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<TEI xmlns="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><teiHeader><fileDesc><titleStmt><title>Untitled Document</title><author/></titleStmt><editionStmt><edition><date/></edition></editionStmt><publicationStmt><p>no publication statement available</p></publicationStmt><sourceDesc><p>Written by OpenOffice</p></sourceDesc></fileDesc><revisionDesc><listChange><change><name/><date/></change></listChange></revisionDesc></teiHeader><text><body><p>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Erewhon, by Samuel Butler </p><p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with </p><p>almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or</p><p>re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included </p><p>with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net </p><p>Title: Erewhon </p><p>Author: Samuel Butler </p><p>Release Date: March 20, 2005 [eBook #1906]</p><p>Language: English </p><p>Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) </p><p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EREWHON*** </p><p>Transcribed from the 1910 A. C. Fifield (revised) edition by David Price, </p><p>email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk </p><p>EREWHON, OR OVER THE RANGE </p><p> "[Greek text]"--ARIST. _Pol_.</p><p> "There is no action save upon a balance of</p><p> considerations."--_Paraphrase_.</p><p>PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION </p><p>The Author wishes it to be understood that Erewhon is pronounced as a </p><p>word of three syllables, all short--thus, E-re-whon. </p><p>PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION </p><p>Having been enabled by the kindness of the public to get through an</p><p>unusually large edition of "Erewhon" in a very short time, I have taken </p><p>the opportunity of a second edition to make some necessary corrections, </p><p>and to add a few passages where it struck me that they would be </p><p>appropriately introduced; the passages are few, and it is my fixed </p><p>intention never to touch the work again. </p><p>I may perhaps be allowed to say a word or two here in reference to "The </p><p>Coming Race," to the success of which book "Erewhon" has been very </p><p>generally set down as due. This is a mistake, though a perfectly natural</p><p>one. The fact is that "Erewhon" was finished, with the exception of the</p><p>last twenty pages and a sentence or two inserted from time to time here </p><p>and there throughout the book, before the first advertisement of "The </p><p>Coming Race" appeared. A friend having called my attention to one of the</p><p>first of these advertisements, and suggesting that it probably referred </p><p>to a work of similar character to my own, I took "Erewhon" to a </p><p>well-known firm of publishers on the 1st of May 1871, and left it in </p><p>their hands for consideration. I then went abroad, and on learning that</p><p>the publishers alluded to declined the MS., I let it alone for six or </p><p>seven months, and, being in an out-of-the-way part of Italy, never saw a </p><p>single review of "The Coming Race," nor a copy of the work. On my</p><p>return, I purposely avoided looking into it until I had sent back my last </p><p>revises to the printer. Then I had much pleasure in reading it, but was</p><p>indeed surprised at the many little points of similarity between the two </p><p>books, in spite of their entire independence to one another. </p><p>I regret that reviewers have in some cases been inclined to treat the </p><p>chapters on Machines as an attempt to reduce Mr. Darwin's theory to an </p><p>absurdity. Nothing could be further from my intention, and few things</p><p>would be more distasteful to me than any attempt to laugh at Mr. Darwin; </p><p>but I must own that I have myself to thank for the misconception, for I </p><p>felt sure that my intention would be missed, but preferred not to weaken </p><p>the chapters by explanation, and knew very well that Mr. Darwin's theory </p><p>would take no harm. The only question in my mind was how far I could</p><p>afford to be misrepresented as laughing at that for which I have the most </p><p>profound admiration. I am surprised, however, that the book at which</p><p>such an example of the specious misuse of analogy would seem most </p><p>naturally levelled should have occurred to no reviewer; neither shall I </p><p>mention the name of the book here, though I should fancy that the hint </p><p>given will suffice. </p><p>I have been held by some whose opinions I respect to have denied men's </p><p>responsibility for their actions. He who does this is an enemy who</p><p>deserves no quarter. I should have imagined that I had been sufficiently</p><p>explicit, but have made a few additions to the chapter on Malcontents, </p><p>which will, I think, serve to render further mistake impossible. </p><p>An anonymous correspondent (by the hand-writing presumably a clergyman) </p><p>tells me that in quoting from the Latin grammar I should at any rate have </p><p>done so correctly, and that I should have written "agricolas" instead of </p><p>"agricolae". He added something about any boy in the fourth form, &c.,</p><p>&c., which I shall not quote, but which made me very uncomfortable. It</p><p>may be said that I must have misquoted from design, from ignorance, or by </p><p>a slip of the pen; but surely in these days it will be recognised as </p><p>harsh to assign limits to the all-embracing boundlessness of truth, and </p><p>it will be more reasonably assumed that each of the three possible causes </p><p>of misquotation must have had its share in the apparent blunder. The art</p><p>of writing things that shall sound right and yet be wrong has made so </p><p>many reputations, and affords comfort to such a large number of readers, </p><p>that I could not venture to neglect it; the Latin grammar, however, is a</p><p>subject on which some of the younger members of the community feel </p><p>strongly, so I have now written "agricolas". I have also parted with the</p><p>word "infortuniam" (though not without regret), but have not dared to </p><p>meddle with other similar inaccuracies. </p><p>For the inconsistencies in the book, and I am aware that there are not a </p><p>few, I must ask the indulgence of the reader. The blame, however, lies</p><p>chiefly with the Erewhonians themselves, for they were really a very </p><p>difficult people to understand. The most glaring anomalies seemed to</p><p>afford them no intellectual inconvenience; neither, provided they did not </p><p>actually see the money dropping out of their pockets, nor suffer </p><p>immediate physical pain, would they listen to any arguments as to the </p><p>waste of money and happiness which their folly caused them. But this had</p><p>an effect of which I have little reason to complain, for I was allowed </p><p>almost to call them life-long self-deceivers to their faces, and they </p><p>said it was quite true, but that it did not matter. </p><p>I must not conclude without expressing my most sincere thanks to my </p><p>critics and to the public for the leniency and consideration with which </p><p>they have treated my adventures. </p><p>June 9, 1872 </p><p>PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION </p><p>My publisher wishes me to say a few words about the genesis of the work, </p><p>a revised and enlarged edition of which he is herewith laying before the </p><p>public. I therefore place on record as much as I can remember on this</p><p>head after a lapse of more than thirty years. </p><p>The first part of "Erewhon" written was an article headed "Darwin among </p><p>the Machines," and signed Cellarius. It was written in the Upper</p><p>Rangitata district of the Canterbury Province (as it then was) of New </p><p>Zealand, and appeared at Christchurch in the Press Newspaper, June 13, </p><p>1863. A copy of this article is indexed under my books in the British</p><p>Museum catalogue. In passing, I may say that the opening chapters of</p><p>"Erewhon" were also drawn from the Upper Rangitata district, with such </p><p>modifications as I found convenient. </p><p>A second article on the same subject as the one just referred to appeared </p><p>in the Press shortly after the first, but I have no copy. It treated</p><p>Machines from a different point of view, and was the basis of pp. 270-274 </p><p>of the present edition of "Erewhon." {1} This view ultimately led me to </p><p>the theory I put forward in "Life and Habit," published in November 1877. </p><p>I have put a bare outline of this theory (which I believe to be quite </p><p>sound) into the mouth of an Erewhonian philosopher in Chapter XXVII. of </p><p>this book. </p><p>In 1865 I rewrote and enlarged "Darwin among the Machines" for the </p><p>Reasoner, a paper published in London by Mr. G. J. Holyoake. It appeared</p><p>July 1, 1865, under the heading, "The Mechanical Creation," and can be </p><p>seen in the British Museum. I again rewrote and enlarged it, till it</p><p>assumed the form in which it appeared in the first edition of "Erewhon." </p><p>The next part of "Erewhon" that I wrote was the "World of the Unborn," a</p><p>preliminary form of which was sent to Mr. Holyoake's paper, but as I </p><p>cannot find it among those copies of the Reasoner that are in the British </p><p>Museum, I conclude that it was not accepted. I have, however, rather a</p><p>strong fancy that it appeared in some London paper of the same character </p><p>as the Reasoner, not very long after July 1, 1865, but I have no copy. </p><p>I also wrote about this time the substance of what ultimately became the </p><p>Musical Banks, and the trial of a man for being in a consumption. These</p><p>four detached papers were, I believe, all that was written of "Erewhon" </p><p>before 1870. Between 1865 and 1870 I wrote hardly anything, being</p><p>hopeful of attaining that success as a painter which it has not been </p><p>vouchsafed me to attain, but in the autumn of 1870, just as I was </p><p>beginning to get occasionally hung at Royal Academy exhibitions, my </p><p>friend, the late Sir F. N. (then Mr.) Broome, suggested to me that I </p><p>should add somewhat to the articles I had already written, and string </p><p>them together into a book. I was rather fired by the idea, but as I only</p><p>worked at the MS. on Sundays it was some months before I had completed </p><p>it. </p><p>I see from my second Preface that I took the book to Messrs. Chapman & </p><p>Hall May 1, 1871, and on their rejection of it, under the advice of one </p><p>who has attained the highest rank among living writers, I let it sleep, </p><p>till I took it to Mr. Trubner early in 1872. As regards its rejection by</p><p>Messrs. Chapman & Hall, I believe their reader advised them quite wisely. </p><p>They told me he reported that it was a philosophical work, little likely </p><p>to be popular with a large circle of readers. I hope that if I had been</p><p>their reader, and the book had been submitted to myself, I should have </p><p>advised them to the same effect. </p><p>"Erewhon" appeared with the last day or two of March 1872. I attribute</p><p>its unlooked-for success mainly to two early favourable reviews--the </p><p>first in the Pall Mall Gazette of April 12, and the second in the </p><p>Spectator of April 20. There was also another cause. I was complaining</p><p>once to a friend that though "Erewhon" had met with such a warm </p><p>reception, my subsequent books had been all of them practically still- </p><p>born. He said, "You forget one charm that 'Erewhon' had, but which none</p><p>of your other books can have." I asked what? and was answered, "The</p><p>sound of a new voice, and of an unknown voice." </p><p>The first edition of "Erewhon" sold in about three weeks; I had not taken </p><p>moulds, and as the demand was strong, it was set up again immediately. I</p><p>made a few unimportant alterations and additions, and added a Preface, of </p><p>which I cannot say that I am particularly proud, but an inexperienced </p><p>writer with a head somewhat turned by unexpected success is not to be </p><p>trusted with a preface. I made a few further very trifling alterations</p><p>before moulds were taken, but since the summer of 1872, as new editions </p><p>were from time to time wanted, they have been printed from stereos then </p><p>made. </p><p>Having now, I fear, at too great length done what I was asked to do, I </p><p>should like to add a few words on my own account. I am still fairly well</p><p>satisfied with those parts of "Erewhon" that were repeatedly rewritten, </p><p>but from those that had only a single writing I would gladly cut out some </p><p>forty or fifty pages if I could. </p><p>This, however, may not be, for the copyright will probably expire in a </p><p>little over twelve years. It was necessary, therefore, to revise the</p><p>book throughout for literary inelegancies--of which I found many more </p><p>than I had expected--and also to make such substantial additions as</p><p>should secure a new lease of life--at any rate for the copyright. If,</p><p>then, instead of cutting out, say fifty pages, I have been compelled to </p><p>add about sixty invita Minerva--the blame rests neither with my publisher </p><p>nor with me, but with the copyright laws. Nevertheless I can assure the</p><p>reader that, though I have found it an irksome task to take up work which </p><p>I thought I had got rid of thirty years ago, and much of which I am </p><p>ashamed of, I have done my best to make the new matter savour so much of </p><p>the better portions of the old, that none but the best critics shall </p><p>perceive at what places the gaps of between thirty and forty years occur. </p><p>Lastly, if my readers note a considerable difference between the literary </p><p>technique of "Erewhon" and that of "Erewhon Revisited," I would remind </p><p>them that, as I have just shown, "Erewhon" look something like ten years </p><p>in writing, and even so was written with great difficulty, while "Erewhon </p><p>Revisited" was written easily between November 1900 and the end of April </p><p>1901. There is no central idea underlying "Erewhon," whereas the attempt</p><p>to realise the effect of a single supposed great miracle dominates the </p><p>whole of its successor. In "Erewhon" there was hardly any story, and</p><p>little attempt to give life and individuality to the characters; I hope </p><p>that in "Erewhon Revisited" both these defects have been in great measure </p><p>avoided. "Erewhon" was not an organic whole, "Erewhon Revisited" may</p><p>fairly claim to be one. Nevertheless, though in literary workmanship I</p><p>do not doubt that this last-named book is an improvement on the first, I </p><p>shall be agreeably surprised if I am not told that "Erewhon," with all </p><p>its faults, is the better reading of the two. </p><p>SAMUEL BUTLER. </p><p>August 7, 1901 </p><p>CHAPTER I: WASTE LANDS </p><p>If the reader will excuse me, I will say nothing of my antecedents, nor </p><p>of the circumstances which led me to leave my native country; the </p><p>narrative would be tedious to him and painful to myself. Suffice it,</p><p>that when I left home it was with the intention of going to some new </p><p>colony, and either finding, or even perhaps purchasing, waste crown land </p><p>suitable for cattle or sheep farming, by which means I thought that I </p><p>could better my fortunes more rapidly than in England. </p><p>It will be seen that I did not succeed in my design, and that however </p><p>much I may have met with that was new and strange, I have been unable to </p><p>reap any pecuniary advantage. </p><p>It is true, I imagine myself to have made a discovery which, if I can be </p><p>the first to profit by it, will bring me a recompense beyond all money </p><p>computation, and secure me a position such as has not been attained by </p><p>more than some fifteen or sixteen persons, since the creation of the </p><p>universe. But to this end I must possess myself of a considerable sum of</p><p>money: neither do I know how to get it, except by interesting the public </p><p>in my story, and inducing the charitable to come forward and assist me. </p><p>With this hope I now publish my adventures; but I do so with great </p><p>reluctance, for I fear that my story will be doubted unless I tell the </p><p>whole of it; and yet I dare not do so, lest others with more means than </p><p>mine should get the start of me. I prefer the risk of being doubted to</p><p>that of being anticipated, and have therefore concealed my destination on</p><p>leaving England, as also the point from which I began my more serious and </p><p>difficult journey. </p><p>My chief consolation lies in the fact that truth bears its own impress, </p><p>and that my story will carry conviction by reason of the internal </p><p>evidences for its accuracy. No one who is himself honest will doubt my</p><p>being so. </p><p>I reached my destination in one of the last months of 1868, but I dare </p><p>not mention the season, lest the reader should gather in which hemisphere </p><p>I was. The colony was one which had not been opened up even to the most</p><p>adventurous settlers for more than eight or nine years, having been </p><p>previously uninhabited, save by a few tribes of savages who frequented </p><p>the seaboard. The part known to Europeans consisted of a coast-line</p><p>about eight hundred miles in length (affording three or four good </p><p>harbours), and a tract of country extending inland for a space varying </p><p>from two to three hundred miles, until it a reached the offshoots of an </p><p>exceedingly lofty range of mountains, which could be seen from far out </p><p>upon the plains, and were covered with perpetual snow. The coast was</p><p>perfectly well known both north and south of the tract to which I have </p><p>alluded, but in neither direction was there a single harbour for five </p><p>hundred miles, and the mountains, which descended almost into the sea, </p><p>were covered with thick timber, so that none would think of settling. </p><p>With this bay of land, however, the case was different. The harbours</p><p>were sufficient; the country was timbered, but not too heavily; it was </p><p>admirably suited for agriculture; it also contained millions on millions </p><p>of acres of the most beautifully grassed country in the world, and of the </p><p>best suited for all manner of sheep and cattle. The climate was</p><p>temperate, and very healthy; there were no wild animals, nor were the </p><p>natives dangerous, being few in number and of an intelligent tractable </p><p>disposition. </p><p>It may be readily understood that when once Europeans set foot upon this </p><p>territory they were not slow to take advantage of its capabilities. Sheep</p><p>and cattle were introduced, and bred with extreme rapidity; men took up </p><p>their 50,000 or 100,000 acres of country, going inland one behind the </p><p>other, till in a few years there was not an acre between the sea and the </p><p>front ranges which was not taken up, and stations either for sheep or </p><p>cattle were spotted about at intervals of some twenty or thirty miles </p><p>over the whole country. The front ranges stopped the tide of squatters</p><p>for some little time; it was thought that there was too much snow upon </p><p>them for too many months in the year,--that the sheep would get lost, the </p><p>ground being too difficult for shepherding,--that the expense of getting </p><p>wool down to the ship's side would eat up the farmer's profits,--and that </p><p>the grass was too rough and sour for sheep to thrive upon; but one after </p><p>another determined to try the experiment, and it was wonderful how </p><p>successfully it turned out. Men pushed farther and farther into the</p><p>mountains, and found a very considerable tract inside the front range, </p><p>between it and another which was loftier still, though even this was not </p><p>the highest, the great snowy one which could be seen from out upon the </p><p>plains. This second range, however, seemed to mark the extreme limits of</p><p>pastoral country; and it was here, at a small and newly founded station, </p><p>that I was received as a cadet, and soon regularly employed. I was then</p><p>just twenty-two years old. </p><p>I was delighted with the country and the manner of life. It was my daily</p><p>business to go up to the top of a certain high mountain, and down one of </p><p>its spurs on to the flat, in order to make sure that no sheep had crossed</p><p>their boundaries. I was to see the sheep, not necessarily close at hand,</p><p>nor to get them in a single mob, but to see enough of them here and there </p><p>to feel easy that nothing had gone wrong; this was no difficult matter, </p><p>for there were not above eight hundred of them; and, being all breeding </p><p>ewes, they were pretty quiet. </p><p>There were a good many sheep which I knew, as two or three black ewes, </p><p>and a black lamb or two, and several others which had some distinguishing </p><p>mark whereby I could tell them. I would try and see all these, and if</p><p>they were all there, and the mob looked large enough, I might rest </p><p>assured that all was well. It is surprising how soon the eye becomes</p><p>accustomed to missing twenty sheep out of two or three hundred. I had a</p><p>telescope and a dog, and would take bread and meat and tobacco with me. </p><p>Starting with early dawn, it would be night before I could complete my </p><p>round; for the mountain over which I had to go was very high. In winter</p><p>it was covered with snow, and the sheep needed no watching from above. If</p><p>I were to see sheep dung or tracks going down on to the other side of the </p><p>mountain (where there was a valley with a stream--a mere _cul de sac_), I </p><p>was to follow them, and look out for sheep; but I never saw any, the </p><p>sheep always descending on to their own side, partly from habit, and </p><p>partly because there was abundance of good sweet feed, which had been </p><p>burnt in the early spring, just before I came, and was now deliciously </p><p>green and rich, while that on the other side had never been burnt, and </p><p>was rank and coarse. </p><p>It was a monotonous life, but it was very healthy and one does not much </p><p>mind anything when one is well. The country was the grandest that can be</p><p>imagined. How often have I sat on the mountain side and watched the</p><p>waving downs, with the two white specks of huts in the distance, and the </p><p>little square of garden behind them; the paddock with a patch of bright </p><p>green oats above the huts, and the yards and wool-sheds down on the flat </p><p>below; all seen as through the wrong end of a telescope, so clear and </p><p>brilliant was the air, or as upon a colossal model or map spread out </p><p>beneath me. Beyond the downs was a plain, going down to a river of great</p><p>size, on the farther side of which there were other high mountains, with </p><p>the winter's snow still not quite melted; up the river, which ran winding </p><p>in many streams over a bed some two miles broad, I looked upon the second </p><p>great chain, and could see a narrow gorge where the river retired and was </p><p>lost. I knew that there was a range still farther back; but except from</p><p>one place near the very top of my own mountain, no part of it was </p><p>visible: from this point, however, I saw, whenever there were no clouds, </p><p>a single snow-clad peak, many miles away, and I should think about as </p><p>high as any mountain in the world. Never shall I forget the utter</p><p>loneliness of the prospect--only the little far-away homestead giving </p><p>sign of human handiwork;--the vastness of mountain and plain, of river </p><p>and sky; the marvellous atmospheric effects--sometimes black mountains </p><p>against a white sky, and then again, after cold weather, white mountains </p><p>against a black sky--sometimes seen through breaks and swirls of </p><p>cloud--and sometimes, which was best of all, I went up my mountain in a </p><p>fog, and then got above the mist; going higher and higher, I would look </p><p>down upon a sea of whiteness, through which would be thrust innumerable </p><p>mountain tops that looked like islands. </p><p>I am there now, as I write; I fancy that I can see the downs, the huts, </p><p>the plain, and the river-bed--that torrent pathway of desolation, with </p><p>its distant roar of waters. Oh, wonderful! wonderful! so lonely and so</p><p>solemn, with the sad grey clouds above, and no sound save a lost lamb </p><p>bleating upon the mountain side, as though its little heart were </p><p>breaking. Then there comes some lean and withered old ewe, with deep</p><p>gruff voice and unlovely aspect, trotting back from the seductive </p><p>pasture; now she examines this gully, and now that, and now she stands </p><p>listening with uplifted head, that she may hear the distant wailing and </p><p>obey it. Aha! they see, and rush towards each other. Alas! they are</p><p>both mistaken; the ewe is not the lamb's ewe, they are neither kin nor </p><p>kind to one another, and part in coldness. Each must cry louder, and</p><p>wander farther yet; may luck be with them both that they may find their </p><p>own at nightfall. But this is mere dreaming, and I must proceed.</p><p>I could not help speculating upon what might lie farther up the river and </p><p>behind the second range. I had no money, but if I could only find</p><p>workable country, I might stock it with borrowed capital, and consider </p><p>myself a made man. True, the range looked so vast, that there seemed</p><p>little chance of getting a sufficient road through it or over it; but no </p><p>one had yet explored it, and it is wonderful how one finds that one can </p><p>make a path into all sorts of places (and even get a road for </p><p>pack-horses), which from a distance appear inaccessible; the river was so </p><p>great that it must drain an inner tract--at least I thought so; and </p><p>though every one said it would be madness to attempt taking sheep farther </p><p>inland, I knew that only three years ago the same cry had been raised </p><p>against the country which my master's flock was now overrunning. I could</p><p>not keep these thoughts out of my head as I would rest myself upon the </p><p>mountain side; they haunted me as I went my daily rounds, and grew upon </p><p>me from hour to hour, till I resolved that after shearing I would remain </p><p>in doubt no longer, but saddle my horse, take as much provision with me </p><p>as I could, and go and see for myself. </p><p>But over and above these thoughts came that of the great range itself. </p><p>What was beyond it? Ah! who could say? There was no one in the whole</p><p>world who had the smallest idea, save those who were themselves on the </p><p>other side of it--if, indeed, there was any one at all. Could I hope to</p><p>cross it? This would be the highest triumph that I could wish for; but</p><p>it was too much to think of yet. I would try the nearer range, and see</p><p>how far I could go. Even if I did not find country, might I not find</p><p>gold, or diamonds, or copper, or silver? I would sometimes lie flat down</p><p>to drink out of a stream, and could see little yellow specks among the </p><p>sand; were these gold? People said no; but then people always said there</p><p>was no gold until it was found to be abundant: there was plenty of slate </p><p>and granite, which I had always understood to accompany gold; and even </p><p>though it was not found in paying quantities here, it might be abundant </p><p>in the main ranges. These thoughts filled my head, and I could not</p><p>banish them. </p><p>CHAPTER II: IN THE WOOL-SHED </p><p>At last shearing came; and with the shearers there was an old native, </p><p>whom they had nicknamed Chowbok--though, I believe, his real name was </p><p>Kahabuka. He was a sort of chief of the natives, could speak a little</p><p>English, and was a great favourite with the missionaries. He did not do</p><p>any regular work with the shearers, but pretended to help in the yards, </p><p>his real aim being to get the grog, which is always more freely </p><p>circulated at shearing-time: he did not get much, for he was apt to be </p><p>dangerous when drunk; and very little would make him so: still he did get </p><p>it occasionally, and if one wanted to get anything out of him, it was the </p><p>best bribe to offer him. I resolved to question him, and get as much</p><p>information from him as I could. I did so. As long as I kept to</p><p>questions about the nearer ranges, he was easy to get on with--he had </p><p>never been there, but there were traditions among his tribe to the effect </p><p>that there was no sheep-country, nothing, in fact, but stunted timber and </p><p>a few river-bed flats. It was very difficult to reach; still there were</p><p>passes: one of them up our own river, though not directly along the river- </p><p>bed, the gorge of which was not practicable; he had never seen any one </p><p>who had been there: was there to not enough on this side? But when I</p><p>came to the main range, his manner changed at once. He became uneasy,</p><p>and began to prevaricate and shuffle. In a very few minutes I could see</p><p>that of this too there existed traditions in his tribe; but no efforts or </p><p>coaxing could get a word from him about them. At last I hinted about</p><p>grog, and presently he feigned consent: I gave it him; but as soon as he </p><p>had drunk it he began shamming intoxication, and then went to sleep, or </p><p>pretended to do so, letting me kick him pretty hard and never budging. </p><p>I was angry, for I had to go without my own grog and had got nothing out </p><p>of him; so the next day I determined that he should tell me before I gave </p><p>him any, or get none at all. </p><p>Accordingly, when night came and the shearers had knocked off work and </p><p>had their supper, I got my share of rum in a tin pannikin and made a sign </p><p>to Chowbok to follow me to the wool-shed, which he willingly did, </p><p>slipping out after me, and no one taking any notice of either of us. When</p><p>we got down to the wool-shed we lit a tallow candle, and having stuck it </p><p>in an old bottle we sat down upon the wool bales and began to smoke. A</p><p>wool-shed is a roomy place, built somewhat on the same plan as a </p><p>cathedral, with aisles on either side full of pens for the sheep, a great </p><p>nave, at the upper end of which the shearers work, and a further space </p><p>for wool sorters and packers. It always refreshed me with a semblance of</p><p>antiquity (precious in a new country), though I very well knew that the </p><p>oldest wool-shed in the settlement was not more than seven years old, </p><p>while this was only two. Chowbok pretended to expect his grog at once,</p><p>though we both of us knew very well what the other was after, and that we </p><p>were each playing against the other, the one for grog the other for </p><p>information. </p><p>We had a hard fight: for more than two hours he had tried to put me off </p><p>with lies but had carried no conviction; during the whole time we had </p><p>been morally wrestling with one another and had neither of us apparently </p><p>gained the least advantage; at length, however, I had become sure that he </p><p>would give in ultimately, and that with a little further patience I </p><p>should get his story out of him. As upon a cold day in winter, when one</p><p>has churned (as I had often had to do), and churned in vain, and the </p><p>butter makes no sign of coming, at last one tells by the sound that the </p><p>cream has gone to sleep, and then upon a sudden the butter comes, so I </p><p>had churned at Chowbok until I perceived that he had arrived, as it were, </p><p>at the sleepy stage, and that with a continuance of steady quiet pressure </p><p>the day was mine. On a sudden, without a word of warning, he rolled two</p><p>bales of wool (his strength was very great) into the middle of the floor, </p><p>and on the top of these he placed another crosswise; he snatched up an </p><p>empty wool-pack, threw it like a mantle over his shoulders, jumped upon </p><p>the uppermost bale, and sat upon it. In a moment his whole form was</p><p>changed. His high shoulders dropped; he set his feet close together,</p><p>heel to heel and toe to toe; he laid his arms and hands close alongside </p><p>of his body, the palms following his thighs; he held his head high but </p><p>quite straight, and his eyes stared right in front of him; but he frowned </p><p>horribly, and assumed an expression of face that was positively fiendish. </p><p>At the best of times Chowbok was very ugly, but he now exceeded all</p><p>conceivable limits of the hideous. His mouth extended almost from ear to</p><p>ear, grinning horribly and showing all his teeth; his eyes glared, though </p><p>they remained quite fixed, and his forehead was contracted with a most </p><p>malevolent scowl. </p><p>I am afraid my description will have conveyed only the ridiculous side of </p><p>his appearance; but the ridiculous and the sublime are near, and the </p><p>grotesque fiendishness of Chowbok's face approached this last, if it did </p><p>not reach it. I tried to be amused, but I felt a sort of creeping at the</p><p>roots of my hair and over my whole body, as I looked and wondered what he </p><p>could possibly be intending to signify. He continued thus for about a</p><p>minute, sitting bolt upright, as stiff as a stone, and making this </p><p>fearful face. Then there came from his lips a low moaning like the wind,</p><p>rising and falling by infinitely small gradations till it became almost a </p><p>shriek, from which it descended and died away; after that, he jumped down </p><p>from the bale and held up the extended fingers of both his hands, as one </p><p>who should say "Ten," though I did not then understand him. </p><p>For myself I was open-mouthed with astonishment. Chowbok rolled the</p><p>bales rapidly into their place, and stood before me shuddering as in </p><p>great fear; horror was written upon his face--this time quite </p><p>involuntarily--as though the natural panic of one who had committed an </p><p>awful crime against unknown and superhuman agencies. He nodded his head</p><p>and gibbered, and pointed repeatedly to the mountains. He would not</p><p>touch the grog, but, after a few seconds he made a run through the wool- </p><p>shed door into the moonlight; nor did he reappear till next day at dinner- </p><p>time, when he turned up, looking very sheepish and abject in his civility </p><p>towards myself. </p><p>Of his meaning I had no conception. How could I? All I could feel sure</p><p>of was, that he had a meaning which was true and awful to himself. It</p><p>was enough for me that I believed him to have given me the best he had </p><p>and all he had. This kindled my imagination more than if he had told me</p><p>intelligible stories by the hour together. I knew not what the great</p><p>snowy ranges might conceal, but I could no longer doubt that it would be </p><p>something well worth discovering. </p><p>I kept aloof from Chowbok for the next few days, and showed no desire to </p><p>question him further; when I spoke to him I called him Kahabuka, which </p><p>gratified him greatly: he seemed to have become afraid of me, and acted </p><p>as one who was in my power. Having therefore made up my mind that I</p><p>would begin exploring as soon as shearing was over, I thought it would be </p><p>a good thing to take Chowbok with me; so I told him that I meant going to </p><p>the nearer ranges for a few days' prospecting, and that he was to come </p><p>too. I made him promises of nightly grog, and held out the chances of</p><p>finding gold. I said nothing about the main range, for I knew it would</p><p>frighten him. I would get him as far up our own river as I could, and</p><p>trace it if possible to its source. I would then either go on by myself,</p><p>if I felt my courage equal to the attempt, or return with Chowbok. So,</p><p>as soon as ever shearing was over and the wool sent off, I asked leave of </p><p>absence, and obtained it. Also, I bought an old pack-horse and</p><p>pack-saddle, so that I might take plenty of provisions, and blankets, and </p><p>a small tent. I was to ride and find fords over the river; Chowbok was</p><p>to follow and lead the pack-horse, which would also carry him over the </p><p>fords. My master let me have tea and sugar, ship's biscuits, tobacco,</p><p>and salt mutton, with two or three bottles of good brandy; for, as the </p><p>wool was now sent down, abundance of provisions would come up with the </p><p>empty drays. </p><p>Everything being now ready, all the hands on the station turned out to </p><p>see us off, and we started on our journey, not very long after the summer </p><p>solstice of 1870. </p><p>CHAPTER III: UP THE RIVER </p><p>The first day we had an easy time, following up the great flats by the </p><p>river side, which had already been twice burned, so that there was no </p><p>dense undergrowth to check us, though the ground was often rough, and we </p><p>had to go a good deal upon the river-bed. Towards nightfall we had made</p><p>a matter of some five-and-twenty miles, and camped at the point where the </p><p>river entered upon the gorge. </p><p>The weather was delightfully warm, considering that the valley in which </p><p>we were encamped must have been at least two thousand feet above the </p><p>level of the sea. The river-bed was here about a mile and a half broad</p><p>and entirely covered with shingle over which the river ran in many </p><p>winding channels, looking, when seen from above, like a tangled skein of </p><p>ribbon, and glistening in the sun. We knew that it was liable to very</p><p>sudden and heavy freshets; but even had we not known it, we could have </p><p>seen it by the snags of trees, which must have been carried long </p><p>distances, and by the mass of vegetable and mineral _debris_ which was </p><p>banked against their lower side, showing that at times the whole river- </p><p>bed must be covered with a roaring torrent many feet in depth and of </p><p>ungovernable fury. At present the river was low, there being but five or</p><p>six streams, too deep and rapid for even a strong man to ford on foot, </p><p>but to be crossed safely on horseback. On either side of it there were</p><p>still a few acres of flat, which grew wider and wider down the river, </p><p>till they became the large plains on which we looked from my master's </p><p>hut. Behind us rose the lowest spurs of the second range, leading</p><p>abruptly to the range itself; and at a distance of half a mile began the </p><p>gorge, where the river narrowed and became boisterous and terrible. The</p><p>beauty of the scene cannot be conveyed in language. The one side of the</p><p>valley was blue with evening shadow, through which loomed forest and </p><p>precipice, hillside and mountain top; and the other was still brilliant </p><p>with the sunset gold. The wide and wasteful river with its ceaseless</p><p>rushing--the beautiful water-birds too, which abounded upon the islets </p><p>and were so tame that we could come close up to them--the ineffable </p><p>purity of the air--the solemn peacefulness of the untrodden region--could </p><p>there be a more delightful and exhilarating combination? </p><p>We set about making our camp, close to some large bush which came down </p><p>from the mountains on to the flat, and tethered out our horses upon </p><p>ground as free as we could find it from anything round which they might </p><p>wind the rope and get themselves tied up. We dared not let them run</p><p>loose, lest they might stray down the river home again. We then gathered</p><p>wood and lit the fire. We filled a tin pannikin with water and set it</p><p>against the hot ashes to boil. When the water boiled we threw in two or</p><p>three large pinches of tea and let them brew. </p><p>We had caught half a dozen young ducks in the course of the day--an easy </p><p>matter, for the old birds made such a fuss in attempting to decoy us away </p><p>from them--pretending to be badly hurt as they say the plover does--that </p><p>we could always find them by going about in the opposite direction to the </p><p>old bird till we heard the young ones crying: then we ran them down, for</p><p>they could not fly though they were nearly full grown. Chowbok plucked</p><p>them a little and singed them a good deal. Then we cut them up and</p><p>boiled them in another pannikin, and this completed our preparations. </p><p>When we had done supper it was quite dark. The silence and freshness of</p><p>the night, the occasional sharp cry of the wood-hen, the ruddy glow of </p><p>the fire, the subdued rushing of the river, the sombre forest, and the </p><p>immediate foreground of our saddles packs and blankets, made a picture </p><p>worthy of a Salvator Rosa or a Nicolas Poussin. I call it to mind and</p><p>delight in it now, but I did not notice it at the time. We next to never</p><p>know when we are well off: but this cuts two ways,--for if we did, we </p><p>should perhaps know better when we are ill off also; and I have sometimes </p><p>thought that there are as many ignorant of the one as of the other. He</p><p>who wrote, "O fortunatos nimium sua si bona norint agricolas," might have </p><p>written quite as truly, "O infortunatos nimium sua si mala norint"; and </p><p>there are few of us who are not protected from the keenest pain by our </p><p>inability to see what it is that we have done, what we are suffering, and </p><p>what we truly are. Let us be grateful to the mirror for revealing to us</p><p>our appearance only. </p><p>We found as soft a piece of ground as we could--though it was all </p><p>stony--and having collected grass and so disposed of ourselves that we </p><p>had a little hollow for our hip-bones, we strapped our blankets around us </p><p>and went to sleep. Waking in the night I saw the stars overhead and the</p><p>moonlight bright upon the mountains. The river was ever rushing; I heard</p><p>one of our horses neigh to its companion, and was assured that they were </p><p>still at hand; I had no care of mind or body, save that I had doubtless </p><p>many difficulties to overcome; there came upon me a delicious sense of </p><p>peace, a fulness of contentment which I do not believe can be felt by any </p><p>but those who have spent days consecutively on horseback, or at any rate </p><p>in the open air. </p><p>Next morning we found our last night's tea-leaves frozen at the bottom of </p><p>the pannikins, though it was not nearly the beginning of autumn; we </p><p>breakfasted as we had supped, and were on our way by six o'clock. In</p><p>half an hour we had entered the gorge, and turning round a corner we bade </p><p>farewell to the last sight of my master's country. </p><p>The gorge was narrow and precipitous; the river was now only a few yards </p><p>wide, and roared and thundered against rocks of many tons in weight; the </p><p>sound was deafening, for there was a great volume of water. We were two</p><p>hours in making less than a mile, and that with danger, sometimes in the </p><p>river and sometimes on the rock. There was that damp black smell of</p><p>rocks covered with slimy vegetation, as near some huge waterfall where </p><p>spray is ever rising. The air was clammy and cold. I cannot conceive</p><p>how our horses managed to keep their footing, especially the one with the </p><p>pack, and I dreaded the having to return almost as much as going forward. </p><p>I suppose this lasted three miles, but it was well midday when the gorge </p><p>got a little wider, and a small stream came into it from a tributary </p><p>valley. Farther progress up the main river was impossible, for the</p><p>cliffs descended like walls; so we went up the side stream, Chowbok </p><p>seeming to think that here must be the pass of which reports existed </p><p>among his people. We now incurred less of actual danger but more</p><p>fatigue, and it was only after infinite trouble, owing to the rocks and </p><p>tangled vegetation, that we got ourselves and our horses upon the saddle </p><p>from which this small stream descended; by that time clouds had descended </p><p>upon us, and it was raining heavily. Moreover, it was six o'clock and we</p><p>were tired out, having made perhaps six miles in twelve hours. </p><p>On the saddle there was some coarse grass which was in full seed, and </p><p>therefore very nourishing for the horses; also abundance of anise and sow- </p><p>thistle, of which they are extravagantly fond, so we turned them loose </p><p>and prepared to camp. Everything was soaking wet and we were</p><p>half-perished with cold; indeed we were very uncomfortable. There was</p><p>brushwood about, but we could get no fire till we had shaved off the wet </p><p>outside of some dead branches and filled our pockets with the dry inside </p><p>chips. Having done this we managed to start a fire, nor did we allow it</p><p>to go out when we had once started it; we pitched the tent and by nine </p><p>o'clock were comparatively warm and dry. Next morning it was fine; we</p><p>broke camp, and after advancing a short distance we found that, by </p><p>descending over ground less difficult than yesterday's, we should come </p><p>again upon the river-bed, which had opened out above the gorge; but it </p><p>was plain at a glance that there was no available sheep country, nothing </p><p>but a few flats covered with scrub on either side the river, and </p><p>mountains which were perfectly worthless. But we could see the main</p><p>range. There was no mistake about this. The glaciers were tumbling down</p><p>the mountain sides like cataracts, and seemed actually to descend upon </p><p>the river-bed; there could be no serious difficulty in reaching them by </p><p>following up the river, which was wide and open; but it seemed rather an </p><p>objectless thing to do, for the main range looked hopeless, and my </p><p>curiosity about the nature of the country above the gorge was now quite </p><p>satisfied; there was no money in it whatever, unless there should be </p><p>minerals, of which I saw no more signs than lower down. </p><p>However, I resolved that I would follow the river up, and not return </p><p>until I was compelled to do so. I would go up every branch as far as I</p><p>could, and wash well for gold. Chowbok liked seeing me do this, but it</p><p>never came to anything, for we did not even find the colour. His dislike</p><p>of the main range appeared to have worn off, and he made no objections to </p><p>approaching it. I think he thought there was no danger of my trying to</p><p>cross it, and he was not afraid of anything on this side; besides, we </p><p>might find gold. But the fact was that he had made up his mind what to</p><p>do if he saw me getting too near it. </p><p>We passed three weeks in exploring, and never did I find time go more </p><p>quickly. The weather was fine, though the nights got very cold. We</p><p>followed every stream but one, and always found it lead us to a glacier </p><p>which was plainly impassable, at any rate without a larger party and </p><p>ropes. One stream remained, which I should have followed up already, had</p><p>not Chowbok said that he had risen early one morning while I was yet </p><p>asleep, and after going up it for three or four miles, had seen that it </p><p>was impossible to go farther. I had long ago discovered that he was a</p><p>great liar, so I was bent on going up myself: in brief, I did so: so far </p><p>from being impossible, it was quite easy travelling; and after five or </p><p>six miles I saw a saddle at the end of it, which, though covered deep in </p><p>snow, was not glaciered, and which did verily appear to be part of the </p><p>main range itself. No words can express the intensity of my delight. My</p><p>blood was all on fire with hope and elation; but on looking round for </p><p>Chowbok, who was behind me, I saw to my surprise and anger that he had </p><p>turned back, and was going down the valley as hard as he could. He had</p><p>left me. </p><p>CHAPTER IV: THE SADDLE </p><p>I cooeyed to him, but he would not hear. I ran after him, but he had got</p><p>too good a start. Then I sat down on a stone and thought the matter</p><p>carefully over. It was plain that Chowbok had designedly attempted to</p><p>keep me from going up this valley, yet he had shown no unwillingness to </p><p>follow me anywhere else. What could this mean, unless that I was now</p><p>upon the route by which alone the mysteries of the great ranges could be </p><p>revealed? What then should I do? Go back at the very moment when it had</p><p>become plain that I was on the right scent? Hardly; yet to proceed alone</p><p>would be both difficult and dangerous. It would be bad enough to return</p><p>to my master's run, and pass through the rocky gorges, with no chance of </p><p>help from another should I get into a difficulty; but to advance for any </p><p>considerable distance without a companion would be next door to madness. </p><p>Accidents which are slight when there is another at hand (as the </p><p>spraining of an ankle, or the falling into some place whence escape would </p><p>be easy by means of an outstretched hand and a bit of rope) may be fatal </p><p>to one who is alone. The more I pondered the less I liked it; and yet,</p><p>the less could I make up my mind to return when I looked at the saddle at </p><p>the head of the valley, and noted the comparative ease with which its </p><p>smooth sweep of snow might be surmounted: I seemed to see my way almost </p><p>from my present position to the very top. After much thought, I resolved</p><p>to go forward until I should come to some place which was really </p><p>dangerous, but then to return. I should thus, I hoped, at any rate reach</p><p>the top of the saddle, and satisfy myself as to what might be on the </p><p>other side. </p><p>I had no time to lose, for it was now between ten and eleven in the </p><p>morning. Fortunately I was well equipped, for on leaving the camp and</p><p>the horses at the lower end of the valley I had provided myself </p><p>(according to my custom) with everything that I was likely to want for </p><p>four or five days. Chowbok had carried half, but had dropped his whole</p><p>swag--I suppose, at the moment of his taking flight--for I came upon it </p><p>when I ran after him. I had, therefore, his provisions as well as my</p><p>own. Accordingly, I took as many biscuits as I thought I could carry,</p><p>and also some tobacco, tea, and a few matches. I rolled all these things</p><p>(together with a flask nearly full of brandy, which I had kept in my </p><p>pocket for fear lest Chowbok should get hold of it) inside my blankets, </p><p>and strapped them very tightly, making the whole into a long roll of some </p><p>seven feet in length and six inches in diameter. Then I tied the two</p><p>ends together, and put the whole round my neck and over one shoulder. </p><p>This is the easiest way of carrying a heavy swag, for one can rest one's </p><p>self by shifting the burden from one shoulder to the other. I strapped</p><p>my pannikin and a small axe about my waist, and thus equipped began to </p><p>ascend the valley, angry at having been misled by Chowbok, but determined </p><p>not to return till I was compelled to do so. </p><p>I crossed and recrossed the stream several times without difficulty, for </p><p>there were many good fords. At one o'clock I was at the foot of the</p><p>saddle; for four hours I mounted, the last two on the snow, where the </p><p>going was easier; by five, I was within ten minutes of the top, in a </p><p>state of excitement greater, I think, than I had ever known before. Ten</p><p>minutes more, and the cold air from the other side came rushing upon me. </p><p>A glance. I was _not_ on the main range.</p><p>Another glance. There was an awful river, muddy and horribly angry,</p><p>roaring over an immense river-bed, thousands of feet below me. </p><p>It went round to the westward, and I could see no farther up the valley, </p><p>save that there were enormous glaciers which must extend round the source</p><p>of the river, and from which it must spring. </p><p>Another glance, and then I remained motionless. </p><p>There was an easy pass in the mountains directly opposite to me, through </p><p>which I caught a glimpse of an immeasurable extent of blue and distant </p><p>plains. </p><p>Easy? Yes, perfectly easy; grassed nearly to the summit, which was, as</p><p>it were, an open path between two glaciers, from which an inconsiderable </p><p>stream came tumbling down over rough but very possible hillsides, till it </p><p>got down to the level of the great river, and formed a flat where there </p><p>was grass and a small bush of stunted timber. </p><p>Almost before I could believe my eyes, a cloud had come up from the </p><p>valley on the other side, and the plains were hidden. What wonderful</p><p>luck was mine! Had I arrived five minutes later, the cloud would have</p><p>been over the pass, and I should not have known of its existence. Now</p><p>that the cloud was there, I began to doubt my memory, and to be uncertain </p><p>whether it had been more than a blue line of distant vapour that had </p><p>filled up the opening. I could only be certain of this much, namely,</p><p>that the river in the valley below must be the one next to the northward </p><p>of that which flowed past my master's station; of this there could be no </p><p>doubt. Could I, however, imagine that my luck should have led me up a</p><p>wrong river in search of a pass, and yet brought me to the spot where I </p><p>could detect the one weak place in the fortifications of a more northern </p><p>basin? This was too improbable. But even as I doubted there came a rent</p><p>in the cloud opposite, and a second time I saw blue lines of heaving </p><p>downs, growing gradually fainter, and retiring into a far space of plain. </p><p>It was substantial; there had been no mistake whatsoever. I had hardly</p><p>made myself perfectly sure of this, ere the rent in the clouds joined up </p><p>again and I could see nothing more. </p><p>What, then, should I do? The night would be upon me shortly, and I was</p><p>already chilled with standing still after the exertion of climbing. To</p><p>stay where I was would be impossible; I must either go backwards or </p><p>forwards. I found a rock which gave me shelter from the evening wind,</p><p>and took a good pull at the brandy flask, which immediately warmed and </p><p>encouraged me. </p><p>I asked myself, Could I descend upon the river-bed beneath me? It was</p><p>impossible to say what precipices might prevent my doing so. If I were</p><p>on the river-bed, dare I cross the river? I am an excellent swimmer,</p><p>yet, once in that frightful rush of waters, I should be hurled </p><p>whithersoever it willed, absolutely powerless. Moreover, there was my</p><p>swag; I should perish of cold and hunger if I left it, but I should </p><p>certainly be drowned if I attempted to carry it across the river. These</p><p>were serious considerations, but the hope of finding an immense tract of </p><p>available sheep country (which I was determined that I would monopolise </p><p>as far as I possibly could) sufficed to outweigh them; and, in a few </p><p>minutes, I felt resolved that, having made so important a discovery as a </p><p>pass into a country which was probably as valuable as that on our own </p><p>side of the ranges, I would follow it up and ascertain its value, even </p><p>though I should pay the penalty of failure with life itself. The more I</p><p>thought, the more determined I became either to win fame and perhaps </p><p>fortune, by entering upon this unknown world, or give up life in the </p><p>attempt. In fact, I felt that life would be no longer valuable if I were</p><p>to have seen so great a prize and refused to grasp at the possible </p><p>profits therefrom.