically a stranger in a strange land. He remembered how he had sat, those many nights before entering the pedestal on Mt. Olympus, and wondered upon the future, and what that future would bring forth to him, if he was fortunate enough to survive the ordeal and live again. He remembered with what delight he had anticipated coming again into life among a new people and among scenes of great advancement and of wonderful progress. His hopes had been realized, and he lived again; yes, he who had lain a hundred years in a comatose state, now breathed, walked, and had his being once more. His theory had been most remarkably proved—proved by the man who had first advanced it, and the world should demand no further proof. What would be his reputation in Washington? Would there be any difficulty in proving that he was what he claimed to be—a man who had lived in 1887? No! it could not be; for there were the proofs in the safe, and such proofs as no man could dispute—letters written years ago by men long since dead—aye, dead before a man of his apparent age could have been born. No! He quickly dispelled the idea that it would be difficult for him to prove everything. Recovering from his sombre chain of thought, he turned his attention to the street beneath his window.

He gazed again and again up and down the street and across the way. Was this the Montgomery street he had so often walked upon? It differed so from its former appearance that he felt that he was dreaming. Great, massive buildings, in all the most artistic styles, met his eyes on every side. Beautiful stores, with huge plate-glass windows, extended as far as the eye could reach. The sidewalks, as well as he could tell, were clean and in perfect condition; and where he had in former times noticed the peanut-vender, the fruit-seller, the blind and the lame with their excruciating music-boxes, and the scores of others obstructing the sidewalks, was now clear, clean, and wholly for the use of the pedestrian. He noticed that that which people had to sell was kept within their stores, and not on the sidewalk; that there were no signs hanging over the heads of the passers-by to fall and, perhaps, break their bones; nor were there any posts of all and every description along the streets. There were no telegraph or telephone wires in view, nor were visible many other things which had formerly been eye-sores to people of taste.

The streets were paved with some new kind of material; what it was, he could not tell from where he stood, but it was such as gave very little sound from the passing vehicles. It was smooth and clean, and free from the many holes which had formerly rendered traveling so uncertain, even dangerous.

A hundred years had made very little change in the heterogeneous assortment of vehicles one sees in a great city. There were many fine and elegant equipages, with and without horses, the latter driven, as Cobb presumed, by electric motors. Yet of this class there were not very many, as San Francisco is a city of hills, and not well adapted for anything but horse or attachment propulsion.