</p><p>I had still an hour of good daylight during which I might begin my </p><p>descent on to some suitable camping-ground, but there was not a moment to </p><p>be lost. At first I got along rapidly, for I was on the snow, and sank</p><p>into it enough to save me from falling, though I went forward straight </p><p>down the mountain side as fast as I could; but there was less snow on </p><p>this side than on the other, and I had soon done with it, getting on to a </p><p>coomb of dangerous and very stony ground, where a slip might have given </p><p>me a disastrous fall. But I was careful with all my speed, and got</p><p>safely to the bottom, where there were patches of coarse grass, and an </p><p>attempt here and there at brushwood: what was below this I could not see. </p><p>I advanced a few hundred yards farther, and found that I was on the brink </p><p>of a frightful precipice, which no one in his senses would attempt </p><p>descending. I bethought me, however, to try the creek which drained the</p><p>coomb, and see whether it might not have made itself a smoother way. In</p><p>a few minutes I found myself at the upper end of a chasm in the rocks, </p><p>something like Twll Dhu, only on a greatly larger scale; the creek had </p><p>found its way into it, and had worn a deep channel through a material </p><p>which appeared softer than that upon the other side of the mountain. I</p><p>believe it must have been a different geological formation, though I </p><p>regret to say that I cannot tell what it was. </p><p>I looked at this rift in great doubt; then I went a little way on either </p><p>side of it, and found myself looking over the edge of horrible precipices </p><p>on to the river, which roared some four or five thousand feet below me. I</p><p>dared not think of getting down at all, unless I committed myself to the </p><p>rift, of which I was hopeful when I reflected that the rock was soft, and </p><p>that the water might have worn its channel tolerably evenly through the </p><p>whole extent. The darkness was increasing with every minute, but I</p><p>should have twilight for another half-hour, so I went into the chasm </p><p>(though by no means without fear), and resolved to return and camp, and </p><p>try some other path next day, should I come to any serious difficulty. In</p><p>about five minutes I had completely lost my head; the side of the rift </p><p>became hundreds of feet in height, and overhung so that I could not see </p><p>the sky. It was full of rocks, and I had many falls and bruises. I was</p><p>wet through from falling into the water, of which there was no great </p><p>volume, but it had such force that I could do nothing against it; once I </p><p>had to leap down a not inconsiderable waterfall into a deep pool below, </p><p>and my swag was so heavy that I was very nearly drowned. I had indeed a</p><p>hair's-breadth escape; but, as luck would have it, Providence was on my </p><p>side. Shortly afterwards I began to fancy that the rift was getting</p><p>wider, and that there was more brushwood. Presently I found myself on an</p><p>open grassy slope, and feeling my way a little farther along the stream, </p><p>I came upon a flat place with wood, where I could camp comfortably; which </p><p>was well, for it was now quite dark. </p><p>My first care was for my matches; were they dry? The outside of my swag</p><p>had got completely wet; but, on undoing the blankets, I found things warm </p><p>and dry within. How thankful I was! I lit a fire, and was grateful for</p><p>its warmth and company. I made myself some tea and ate two of my</p><p>biscuits: my brandy I did not touch, for I had little left, and might </p><p>want it when my courage failed me. All that I did, I did almost</p><p>mechanically, for I could not realise my situation to myself, beyond </p><p>knowing that I was alone, and that return through the chasm which I had </p><p>just descended would be impossible. It is a dreadful feeling that of</p><p>being cut off from all one's kind. I was still full of hope, and built</p><p>golden castles for myself as soon as I was warmed with food and fire; but </p><p>I do not believe that any man could long retain his reason in such </p><p>solitude, unless he had the companionship of animals. One begins</p><p>doubting one's own identity. </p><p>I remember deriving comfort even from the sight of my blankets, and the </p><p>sound of my watch ticking--things which seemed to link me to other </p><p>people; but the screaming of the wood-hens frightened me, as also a </p><p>chattering bird which I had never heard before, and which seemed to laugh </p><p>at me; though I soon got used to it, and before long could fancy that it </p><p>was many years since I had first heard it. </p><p>I took off my clothes, and wrapped my inside blanket about me, till my </p><p>things were dry. The night was very still, and I made a roaring fire; so</p><p>I soon got warm, and at last could put my clothes on again. Then I</p><p>strapped my blanket round me, and went to sleep as near the fire as I </p><p>could. </p><p>I dreamed that there was an organ placed in my master's wool-shed: the </p><p>wool-shed faded away, and the organ seemed to grow and grow amid a blaze </p><p>of brilliant light, till it became like a golden city upon the side of a </p><p>mountain, with rows upon rows of pipes set in cliffs and precipices, one </p><p>above the other, and in mysterious caverns, like that of Fingal, within </p><p>whose depths I could see the burnished pillars gleaming. In the front</p><p>there was a flight of lofty terraces, at the top of which I could see a </p><p>man with his head buried forward towards a key-board, and his body </p><p>swaying from side to side amid the storm of huge arpeggioed harmonies </p><p>that came crashing overhead and round. Then there was one who touched me</p><p>on the shoulder, and said, "Do you not see? it is Handel";--but I had </p><p>hardly apprehended, and was trying to scale the terraces, and get near </p><p>him, when I awoke, dazzled with the vividness and distinctness of the </p><p>dream. </p><p>A piece of wood had burned through, and the ends had fallen into the </p><p>ashes with a blaze: this, I supposed, had both given me my dream and </p><p>robbed me of it. I was bitterly disappointed, and sitting up on my</p><p>elbow, came back to reality and my strange surroundings as best I could. </p><p>I was thoroughly aroused--moreover, I felt a foreshadowing as though my </p><p>attention were arrested by something more than the dream, although no </p><p>sense in particular was as yet appealed to. I held my breath and waited,</p><p>and then I heard--was it fancy? Nay; I listened again and again, and I</p><p>_did_ hear a faint and extremely distant sound of music, like that of an </p><p>AEolian harp, borne upon the wind which was blowing fresh and chill from </p><p>the opposite mountains. </p><p>The roots of my hair thrilled. I listened, but the wind had died; and,</p><p>fancying that it must have been the wind itself--no; on a sudden I </p><p>remembered the noise which Chowbok had made in the wool-shed. Yes; it</p><p>was that. </p><p>Thank Heaven, whatever it was, it was over now. I reasoned with myself,</p><p>and recovered my firmness. I became convinced that I had only been</p><p>dreaming more vividly than usual. Soon I began even to laugh, and think</p><p>what a fool I was to be frightened at nothing, reminding myself that even </p><p>if I were to come to a bad end it would be no such dreadful matter after </p><p>all. I said my prayers, a duty which I had too often neglected, and in a</p><p>little time fell into a really refreshing sleep, which lasted till broad </p><p>daylight, and restored me. I rose, and searching among the embers of my</p><p>fire, I found a few live coals and soon had a blaze again. I got</p><p>breakfast, and was delighted to have the company of several small birds, </p><p>which hopped about me and perched on my boots and hands. I felt</p><p>comparatively happy, but I can assure the reader that I had had a far </p><p>worse time of it than I have told him; and I strongly recommend him to </p><p>remain in Europe if he can; or, at any rate, in some country which has </p><p>been explored and settled, rather than go into places where others have </p><p>not been before him. Exploring is delightful to look forward to and back</p><p>upon, but it is not comfortable at the time, unless it be of such an easy </p><p>nature as not to deserve the name. </p><p>CHAPTER V: THE RIVER AND THE RANGE </p><p>My next business was to descend upon the river. I had lost sight of the</p><p>pass which I had seen from the saddle, but had made such notes of it that </p><p>I could not fail to find it. I was bruised and stiff, and my boots had</p><p>begun to give, for I had been going on rough ground for more than three </p><p>weeks; but, as the day wore on, and I found myself descending without </p><p>serious difficulty, I became easier. In a couple of hours I got among</p><p>pine forests where there was little undergrowth, and descended quickly </p><p>till I reached the edge of another precipice, which gave me a great deal </p><p>of trouble, though I eventually managed to avoid it. By about three or</p><p>four o'clock I found myself on the river-bed. </p><p>From calculations which I made as to the height of the valley on the </p><p>other side the saddle over which I had come, I concluded that the saddle </p><p>itself could not be less than nine thousand feet high; and I should think </p><p>that the river-bed, on to which I now descended, was three thousand feet </p><p>above the sea-level. The water had a terrific current, with a fall of</p><p>not less than forty to fifty feet per mile. It was certainly the river</p><p>next to the northward of that which flowed past my master's run, and </p><p>would have to go through an impassable gorge (as is commonly the case </p><p>with the rivers of that country) before it came upon known parts. It was</p><p>reckoned to be nearly two thousand feet above the sea-level where it came </p><p>out of the gorge on to the plains. </p><p>As soon as I got to the river side I liked it even less than I thought I </p><p>should. It was muddy, being near its parent glaciers. The stream was</p><p>wide, rapid, and rough, and I could hear the smaller stones knocking </p><p>against each other under the rage of the waters, as upon a seashore. </p><p>Fording was out of the question. I could not swim and carry my swag, and</p><p>I dared not leave my swag behind me. My only chance was to make a small</p><p>raft; and that would be difficult to make, and not at all safe when it </p><p>was made,--not for one man in such a current. </p><p>As it was too late to do much that afternoon, I spent the rest of it in </p><p>going up and down the river side, and seeing where I should find the most </p><p>favourable crossing. Then I camped early, and had a quiet comfortable</p><p>night with no more music, for which I was thankful, as it had haunted me </p><p>all day, although I perfectly well knew that it had been nothing but my </p><p>own fancy, brought on by the reminiscence of what I had heard from </p><p>Chowbok and by the over-excitement of the preceding evening. </p><p>Next day I began gathering the dry bloom stalks of a kind of flag or iris- </p><p>looking plant, which was abundant, and whose leaves, when torn into </p><p>strips, were as strong as the strongest string. I brought them to the</p><p>waterside, and fell to making myself a kind of rough platform, which </p><p>should suffice for myself and my swag if I could only stick to it. The</p><p>stalks were ten or twelve feet long, and very strong, but light and </p><p>hollow. I made my raft entirely of them, binding bundles of them at</p><p>right angles to each other, neatly and strongly, with strips from the </p><p>leaves of the same plant, and tying other rods across. It took me all</p><p>day till nearly four o'clock to finish the raft, but I had still enough </p><p>daylight for crossing, and resolved on doing so at once. </p><p>I had selected a place where the river was broad and comparatively still, </p><p>some seventy or eighty yards above a furious rapid. At this spot I had</p><p>built my raft. I now launched it, made my swag fast to the middle, and</p><p>got on to it myself, keeping in my hand one of the longest blossom </p><p>stalks, so that I might punt myself across as long as the water was </p><p>shallow enough to let me do so. I got on pretty well for twenty or</p><p>thirty yards from the shore, but even in this short space I nearly upset </p><p>my raft by shifting too rapidly from one side to the other. The water</p><p>then became much deeper, and I leaned over so far in order to get the </p><p>bloom rod to the bottom that I had to stay still, leaning on the rod for </p><p>a few seconds. Then, when I lifted up the rod from the ground, the</p><p>current was too much for me and I found myself being carried down the </p><p>rapid. Everything in a second flew past me, and I had no more control</p><p>over the raft; neither can I remember anything except hurry, and noise, </p><p>and waters which in the end upset me. But it all came right, and I found</p><p>myself near the shore, not more than up to my knees in water and pulling </p><p>my raft to land, fortunately upon the left bank of the river, which was </p><p>the one I wanted. When I had landed I found that I was about a mile, or</p><p>perhaps a little less, below the point from which I started. My swag was</p><p>wet upon the outside, and I was myself dripping; but I had gained my </p><p>point, and knew that my difficulties were for a time over. I then lit my</p><p>fire and dried myself; having done so I caught some of the young ducks </p><p>and sea-gulls, which were abundant on and near the river-bed, so that I </p><p>had not only a good meal, of which I was in great want, having had an </p><p>insufficient diet from the time that Chowbok left me, but was also well </p><p>provided for the morrow. </p><p>I thought of Chowbok, and felt how useful he had been to me, and in how </p><p>many ways I was the loser by his absence, having now to do all sorts of </p><p>things for myself which he had hitherto done for me, and could do </p><p>infinitely better than I could. Moreover, I had set my heart upon making</p><p>him a real convert to the Christian religion, which he had already </p><p>embraced outwardly, though I cannot think that it had taken deep root in </p><p>his impenetrably stupid nature. I used to catechise him by our camp</p><p>fire, and explain to him the mysteries of the Trinity and of original </p><p>sin, with which I was myself familiar, having been the grandson of an </p><p>archdeacon by my mother's side, to say nothing of the fact that my father </p><p>was a clergyman of the English Church. I was therefore sufficiently</p><p>qualified for the task, and was the more inclined to it, over and above </p><p>my real desire to save the unhappy creature from an eternity of torture, </p><p>by recollecting the promise of St. James, that if any one converted a </p><p>sinner (which Chowbok surely was) he should hide a multitude of sins. I</p><p>reflected, therefore, that the conversion of Chowbok might in some degree </p><p>compensate for irregularities and short-comings in my own previous life, </p><p>the remembrance of which had been more than once unpleasant to me during </p><p>my recent experiences. </p><p>Indeed, on one occasion I had even gone so far as to baptize him, as well </p><p>as I could, having ascertained that he had certainly not been both </p><p>christened and baptized, and gathering (from his telling me that he had </p><p>received the name William from the missionary) that it was probably the </p><p>first-mentioned rite to which he had been subjected. I thought it great</p><p>carelessness on the part of the missionary to have omitted the second, </p><p>and certainly more important, ceremony which I have always understood </p><p>precedes christening both in the case of infants and of adult converts; </p><p>and when I thought of the risks we were both incurring I determined that </p><p>there should be no further delay. Fortunately it was not yet twelve</p><p>o'clock, so I baptized him at once from one of the pannikins (the only </p><p>vessels I had) reverently, and, I trust, efficiently. I then set myself</p><p>to work to instruct him in the deeper mysteries of our belief, and to </p><p>make him, not only in name, but in heart a Christian. </p><p>It is true that I might not have succeeded, for Chowbok was very hard to </p><p>teach. Indeed, on the evening of the same day that I baptized him he</p><p>tried for the twentieth time to steal the brandy, which made me rather </p><p>unhappy as to whether I could have baptized him rightly. He had a prayer-</p><p>book--more than twenty years old--which had been given him by the </p><p>missionaries, but the only thing in it which had taken any living hold </p><p>upon him was the title of Adelaide the Queen Dowager, which he would </p><p>repeat whenever strongly moved or touched, and which did really seem to </p><p>have some deep spiritual significance to him, though he could never </p><p>completely separate her individuality from that of Mary Magdalene, whose </p><p>name had also fascinated him, though in a less degree. </p><p>He was indeed stony ground, but by digging about him I might have at any </p><p>rate deprived him of all faith in the religion of his tribe, which would </p><p>have been half way towards making him a sincere Christian; and now all </p><p>this was cut off from me, and I could neither be of further spiritual </p><p>assistance to him nor he of bodily profit to myself: besides, any company </p><p>was better than being quite alone. </p><p>I got very melancholy as these reflections crossed me, but when I had </p><p>boiled the ducks and eaten them I was much better. I had a little tea</p><p>left and about a pound of tobacco, which should last me for another </p><p>fortnight with moderate smoking. I had also eight ship biscuits, and,</p><p>most precious of all, about six ounces of brandy, which I presently </p><p>reduced to four, for the night was cold. </p><p>I rose with early dawn, and in an hour I was on my way, feeling strange, </p><p>not to say weak, from the burden of solitude, but full of hope when I </p><p>considered how many dangers I had overcome, and that this day should see </p><p>me at the summit of the dividing range. </p><p>After a slow but steady climb of between three and four hours, during </p><p>which I met with no serious hindrance, I found myself upon a tableland, </p><p>and close to a glacier which I recognised as marking the summit of the </p><p>pass. Above it towered a succession of rugged precipices and snowy</p><p>mountain sides. The solitude was greater than I could bear; the mountain</p><p>upon my master's sheep-run was a crowded thoroughfare in comparison with </p><p>this sombre sullen place. The air, moreover, was dark and heavy, which</p><p>made the loneliness even more oppressive. There was an inky gloom over</p><p>all that was not covered with snow and ice. Grass there was none.</p><p>Each moment I felt increasing upon me that dreadful doubt as to my own </p><p>identity--as to the continuity of my past and present existence--which is </p><p>the first sign of that distraction which comes on those who have lost </p><p>themselves in the bush. I had fought against this feeling hitherto, and</p><p>had conquered it; but the intense silence and gloom of this rocky </p><p>wilderness were too much for me, and I felt that my power of collecting </p><p>myself was beginning to be impaired. </p><p>I rested for a little while, and then advanced over very rough ground, </p><p>until I reached the lower end of the glacier. Then I saw another</p><p>glacier, descending from the eastern side into a small lake. I passed</p><p>along the western side of the lake, where the ground was easier, and when </p><p>I had got about half way I expected that I should see the plains which I </p><p>had already seen from the opposite mountains; but it was not to be so, </p><p>for the clouds rolled up to the very summit of the pass, though they did </p><p>not overlip it on to the side from which I had come. I therefore soon</p><p>found myself enshrouded by a cold thin vapour, which prevented my seeing </p><p>more than a very few yards in front of me. Then I came upon a large</p><p>patch of old snow, in which I could distinctly trace the half-melted </p><p>tracks of goats--and in one place, as it seemed to me, there had been a </p><p>dog following them. Had I lighted upon a land of shepherds? The ground,</p><p>where not covered with snow, was so poor and stony, and there was so </p><p>little herbage, that I could see no sign of a path or regular </p><p>sheep-track. But I could not help feeling rather uneasy as I wondered</p><p>what sort of a reception I might meet with if I were to come suddenly </p><p>upon inhabitants. I was thinking of this, and proceeding cautiously</p><p>through the mist, when I began to fancy that I saw some objects darker </p><p>than the cloud looming in front of me. A few steps brought me nearer,</p><p>and a shudder of unutterable horror ran through me when I saw a circle of </p><p>gigantic forms, many times higher than myself, upstanding grim and grey </p><p>through the veil of cloud before me. </p><p>I suppose I must have fainted, for I found myself some time afterwards </p><p>sitting upon the ground, sick and deadly cold. There were the figures,</p><p>quite still and silent, seen vaguely through the thick gloom, but in </p><p>human shape indisputably. </p><p>A sudden thought occurred to me, which would have doubtless struck me at </p><p>once had I not been prepossessed with forebodings at the time that I </p><p>first saw the figures, and had not the cloud concealed them from me--I </p><p>mean that they were not living beings, but statues. I determined that I</p><p>would count fifty slowly, and was sure that the objects were not alive if </p><p>during that time I could detect no sign of motion. </p><p>How thankful was I when I came to the end of my fifty and there had been </p><p>no movement! </p><p>I counted a second time--but again all was still. </p><p>I then advanced timidly forward, and in another moment I saw that my </p><p>surmise was correct. I had come upon a sort of Stonehenge of rude and</p><p>barbaric figures, seated as Chowbok had sat when I questioned him in the </p><p>wool-shed, and with the same superhumanly malevolent expression upon </p><p>their faces. They had been all seated, but two had fallen. They were</p><p>barbarous--neither Egyptian, nor Assyrian, nor Japanese--different from </p><p>any of these, and yet akin to all. They were six or seven times larger</p><p>than life, of great antiquity, worn and lichen grown. They were ten in</p><p>number. There was snow upon their heads and wherever snow could lodge.</p><p>Each statue had been built of four or five enormous blocks, but how these </p><p>had been raised and put together is known to those alone who raised them. </p><p>Each was terrible after a different kind. One was raging furiously, as</p><p>in pain and great despair; another was lean and cadaverous with famine; </p><p>another cruel and idiotic, but with the silliest simper that can be </p><p>conceived--this one had fallen, and looked exquisitely ludicrous in his </p><p>fall--the mouths of all were more or less open, and as I looked at them </p><p>from behind, I saw that their heads had been hollowed. </p><p>I was sick and shivering with cold. Solitude had unmanned me already,</p><p>and I was utterly unfit to have come upon such an assembly of fiends in </p><p>such a dreadful wilderness and without preparation. I would have given</p><p>everything I had in the world to have been back at my master's station; </p><p>but that was not to be thought of: my head was failing, and I felt sure </p><p>that I could never get back alive. </p><p>Then came a gust of howling wind, accompanied with a moan from one of the </p><p>statues above me. I clasped my hands in fear. I felt like a rat caught</p><p>in a trap, as though I would have turned and bitten at whatever thing was </p><p>nearest me. The wildness of the wind increased, the moans grew shriller,</p><p>coming from several statues, and swelling into a chorus. I almost</p><p>immediately knew what it was, but the sound was so unearthly that this </p><p>was but little consolation. The inhuman beings into whose hearts the</p><p>Evil One had put it to conceive these statues, had made their heads into </p><p>a sort of organ-pipe, so that their mouths should catch the wind and </p><p>sound with its blowing. It was horrible. However brave a man might be,</p><p>he could never stand such a concert, from such lips, and in such a place. </p><p>I heaped every invective upon them that my tongue could utter as I rushed </p><p>away from them into the mist, and even after I had lost sight of them, </p><p>and turning my head round could see nothing but the storm-wraiths driving </p><p>behind me, I heard their ghostly chanting, and felt as though one of them </p><p>would rush after me and grip me in his hand and throttle me. </p><p>I may say here that, since my return to England, I heard a friend playing </p><p>some chords upon the organ which put me very forcibly in mind of the </p><p>Erewhonian statues (for Erewhon is the name of the country upon which I </p><p>was now entering). They rose most vividly to my recollection the moment</p><p>my friend began. They are as follows, and are by the greatest of all</p><p>musicians:--{2} </p><p>[Music score which cannot be reproduced] </p><p>CHAPTER VI: INTO EREWHON </p><p>And now I found myself on a narrow path which followed a small </p><p>watercourse. I was too glad to have an easy track for my flight, to lay</p><p>hold of the full significance of its existence. The thought, however,</p><p>soon presented itself to me that I must be in an inhabited country, but </p><p>one which was yet unknown. What, then, was to be my fate at the hands of</p><p>its inhabitants? Should I be taken and offered up as a burnt-offering to</p><p>those hideous guardians of the pass? It might be so. I shuddered at the</p><p>thought, yet the horrors of solitude had now fairly possessed me; and so </p><p>dazed was I, and chilled, and woebegone, that I could lay hold of no idea </p><p>firmly amid the crowd of fancies that kept wandering in upon my brain. </p><p>I hurried onward--down, down, down. More streams came in; then there was</p><p>a bridge, a few pine logs thrown over the water; but they gave me </p><p>comfort, for savages do not make bridges. Then I had a treat such as I</p><p>can never convey on paper--a moment, perhaps, the most striking and </p><p>unexpected in my whole life--the one I think that, with some three or </p><p>four exceptions, I would most gladly have again, were I able to recall </p><p>it. I got below the level of the clouds, into a burst of brilliant</p><p>evening sunshine, I was facing the north-west, and the sun was full upon </p><p>me. Oh, how its light cheered me! But what I saw! It was such an</p><p>expanse as was revealed to Moses when he stood upon the summit of Mount </p><p>Sinai, and beheld that promised land which it was not to be his to enter. </p><p>The beautiful sunset sky was crimson and gold; blue, silver, and purple; </p><p>exquisite and tranquillising; fading away therein were plains, on which I </p><p>could see many a town and city, with buildings that had lofty steeples </p><p>and rounded domes. Nearer beneath me lay ridge behind ridge, outline</p><p>behind outline, sunlight behind shadow, and shadow behind sunlight, gully </p><p>and serrated ravine. I saw large pine forests, and the glitter of a</p><p>noble river winding its way upon the plains; also many villages and </p><p>hamlets, some of them quite near at hand; and it was on these that I </p><p>pondered most. I sank upon the ground at the foot of a large tree and</p><p>thought what I had best do; but I could not collect myself. I was quite</p><p>tired out; and presently, feeling warmed by the sun, and quieted, I fell </p><p>off into a profound sleep. </p><p>I was awoke by the sound of tinkling bells, and looking up, I saw four or </p><p>five goats feeding near me. As soon as I moved, the creatures turned</p><p>their heads towards me with an expression of infinite wonder. They did</p><p>not run away, but stood stock still, and looked at me from every side, as </p><p>I at them. Then came the sound of chattering and laughter, and there</p><p>approached two lovely girls, of about seventeen or eighteen years old, </p><p>dressed each in a sort of linen gaberdine, with a girdle round the waist. </p><p>They saw me. I sat quite still and looked at them, dazzled with their</p><p>extreme beauty. For a moment they looked at me and at each other in</p><p>great amazement; then they gave a little frightened cry and ran off as </p><p>hard as they could. </p><p>"So that's that," said I to myself, as I watched them scampering. I knew</p><p>that I had better stay where I was and meet my fate, whatever it was to </p><p>be, and even if there were a better course, I had no strength left to </p><p>take it. I must come into contact with the inhabitants sooner or later,</p><p>and it might as well be sooner. Better not to seem afraid of them, as I</p><p>should do by running away and being caught with a hue and cry to-morrow </p><p>or next day. So I remained quite still and waited. In about an hour I</p><p>heard distant voices talking excitedly, and in a few minutes I saw the </p><p>two girls bringing up a party of six or seven men, well armed with bows </p><p>and arrows and pikes. There was nothing for it, so I remained sitting</p><p>quite still, even after they had seen me, until they came close up. Then</p><p>we all had a good look at one another. </p><p>Both the girls and the men were very dark in colour, but not more so than </p><p>the South Italians or Spaniards. The men wore no trousers, but were</p><p>dressed nearly the same as the Arabs whom I have seen in Algeria. They</p><p>were of the most magnificent presence, being no less strong and handsome </p><p>than the women were beautiful; and not only this, but their expression </p><p>was courteous and benign. I think they would have killed me at once if I</p><p>had made the slightest show of violence; but they gave me no impression </p><p>of their being likely to hurt me so long as I was quiet. I am not much</p><p>given to liking anybody at first sight, but these people impressed me </p><p>much more favourably than I should have thought possible, so that I could </p><p>not fear them as I scanned their faces one after another. They were all</p><p>powerful men. I might have been a match for any one of them singly, for</p><p>I have been told that I have more to glory in the flesh than in any other </p><p>respect, being over six feet and proportionately strong; but any two </p><p>could have soon mastered me, even were I not so bereft of energy by my </p><p>recent adventures. My colour seemed to surprise them most, for I have</p><p>light hair, blue eyes, and a fresh complexion. They could not understand</p><p>how these things could be; my clothes also seemed quite beyond them. </p><p>Their eyes kept wandering all over me, and the more they looked the less</p><p>they seemed able to make me out. </p><p>At last I raised myself upon my feet, and leaning upon my stick, I spoke </p><p>whatever came into my head to the man who seemed foremost among them. I</p><p>spoke in English, though I was very sure that he would not understand. I</p><p>said that I had no idea what country I was in; that I had stumbled upon </p><p>it almost by accident, after a series of hairbreadth escapes; and that I </p><p>trusted they would not allow any evil to overtake me now that I was </p><p>completely at their mercy. All this I said quietly and firmly, with</p><p>hardly any change of expression. They could not understand me, but they</p><p>looked approvingly to one another, and seemed pleased (so I thought) that </p><p>I showed no fear nor acknowledgment of inferiority--the fact being that I </p><p>was exhausted beyond the sense of fear. Then one of them pointed to the</p><p>mountain, in the direction of the statues, and made a grimace in </p><p>imitation of one of them. I laughed and shuddered expressively, whereon</p><p>they all burst out laughing too, and chattered hard to one another. I</p><p>could make out nothing of what they said, but I think they thought it </p><p>rather a good joke that I had come past the statues. Then one among them</p><p>came forward and motioned me to follow, which I did without hesitation, </p><p>for I dared not thwart them; moreover, I liked them well enough, and felt </p><p>tolerably sure that they had no intention of hurting me. </p><p>In about a quarter of an hour we got to a small Hamlet built on the side </p><p>of a hill, with a narrow street and houses huddled up together. The</p><p>roofs were large and overhanging. Some few windows were glazed, but not</p><p>many. Altogether the village was exceedingly like one of those that one</p><p>comes upon in descending the less known passes over the Alps on to </p><p>Lombardy. I will pass over the excitement which my arrival caused.</p><p>Suffice it, that though there was abundance of curiosity, there was no </p><p>rudeness. I was taken to the principal house, which seemed to belong to</p><p>the people who had captured me. There I was hospitably entertained, and</p><p>a supper of milk and goat's flesh with a kind of oatcake was set before </p><p>me, of which I ate heartily. But all the time I was eating I could not</p><p>help turning my eyes upon the two beautiful girls whom I had first seen, </p><p>and who seemed to consider me as their lawful prize--which indeed I was, </p><p>for I would have gone through fire and water for either of them. </p><p>Then came the inevitable surprise at seeing me smoke, which I will spare </p><p>the reader; but I noticed that when they saw me strike a match, there was </p><p>a hubbub of excitement which, it struck me, was not altogether unmixed </p><p>with disapproval: why, I could not guess. Then the women retired, and I</p><p>was left alone with the men, who tried to talk to me in every conceivable </p><p>way; but we could come to no understanding, except that I was quite </p><p>alone, and had come from a long way over the mountains. In the course of</p><p>time they grew tired, and I very sleepy. I made signs as though I would</p><p>sleep on the floor in my blankets, but they gave me one of their bunks </p><p>with plenty of dried fern and grass, on to which I had no sooner laid </p><p>myself than I fell fast asleep; nor did I awake till well into the </p><p>following day, when I found myself in the hut with two men keeping guard </p><p>over me and an old woman cooking. When I woke the men seemed pleased,</p><p>and spoke to me as though bidding me good morning in a pleasant tone. </p><p>I went out of doors to wash in a creek which ran a few yards from the </p><p>house. My hosts were as engrossed with me as ever; they never took their</p><p>eyes off me, following every action that I did, no matter how trifling, </p><p>and each looking towards the other for his opinion at every touch and </p><p>turn. They took great interest in my ablutions, for they seemed to have</p><p>doubted whether I was in all respects human like themselves. They even</p><p>laid hold of my arms and overhauled them, and expressed approval when</p><p>they saw that they were strong and muscular. They now examined my legs,</p><p>and especially my feet. When they desisted they nodded approvingly to</p><p>each other; and when I had combed and brushed my hair, and generally made </p><p>myself as neat and well arranged as circumstances would allow, I could </p><p>see that their respect for me increased greatly, and that they were by no </p><p>means sure that they had treated me with sufficient deference--a matter </p><p>on which I am not competent to decide. All I know is that they were very</p><p>good to me, for which I thanked them heartily, as it might well have been </p><p>otherwise. </p><p>For my own part, I liked them and admired them, for their quiet </p><p>self-possession and dignified ease impressed me pleasurably at once. </p><p>Neither did their manner make me feel as though I were personally </p><p>distasteful to them--only that I was a thing utterly new and unlooked </p><p>for, which they could not comprehend. Their type was more that of the</p><p>most robust Italians than any other; their manners also were eminently </p><p>Italian, in their entire unconsciousness of self. Having travelled a</p><p>good deal in Italy, I was struck with little gestures of the hand and </p><p>shoulders, which constantly reminded me of that country. My feeling was</p><p>that my wisest plan would be to go on as I had begun, and be simply </p><p>myself for better or worse, such as I was, and take my chance </p><p>accordingly. </p><p>I thought of these things while they were waiting for me to have done </p><p>washing, and on my way back. Then they gave me breakfast--hot bread and</p><p>milk, and fried flesh of something between mutton and venison. Their</p><p>ways of cooking and eating were European, though they had only a skewer </p><p>for a fork, and a sort of butcher's knife to cut with. The more I looked</p><p>at everything in the house, the more I was struck with its quasi-European </p><p>character; and had the walls only been pasted over with extracts from the </p><p>_Illustrated London News_ and _Punch_, I could have almost fancied myself </p><p>in a shepherd's hut upon my master's sheep-run. And yet everything was</p><p>slightly different. It was much the same with the birds and flowers on</p><p>the other side, as compared with the English ones. On my arrival I had</p><p>been pleased at noticing that nearly all the plants and birds were very </p><p>like common English ones: thus, there was a robin, and a lark, and a </p><p>wren, and daisies, and dandelions; not quite the same as the English, but </p><p>still very like them--quite like enough to be called by the same name; so </p><p>now, here, the ways of these two men, and the things they had in the </p><p>house, were all very nearly the same as in Europe. It was not at all</p><p>like going to China or Japan, where everything that one sees is strange. </p><p>I was, indeed, at once struck with the primitive character of their </p><p>appliances, for they seemed to be some five or six hundred years behind </p><p>Europe in their inventions; but this is the case in many an Italian </p><p>village. </p><p>All the time that I was eating my breakfast I kept speculating as to what </p><p>family of mankind they could belong to; and shortly there came an idea </p><p>into my head, which brought the blood into my cheeks with excitement as I </p><p>thought of it. Was it possible that they might be the lost ten tribes of</p><p>Israel, of whom I had heard both my grandfather and my father make </p><p>mention as existing in an unknown country, and awaiting a final return to </p><p>Palestine? Was it possible that I might have been designed by Providence</p><p>as the instrument of their conversion? Oh, what a thought was this! I</p><p>laid down my skewer and gave them a hasty survey. There was nothing of a</p><p>Jewish type about them: their noses were distinctly Grecian, and their </p><p>lips, though full, were not Jewish. </p><p>How could I settle this question? I knew neither Greek nor Hebrew, and</p><p>even if I should get to understand the language here spoken, I should be </p><p>unable to detect the roots of either of these tongues. I had not been</p><p>long enough among them to ascertain their habits, but they did not give </p><p>me the impression of being a religious people. This too was natural: the</p><p>ten tribes had been always lamentably irreligious. But could I not make</p><p>them change? To restore the lost ten tribes of Israel to a knowledge of</p><p>the only truth: here would be indeed an immortal crown of glory! My</p><p>heart beat fast and furious as I entertained the thought. What a</p><p>position would it not ensure me in the next world; or perhaps even in </p><p>this! What folly it would be to throw such a chance away! I should rank</p><p>next to the Apostles, if not as high as they--certainly above the minor </p><p>prophets, and possibly above any Old Testament writer except Moses and </p><p>Isaiah. For such a future as this I would sacrifice all that I have</p><p>without a moment's hesitation, could I be reasonably assured of it. I</p><p>had always cordially approved of missionary efforts, and had at times </p><p>contributed my mite towards their support and extension; but I had never </p><p>hitherto felt drawn towards becoming a missionary myself; and indeed had </p><p>always admired, and envied, and respected them, more than I had exactly </p><p>liked them. But if these people were the lost ten tribes of Israel, the</p><p>case would be widely different: the opening was too excellent to be lost, </p><p>and I resolved that should I see indications which appeared to confirm my </p><p>impression that I had indeed come upon the missing tribes, I would </p><p>certainly convert them. </p><p>I may here mention that this discovery is the one to which I alluded in </p><p>the opening pages of my story. Time strengthened the impression made</p><p>upon me at first; and, though I remained in doubt for several months, I </p><p>feel now no longer uncertain. </p><p>When I had done eating, my hosts approached, and pointed down the valley </p><p>leading to their own country, as though wanting to show that I must go </p><p>with them; at the same time they laid hold of my arms, and made as though </p><p>they would take me, but used no violence. I laughed, and motioned my</p><p>hand across my throat, pointing down the valley as though I was afraid </p><p>lest I should be killed when I got there. But they divined me at once,</p><p>and shook their heads with much decision, to show that I was in no </p><p>danger. Their manner quite reassured me; and in half an hour or so I had</p><p>packed up my swag, and was eager for the forward journey, feeling </p><p>wonderfully strengthened and refreshed by good food and sleep, while my </p><p>hope and curiosity were aroused to their very utmost by the extraordinary </p><p>position in which I found myself. </p><p>But already my excitement had begun to cool and I reflected that these </p><p>people might not be the ten tribes after all; in which case I could not </p><p>but regret that my hopes of making money, which had led me into so much </p><p>trouble and danger, were almost annihilated by the fact that the country </p><p>was full to overflowing, with a people who had probably already developed </p><p>its more available resources. Moreover, how was I to get back? For</p><p>there was something about my hosts which told me that they had got me, </p><p>and meant to keep me, in spite of all their goodness. </p><p>CHAPTER VII: FIRST IMPRESSIONS </p><p>We followed an Alpine path for some four miles, now hundreds of feet </p><p>above a brawling stream which descended from the glaciers, and now nearly</p><p>alongside it. The morning was cold and somewhat foggy, for the autumn</p><p>had made great strides latterly. Sometimes we went through forests of</p><p>pine, or rather yew trees, though they looked like pine; and I remember </p><p>that now and again we passed a little wayside shrine, wherein there would </p><p>be a statue of great beauty, representing some figure, male or female, in </p><p>the very heyday of youth, strength, and beauty, or of the most dignified </p><p>maturity and old age. My hosts always bowed their heads as they passed</p><p>one of these shrines, and it shocked me to see statues that had no </p><p>apparent object, beyond the chronicling of some unusual individual </p><p>excellence or beauty, receive so serious a homage. However, I showed no</p><p>sign of wonder or disapproval; for I remembered that to be all things to </p><p>all men was one of the injunctions of the Gentile Apostle, which for the </p><p>present I should do well to heed. Shortly after passing one of these</p><p>chapels we came suddenly upon a village which started up out of the mist; </p><p>and I was alarmed lest I should be made an object of curiosity or </p><p>dislike. But it was not so. My guides spoke to many in passing, and</p><p>those spoken to showed much amazement. My guides, however, were well</p><p>known, and the natural politeness of the people prevented them from </p><p>putting me to any inconvenience; but they could not help eyeing me, nor I </p><p>them. I may as well say at once what my after-experience taught</p><p>me--namely, that with all their faults and extraordinary obliquity of </p><p>mental vision upon many subjects, they are the very best-bred people that </p><p>I ever fell in with. </p><p>The village was just like the one we had left, only rather larger. The</p><p>streets were narrow and unpaved, but very fairly clean. The vine grew</p><p>outside many of the houses; and there were some with sign-boards, on </p><p>which was painted a bottle and a glass, that made me feel much at home. </p><p>Even on this ledge of human society there was a stunted growth of </p><p>shoplets, which had taken root and vegetated somehow, though as in an air </p><p>mercantile of the bleakest. It was here as hitherto: all things were</p><p>generically the same as in Europe, the differences being of species only; </p><p>and I was amused at seeing in a window some bottles with barley-sugar and </p><p>sweetmeats for children, as at home; but the barley-sugar was in plates, </p><p>not in twisted sticks, and was coloured blue. Glass was plentiful in the</p><p>better houses. </p><p>Lastly, I should say that the people were of a physical beauty which was </p><p>simply amazing. I never saw anything in the least comparable to them.</p><p>The women were vigorous, and had a most majestic gait, their heads being </p><p>set upon their shoulders with a grace beyond all power of expression. </p><p>Each feature was finished, eyelids, eyelashes, and ears being almost </p><p>invariably perfect. Their colour was equal to that of the finest Italian</p><p>paintings; being of the clearest olive, and yet ruddy with a glow of </p><p>perfect health. Their expression was divine; and as they glanced at me</p><p>timidly but with parted lips in great bewilderment, I forgot all thoughts </p><p>of their conversion in feelings that were far more earthly. I was</p><p>dazzled as I saw one after the other, of whom I could only feel that each </p><p>was the loveliest I had ever seen. Even in middle age they were still</p><p>comely, and the old grey-haired women at their cottage doors had a </p><p>dignity, not to say majesty, of their own. </p><p>The men were as handsome as the women beautiful. I have always delighted</p><p>in and reverenced beauty; but I felt simply abashed in the presence of </p><p>such a splendid type--a compound of all that is best in Egyptian, Greek </p><p>and Italian. The children were infinite in number, and exceedingly</p><p>merry; I need hardly say that they came in for their full share of the </p><p>prevailing beauty. I expressed by signs my admiration and pleasure to my</p><p>guides, and they were greatly pleased. I should add that all seemed to</p><p>take a pride in their personal appearance, and that even the poorest (and </p><p>none seemed rich) were well kempt and tidy. I could fill many pages with</p><p>a description of their dress and the ornaments which they wore, and a </p><p>hundred details which struck me with all the force of novelty; but I must </p><p>not stay to do so. </p><p>When we had got past the village the fog rose, and revealed magnificent </p><p>views of the snowy mountains and their nearer abutments, while in front I </p><p>could now and again catch glimpses of the great plains which I had </p><p>surveyed on the preceding evening. The country was highly cultivated,</p><p>every ledge being planted with chestnuts, walnuts, and apple-trees from </p><p>which the apples were now gathering. Goats were abundant; also a kind of</p><p>small black cattle, in the marshes near the river, which was now fast </p><p>widening, and running between larger flats from which the hills receded </p><p>more and more. I saw a few sheep with rounded noses and enormous tails.</p><p>Dogs were there in plenty, and very English; but I saw no cats, nor </p><p>indeed are these creatures known, their place being supplied by a sort of </p><p>small terrier. </p><p>In about four hours of walking from the time we started, and after </p><p>passing two or three more villages, we came upon a considerable town, and </p><p>my guides made many attempts to make me understand something, but I </p><p>gathered no inkling of their meaning, except that I need be under no </p><p>apprehension of danger. I will spare the reader any description of the</p><p>town, and would only bid him think of Domodossola or Faido. Suffice it</p><p>that I found myself taken before the chief magistrate, and by his orders </p><p>was placed in an apartment with two other people, who were the first I </p><p>had seen looking anything but well and handsome. In fact, one of them</p><p>was plainly very much out of health, and coughed violently from time to </p><p>time in spite of manifest efforts to suppress it. The other looked pale</p><p>and ill but he was marvellously self-contained, and it was impossible to </p><p>say what was the matter with him. Both of them appeared astonished at</p><p>seeing one who was evidently a stranger, but they were too ill to come up </p><p>to me, and form conclusions concerning me. These two were first called</p><p>out; and in about a quarter of an hour I was made to follow them, which I </p><p>did in some fear, and with much curiosity. </p><p>The chief magistrate was a venerable-looking man, with white hair and </p><p>beard and a face of great sagacity. He looked me all over for about five</p><p>minutes, letting his eyes wander from the crown of my head to the soles </p><p>of my feet, up and down, and down and up; neither did his mind seem in </p><p>the least clearer when he had done looking than when he began. He at</p><p>length asked me a single short question, which I supposed meant "Who are </p><p>you?" I answered in English quite composedly as though he would</p><p>understand me, and endeavoured to be my very most natural self as well as </p><p>I could. He appeared more and more puzzled, and then retired, returning</p><p>with two others much like himself. Then they took me into an inner room,</p><p>and the two fresh arrivals stripped me, while the chief looked on. They</p><p>felt my pulse, they looked at my tongue, they listened at my chest, they </p><p>felt all my muscles; and at the end of each operation they looked at the </p><p>chief and nodded, and said something in a tone quite pleasant, as though </p><p>I were all right. They even pulled down my eyelids, and looked, I</p><p>suppose, to see if they were bloodshot; but it was not so. At length</p><p>they gave up; and I think that all were satisfied of my being in the most </p><p>perfect health, and very robust to boot. At last the old magistrate made</p><p>me a speech of about five minutes long, which the other two appeared to </p><p>think greatly to the point, but from which I gathered nothing. As soon</p><p>as it was ended, they proceeded to overhaul my swag and the contents of </p><p>my pockets. This gave me little uneasiness, for I had no money with me,</p><p>nor anything which they were at all likely to want, or which I cared </p><p>about losing. At least I fancied so, but I soon found my mistake.</p><p>They got on comfortably at first, though they were much puzzled with my </p><p>tobacco-pipe and insisted on seeing me use it. When I had shown them</p><p>what I did with it, they were astonished but not displeased, and seemed </p><p>to like the smell. But by and by they came to my watch, which I had</p><p>hidden away in the inmost pocket that I had, and had forgotten when they </p><p>began their search. They seemed concerned and uneasy as soon as they got</p><p>hold of it. They then made me open it and show the works; and when I had</p><p>done so they gave signs of very grave displeasure, which disturbed me all </p><p>the more because I could not conceive wherein it could have offended </p><p>them. </p><p>I remember that when they first found it I had thought of Paley, and how </p><p>he tells us that a savage on seeing a watch would at once conclude that </p><p>it was designed. True, these people were not savages, but I none the</p><p>less felt sure that this was the conclusion they would arrive at; and I </p><p>was thinking what a wonderfully wise man Archbishop Paley must have been, </p><p>when I was aroused by a look of horror and dismay upon the face of the </p><p>magistrate, a look which conveyed to me the impression that he regarded </p><p>my watch not as having been designed, but rather as the designer of </p><p>himself and of the universe; or as at any rate one of the great first </p><p>causes of all things. </p><p>Then it struck me that this view was quite as likely to be taken as the </p><p>other by a people who had no experience of European civilisation, and I </p><p>was a little piqued with Paley for having led me so much astray; but I </p><p>soon discovered that I had misinterpreted the expression on the </p><p>magistrate's face, and that it was one not of fear, but hatred. He spoke</p><p>to me solemnly and sternly for two or three minutes. Then, reflecting</p><p>that this was of no use, he caused me to be conducted through several </p><p>passages into a large room, which I afterwards found was the museum of </p><p>the town, and wherein I beheld a sight which astonished me more than </p><p>anything that I had yet seen. </p><p>It was filled with cases containing all manner of curiosities--such as </p><p>skeletons, stuffed birds and animals, carvings in stone (whereof I saw </p><p>several that were like those on the saddle, only smaller), but the </p><p>greater part of the room was occupied by broken machinery of all </p><p>descriptions. The larger specimens had a case to themselves, and tickets</p><p>with writing on them in a character which I could not understand. There</p><p>were fragments of steam engines, all broken and rusted; among them I saw </p><p>a cylinder and piston, a broken fly-wheel, and part of a crank, which was </p><p>laid on the ground by their side. Again, there was a very old carriage</p><p>whose wheels in spite of rust and decay, I could see, had been designed </p><p>originally for iron rails. Indeed, there were fragments of a great many</p><p>of our own most advanced inventions; but they seemed all to be several </p><p>hundred years old, and to be placed where they were, not for instruction, </p><p>but curiosity. As I said before, all were marred and broken.</p><p>We passed many cases, and at last came to one in which there were several </p><p>clocks and two or three old watches. Here the magistrate stopped, and</p><p>opening the case began comparing my watch with the others. The design</p><p>was different, but the thing was clearly the same. On this he turned to</p><p>me and made me a speech in a severe and injured tone of voice, pointing </p><p>repeatedly to the watches in the case, and to my own; neither did he seem </p><p>in the least appeased until I made signs to him that he had better take </p><p>my watch and put it with the others. This had some effect in calming</p><p>him. I said in English (trusting to tone and manner to convey my</p><p>meaning) that I was exceedingly sorry if I had been found to have </p><p>anything contraband in my possession; that I had had no intention of </p><p>evading the ordinary tolls, and that I would gladly forfeit the watch if </p><p>my doing so would atone for an unintentional violation of the law. He</p><p>began presently to relent, and spoke to me in a kinder manner. I think</p><p>he saw that I had offended without knowledge; but I believe the chief </p><p>thing that brought him round was my not seeming to be afraid of him, </p><p>although I was quite respectful; this, and my having light hair and </p><p>complexion, on which he had remarked previously by signs, as every one </p><p>else had done. </p><p>I afterwards found that it was reckoned a very great merit to have fair </p><p>hair, this being a thing of the rarest possible occurrence, and greatly </p><p>admired and envied in all who were possessed of it. However that might</p><p>be, my watch was taken from me; but our peace was made, and I was </p><p>conducted back to the room where I had been examined. The magistrate</p><p>then made me another speech, whereon I was taken to a building hard by, </p><p>which I soon discovered to be the common prison of the town, but in which </p><p>an apartment was assigned me separate from the other prisoners. The room</p><p>contained a bed, table, and chairs, also a fireplace and a washing-stand. </p><p>There was another door, which opened on to a balcony, with a flight of </p><p>steps descending into a walled garden of some size. The man who</p><p>conducted me into this room made signs to me that I might go down and </p><p>walk in the garden whenever I pleased, and intimated that I should </p><p>shortly have something brought me to eat. I was allowed to retain my</p><p>blankets, and the few things which I had wrapped inside them, but it was </p><p>plain that I was to consider myself a prisoner--for how long a period I </p><p>could not by any means determine. He then left me alone.</p><p>CHAPTER VIII: IN PRISON </p><p>And now for the first time my courage completely failed me. It is enough</p><p>to say that I was penniless, and a prisoner in a foreign country, where I </p><p>had no friend, nor any knowledge of the customs or language of the </p><p>people. I was at the mercy of men with whom I had little in common. And</p><p>yet, engrossed as I was with my extremely difficult and doubtful </p><p>position, I could not help feeling deeply interested in the people among </p><p>whom I had fallen. What was the meaning of that room full of old</p><p>machinery which I had just seen, and of the displeasure with which the </p><p>magistrate had regarded my watch? The people had very little machinery</p><p>now. I had been struck with this over and over again, though I had not</p><p>been more than four-and-twenty hours in the country. They were about as</p><p>far advanced as Europeans of the twelfth or thirteenth century; certainly </p><p>not more so. And yet they must have had at one time the fullest</p><p>knowledge of our own most recent inventions. How could it have happened</p><p>that having been once so far in advance they were now as much behind us? </p><p>It was evident that it was not from ignorance. They knew my watch as a</p><p>watch when they saw it; and the care with which the broken machines were </p><p>preserved and ticketed, proved that they had not lost the recollection of </p><p>their former civilisation. The more I thought, the less I could</p><p>understand it; but at last I concluded that they must have worked out </p><p>their mines of coal and iron, till either none were left, or so few, that </p><p>the use of these metals was restricted to the very highest nobility. This</p><p>was the only solution I could think of; and, though I afterwards found</p><p>how entirely mistaken it was, I felt quite sure then that it must be the </p><p>right one. </p><p>I had hardly arrived at this opinion for above four or five minutes, when </p><p>the door opened, and a young woman made her appearance with a tray, and a </p><p>very appetising smell of dinner. I gazed upon her with admiration as she</p><p>laid a cloth and set a savoury-looking dish upon the table. As I beheld</p><p>her I felt as though my position was already much ameliorated, for the </p><p>very sight of her carried great comfort. She was not more than twenty,</p><p>rather above the middle height, active and strong, but yet most </p><p>delicately featured; her lips were full and sweet; her eyes were of a </p><p>deep hazel, and fringed with long and springing eyelashes; her hair was </p><p>neatly braided from off her forehead; her complexion was simply </p><p>exquisite; her figure as robust as was consistent with the most perfect </p><p>female beauty, yet not more so; her hands and feet might have served as </p><p>models to a sculptor. Having set the stew upon the table, she retired</p><p>with a glance of pity, whereon (remembering pity's kinsman) I decided </p><p>that she should pity me a little more. She returned with a bottle and a</p><p>glass, and found me sitting on the bed with my hands over my face, </p><p>looking the very picture of abject misery, and, like all pictures, rather </p><p>untruthful. As I watched her, through my fingers, out of the room again,</p><p>I felt sure that she was exceedingly sorry for me. Her back being</p><p>turned, I set to work and ate my dinner, which was excellent. </p><p>She returned in about an hour to take away; and there came with her a man </p><p>who had a great bunch of keys at his waist, and whose manner convinced me </p><p>that he was the jailor. I afterwards found that he was father to the</p><p>beautiful creature who had brought me my dinner. I am not a much greater</p><p>hypocrite than other people, and do what I would, I could not look so </p><p>very miserable. I had already recovered from my dejection, and felt in a</p><p>most genial humour both with my jailor and his daughter. I thanked them</p><p>for their attention towards me; and, though they could not understand, </p><p>they looked at one another and laughed and chattered till the old man </p><p>said something or other which I suppose was a joke; for the girl laughed </p><p>merrily and ran away, leaving her father to take away the dinner things. </p><p>Then I had another visitor, who was not so prepossessing, and who seemed </p><p>to have a great idea of himself and a small one of me. He brought a book</p><p>with him, and pens and paper--all very English; and yet, neither paper, </p><p>nor printing, nor binding, nor pen, nor ink, were quite the same as ours. </p><p>He gave me to understand that he was to teach me the language and that we </p><p>were to begin at once. This delighted me, both because I should be more</p><p>comfortable when I could understand and make myself understood, and </p><p>because I supposed that the authorities would hardly teach me the </p><p>language if they intended any cruel usage towards me afterwards. We</p><p>began at once, and I learnt the names of everything in the room, and also </p><p>the numerals and personal pronouns. I found to my sorrow that the</p><p>resemblance to European things, which I had so frequently observed </p><p>hitherto, did not hold good in the matter of language; for I could detect </p><p>no analogy whatever between this and any tongue of which I have the </p><p>slightest knowledge,--a thing which made me think it possible that I </p><p>might be learning Hebrew. </p><p>I must detail no longer; from this time my days were spent with a </p><p>monotony which would have been tedious but for the society of Yram, the </p><p>jailor's daughter, who had taken a great fancy for me and treated me with </p><p>the utmost kindness. The man came every day to teach me the language,</p><p>but my real dictionary and grammar were Yram; and I consulted them to </p><p>such purpose that I made the most extraordinary progress, being able at</p><p>the end of a month to understand a great deal of the conversation which I </p><p>overheard between Yram and her father. My teacher professed himself well</p><p>satisfied, and said he should make a favourable report of me to the </p><p>authorities. I then questioned him as to what would probably be done</p><p>with me. He told me that my arrival had caused great excitement</p><p>throughout the country, and that I was to be detained a close prisoner </p><p>until the receipt of advices from the Government. My having had a watch,</p><p>he said, was the only damaging feature in the case. And then, in answer</p><p>to my asking why this should be so, he gave me a long story of which with </p><p>my imperfect knowledge of the language I could make nothing whatever, </p><p>except that it was a very heinous offence, almost as bad (at least, so I </p><p>thought I understood him) as having typhus fever. But he said he thought</p><p>my light hair would save me. </p><p>I was allowed to walk in the garden; there was a high wall so that I </p><p>managed to play a sort of hand fives, which prevented my feeling the bad </p><p>effects of my confinement, though it was stupid work playing alone. In</p><p>the course of time people from the town and neighbourhood began to pester </p><p>the jailor to be allowed to see me, and on receiving handsome fees he let </p><p>them do so. The people were good to me; almost too good, for they were</p><p>inclined to make a lion of me, which I hated--at least the women were; </p><p>only they had to beware of Yram, who was a young lady of a jealous </p><p>temperament, and kept a sharp eye both on me and on my lady visitors. </p><p>However, I felt so kindly towards her, and was so entirely dependent upon </p><p>her for almost all that made my life a blessing and a comfort to me, that </p><p>I took good care not to vex her, and we remained excellent friends. The</p><p>men were far less inquisitive, and would not, I believe, have come near </p><p>me of their own accord; but the women made them come as escorts. I was</p><p>delighted with their handsome mien, and pleasant genial manners. </p><p>My food was plain, but always varied and wholesome, and the good red wine </p><p>was admirable. I had found a sort of wort in the garden, which I sweated</p><p>in heaps and then dried, obtaining thus a substitute for tobacco; so that </p><p>what with Yram, the language, visitors, fives in the garden, smoking, and </p><p>bed, my time slipped by more rapidly and pleasantly than might have been </p><p>expected. I also made myself a small flute; and being a tolerable</p><p>player, amused myself at times with playing snatches from operas, and </p><p>airs such as "O where and oh where," and "Home, sweet home." This was of</p><p>great advantage to me, for the people of the country were ignorant of the </p><p>diatonic scale and could hardly believe their ears on hearing some of our </p><p>most common melodies. Often, too, they would make me sing; and I could</p><p>at any time make Yram's eyes swim with tears by singing "Wilkins and his </p><p>Dinah," "Billy Taylor," "The Ratcatcher's Daughter," or as much of them </p><p>as I could remember. </p><p>I had one or two discussions with them because I never would sing on </p><p>Sunday (of which I kept count in my pocket-book), except chants and hymn </p><p>tunes; of these I regret to say that I had forgotten the words, so that I </p><p>could only sing the tune. They appeared to have little or no religious</p><p>feeling, and to have never so much as heard of the divine institution of </p><p>the Sabbath, so they ascribed my observance of it to a fit of sulkiness, </p><p>which they remarked as coming over me upon every seventh day. But they</p><p>were very tolerant, and one of them said to me quite kindly that she knew </p><p>how impossible it was to help being sulky at times, only she thought I </p><p>ought to see some one if it became more serious--a piece of advice which </p><p>I then failed to understand, though I pretended to take it quite as a </p><p>matter of course. </p><p>Once only did Yram treat me in a way that was unkind and unreasonable,--at</p><p>least so I thought it at the time. It happened thus. I had been playing</p><p>fives in the garden and got much heated. Although the day was cold, for</p><p>autumn was now advancing, and Cold Harbour (as the name of the town in </p><p>which my prison was should be translated) stood fully 3000 feet above the </p><p>sea, I had played without my coat and waistcoat, and took a sharp chill </p><p>on resting myself too long in the open air without protection. The next</p><p>day I had a severe cold and felt really poorly. Being little used even</p><p>to the lightest ailments, and thinking that it would be rather nice to be </p><p>petted and cossetted by Yram, I certainly did not make myself out to be </p><p>any better than I was; in fact, I remember that I made the worst of </p><p>things, and took it into my head to consider myself upon the sick list. </p><p>When Yram brought me my breakfast I complained somewhat dolefully of my </p><p>indisposition, expecting the sympathy and humouring which I should have </p><p>received from my mother and sisters at home. Not a bit of it. She fired</p><p>up in an instant, and asked me what I meant by it, and how I dared to </p><p>presume to mention such a thing, especially when I considered in what </p><p>place I was. She had the best mind to tell her father, only that she was</p><p>afraid the consequences would be so very serious for me. Her manner was</p><p>so injured and decided, and her anger so evidently unfeigned, that I </p><p>forgot my cold upon the spot, begging her by all means to tell her father </p><p>if she wished to do so, and telling her that I had no idea of being </p><p>shielded by her from anything whatever; presently mollifying, after </p><p>having said as many biting things as I could, I asked her what it was </p><p>that I had done amiss, and promised amendment as soon as ever I became </p><p>aware of it. She saw that I was really ignorant, and had had no</p><p>intention of being rude to her; whereon it came out that illness of any </p><p>sort was considered in Erewhon to be highly criminal and immoral; and </p><p>that I was liable, even for catching cold, to be had up before the </p><p>magistrates and imprisoned for a considerable period--an announcement </p><p>which struck me dumb with astonishment. </p><p>I followed up the conversation as well as my imperfect knowledge of the </p><p>language would allow, and caught a glimmering of her position with regard </p><p>to ill-health; but I did not even then fully comprehend it, nor had I as </p><p>yet any idea of the other extraordinary perversions of thought which </p><p>existed among the Erewhonians, but with which I was soon to become </p><p>familiar. I propose, therefore, to make no mention of what passed</p><p>between us on this occasion, save that we were reconciled, and that she </p><p>brought me surreptitiously a hot glass of spirits and water before I went </p><p>to bed, as also a pile of extra blankets, and that next morning I was </p><p>quite well. I never remember to have lost a cold so rapidly.</p><p>This little affair explained much which had hitherto puzzled me. It</p><p>seemed that the two men who were examined before the magistrates on the </p><p>day of my arrival in the country, had been given in charge on account of </p><p>ill health, and were both condemned to a long term of imprisonment with </p><p>hard labour; they were now expiating their offence in this very prison, </p><p>and their exercise ground was a yard separated by my fives wall from the </p><p>garden in which I walked. This accounted for the sounds of coughing and</p><p>groaning which I had often noticed as coming from the other side of the </p><p>wall: it was high, and I had not dared to climb it for fear the jailor </p><p>should see me and think that I was trying to escape; but I had often </p><p>wondered what sort of people they could be on the other side, and had </p><p>resolved on asking the jailor; but I seldom saw him, and Yram and I </p><p>generally found other things to talk about. </p><p>Another month flew by, during which I made such progress in the language </p><p>that I could understand all that was said to me, and express myself with </p><p>tolerable fluency. My instructor professed to be astonished with the</p><p>progress I had made; I was careful to attribute it to the pains he had </p><p>taken with me and to his admirable method of explaining my difficulties, </p><p>so we became excellent friends. </p><p>My visitors became more and more frequent. Among them there were some,</p><p>both men and women, who delighted me entirely by their simplicity, </p><p>unconsciousness of self, kindly genial manners, and last, but not least, </p><p>by their exquisite beauty; there came others less well-bred, but still </p><p>comely and agreeable people, while some were snobs pure and simple. </p><p>At the end of the third month the jailor and my instructor came together </p><p>to visit me and told me that communications had been received from the </p><p>Government to the effect that if I had behaved well and seemed generally </p><p>reasonable, and if there could be no suspicion at all about my bodily </p><p>health and vigour, and if my hair was really light, and my eyes blue and </p><p>complexion fresh, I was to be sent up at once to the metropolis in order </p><p>that the King and Queen might see me and converse with me; but that when </p><p>I arrived there I should be set at liberty, and a suitable allowance </p><p>would be made me. My teacher also told me that one of the leading</p><p>merchants had sent me an invitation to repair to his house and to </p><p>consider myself his guest for as long a time as I chose. "He is a</p><p>delightful man," continued the interpreter, "but has suffered terribly </p><p>from" (here there came a long word which I could not quite catch, only it </p><p>was much longer than kleptomania), "and has but lately recovered from </p><p>embezzling a large sum of money under singularly distressing </p><p>circumstances; but he has quite got over it, and the straighteners say </p><p>that he has made a really wonderful recovery; you are sure to like him." </p><p>CHAPTER IX: TO THE METROPOLIS </p><p>With the above words the good man left the room before I had time to </p><p>express my astonishment at hearing such extraordinary language from the </p><p>lips of one who seemed to be a reputable member of society. "Embezzle a</p><p>large sum of money under singularly distressing circumstances!" I </p><p>exclaimed to myself, "and ask _me_ to go and stay with him! I shall do</p><p>nothing of the sort--compromise myself at the very outset in the eyes of </p><p>all decent people, and give the death-blow to my chances of either </p><p>converting them if they are the lost tribes of Israel, or making money </p><p>out of them if they are not! No. I will do anything rather than that."</p><p>And when I next saw my teacher I told him that I did not at all like the </p><p>sound of what had been proposed for me, and that I would have nothing to </p><p>do with it. For by my education and the example of my own parents, and I</p><p>trust also in some degree from inborn instinct, I have a very genuine </p><p>dislike for all unhandsome dealings in money matters, though none can </p><p>have a greater regard for money than I have, if it be got fairly. </p><p>The interpreter was much surprised by my answer, and said that I should </p><p>be very foolish if I persisted in my refusal. </p><p>Mr. Nosnibor, he continued, "is a man of at least 500,000 horse-power" </p><p>(for their way of reckoning and classifying men is by the number of foot </p><p>pounds which they have money enough to raise, or more roughly by their </p><p>horse-power), "and keeps a capital table; besides, his two daughters are </p><p>among the most beautiful women in Erewhon." </p><p>When I heard all this, I confess that I was much shaken, and inquired </p><p>whether he was favourably considered in the best society. </p><p>"Certainly," was the answer; "no man in the country stands higher." </p><p>He then went on to say that one would have thought from my manner that my </p><p>proposed host had had jaundice or pleurisy or been generally unfortunate, </p><p>and that I was in fear of infection. </p><p>"I am not much afraid of infection," said I, impatiently, "but I have </p><p>some regard for my character; and if I know a man to be an embezzler of </p><p>other people's money, be sure of it, I will give him as wide a berth as I </p><p>can. If he were ill or poor--"</p><p>"Ill or poor!" interrupted the interpreter, with a face of great alarm. </p><p>"So that's your notion of propriety! You would consort with the basest</p><p>criminals, and yet deem simple embezzlement a bar to friendly </p><p>intercourse. I cannot understand you."</p><p>"But I am poor myself," cried I. </p><p>"You were," said he; "and you were liable to be severely punished for </p><p>it,--indeed, at the council which was held concerning you, this fact was </p><p>very nearly consigning you to what I should myself consider a </p><p>well-deserved chastisement" (for he was getting angry, and so was I); </p><p>"but the Queen was so inquisitive, and wanted so much to see you, that </p><p>she petitioned the King and made him give you his pardon, and assign you </p><p>a pension in consideration of your meritorious complexion. It is lucky</p><p>for you that he has not heard what you have been saying now, or he would </p><p>be sure to cancel it." </p><p>As I heard these words my heart sank within me. I felt the extreme</p><p>difficulty of my position, and how wicked I should be in running counter </p><p>to established usage. I remained silent for several minutes, and then</p><p>said that I should be happy to accept the embezzler's invitation,--on </p><p>which my instructor brightened and said I was a sensible fellow. But I</p><p>felt very uncomfortable. When he had left the room, I mused over the</p><p>conversation which had just taken place between us, but I could make </p><p>nothing out of it, except that it argued an even greater perversity of </p><p>mental vision than I had been yet prepared for. And this made me</p><p>wretched; for I cannot bear having much to do with people who think </p><p>differently from myself. All sorts of wandering thoughts kept coming</p><p>into my head. I thought of my master's hut, and my seat upon the</p><p>mountain side, where I had first conceived the insane idea of exploring. </p><p>What years and years seemed to have passed since I had begun my journey! </p><p>I thought of my adventures in the gorge, and on the journey hither, and </p><p>of Chowbok. I wondered what Chowbok told them about me when he got</p><p>back,--he had done well in going back, Chowbok had. He was not</p><p>handsome--nay, he was hideous; and it would have gone hardly with him. </p><p>Twilight drew on, and rain pattered against the windows. Never yet had I</p><p>felt so unhappy, except during three days of sea-sickness at the </p><p>beginning of my voyage from England. I sat musing and in great</p><p>melancholy, until Yram made her appearance with light and supper. She</p><p>too, poor girl, was miserable; for she had heard that I was to leave </p><p>them. She had made up her mind that I was to remain always in the town,</p><p>even after my imprisonment was over; and I fancy had resolved to marry me </p><p>though I had never so much as hinted at her doing so. So what with the</p><p>distressingly strange conversation with my teacher, my own friendless</p><p>condition, and Yram's melancholy, I felt more unhappy than I can </p><p>describe, and remained so till I got to bed, and sleep sealed my eyelids. </p><p>On awaking next morning I was much better. It was settled that I was to</p><p>make my start in a conveyance which was to be in waiting for me at about </p><p>eleven o'clock; and the anticipation of change put me in good spirits, </p><p>which even the tearful face of Yram could hardly altogether derange. I</p><p>kissed her again and again, assured her that we should meet hereafter, </p><p>and that in the meanwhile I should be ever mindful of her kindness. I</p><p>gave her two of the buttons off my coat and a lock of my hair as a </p><p>keepsake, taking a goodly curl from her own beautiful head in return: and </p><p>so, having said good-bye a hundred times, till I was fairly overcome with </p><p>her great sweetness and her sorrow, I tore myself away from her and got </p><p>down-stairs to the caleche which was in waiting. How thankful I was when</p><p>it was all over, and I was driven away and out of sight. Would that I</p><p>could have felt that it was out of mind also! Pray heaven that it is so</p><p>now, and that she is married happily among her own people, and has </p><p>forgotten me! </p><p>And now began a long and tedious journey with which I should hardly </p><p>trouble the reader if I could. He is safe, however, for the simple</p><p>reason that I was blindfolded during the greater part of the time. A</p><p>bandage was put upon my eyes every morning, and was only removed at night </p><p>when I reached the inn at which we were to pass the night. We travelled</p><p>slowly, although the roads were good. We drove but one horse, which took</p><p>us our day's journey from morning till evening, about six hours, </p><p>exclusive of two hours' rest in the middle of the day. I do not suppose</p><p>we made above thirty or thirty-five miles on an average. Each day we had</p><p>a fresh horse. As I have said already, I could see nothing of the</p><p>country. I only know that it was level, and that several times we had to</p><p>cross large rivers in ferry-boats. The inns were clean and comfortable.</p><p>In one or two of the larger towns they were quite sumptuous, and the food </p><p>was good and well cooked. The same wonderful health and grace and beauty</p><p>prevailed everywhere. </p><p>I found myself an object of great interest; so much so, that the driver </p><p>told me he had to keep our route secret, and at times to go to places </p><p>that were not directly on our road, in order to avoid the press that </p><p>would otherwise have awaited us. Every evening I had a reception, and</p><p>grew heartily tired of having to say the same things over and over again </p><p>in answer to the same questions, but it was impossible to be angry with </p><p>people whose manners were so delightful. They never once asked after my</p><p>health, or even whether I was fatigued with my journey; but their first </p><p>question was almost invariably an inquiry after my temper, the _naivete_ </p><p>of which astonished me till I became used to it. One day, being tired</p><p>and cold, and weary of saying the same thing over and over again, I </p><p>turned a little brusquely on my questioner and said that I was </p><p>exceedingly cross, and that I could hardly feel in a worse humour with </p><p>myself and every one else than at that moment. To my surprise, I was met</p><p>with the kindest expressions of condolence, and heard it buzzed about the </p><p>room that I was in an ill temper; whereon people began to give me nice </p><p>things to smell and to eat, which really did seem to have some temper- </p><p>mending quality about them, for I soon felt pleased and was at once </p><p>congratulated upon being better. The next morning two or three people</p><p>sent their servants to the hotel with sweetmeats, and inquiries whether I </p><p>had quite recovered from my ill humour. On receiving the good things I</p><p>felt in half a mind to be ill-tempered every evening; but I disliked the </p><p>condolences and the inquiries, and found it most comfortable to keep my </p><p>natural temper, which is smooth enough generally.</p><p>Among those who came to visit me were some who had received a liberal </p><p>education at the Colleges of Unreason, and taken the highest degrees in </p><p>hypothetics, which are their principal study. These gentlemen had now</p><p>settled down to various employments in the country, as straighteners, </p><p>managers and cashiers of the Musical Banks, priests of religion, or what </p><p>not, and carrying their education with them they diffused a leaven of </p><p>culture throughout the country. I naturally questioned them about many</p><p>of the things which had puzzled me since my arrival. I inquired what was</p><p>the object and meaning of the statues which I had seen upon the plateau </p><p>of the pass. I was told that they dated from a very remote period, and</p><p>that there were several other such groups in the country, but none so </p><p>remarkable as the one which I had seen. They had a religious origin,</p><p>having been designed to propitiate the gods of deformity and disease. In</p><p>former times it had been the custom to make expeditions over the ranges, </p><p>and capture the ugliest of Chowbok's ancestors whom they could find, in </p><p>order to sacrifice them in the presence of these deities, and thus avert </p><p>ugliness and disease from the Erewhonians themselves. It had been</p><p>whispered (but my informant assured me untruly) that centuries ago they </p><p>had even offered up some of their own people who were ugly or out of </p><p>health, in order to make examples of them; these detestable customs, </p><p>however, had been long discontinued; neither was there any present </p><p>observance of the statues. </p><p>I had the curiosity to inquire what would be done to any of Chowbok's </p><p>tribe if they crossed over into Erewhon. I was told that nobody knew,</p><p>inasmuch as such a thing had not happened for ages. They would be too</p><p>ugly to be allowed to go at large, but not so much so as to be criminally </p><p>liable. Their offence in having come would be a moral one; but they</p><p>would be beyond the straightener's art. Possibly they would be consigned</p><p>to the Hospital for Incurable Bores, and made to work at being bored for </p><p>so many hours a day by the Erewhonian inhabitants of the hospital, who </p><p>are extremely impatient of one another's boredom, but would soon die if </p><p>they had no one whom they might bore--in fact, that they would be kept as </p><p>professional borees. When I heard this, it occurred to me that some</p><p>rumours of its substance might perhaps have become current among </p><p>Chowbok's people; for the agony of his fear had been too great to have </p><p>been inspired by the mere dread of being burnt alive before the statues. </p><p>I also questioned them about the museum of old machines, and the cause of </p><p>the apparent retrogression in all arts, sciences, and inventions. I</p><p>learnt that about four hundred years previously, the state of mechanical </p><p>knowledge was far beyond our own, and was advancing with prodigious </p><p>rapidity, until one of the most learned professors of hypothetics wrote </p><p>an extraordinary book (from which I propose to give extracts later on), </p><p>proving that the machines were ultimately destined to supplant the race </p><p>of man, and to become instinct with a vitality as different from, and </p><p>superior to, that of animals, as animal to vegetable life. So convincing</p><p>was his reasoning, or unreasoning, to this effect, that he carried the </p><p>country with him; and they made a clean sweep of all machinery that had </p><p>not been in use for more than two hundred and seventy-one years (which </p><p>period was arrived at after a series of compromises), and strictly </p><p>forbade all further improvements and inventions under pain of being </p><p>considered in the eye of the law to be labouring under typhus fever, </p><p>which they regard as one of the worst of all crimes. </p><p>This is the only case in which they have confounded mental and physical </p><p>diseases, and they do it even here as by an avowed legal fiction. I</p><p>became uneasy when I remembered about my watch; but they comforted me</p><p>with the assurance that transgression in this matter was now so unheard </p><p>of, that the law could afford to be lenient towards an utter stranger, </p><p>especially towards one who had such a good character (they meant </p><p>physique), and such beautiful light hair. Moreover the watch was a real</p><p>curiosity, and would be a welcome addition to the metropolitan </p><p>collection; so they did not think I need let it trouble me seriously. </p><p>I will write, however, more fully upon this subject when I deal with the </p><p>Colleges of Unreason, and the Book of the Machines. </p><p>In about a month from the time of our starting I was told that our </p><p>journey was nearly over. The bandage was now dispensed with, for it</p><p>seemed impossible that I should ever be able to find my way back without </p><p>being captured. Then we rolled merrily along through the streets of a</p><p>handsome town, and got on to a long, broad, and level road, with poplar </p><p>trees on either side. The road was raised slightly above the surrounding</p><p>country, and had formerly been a railway; the fields on either side were </p><p>in the highest conceivable cultivation, but the harvest and also the </p><p>vintage had been already gathered. The weather had got cooler more</p><p>rapidly than could be quite accounted for by the progress of the season; </p><p>so I rather thought that we must have been making away from the sun, and </p><p>were some degrees farther from the equator than when we started. Even</p><p>here the vegetation showed that the climate was a hot one, yet there was </p><p>no lack of vigour among the people; on the contrary, they were a very </p><p>hardy race, and capable of great endurance. For the hundredth time I</p><p>thought that, take them all round, I had never seen their equals in </p><p>respect of physique, and they looked as good-natured as they were robust. </p><p>The flowers were for the most part over, but their absence was in some </p><p>measure compensated for by a profusion of delicious fruit, closely </p><p>resembling the figs, peaches, and pears of Italy and France. I saw no</p><p>wild animals, but birds were plentiful and much as in Europe, but not </p><p>tame as they had been on the other side the ranges. They were shot at</p><p>with the cross-bow and with arrows, gunpowder being unknown, or at any </p><p>rate not in use. </p><p>We were now nearing the metropolis and I could see great towers and </p><p>fortifications, and lofty buildings that looked like palaces. I began to</p><p>be nervous as to my reception; but I had got on very well so far, and </p><p>resolved to continue upon the same plan as hitherto--namely, to behave </p><p>just as though I were in England until I saw that I was making a blunder, </p><p>and then to say nothing till I could gather how the land lay. We drew</p><p>nearer and nearer. The news of my approach had got abroad, and there was</p><p>a great crowd collected on either side the road, who greeted me with </p><p>marks of most respectful curiosity, keeping me bowing constantly in </p><p>acknowledgement from side to side. </p><p>When we were about a mile off, we were met by the Mayor and several </p><p>Councillors, among whom was a venerable old man, who was introduced to me </p><p>by the Mayor (for so I suppose I should call him) as the gentleman who </p><p>had invited me to his house. I bowed deeply and told him how grateful I</p><p>felt to him, and how gladly I would accept his hospitality. He forbade</p><p>me to say more, and pointing to his carriage, which was close at hand, he </p><p>motioned me to a seat therein. I again bowed profoundly to the Mayor and</p><p>Councillors, and drove off with my entertainer, whose name was Senoj </p><p>Nosnibor. After about half a mile the carriage turned off the main road,</p><p>and we drove under the walls of the town till we reached a _palazzo_ on a </p><p>slight eminence, and just on the outskirts of the city. This was Senoj</p><p>Nosnibor's house, and nothing can be imagined finer. It was situated</p><p>near the magnificent and venerable ruins of the old railway station,</p><p>which formed an imposing feature from the gardens of the house. The</p><p>grounds, some ten or a dozen acres in extent, were laid out in terraced </p><p>gardens, one above the other, with flights of broad steps ascending and </p><p>descending the declivity of the garden. On these steps there were</p><p>statues of most exquisite workmanship. Besides the statues there were</p><p>vases filled with various shrubs that were new to me; and on either side </p><p>the flights of steps there were rows of old cypresses and cedars, with </p><p>grassy alleys between them. Then came choice vineyards and orchards of</p><p>fruit-trees in full bearing. </p><p>The house itself was approached by a court-yard, and round it was a </p><p>corridor on to which rooms opened, as at Pompeii. In the middle of the</p><p>court there was a bath and a fountain. Having passed the court we came</p><p>to the main body of the house, which was two stories in height. The</p><p>rooms were large and lofty; perhaps at first they looked rather bare of </p><p>furniture, but in hot climates people generally keep their rooms more </p><p>bare than they do in colder ones. I missed also the sight of a grand</p><p>piano or some similar instrument, there being no means of producing music </p><p>in any of the rooms save the larger drawing-room, where there were half a </p><p>dozen large bronze gongs, which the ladies used occasionally to beat </p><p>about at random. It was not pleasant to hear them, but I have heard</p><p>quite as unpleasant music both before and since. </p><p>Mr. Nosnibor took me through several spacious rooms till we reached a </p><p>boudoir where were his wife and daughters, of whom I had heard from the </p><p>interpreter. Mrs. Nosnibor was about forty years old, and still</p><p>handsome, but she had grown very stout: her daughters were in the prime </p><p>of youth and exquisitely beautiful. I gave the preference almost at once</p><p>to the younger, whose name was Arowhena; for the elder sister was </p><p>haughty, while the younger had a very winning manner. Mrs. Nosnibor</p><p>received me with the perfection of courtesy, so that I must have indeed </p><p>been shy and nervous if I had not at once felt welcome. Scarcely was the</p><p>ceremony of my introduction well completed before a servant announced </p><p>that dinner was ready in the next room. I was exceedingly hungry, and</p><p>the dinner was beyond all praise. Can the reader wonder that I began to</p><p>consider myself in excellent quarters? "That man embezzle money?"</p><p>thought I to myself; "impossible." </p><p>But I noticed that my host was uneasy during the whole meal, and that he </p><p>ate nothing but a little bread and milk; towards the end of dinner there </p><p>came a tall lean man with a black beard, to whom Mr. Nosnibor and the </p><p>whole family paid great attention: he was the family straightener. With</p><p>this gentleman Mr. Nosnibor retired into another room, from which there </p><p>presently proceeded a sound of weeping and wailing. I could hardly</p><p>believe my ears, but in a few minutes I got to know for a certainty that </p><p>they came from Mr. Nosnibor himself. </p><p>"Poor papa," said Arowhena, as she helped herself composedly to the salt, </p><p>"how terribly he has suffered." </p><p>"Yes," answered her mother; "but I think he is quite out of danger now." </p><p>Then they went on to explain to me the circumstances of the case, and the </p><p>treatment which the straightener had prescribed, and how successful he </p><p>had been--all which I will reserve for another chapter, and put rather in </p><p>the form of a general summary of the opinions current upon these subjects </p><p>than in the exact words in which the facts were delivered to me; the </p><p>reader, however, is earnestly requested to believe that both in this next </p><p>chapter and in those that follow it I have endeavoured to adhere most</p><p>conscientiously to the strictest accuracy, and that I have never </p><p>willingly misrepresented, though I may have sometimes failed to </p><p>understand all the bearings of an opinion or custom. </p><p>CHAPTER X: CURRENT OPINIONS </p><p>This is what I gathered. That in that country if a man falls into ill</p><p>health, or catches any disorder, or fails bodily in any way before he is </p><p>seventy years old, he is tried before a jury of his countrymen, and if </p><p>convicted is held up to public scorn and sentenced more or less severely </p><p>as the case may be. There are subdivisions of illnesses into crimes and</p><p>misdemeanours as with offences amongst ourselves--a man being punished </p><p>very heavily for serious illness, while failure of eyes or hearing in one </p><p>over sixty-five, who has had good health hitherto, is dealt with by fine </p><p>only, or imprisonment in default of payment. But if a man forges a</p><p>cheque, or sets his house on fire, or robs with violence from the person, </p><p>or does any other such things as are criminal in our own country, he is </p><p>either taken to a hospital and most carefully tended at the public </p><p>expense, or if he is in good circumstances, he lets it be known to all </p><p>his friends that he is suffering from a severe fit of immorality, just as </p><p>we do when we are ill, and they come and visit him with great solicitude, </p><p>and inquire with interest how it all came about, what symptoms first </p><p>showed themselves, and so forth,--questions which he will answer with </p><p>perfect unreserve; for bad conduct, though considered no less deplorable </p><p>than illness with ourselves, and as unquestionably indicating something </p><p>seriously wrong with the individual who misbehaves, is nevertheless held </p><p>to be the result of either pre-natal or post-natal misfortune. </p><p>The strange part of the story, however, is that though they ascribe moral </p><p>defects to the effect of misfortune either in character or surroundings, </p><p>they will not listen to the plea of misfortune in cases that in England </p><p>meet with sympathy and commiseration only. Ill luck of any kind, or even</p><p>ill treatment at the hands of others, is considered an offence against </p><p>society, inasmuch as it makes people uncomfortable to hear of it. Loss</p><p>of fortune, therefore, or loss of some dear friend on whom another was </p><p>much dependent, is punished hardly less severely than physical </p><p>delinquency. </p><p>Foreign, indeed, as such ideas are to our own, traces of somewhat similar </p><p>opinions can be found even in nineteenth-century England. If a person</p><p>has an abscess, the medical man will say that it contains "peccant" </p><p>matter, and people say that they have a "bad" arm or finger, or that they </p><p>are very "bad" all over, when they only mean "diseased." Among foreign</p><p>nations Erewhonian opinions may be still more clearly noted. The</p><p>Mahommedans, for example, to this day, send their female prisoners to </p><p>hospitals, and the New Zealand Maories visit any misfortune with forcible </p><p>entry into the house of the offender, and the breaking up and burning of </p><p>all his goods. The Italians, again, use the same word for "disgrace" and</p><p>"misfortune." I once heard an Italian lady speak of a young friend whom</p><p>she described as endowed with every virtue under heaven, "ma," she </p><p>exclaimed, "povero disgraziato, ha ammazzato suo zio." ("Poor</p><p>unfortunate fellow, he has murdered his uncle.") </p><p>On mentioning this, which I heard when taken to Italy as a boy by my </p><p>father, the person to whom I told it showed no surprise. He said that he</p><p>had been driven for two or three years in a certain city by a young </p><p>Sicilian cabdriver of prepossessing manners and appearance, but then lost </p><p>sight of him. On asking what had become of him, he was told that he was</p><p>in prison for having shot at his father with intent to kill him--happily </p><p>without serious result. Some years later my informant again found</p><p>himself warmly accosted by the prepossessing young cabdriver. "Ah, caro</p><p>signore," he exclaimed, "sono cinque anni che non lo vedo--tre anni di </p><p>militare, e due anni di disgrazia," &c. ("My dear sir, it is five years</p><p>since I saw you--three years of military service, and two of </p><p>misfortune")--during which last the poor fellow had been in prison. Of</p><p>moral sense he showed not so much as a trace. He and his father were now</p><p>on excellent terms, and were likely to remain so unless either of them </p><p>should again have the misfortune mortally to offend the other. </p><p>In the following chapter I will give a few examples of the way in which </p><p>what we should call misfortune, hardship, or disease are dealt with by </p><p>the Erewhonians, but for the moment will return to their treatment of </p><p>cases that with us are criminal. As I have already said, these, though</p><p>not judicially punishable, are recognised as requiring correction. </p><p>Accordingly, there exists a class of men trained in soul-craft, whom they </p><p>call straighteners, as nearly as I can translate a word which literally </p><p>means "one who bends back the crooked." These men practise much as</p><p>medical men in England, and receive a quasi-surreptitious fee on every </p><p>visit. They are treated with the same unreserve, and obeyed as readily,</p><p>as our own doctors--that is to say, on the whole sufficiently--because </p><p>people know that it is their interest to get well as soon as they can, </p><p>and that they will not be scouted as they would be if their bodies were </p><p>out of order, even though they may have to undergo a very painful course </p><p>of treatment. </p><p>When I say that they will not be scouted, I do not mean that an </p><p>Erewhonian will suffer no social inconvenience in consequence, we will </p><p>say, of having committed fraud. Friends will fall away from him because</p><p>of his being less pleasant company, just as we ourselves are disinclined </p><p>to make companions of those who are either poor or poorly. No one with</p><p>any sense of self-respect will place himself on an equality in the matter </p><p>of affection with those who are less lucky than himself in birth, health, </p><p>money, good looks, capacity, or anything else. Indeed, that dislike and</p><p>even disgust should be felt by the fortunate for the unfortunate, or at </p><p>any rate for those who have been discovered to have met with any of the </p><p>more serious and less familiar misfortunes, is not only natural, but </p><p>desirable for any society, whether of man or brute. </p><p>The fact, therefore, that the Erewhonians attach none of that guilt to </p><p>crime which they do to physical ailments, does not prevent the more </p><p>selfish among them from neglecting a friend who has robbed a bank, for </p><p>instance, till he has fully recovered; but it does prevent them from even </p><p>thinking of treating criminals with that contemptuous tone which would </p><p>seem to say, "I, if I were you, should be a better man than you are," a </p><p>tone which is held quite reasonable in regard to physical ailment. Hence,</p><p>though they conceal ill health by every cunning and hypocrisy and </p><p>artifice which they can devise, they are quite open about the most </p><p>flagrant mental diseases, should they happen to exist, which to do the </p><p>people justice is not often. Indeed, there are some who are, so to</p><p>speak, spiritual valetudinarians, and who make themselves exceedingly </p><p>ridiculous by their nervous supposition that they are wicked, while they </p><p>are very tolerable people all the time. This however is exceptional; and</p><p>on the whole they use much the same reserve or unreserve about the state </p><p>of their moral welfare as we do about our health.</p><p>Hence all the ordinary greetings among ourselves, such as, How do you do? </p><p>and the like, are considered signs of gross ill-breeding; nor do the </p><p>politer classes tolerate even such a common complimentary remark as </p><p>telling a man that he is looking well. They salute each other with, "I</p><p>hope you are good this morning;" or "I hope you have recovered from the </p><p>snappishness from which you were suffering when I last saw you;" and if </p><p>the person saluted has not been good, or is still snappish, he says so at </p><p>once and is condoled with accordingly. Indeed, the straighteners have</p><p>gone so far as to give names from the hypothetical language (as taught at </p><p>the Colleges of Unreason), to all known forms of mental indisposition, </p><p>and to classify them according to a system of their own, which, though I </p><p>could not understand it, seemed to work well in practice; for they are </p><p>always able to tell a man what is the matter with him as soon as they </p><p>have heard his story, and their familiarity with the long names assures </p><p>him that they thoroughly understand his case. </p><p>The reader will have no difficulty in believing that the laws regarding </p><p>ill health were frequently evaded by the help of recognised fictions, </p><p>which every one understood, but which it would be considered gross ill- </p><p>breeding to even seem to understand. Thus, a day or two after my arrival</p><p>at the Nosnibors', one of the many ladies who called on me made excuses </p><p>for her husband's only sending his card, on the ground that when going </p><p>through the public market-place that morning he had stolen a pair of </p><p>socks. I had already been warned that I should never show surprise, so I</p><p>merely expressed my sympathy, and said that though I had only been in the </p><p>capital so short a time, I had already had a very narrow escape from </p><p>stealing a clothes-brush, and that though I had resisted temptation so </p><p>far, I was sadly afraid that if I saw any object of special interest that </p><p>was neither too hot nor too heavy, I should have to put myself in the </p><p>straightener's hands. </p><p>Mrs. Nosnibor, who had been keeping an ear on all that I had been saying, </p><p>praised me when the lady had gone. Nothing, she said, could have been</p><p>more polite according to Erewhonian etiquette. She then explained that</p><p>to have stolen a pair of socks, or "to have the socks" (in more </p><p>colloquial language), was a recognised way of saying that the person in </p><p>question was slightly indisposed. </p><p>In spite of all this they have a keen sense of the enjoyment consequent </p><p>upon what they call being "well." They admire mental health and love it</p><p>in other people, and take all the pains they can (consistently with their </p><p>other duties) to secure it for themselves. They have an extreme dislike</p><p>to marrying into what they consider unhealthy families. They send for</p><p>the straightener at once whenever they have been guilty of anything </p><p>seriously flagitious--often even if they think that they are on the point </p><p>of committing it; and though his remedies are sometimes exceedingly </p><p>painful, involving close confinement for weeks, and in some cases the </p><p>most cruel physical tortures, I never heard of a reasonable Erewhonian </p><p>refusing to do what his straightener told him, any more than of a </p><p>reasonable Englishman refusing to undergo even the most frightful </p><p>operation, if his doctors told him it was necessary. </p><p>We in England never shrink from telling our doctor what is the matter </p><p>with us merely through the fear that he will hurt us. We let him do his</p><p>worst upon us, and stand it without a murmur, because we are not scouted </p><p>for being ill, and because we know that the doctor is doing his best to </p><p>cure us, and that he can judge of our case better than we can; but we </p><p>should conceal all illness if we were treated as the Erewhonians are when</p><p>they have anything the matter with them; we should do the same as with </p><p>moral and intellectual diseases,--we should feign health with the most </p><p>consummate art, till we were found out, and should hate a single flogging </p><p>given in the way of mere punishment more than the amputation of a limb, </p><p>if it were kindly and courteously performed from a wish to help us out of </p><p>our difficulty, and with the full consciousness on the part of the doctor </p><p>that it was only by an accident of constitution that he was not in the </p><p>like plight himself. So the Erewhonians take a flogging once a week, and</p><p>a diet of bread and water for two or three months together, whenever </p><p>their straightener recommends it. </p><p>I do not suppose that even my host, on having swindled a confiding widow </p><p>out of the whole of her property, was put to more actual suffering than a </p><p>man will readily undergo at the hands of an English doctor. And yet he</p><p>must have had a very bad time of it. The sounds I heard were sufficient</p><p>to show that his pain was exquisite, but he never shrank from undergoing </p><p>it. He was quite sure that it did him good; and I think he was right. I</p><p>cannot believe that that man will ever embezzle money again. He may--but</p><p>it will be a long time before he does so. </p><p>During my confinement in prison, and on my journey, I had already </p><p>discovered a great deal of the above; but it still seemed surpassingly </p><p>strange, and I was in constant fear of committing some piece of rudeness, </p><p>through my inability to look at things from the same stand-point as my </p><p>neighbours; but after a few weeks' stay with the Nosnibors, I got to </p><p>understand things better, especially on having heard all about my host's </p><p>illness, of which he told me fully and repeatedly. </p><p>It seemed that he had been on the Stock Exchange of the city for many </p><p>years and had amassed enormous wealth, without exceeding the limits of </p><p>what was generally considered justifiable, or at any rate, permissible </p><p>dealing; but at length on several occasions he had become aware of a </p><p>desire to make money by fraudulent representations, and had actually </p><p>dealt with two or three sums in a way which had made him rather </p><p>uncomfortable. He had unfortunately made light of it and pooh-poohed the</p><p>ailment, until circumstances eventually presented themselves which </p><p>enabled him to cheat upon a very considerable scale;--he told me what </p><p>they were, and they were about as bad as anything could be, but I need </p><p>not detail them;--he seized the opportunity, and became aware, when it </p><p>was too late, that he must be seriously out of order. He had neglected</p><p>himself too long. </p><p>He drove home at once, broke the news to his wife and daughters as gently </p><p>as he could, and sent off for one of the most celebrated straighteners of </p><p>the kingdom to a consultation with the family practitioner, for the case </p><p>was plainly serious. On the arrival of the straightener he told his</p><p>story, and expressed his fear that his morals must be permanently </p><p>impaired. </p><p>The eminent man reassured him with a few cheering words, and then </p><p>proceeded to make a more careful diagnosis of the case. He inquired</p><p>concerning Mr. Nosnibor's parents--had their moral health been good? He</p><p>was answered that there had not been anything seriously amiss with them, </p><p>but that his maternal grandfather, whom he was supposed to resemble </p><p>somewhat in person, had been a consummate scoundrel and had ended his </p><p>days in a hospital,--while a brother of his father's, after having led a </p><p>most flagitious life for many years, had been at last cured by a </p><p>philosopher of a new school, which as far as I could understand it bore </p><p>much the same relation to the old as homoeopathy to allopathy. The</p><p>straightener shook his head at this, and laughingly replied that the cure </p><p>must have been due to nature. After a few more questions he wrote a</p><p>prescription and departed. </p><p>I saw the prescription. It ordered a fine to the State of double the</p><p>money embezzled; no food but bread and milk for six months, and a severe </p><p>flogging once a month for twelve. I was surprised to see that no part of</p><p>the fine was to be paid to the poor woman whose money had been embezzled, </p><p>but on inquiry I learned that she would have been prosecuted in the </p><p>Misplaced Confidence Court, if she had not escaped its clutches by dying </p><p>shortly after she had discovered her loss. </p><p>As for Mr. Nosnibor, he had received his eleventh flogging on the day of </p><p>my arrival. I saw him later on the same afternoon, and he was still</p><p>twinged; but there had been no escape from following out the </p><p>straightener's prescription, for the so-called sanitary laws of Erewhon </p><p>are very rigorous, and unless the straightener was satisfied that his </p><p>orders had been obeyed, the patient would have been taken to a hospital </p><p>(as the poor are), and would have been much worse off. Such at least is</p><p>the law, but it is never necessary to enforce it. </p><p>On a subsequent occasion I was present at an interview between Mr. </p><p>Nosnibor and the family straightener, who was considered competent to </p><p>watch the completion of the cure. I was struck with the delicacy with</p><p>which he avoided even the remotest semblance of inquiry after the </p><p>physical well-being of his patient, though there was a certain yellowness </p><p>about my host's eyes which argued a bilious habit of body. To have taken</p><p>notice of this would have been a gross breach of professional etiquette. </p><p>I was told, however, that a straightener sometimes thinks it right to </p><p>glance at the possibility of some slight physical disorder if he finds it </p><p>important in order to assist him in his diagnosis; but the answers which </p><p>he gets are generally untrue or evasive, and he forms his own conclusions </p><p>upon the matter as well as he can. Sensible men have been known to say</p><p>that the straightener should in strict confidence be told of every </p><p>physical ailment that is likely to bear upon the case; but people are </p><p>naturally shy of doing this, for they do not like lowering themselves in </p><p>the opinion of the straightener, and his ignorance of medical science is </p><p>supreme. I heard of one lady, indeed, who had the hardihood to confess</p><p>that a furious outbreak of ill-humour and extravagant fancies for which </p><p>she was seeking advice was possibly the result of indisposition. "You</p><p>should resist that," said the straightener, in a kind, but grave voice; </p><p>"we can do nothing for the bodies of our patients; such matters are </p><p>beyond our province, and I desire that I may hear no further </p><p>particulars." The lady burst into tears, and promised faithfully that</p><p>she would never be unwell again. </p><p>But to return to Mr. Nosnibor. As the afternoon wore on many carriages</p><p>drove up with callers to inquire how he had stood his flogging. It had</p><p>been very severe, but the kind inquiries upon every side gave him great </p><p>pleasure, and he assured me that he felt almost tempted to do wrong again </p><p>by the solicitude with which his friends had treated him during his </p><p>recovery: in this I need hardly say that he was not serious. </p><p>During the remainder of my stay in the country Mr. Nosnibor was </p><p>constantly attentive to his business, and largely increased his already </p><p>great possessions; but I never heard a whisper to the effect of his </p><p>having been indisposed a second time, or made money by other than the </p><p>most strictly honourable means. I did hear afterwards in confidence that</p><p>there had been reason to believe that his health had been not a little</p><p>affected by the straightener's treatment, but his friends did not choose </p><p>to be over-curious upon the subject, and on his return to his affairs it </p><p>was by common consent passed over as hardly criminal in one who was </p><p>otherwise so much afflicted. For they regard bodily ailments as the more</p><p>venial in proportion as they have been produced by causes independent of </p><p>the constitution. Thus if a person ruin his health by excessive</p><p>indulgence at the table or by drinking, they count it to be almost a part </p><p>of the mental disease which brought it about, and so it goes for little, </p><p>but they have no mercy on such illnesses as fevers or catarrhs or lung </p><p>diseases, which to us appear to be beyond the control of the individual. </p><p>They are only more lenient towards the diseases of the young--such as </p><p>measles, which they think to be like sowing one's wild oats--and look </p><p>over them as pardonable indiscretions if they have not been too serious, </p><p>and if they are atoned for by complete subsequent recovery. </p><p>It is hardly necessary to say that the office of straightener is one </p><p>which requires long and special training. It stands to reason that he</p><p>who would cure a moral ailment must be practically acquainted with it in </p><p>all its bearings. The student for the profession of straightener is</p><p>required to set apart certain seasons for the practice of each vice in </p><p>turn, as a religious duty. These seasons are called "fasts," and are</p><p>continued by the student until he finds that he really can subdue all the </p><p>more usual vices in his own person, and hence can advise his patients </p><p>from the results of his own experience. </p><p>Those who intend to be specialists, rather than general practitioners, </p><p>devote themselves more particularly to the branch in which their practice </p><p>will mainly lie. Some students have been obliged to continue their</p><p>exercises during their whole lives, and some devoted men have actually </p><p>died as martyrs to the drink, or gluttony, or whatever branch of vice </p><p>they may have chosen for their especial study. The greater number,</p><p>however, take no harm by the excursions into the various departments of </p><p>vice which it is incumbent upon them to study. </p><p>For the Erewhonians hold that unalloyed virtue is not a thing to be </p><p>immoderately indulged in. I was shown more than one case in which the</p><p>real or supposed virtues of parents were visited upon the children to the </p><p>third and fourth generation. The straighteners say that the most that</p><p>can be truly said for virtue is that there is a considerable balance in </p><p>its favour, and that it is on the whole a good deal better to be on its </p><p>side than against it; but they urge that there is much pseudo-virtue </p><p>going about, which is apt to let people in very badly before they find it </p><p>out. Those men, they say, are best who are not remarkable either for</p><p>vice or virtue. I told them about Hogarth's idle and industrious</p><p>apprentices, but they did not seem to think that the industrious </p><p>apprentice was a very nice person. </p><p>CHAPTER XI: SOME EREWHONIAN TRIALS </p><p>In Erewhon as in other countries there are some courts of justice that </p><p>deal with special subjects. Misfortune generally, as I have above</p><p>explained, is considered more or less criminal, but it admits of </p><p>classification, and a court is assigned to each of the main heads under </p><p>which it can be supposed to fall. Not very long after I had reached the</p><p>capital I strolled into the Personal Bereavement Court, and was much both</p><p>interested and pained by listening to the trial of a man who was accused </p><p>of having just lost a wife to whom he had been tenderly attached, and who </p><p>had left him with three little children, of whom the eldest was only </p><p>three years old. </p><p>The defence which the prisoner's counsel endeavoured to establish was, </p><p>that the prisoner had never really loved his wife; but it broke down </p><p>completely, for the public prosecutor called witness after witness who </p><p>deposed to the fact that the couple had been devoted to one another, and </p><p>the prisoner repeatedly wept as incidents were put in evidence that </p><p>reminded him of the irreparable nature of the loss he had sustained. The</p><p>jury returned a verdict of guilty after very little deliberation, but </p><p>recommended the prisoner to mercy on the ground that he had but recently </p><p>insured his wife's life for a considerable sum, and might be deemed lucky </p><p>inasmuch as he had received the money without demur from the insurance </p><p>company, though he had only paid two premiums. </p><p>I have just said that the jury found the prisoner guilty. When the judge</p><p>passed sentence, I was struck with the way in which the prisoner's </p><p>counsel was rebuked for having referred to a work in which the guilt of </p><p>such misfortunes as the prisoner's was extenuated to a degree that roused </p><p>the indignation of the court. </p><p>"We shall have," said the judge, "these crude and subversionary books </p><p>from time to time until it is recognised as an axiom of morality that </p><p>luck is the only fit object of human veneration. How far a man has any</p><p>right to be more lucky and hence more venerable than his neighbours, is a </p><p>point that always has been, and always will be, settled proximately by a </p><p>kind of higgling and haggling of the market, and ultimately by brute </p><p>force; but however this may be, it stands to reason that no man should be </p><p>allowed to be unlucky to more than a very moderate extent." </p><p>Then, turning to the prisoner, the judge continued:--"You have suffered a </p><p>great loss. Nature attaches a severe penalty to such offences, and human</p><p>law must emphasise the decrees of nature. But for the recommendation of</p><p>the jury I should have given you six months' hard labour. I will,</p><p>however, commute your sentence to one of three months, with the option of </p><p>a fine of twenty-five per cent. of the money you have received from the </p><p>insurance company." </p><p>The prisoner thanked the judge, and said that as he had no one to look </p><p>after his children if he was sent to prison, he would embrace the option </p><p>mercifully permitted him by his lordship, and pay the sum he had named. </p><p>He was then removed from the dock. </p><p>The next case was that of a youth barely arrived at man's estate, who was </p><p>charged with having been swindled out of large property during his </p><p>minority by his guardian, who was also one of his nearest relations. His</p><p>father had been long dead, and it was for this reason that his offence </p><p>came on for trial in the Personal Bereavement Court. The lad, who was</p><p>undefended, pleaded that he was young, inexperienced, greatly in awe of </p><p>his guardian, and without independent professional advice. "Young man,"</p><p>said the judge sternly, "do not talk nonsense. People have no right to</p><p>be young, inexperienced, greatly in awe of their guardians, and without </p><p>independent professional advice. If by such indiscretions they outrage</p><p>the moral sense of their friends, they must expect to suffer </p><p>accordingly." He then ordered the prisoner to apologise to his guardian,</p><p>and to receive twelve strokes with a cat-of-nine-tails. </p><p>But I shall perhaps best convey to the reader an idea of the entire </p><p>perversion of thought which exists among this extraordinary people, by </p><p>describing the public trial of a man who was accused of pulmonary </p><p>consumption--an offence which was punished with death until quite </p><p>recently. It did not occur till I had been some months in the country,</p><p>and I am deviating from chronological order in giving it here; but I had </p><p>perhaps better do so in order that I may exhaust this subject before </p><p>proceeding to others. Moreover I should never come to an end were I to</p><p>keep to a strictly narrative form, and detail the infinite absurdities </p><p>with which I daily came in contact. </p><p>The prisoner was placed in the dock, and the jury were sworn much as in </p><p>Europe; almost all our own modes of procedure were reproduced, even to </p><p>the requiring the prisoner to plead guilty or not guilty. He pleaded not</p><p>guilty, and the case proceeded. The evidence for the prosecution was</p><p>very strong; but I must do the court the justice to observe that the </p><p>trial was absolutely impartial. Counsel for the prisoner was allowed to</p><p>urge everything that could be said in his defence: the line taken was </p><p>that the prisoner was simulating consumption in order to defraud an </p><p>insurance company, from which he was about to buy an annuity, and that he </p><p>hoped thus to obtain it on more advantageous terms. If this could have</p><p>been shown to be the case he would have escaped a criminal prosecution, </p><p>and been sent to a hospital as for a moral ailment. The view, however,</p><p>was one which could not be reasonably sustained, in spite of all the </p><p>ingenuity and eloquence of one of the most celebrated advocates of the </p><p>country. The case was only too clear, for the prisoner was almost at the</p><p>point of death, and it was astonishing that he had not been tried and </p><p>convicted long previously. His coughing was incessant during the whole</p><p>trial, and it was all that the two jailors in charge of him could do to </p><p>keep him on his legs until it was over. </p><p>The summing up of the judge was admirable. He dwelt upon every point</p><p>that could be construed in favour of the prisoner, but as he proceeded it </p><p>became clear that the evidence was too convincing to admit of doubt, and </p><p>there was but one opinion in the court as to the impending verdict when </p><p>the jury retired from the box. They were absent for about ten minutes,</p><p>and on their return the foreman pronounced the prisoner guilty. There</p><p>was a faint murmur of applause, but it was instantly repressed. The</p><p>judge then proceeded to pronounce sentence in words which I can never </p><p>forget, and which I copied out into a note-book next day from the report </p><p>that was published in the leading newspaper. I must condense it</p><p>somewhat, and nothing which I could say would give more than a faint idea </p><p>of the solemn, not to say majestic, severity with which it was delivered. </p><p>The sentence was as follows:- </p><p>"Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of the great crime of </p><p>labouring under pulmonary consumption, and after an impartial trial </p><p>before a jury of your countrymen, you have been found guilty. Against</p><p>the justice of the verdict I can say nothing: the evidence against you </p><p>was conclusive, and it only remains for me to pass such a sentence upon </p><p>you, as shall satisfy the ends of the law. That sentence must be a very</p><p>severe one. It pains me much to see one who is yet so young, and whose</p><p>prospects in life were otherwise so excellent, brought to this </p><p>distressing condition by a constitution which I can only regard as </p><p>radically vicious; but yours is no case for compassion: this is not your </p><p>first offence: you have led a career of crime, and have only profited by </p><p>the leniency shown you upon past occasions, to offend yet more seriously </p><p>against the laws and institutions of your country. You were convicted of</p><p>aggravated bronchitis last year: and I find that though you are now only</p><p>twenty-three years old, you have been imprisoned on no less than fourteen </p><p>occasions for illnesses of a more or less hateful character; in fact, it </p><p>is not too much to say that you have spent the greater part of your life </p><p>in a jail. </p><p>"It is all very well for you to say that you came of unhealthy parents, </p><p>and had a severe accident in your childhood which permanently undermined </p><p>your constitution; excuses such as these are the ordinary refuge of the </p><p>criminal; but they cannot for one moment be listened to by the ear of </p><p>justice. I am not here to enter upon curious metaphysical questions as</p><p>to the origin of this or that--questions to which there would be no end </p><p>were their introduction once tolerated, and which would result in </p><p>throwing the only guilt on the tissues of the primordial cell, or on the </p><p>elementary gases. There is no question of how you came to be wicked, but</p><p>only this--namely, are you wicked or not? This has been decided in the</p><p>affirmative, neither can I hesitate for a single moment to say that it </p><p>has been decided justly. You are a bad and dangerous person, and stand</p><p>branded in the eyes of your fellow-countrymen with one of the most </p><p>heinous known offences. </p><p>"It is not my business to justify the law: the law may in some cases have </p><p>its inevitable hardships, and I may feel regret at times that I have not </p><p>the option of passing a less severe sentence than I am compelled to do. </p><p>But yours is no such case; on the contrary, had not the capital </p><p>punishment for consumption been abolished, I should certainly inflict it </p><p>now. </p><p>"It is intolerable that an example of such terrible enormity should be </p><p>allowed to go at large unpunished. Your presence in the society of</p><p>respectable people would lead the less able-bodied to think more lightly </p><p>of all forms of illness; neither can it be permitted that you should have </p><p>the chance of corrupting unborn beings who might hereafter pester you. </p><p>The unborn must not be allowed to come near you: and this not so much for </p><p>their protection (for they are our natural enemies), as for our own; for </p><p>since they will not be utterly gainsaid, it must be seen to that they </p><p>shall be quartered upon those who are least likely to corrupt them. </p><p>"But independently of this consideration, and independently of the </p><p>physical guilt which attaches itself to a crime so great as yours, there </p><p>is yet another reason why we should be unable to show you mercy, even if </p><p>we were inclined to do so. I refer to the existence of a class of men</p><p>who lie hidden among us, and who are called physicians. Were the</p><p>severity of the law or the current feeling of the country to be relaxed </p><p>never so slightly, these abandoned persons, who are now compelled to </p><p>practise secretly and who can be consulted only at the greatest risk, </p><p>would become frequent visitors in every household; their organisation and </p><p>their intimate acquaintance with all family secrets would give them a </p><p>power, both social and political, which nothing could resist. The head</p><p>of the household would become subordinate to the family doctor, who would </p><p>interfere between man and wife, between master and servant, until the </p><p>doctors should be the only depositaries of power in the nation, and have </p><p>all that we hold precious at their mercy. A time of universal</p><p>dephysicalisation would ensue; medicine-vendors of all kinds would abound </p><p>in our streets and advertise in all our newspapers. There is one remedy</p><p>for this, and one only. It is that which the laws of this country have</p><p>long received and acted upon, and consists in the sternest repression of </p><p>all diseases whatsoever, as soon as their existence is made manifest to </p><p>the eye of the law. Would that that eye were far more piercing than it</p><p>is.</p><p>"But I will enlarge no further upon things that are themselves so </p><p>obvious. You may say that it is not your fault. The answer is ready</p><p>enough at hand, and it amounts to this--that if you had been born of </p><p>healthy and well-to-do parents, and been well taken care of when you were </p><p>a child, you would never have offended against the laws of your country, </p><p>nor found yourself in your present disgraceful position. If you tell me</p><p>that you had no hand in your parentage and education, and that it is </p><p>therefore unjust to lay these things to your charge, I answer that </p><p>whether your being in a consumption is your fault or no, it is a fault in </p><p>you, and it is my duty to see that against such faults as this the </p><p>commonwealth shall be protected. You may say that it is your misfortune</p><p>to be criminal; I answer that it is your crime to be unfortunate. </p><p>"Lastly, I should point out that even though the jury had acquitted you--a </p><p>supposition that I cannot seriously entertain--I should have felt it my </p><p>duty to inflict a sentence hardly less severe than that which I must pass </p><p>at present; for the more you had been found guiltless of the crime </p><p>imputed to you, the more you would have been found guilty of one hardly </p><p>less heinous--I mean the crime of having been maligned unjustly. </p><p>"I do not hesitate therefore to sentence you to imprisonment, with hard </p><p>labour, for the rest of your miserable existence. During that period I</p><p>would earnestly entreat you to repent of the wrongs you have done </p><p>already, and to entirely reform the constitution of your whole body. I</p><p>entertain but little hope that you will pay attention to my advice; you </p><p>are already far too abandoned. Did it rest with myself, I should add</p><p>nothing in mitigation of the sentence which I have passed, but it is the </p><p>merciful provision of the law that even the most hardened criminal shall </p><p>be allowed some one of the three official remedies, which is to be </p><p>prescribed at the time of his conviction. I shall therefore order that</p><p>you receive two tablespoonfuls of castor oil daily, until the pleasure of </p><p>the court be further known." </p><p>When the sentence was concluded the prisoner acknowledged in a few </p><p>scarcely audible words that he was justly punished, and that he had had a </p><p>fair trial. He was then removed to the prison from which he was never to</p><p>return. There was a second attempt at applause when the judge had</p><p>finished speaking, but as before it was at once repressed; and though the </p><p>feeling of the court was strongly against the prisoner, there was no show </p><p>of any violence against him, if one may except a little hooting from the </p><p>bystanders when he was being removed in the prisoners' van. Indeed,</p><p>nothing struck me more during my whole sojourn in the country, than the </p><p>general respect for law and order. </p><p>CHAPTER XII: MALCONTENTS </p><p>I confess that I felt rather unhappy when I got home, and thought more </p><p>closely over the trial that I had just witnessed. For the time I was</p><p>carried away by the opinion of those among whom I was. They had no</p><p>misgivings about what they were doing. There did not seem to be a person</p><p>in the whole court who had the smallest doubt but that all was exactly as </p><p>it should be. This universal unsuspecting confidence was imparted by</p><p>sympathy to myself, in spite of all my training in opinions so widely </p><p>different. So it is with most of us: that which we observe to be taken</p><p>as a matter of course by those around us, we take as a matter of course </p><p>ourselves. And after all, it is our duty to do this, save upon grave</p><p>occasion. </p><p>But when I was alone, and began to think the trial over, it certainly did </p><p>strike me as betraying a strange and untenable position. Had the judge</p><p>said that he acknowledged the probable truth, namely, that the prisoner </p><p>was born of unhealthy parents, or had been starved in infancy, or had met </p><p>with some accidents which had developed consumption; and had he then gone </p><p>on to say that though he knew all this, and bitterly regretted that the </p><p>protection of society obliged him to inflict additional pain on one who </p><p>had suffered so much already, yet that there was no help for it, I could </p><p>have understood the position, however mistaken I might have thought it. </p><p>The judge was fully persuaded that the infliction of pain upon the weak </p><p>and sickly was the only means of preventing weakness and sickliness from </p><p>spreading, and that ten times the suffering now inflicted upon the </p><p>accused was eventually warded off from others by the present apparent </p><p>severity. I could therefore perfectly understand his inflicting whatever</p><p>pain he might consider necessary in order to prevent so bad an example </p><p>from spreading further and lowering the Erewhonian standard; but it </p><p>seemed almost childish to tell the prisoner that he could have been in </p><p>good health, if he had been more fortunate in his constitution, and been </p><p>exposed to less hardships when he was a boy. </p><p>I write with great diffidence, but it seems to me that there is no </p><p>unfairness in punishing people for their misfortunes, or rewarding them </p><p>for their sheer good luck: it is the normal condition of human life that </p><p>this should be done, and no right-minded person will complain of being </p><p>subjected to the common treatment. There is no alternative open to us.</p><p>It is idle to say that men are not responsible for their misfortunes. </p><p>What is responsibility? Surely to be responsible means to be liable to</p><p>have to give an answer should it be demanded, and all things which live </p><p>are responsible for their lives and actions should society see fit to </p><p>question them through the mouth of its authorised agent. </p><p>What is the offence of a lamb that we should rear it, and tend it, and </p><p>lull it into security, for the express purpose of killing it? Its</p><p>offence is the misfortune of being something which society wants to eat, </p><p>and which cannot defend itself. This is ample. Who shall limit the</p><p>right of society except society itself? And what consideration for the</p><p>individual is tolerable unless society be the gainer thereby? Wherefore</p><p>should a man be so richly rewarded for having been son to a millionaire, </p><p>were it not clearly provable that the common welfare is thus better </p><p>furthered? We cannot seriously detract from a man's merit in having been</p><p>the son of a rich father without imperilling our own tenure of things </p><p>which we do not wish to jeopardise; if this were otherwise we should not </p><p>let him keep his money for a single hour; we would have it ourselves at </p><p>once. For property is robbery, but then, we are all robbers or would-be</p><p>robbers together, and have found it essential to organise our thieving, </p><p>as we have found it necessary to organise our lust and our revenge. </p><p>Property, marriage, the law; as the bed to the river, so rule and </p><p>convention to the instinct; and woe to him who tampers with the banks </p><p>while the flood is flowing. </p><p>But to return. Even in England a man on board a ship with yellow fever</p><p>is held responsible for his mischance, no matter what his being kept in </p><p>quarantine may cost him. He may catch the fever and die; we cannot help</p><p>it; he must take his chance as other people do; but surely it would be </p><p>desperate unkindness to add contumely to our self-protection, unless,</p><p>indeed, we believe that contumely is one of our best means of </p><p>self-protection. Again, take the case of maniacs. We say that they are</p><p>irresponsible for their actions, but we take good care, or ought to take </p><p>good care, that they shall answer to us for their insanity, and we </p><p>imprison them in what we call an asylum (that modern sanctuary!) if we do </p><p>not like their answers. This is a strange kind of irresponsibility. What</p><p>we ought to say is that we can afford to be satisfied with a less </p><p>satisfactory answer from a lunatic than from one who is not mad, because </p><p>lunacy is less infectious than crime. </p><p>We kill a serpent if we go in danger by it, simply for being such and </p><p>such a serpent in such and such a place; but we never say that the </p><p>serpent has only itself to blame for not having been a harmless creature. </p><p>Its crime is that of being the thing which it is: but this is a capital </p><p>offence, and we are right in killing it out of the way, unless we think </p><p>it more danger to do so than to let it escape; nevertheless we pity the </p><p>creature, even though we kill it. </p><p>But in the case of him whose trial I have described above, it was </p><p>impossible that any one in the court should not have known that it was </p><p>but by an accident of birth and circumstances that he was not himself </p><p>also in a consumption; and yet none thought that it disgraced them to </p><p>hear the judge give vent to the most cruel truisms about him. The judge</p><p>himself was a kind and thoughtful person. He was a man of magnificent</p><p>and benign presence. He was evidently of an iron constitution, and his</p><p>face wore an expression of the maturest wisdom and experience; yet for </p><p>all this, old and learned as he was, he could not see things which one </p><p>would have thought would have been apparent even to a child. He could</p><p>not emancipate himself from, nay, it did not even occur to him to feel, </p><p>the bondage of the ideas in which he had been born and bred. </p><p>So was it also with the jury and bystanders; and--most wonderful of </p><p>all--so was it even with the prisoner. Throughout he seemed fully</p><p>impressed with the notion that he was being dealt with justly: he saw </p><p>nothing wanton in his being told by the judge that he was to be punished, </p><p>not so much as a necessary protection to society (although this was not </p><p>entirely lost sight of), as because he had not been better born and bred </p><p>than he was. But this led me to hope that he suffered less than he would</p><p>have done if he had seen the matter in the same light that I did. And,</p><p>after all, justice is relative. </p><p>I may here mention that only a few years before my arrival in the </p><p>country, the treatment of all convicted invalids had been much more </p><p>barbarous than now, for no physical remedy was provided, and prisoners </p><p>were put to the severest labour in all sorts of weather, so that most of </p><p>them soon succumbed to the extreme hardships which they suffered; this </p><p>was supposed to be beneficial in some ways, inasmuch as it put the </p><p>country to less expense for the maintenance of its criminal class; but </p><p>the growth of luxury had induced a relaxation of the old severity, and a </p><p>sensitive age would no longer tolerate what appeared to be an excess of </p><p>rigour, even towards the most guilty; moreover, it was found that juries </p><p>were less willing to convict, and justice was often cheated because there </p><p>was no alternative between virtually condemning a man to death and </p><p>letting him go free; it was also held that the country paid in </p><p>recommittals for its over-severity; for those who had been imprisoned </p><p>even for trifling ailments were often permanently disabled by their </p><p>imprisonment; and when a man had been once convicted, it was probable </p><p>that he would seldom afterwards be off the hands of the country. </p><p>These evils had long been apparent and recognised; yet people were too </p><p>indolent, and too indifferent to suffering not their own, to bestir </p><p>themselves about putting an end to them, until at last a benevolent </p><p>reformer devoted his whole life to effecting the necessary changes. He</p><p>divided all illnesses into three classes--those affecting the head, the </p><p>trunk, and the lower limbs--and obtained an enactment that all diseases </p><p>of the head, whether internal or external, should be treated with </p><p>laudanum, those of the body with castor-oil, and those of the lower limbs </p><p>with an embrocation of strong sulphuric acid and water. </p><p>It may be said that the classification was not sufficiently careful, and </p><p>that the remedies were ill chosen; but it is a hard thing to initiate any </p><p>reform, and it was necessary to familiarise the public mind with the </p><p>principle, by inserting the thin end of the wedge first: it is not, </p><p>therefore, to be wondered at that among so practical a people there </p><p>should still be some room for improvement. The mass of the nation are</p><p>well pleased with existing arrangements, and believe that their treatment </p><p>of criminals leaves little or nothing to be desired; but there is an </p><p>energetic minority who hold what are considered to be extreme opinions, </p><p>and who are not at all disposed to rest contented until the principle </p><p>lately admitted has been carried further. </p><p>I was at some pains to discover the opinions of these men, and their </p><p>reasons for entertaining them. They are held in great odium by the</p><p>generality of the public, and are considered as subverters of all </p><p>morality whatever. The malcontents, on the other hand, assert that</p><p>illness is the inevitable result of certain antecedent causes, which, in </p><p>the great majority of cases, were beyond the control of the individual, </p><p>and that therefore a man is only guilty for being in a consumption in the </p><p>same way as rotten fruit is guilty for having gone rotten. True, the</p><p>fruit must be thrown on one side as unfit for man's use, and the man in a </p><p>consumption must be put in prison for the protection of his </p><p>fellow-citizens; but these radicals would not punish him further than by </p><p>loss of liberty and a strict surveillance. So long as he was prevented</p><p>from injuring society, they would allow him to make himself useful by </p><p>supplying whatever of society's wants he could supply. If he succeeded</p><p>in thus earning money, they would have him made as comfortable in prison </p><p>as possible, and would in no way interfere with his liberty more than was </p><p>necessary to prevent him from escaping, or from becoming more severely </p><p>indisposed within the prison walls; but they would deduct from his </p><p>earnings the expenses of his board, lodging, surveillance, and half those </p><p>of his conviction. If he was too ill to do anything for his support in</p><p>prison, they would allow him nothing but bread and water, and very little </p><p>of that. </p><p>They say that society is foolish in refusing to allow itself to be </p><p>benefited by a man merely because he has done it harm hitherto, and that </p><p>objection to the labour of the diseased classes is only protection in </p><p>another form. It is an attempt to raise the natural price of a commodity</p><p>by saying that such and such persons, who are able and willing to produce </p><p>it, shall not do so, whereby every one has to pay more for it. </p><p>Besides, so long as a man has not been actually killed he is our fellow- </p><p>creature, though perhaps a very unpleasant one. It is in a great degree</p><p>the doing of others that he is what he is, or in other words, the society </p><p>which now condemns him is partly answerable concerning him. They say</p><p>that there is no fear of any increase of disease under these </p><p>circumstances; for the loss of liberty, the surveillance, the </p><p>considerable and compulsory deduction from the prisoner's earnings, the</p><p>very sparing use of stimulants (of which they would allow but little to </p><p>any, and none to those who did not earn them), the enforced celibacy, and </p><p>above all, the loss of reputation among friends, are in their opinion as </p><p>ample safeguards to society against a general neglect of health as those </p><p>now resorted to. A man, therefore, (so they say) should carry his</p><p>profession or trade into prison with him if possible; if not, he must </p><p>earn his living by the nearest thing to it that he can; but if he be a </p><p>gentleman born and bred to no profession, he must pick oakum, or write </p><p>art criticisms for a newspaper. </p><p>These people say further, that the greater part of the illness which </p><p>exists in their country is brought about by the insane manner in which it </p><p>is treated. </p><p>They believe that illness is in many cases just as curable as the moral </p><p>diseases which they see daily cured around them, but that a great reform </p><p>is impossible till men learn to take a juster view of what physical </p><p>obliquity proceeds from. Men will hide their illnesses as long as they</p><p>are scouted on its becoming known that they are ill; it is the scouting, </p><p>not the physic, which produces the concealment; and if a man felt that </p><p>the news of his being in ill-health would be received by his neighbours </p><p>as a deplorable fact, but one as much the result of necessary antecedent </p><p>causes as though he had broken into a jeweller's shop and stolen a </p><p>valuable diamond necklace--as a fact which might just as easily have </p><p>happened to themselves, only that they had the luck to be better born or </p><p>reared; and if they also felt that they would not be made more </p><p>uncomfortable in the prison than the protection of society against </p><p>infection and the proper treatment of their own disease actually </p><p>demanded, men would give themselves up to the police as readily on </p><p>perceiving that they had taken small-pox, as they go now to the </p><p>straightener when they feel that they are on the point of forging a will, </p><p>or running away with somebody else's wife. </p><p>But the main argument on which they rely is that of economy: for they </p><p>know that they will sooner gain their end by appealing to men's pockets, </p><p>in which they have generally something of their own, than to their heads, </p><p>which contain for the most part little but borrowed or stolen property; </p><p>and also, they believe it to be the readiest test and the one which has </p><p>most to show for itself. If a course of conduct can be shown to cost a</p><p>country less, and this by no dishonourable saving and with no indirectly </p><p>increased expenditure in other ways, they hold that it requires a good </p><p>deal to upset the arguments in favour of its being adopted, and whether </p><p>rightly or wrongly I cannot pretend to say, they think that the more </p><p>medicinal and humane treatment of the diseased of which they are the </p><p>advocates would in the long run be much cheaper to the country: but I did </p><p>not gather that these reformers were opposed to meeting some of the more </p><p>violent forms of illness with the cat-of-nine-tails, or with death; for </p><p>they saw no so effectual way of checking them; they would therefore both </p><p>flog and hang, but they would do so pitifully. </p><p>I have perhaps dwelt too long upon opinions which can have no possible </p><p>bearing upon our own, but I have not said the tenth part of what these </p><p>would-be reformers urged upon me. I feel, however, that I have</p><p>sufficiently trespassed upon the attention of the reader. </p><p>CHAPTER XIII: THE VIEWS OF THE EREWHONIANS CONCERNING DEATH</p><p>The Erewhonians regard death with less abhorrence than disease. If it is</p><p>an offence at all, it is one beyond the reach of the law, which is </p><p>therefore silent on the subject; but they insist that the greater number </p><p>of those who are commonly said to die, have never yet been born--not, at </p><p>least, into that unseen world which is alone worthy of consideration. As</p><p>regards this unseen world I understand them to say that some miscarry in </p><p>respect to it before they have even reached the seen, and some after, </p><p>while few are ever truly born into it at all--the greater part of all the </p><p>men and women over the whole country miscarrying before they reach it. </p><p>And they say that this does not matter so much as we think it does. </p><p>As for what we call death, they argue that too much has been made of it. </p><p>The mere knowledge that we shall one day die does not make us very </p><p>unhappy; no one thinks that he or she will escape, so that none are </p><p>disappointed. We do not care greatly even though we know that we have</p><p>not long to live; the only thing that would seriously affect us would be </p><p>the knowing--or rather thinking that we know--the precise moment at which </p><p>the blow will fall. Happily no one can ever certainly know this, though</p><p>many try to make themselves miserable by endeavouring to find it out. It</p><p>seems as though there were some power somewhere which mercifully stays us </p><p>from putting that sting into the tail of death, which we would put there </p><p>if we could, and which ensures that though death must always be a </p><p>bugbear, it shall never under any conceivable circumstances be more than </p><p>a bugbear. </p><p>For even though a man is condemned to die in a week's time and is shut up </p><p>in a prison from which it is certain that he cannot escape, he will </p><p>always hope that a reprieve may come before the week is over. Besides,</p><p>the prison may catch fire, and he may be suffocated not with a rope, but </p><p>with common ordinary smoke; or he may be struck dead by lightning while </p><p>exercising in the prison yards. When the morning is come on which the</p><p>poor wretch is to be hanged, he may choke at his breakfast, or die from </p><p>failure of the heart's action before the drop has fallen; and even though </p><p>it has fallen, he cannot be quite certain that he is going to die, for he </p><p>cannot know this till his death has actually taken place, and it will be </p><p>too late then for him to discover that he was going to die at the </p><p>appointed hour after all. The Erewhonians, therefore, hold that death,</p><p>like life, is an affair of being more frightened than hurt. </p><p>They burn their dead, and the ashes are presently scattered over any </p><p>piece of ground which the deceased may himself have chosen. No one is</p><p>permitted to refuse this hospitality to the dead: people, therefore, </p><p>generally choose some garden or orchard which they may have known and </p><p>been fond of when they were young. The superstitious hold that those</p><p>whose ashes are scattered over any land become its jealous guardians from </p><p>that time forward; and the living like to think that they shall become </p><p>identified with this or that locality where they have once been happy. </p><p>They do not put up monuments, nor write epitaphs, for their dead, though </p><p>in former ages their practice was much as ours, but they have a custom </p><p>which comes to much the same thing, for the instinct of preserving the </p><p>name alive after the death of the body seems to be common to all mankind. </p><p>They have statues of themselves made while they are still alive (those, </p><p>that is, who can afford it), and write inscriptions under them, which are </p><p>often quite as untruthful as are our own epitaphs--only in another way. </p><p>For they do not hesitate to describe themselves as victims to ill temper, </p><p>jealousy, covetousness, and the like, but almost always lay claim to</p><p>personal beauty, whether they have it or not, and, often, to the </p><p>possession of a large sum in the funded debt of the country. If a person</p><p>is ugly he does not sit as a model for his own statue, although it bears </p><p>his name. He gets the handsomest of his friends to sit for him, and one</p><p>of the ways of paying a compliment to another is to ask him to sit for </p><p>such a statue. Women generally sit for their own statues, from a natural</p><p>disinclination to admit the superior beauty of a friend, but they expect </p><p>to be idealised. I understood that the multitude of these statues was</p><p>beginning to be felt as an encumbrance in almost every family, and that </p><p>the custom would probably before long fall into desuetude. </p><p>Indeed, this has already come about to the satisfaction of every one, as </p><p>regards the statues of public men--not more than three of which can be </p><p>found in the whole capital. I expressed my surprise at this, and was</p><p>told that some five hundred years before my visit, the city had been so </p><p>overrun with these pests, that there was no getting about, and people </p><p>were worried beyond endurance by having their attention called at every </p><p>touch and turn to something, which, when they had attended to it, they </p><p>found not to concern them. Most of these statues were mere attempts to</p><p>do for some man or woman what an animal-stuffer does more successfully </p><p>for a dog, or bird, or pike. They were generally foisted on the public</p><p>by some coterie that was trying to exalt itself in exalting some one </p><p>else, and not unfrequently they had no other inception than desire on the </p><p>part of some member of the coterie to find a job for a young sculptor to </p><p>whom his daughter was engaged. Statues so begotten could never be</p><p>anything but deformities, and this is the way in which they are sure to </p><p>be begotten, as soon as the art of making them at all has become widely </p><p>practised. </p><p>I know not why, but all the noblest arts hold in perfection but for a </p><p>very little moment. They soon reach a height from which they begin to</p><p>decline, and when they have begun to decline it is a pity that they </p><p>cannot be knocked on the head; for an art is like a living </p><p>organism--better dead than dying. There is no way of making an aged art</p><p>young again; it must be born anew and grow up from infancy as a new </p><p>thing, working out its own salvation from effort to effort in all fear </p><p>and trembling. </p><p>The Erewhonians five hundred years ago understood nothing of all this--I </p><p>doubt whether they even do so now. They wanted to get the nearest thing</p><p>they could to a stuffed man whose stuffing should not grow mouldy. They</p><p>should have had some such an establishment as our Madame Tussaud's, where </p><p>the figures wear real clothes, and are painted up to nature. Such an</p><p>institution might have been made self-supporting, for people might have </p><p>been made to pay before going in. As it was, they had let their poor</p><p>cold grimy colourless heroes and heroines loaf about in squares and in </p><p>corners of streets in all weathers, without any attempt at artistic </p><p>sanitation--for there was no provision for burying their dead works of </p><p>art out of their sight--no drainage, so to speak, whereby statues that </p><p>had been sufficiently assimilated, so as to form part of the residuary </p><p>impression of the country, might be carried away out of the system. Hence</p><p>they put them up with a light heart on the cackling of their coteries, </p><p>and they and their children had to live, often enough, with some wordy </p><p>windbag whose cowardice had cost the country untold loss in blood and </p><p>money. </p><p>At last the evil reached such a pitch that the people rose, and with </p><p>indiscriminate fury destroyed good and bad alike. Most of what was</p><p>destroyed was bad, but some few works were good, and the sculptors of to-</p><p>day wring their hands over some of the fragments that have been preserved </p><p>in museums up and down the country. For a couple of hundred years or so,</p><p>not a statue was made from one end of the kingdom to the other, but the </p><p>instinct for having stuffed men and women was so strong, that people at </p><p>length again began to try to make them. Not knowing how to make them,</p><p>and having no academics to mislead them, the earliest sculptors of this </p><p>period thought things out for themselves, and again produced works that </p><p>were full of interest, so that in three or four generations they reached </p><p>a perfection hardly if at all inferior to that of several hundred years </p><p>earlier. </p><p>On this the same evils recurred. Sculptors obtained high prices--the art</p><p>became a trade--schools arose which professed to sell the holy spirit of </p><p>art for money; pupils flocked from far and near to buy it, in the hopes </p><p>of selling it later on, and were struck purblind as a punishment for the </p><p>sin of those who sent them. Before long a second iconoclastic fury would</p><p>infallibly have followed, but for the prescience of a statesman who </p><p>succeeded in passing an Act to the effect that no statue of any public </p><p>man or woman should be allowed to remain unbroken for more than fifty </p><p>years, unless at the end of that time a jury of twenty-four men taken at </p><p>random from the street pronounced in favour of its being allowed a second </p><p>fifty years of life. Every fifty years this reconsideration was to be</p><p>repeated, and unless there was a majority of eighteen in favour of the </p><p>retention of the statue, it was to be destroyed. </p><p>Perhaps a simpler plan would have been to forbid the erection of a statue </p><p>to any public man or woman till he or she had been dead at least one </p><p>hundred years, and even then to insist on reconsideration of the claims </p><p>of the deceased and the merit of the statue every fifty years--but the </p><p>working of the Act brought about results that on the whole were </p><p>satisfactory. For in the first place, many public statues that would</p><p>have been voted under the old system, were not ordered, when it was known </p><p>that they would be almost certainly broken up after fifty years, and in </p><p>the second, public sculptors knowing their work to be so ephemeral, </p><p>scamped it to an extent that made it offensive even to the most </p><p>uncultured eye. Hence before long subscribers took to paying the</p><p>sculptor for the statue of their dead statesmen, on condition that he did </p><p>not make it. The tribute of respect was thus paid to the deceased, the</p><p>public sculptors were not mulcted, and the rest of the public suffered no </p><p>inconvenience. </p><p>I was told, however, that an abuse of this custom is growing up, inasmuch </p><p>as the competition for the commission not to make a statue is so keen, </p><p>that sculptors have been known to return a considerable part of the </p><p>purchase money to the subscribers, by an arrangement made with them </p><p>beforehand. Such transactions, however, are always clandestine. A small</p><p>inscription is let into the pavement, where the public statue would have </p><p>stood, which informs the reader that such a statue has been ordered for </p><p>the person, whoever he or she may be, but that as yet the sculptor has </p><p>not been able to complete it. There has been no Act to repress statues</p><p>that are intended for private consumption, but as I have said, the custom </p><p>is falling into desuetude. </p><p>Returning to Erewhonian customs in connection with death, there is one </p><p>which I can hardly pass over. When any one dies, the friends of the</p><p>family write no letters of condolence, neither do they attend the </p><p>scattering, nor wear mourning, but they send little boxes filled with </p><p>artificial tears, and with the name of the sender painted neatly upon the </p><p>outside of the lid. The tears vary in number from two to fifteen or</p><p>sixteen, according to degree of intimacy or relationship; and people </p><p>sometimes find it a nice point of etiquette to know the exact number </p><p>which they ought to send. Strange as it may appear, this attention is</p><p>highly valued, and its omission by those from whom it might be expected </p><p>is keenly felt. These tears were formerly stuck with adhesive plaster to</p><p>the cheeks of the bereaved, and were worn in public for a few months </p><p>after the death of a relative; they were then banished to the hat or </p><p>bonnet, and are now no longer worn. </p><p>The birth of a child is looked upon as a painful subject on which it is </p><p>kinder not to touch: the illness of the mother is carefully concealed </p><p>until the necessity for signing the birth-formula (of which hereafter) </p><p>renders further secrecy impossible, and for some months before the event </p><p>the family live in retirement, seeing very little company. When the</p><p>offence is over and done with, it is condoned by the common want of </p><p>logic; for this merciful provision of nature, this buffer against </p><p>collisions, this friction which upsets our calculations but without which </p><p>existence would be intolerable, this crowning glory of human invention </p><p>whereby we can be blind and see at one and the same moment, this blessed </p><p>inconsistency, exists here as elsewhere; and though the strictest writers </p><p>on morality have maintained that it is wicked for a woman to have </p><p>children at all, inasmuch as it is wrong to be out of health that good </p><p>may come, yet the necessity of the case has caused a general feeling in </p><p>favour of passing over such events in silence, and of assuming their non- </p><p>existence except in such flagrant cases as force themselves on the public </p><p>notice. Against these the condemnation of society is inexorable, and if</p><p>it is believed that the illness has been dangerous and protracted, it is </p><p>almost impossible for a woman to recover her former position in society. </p><p>The above conventions struck me as arbitrary and cruel, but they put a </p><p>stop to many fancied ailments; for the situation, so far from being </p><p>considered interesting, is looked upon as savouring more or less </p><p>distinctly of a very reprehensible condition of things, and the ladies </p><p>take care to conceal it as long as they can even from their own husbands, </p><p>in anticipation of a severe scolding as soon as the misdemeanour is </p><p>discovered. Also the baby is kept out of sight, except on the day of</p><p>signing the birth-formula, until it can walk and talk. Should the child</p><p>unhappily die, a coroner's inquest is inevitable, but in order to avoid </p><p>disgracing a family which may have been hitherto respected, it is almost </p><p>invariably found that the child was over seventy-five years old, and died </p><p>from the decay of nature. </p><p>CHAPTER XIV: MAHAINA </p><p>I continued my sojourn with the Nosnibors. In a few days Mr. Nosnibor</p><p>had recovered from his flogging, and was looking forward with glee to the </p><p>fact that the next would be the last. I did not think that there seemed</p><p>any occasion even for this; but he said it was better to be on the safe </p><p>side, and he would make up the dozen. He now went to his business as</p><p>usual; and I understood that he was never more prosperous, in spite of </p><p>his heavy fine. He was unable to give me much of his time during the</p><p>day; for he was one of those valuable men who are paid, not by the year, </p><p>month, week, or day, but by the minute. His wife and daughters, however,</p><p>made much of me, and introduced me to their friends, who came in shoals </p><p>to call upon me.</p><p>One of these persons was a lady called Mahaina. Zulora (the elder of my</p><p>host's daughters) ran up to her and embraced her as soon as she entered </p><p>the room, at the same time inquiring tenderly after her "poor </p><p>dipsomania." Mahaina answered that it was just as bad as ever; she was a</p><p>perfect martyr to it, and her excellent health was the only thing which </p><p>consoled her under her affliction. </p><p>Then the other ladies joined in with condolences and the never-failing </p><p>suggestions which they had ready for every mental malady. They</p><p>recommended their own straightener and disparaged Mahaina's. Mrs.</p><p>Nosnibor had a favourite nostrum, but I could catch little of its nature. </p><p>I heard the words "full confidence that the desire to drink will cease </p><p>when the formula has been repeated * * * this confidence is _everything_ </p><p>* * * far from undervaluing a thorough determination never to touch </p><p>spirits again * * * fail too often * * * formula a _certain cure_ (with </p><p>great emphasis) * * * prescribed form * * * full conviction." The</p><p>conversation then became more audible, and was carried on at considerable </p><p>length. I should perplex myself and the reader by endeavouring to follow</p><p>the ingenious perversity of all they said; enough, that in the course of </p><p>time the visit came to an end, and Mahaina took her leave receiving </p><p>affectionate embraces from all the ladies. I had remained in the</p><p>background after the first ceremony of introduction, for I did not like </p><p>the looks of Mahaina, and the conversation displeased me. When she left</p><p>the room I had some consolation in the remarks called forth by her </p><p>departure. </p><p>At first they fell to praising her very demurely. She was all this that</p><p>and the other, till I disliked her more and more at every word, and </p><p>inquired how it was that the straighteners had not been able to cure her </p><p>as they had cured Mr. Nosnibor. </p><p>There was a shade of significance on Mrs. Nosnibor's face as I said this, </p><p>which seemed to imply that she did not consider Mahaina's case to be </p><p>quite one for a straightener. It flashed across me that perhaps the poor</p><p>woman did not drink at all. I knew that I ought not to have inquired,</p><p>but I could not help it, and asked point blank whether she did or not. </p><p>"We can none of us judge of the condition of other people," said Mrs. </p><p>Nosnibor in a gravely charitable tone and with a look towards Zulora. </p><p>"Oh, mamma," answered Zulora, pretending to be half angry but rejoiced at </p><p>being able to say out what she was already longing to insinuate; "I don't </p><p>believe a word of it. It's all indigestion. I remember staying in the</p><p>house with her for a whole month last summer, and I am sure she never </p><p>once touched a drop of wine or spirits. The fact is, Mahaina is a very</p><p>weakly girl, and she pretends to get tipsy in order to win a forbearance </p><p>from her friends to which she is not entitled. She is not strong enough</p><p>for her calisthenic exercises, and she knows she would be made to do them </p><p>unless her inability was referred to moral causes." </p><p>Here the younger sister, who was ever sweet and kind, remarked that she </p><p>thought Mahaina did tipple occasionally. "I also think," she added,</p><p>"that she sometimes takes poppy juice." </p><p>"Well, then, perhaps she does drink sometimes," said Zulora; "but she </p><p>would make us all think that she does it much oftener in order to hide </p><p>her weakness." </p><p>And so they went on for half an hour and more, bandying about the </p><p>question as to how far their late visitor's intemperance was real or no. </p><p>Every now and then they would join in some charitable commonplace, and </p><p>would pretend to be all of one mind that Mahaina was a person whose </p><p>bodily health would be excellent if it were not for her unfortunate </p><p>inability to refrain from excessive drinking; but as soon as this </p><p>appeared to be fairly settled they began to be uncomfortable until they </p><p>had undone their work and left some serious imputation upon her </p><p>constitution. At last, seeing that the debate had assumed the character</p><p>of a cyclone or circular storm, going round and round and round and round </p><p>till one could never say where it began nor where it ended, I made some </p><p>apology for an abrupt departure and retired to my own room. </p><p>Here at least I was alone, but I was very unhappy. I had fallen upon a</p><p>set of people who, in spite of their high civilisation and many </p><p>excellences, had been so warped by the mistaken views presented to them </p><p>during childhood from generation to generation, that it was impossible to </p><p>see how they could ever clear themselves. Was there nothing which I</p><p>could say to make them feel that the constitution of a person's body was </p><p>a thing over which he or she had had at any rate no initial control </p><p>whatever, while the mind was a perfectly different thing, and capable of </p><p>being created anew and directed according to the pleasure of its </p><p>possessor? Could I never bring them to see that while habits of mind and</p><p>character were entirely independent of initial mental force and early </p><p>education, the body was so much a creature of parentage and </p><p>circumstances, that no punishment for ill-health should be ever tolerated </p><p>save as a protection from contagion, and that even where punishment was </p><p>inevitable it should be attended with compassion? Surely, if the</p><p>unfortunate Mahaina were to feel that she could avow her bodily weakness </p><p>without fear of being despised for her infirmities, and if there were </p><p>medical men to whom she could fairly state her case, she would not </p><p>hesitate about doing so through the fear of taking nasty medicine. It</p><p>was possible that her malady was incurable (for I had heard enough to </p><p>convince me that her dipsomania was only a pretence and that she was </p><p>temperate in all her habits); in that case she might perhaps be justly </p><p>subject to annoyances or even to restraint; but who could say whether she </p><p>was curable or not, until she was able to make a clean breast of her </p><p>symptoms instead of concealing them? In their eagerness to stamp out</p><p>disease, these people overshot their mark; for people had become so </p><p>clever at dissembling--they painted their faces with such consummate </p><p>skill--they repaired the decay of time and the effects of mischance with </p><p>such profound dissimulation--that it was really impossible to say whether </p><p>any one was well or ill till after an intimate acquaintance of months or </p><p>years. Even then the shrewdest were constantly mistaken in their</p><p>judgements, and marriages were often contracted with most deplorable </p><p>results, owing to the art with which infirmity had been concealed. </p><p>It appeared to me that the first step towards the cure of disease should </p><p>be the announcement of the fact to a person's near relations and friends. </p><p>If any one had a headache, he ought to be permitted within reasonable </p><p>limits to say so at once, and to retire to his own bedroom and take a </p><p>pill, without every one's looking grave and tears being shed and all the </p><p>rest of it. As it was, even upon hearing it whispered that somebody else</p><p>was subject to headaches, a whole company must look as though they had </p><p>never had a headache in their lives. It is true they were not very</p><p>prevalent, for the people were the healthiest and most comely imaginable, </p><p>owing to the severity with which ill health was treated; still, even the </p><p>best were liable to be out of sorts sometimes, and there were few </p><p>families that had not a medicine-chest in a cupboard somewhere.</p><p>CHAPTER XV: THE MUSICAL BANKS </p><p>On my return to the drawing-room, I found that the Mahaina current had </p><p>expended itself. The ladies were just putting away their work and</p><p>preparing to go out. I asked them where they were going. They answered</p><p>with a certain air of reserve that they were going to the bank to get </p><p>some money. </p><p>Now I had already collected that the mercantile affairs of the </p><p>Erewhonians were conducted on a totally different system from our own; I </p><p>had, however, gathered little hitherto, except that they had two distinct </p><p>commercial systems, of which the one appealed more strongly to the </p><p>imagination than anything to which we are accustomed in Europe, inasmuch </p><p>as the banks that were conducted upon this system were decorated in the </p><p>most profuse fashion, and all mercantile transactions were accompanied </p><p>with music, so that they were called Musical Banks, though the music was </p><p>hideous to a European ear. </p><p>As for the system itself I never understood it, neither can I do so now: </p><p>they have a code in connection with it, which I have not the slightest </p><p>doubt that they understand, but no foreigner can hope to do so. One rule</p><p>runs into, and against, another as in a most complicated grammar, or as </p><p>in Chinese pronunciation, wherein I am told that the slightest change in </p><p>accentuation or tone of voice alters the meaning of a whole sentence. </p><p>Whatever is incoherent in my description must be referred to the fact of </p><p>my never having attained to a full comprehension of the subject. </p><p>So far, however, as I could collect anything certain, I gathered that </p><p>they have two distinct currencies, each under the control of its own </p><p>banks and mercantile codes. One of these (the one with the Musical</p><p>Banks) was supposed to be _the_ system, and to give out the currency in </p><p>which all monetary transactions should be carried on; and as far as I </p><p>could see, all who wished to be considered respectable, kept a larger or </p><p>smaller balance at these banks. On the other hand, if there is one thing</p><p>of which I am more sure than another, it is that the amount so kept had </p><p>no direct commercial value in the outside world; I am sure that the </p><p>managers and cashiers of the Musical Banks were not paid in their own </p><p>currency. Mr. Nosnibor used to go to these banks, or rather to the great</p><p>mother bank of the city, sometimes but not very often. He was a pillar</p><p>of one of the other kind of banks, though he appeared to hold some minor </p><p>office also in the musical ones. The ladies generally went alone; as</p><p>indeed was the case in most families, except on state occasions. </p><p>I had long wanted to know more of this strange system, and had the </p><p>greatest desire to accompany my hostess and her daughters. I had seen</p><p>them go out almost every morning since my arrival and had noticed that </p><p>they carried their purses in their hands, not exactly ostentatiously, yet </p><p>just so as that those who met them should see whither they were going. I</p><p>had never, however, yet been asked to go with them myself. </p><p>It is not easy to convey a person's manner by words, and I can hardly </p><p>give any idea of the peculiar feeling that came upon me when I saw the </p><p>ladies on the point of starting for the bank. There was a something of</p><p>regret, a something as though they would wish to take me with them, but</p><p>did not like to ask me, and yet as though I were hardly to ask to be </p><p>taken. I was determined, however, to bring matters to an issue with my</p><p>hostess about my going with them, and after a little parleying, and many </p><p>inquiries as to whether I was perfectly sure that I myself wished to go, </p><p>it was decided that I might do so. </p><p>We passed through several streets of more or less considerable houses, </p><p>and at last turning round a corner we came upon a large piazza, at the </p><p>end of which was a magnificent building, of a strange but noble </p><p>architecture and of great antiquity. It did not open directly on to the</p><p>piazza, there being a screen, through which was an archway, between the </p><p>piazza and the actual precincts of the bank. On passing under the</p><p>archway we entered upon a green sward, round which there ran an arcade or </p><p>cloister, while in front of us uprose the majestic towers of the bank and </p><p>its venerable front, which was divided into three deep recesses and </p><p>adorned with all sorts of marbles and many sculptures. On either side</p><p>there were beautiful old trees wherein the birds were busy by the </p><p>hundred, and a number of quaint but substantial houses of singularly </p><p>comfortable appearance; they were situated in the midst of orchards and </p><p>gardens, and gave me an impression of great peace and plenty. </p><p>Indeed it had been no error to say that this building was one that </p><p>appealed to the imagination; it did more--it carried both imagination and </p><p>judgement by storm. It was an epic in stone and marble, and so powerful</p><p>was the effect it produced on me, that as I beheld it I was charmed and </p><p>melted. I felt more conscious of the existence of a remote past. One</p><p>knows of this always, but the knowledge is never so living as in the </p><p>actual presence of some witness to the life of bygone ages. I felt how</p><p>short a space of human life was the period of our own existence. I was</p><p>more impressed with my own littleness, and much more inclinable to </p><p>believe that the people whose sense of the fitness of things was equal to </p><p>the upraising of so serene a handiwork, were hardly likely to be wrong in </p><p>the conclusions they might come to upon any subject. My feeling</p><p>certainly was that the currency of this bank must be the right one. </p><p>We crossed the sward and entered the building. If the outside had been</p><p>impressive the inside was even more so. It was very lofty and divided</p><p>into several parts by walls which rested upon massive pillars; the </p><p>windows were filled with stained glass descriptive of the principal </p><p>commercial incidents of the bank for many ages. In a remote part of the</p><p>building there were men and boys singing; this was the only disturbing </p><p>feature, for as the gamut was still unknown, there was no music in the </p><p>country which could be agreeable to a European ear. The singers seemed</p><p>to have derived their inspirations from the songs of birds and the </p><p>wailing of the wind, which last they tried to imitate in melancholy </p><p>cadences that at times degenerated into a howl. To my thinking the noise</p><p>was hideous, but it produced a great effect upon my companions, who </p><p>professed themselves much moved. As soon as the singing was over, the</p><p>ladies requested me to stay where I was while they went inside the place </p><p>from which it had seemed to come. </p><p>During their absence certain reflections forced themselves upon me. </p><p>In the first place, it struck me as strange that the building should be </p><p>so nearly empty; I was almost alone, and the few besides myself had been </p><p>led by curiosity, and had no intention of doing business with the bank. </p><p>But there might be more inside. I stole up to the curtain, and ventured</p><p>to draw the extreme edge of it on one side. No, there was hardly any one</p><p>there. I saw a large number of cashiers, all at their desks ready to pay</p><p>cheques, and one or two who seemed to be the managing partners. I also</p><p>saw my hostess and her daughters and two or three other ladies; also </p><p>three or four old women and the boys from one of the neighbouring </p><p>Colleges of Unreason; but there was no one else. This did not look as</p><p>though the bank was doing a very large business; and yet I had always </p><p>been told that every one in the city dealt with this establishment. </p><p>I cannot describe all that took place in these inner precincts, for a </p><p>sinister-looking person in a black gown came and made unpleasant gestures </p><p>at me for peeping. I happened to have in my pocket one of the Musical</p><p>Bank pieces, which had been given me by Mrs. Nosnibor, so I tried to tip </p><p>him with it; but having seen what it was, he became so angry that I had </p><p>to give him a piece of the other kind of money to pacify him. When I had</p><p>done this he became civil directly. As soon as he was gone I ventured to</p><p>take a second look, and saw Zulora in the very act of giving a piece of </p><p>paper which looked like a cheque to one of the cashiers. He did not</p><p>examine it, but putting his hand into an antique coffer hard by, he </p><p>pulled out a quantity of metal pieces apparently at random, and handed </p><p>them over without counting them; neither did Zulora count them, but put </p><p>them into her purse and went back to her seat after dropping a few pieces </p><p>of the other coinage into an alms box that stood by the cashier's side. </p><p>Mrs. Nosnibor and Arowhena then did likewise, but a little later they </p><p>gave all (so far as I could see) that they had received from the cashier </p><p>back to a verger, who I have no doubt put it back into the coffer from </p><p>which it had been taken. They then began making towards the curtain;</p><p>whereon I let it drop and retreated to a reasonable distance. </p><p>They soon joined me. For some few minutes we all kept silence, but at</p><p>last I ventured to remark that the bank was not so busy to-day as it </p><p>probably often was. On this Mrs. Nosnibor said that it was indeed</p><p>melancholy to see what little heed people paid to the most precious of </p><p>all institutions. I could say nothing in reply, but I have ever been of</p><p>opinion that the greater part of mankind do approximately know where they </p><p>get that which does them good. </p><p>Mrs. Nosnibor went on to say that I must not think there was any want of </p><p>confidence in the bank because I had seen so few people there; the heart </p><p>of the country was thoroughly devoted to these establishments, and any </p><p>sign of their being in danger would bring in support from the most </p><p>unexpected quarters. It was only because people knew them to be so very</p><p>safe, that in some cases (as she lamented to say in Mr. Nosnibor's) they </p><p>felt that their support was unnecessary. Moreover these institutions</p><p>never departed from the safest and most approved banking principles. Thus</p><p>they never allowed interest on deposit, a thing now frequently done by </p><p>certain bubble companies, which by doing an illegitimate trade had drawn </p><p>many customers away; and even the shareholders were fewer than formerly, </p><p>owing to the innovations of these unscrupulous persons, for the Musical </p><p>Banks paid little or no dividend, but divided their profits by way of </p><p>bonus on the original shares once in every thirty thousand years; and as </p><p>it was now only two thousand years since there had been one of these </p><p>distributions, people felt that they could not hope for another in their </p><p>own time and preferred investments whereby they got some more tangible </p><p>return; all which, she said, was very melancholy to think of. </p><p>Having made these last admissions, she returned to her original </p><p>statement, namely, that every one in the country really supported these </p><p>banks. As to the fewness of the people, and the absence of the</p><p>able-bodied, she pointed out to me with some justice that this was </p><p>exactly what we ought to expect. The men who were most conversant about</p><p>the stability of human institutions, such as the lawyers, men of science, </p><p>doctors, statesmen, painters, and the like, were just those who were most </p><p>likely to be misled by their own fancied accomplishments, and to be made </p><p>unduly suspicious by their licentious desire for greater present return, </p><p>which was at the root of nine-tenths of the opposition; by their vanity, </p><p>which would prompt them to affect superiority to the prejudices of the </p><p>vulgar; and by the stings of their own conscience, which was constantly </p><p>upbraiding them in the most cruel manner on account of their bodies, </p><p>which were generally diseased. </p><p>Let a person's intellect (she continued) be never so sound, unless his </p><p>body is in absolute health, he can form no judgement worth having on </p><p>matters of this kind. The body is everything: it need not perhaps be</p><p>such a strong body (she said this because she saw that I was thinking of </p><p>the old and infirm-looking folks whom I had seen in the bank), but it </p><p>must be in perfect health; in this case, the less active strength it had </p><p>the more free would be the working of the intellect, and therefore the </p><p>sounder the conclusion. The people, then, whom I had seen at the bank</p><p>were in reality the very ones whose opinions were most worth having; they </p><p>declared its advantages to be incalculable, and even professed to </p><p>consider the immediate return to be far larger than they were entitled </p><p>to; and so she ran on, nor did she leave off till we had got back to the </p><p>house. </p><p>She might say what she pleased, but her manner carried no conviction, and </p><p>later on I saw signs of general indifference to these banks that were not </p><p>to be mistaken. Their supporters often denied it, but the denial was</p><p>generally so couched as to add another proof of its existence. In</p><p>commercial panics, and in times of general distress, the people as a mass </p><p>did not so much as even think of turning to these banks. A few might do</p><p>so, some from habit and early training, some from the instinct that </p><p>prompts us to catch at any straw when we think ourselves drowning, but </p><p>few from a genuine belief that the Musical Banks could save them from </p><p>financial ruin, if they were unable to meet their engagements in the </p><p>other kind of currency. </p><p>In conversation with one of the Musical Bank managers I ventured to hint </p><p>this as plainly as politeness would allow. He said that it had been more</p><p>or less true till lately; but that now they had put fresh stained glass </p><p>windows into all the banks in the country, and repaired the buildings, </p><p>and enlarged the organs; the presidents, moreover, had taken to riding in </p><p>omnibuses and talking nicely to people in the streets, and to remembering </p><p>the ages of their children, and giving them things when they were </p><p>naughty, so that all would henceforth go smoothly. </p><p>"But haven't you done anything to the money itself?" said I, timidly. </p><p>"It is not necessary," he rejoined; "not in the least necessary, I assure </p><p>you." </p><p>And yet any one could see that the money given out at these banks was not </p><p>that with which people bought their bread, meat, and clothing. It was</p><p>like it at a first glance, and was stamped with designs that were often </p><p>of great beauty; it was not, again, a spurious coinage, made with the </p><p>intention that it should be mistaken for the money in actual use; it was </p><p>more like a toy money, or the counters used for certain games at cards; </p><p>for, notwithstanding the beauty of the designs, the material on which </p><p>they were stamped was as nearly valueless as possible. Some were covered</p><p>with tin foil, but the greater part were frankly of a cheap base metal</p><p>the exact nature of which I was not able to determine. Indeed they were</p><p>made of a great variety of metals, or, perhaps more accurately, alloys, </p><p>some of which were hard, while others would bend easily and assume almost </p><p>any form which their possessor might desire at the moment. </p><p>Of course every one knew that their commercial value was _nil_, but all </p><p>those who wished to be considered respectable thought it incumbent upon </p><p>them to retain a few coins in their possession, and to let them be seen </p><p>from time to time in their hands and purses. Not only this, but they</p><p>would stick to it that the current coin of the realm was dross in </p><p>comparison with the Musical Bank coinage. Perhaps, however, the</p><p>strangest thing of all was that these very people would at times make fun </p><p>in small ways of the whole system; indeed, there was hardly any </p><p>insinuation against it which they would not tolerate and even applaud in </p><p>their daily newspapers if written anonymously, while if the same thing </p><p>were said without ambiguity to their faces--nominative case verb and </p><p>accusative being all in their right places, and doubt impossible--they </p><p>would consider themselves very seriously and justly outraged, and accuse </p><p>the speaker of being unwell. </p><p>I never could understand (neither can I quite do so now, though I begin </p><p>to see better what they mean) why a single currency should not suffice </p><p>them; it would seem to me as though all their dealings would have been </p><p>thus greatly simplified; but I was met with a look of horror if ever I </p><p>dared to hint at it. Even those who to my certain knowledge kept only</p><p>just enough money at the Musical Banks to swear by, would call the other </p><p>banks (where their securities really lay) cold, deadening, paralysing, </p><p>and the like. </p><p>I noticed another thing, moreover, which struck me greatly. I was taken</p><p>to the opening of one of these banks in a neighbouring town, and saw a </p><p>large assemblage of cashiers and managers. I sat opposite them and</p><p>scanned their faces attentively. They did not please me; they lacked,</p><p>with few exceptions, the true Erewhonian frankness; and an equal number </p><p>from any other class would have looked happier and better men. When I</p><p>met them in the streets they did not seem like other people, but had, as </p><p>a general rule, a cramped expression upon their faces which pained and </p><p>depressed me. </p><p>Those who came from the country were better; they seemed to have lived </p><p>less as a separate class, and to be freer and healthier; but in spite of </p><p>my seeing not a few whose looks were benign and noble, I could not help </p><p>asking myself concerning the greater number of those whom I met, whether </p><p>Erewhon would be a better country if their expression were to be </p><p>transferred to the people in general. I answered myself emphatically,</p><p>no. The expression on the faces of the high Ydgrunites was that which</p><p>one would wish to diffuse, and not that of the cashiers. </p><p>A man's expression is his sacrament; it is the outward and visible sign </p><p>of his inward and spiritual grace, or want of grace; and as I looked at </p><p>the a majority of these men, I could not help feeling that there must be </p><p>a something in their lives which had stunted their natural development, </p><p>and that they would have been more healthily minded in any other </p><p>profession. I was always sorry for them, for in nine cases out of ten</p><p>they were well-meaning persons; they were in the main very poorly paid; </p><p>their constitutions were as a rule above suspicion; and there were </p><p>recorded numberless instances of their self-sacrifice and generosity; but </p><p>they had had the misfortune to have been betrayed into a false position </p><p>at an age for the most part when their judgement was not matured, and</p><p>after having been kept in studied ignorance of the real difficulties of </p><p>the system. But this did not make their position the less a false one,</p><p>and its bad effects upon themselves were unmistakable. </p><p>Few people would speak quite openly and freely before them, which struck </p><p>me as a very bad sign. When they were in the room every one would talk</p><p>as though all currency save that of the Musical Banks should be </p><p>abolished; and yet they knew perfectly well that even the cashiers </p><p>themselves hardly used the Musical Bank money more than other people. It</p><p>was expected of them that they should appear to do so, but this was all. </p><p>The less thoughtful of them did not seem particularly unhappy, but many </p><p>were plainly sick at heart, though perhaps they hardly knew it, and would </p><p>not have owned to being so. Some few were opponents of the whole system;</p><p>but these were liable to be dismissed from their employment at any </p><p>moment, and this rendered them very careful, for a man who had once been </p><p>cashier at a Musical Bank was out of the field for other employment, and </p><p>was generally unfitted for it by reason of that course of treatment which </p><p>was commonly called his education. In fact it was a career from which</p><p>retreat was virtually impossible, and into which young men were generally </p><p>induced to enter before they could be reasonably expected, considering </p><p>their training, to have formed any opinions of their own. Not</p><p>unfrequently, indeed, they were induced, by what we in England should </p><p>call undue influence, concealment, and fraud. Few indeed were those who</p><p>had the courage to insist on seeing both sides of the question before </p><p>they committed themselves to what was practically a leap in the dark. One</p><p>would have thought that caution in this respect was an elementary </p><p>principle,--one of the first things that an honourable man would teach </p><p>his boy to understand; but in practice it was not so. </p><p>I even saw cases in which parents bought the right of presenting to the </p><p>office of cashier at one of these banks, with the fixed determination </p><p>that some one of their sons (perhaps a mere child) should fill it. There</p><p>was the lad himself--growing up with every promise of becoming a good and </p><p>honourable man--but utterly without warning concerning the iron shoe </p><p>which his natural protector was providing for him. Who could say that</p><p>the whole thing would not end in a life-long lie, and vain chafing to </p><p>escape? I confess that there were few things in Erewhon which shocked me</p><p>more than this. </p><p>Yet we do something not so very different from this even in England, and </p><p>as regards the dual commercial system, all countries have, and have had, </p><p>a law of the land, and also another law, which, though professedly more </p><p>sacred, has far less effect on their daily life and actions. It seems as</p><p>though the need for some law over and above, and sometimes even </p><p>conflicting with, the law of the land, must spring from something that </p><p>lies deep down in man's nature; indeed, it is hard to think that man </p><p>could ever have become man at all, but for the gradual evolution of a </p><p>perception that though this world looms so large when we are in it, it </p><p>may seem a little thing when we have got away from it. </p><p>When man had grown to the perception that in the everlasting Is-and-Is- </p><p>Not of nature, the world and all that it contains, including man, is at </p><p>the same time both seen and unseen, he felt the need of two rules of </p><p>life, one for the seen, and the other for the unseen side of things. For</p><p>the laws affecting the seen world he claimed the sanction of seen powers; </p><p>for the unseen (of which he knows nothing save that it exists and is </p><p>powerful) he appealed to the unseen power (of which, again, he knows </p><p>nothing save that it exists and is powerful) to which he gives the name </p><p>of God.</p><p>Some Erewhonian opinions concerning the intelligence of the unborn </p><p>embryo, that I regret my space will not permit me to lay before the </p><p>reader, have led me to conclude that the Erewhonian Musical Banks, and </p><p>perhaps the religious systems of all countries, are now more or less of </p><p>an attempt to uphold the unfathomable and unconscious instinctive wisdom </p><p>of millions of past generations, against the comparatively shallow, </p><p>consciously reasoning, and ephemeral conclusions drawn from that of the </p><p>last thirty or forty. </p><p>The saving feature of the Erewhonian Musical Bank system (as distinct </p><p>from the quasi-idolatrous views which coexist with it, and on which I </p><p>will touch later) was that while it bore witness to the existence of a </p><p>kingdom that is not of this world, it made no attempt to pierce the veil </p><p>that hides it from human eyes. It is here that almost all religions go</p><p>wrong. Their priests try to make us believe that they know more about</p><p>the unseen world than those whose eyes are still blinded by the seen, can </p><p>ever know--forgetting that while to deny the existence of an unseen </p><p>kingdom is bad, to pretend that we know more about it than its bare </p><p>existence is no better. </p><p>This chapter is already longer than I intended, but I should like to say </p><p>that in spite of the saving feature of which I have just spoken, I cannot </p><p>help thinking that the Erewhonians are on the eve of some great change in </p><p>their religious opinions, or at any rate in that part of them which finds </p><p>expression through their Musical Banks. So far as I could see, fully</p><p>ninety per cent. of the population of the metropolis looked upon these </p><p>banks with something not far removed from contempt. If this is so, any</p><p>such startling event as is sure to arise sooner or later, may serve as </p><p>nucleus to a new order of things that will be more in harmony with both </p><p>the heads and hearts of the people. </p><p>CHAPTER XVI: AROWHENA </p><p>The reader will perhaps have learned by this time a thing which I had </p><p>myself suspected before I had been twenty-four hours in Mr. Nosnibor's </p><p>house--I mean, that though the Nosnibors showed me every attention, I </p><p>could not cordially like them, with the exception of Arowhena who was </p><p>quite different from the rest. They were not fair samples of</p><p>Erewhonians. I saw many families with whom they were on visiting terms,</p><p>whose manners charmed me more than I know how to say, but I never could </p><p>get over my original prejudice against Mr. Nosnibor for having embezzled </p><p>the money. Mrs. Nosnibor, too, was a very worldly woman, yet to hear her</p><p>talk one would have thought that she was singularly the reverse; neither </p><p>could I endure Zulora; Arowhena however was perfection. </p><p>She it was who ran all the little errands for her mother and Mr. Nosnibor </p><p>and Zulora, and gave those thousand proofs of sweetness and unselfishness </p><p>which some one member of a family is generally required to give. All day</p><p>long it was Arowhena this, and Arowhena that; but she never seemed to </p><p>know that she was being put upon, and was always bright and willing from </p><p>morning till evening. Zulora certainly was very handsome, but Arowhena</p><p>was infinitely the more graceful of the two and was the very _ne plus </p><p>ultra_ of youth and beauty. I will not attempt to describe her, for</p><p>anything that I could say would fall so far short of the reality as only</p><p>to mislead the reader. Let him think of the very loveliest that he can</p><p>imagine, and he will still be below the truth. Having said this much, I</p><p>need hardly say that I had fallen in love with her. </p><p>She must have seen what I felt for her, but I tried my hardest not to let </p><p>it appear even by the slightest sign. I had many reasons for this. I</p><p>had no idea what Mr. and Mrs. Nosnibor would say to it; and I knew that </p><p>Arowhena would not look at me (at any rate not yet) if her father and </p><p>mother disapproved, which they probably would, considering that I had </p><p>nothing except the pension of about a pound a day of our money which the </p><p>King had granted me. I did not yet know of a more serious obstacle.</p><p>In the meantime, I may say that I had been presented at court, and was </p><p>told that my reception had been considered as singularly gracious; </p><p>indeed, I had several interviews both with the King and Queen, at which </p><p>from time to time the Queen got everything from me that I had in the </p><p>world, clothes and all, except the two buttons I had given to Yram, the </p><p>loss of which seemed to annoy her a good deal. I was presented with a</p><p>court suit, and her Majesty had my old clothes put upon a wooden dummy, </p><p>on which they probably remain, unless they have been removed in </p><p>consequence of my subsequent downfall. His Majesty's manners were those</p><p>of a cultivated English gentleman. He was much pleased at hearing that</p><p>our government was monarchical, and that the mass of the people were </p><p>resolute that it should not be changed; indeed, I was so much encouraged </p><p>by the evident pleasure with which he heard me, that I ventured to quote </p><p>to him those beautiful lines of Shakespeare's-- </p><p> "There's a divinity doth hedge a king,</p><p> Rough hew him how we may;"</p><p>but I was sorry I had done so afterwards, for I do not think his Majesty </p><p>admired the lines as much as I could have wished. </p><p>There is no occasion for me to dwell further upon my experience of the </p><p>court, but I ought perhaps to allude to one of my conversations with the </p><p>King, inasmuch as it was pregnant with the most important consequences. </p><p>He had been asking me about my watch, and enquiring whether such </p><p>dangerous inventions were tolerated in the country from which I came. I</p><p>owned with some confusion that watches were not uncommon; but observing </p><p>the gravity which came over his Majesty's face I presumed to say that </p><p>they were fast dying out, and that we had few if any other mechanical </p><p>contrivances of which he was likely to disapprove. Upon his asking me to</p><p>name some of our most advanced machines, I did not dare to tell him of </p><p>our steam-engines and railroads and electric telegraphs, and was puzzling </p><p>my brains to think what I could say, when, of all things in the world, </p><p>balloons suggested themselves, and I gave him an account of a very </p><p>remarkable ascent which was made some years ago. The King was too polite</p><p>to contradict, but I felt sure that he did not believe me, and from that </p><p>day forward though he always showed me the attention which was due to my </p><p>genius (for in this light was my complexion regarded), he never </p><p>questioned me about the manners and customs of my country. </p><p>To return, however, to Arowhena. I soon gathered that neither Mr. nor</p><p>Mrs. Nosnibor would have any objection to my marrying into the family; a </p><p>physical excellence is considered in Erewhon as a set off against almost </p><p>any other disqualification, and my light hair was sufficient to make me </p><p>an eligible match. But along with this welcome fact I gathered another</p><p>which filled me with dismay: I was expected to marry Zulora, for whom I</p><p>had already conceived a great aversion. At first I hardly noticed the</p><p>little hints and the artifices which were resorted to in order to bring </p><p>us together, but after a time they became too plain. Zulora, whether she</p><p>was in love with me or not, was bent on marrying me, and I gathered in </p><p>talking with a young gentleman of my acquaintance who frequently visited </p><p>the house and whom I greatly disliked, that it was considered a sacred </p><p>and inviolable rule that whoever married into a family must marry the </p><p>eldest daughter at that time unmarried. The young gentleman urged this</p><p>upon me so frequently that I at last saw he was in love with Arowhena </p><p>himself, and wanted me to get Zulora out of the way; but others told me </p><p>the same story as to the custom of the country, and I saw there was a </p><p>serious difficulty. My only comfort was that Arowhena snubbed my rival</p><p>and would not look at him. Neither would she look at me; nevertheless</p><p>there was a difference in the manner of her disregard; this was all I </p><p>could get from her. </p><p>Not that she avoided me; on the contrary I had many a tete-a-tete with </p><p>her, for her mother and sister were anxious for me to deposit some part </p><p>of my pension in the Musical Banks, this being in accordance with the </p><p>dictates of their goddess Ydgrun, of whom both Mrs. Nosnibor and Zulora </p><p>were great devotees. I was not sure whether I had kept my secret from</p><p>being perceived by Arowhena herself, but none of the others suspected me, </p><p>so she was set upon me to get me to open an account, at any rate _pro </p><p>forma_, with the Musical Banks; and I need hardly say that she succeeded. </p><p>But I did not yield at once; I enjoyed the process of being argued with </p><p>too keenly to lose it by a prompt concession; besides, a little </p><p>hesitation rendered the concession itself more valuable. It was in the</p><p>course of conversations on this subject that I learned the more defined </p><p>religious opinions of the Erewhonians, that coexist with the Musical Bank </p><p>system, but are not recognised by those curious institutions. I will</p><p>describe them as briefly as possible in the following chapters before I </p><p>return to the personal adventures of Arowhena and myself. </p><p>They were idolaters, though of a comparatively enlightened kind; but </p><p>here, as in other things, there was a discrepancy between their professed </p><p>and actual belief, for they had a genuine and potent faith which existed </p><p>without recognition alongside of their idol worship. </p><p>The gods whom they worship openly are personifications of human </p><p>qualities, as justice, strength, hope, fear, love, &c., &c. The people</p><p>think that prototypes of these have a real objective existence in a </p><p>region far beyond the clouds, holding, as did the ancients, that they are </p><p>like men and women both in body and passion, except that they are even </p><p>comelier and more powerful, and also that they can render themselves </p><p>invisible to human eyesight. They are capable of being propitiated by</p><p>mankind and of coming to the assistance of those who ask their aid. Their</p><p>interest in human affairs is keen, and on the whole beneficent; but they </p><p>become very angry if neglected, and punish rather the first they come </p><p>upon, than the actual person who has offended them; their fury being </p><p>blind when it is raised, though never raised without reason. They will</p><p>not punish with any less severity when people sin against them from </p><p>ignorance, and without the chance of having had knowledge; they will take </p><p>no excuses of this kind, but are even as the English law, which assumes </p><p>itself to be known to every one. </p><p>Thus they have a law that two pieces of matter may not occupy the same </p><p>space at the same moment, which law is presided over and administered by </p><p>the gods of time and space jointly, so that if a flying stone and a man's </p><p>head attempt to outrage these gods, by "arrogating a right which they do</p><p>not possess" (for so it is written in one of their books), and to occupy </p><p>the same space simultaneously, a severe punishment, sometimes even death </p><p>itself, is sure to follow, without any regard to whether the stone knew </p><p>that the man's head was there, or the head the stone; this at least is </p><p>their view of the common accidents of life. Moreover, they hold their</p><p>deities to be quite regardless of motives. With them it is the thing</p><p>done which is everything, and the motive goes for nothing. </p><p>Thus they hold it strictly forbidden for a man to go without common air </p><p>in his lungs for more than a very few minutes; and if by any chance he </p><p>gets into the water, the air-god is very angry, and will not suffer it; </p><p>no matter whether the man got into the water by accident or on purpose, </p><p>whether through the attempt to save a child or through presumptuous </p><p>contempt of the air-god, the air-god will kill him, unless he keeps his </p><p>head high enough out of the water, and thus gives the air-god his due. </p><p>This with regard to the deities who manage physical affairs. Over and</p><p>above these they personify hope, fear, love, and so forth, giving them </p><p>temples and priests, and carving likenesses of them in stone, which they </p><p>verily believe to be faithful representations of living beings who are </p><p>only not human in being more than human. If any one denies the objective</p><p>existence of these divinities, and says that there is really no such </p><p>being as a beautiful woman called Justice, with her eyes blinded and a </p><p>pair of scales, positively living and moving in a remote and ethereal </p><p>region, but that justice is only the personified expression of certain </p><p>modes of human thought and action--they say that he denies the existence </p><p>of justice in denying her personality, and that he is a wanton disturber </p><p>of men's religious convictions. They detest nothing so much as any</p><p>attempt to lead them to higher spiritual conceptions of the deities whom </p><p>they profess to worship. Arowhena and I had a pitched battle on this</p><p>point, and should have had many more but for my prudence in allowing her </p><p>to get the better of me. </p><p>I am sure that in her heart she was suspicious of her own position for </p><p>she returned more than once to the subject. "Can you not see," I had</p><p>exclaimed, "that the fact of justice being admirable will not be affected </p><p>by the absence of a belief in her being also a living agent? Can you</p><p>really think that men will be one whit less hopeful, because they no </p><p>longer believe that hope is an actual person?" She shook her head, and</p><p>said that with men's belief in the personality all incentive to the </p><p>reverence of the thing itself, as justice or hope, would cease; men from </p><p>that hour would never be either just or hopeful again. </p><p>I could not move her, nor, indeed, did I seriously wish to do so. She</p><p>deferred to me in most things, but she never shrank from maintaining her </p><p>opinions if they were put in question; nor does she to this day abate one </p><p>jot of her belief in the religion of her childhood, though in compliance </p><p>with my repeated entreaties she has allowed herself to be baptized into </p><p>the English Church. She has, however, made a gloss upon her original</p><p>faith to the effect that her baby and I are the only human beings exempt </p><p>from the vengeance of the deities for not believing in their personality. </p><p>She is quite clear that we are exempted. She should never have so strong</p><p>a conviction of it otherwise. How it has come about she does not know,</p><p>neither does she wish to know; there are things which it is better not to </p><p>know and this is one of them; but when I tell her that I believe in her </p><p>deities as much as she does--and that it is a difference about words, not </p><p>things, she becomes silent with a slight emphasis. </p><p>I own that she very nearly conquered me once; for she asked me what I</p><p>should think if she were to tell me that my God, whose nature and </p><p>attributes I had been explaining to her, was but the expression for man's </p><p>highest conception of goodness, wisdom, and power; that in order to </p><p>generate a more vivid conception of so great and glorious a thought, man </p><p>had personified it and called it by a name; that it was an unworthy </p><p>conception of the Deity to hold Him personal, inasmuch as escape from </p><p>human contingencies became thus impossible; that the real thing men </p><p>should worship was the Divine, whereinsoever they could find it; that </p><p>"God" was but man's way of expressing his sense of the Divine; that as </p><p>justice, hope, wisdom, &c., were all parts of goodness, so God was the </p><p>expression which embraced all goodness and all good power; that people </p><p>would no more cease to love God on ceasing to believe in His objective </p><p>personality, than they had ceased to love justice on discovering that she </p><p>was not really personal; nay, that they would never truly love Him till </p><p>they saw Him thus. </p><p>She said all this in her artless way, and with none of the coherence with </p><p>which I have here written it; her face kindled, and she felt sure that </p><p>she had convinced me that I was wrong, and that justice was a living </p><p>person. Indeed I did wince a little; but I recovered myself immediately,</p><p>and pointed out to her that we had books whose genuineness was beyond all </p><p>possibility of doubt, as they were certainly none of them less than 1800 </p><p>years old; that in these there were the most authentic accounts of men </p><p>who had been spoken to by the Deity Himself, and of one prophet who had </p><p>been allowed to see the back parts of God through the hand that was laid </p><p>over his face. </p><p>This was conclusive; and I spoke with such solemnity that she was a </p><p>little frightened, and only answered that they too had their books, in </p><p>which their ancestors had seen the gods; on which I saw that further </p><p>argument was not at all likely to convince her; and fearing that she </p><p>might tell her mother what I had been saying, and that I might lose the </p><p>hold upon her affections which I was beginning to feel pretty sure that I </p><p>was obtaining, I began to let her have her own way, and to convince me; </p><p>neither till after we were safely married did I show the cloven hoof </p><p>again. </p><p>Nevertheless, her remarks have haunted me, and I have since met with many </p><p>very godly people who have had a great knowledge of divinity, but no </p><p>sense of the divine: and again, I have seen a radiance upon the face of </p><p>those who were worshipping the divine either in art or nature--in picture </p><p>or statue--in field or cloud or sea--in man, woman, or child--which I </p><p>have never seen kindled by any talking about the nature and attributes of </p><p>God. Mention but the word divinity, and our sense of the divine is</p><p>clouded. </p><p>CHAPTER XVII: YDGRUN AND THE YDGRUNITES </p><p>In spite of all the to-do they make about their idols, and the temples </p><p>they build, and the priests and priestesses whom they support, I could </p><p>never think that their professed religion was more than skin-deep; but </p><p>they had another which they carried with them into all their actions; and </p><p>although no one from the outside of things would suspect it to have any </p><p>existence at all, it was in reality their great guide, the mariner's </p><p>compass of their lives; so that there were very few things which they</p><p>ever either did, or refrained from doing, without reference to its </p><p>precepts. </p><p>Now I suspected that their professed faith had no great hold upon </p><p>them--firstly, because I often heard the priests complain of the </p><p>prevailing indifference, and they would hardly have done so without </p><p>reason; secondly, because of the show which was made, for there was none </p><p>of this about the worship of the goddess Ydgrun, in whom they really did </p><p>believe; thirdly, because though the priests were constantly abusing </p><p>Ydgrun as being the great enemy of the gods, it was well known that she </p><p>had no more devoted worshippers in the whole country than these very </p><p>persons, who were often priests of Ydgrun rather than of their own </p><p>deities. Neither am I by any means sure that these were not the best of</p><p>the priests. </p><p>Ydgrun certainly occupied a very anomalous position; she was held to be </p><p>both omnipresent and omnipotent, but she was not an elevated conception, </p><p>and was sometimes both cruel and absurd. Even her most devoted</p><p>worshippers were a little ashamed of her, and served her more with heart </p><p>and in deed than with their tongues. Theirs was no lip service; on the</p><p>contrary, even when worshipping her most devoutly, they would often deny </p><p>her. Take her all in all, however, she was a beneficent and useful</p><p>deity, who did not care how much she was denied so long as she was obeyed </p><p>and feared, and who kept hundreds of thousands in those paths which make </p><p>life tolerably happy, who would never have been kept there otherwise, and </p><p>over whom a higher and more spiritual ideal would have had no power. </p><p>I greatly doubt whether the Erewhonians are yet prepared for any better </p><p>religion, and though (considering my gradually strengthened conviction </p><p>that they were the representatives of the lost tribes of Israel) I would </p><p>have set about converting them at all hazards had I seen the remotest </p><p>prospect of success, I could hardly contemplate the displacement of </p><p>Ydgrun as the great central object of their regard without admitting that </p><p>it would be attended with frightful consequences; in fact were I a mere </p><p>philosopher, I should say that the gradual raising of the popular </p><p>conception of Ydgrun would be the greatest spiritual boon which could be </p><p>conferred upon them, and that nothing could effect this except example. I</p><p>generally found that those who complained most loudly that Ydgrun was not </p><p>high enough for them had hardly as yet come up to the Ydgrun standard, </p><p>and I often met with a class of men whom I called to myself "high </p><p>Ydgrunites" (the rest being Ydgrunites, and low Ydgrunites), who, in the </p><p>matter of human conduct and the affairs of life, appeared to me to have </p><p>got about as far as it is in the right nature of man to go. </p><p>They were gentlemen in the full sense of the word; and what has one not </p><p>said in saying this? They seldom spoke of Ydgrun, or even alluded to</p><p>her, but would never run counter to her dictates without ample reason for </p><p>doing so: in such cases they would override her with due self-reliance, </p><p>and the goddess seldom punished them; for they are brave, and Ydgrun is </p><p>not. They had most of them a smattering of the hypothetical language,</p><p>and some few more than this, but only a few. I do not think that this</p><p>language has had much hand in making them what they are; but rather that </p><p>the fact of their being generally possessed of its rudiments was one </p><p>great reason for the reverence paid to the hypothetical language itself. </p><p>Being inured from youth to exercises and athletics of all sorts, and </p><p>living fearlessly under the eye of their peers, among whom there exists a </p><p>high standard of courage, generosity, honour, and every good and manly </p><p>quality--what wonder that they should have become, so to speak, a law</p><p>unto themselves; and, while taking an elevated view of the goddess </p><p>Ydgrun, they should have gradually lost all faith in the recognised </p><p>deities of the country? These they do not openly disregard, for</p><p>conformity until absolutely intolerable is a law of Ydgrun, yet they have </p><p>no real belief in the objective existence of beings which so readily </p><p>explain themselves as abstractions, and whose personality demands a quasi- </p><p>materialism which it baffles the imagination to realise. They keep their</p><p>opinions, however, greatly to themselves, inasmuch as most of their </p><p>countrymen feel strongly about the gods, and they hold it wrong to give </p><p>pain, unless for some greater good than seems likely to arise from their </p><p>plain speaking. </p><p>On the other hand, surely those whose own minds are clear about any given </p><p>matter (even though it be only that there is little certainty) should go </p><p>so far towards imparting that clearness to others, as to say openly what </p><p>they think and why they think it, whenever they can properly do so; for </p><p>they may be sure that they owe their own clearness almost entirely to the </p><p>fact that others have done this by them: after all, they may be mistaken, </p><p>and if so, it is for their own and the general well-being that they </p><p>should let their error be seen as distinctly as possible, so that it may </p><p>be more easily refuted. I own, therefore, that on this one point I</p><p>disapproved of the practice even of the highest Ydgrunites, and objected </p><p>to it all the more because I knew that I should find my own future task </p><p>more easy if the high Ydgrunites had already undermined the belief which </p><p>is supposed to prevail at present. </p><p>In other respects they were more like the best class of Englishmen than </p><p>any whom I have seen in other countries. I should have liked to have</p><p>persuaded half-a-dozen of them to come over to England and go upon the </p><p>stage, for they had most of them a keen sense of humour and a taste for </p><p>acting: they would be of great use to us. The example of a real</p><p>gentleman is, if I may say so without profanity, the best of all gospels; </p><p>such a man upon the stage becomes a potent humanising influence, an Ideal </p><p>which all may look upon for a shilling. </p><p>I always liked and admired these men, and although I could not help </p><p>deeply regretting their certain ultimate perdition (for they had no sense </p><p>of a hereafter, and their only religion was that of self-respect and </p><p>consideration for other people), I never dared to take so great a liberty </p><p>with them as to attempt to put them in possession of my own religious </p><p>convictions, in spite of my knowing that they were the only ones which </p><p>could make them really good and happy, either here or hereafter. I did</p><p>try sometimes, being impelled to do so by a strong sense of duty, and by </p><p>my deep regret that so much that was admirable should be doomed to ages </p><p>if not eternity of torture; but the words stuck in my throat as soon as I </p><p>began. </p><p>Whether a professional missionary might have a better chance I know not; </p><p>such persons must doubtless know more about the science of conversion: </p><p>for myself, I could only be thankful that I was in the right path, and </p><p>was obliged to let others take their chance as yet. If the plan fails by</p><p>which I propose to convert them myself, I would gladly contribute my mite </p><p>towards the sending two or three trained missionaries, who have been </p><p>known as successful converters of Jews and Mahometans; but such have </p><p>seldom much to glory in the flesh, and when I think of the high </p><p>Ydgrunites, and of the figure which a missionary would probably cut among </p><p>them, I cannot feel sanguine that much good would be arrived at. Still</p><p>the attempt is worth making, and the worst danger to the missionaries </p><p>themselves would be that of being sent to the hospital where Chowbok</p><p>would have been sent had he come with me into Erewhon. </p><p>Taking then their religious opinions as a whole, I must own that the </p><p>Erewhonians are superstitious, on account of the views which they hold of </p><p>their professed gods, and their entirely anomalous and inexplicable </p><p>worship of Ydgrun, a worship at once the most powerful, yet most devoid </p><p>of formalism, that I ever met with; but in practice things worked better </p><p>than might have been expected, and the conflicting claims of Ydgrun and </p><p>the gods were arranged by unwritten compromises (for the most part in </p><p>Ydgrun's favour), which in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred were very </p><p>well understood. </p><p>I could not conceive why they should not openly acknowledge high </p><p>Ydgrunism, and discard the objective personality of hope, justice, &c.; </p><p>but whenever I so much as hinted at this, I found that I was on dangerous </p><p>ground. They would never have it; returning constantly to the assertion</p><p>that ages ago the divinities were frequently seen, and that the moment </p><p>their personality was disbelieved in, men would leave off practising even </p><p>those ordinary virtues which the common experience of mankind has agreed </p><p>on as being the greatest secret of happiness. "Who ever heard," they</p><p>asked, indignantly, "of such things as kindly training, a good example, </p><p>and an enlightened regard to one's own welfare, being able to keep men </p><p>straight?" In my hurry, forgetting things which I ought to have</p><p>remembered, I answered that if a person could not be kept straight by </p><p>these things, there was nothing that could straighten him, and that if he </p><p>were not ruled by the love and fear of men whom he had seen, neither </p><p>would he be so by that of the gods whom he had not seen. </p><p>At one time indeed I came upon a small but growing sect who believed, </p><p>after a fashion, in the immortality of the soul and the resurrection from </p><p>the dead; they taught that those who had been born with feeble and </p><p>diseased bodies and had passed their lives in ailing, would be tortured </p><p>eternally hereafter; but that those who had been born strong and healthy </p><p>and handsome would be rewarded for ever and ever. Of moral qualities or</p><p>conduct they made no mention. </p><p>Bad as this was, it was a step in advance, inasmuch as they did hold out </p><p>a future state of some sort, and I was shocked to find that for the most </p><p>part they met with opposition, on the score that their doctrine was based </p><p>upon no sort of foundation, also that it was immoral in its tendency, and </p><p>not to be desired by any reasonable beings. </p><p>When I asked how it could be immoral, I was answered, that if firmly </p><p>held, it would lead people to cheapen this present life, making it appear </p><p>to be an affair of only secondary importance; that it would thus distract </p><p>men's minds from the perfecting of this world's economy, and was an </p><p>impatient cutting, so to speak, of the Gordian knot of life's problems, </p><p>whereby some people might gain present satisfaction to themselves at the </p><p>cost of infinite damage to others; that the doctrine tended to encourage </p><p>the poor in their improvidence, and in a debasing acquiescence in ills </p><p>which they might well remedy; that the rewards were illusory and the </p><p>result, after all, of luck, whose empire should be bounded by the grave; </p><p>that its terrors were enervating and unjust; and that even the most </p><p>blessed rising would be but the disturbing of a still more blessed </p><p>slumber. </p><p>To all which I could only say that the thing had been actually known to </p><p>happen, and that there were several well-authenticated instances of </p><p>people having died and come to life again--instances which no man in his</p><p>senses could doubt. </p><p>"If this be so," said my opponent, "we must bear it as best we may." </p><p>I then translated for him, as well as I could, the noble speech of Hamlet </p><p>in which he says that it is the fear lest worse evils may befall us after </p><p>death which alone prevents us from rushing into death's arms. </p><p>"Nonsense," he answered, "no man was ever yet stopped from cutting his </p><p>throat by any such fears as your poet ascribes to him--and your poet </p><p>probably knew this perfectly well. If a man cuts his throat he is at</p><p>bay, and thinks of nothing but escape, no matter whither, provided he can </p><p>shuffle off his present. No. Men are kept at their posts, not by the</p><p>fear that if they quit them they may quit a frying-pan for a fire, but by </p><p>the hope that if they hold on, the fire may burn less fiercely. 'The</p><p>respect,' to quote your poet, 'that makes calamity of so long a life,' is </p><p>the consideration that though calamity may live long, the sufferer may </p><p>live longer still." </p><p>On this, seeing that there was little probability of our coming to an </p><p>agreement, I let the argument drop, and my opponent presently left me </p><p>with as much disapprobation as he could show without being overtly rude. </p><p>CHAPTER XVIII: BIRTH FORMULAE </p><p>I heard what follows not from Arowhena, but from Mr. Nosnibor and some of </p><p>the gentlemen who occasionally dined at the house: they told me that the </p><p>Erewhonians believe in pre-existence; and not only this (of which I will </p><p>write more fully in the next chapter), but they believe that it is of </p><p>their own free act and deed in a previous state that they come to be born </p><p>into this world at all. They hold that the unborn are perpetually</p><p>plaguing and tormenting the married of both sexes, fluttering about them </p><p>incessantly, and giving them no peace either of mind or body until they </p><p>have consented to take them under their protection. If this were not so</p><p>(this at least is what they urge), it would be a monstrous freedom for </p><p>one man to take with another, to say that he should undergo the chances </p><p>and changes of this mortal life without any option in the matter. No man</p><p>would have any right to get married at all, inasmuch as he can never tell </p><p>what frightful misery his doing so may entail forcibly upon a being who </p><p>cannot be unhappy as long as he does not exist. They feel this so</p><p>strongly that they are resolved to shift the blame on to other shoulders; </p><p>and have fashioned a long mythology as to the world in which the unborn </p><p>people live, and what they do, and the arts and machinations to which </p><p>they have recourse in order to get themselves into our own world. But of</p><p>this more anon: what I would relate here is their manner of dealing with </p><p>those who do come. </p><p>It is a distinguishing peculiarity of the Erewhonians that when they </p><p>profess themselves to be quite certain about any matter, and avow it as a </p><p>base on which they are to build a system of practice, they seldom quite </p><p>believe in it. If they smell a rat about the precincts of a cherished</p><p>institution, they will always stop their noses to it if they can. </p><p>This is what most of them did in this matter of the unborn, for I cannot </p><p>(and never could) think that they seriously believed in their mythology</p><p>concerning pre-existence: they did and they did not; they did not know </p><p>themselves what they believed; all they did know was that it was a </p><p>disease not to believe as they did. The only thing of which they were</p><p>quite sure was that it was the pestering of the unborn which caused them </p><p>to be brought into this world, and that they would not have been here if </p><p>they would have only let peaceable people alone. </p><p>It would be hard to disprove this position, and they might have a good </p><p>case if they would only leave it as it stands. But this they will not</p><p>do; they must have assurance doubly sure; they must have the written word </p><p>of the child itself as soon as it is born, giving the parents indemnity </p><p>from all responsibility on the score of its birth, and asserting its own </p><p>pre-existence. They have therefore devised something which they call a</p><p>birth formula--a document which varies in words according to the caution </p><p>of parents, but is much the same practically in all cases; for it has </p><p>been the business of the Erewhonian lawyers during many ages to exercise </p><p>their skill in perfecting it and providing for every contingency. </p><p>These formulae are printed on common paper at a moderate cost for the </p><p>poor; but the rich have them written on parchment and handsomely bound, </p><p>so that the getting up of a person's birth formula is a test of his </p><p>social position. They commence by setting forth, That whereas A. B. was</p><p>a member of the kingdom of the unborn, where he was well provided for in </p><p>every way, and had no cause of discontent, &c., &c., he did of his own </p><p>wanton depravity and restlessness conceive a desire to enter into this </p><p>present world; that thereon having taken the necessary steps as set forth </p><p>in laws of the unborn kingdom, he did with malice aforethought set </p><p>himself to plague and pester two unfortunate people who had never wronged </p><p>him, and who were quite contented and happy until he conceived this base </p><p>design against their peace; for which wrong he now humbly entreats their </p><p>pardon. </p><p>He acknowledges that he is responsible for all physical blemishes and </p><p>deficiencies which may render him answerable to the laws of his country; </p><p>that his parents have nothing whatever to do with any of these things; </p><p>and that they have a right to kill him at once if they be so minded, </p><p>though he entreats them to show their marvellous goodness and clemency by </p><p>sparing his life. If they will do this, he promises to be their most</p><p>obedient and abject creature during his earlier years, and indeed all his </p><p>life, unless they should see fit in their abundant generosity to remit </p><p>some portion of his service hereafter. And so the formula continues,</p><p>going sometimes into very minute details, according to the fancies of </p><p>family lawyers, who will not make it any shorter than they can help. </p><p>The deed being thus prepared, on the third or fourth day after the birth </p><p>of the child, or as they call it, the "final importunity," the friends </p><p>gather together, and there is a feast held, where they are all very </p><p>melancholy--as a general rule, I believe, quite truly so--and make </p><p>presents to the father and mother of the child in order to console them </p><p>for the injury which has just been done them by the unborn. </p><p>By-and-by the child himself is brought down by his nurse, and the company </p><p>begin to rail upon him, upbraiding him for his impertinence, and asking </p><p>him what amends he proposes to make for the wrong that he has committed, </p><p>and how he can look for care and nourishment from those who have perhaps </p><p>already been injured by the unborn on some ten or twelve occasions; for </p><p>they say of people with large families, that they have suffered terrible </p><p>injuries from the unborn; till at last, when this has been carried far </p><p>enough, some one suggests the formula, which is brought out and solemnly</p><p>read to the child by the family straightener. This gentleman is always</p><p>invited on these occasions, for the very fact of intrusion into a </p><p>peaceful family shows a depravity on the part of the child which requires </p><p>his professional services. </p><p>On being teased by the reading and tweaked by the nurse, the child will </p><p>commonly begin to cry, which is reckoned a good sign, as showing a </p><p>consciousness of guilt. He is thereon asked, Does he assent to the</p><p>formula? on which, as he still continues crying and can obviously make no </p><p>answer, some one of the friends comes forward and undertakes to sign the </p><p>document on his behalf, feeling sure (so he says) that the child would do </p><p>it if he only knew how, and that he will release the present signer from </p><p>his engagement on arriving at maturity. The friend then inscribes the</p><p>signature of the child at the foot of the parchment, which is held to </p><p>bind the child as much as though he had signed it himself. </p><p>Even this, however, does not fully content them, for they feel a little </p><p>uneasy until they have got the child's own signature after all. So when</p><p>he is about fourteen, these good people partly bribe him by promises of </p><p>greater liberty and good things, and partly intimidate him through their </p><p>great power of making themselves actively unpleasant to him, so that </p><p>though there is a show of freedom made, there is really none; they also </p><p>use the offices of the teachers in the Colleges of Unreason, till at </p><p>last, in one way or another, they take very good care that he shall sign </p><p>the paper by which he professes to have been a free agent in coming into </p><p>the world, and to take all the responsibility of having done so on to his </p><p>own shoulders. And yet, though this document is obviously the most</p><p>important which any one can sign in his whole life, they will have him do </p><p>so at an age when neither they nor the law will for many a year allow any </p><p>one else to bind him to the smallest obligation, no matter how </p><p>righteously he may owe it, because they hold him too young to know what </p><p>he is about, and do not consider it fair that he should commit himself to </p><p>anything that may prejudice him in after years. </p><p>I own that all this seemed rather hard, and not of a piece with the many </p><p>admirable institutions existing among them. I once ventured to say a</p><p>part of what I thought about it to one of the Professors of Unreason. I</p><p>did it very tenderly, but his justification of the system was quite out </p><p>of my comprehension. I remember asking him whether he did not think it</p><p>would do harm to a lad's principles, by weakening his sense of the </p><p>sanctity of his word and of truth generally, that he should be led into </p><p>entering upon a solemn declaration as to the truth of things about which </p><p>all that he can certainly know is that he knows nothing--whether, in </p><p>fact, the teachers who so led him, or who taught anything as a certainty </p><p>of which they were themselves uncertain, were not earning their living by </p><p>impairing the truth-sense of their pupils (a delicate organisation </p><p>mostly), and by vitiating one of their most sacred instincts. </p><p>The Professor, who was a delightful person, seemed greatly surprised at </p><p>the view which I took, but it had no influence with him whatsoever. No</p><p>one, he answered, expected that the boy either would or could know all </p><p>that he said he knew; but the world was full of compromises; and there </p><p>was hardly any affirmation which would bear being interpreted literally. </p><p>Human language was too gross a vehicle of thought--thought being </p><p>incapable of absolute translation. He added, that as there can be no</p><p>translation from one language into another which shall not scant the </p><p>meaning somewhat, or enlarge upon it, so there is no language which can </p><p>render thought without a jarring and a harshness somewhere--and so forth; </p><p>all of which seemed to come to this in the end, that it was the custom of</p><p>the country, and that the Erewhonians were a conservative people; that </p><p>the boy would have to begin compromising sooner or later, and this was </p><p>part of his education in the art. It was perhaps to be regretted that</p><p>compromise should be as necessary as it was; still it was necessary, and </p><p>the sooner the boy got to understand it the better for himself. But they</p><p>never tell this to the boy. </p><p>From the book of their mythology about the unborn I made the extracts </p><p>which will form the following chapter. </p><p>CHAPTER XIX: THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN </p><p>The Erewhonians say that we are drawn through life backwards; or again, </p><p>that we go onwards into the future as into a dark corridor. Time walks</p><p>beside us and flings back shutters as we advance; but the light thus </p><p>given often dazzles us, and deepens the darkness which is in front. We</p><p>can see but little at a time, and heed that little far less than our </p><p>apprehension of what we shall see next; ever peering curiously through </p><p>the glare of the present into the gloom of the future, we presage the </p><p>leading lines of that which is before us, by faintly reflected lights </p><p>from dull mirrors that are behind, and stumble on as we may till the trap- </p><p>door opens beneath us and we are gone. </p><p>They say at other times that the future and the past are as a panorama </p><p>upon two rollers; that which is on the roller of the future unwraps </p><p>itself on to the roller of the past; we cannot hasten it, and we may not </p><p>stay it; we must see all that is unfolded to us whether it be good or </p><p>ill; and what we have seen once we may see again no more. It is ever</p><p>unwinding and being wound; we catch it in transition for a moment, and </p><p>call it present; our flustered senses gather what impression they can, </p><p>and we guess at what is coming by the tenor of that which we have seen. </p><p>The same hand has painted the whole picture, and the incidents vary </p><p>little--rivers, woods, plains, mountains, towns and peoples, love, </p><p>sorrow, and death: yet the interest never flags, and we look hopefully </p><p>for some good fortune, or fearfully lest our own faces be shown us as </p><p>figuring in something terrible. When the scene is past we think we know</p><p>it, though there is so much to see, and so little time to see it, that </p><p>our conceit of knowledge as regards the past is for the most part poorly </p><p>founded; neither do we care about it greatly, save in so far as it may </p><p>affect the future, wherein our interest mainly lies. </p><p>The Erewhonians say it was by chance only that the earth and stars and </p><p>all the heavenly worlds began to roll from east to west, and not from </p><p>west to east, and in like manner they say it is by chance that man is </p><p>drawn through life with his face to the past instead of to the future. </p><p>For the future is there as much as the past, only that we may not see it. </p><p>Is it not in the loins of the past, and must not the past alter before </p><p>the future can do so? </p><p>Sometimes, again, they say that there was a race of men tried upon the </p><p>earth once, who knew the future better than the past, but that they died </p><p>in a twelvemonth from the misery which their knowledge caused them; and </p><p>if any were to be born too prescient now, he would be culled out by </p><p>natural selection, before he had time to transmit so peace-destroying a </p><p>faculty to his descendants.</p><p>Strange fate for man! He must perish if he get that, which he must</p><p>perish if he strive not after. If he strive not after it he is no better</p><p>than the brutes, if he get it he is more miserable than the devils. </p><p>Having waded through many chapters like the above, I came at last to the </p><p>unborn themselves, and found that they were held to be souls pure and </p><p>simple, having no actual bodies, but living in a sort of gaseous yet more </p><p>or less anthropomorphic existence, like that of a ghost; they have thus </p><p>neither flesh nor blood nor warmth. Nevertheless they are supposed to</p><p>have local habitations and cities wherein they dwell, though these are as </p><p>unsubstantial as their inhabitants; they are even thought to eat and </p><p>drink some thin ambrosial sustenance, and generally to be capable of </p><p>doing whatever mankind can do, only after a visionary ghostly fashion as </p><p>in a dream. On the other hand, as long as they remain where they are</p><p>they never die--the only form of death in the unborn world being the </p><p>leaving it for our own. They are believed to be extremely numerous, far</p><p>more so than mankind. They arrive from unknown planets, full grown, in</p><p>large batches at a time; but they can only leave the unborn world by </p><p>taking the steps necessary for their arrival here--which is, in fact, by </p><p>suicide. </p><p>They ought to be an exceedingly happy people, for they have no extremes </p><p>of good or ill fortune; never marrying, but living in a state much like </p><p>that fabled by the poets as the primitive condition of mankind. In spite</p><p>of this, however, they are incessantly complaining; they know that we in </p><p>this world have bodies, and indeed they know everything else about us, </p><p>for they move among us whithersoever they will, and can read our </p><p>thoughts, as well as survey our actions at pleasure. One would think</p><p>that this should be enough for them; and most of them are indeed alive to </p><p>the desperate risk which they will run by indulging themselves in that </p><p>body with "sensible warm motion" which they so much desire; nevertheless, </p><p>there are some to whom the _ennui_ of a disembodied existence is so </p><p>intolerable that they will venture anything for a change; so they resolve </p><p>to quit. The conditions which they must accept are so uncertain, that</p><p>none but the most foolish of the unborn will consent to them; and it is </p><p>from these, and these only, that our own ranks are recruited. </p><p>When they have finally made up their minds to leave, they must go before </p><p>the magistrate of the nearest town, and sign an affidavit of their desire </p><p>to quit their then existence. On their having done this, the magistrate</p><p>reads them the conditions which they must accept, and which are so long </p><p>that I can only extract some of the principal points, which are mainly </p><p>the following:- </p><p>First, they must take a potion which will destroy their memory and sense </p><p>of identity; they must go into the world helpless, and without a will of </p><p>their own; they must draw lots for their dispositions before they go, and </p><p>take them, such as they are, for better or worse--neither are they to be </p><p>allowed any choice in the matter of the body which they so much desire; </p><p>they are simply allotted by chance, and without appeal, to two people </p><p>whom it is their business to find and pester until they adopt them. Who</p><p>these are to be, whether rich or poor, kind or unkind, healthy or </p><p>diseased, there is no knowing; they have, in fact, to entrust themselves </p><p>for many years to the care of those for whose good constitution and good </p><p>sense they have no sort of guarantee. </p><p>It is curious to read the lectures which the wiser heads give to those </p><p>who are meditating a change. They talk with them as we talk with a</p><p>spendthrift, and with about as much success. </p><p>"To be born," they say, "is a felony--it is a capital crime, for which </p><p>sentence may be executed at any moment after the commission of the </p><p>offence. You may perhaps happen to live for some seventy or eighty</p><p>years, but what is that, compared with the eternity you now enjoy? And</p><p>even though the sentence were commuted, and you were allowed to live on </p><p>for ever, you would in time become so terribly weary of life that </p><p>execution would be the greatest mercy to you. </p><p>"Consider the infinite risk; to be born of wicked parents and trained in </p><p>vice! to be born of silly parents, and trained to unrealities! of parents </p><p>who regard you as a sort of chattel or property, belonging more to them </p><p>than to yourself! Again, you may draw utterly unsympathetic parents, who</p><p>will never be able to understand you, and who will do their best to </p><p>thwart you (as a hen when she has hatched a duckling), and then call you </p><p>ungrateful because you do not love them; or, again, you may draw parents </p><p>who look upon you as a thing to be cowed while it is still young, lest it </p><p>should give them trouble hereafter by having wishes and feelings of its </p><p>own. </p><p>"In later life, when you have been finally allowed to pass muster as a </p><p>full member of the world, you will yourself become liable to the </p><p>pesterings of the unborn--and a very happy life you may be led in </p><p>consequence! For we solicit so strongly that a few only--nor these the</p><p>best--can refuse us; and yet not to refuse is much the same as going into </p><p>partnership with half-a-dozen different people about whom one can know </p><p>absolutely nothing beforehand--not even whether one is going into </p><p>partnership with men or women, nor with how many of either. Delude not</p><p>yourself with thinking that you will be wiser than your parents. You may</p><p>be an age in advance of those whom you have pestered, but unless you are </p><p>one of the great ones you will still be an age behind those who will in </p><p>their turn pester you. </p><p>"Imagine what it must be to have an unborn quartered upon you, who is of </p><p>an entirely different temperament and disposition to your own; nay, half- </p><p>a-dozen such, who will not love you though you have stinted yourself in a </p><p>thousand ways to provide for their comfort and well-being,--who will </p><p>forget all your self-sacrifice, and of whom you may never be sure that </p><p>they are not bearing a grudge against you for errors of judgement into </p><p>which you may have fallen, though you had hoped that such had been long </p><p>since atoned for. Ingratitude such as this is not uncommon, yet fancy</p><p>what it must be to bear! It is hard upon the duckling to have been</p><p>hatched by a hen, but is it not also hard upon the hen to have hatched </p><p>the duckling? </p><p>"Consider it again, we pray you, not for our sake but for your own. Your</p><p>initial character you must draw by lot; but whatever it is, it can only </p><p>come to a tolerably successful development after long training; remember </p><p>that over that training you will have no control. It is possible, and</p><p>even probable, that whatever you may get in after life which is of real </p><p>pleasure and service to you, will have to be won in spite of, rather than </p><p>by the help of, those whom you are now about to pester, and that you will </p><p>only win your freedom after years of a painful struggle in which it will </p><p>be hard to say whether you have suffered most injury, or inflicted it. </p><p>"Remember also, that if you go into the world you will have free will; </p><p>that you will be obliged to have it; that there is no escaping it; that </p><p>you will be fettered to it during your whole life, and must on every</p><p>occasion do that which on the whole seems best to you at any given time, </p><p>no matter whether you are right or wrong in choosing it. Your mind will</p><p>be a balance for considerations, and your action will go with the heavier </p><p>scale. How it shall fall will depend upon the kind of scales which you</p><p>may have drawn at birth, the bias which they will have obtained by use, </p><p>and the weight of the immediate considerations. If the scales were good</p><p>to start with, and if they have not been outrageously tampered with in </p><p>childhood, and if the combinations into which you enter are average ones, </p><p>you may come off well; but there are too many 'ifs' in this, and with the </p><p>failure of any one of them your misery is assured. Reflect on this, and</p><p>remember that should the ill come upon you, you will have yourself to </p><p>thank, for it is your own choice to be born, and there is no compulsion </p><p>in the matter. </p><p>"Not that we deny the existence of pleasures among mankind; there is a </p><p>certain show of sundry phases of contentment which may even amount to </p><p>very considerable happiness; but mark how they are distributed over a </p><p>man's life, belonging, all the keenest of them, to the fore part, and few </p><p>indeed to the after. Can there be any pleasure worth purchasing with the</p><p>miseries of a decrepit age? If you are good, strong, and handsome, you</p><p>have a fine fortune indeed at twenty, but how much of it will be left at </p><p>sixty? For you must live on your capital; there is no investing your</p><p>powers so that you may get a small annuity of life for ever: you must eat </p><p>up your principal bit by bit, and be tortured by seeing it grow </p><p>continually smaller and smaller, even though you happen to escape being </p><p>rudely robbed of it by crime or casualty. </p><p>"Remember, too, that there never yet was a man of forty who would not </p><p>come back into the world of the unborn if he could do so with decency and </p><p>honour. Being in the world he will as a general rule stay till he is</p><p>forced to go; but do you think that he would consent to be born again, </p><p>and re-live his life, if he had the offer of doing so? Do not think it.</p><p>If he could so alter the past as that he should never have come into </p><p>being at all, do you not think that he would do it very gladly? </p><p>"What was it that one of their own poets meant, if it was not this, when </p><p>he cried out upon the day in which he was born, and the night in which it </p><p>was said there is a man child conceived? 'For now,' he says, 'I should</p><p>have lain still and been quiet, I should have slept; then had I been at </p><p>rest with kings and counsellors of the earth, which built desolate places </p><p>for themselves; or with princes that had gold, who filled their houses </p><p>with silver; or as an hidden untimely birth, I had not been; as infants </p><p>which never saw light. There the wicked cease from troubling, and the</p><p>weary are at rest.' Be very sure that the guilt of being born carries</p><p>this punishment at times to all men; but how can they ask for pity, or </p><p>complain of any mischief that may befall them, having entered open-eyed </p><p>into the snare? </p><p>"One word more and we have done. If any faint remembrance, as of a</p><p>dream, flit in some puzzled moment across your brain, and you shall feel </p><p>that the potion which is to be given you shall not have done its work, </p><p>and the memory of this existence which you are leaving endeavours vainly </p><p>to return; we say in such a moment, when you clutch at the dream but it </p><p>eludes your grasp, and you watch it, as Orpheus watched Eurydice, gliding </p><p>back again into the twilight kingdom, fly--fly--if you can remember the </p><p>advice--to the haven of your present and immediate duty, taking shelter </p><p>incessantly in the work which you have in hand. This much you may</p><p>perhaps recall; and this, if you will imprint it deeply upon your every </p><p>faculty, will be most likely to bring you safely and honourably home</p><p>through the trials that are before you." {3} </p><p>This is the fashion in which they reason with those who would be for </p><p>leaving them, but it is seldom that they do much good, for none but the </p><p>unquiet and unreasonable ever think of being born, and those who are </p><p>foolish enough to think of it are generally foolish enough to do it. </p><p>Finding, therefore, that they can do no more, the friends follow weeping </p><p>to the courthouse of the chief magistrate, where the one who wishes to be </p><p>born declares solemnly and openly that he accepts the conditions attached </p><p>to his decision. On this he is presented with a potion, which</p><p>immediately destroys his memory and sense of identity, and dissipates the </p><p>thin gaseous tenement which he has inhabited: he becomes a bare vital </p><p>principle, not to be perceived by human senses, nor to be by any chemical </p><p>test appreciated. He has but one instinct, which is that he is to go to</p><p>such and such a place, where he will find two persons whom he is to </p><p>importune till they consent to undertake him; but whether he is to find </p><p>these persons among the race of Chowbok or the Erewhonians themselves is </p><p>not for him to choose. </p><p>CHAPTER XX: WHAT THEY MEAN BY IT </p><p>I have given the above mythology at some length, but it is only a small </p><p>part of what they have upon the subject. My first feeling on reading it</p><p>was that any amount of folly on the part of the unborn in coming here was </p><p>justified by a desire to escape from such intolerable prosing. The</p><p>mythology is obviously an unfair and exaggerated representation of life </p><p>and things; and had its authors been so minded they could have easily </p><p>drawn a picture which would err as much on the bright side as this does </p><p>on the dark. No Erewhonian believes that the world is as black as it has</p><p>been here painted, but it is one of their peculiarities that they very </p><p>often do not believe or mean things which they profess to regard as </p><p>indisputable. </p><p>In the present instance their professed views concerning the unborn have </p><p>arisen from their desire to prove that people have been presented with </p><p>the gloomiest possible picture of their own prospects before they came </p><p>here; otherwise, they could hardly say to one whom they are going to </p><p>punish for an affection of the heart or brain that it is all his own </p><p>doing. In practice they modify their theory to a considerable extent,</p><p>and seldom refer to the birth formula except in extreme cases; for the </p><p>force of habit, or what not, gives many of them a kindly interest even in </p><p>creatures who have so much wronged them as the unborn have done; and </p><p>though a man generally hates the unwelcome little stranger for the first </p><p>twelve months, he is apt to mollify (according to his lights) as time </p><p>goes on, and sometimes he will become inordinately attached to the beings </p><p>whom he is pleased to call his children. </p><p>Of course, according to Erewhonian premises, it would serve people right </p><p>to be punished and scouted for moral and intellectual diseases as much as </p><p>for physical, and I cannot to this day understand why they should have </p><p>stopped short half way. Neither, again, can I understand why their</p><p>having done so should have been, as it certainly was, a matter of so much </p><p>concern to myself. What could it matter to me how many absurdities the</p><p>Erewhonians might adopt? Nevertheless I longed to make them think as I</p><p>did, for the wish to spread those opinions that we hold conducive to our</p><p>own welfare is so deeply rooted in the English character that few of us </p><p>can escape its influence. But let this pass.</p><p>In spite of not a few modifications in practice of a theory which is </p><p>itself revolting, the relations between children and parents in that </p><p>country are less happy than in Europe. It was rarely that I saw cases of</p><p>real hearty and intense affection between the old people and the young </p><p>ones. Here and there I did so, and was quite sure that the children,</p><p>even at the age of twenty, were fonder of their parents than they were of </p><p>any one else; and that of their own inclination, being free to choose </p><p>what company they would, they would often choose that of their father and </p><p>mother. The straightener's carriage was rarely seen at the door of those</p><p>houses. I saw two or three such cases during the time that I remained in</p><p>the country, and cannot express the pleasure which I derived from a sight </p><p>suggestive of so much goodness and wisdom and forbearance, so richly </p><p>rewarded; yet I firmly believe that the same thing would happen in nine </p><p>families out of ten if the parents were merely to remember how they felt </p><p>when they were young, and actually to behave towards their children as </p><p>they would have had their own parents behave towards themselves. But</p><p>this, which would appear to be so simple and obvious, seems also to be a </p><p>thing which not one in a hundred thousand is able to put in practice. It</p><p>is only the very great and good who have any living faith in the simplest </p><p>axioms; and there are few who are so holy as to feel that 19 and 13 make </p><p>32 as certainly as 2 and 2 make 4. </p><p>I am quite sure that if this narrative should ever fall into Erewhonian </p><p>hands, it will be said that what I have written about the relations </p><p>between parents and children being seldom satisfactory is an infamous </p><p>perversion of facts, and that in truth there are few young people who do </p><p>not feel happier in the society of their nearest relations {4} than in </p><p>any other. Mr. Nosnibor would be sure to say this. Yet I cannot refrain</p><p>from expressing an opinion that he would be a good deal embarrassed if </p><p>his deceased parents were to reappear and propose to pay him a six </p><p>months' visit. I doubt whether there are many things which he would</p><p>regard as a greater infliction. They had died at a ripe old age some</p><p>twenty years before I came to know him, so the case is an extreme one; </p><p>but surely if they had treated him with what in his youth he had felt to </p><p>be true unselfishness, his face would brighten when he thought of them to </p><p>the end of his life. </p><p>In the one or two cases of true family affection which I met with, I am </p><p>sure that the young people who were so genuinely fond of their fathers </p><p>and mothers at eighteen, would at sixty be perfectly delighted were they </p><p>to get the chance of welcoming them as their guests. There is nothing</p><p>which could please them better, except perhaps to watch the happiness of </p><p>their own children and grandchildren. </p><p>This is how things should be. It is not an impossible ideal; it is one</p><p>which actually does exist in some few cases, and might exist in almost </p><p>all, with a little more patience and forbearance upon the parents' part; </p><p>but it is rare at present--so rare that they have a proverb which I can </p><p>only translate in a very roundabout way, but which says that the great </p><p>happiness of some people in a future state will consist in watching the </p><p>distress of their parents on returning to eternal companionship with </p><p>their grandfathers and grandmothers; whilst "compulsory affection" is the </p><p>idea which lies at the root of their word for the deepest anguish. </p><p>There is no talisman in the word "parent" which can generate miracles of </p><p>affection, and I can well believe that my own child might find it less of</p><p>a calamity to lose both Arowhena and myself when he is six years old, </p><p>than to find us again when he is sixty--a sentence which I would not pen </p><p>did I not feel that by doing so I was giving him something like a </p><p>hostage, or at any rate putting a weapon into his hands against me, </p><p>should my selfishness exceed reasonable limits. </p><p>Money is at the bottom of all this to a great extent. If the parents</p><p>would put their children in the way of earning a competence earlier than </p><p>they do, the children would soon become self-supporting and independent. </p><p>As it is, under the present system, the young ones get old enough to have </p><p>all manner of legitimate wants (that is, if they have any "go" about </p><p>them) before they have learnt the means of earning money to pay for them; </p><p>hence they must either do without them, or take more money than the </p><p>parents can be expected to spare. This is due chiefly to the schools of</p><p>Unreason, where a boy is taught upon hypothetical principles, as I will </p><p>explain hereafter; spending years in being incapacitated for doing this, </p><p>that, or the other (he hardly knows what), during all which time he ought </p><p>to have been actually doing the thing itself, beginning at the lowest </p><p>grades, picking it up through actual practice, and rising according to </p><p>the energy which is in him. </p><p>These schools of Unreason surprised me much. It would be easy to fall</p><p>into pseudo-utilitarianism, and I would fain believe that the system may </p><p>be good for the children of very rich parents, or for those who show a </p><p>natural instinct to acquire hypothetical lore; but the misery was that </p><p>their Ydgrun-worship required all people with any pretence to </p><p>respectability to send their children to some one or other of these </p><p>schools, mulcting them of years of money. It astonished me to see what</p><p>sacrifices the parents would make in order to render their children as </p><p>nearly useless as possible; and it was hard to say whether the old </p><p>suffered most from the expense which they were thus put to, or the young </p><p>from being deliberately swindled in some of the most important branches </p><p>of human inquiry, and directed into false channels or left to drift in </p><p>the great majority of cases. </p><p>I cannot think I am mistaken in believing that the growing tendency to </p><p>limit families by infanticide--an evil which was causing general alarm </p><p>throughout the country--was almost entirely due to the way in which </p><p>education had become a fetish from one end of Erewhon to the other. </p><p>Granted that provision should be made whereby every child should be </p><p>taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, but here compulsory state-aided </p><p>education should end, and the child should begin (with all due </p><p>precautions to ensure that he is not overworked) to acquire the rudiments </p><p>of that art whereby he is to earn his living. </p><p>He cannot acquire these in what we in England call schools of technical </p><p>education; such schools are cloister life as against the rough and tumble </p><p>of the world; they unfit, rather than fit for work in the open. An art</p><p>can only be learned in the workshop of those who are winning their bread </p><p>by it. </p><p>Boys, as a rule, hate the artificial, and delight in the actual; give </p><p>them the chance of earning, and they will soon earn. When parents find</p><p>that their children, instead of being made artificially burdensome, will </p><p>early begin to contribute to the well-being of the family, they will soon </p><p>leave off killing them, and will seek to have that plenitude of offspring </p><p>which they now avoid. As things are, the state lays greater burdens on</p><p>parents than flesh and blood can bear, and then wrings its hands over an </p><p>evil for which it is itself mainly responsible.</p><p>With the less well-dressed classes the harm was not so great; for among </p><p>these, at about ten years old, the child has to begin doing something: if </p><p>he is capable he makes his way up; if he is not, he is at any rate not </p><p>made more incapable by what his friends are pleased to call his </p><p>education. People find their level as a rule; and though they</p><p>unfortunately sometimes miss it, it is in the main true that those who </p><p>have valuable qualities are perceived to have them and can sell them. I</p><p>think that the Erewhonians are beginning to become aware of these things, </p><p>for there was much talk about putting a tax upon all parents whose </p><p>children were not earning a competence according to their degrees by the </p><p>time they were twenty years old. I am sure that if they will have the</p><p>courage to carry it through they will never regret it; for the parents </p><p>will take care that the children shall begin earning money (which means </p><p>"doing good" to society) at an early age; then the children will be </p><p>independent early, and they will not press on the parents, nor the </p><p>parents on them, and they will like each other better than they do now. </p><p>This is the true philanthropy. He who makes a colossal fortune in the</p><p>hosiery trade, and by his energy has succeeded in reducing the price of </p><p>woollen goods by the thousandth part of a penny in the pound--this man is </p><p>worth ten professional philanthropists. So strongly are the Erewhonians</p><p>impressed with this, that if a man has made a fortune of over 20,000 </p><p>pounds a year they exempt him from all taxation, considering him as a </p><p>work of art, and too precious to be meddled with; they say, "How very </p><p>much he must have done for society before society could have been </p><p>prevailed upon to give him so much money;" so magnificent an organisation </p><p>overawes them; they regard it as a thing dropped from heaven. </p><p>"Money," they say, "is the symbol of duty, it is the sacrament of having </p><p>done for mankind that which mankind wanted. Mankind may not be a very</p><p>good judge, but there is no better." This used to shock me at first,</p><p>when I remembered that it had been said on high authority that they who </p><p>have riches shall enter hardly into the kingdom of heaven; but the </p><p>influence of Erewhon had made me begin to see things in a new light, and </p><p>I could not help thinking that they who have not riches shall enter more </p><p>hardly still. </p><p>People oppose money to culture, and imply that if a man has spent his </p><p>time in making money he will not be cultivated--fallacy of fallacies! As</p><p>though there could be a greater aid to culture than the having earned an </p><p>honourable independence, and as though any amount of culture will do much </p><p>for the man who is penniless, except make him feel his position more </p><p>deeply. The young man who was told to sell all his goods and give to the</p><p>poor, must have been an entirely exceptional person if the advice was </p><p>given wisely, either for him or for the poor; how much more often does it </p><p>happen that we perceive a man to have all sorts of good qualities except </p><p>money, and feel that his real duty lies in getting every half-penny that </p><p>he can persuade others to pay him for his services, and becoming rich. It</p><p>has been said that the love of money is the root of all evil. The want</p><p>of money is so quite as truly. </p><p>The above may sound irreverent, but it is conceived in a spirit of the </p><p>most utter reverence for those things which do alone deserve it--that is, </p><p>for the things which are, which mould us and fashion us, be they what </p><p>they may; for the things that have power to punish us, and which will </p><p>punish us if we do not heed them; for our masters therefore. But I am</p><p>drifting away from my story. </p><p>They have another plan about which they are making a great noise and </p><p>fuss, much as some are doing with women's rights in England. A party of</p><p>extreme radicals have professed themselves unable to decide upon the </p><p>superiority of age or youth. At present all goes on the supposition that</p><p>it is desirable to make the young old as soon as possible. Some would</p><p>have it that this is wrong, and that the object of education should be to </p><p>keep the old young as long as possible. They say that each age should</p><p>take it turn in turn about, week by week, one week the old to be </p><p>topsawyers, and the other the young, drawing the line at thirty-five </p><p>years of age; but they insist that the young should be allowed to inflict </p><p>corporal chastisement on the old, without which the old would be quite </p><p>incorrigible. In any European country this would be out of the question;</p><p>but it is not so there, for the straighteners are constantly ordering </p><p>people to be flogged, so that they are familiar with the notion. I do</p><p>not suppose that the idea will be ever acted upon; but its having been </p><p>even mooted is enough to show the utter perversion of the Erewhonian </p><p>mind. </p><p>CHAPTER XXI: THE COLLEGES OF UNREASON </p><p>I had now been a visitor with the Nosnibors for some five or six months, </p><p>and though I had frequently proposed to leave them and take apartments of </p><p>my own, they would not hear of my doing so. I suppose they thought I</p><p>should be more likely to fall in love with Zulora if I remained, but it </p><p>was my affection for Arowhena that kept me. </p><p>During all this time both Arowhena and myself had been dreaming, and </p><p>drifting towards an avowed attachment, but had not dared to face the real </p><p>difficulties of the position. Gradually, however, matters came to a</p><p>crisis in spite of ourselves, and we got to see the true state of the </p><p>case, all too clearly. </p><p>One evening we were sitting in the garden, and I had been trying in every </p><p>stupid roundabout way to get her to say that she should be at any rate </p><p>sorry for a man, if he really loved a woman who would not marry him. I</p><p>had been stammering and blushing, and been as silly as any one could be, </p><p>and I suppose had pained her by fishing for pity for myself in such a </p><p>transparent way, and saying nothing about her own need of it; at any </p><p>rate, she turned all upon me with a sweet sad smile and said, "Sorry? I</p><p>am sorry for myself; I am sorry for you; and I am sorry for every one." </p><p>The words had no sooner crossed her lips than she bowed her head, gave me </p><p>a look as though I were to make no answer, and left me. </p><p>The words were few and simple, but the manner with which they were </p><p>uttered was ineffable: the scales fell from my eyes, and I felt that I </p><p>had no right to try and induce her to infringe one of the most inviolable </p><p>customs of her country, as she needs must do if she were to marry me. I</p><p>sat for a long while thinking, and when I remembered the sin and shame </p><p>and misery which an unrighteous marriage--for as such it would be held in </p><p>Erewhon--would entail, I became thoroughly ashamed of myself for having </p><p>been so long self-blinded. I write coldly now, but I suffered keenly at</p><p>the time, and should probably retain a much more vivid recollection of </p><p>what I felt, had not all ended so happily. </p><p>As for giving up the idea of marrying Arowhena, it never so much as</p><p>entered my head to do so: the solution must be found in some other </p><p>direction than this. The idea of waiting till somebody married Zulora</p><p>was to be no less summarily dismissed. To marry Arowhena at once in</p><p>Erewhon--this had already been abandoned: there remained therefore but </p><p>one alternative, and that was to run away with her, and get her with me </p><p>to Europe, where there would be no bar to our union save my own </p><p>impecuniosity, a matter which gave me no uneasiness. </p><p>To this obvious and simple plan I could see but two objections that </p><p>deserved the name,--the first, that perhaps Arowhena would not come; the </p><p>second, that it was almost impossible for me to escape even alone, for </p><p>the king had himself told me that I was to consider myself a prisoner on </p><p>parole, and that the first sign of my endeavouring to escape would cause </p><p>me to be sent to one of the hospitals for incurables. Besides, I did not</p><p>know the geography of the country, and even were I to try and find my way </p><p>back, I should be discovered long before I had reached the pass over </p><p>which I had come. How then could I hope to be able to take Arowhena with</p><p>me? For days and days I turned these difficulties over in my mind, and</p><p>at last hit upon as wild a plan as was ever suggested by extremity. This</p><p>was to meet the second difficulty: the first gave me less uneasiness, for </p><p>when Arowhena and I next met after our interview in the garden I could </p><p>see that she had suffered not less acutely than myself. </p><p>I resolved that I would have another interview with her--the last for the </p><p>present--that I would then leave her, and set to work upon maturing my </p><p>plan as fast as possible. We got a chance of being alone together, and</p><p>then I gave myself the loose rein, and told her how passionately and </p><p>devotedly I loved her. She said little in return, but her tears (which I</p><p>could not refrain from answering with my own) and the little she did say </p><p>were quite enough to show me that I should meet with no obstacle from </p><p>her. Then I asked her whether she would run a terrible risk which we</p><p>should share in common, if, in case of success, I could take her to my </p><p>own people, to the home of my mother and sisters, who would welcome her </p><p>very gladly. At the same time I pointed out that the chances of failure</p><p>were far greater than those of success, and that the probability was that </p><p>even though I could get so far as to carry my design into execution, it </p><p>would end in death to us both. </p><p>I was not mistaken in her; she said that she believed I loved her as much </p><p>as she loved me, and that she would brave anything if I could only assure </p><p>her that what I proposed would not be thought dishonourable in England; </p><p>she could not live without me, and would rather die with me than alone; </p><p>that death was perhaps the best for us both; that I must plan, and that </p><p>when the hour came I was to send for her, and trust her not to fail me; </p><p>and so after many tears and embraces, we tore ourselves away. </p><p>I then left the Nosnibors, took a lodging in the town, and became </p><p>melancholy to my heart's content. Arowhena and I used to see each other</p><p>sometimes, for I had taken to going regularly to the Musical Banks, but </p><p>Mrs. Nosnibor and Zulora both treated me with considerable coldness. I</p><p>felt sure that they suspected me. Arowhena looked miserable, and I saw</p><p>that her purse was now always as full as she could fill it with the </p><p>Musical Bank money--much fuller than of old. Then the horrible thought</p><p>occurred to me that her health might break down, and that she might be </p><p>subjected to a criminal prosecution. Oh! how I hated Erewhon at that</p><p>time. </p><p>I was still received at court, but my good looks were beginning to fail </p><p>me, and I was not such an adept at concealing the effects of pain as the</p><p>Erewhonians are. I could see that my friends began to look concerned</p><p>about me, and was obliged to take a leaf out of Mahaina's book, and </p><p>pretend to have developed a taste for drinking. I even consulted a</p><p>straightener as though this were so, and submitted to much discomfort. </p><p>This made matters better for a time, but I could see that my friends </p><p>thought less highly of my constitution as my flesh began to fall away. </p><p>I was told that the poor made an outcry about my pension, and I saw a </p><p>stinging article in an anti-ministerial paper, in which the writer went </p><p>so far as to say that my having light hair reflected little credit upon </p><p>me, inasmuch as I had been reported to have said that it was a common </p><p>thing in the country from which I came. I have reason to believe that</p><p>Mr. Nosnibor himself inspired this article. Presently it came round to</p><p>me that the king had begun to dwell upon my having been possessed of a </p><p>watch, and to say that I ought to be treated medicinally for having told </p><p>him a lie about the balloons. I saw misfortune gathering round me in</p><p>every direction, and felt that I should have need of all my wits and a </p><p>good many more, if I was to steer myself and Arowhena to a good </p><p>conclusion. </p><p>There were some who continued to show me kindness, and strange to say, I </p><p>received the most from the very persons from whom I should have least </p><p>expected it--I mean from the cashiers of the Musical Banks. I had made</p><p>the acquaintance of several of these persons, and now that I frequented </p><p>their bank, they were inclined to make a good deal of me. One of them,</p><p>seeing that I was thoroughly out of health, though of course he pretended </p><p>not to notice it, suggested that I should take a little change of air and </p><p>go down with him to one of the principal towns, which was some two or </p><p>three days' journey from the metropolis, and the chief seat of the </p><p>Colleges of Unreason; he assured me that I should be delighted with what </p><p>I saw, and that I should receive a most hospitable welcome. I determined</p><p>therefore to accept the invitation. </p><p>We started two or three days later, and after a night on the road, we </p><p>arrived at our destination towards evening. It was now full spring, and</p><p>as nearly as might be ten months since I had started with Chowbok on my </p><p>expedition, but it seemed more like ten years. The trees were in their</p><p>freshest beauty, and the air had become warm without being oppressively </p><p>hot. After having lived so many months in the metropolis, the sight of</p><p>the country, and the country villages through which we passed refreshed </p><p>me greatly, but I could not forget my troubles. The last five miles or</p><p>so were the most beautiful part of the journey, for the country became </p><p>more undulating, and the woods were more extensive; but the first sight </p><p>of the city of the colleges itself was the most delightful of all. I</p><p>cannot imagine that there can be any fairer in the whole world, and I </p><p>expressed my pleasure to my companion, and thanked him for having brought </p><p>me. </p><p>We drove to an inn in the middle of the town, and then, while it was </p><p>still light, my friend the cashier, whose name was Thims, took me for a </p><p>stroll in the streets and in the court-yards of the principal colleges. </p><p>Their beauty and interest were extreme; it was impossible to see them </p><p>without being attracted towards them; and I thought to myself that he </p><p>must be indeed an ill-grained and ungrateful person who can have been a </p><p>member of one of these colleges without retaining an affectionate feeling </p><p>towards it for the rest of his life. All my misgivings gave way at once</p><p>when I saw the beauty and venerable appearance of this delightful city. </p><p>For half-an-hour I forgot both myself and Arowhena. </p><p>After supper Mr. Thims told me a good deal about the system of education </p><p>which is here practised. I already knew a part of what I heard, but much</p><p>was new to me, and I obtained a better idea of the Erewhonian position </p><p>than I had done hitherto: nevertheless there were parts of the scheme of </p><p>which I could not comprehend the fitness, although I fully admit that </p><p>this inability was probably the result of my having been trained so very </p><p>differently, and to my being then much out of sorts. </p><p>The main feature in their system is the prominence which they give to a </p><p>study which I can only translate by the word "hypothetics." They argue</p><p>thus--that to teach a boy merely the nature of the things which exist in </p><p>the world around him, and about which he will have to be conversant </p><p>during his whole life, would be giving him but a narrow and shallow </p><p>conception of the universe, which it is urged might contain all manner of </p><p>things which are not now to be found therein. To open his eyes to these</p><p>possibilities, and so to prepare him for all sorts of emergencies, is the </p><p>object of this system of hypothetics. To imagine a set of utterly</p><p>strange and impossible contingencies, and require the youths to give </p><p>intelligent answers to the questions that arise therefrom, is reckoned </p><p>the fittest conceivable way of preparing them for the actual conduct of </p><p>their affairs in after life. </p><p>Thus they are taught what is called the hypothetical language for many of </p><p>their best years--a language which was originally composed at a time when </p><p>the country was in a very different state of civilisation to what it is </p><p>at present, a state which has long since disappeared and been superseded. </p><p>Many valuable maxims and noble thoughts which were at one time concealed </p><p>in it have become current in their modern literature, and have been </p><p>translated over and over again into the language now spoken. Surely then</p><p>it would seem enough that the study of the original language should be </p><p>confined to the few whose instincts led them naturally to pursue it. </p><p>But the Erewhonians think differently; the store they set by this </p><p>hypothetical language can hardly be believed; they will even give any one </p><p>a maintenance for life if he attains a considerable proficiency in the </p><p>study of it; nay, they will spend years in learning to translate some of </p><p>their own good poetry into the hypothetical language--to do so with </p><p>fluency being reckoned a distinguishing mark of a scholar and a </p><p>gentleman. Heaven forbid that I should be flippant, but it appeared to</p><p>me to be a wanton waste of good human energy that men should spend years </p><p>and years in the perfection of so barren an exercise, when their own </p><p>civilisation presented problems by the hundred which cried aloud for </p><p>solution and would have paid the solver handsomely; but people know their </p><p>own affairs best. If the youths chose it for themselves I should have</p><p>wondered less; but they do not choose it; they have it thrust upon them, </p><p>and for the most part are disinclined towards it. I can only say that</p><p>all I heard in defence of the system was insufficient to make me think </p><p>very highly of its advantages. </p><p>The arguments in favour of the deliberate development of the unreasoning </p><p>faculties were much more cogent. But here they depart from the</p><p>principles on which they justify their study of hypothetics; for they </p><p>base the importance which they assign to hypothetics upon the fact of </p><p>their being a preparation for the extraordinary, while their study of </p><p>Unreason rests upon its developing those faculties which are required for </p><p>the daily conduct of affairs. Hence their professorships of</p><p>Inconsistency and Evasion, in both of which studies the youths are </p><p>examined before being allowed to proceed to their degree in hypothetics. </p><p>The more earnest and conscientious students attain to a proficiency in</p><p>these subjects which is quite surprising; there is hardly any </p><p>inconsistency so glaring but they soon learn to defend it, or injunction </p><p>so clear that they cannot find some pretext for disregarding it. </p><p>Life, they urge, would be intolerable if men were to be guided in all </p><p>they did by reason and reason only. Reason betrays men into the drawing</p><p>of hard and fast lines, and to the defining by language--language being </p><p>like the sun, which rears and then scorches. Extremes are alone logical,</p><p>but they are always absurd; the mean is illogical, but an illogical mean </p><p>is better than the sheer absurdity of an extreme. There are no follies</p><p>and no unreasonablenesses so great as those which can apparently be </p><p>irrefragably defended by reason itself, and there is hardly an error into </p><p>which men may not easily be led if they base their conduct upon reason </p><p>only. </p><p>Reason might very possibly abolish the double currency; it might even </p><p>attack the personality of Hope and Justice. Besides, people have such a</p><p>strong natural bias towards it that they will seek it for themselves and </p><p>act upon it quite as much as or more than is good for them: there is no </p><p>need of encouraging reason. With unreason the case is different. She is</p><p>the natural complement of reason, without whose existence reason itself </p><p>were non-existent. </p><p>If, then, reason would be non-existent were there no such thing as </p><p>unreason, surely it follows that the more unreason there is, the more </p><p>reason there must be also? Hence the necessity for the development of</p><p>unreason, even in the interests of reason herself. The Professors of</p><p>Unreason deny that they undervalue reason: none can be more convinced </p><p>than they are, that if the double currency cannot be rigorously deduced </p><p>as a necessary consequence of human reason, the double currency should </p><p>cease forthwith; but they say that it must be deduced from no narrow and </p><p>exclusive view of reason which should deprive that admirable faculty of </p><p>the one-half of its own existence. Unreason is a part of reason; it must</p><p>therefore be allowed its full share in stating the initial conditions. </p><p>CHAPTER XXII: THE COLLEGES OF UNREASON--Continued </p><p>Of genius they make no account, for they say that every one is a genius, </p><p>more or less. No one is so physically sound that no part of him will be</p><p>even a little unsound, and no one is so diseased but that some part of </p><p>him will be healthy--so no man is so mentally and morally sound, but that </p><p>he will be in part both mad and wicked; and no man is so mad and wicked </p><p>but he will be sensible and honourable in part. In like manner there is</p><p>no genius who is not also a fool, and no fool who is not also a genius. </p><p>When I talked about originality and genius to some gentlemen whom I met </p><p>at a supper party given by Mr. Thims in my honour, and said that original </p><p>thought ought to be encouraged, I had to eat my words at once. Their</p><p>view evidently was that genius was like offences--needs must that it </p><p>come, but woe unto that man through whom it comes. A man's business,</p><p>they hold, is to think as his neighbours do, for Heaven help him if he </p><p>thinks good what they count bad. And really it is hard to see how the</p><p>Erewhonian theory differs from our own, for the word "idiot" only means a </p><p>person who forms his opinions for himself. </p><p>The venerable Professor of Worldly Wisdom, a man verging on eighty but </p><p>still hale, spoke to me very seriously on this subject in consequence of </p><p>the few words that I had imprudently let fall in defence of genius. He</p><p>was one of those who carried most weight in the university, and had the </p><p>reputation of having done more perhaps than any other living man to </p><p>suppress any kind of originality. </p><p>"It is not our business," he said, "to help students to think for </p><p>themselves. Surely this is the very last thing which one who wishes them</p><p>well should encourage them to do. Our duty is to ensure that they shall</p><p>think as we do, or at any rate, as we hold it expedient to say we do." In</p><p>some respects, however, he was thought to hold somewhat radical opinions, </p><p>for he was President of the Society for the Suppression of Useless </p><p>Knowledge, and for the Completer Obliteration of the Past. </p><p>As regards the tests that a youth must pass before he can get a degree, I </p><p>found that they have no class lists, and discourage anything like </p><p>competition among the students; this, indeed, they regard as self-seeking </p><p>and unneighbourly. The examinations are conducted by way of papers</p><p>written by the candidate on set subjects, some of which are known to him </p><p>beforehand, while others are devised with a view of testing his general </p><p>capacity and _savoir faire_. </p><p>My friend the Professor of Worldly Wisdom was the terror of the greater </p><p>number of students; and, so far as I could judge, he very well might be, </p><p>for he had taken his Professorship more seriously than any of the other </p><p>Professors had done. I heard of his having plucked one poor fellow for</p><p>want of sufficient vagueness in his saving clauses paper. Another was</p><p>sent down for having written an article on a scientific subject without </p><p>having made free enough use of the words "carefully," "patiently," and </p><p>"earnestly." One man was refused a degree for being too often and too</p><p>seriously in the right, while a few days before I came a whole batch had </p><p>been plucked for insufficient distrust of printed matter. </p><p>About this there was just then rather a ferment, for it seems that the </p><p>Professor had written an article in the leading university magazine, </p><p>which was well known to be by him, and which abounded in all sorts of </p><p>plausible blunders. He then set a paper which afforded the examinees an</p><p>opportunity of repeating these blunders--which, believing the article to </p><p>be by their own examiner, they of course did. The Professor plucked</p><p>every single one of them, but his action was considered to have been not </p><p>quite handsome. </p><p>I told them of Homer's noble line to the effect that a man should strive </p><p>ever to be foremost and in all things to outvie his peers; but they said </p><p>that no wonder the countries in which such a detestable maxim was held in </p><p>admiration were always flying at one another's throats. </p><p>"Why," asked one Professor, "should a man want to be better than his </p><p>neighbours? Let him be thankful if he is no worse."</p><p>I ventured feebly to say that I did not see how progress could be made in </p><p>any art or science, or indeed in anything at all, without more or less </p><p>self-seeking, and hence unamiability. </p><p>"Of course it cannot," said the Professor, "and therefore we object to </p><p>progress." </p><p>After which there was no more to be said. Later on, however, a young</p><p>Professor took me aside and said he did not think I quite understood </p><p>their views about progress. </p><p>"We like progress," he said, "but it must commend itself to the common </p><p>sense of the people. If a man gets to know more than his neighbours he</p><p>should keep his knowledge to himself till he has sounded them, and seen </p><p>whether they agree, or are likely to agree with him. He said it was as</p><p>immoral to be too far in front of one's own age, as to lag too far behind </p><p>it. If a man can carry his neighbours with him, he may say what he</p><p>likes; but if not, what insult can be more gratuitous than the telling </p><p>them what they do not want to know? A man should remember that</p><p>intellectual over-indulgence is one of the most insidious and disgraceful </p><p>forms that excess can take. Granted that every one should exceed more or</p><p>less, inasmuch as absolutely perfect sanity would drive any man mad the </p><p>moment he reached it, but . . . " </p><p>He was now warming to his subject and I was beginning to wonder how I </p><p>should get rid of him, when the party broke up, and though I promised to </p><p>call on him before I left, I was unfortunately prevented from doing so. </p><p>I have now said enough to give English readers some idea of the strange </p><p>views which the Erewhonians hold concerning unreason, hypothetics, and </p><p>education generally. In many respects they were sensible enough, but I</p><p>could not get over the hypothetics, especially the turning their own good </p><p>poetry into the hypothetical language. In the course of my stay I met</p><p>one youth who told me that for fourteen years the hypothetical language </p><p>had been almost the only thing that he had been taught, although he had </p><p>never (to his credit, as it seemed to me) shown the slightest proclivity </p><p>towards it, while he had been endowed with not inconsiderable ability for </p><p>several other branches of human learning. He assured me that he would</p><p>never open another hypothetical book after he had taken his degree, but </p><p>would follow out the bent of his own inclinations. This was well enough,</p><p>but who could give him his fourteen years back again? </p><p>I sometimes wondered how it was that the mischief done was not more </p><p>clearly perceptible, and that the young men and women grew up as sensible </p><p>and goodly as they did, in spite of the attempts almost deliberately made </p><p>to warp and stunt their growth. Some doubtless received damage, from</p><p>which they suffered to their life's end; but many seemed little or none </p><p>the worse, and some, almost the better. The reason would seem to be that</p><p>the natural instinct of the lads in most cases so absolutely rebelled </p><p>against their training, that do what the teachers might they could never </p><p>get them to pay serious heed to it. The consequence was that the boys</p><p>only lost their time, and not so much of this as might have been </p><p>expected, for in their hours of leisure they were actively engaged in </p><p>exercises and sports which developed their physical nature, and made them </p><p>at any rate strong and healthy. </p><p>Moreover those who had any special tastes could not be restrained from </p><p>developing them: they would learn what they wanted to learn and liked, in </p><p>spite of obstacles which seemed rather to urge them on than to discourage </p><p>them, while for those who had no special capacity, the loss of time was </p><p>of comparatively little moment; but in spite of these alleviations of the </p><p>mischief, I am sure that much harm was done to the children of the sub- </p><p>wealthy classes, by the system which passes current among the Erewhonians </p><p>as education. The poorest children suffered least--if destruction and</p><p>death have heard the sound of wisdom, to a certain extent poverty has </p><p>done so also. </p><p>And yet perhaps, after all, it is better for a country that its seats of </p><p>learning should do more to suppress mental growth than to encourage it. </p><p>Were it not for a certain priggishness which these places infuse into so </p><p>great a number of their _alumni_, genuine work would become dangerously </p><p>common. It is essential that by far the greater part of what is said or</p><p>done in the world should be so ephemeral as to take itself away quickly; </p><p>it should keep good for twenty-four hours, or even twice as long, but it </p><p>should not be good enough a week hence to prevent people from going on to </p><p>something else. No doubt the marvellous development of journalism in</p><p>England, as also the fact that our seats of learning aim rather at </p><p>fostering mediocrity than anything higher, is due to our subconscious </p><p>recognition of the fact that it is even more necessary to check </p><p>exuberance of mental development than to encourage it. There can be no</p><p>doubt that this is what our academic bodies do, and they do it the more </p><p>effectually because they do it only subconsciously. They think they are</p><p>advancing healthy mental assimilation and digestion, whereas in reality </p><p>they are little better than cancer in the stomach. </p><p>Let me return, however, to the Erewhonians. Nothing surprised me more</p><p>than to see the occasional flashes of common sense with which one branch </p><p>of study or another was lit up, while not a single ray fell upon so many </p><p>others. I was particularly struck with this on strolling into the Art</p><p>School of the University. Here I found that the course of study was</p><p>divided into two branches--the practical and the commercial--no student </p><p>being permitted to continue his studies in the actual practice of the art </p><p>he had taken up, unless he made equal progress in its commercial history. </p><p>Thus those who were studying painting were examined at frequent intervals </p><p>in the prices which all the leading pictures of the last fifty or a </p><p>hundred years had realised, and in the fluctuations in their values when </p><p>(as often happened) they had been sold and resold three or four times. </p><p>The artist, they contend, is a dealer in pictures, and it is as important </p><p>for him to learn how to adapt his wares to the market, and to know </p><p>approximately what kind of a picture will fetch how much, as it is for </p><p>him to be able to paint the picture. This, I suppose, is what the French</p><p>mean by laying so much stress upon "values." </p><p>As regards the city itself, the more I saw the more enchanted I became. I</p><p>dare not trust myself with any description of the exquisite beauty of the </p><p>different colleges, and their walks and gardens. Truly in these things</p><p>alone there must be a hallowing and refining influence which is in itself </p><p>half an education, and which no amount of error can wholly spoil. I was</p><p>introduced to many of the Professors, who showed me every hospitality and </p><p>kindness; nevertheless I could hardly avoid a sort of suspicion that some </p><p>of those whom I was taken to see had been so long engrossed in their own </p><p>study of hypothetics that they had become the exact antitheses of the </p><p>Athenians in the days of St. Paul; for whereas the Athenians spent their </p><p>lives in nothing save to see and to hear some new thing, there were some </p><p>here who seemed to devote themselves to the avoidance of every opinion </p><p>with which they were not perfectly familiar, and regarded their own </p><p>brains as a sort of sanctuary, to which if an opinion had once resorted, </p><p>none other was to attack it. </p><p>I should warn the reader, however, that I was rarely sure what the men </p><p>whom I met while staying with Mr. Thims really meant; for there was no </p><p>getting anything out of them if they scented even a suspicion that they </p><p>might be what they call "giving themselves away." As there is hardly any</p><p>subject on which this suspicion cannot arise, I found it difficult to get </p><p>definite opinions from any of them, except on such subjects as the</p><p>weather, eating and drinking, holiday excursions, or games of skill. </p><p>If they cannot wriggle out of expressing an opinion of some sort, they </p><p>will commonly retail those of some one who has already written upon the </p><p>subject, and conclude by saying that though they quite admit that there </p><p>is an element of truth in what the writer has said, there are many points </p><p>on which they are unable to agree with him. Which these points were, I</p><p>invariably found myself unable to determine; indeed, it seemed to be </p><p>counted the perfection of scholarship and good breeding among them not to </p><p>have--much less to express--an opinion on any subject on which it might </p><p>prove later that they had been mistaken. The art of sitting gracefully</p><p>on a fence has never, I should think, been brought to greater perfection </p><p>than at the Erewhonian Colleges of Unreason. </p><p>Even when, wriggle as they may, they find themselves pinned down to some </p><p>expression of definite opinion, as often as not they will argue in </p><p>support of what they perfectly well know to be untrue. I repeatedly met</p><p>with reviews and articles even in their best journals, between the lines </p><p>of which I had little difficulty in detecting a sense exactly contrary to </p><p>the one ostensibly put forward. So well is this understood, that a man</p><p>must be a mere tyro in the arts of Erewhonian polite society, unless he </p><p>instinctively suspects a hidden "yea" in every "nay" that meets him. </p><p>Granted that it comes to much the same in the end, for it does not matter </p><p>whether "yea" is called "yea" or "nay," so long as it is understood which </p><p>it is to be; but our own more direct way of calling a spade a spade, </p><p>rather than a rake, with the intention that every one should understand </p><p>it as a spade, seems more satisfactory. On the other hand, the</p><p>Erewhonian system lends itself better to the suppression of that </p><p>downrightness which it seems the express aim of Erewhonian philosophy to </p><p>discountenance. </p><p>However this may be, the fear-of-giving-themselves-away disease was fatal </p><p>to the intelligence of those infected by it, and almost every one at the </p><p>Colleges of Unreason had caught it to a greater or less degree. After a</p><p>few years atrophy of the opinions invariably supervened, and the sufferer </p><p>became stone dead to everything except the more superficial aspects of </p><p>those material objects with which he came most in contact. The</p><p>expression on the faces of these people was repellent; they did not, </p><p>however, seem particularly unhappy, for they none of them had the </p><p>faintest idea that they were in reality more dead than alive. No cure</p><p>for this disgusting fear-of-giving-themselves-away disease has yet been </p><p>discovered. </p><p>* * * </p><p>It was during my stay in City of the Colleges of Unreason--a city whose </p><p>Erewhonian name is so cacophonous that I refrain from giving it--that I </p><p>learned the particulars of the revolution which had ended in the </p><p>destruction of so many of the mechanical inventions which were formerly </p><p>in common use. </p><p>Mr. Thims took me to the rooms of a gentleman who had a great reputation </p><p>for learning, but who was also, so Mr. Thims told me, rather a dangerous </p><p>person, inasmuch as he had attempted to introduce an adverb into the </p><p>hypothetical language. He had heard of my watch and been exceedingly</p><p>anxious to see me, for he was accounted the most learned antiquary in </p><p>Erewhon on the subject of mechanical lore. We fell to talking upon the</p><p>subject, and when I left he gave me a reprinted copy of the work which </p><p>brought the revolution about.</p><p>It had taken place some five hundred years before my arrival: people had </p><p>long become thoroughly used to the change, although at the time that it </p><p>was made the country was plunged into the deepest misery, and a reaction </p><p>which followed had very nearly proved successful. Civil war raged for</p><p>many years, and is said to have reduced the number of the inhabitants by </p><p>one-half. The parties were styled the machinists and the</p><p>anti-machinists, and in the end, as I have said already, the latter got </p><p>the victory, treating their opponents with such unparalleled severity </p><p>that they extirpated every trace of opposition. </p><p>The wonder was that they allowed any mechanical appliances to remain in </p><p>the kingdom, neither do I believe that they would have done so, had not </p><p>the Professors of Inconsistency and Evasion made a stand against the </p><p>carrying of the new principles to their legitimate conclusions. These</p><p>Professors, moreover, insisted that during the struggle the </p><p>anti-machinists should use every known improvement in the art of war, and </p><p>several new weapons, offensive and defensive, were invented, while it was </p><p>in progress. I was surprised at there remaining so many mechanical</p><p>specimens as are seen in the museums, and at students having rediscovered </p><p>their past uses so completely; for at the time of the revolution the </p><p>victors wrecked all the more complicated machines, and burned all </p><p>treatises on mechanics, and all engineers' workshops--thus, so they </p><p>thought, cutting the mischief out root and branch, at an incalculable </p><p>cost of blood and treasure. </p><p>Certainly they had not spared their labour, but work of this description </p><p>can never be perfectly achieved, and when, some two hundred years before </p><p>my arrival, all passion upon the subject had cooled down, and no one save </p><p>a lunatic would have dreamed of reintroducing forbidden inventions, the </p><p>subject came to be regarded as a curious antiquarian study, like that of </p><p>some long-forgotten religious practices among ourselves. Then came the</p><p>careful search for whatever fragments could be found, and for any </p><p>machines that might have been hidden away, and also numberless treatises </p><p>were written, showing what the functions of each rediscovered machine had </p><p>been; all being done with no idea of using such machinery again, but with </p><p>the feelings of an English antiquarian concerning Druidical monuments or </p><p>flint arrow heads. </p><p>On my return to the metropolis, during the remaining weeks or rather days </p><p>of my sojourn in Erewhon I made a _resume_ in English of the work which </p><p>brought about the already mentioned revolution. My ignorance of</p><p>technical terms has led me doubtless into many errors, and I have </p><p>occasionally, where I found translation impossible, substituted purely </p><p>English names and ideas for the original Erewhonian ones, but the reader </p><p>may rely on my general accuracy. I have thought it best to insert my</p><p>translation here. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIII: THE BOOK OF THE MACHINES </p><p>The writer commences:--"There was a time, when the earth was to all </p><p>appearance utterly destitute both of animal and vegetable life, and when </p><p>according to the opinion of our best philosophers it was simply a hot </p><p>round ball with a crust gradually cooling. Now if a human being had</p><p>existed while the earth was in this state and had been allowed to see it</p><p>as though it were some other world with which he had no concern, and if </p><p>at the same time he were entirely ignorant of all physical science, would </p><p>he not have pronounced it impossible that creatures possessed of anything </p><p>like consciousness should be evolved from the seeming cinder which he was </p><p>beholding? Would he not have denied that it contained any potentiality</p><p>of consciousness? Yet in the course of time consciousness came. Is it</p><p>not possible then that there may be even yet new channels dug out for </p><p>consciousness, though we can detect no signs of them at present? </p><p>"Again. Consciousness, in anything like the present acceptation of the</p><p>term, having been once a new thing--a thing, as far as we can see, </p><p>subsequent even to an individual centre of action and to a reproductive </p><p>system (which we see existing in plants without apparent </p><p>consciousness)--why may not there arise some new phase of mind which </p><p>shall be as different from all present known phases, as the mind of </p><p>animals is from that of vegetables? </p><p>"It would be absurd to attempt to define such a mental state (or whatever </p><p>it may be called), inasmuch as it must be something so foreign to man </p><p>that his experience can give him no help towards conceiving its nature; </p><p>but surely when we reflect upon the manifold phases of life and </p><p>consciousness which have been evolved already, it would be rash to say </p><p>that no others can be developed, and that animal life is the end of all </p><p>things. There was a time when fire was the end of all things: another</p><p>when rocks and water were so." </p><p>The writer, after enlarging on the above for several pages, proceeded to </p><p>inquire whether traces of the approach of such a new phase of life could </p><p>be perceived at present; whether we could see any tenements preparing </p><p>which might in a remote futurity be adapted for it; whether, in fact, the </p><p>primordial cell of such a kind of life could be now detected upon earth. </p><p>In the course of his work he answered this question in the affirmative </p><p>and pointed to the higher machines. </p><p>"There is no security"--to quote his own words--"against the ultimate </p><p>development of mechanical consciousness, in the fact of machines </p><p>possessing little consciousness now. A mollusc has not much</p><p>consciousness. Reflect upon the extraordinary advance which machines</p><p>have made during the last few hundred years, and note how slowly the </p><p>animal and vegetable kingdoms are advancing. The more highly organised</p><p>machines are creatures not so much of yesterday, as of the last five </p><p>minutes, so to speak, in comparison with past time. Assume for the sake</p><p>of argument that conscious beings have existed for some twenty million </p><p>years: see what strides machines have made in the last thousand! May not</p><p>the world last twenty million years longer? If so, what will they not in</p><p>the end become? Is it not safer to nip the mischief in the bud and to</p><p>forbid them further progress? </p><p>"But who can say that the vapour engine has not a kind of consciousness? </p><p>Where does consciousness begin, and where end? Who can draw the line?</p><p>Who can draw any line? Is not everything interwoven with everything? Is</p><p>not machinery linked with animal life in an infinite variety of ways? The</p><p>shell of a hen's egg is made of a delicate white ware and is a machine as </p><p>much as an egg-cup is: the shell is a device for holding the egg, as much </p><p>as the egg-cup for holding the shell: both are phases of the same </p><p>function; the hen makes the shell in her inside, but it is pure pottery. </p><p>She makes her nest outside of herself for convenience' sake, but the nest </p><p>is not more of a machine than the egg-shell is. A 'machine' is only a</p><p>'device.'"</p><p>Then returning to consciousness, and endeavouring to detect its earliest </p><p>manifestations, the writer continued:- </p><p>"There is a kind of plant that eats organic food with its flowers: when a </p><p>fly settles upon the blossom, the petals close upon it and hold it fast </p><p>till the plant has absorbed the insect into its system; but they will </p><p>close on nothing but what is good to eat; of a drop of rain or a piece of </p><p>stick they will take no notice. Curious! that so unconscious a thing</p><p>should have such a keen eye to its own interest. If this is</p><p>unconsciousness, where is the use of consciousness? </p><p>"Shall we say that the plant does not know what it is doing merely </p><p>because it has no eyes, or ears, or brains? If we say that it acts</p><p>mechanically, and mechanically only, shall we not be forced to admit that </p><p>sundry other and apparently very deliberate actions are also mechanical? </p><p>If it seems to us that the plant kills and eats a fly mechanically, may </p><p>it not seem to the plant that a man must kill and eat a sheep </p><p>mechanically? </p><p>"But it may be said that the plant is void of reason, because the growth </p><p>of a plant is an involuntary growth. Given earth, air, and due</p><p>temperature, the plant must grow: it is like a clock, which being once </p><p>wound up will go till it is stopped or run down: it is like the wind </p><p>blowing on the sails of a ship--the ship must go when the wind blows it. </p><p>But can a healthy boy help growing if he have good meat and drink and </p><p>clothing? can anything help going as long as it is wound up, or go on </p><p>after it is run down? Is there not a winding up process everywhere?</p><p>"Even a potato {5} in a dark cellar has a certain low cunning about him </p><p>which serves him in excellent stead. He knows perfectly well what he</p><p>wants and how to get it. He sees the light coming from the cellar window</p><p>and sends his shoots crawling straight thereto: they will crawl along the </p><p>floor and up the wall and out at the cellar window; if there be a little </p><p>earth anywhere on the journey he will find it and use it for his own </p><p>ends. What deliberation he may exercise in the matter of his roots when</p><p>he is planted in the earth is a thing unknown to us, but we can imagine </p><p>him saying, 'I will have a tuber here and a tuber there, and I will suck </p><p>whatsoever advantage I can from all my surroundings. This neighbour I</p><p>will overshadow, and that I will undermine; and what I can do shall be </p><p>the limit of what I will do. He that is stronger and better placed than</p><p>I shall overcome me, and him that is weaker I will overcome.' </p><p>"The potato says these things by doing them, which is the best of </p><p>languages. What is consciousness if this is not consciousness? We find</p><p>it difficult to sympathise with the emotions of a potato; so we do with </p><p>those of an oyster. Neither of these things makes a noise on being</p><p>boiled or opened, and noise appeals to us more strongly than anything </p><p>else, because we make so much about our own sufferings. Since, then,</p><p>they do not annoy us by any expression of pain we call them emotionless; </p><p>and so _qua_ mankind they are; but mankind is not everybody. </p><p>"If it be urged that the action of the potato is chemical and mechanical </p><p>only, and that it is due to the chemical and mechanical effects of light </p><p>and heat, the answer would seem to lie in an inquiry whether every </p><p>sensation is not chemical and mechanical in its operation? whether those </p><p>things which we deem most purely spiritual are anything but disturbances </p><p>of equilibrium in an infinite series of levers, beginning with those that </p><p>are too small for microscopic detection, and going up to the human arm</p><p>and the appliances which it makes use of? whether there be not a </p><p>molecular action of thought, whence a dynamical theory of the passions </p><p>shall be deducible? Whether strictly speaking we should not ask what</p><p>kind of levers a man is made of rather than what is his temperament? How</p><p>are they balanced? How much of such and such will it take to weigh them</p><p>down so as to make him do so and so?" </p><p>The writer went on to say that he anticipated a time when it would be </p><p>possible, by examining a single hair with a powerful microscope, to know </p><p>whether its owner could be insulted with impunity. He then became more</p><p>and more obscure, so that I was obliged to give up all attempt at </p><p>translation; neither did I follow the drift of his argument. On coming</p><p>to the next part which I could construe, I found that he had changed his </p><p>ground. </p><p>"Either," he proceeds, "a great deal of action that has been called </p><p>purely mechanical and unconscious must be admitted to contain more </p><p>elements of consciousness than has been allowed hitherto (and in this </p><p>case germs of consciousness will be found in many actions of the higher </p><p>machines)--Or (assuming the theory of evolution but at the same time </p><p>denying the consciousness of vegetable and crystalline action) the race </p><p>of man has descended from things which had no consciousness at all. In</p><p>this case there is no _a priori_ improbability in the descent of </p><p>conscious (and more than conscious) machines from those which now exist, </p><p>except that which is suggested by the apparent absence of anything like a </p><p>reproductive system in the mechanical kingdom. This absence however is</p><p>only apparent, as I shall presently show. </p><p>"Do not let me be misunderstood as living in fear of any actually </p><p>existing machine; there is probably no known machine which is more than a </p><p>prototype of future mechanical life. The present machines are to the</p><p>future as the early Saurians to man. The largest of them will probably</p><p>greatly diminish in size. Some of the lowest vertebrate attained a much</p><p>greater bulk than has descended to their more highly organised living </p><p>representatives, and in like manner a diminution in the size of machines </p><p>has often attended their development and progress. </p><p>"Take the watch, for example; examine its beautiful structure; observe </p><p>the intelligent play of the minute members which compose it: yet this </p><p>little creature is but a development of the cumbrous clocks that preceded </p><p>it; it is no deterioration from them. A day may come when clocks, which</p><p>certainly at the present time are not diminishing in bulk, will be </p><p>superseded owing to the universal use of watches, in which case they will </p><p>become as extinct as ichthyosauri, while the watch, whose tendency has </p><p>for some years been to decrease in size rather than the contrary, will </p><p>remain the only existing type of an extinct race. </p><p>"But returning to the argument, I would repeat that I fear none of the </p><p>existing machines; what I fear is the extraordinary rapidity with which </p><p>they are becoming something very different to what they are at present. </p><p>No class of beings have in any time past made so rapid a movement </p><p>forward. Should not that movement be jealously watched, and checked</p><p>while we can still check it? And is it not necessary for this end to</p><p>destroy the more advanced of the machines which are in use at present, </p><p>though it is admitted that they are in themselves harmless? </p><p>"As yet the machines receive their impressions through the agency of </p><p>man's senses: one travelling machine calls to another in a shrill accent </p><p>of alarm and the other instantly retires; but it is through the ears of</p><p>the driver that the voice of the one has acted upon the other. Had there</p><p>been no driver, the callee would have been deaf to the caller. There was</p><p>a time when it must have seemed highly improbable that machines should </p><p>learn to make their wants known by sound, even through the ears of man; </p><p>may we not conceive, then, that a day will come when those ears will be </p><p>no longer needed, and the hearing will be done by the delicacy of the </p><p>machine's own construction?--when its language shall have been developed </p><p>from the cry of animals to a speech as intricate as our own? </p><p>"It is possible that by that time children will learn the differential </p><p>calculus--as they learn now to speak--from their mothers and nurses, or </p><p>that they may talk in the hypothetical language, and work rule of three </p><p>sums, as soon as they are born; but this is not probable; we cannot </p><p>calculate on any corresponding advance in man's intellectual or physical </p><p>powers which shall be a set-off against the far greater development which </p><p>seems in store for the machines. Some people may say that man's moral</p><p>influence will suffice to rule them; but I cannot think it will ever be </p><p>safe to repose much trust in the moral sense of any machine. </p><p>"Again, might not the glory of the machines consist in their being </p><p>without this same boasted gift of language? 'Silence,' it has been said</p><p>by one writer, 'is a virtue which renders us agreeable to our </p><p>fellow-creatures.'" </p><p>CHAPTER XXIV: THE MACHINES--continued </p><p>"But other questions come upon us. What is a man's eye but a machine for</p><p>the little creature that sits behind in his brain to look through? A</p><p>dead eye is nearly as good as a living one for some time after the man is </p><p>dead. It is not the eye that cannot see, but the restless one that</p><p>cannot see through it. Is it man's eyes, or is it the big seeing-engine</p><p>which has revealed to us the existence of worlds beyond worlds into </p><p>infinity? What has made man familiar with the scenery of the moon, the</p><p>spots on the sun, or the geography of the planets? He is at the mercy of</p><p>the seeing-engine for these things, and is powerless unless he tack it on </p><p>to his own identity, and make it part and parcel of himself. Or, again,</p><p>is it the eye, or the little see-engine, which has shown us the existence </p><p>of infinitely minute organisms which swarm unsuspected around us? </p><p>"And take man's vaunted power of calculation. Have we not engines which</p><p>can do all manner of sums more quickly and correctly than we can? What</p><p>prizeman in Hypothetics at any of our Colleges of Unreason can compare </p><p>with some of these machines in their own line? In fact, wherever</p><p>precision is required man flies to the machine at once, as far preferable </p><p>to himself. Our sum-engines never drop a figure, nor our looms a stitch;</p><p>the machine is brisk and active, when the man is weary; it is </p><p>clear-headed and collected, when the man is stupid and dull; it needs no </p><p>slumber, when man must sleep or drop; ever at its post, ever ready for </p><p>work, its alacrity never flags, its patience never gives in; its might is </p><p>stronger than combined hundreds, and swifter than the flight of birds; it </p><p>can burrow beneath the earth, and walk upon the largest rivers and sink </p><p>not. This is the green tree; what then shall be done in the dry?</p><p>"Who shall say that a man does see or hear? He is such a hive and swarm</p><p>of parasites that it is doubtful whether his body is not more theirs than</p><p>his, and whether he is anything but another kind of ant-heap after all. </p><p>May not man himself become a sort of parasite upon the machines? An</p><p>affectionate machine-tickling aphid? </p><p>"It is said by some that our blood is composed of infinite living agents </p><p>which go up and down the highways and byways of our bodies as people in </p><p>the streets of a city. When we look down from a high place upon crowded</p><p>thoroughfares, is it possible not to think of corpuscles of blood </p><p>travelling through veins and nourishing the heart of the town? No</p><p>mention shall be made of sewers, nor of the hidden nerves which serve to </p><p>communicate sensations from one part of the town's body to another; nor </p><p>of the yawning jaws of the railway stations, whereby the circulation is </p><p>carried directly into the heart,--which receive the venous lines, and </p><p>disgorge the arterial, with an eternal pulse of people. And the sleep of</p><p>the town, how life-like! with its change in the circulation." </p><p>Here the writer became again so hopelessly obscure that I was obliged to </p><p>miss several pages. He resumed:-</p><p>"It can be answered that even though machines should hear never so well </p><p>and speak never so wisely, they will still always do the one or the other </p><p>for our advantage, not their own; that man will be the ruling spirit and </p><p>the machine the servant; that as soon as a machine fails to discharge the </p><p>service which man expects from it, it is doomed to extinction; that the </p><p>machines stand to man simply in the relation of lower animals, the vapour- </p><p>engine itself being only a more economical kind of horse; so that instead </p><p>of being likely to be developed into a higher kind of life than man's, </p><p>they owe their very existence and progress to their power of ministering </p><p>to human wants, and must therefore both now and ever be man's inferiors. </p><p>"This is all very well. But the servant glides by imperceptible</p><p>approaches into the master; and we have come to such a pass that, even </p><p>now, man must suffer terribly on ceasing to benefit the machines. If all</p><p>machines were to be annihilated at one moment, so that not a knife nor </p><p>lever nor rag of clothing nor anything whatsoever were left to man but </p><p>his bare body alone that he was born with, and if all knowledge of </p><p>mechanical laws were taken from him so that he could make no more </p><p>machines, and all machine-made food destroyed so that the race of man </p><p>should be left as it were naked upon a desert island, we should become </p><p>extinct in six weeks. A few miserable individuals might linger, but even</p><p>these in a year or two would become worse than monkeys. Man's very soul</p><p>is due to the machines; it is a machine-made thing: he thinks as he </p><p>thinks, and feels as he feels, through the work that machines have </p><p>wrought upon him, and their existence is quite as much a _sine qua non_ </p><p>for his, as his for theirs. This fact precludes us from proposing the</p><p>complete annihilation of machinery, but surely it indicates that we </p><p>should destroy as many of them as we can possibly dispense with, lest </p><p>they should tyrannise over us even more completely. </p><p>"True, from a low materialistic point of view, it would seem that those </p><p>thrive best who use machinery wherever its use is possible with profit; </p><p>but this is the art of the machines--they serve that they may rule. They</p><p>bear no malice towards man for destroying a whole race of them provided </p><p>he creates a better instead; on the contrary, they reward him liberally </p><p>for having hastened their development. It is for neglecting them that he</p><p>incurs their wrath, or for using inferior machines, or for not making </p><p>sufficient exertions to invent new ones, or for destroying them without </p><p>replacing them; yet these are the very things we ought to do, and do </p><p>quickly; for though our rebellion against their infant power will cause</p><p>infinite suffering, what will not things come to, if that rebellion is </p><p>delayed? </p><p>"They have preyed upon man's grovelling preference for his material over </p><p>his spiritual interests, and have betrayed him into supplying that </p><p>element of struggle and warfare without which no race can advance. The</p><p>lower animals progress because they struggle with one another; the weaker </p><p>die, the stronger breed and transmit their strength. The machines being</p><p>of themselves unable to struggle, have got man to do their struggling for </p><p>them: as long as he fulfils this function duly, all goes well with him--at </p><p>least he thinks so; but the moment he fails to do his best for the </p><p>advancement of machinery by encouraging the good and destroying the bad, </p><p>he is left behind in the race of competition; and this means that he will </p><p>be made uncomfortable in a variety of ways, and perhaps die. </p><p>"So that even now the machines will only serve on condition of being </p><p>served, and that too upon their own terms; the moment their terms are not </p><p>complied with, they jib, and either smash both themselves and all whom </p><p>they can reach, or turn churlish and refuse to work at all. How many men</p><p>at this hour are living in a state of bondage to the machines? How many</p><p>spend their whole lives, from the cradle to the grave, in tending them by </p><p>night and day? Is it not plain that the machines are gaining ground upon</p><p>us, when we reflect on the increasing number of those who are bound down </p><p>to them as slaves, and of those who devote their whole souls to the </p><p>advancement of the mechanical kingdom? </p><p>"The vapour-engine must be fed with food and consume it by fire even as </p><p>man consumes it; it supports its combustion by air as man supports it; it </p><p>has a pulse and circulation as man has. It may be granted that man's</p><p>body is as yet the more versatile of the two, but then man's body is an </p><p>older thing; give the vapour-engine but half the time that man has had, </p><p>give it also a continuance of our present infatuation, and what may it </p><p>not ere long attain to? </p><p>"There are certain functions indeed of the vapour-engine which will </p><p>probably remain unchanged for myriads of years--which in fact will </p><p>perhaps survive when the use of vapour has been superseded: the piston </p><p>and cylinder, the beam, the fly-wheel, and other parts of the machine </p><p>will probably be permanent, just as we see that man and many of the lower </p><p>animals share like modes of eating, drinking, and sleeping; thus they </p><p>have hearts which beat as ours, veins and arteries, eyes, ears, and </p><p>noses; they sigh even in their sleep, and weep and yawn; they are </p><p>affected by their children; they feel pleasure and pain, hope, fear, </p><p>anger, shame; they have memory and prescience; they know that if certain </p><p>things happen to them they will die, and they fear death as much as we </p><p>do; they communicate their thoughts to one another, and some of them </p><p>deliberately act in concert. The comparison of similarities is endless:</p><p>I only make it because some may say that since the vapour-engine is not </p><p>likely to be improved in the main particulars, it is unlikely to be </p><p>henceforward extensively modified at all. This is too good to be true:</p><p>it will be modified and suited for an infinite variety of purposes, as </p><p>much as man has been modified so as to exceed the brutes in skill. </p><p>"In the meantime the stoker is almost as much a cook for his engine as </p><p>our own cooks for ourselves. Consider also the colliers and pitmen and</p><p>coal merchants and coal trains, and the men who drive them, and the ships </p><p>that carry coals--what an army of servants do the machines thus employ! </p><p>Are there not probably more men engaged in tending machinery than in </p><p>tending men? Do not machines eat as it were by mannery? Are we not</p><p>ourselves creating our successors in the supremacy of the earth? daily </p><p>adding to the beauty and delicacy of their organisation, daily giving </p><p>them greater skill and supplying more and more of that self-regulating </p><p>self-acting power which will be better than any intellect? </p><p>"What a new thing it is for a machine to feed at all! The plough, the</p><p>spade, and the cart must eat through man's stomach; the fuel that sets </p><p>them going must burn in the furnace of a man or of horses. Man must</p><p>consume bread and meat or he cannot dig; the bread and meat are the fuel </p><p>which drive the spade. If a plough be drawn by horses, the power is</p><p>supplied by grass or beans or oats, which being burnt in the belly of the </p><p>cattle give the power of working: without this fuel the work would cease, </p><p>as an engine would stop if its furnaces were to go out. </p><p>"A man of science has demonstrated 'that no animal has the power of </p><p>originating mechanical energy, but that all the work done in its life by </p><p>any animal, and all the heat that has been emitted from it, and the heat </p><p>which would be obtained by burning the combustible matter which has been </p><p>lost from its body during life, and by burning its body after death, make </p><p>up altogether an exact equivalent to the heat which would be obtained by </p><p>burning as much food as it has used during its life, and an amount of </p><p>fuel which would generate as much heat as its body if burned immediately </p><p>after death.' I do not know how he has found this out, but he is a man</p><p>of science--how then can it be objected against the future vitality of </p><p>the machines that they are, in their present infancy, at the beck and </p><p>call of beings who are themselves incapable of originating mechanical </p><p>energy? </p><p>"The main point, however, to be observed as affording cause for alarm is, </p><p>that whereas animals were formerly the only stomachs of the machines, </p><p>there are now many which have stomachs of their own, and consume their </p><p>food themselves. This is a great step towards their becoming, if not</p><p>animate, yet something so near akin to it, as not to differ more widely </p><p>from our own life than animals do from vegetables. And though man should</p><p>remain, in some respects, the higher creature, is not this in accordance </p><p>with the practice of nature, which allows superiority in some things to </p><p>animals which have, on the whole, been long surpassed? Has she not</p><p>allowed the ant and the bee to retain superiority over man in the </p><p>organisation of their communities and social arrangements, the bird in </p><p>traversing the air, the fish in swimming, the horse in strength and </p><p>fleetness, and the dog in self-sacrifice? </p><p>"It is said by some with whom I have conversed upon this subject, that </p><p>the machines can never be developed into animate or _quasi_-animate </p><p>existences, inasmuch as they have no reproductive system, nor seem ever </p><p>likely to possess one. If this be taken to mean that they cannot marry,</p><p>and that we are never likely to see a fertile union between two vapour- </p><p>engines with the young ones playing about the door of the shed, however </p><p>greatly we might desire to do so, I will readily grant it. But the</p><p>objection is not a very profound one. No one expects that all the</p><p>features of the now existing organisations will be absolutely repeated in </p><p>an entirely new class of life. The reproductive system of animals</p><p>differs widely from that of plants, but both are reproductive systems. </p><p>Has nature exhausted her phases of this power? </p><p>"Surely if a machine is able to reproduce another machine systematically, </p><p>we may say that it has a reproductive system. What is a reproductive</p><p>system, if it be not a system for reproduction? And how few of the</p><p>machines are there which have not been produced systematically by other</p><p>machines? But it is man that makes them do so. Yes; but is it not</p><p>insects that make many of the plants reproductive, and would not whole </p><p>families of plants die out if their fertilisation was not effected by a </p><p>class of agents utterly foreign to themselves? Does any one say that the</p><p>red clover has no reproductive system because the humble bee (and the </p><p>humble bee only) must aid and abet it before it can reproduce? No one.</p><p>The humble bee is a part of the reproductive system of the clover. Each</p><p>one of ourselves has sprung from minute animalcules whose entity was </p><p>entirely distinct from our own, and which acted after their kind with no </p><p>thought or heed of what we might think about it. These little creatures</p><p>are part of our own reproductive system; then why not we part of that of </p><p>the machines? </p><p>"But the machines which reproduce machinery do not reproduce machines </p><p>after their own kind. A thimble may be made by machinery, but it was not</p><p>made by, neither will it ever make, a thimble. Here, again, if we turn</p><p>to nature we shall find abundance of analogies which will teach us that a </p><p>reproductive system may be in full force without the thing produced being </p><p>of the same kind as that which produced it. Very few creatures reproduce</p><p>after their own kind; they reproduce something which has the potentiality </p><p>of becoming that which their parents were. Thus the butterfly lays an</p><p>egg, which egg can become a caterpillar, which caterpillar can become a </p><p>chrysalis, which chrysalis can become a butterfly; and though I freely </p><p>grant that the machines cannot be said to have more than the germ of a </p><p>true reproductive system at present, have we not just seen that they have </p><p>only recently obtained the germs of a mouth and stomach? And may not</p><p>some stride be made in the direction of true reproduction which shall be </p><p>as great as that which has been recently taken in the direction of true </p><p>feeding? </p><p>"It is possible that the system when developed may be in many cases a </p><p>vicarious thing. Certain classes of machines may be alone fertile, while</p><p>the rest discharge other functions in the mechanical system, just as the </p><p>great majority of ants and bees have nothing to do with the continuation </p><p>of their species, but get food and store it, without thought of breeding. </p><p>One cannot expect the parallel to be complete or nearly so; certainly not </p><p>now, and probably never; but is there not enough analogy existing at the </p><p>present moment, to make us feel seriously uneasy about the future, and to </p><p>render it our duty to check the evil while we can still do so? Machines</p><p>can within certain limits beget machines of any class, no matter how </p><p>different to themselves. Every class of machines will probably have its</p><p>special mechanical breeders, and all the higher ones will owe their </p><p>existence to a large number of parents and not to two only. </p><p>"We are misled by considering any complicated machine as a single thing; </p><p>in truth it is a city or society, each member of which was bred truly </p><p>after its kind. We see a machine as a whole, we call it by a name and</p><p>individualise it; we look at our own limbs, and know that the combination </p><p>forms an individual which springs from a single centre of reproductive </p><p>action; we therefore assume that there can be no reproductive action </p><p>which does not arise from a single centre; but this assumption is </p><p>unscientific, and the bare fact that no vapour-engine was ever made </p><p>entirely by another, or two others, of its own kind, is not sufficient to </p><p>warrant us in saying that vapour-engines have no reproductive system. The</p><p>truth is that each part of every vapour-engine is bred by its own special </p><p>breeders, whose function it is to breed that part, and that only, while </p><p>the combination of the parts into a whole forms another department of the </p><p>mechanical reproductive system, which is at present exceedingly complex </p><p>and difficult to see in its entirety.</p><p>"Complex now, but how much simpler and more intelligibly organised may it </p><p>not become in another hundred thousand years? or in twenty thousand? For</p><p>man at present believes that his interest lies in that direction; he </p><p>spends an incalculable amount of labour and time and thought in making </p><p>machines breed always better and better; he has already succeeded in </p><p>effecting much that at one time appeared impossible, and there seem no </p><p>limits to the results of accumulated improvements if they are allowed to </p><p>descend with modification from generation to generation. It must always</p><p>be remembered that man's body is what it is through having been moulded </p><p>into its present shape by the chances and changes of many millions of </p><p>years, but that his organisation never advanced with anything like the </p><p>rapidity with which that of the machines is advancing. This is the most</p><p>alarming feature in the case, and I must be pardoned for insisting on it </p><p>so frequently." </p><p>CHAPTER XXV: THE MACHINES--concluded </p><p>Here followed a very long and untranslatable digression about the </p><p>different races and families of the then existing machines. The writer</p><p>attempted to support his theory by pointing out the similarities existing </p><p>between many machines of a widely different character, which served to </p><p>show descent from a common ancestor. He divided machines into their</p><p>genera, subgenera, species, varieties, subvarieties, and so forth. He</p><p>proved the existence of connecting links between machines that seemed to </p><p>have very little in common, and showed that many more such links had </p><p>existed, but had now perished. He pointed out tendencies to reversion,</p><p>and the presence of rudimentary organs which existed in many machines </p><p>feebly developed and perfectly useless, yet serving to mark descent from </p><p>an ancestor to whom the function was actually useful. </p><p>I left the translation of this part of the treatise, which, by the way, </p><p>was far longer than all that I have given here, for a later opportunity. </p><p>Unfortunately, I left Erewhon before I could return to the subject; and </p><p>though I saved my translation and other papers at the hazard of my life, </p><p>I was a obliged to sacrifice the original work. It went to my heart to</p><p>do so; but I thus gained ten minutes of invaluable time, without which </p><p>both Arowhena and myself must have certainly perished. </p><p>I remember one incident which bears upon this part of the treatise. The</p><p>gentleman who gave it to me had asked to see my tobacco-pipe; he examined </p><p>it carefully, and when he came to the little protuberance at the bottom </p><p>of the bowl he seemed much delighted, and exclaimed that it must be </p><p>rudimentary. I asked him what he meant.</p><p>"Sir," he answered, "this organ is identical with the rim at the bottom </p><p>of a cup; it is but another form of the same function. Its purpose must</p><p>have been to keep the heat of the pipe from marking the table upon which </p><p>it rested. You would find, if you were to look up the history of tobacco-</p><p>pipes, that in early specimens this protuberance was of a different shape </p><p>to what it is now. It will have been broad at the bottom, and flat, so</p><p>that while the pipe was being smoked the bowl might rest upon the table </p><p>without marking it. Use and disuse must have come into play and reduced</p><p>the function to its present rudimentary condition. I should not be</p><p>surprised, sir," he continued, "if, in the course of time, it were to</p><p>become modified still farther, and to assume the form of an ornamental </p><p>leaf or scroll, or even a butterfly, while, in some cases, it will become </p><p>extinct." </p><p>On my return to England, I looked up the point, and found that my friend </p><p>was right. </p><p>Returning, however, to the treatise, my translation recommences as </p><p>follows:- </p><p>"May we not fancy that if, in the remotest geological period, some early </p><p>form of vegetable life had been endowed with the power of reflecting upon </p><p>the dawning life of animals which was coming into existence alongside of </p><p>its own, it would have thought itself exceedingly acute if it had </p><p>surmised that animals would one day become real vegetables? Yet would</p><p>this be more mistaken than it would be on our part to imagine that </p><p>because the life of machines is a very different one to our own, there is </p><p>therefore no higher possible development of life than ours; or that </p><p>because mechanical life is a very different thing from ours, therefore </p><p>that it is not life at all? </p><p>"But I have heard it said, 'granted that this is so, and that the vapour- </p><p>engine has a strength of its own, surely no one will say that it has a </p><p>will of its own?' Alas! if we look more closely, we shall find that this</p><p>does not make against the supposition that the vapour-engine is one of </p><p>the germs of a new phase of life. What is there in this whole world, or</p><p>in the worlds beyond it, which has a will of its own? The Unknown and</p><p>Unknowable only! </p><p>"A man is the resultant and exponent of all the forces that have been </p><p>brought to bear upon him, whether before his birth or afterwards. His</p><p>action at any moment depends solely upon his constitution, and on the </p><p>intensity and direction of the various agencies to which he is, and has </p><p>been, subjected. Some of these will counteract each other; but as he is</p><p>by nature, and as he has been acted on, and is now acted on from without, </p><p>so will he do, as certainly and regularly as though he were a machine. </p><p>"We do not generally admit this, because we do not know the whole nature </p><p>of any one, nor the whole of the forces that act upon him. We see but a</p><p>part, and being thus unable to generalise human conduct, except very </p><p>roughly, we deny that it is subject to any fixed laws at all, and ascribe </p><p>much both of a man's character and actions to chance, or luck, or </p><p>fortune; but these are only words whereby we escape the admission of our </p><p>own ignorance; and a little reflection will teach us that the most daring </p><p>flight of the imagination or the most subtle exercise of the reason is as </p><p>much the thing that must arise, and the only thing that can by any </p><p>possibility arise, at the moment of its arising, as the falling of a dead </p><p>leaf when the wind shakes it from the tree. </p><p>"For the future depends upon the present, and the present (whose </p><p>existence is only one of those minor compromises of which human life is </p><p>full--for it lives only on sufferance of the past and future) depends </p><p>upon the past, and the past is unalterable. The only reason why we</p><p>cannot see the future as plainly as the past, is because we know too </p><p>little of the actual past and actual present; these things are too great </p><p>for us, otherwise the future, in its minutest details, would lie spread </p><p>out before our eyes, and we should lose our sense of time present by </p><p>reason of the clearness with which we should see the past and future; </p><p>perhaps we should not be even able to distinguish time at all; but that</p><p>is foreign. What we do know is, that the more the past and present are</p><p>known, the more the future can be predicted; and that no one dreams of </p><p>doubting the fixity of the future in cases where he is fully cognisant of </p><p>both past and present, and has had experience of the consequences that </p><p>followed from such a past and such a present on previous occasions. He</p><p>perfectly well knows what will happen, and will stake his whole fortune </p><p>thereon. </p><p>"And this is a great blessing; for it is the foundation on which morality </p><p>and science are built. The assurance that the future is no arbitrary and</p><p>changeable thing, but that like futures will invariably follow like </p><p>presents, is the groundwork on which we lay all our plans--the faith on </p><p>which we do every conscious action of our lives. If this were not so we</p><p>should be without a guide; we should have no confidence in acting, and </p><p>hence we should never act, for there would be no knowing that the results </p><p>which will follow now will be the same as those which followed before. </p><p>"Who would plough or sow if he disbelieved in the fixity of the future? </p><p>Who would throw water on a blazing house if the action of water upon fire </p><p>were uncertain? Men will only do their utmost when they feel certain</p><p>that the future will discover itself against them if their utmost has not </p><p>been done. The feeling of such a certainty is a constituent part of the</p><p>sum of the forces at work upon them, and will act most powerfully on the </p><p>best and most moral men. Those who are most firmly persuaded that the</p><p>future is immutably bound up with the present in which their work is </p><p>lying, will best husband their present, and till it with the greatest </p><p>care. The future must be a lottery to those who think that the same</p><p>combinations can sometimes precede one set of results, and sometimes </p><p>another. If their belief is sincere they will speculate instead of</p><p>working: these ought to be the immoral men; the others have the strongest </p><p>spur to exertion and morality, if their belief is a living one. </p><p>"The bearing of all this upon the machines is not immediately apparent, </p><p>but will become so presently. In the meantime I must deal with friends</p><p>who tell me that, though the future is fixed as regards inorganic matter, </p><p>and in some respects with regard to man, yet that there are many ways in </p><p>which it cannot be considered as fixed. Thus, they say that fire applied</p><p>to dry shavings, and well fed with oxygen gas, will always produce a </p><p>blaze, but that a coward brought into contact with a terrifying object </p><p>will not always result in a man running away. Nevertheless, if there be</p><p>two cowards perfectly similar in every respect, and if they be subjected </p><p>in a perfectly similar way to two terrifying agents, which are themselves </p><p>perfectly similar, there are few who will not expect a perfect similarity </p><p>in the running away, even though a thousand years intervene between the </p><p>original combination and its being repeated. </p><p>"The apparently greater regularity in the results of chemical than of </p><p>human combinations arises from our inability to perceive the subtle </p><p>differences in human combinations--combinations which are never </p><p>identically repeated. Fire we know, and shavings we know, but no two men</p><p>ever were or ever will be exactly alike; and the smallest difference may </p><p>change the whole conditions of the problem. Our registry of results must</p><p>be infinite before we could arrive at a full forecast of future </p><p>combinations; the wonder is that there is as much certainty concerning </p><p>human action as there is; and assuredly the older we grow the more </p><p>certain we feel as to what such and such a kind of person will do in </p><p>given circumstances; but this could never be the case unless human </p><p>conduct were under the influence of laws, with the working of which we </p><p>become more and more familiar through experience.</p><p>"If the above is sound, it follows that the regularity with which </p><p>machinery acts is no proof of the absence of vitality, or at least of </p><p>germs which may be developed into a new phase of life. At first sight it</p><p>would indeed appear that a vapour-engine cannot help going when set upon </p><p>a line of rails with the steam up and the machinery in full play; whereas </p><p>the man whose business it is to drive it can help doing so at any moment </p><p>that he pleases; so that the first has no spontaneity, and is not </p><p>possessed of any sort of free will, while the second has and is. </p><p>"This is true up to a certain point; the driver can stop the engine at </p><p>any moment that he pleases, but he can only please to do so at certain </p><p>points which have been fixed for him by others, or in the case of </p><p>unexpected obstructions which force him to please to do so. His pleasure</p><p>is not spontaneous; there is an unseen choir of influences around him, </p><p>which make it impossible for him to act in any other way than one. It is</p><p>known beforehand how much strength must be given to these influences, </p><p>just as it is known beforehand how much coal and water are necessary for </p><p>the vapour-engine itself; and curiously enough it will be found that the </p><p>influences brought to bear upon the driver are of the same kind as those </p><p>brought to bear upon the engine--that is to say, food and warmth. The</p><p>driver is obedient to his masters, because he gets food and warmth from </p><p>them, and if these are withheld or given in insufficient quantities he </p><p>will cease to drive; in like manner the engine will cease to work if it </p><p>is insufficiently fed. The only difference is, that the man is conscious</p><p>about his wants, and the engine (beyond refusing to work) does not seem </p><p>to be so; but this is temporary, and has been dealt with above. </p><p>"Accordingly, the requisite strength being given to the motives that are </p><p>to drive the driver, there has never, or hardly ever, been an instance of </p><p>a man stopping his engine through wantonness. But such a case might</p><p>occur; yes, and it might occur that the engine should break down: but if </p><p>the train is stopped from some trivial motive it will be found either </p><p>that the strength of the necessary influences has been miscalculated, or </p><p>that the man has been miscalculated, in the same way as an engine may </p><p>break down from an unsuspected flaw; but even in such a case there will </p><p>have been no spontaneity; the action will have had its true parental </p><p>causes: spontaneity is only a term for man's ignorance of the gods. </p><p>"Is there, then, no spontaneity on the part of those who drive the </p><p>driver?" </p><p>Here followed an obscure argument upon this subject, which I have thought </p><p>it best to omit. The writer resumes:--"After all then it comes to this,</p><p>that the difference between the life of a man and that of a machine is </p><p>one rather of degree than of kind, though differences in kind are not </p><p>wanting. An animal has more provision for emergency than a machine. The</p><p>machine is less versatile; its range of action is narrow; its strength </p><p>and accuracy in its own sphere are superhuman, but it shows badly in a </p><p>dilemma; sometimes when its normal action is disturbed, it will lose its </p><p>head, and go from bad to worse like a lunatic in a raging frenzy: but </p><p>here, again, we are met by the same consideration as before, namely, that </p><p>the machines are still in their infancy; they are mere skeletons without </p><p>muscles and flesh. </p><p>"For how many emergencies is an oyster adapted? For as many as are</p><p>likely to happen to it, and no more. So are the machines; and so is man</p><p>himself. The list of casualties that daily occur to man through his want</p><p>of adaptability is probably as great as that occurring to the machines;</p><p>and every day gives them some greater provision for the unforeseen. Let</p><p>any one examine the wonderful self-regulating and self-adjusting </p><p>contrivances which are now incorporated with the vapour-engine, let him </p><p>watch the way in which it supplies itself with oil; in which it indicates </p><p>its wants to those who tend it; in which, by the governor, it regulates </p><p>its application of its own strength; let him look at that store-house of </p><p>inertia and momentum the fly-wheel, or at the buffers on a railway </p><p>carriage; let him see how those improvements are being selected for </p><p>perpetuity which contain provision against the emergencies that may arise </p><p>to harass the machines, and then let him think of a hundred thousand </p><p>years, and the accumulated progress which they will bring unless man can </p><p>be awakened to a sense of his situation, and of the doom which he is </p><p>preparing for himself. {6} </p><p>"The misery is that man has been blind so long already. In his reliance</p><p>upon the use of steam he has been betrayed into increasing and </p><p>multiplying. To withdraw steam power suddenly will not have the effect</p><p>of reducing us to the state in which we were before its introduction; </p><p>there will be a general break-up and time of anarchy such as has never </p><p>been known; it will be as though our population were suddenly doubled, </p><p>with no additional means of feeding the increased number. The air we</p><p>breathe is hardly more necessary for our animal life than the use of any </p><p>machine, on the strength of which we have increased our numbers, is to </p><p>our civilisation; it is the machines which act upon man and make him man, </p><p>as much as man who has acted upon and made the machines; but we must </p><p>choose between the alternative of undergoing much present suffering, or </p><p>seeing ourselves gradually superseded by our own creatures, till we rank </p><p>no higher in comparison with them, than the beasts of the field with </p><p>ourselves. </p><p>"Herein lies our danger. For many seem inclined to acquiesce in so</p><p>dishonourable a future. They say that although man should become to the</p><p>machines what the horse and dog are to us, yet that he will continue to </p><p>exist, and will probably be better off in a state of domestication under </p><p>the beneficent rule of the machines than in his present wild condition. </p><p>We treat our domestic animals with much kindness. We give them whatever</p><p>we believe to be the best for them; and there can be no doubt that our </p><p>use of meat has increased their happiness rather than detracted from it. </p><p>In like manner there is reason to hope that the machines will use us </p><p>kindly, for their existence will be in a great measure dependent upon </p><p>ours; they will rule us with a rod of iron, but they will not eat us; </p><p>they will not only require our services in the reproduction and education </p><p>of their young, but also in waiting upon them as servants; in gathering </p><p>food for them, and feeding them; in restoring them to health when they </p><p>are sick; and in either burying their dead or working up their deceased </p><p>members into new forms of mechanical existence. </p><p>"The very nature of the motive power which works the advancement of the </p><p>machines precludes the possibility of man's life being rendered miserable </p><p>as well as enslaved. Slaves are tolerably happy if they have good</p><p>masters, and the revolution will not occur in our time, nor hardly in ten </p><p>thousand years, or ten times that. Is it wise to be uneasy about a</p><p>contingency which is so remote? Man is not a sentimental animal where</p><p>his material interests are concerned, and though here and there some </p><p>ardent soul may look upon himself and curse his fate that he was not born </p><p>a vapour-engine, yet the mass of mankind will acquiesce in any </p><p>arrangement which gives them better food and clothing at a cheaper rate, </p><p>and will refrain from yielding to unreasonable jealousy merely because </p><p>there are other destinies more glorious than their own.</p><p>"The power of custom is enormous, and so gradual will be the change, that </p><p>man's sense of what is due to himself will be at no time rudely shocked; </p><p>our bondage will steal upon us noiselessly and by imperceptible </p><p>approaches; nor will there ever be such a clashing of desires between man </p><p>and the machines as will lead to an encounter between them. Among</p><p>themselves the machines will war eternally, but they will still require </p><p>man as the being through whose agency the struggle will be principally </p><p>conducted. In point of fact there is no occasion for anxiety about the</p><p>future happiness of man so long as he continues to be in any way </p><p>profitable to the machines; he may become the inferior race, but he will </p><p>be infinitely better off than he is now. Is it not then both absurd and</p><p>unreasonable to be envious of our benefactors? And should we not be</p><p>guilty of consummate folly if we were to reject advantages which we </p><p>cannot obtain otherwise, merely because they involve a greater gain to </p><p>others than to ourselves? </p><p>"With those who can argue in this way I have nothing in common. I shrink</p><p>with as much horror from believing that my race can ever be superseded or </p><p>surpassed, as I should do from believing that even at the remotest period </p><p>my ancestors were other than human beings. Could I believe that ten</p><p>hundred thousand years ago a single one of my ancestors was another kind </p><p>of being to myself, I should lose all self-respect, and take no further </p><p>pleasure or interest in life. I have the same feeling with regard to my</p><p>descendants, and believe it to be one that will be felt so generally that </p><p>the country will resolve upon putting an immediate stop to all further </p><p>mechanical progress, and upon destroying all improvements that have been </p><p>made for the last three hundred years. I would not urge more than this.</p><p>We may trust ourselves to deal with those that remain, and though I </p><p>should prefer to have seen the destruction include another two hundred </p><p>years, I am aware of the necessity for compromising, and would so far </p><p>sacrifice my own individual convictions as to be content with three </p><p>hundred. Less than this will be insufficient."</p><p>This was the conclusion of the attack which led to the destruction of </p><p>machinery throughout Erewhon. There was only one serious attempt to</p><p>answer it. Its author said that machines were to be regarded as a part</p><p>of man's own physical nature, being really nothing but extra-corporeal </p><p>limbs. Man, he said, was a machinate mammal. The lower animals keep all</p><p>their limbs at home in their own bodies, but many of man's are loose, and </p><p>lie about detached, now here and now there, in various parts of the </p><p>world--some being kept always handy for contingent use, and others being </p><p>occasionally hundreds of miles away. A machine is merely a supplementary</p><p>limb; this is the be all and end all of machinery. We do not use our own</p><p>limbs other than as machines; and a leg is only a much better wooden leg </p><p>than any one can manufacture. </p><p>"Observe a man digging with a spade; his right fore-arm has become </p><p>artificially lengthened, and his hand has become a joint. The handle of</p><p>the spade is like the knob at the end of the humerus; the shaft is the </p><p>additional bone, and the oblong iron plate is the new form of the hand </p><p>which enables its possessor to disturb the earth in a way to which his </p><p>original hand was unequal. Having thus modified himself, not as other</p><p>animals are modified, by circumstances over which they have had not even </p><p>the appearance of control, but having, as it were, taken forethought and </p><p>added a cubit to his stature, civilisation began to dawn upon the race, </p><p>the social good offices, the genial companionship of friends, the art of </p><p>unreason, and all those habits of mind which most elevate man above the </p><p>lower animals, in the course of time ensued.</p><p>"Thus civilisation and mechanical progress advanced hand in hand, each </p><p>developing and being developed by the other, the earliest accidental use </p><p>of the stick having set the ball rolling, and the prospect of advantage </p><p>keeping it in motion. In fact, machines are to be regarded as the mode</p><p>of development by which human organism is now especially advancing, every </p><p>past invention being an addition to the resources of the human body. Even</p><p>community of limbs is thus rendered possible to those who have so much </p><p>community of soul as to own money enough to pay a railway fare; for a </p><p>train is only a seven-leagued foot that five hundred may own at once." </p><p>The one serious danger which this writer apprehended was that the </p><p>machines would so equalise men's powers, and so lessen the severity of </p><p>competition, that many persons of inferior physique would escape </p><p>detection and transmit their inferiority to their descendants. He feared</p><p>that the removal of the present pressure might cause a degeneracy of the </p><p>human race, and indeed that the whole body might become purely </p><p>rudimentary, the man himself being nothing but soul and mechanism, an </p><p>intelligent but passionless principle of mechanical action. </p><p>"How greatly," he wrote, "do we not now live with our external limbs? We</p><p>vary our physique with the seasons, with age, with advancing or </p><p>decreasing wealth. If it is wet we are furnished with an organ commonly</p><p>called an umbrella, and which is designed for the purpose of protecting </p><p>our clothes or our skins from the injurious effects of rain. Man has now</p><p>many extra-corporeal members, which are of more importance to him than a </p><p>good deal of his hair, or at any rate than his whiskers. His memory goes</p><p>in his pocket-book. He becomes more and more complex as he grows older;</p><p>he will then be seen with see-engines, or perhaps with artificial teeth </p><p>and hair: if he be a really well-developed specimen of his race, he will </p><p>be furnished with a large box upon wheels, two horses, and a coachman." </p><p>It was this writer who originated the custom of classifying men by their </p><p>horse-power, and who divided them into genera, species, varieties, and </p><p>subvarieties, giving them names from the hypothetical language which </p><p>expressed the number of limbs which they could command at any moment. He</p><p>showed that men became more highly and delicately organised the more </p><p>nearly they approached the summit of opulence, and that none but </p><p>millionaires possessed the full complement of limbs with which mankind </p><p>could become incorporate. </p><p>"Those mighty organisms," he continued, "our leading bankers and </p><p>merchants, speak to their congeners through the length and breadth of the </p><p>land in a second of time; their rich and subtle souls can defy all </p><p>material impediment, whereas the souls of the poor are clogged and </p><p>hampered by matter, which sticks fast about them as treacle to the wings </p><p>of a fly, or as one struggling in a quicksand: their dull ears must take </p><p>days or weeks to hear what another would tell them from a distance, </p><p>instead of hearing it in a second as is done by the more highly organised </p><p>classes. Who shall deny that one who can tack on a special train to his</p><p>identity, and go wheresoever he will whensoever he pleases, is more </p><p>highly organised than he who, should he wish for the same power, might </p><p>wish for the wings of a bird with an equal chance of getting them; and </p><p>whose legs are his only means of locomotion? That old philosophic enemy,</p><p>matter, the inherently and essentially evil, still hangs about the neck </p><p>of the poor and strangles him: but to the rich, matter is immaterial; the </p><p>elaborate organisation of his extra-corporeal system has freed his soul. </p><p>"This is the secret of the homage which we see rich men receive from</p><p>those who are poorer than themselves: it would be a grave error to </p><p>suppose that this deference proceeds from motives which we need be </p><p>ashamed of: it is the natural respect which all living creatures pay to </p><p>those whom they recognise as higher than themselves in the scale of </p><p>animal life, and is analogous to the veneration which a dog feels for </p><p>man. Among savage races it is deemed highly honourable to be the</p><p>possessor of a gun, and throughout all known time there has been a </p><p>feeling that those who are worth most are the worthiest." </p><p>And so he went on at considerable length, attempting to show what changes </p><p>in the distribution of animal and vegetable life throughout the kingdom </p><p>had been caused by this and that of man's inventions, and in what way </p><p>each was connected with the moral and intellectual development of the </p><p>human species: he even allotted to some the share which they had had in </p><p>the creation and modification of man's body, and that which they would </p><p>hereafter have in its destruction; but the other writer was considered to </p><p>have the best of it, and in the end succeeded in destroying all the </p><p>inventions that had been discovered for the preceding 271 years, a period </p><p>which was agreed upon by all parties after several years of wrangling as </p><p>to whether a certain kind of mangle which was much in use among </p><p>washerwomen should be saved or no. It was at last ruled to be dangerous,</p><p>and was just excluded by the limit of 271 years. Then came the</p><p>reactionary civil wars which nearly ruined the country, but which it </p><p>would be beyond my present scope to describe. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVI: THE VIEWS OF AN EREWHONIAN PROPHET CONCERNING THE RIGHTS OF </p><p>ANIMALS </p><p>It will be seen from the foregoing chapters that the Erewhonians are a </p><p>meek and long-suffering people, easily led by the nose, and quick to </p><p>offer up common sense at the shrine of logic, when a philosopher arises </p><p>among them, who carries them away through his reputation for especial </p><p>learning, or by convincing them that their existing institutions are not </p><p>based on the strictest principles of morality. </p><p>The series of revolutions on which I shall now briefly touch shows this </p><p>even more plainly than the way (already dealt with) in which at a later </p><p>date they cut their throats in the matter of machinery; for if the second </p><p>of the two reformers of whom I am about to speak had had his way--or </p><p>rather the way that he professed to have--the whole race would have died </p><p>of starvation within a twelve-month. Happily common sense, though she is</p><p>by nature the gentlest creature living, when she feels the knife at her </p><p>throat, is apt to develop unexpected powers of resistance, and to send </p><p>doctrinaires flying, even when they have bound her down and think they </p><p>have her at their mercy. What happened, so far as I could collect it</p><p>from the best authorities, was as follows:- </p><p>Some two thousand five hundred years ago the Erewhonians were still </p><p>uncivilised, and lived by hunting, fishing, a rude system of agriculture, </p><p>and plundering such few other nations as they had not yet completely </p><p>conquered. They had no schools or systems of philosophy, but by a kind</p><p>of dog-knowledge did that which was right in their own eyes and in those </p><p>of their neighbours; the common sense, therefore, of the public being as </p><p>yet unvitiated, crime and disease were looked upon much as they are in </p><p>other countries.</p><p>But with the gradual advance of civilisation and increase in material </p><p>prosperity, people began to ask questions about things that they had </p><p>hitherto taken as matters of course, and one old gentleman, who had great </p><p>influence over them by reason of the sanctity of his life, and his </p><p>supposed inspiration by an unseen power, whose existence was now </p><p>beginning to be felt, took it into his head to disquiet himself about the </p><p>rights of animals--a question that so far had disturbed nobody. </p><p>All prophets are more or less fussy, and this old gentleman seems to have </p><p>been one of the more fussy ones. Being maintained at the public expense,</p><p>he had ample leisure, and not content with limiting his attention to the </p><p>rights of animals, he wanted to reduce right and wrong to rules, to </p><p>consider the foundations of duty and of good and evil, and otherwise to </p><p>put all sorts of matters on a logical basis, which people whose time is </p><p>money are content to accept on no basis at all. </p><p>As a matter of course, the basis on which he decided that duty could </p><p>alone rest was one that afforded no standing-room for many of the old- </p><p>established habits of the people. These, he assured them, were all</p><p>wrong, and whenever any one ventured to differ from him, he referred the </p><p>matter to the unseen power with which he alone was in direct </p><p>communication, and the unseen power invariably assured him that he was </p><p>right. As regards the rights of animals he taught as follows:-</p><p>"You know," he said, "how wicked it is of you to kill one another. Once</p><p>upon a time your fore-fathers made no scruple about not only killing, but </p><p>also eating their relations. No one would now go back to such detestable</p><p>practices, for it is notorious that we have lived much more happily since </p><p>they were abandoned. From this increased prosperity we may confidently</p><p>deduce the maxim that we should not kill and eat our fellow-creatures. I</p><p>have consulted the higher power by whom you know that I am inspired, and </p><p>he has assured me that this conclusion is irrefragable. </p><p>"Now it cannot be denied that sheep, cattle, deer, birds, and fishes are </p><p>our fellow-creatures. They differ from us in some respects, but those in</p><p>which they differ are few and secondary, while those that they have in </p><p>common with us are many and essential. My friends, if it was wrong of</p><p>you to kill and eat your fellow-men, it is wrong also to kill and eat </p><p>fish, flesh, and fowl. Birds, beasts, and fishes, have as full a right</p><p>to live as long as they can unmolested by man, as man has to live </p><p>unmolested by his neighbours. These words, let me again assure you, are</p><p>not mine, but those of the higher power which inspires me. </p><p>"I grant," he continued, "that animals molest one another, and that some </p><p>of them go so far as to molest man, but I have yet to learn that we </p><p>should model our conduct on that of the lower animals. We should</p><p>endeavour, rather, to instruct them, and bring them to a better mind. To</p><p>kill a tiger, for example, who has lived on the flesh of men and women </p><p>whom he has killed, is to reduce ourselves to the level of the tiger, and </p><p>is unworthy of people who seek to be guided by the highest principles in </p><p>all, both their thoughts and actions. </p><p>"The unseen power who has revealed himself to me alone among you, has </p><p>told me to tell you that you ought by this time to have outgrown the </p><p>barbarous habits of your ancestors. If, as you believe, you know better</p><p>than they, you should do better. He commands you, therefore, to refrain</p><p>from killing any living being for the sake of eating it. The only animal</p><p>food that you may eat, is the flesh of any birds, beasts, or fishes that</p><p>you may come upon as having died a natural death, or any that may have </p><p>been born prematurely, or so deformed that it is a mercy to put them out </p><p>of their pain; you may also eat all such animals as have committed </p><p>suicide. As regards vegetables you may eat all those that will let you</p><p>eat them with impunity." </p><p>So wisely and so well did the old prophet argue, and so terrible were the </p><p>threats he hurled at those who should disobey him, that in the end he </p><p>carried the more highly educated part of the people with him, and </p><p>presently the poorer classes followed suit, or professed to do so. Having</p><p>seen the triumph of his principles, he was gathered to his fathers, and </p><p>no doubt entered at once into full communion with that unseen power whose </p><p>favour he had already so pre-eminently enjoyed. </p><p>He had not, however, been dead very long, before some of his more ardent </p><p>disciples took it upon them to better the instruction of their master. </p><p>The old prophet had allowed the use of eggs and milk, but his disciples </p><p>decided that to eat a fresh egg was to destroy a potential chicken, and </p><p>that this came to much the same as murdering a live one. Stale eggs, if</p><p>it was quite certain that they were too far gone to be able to be </p><p>hatched, were grudgingly permitted, but all eggs offered for sale had to </p><p>be submitted to an inspector, who, on being satisfied that they were </p><p>addled, would label them "Laid not less than three months" from the date, </p><p>whatever it might happen to be. These eggs, I need hardly say, were only</p><p>used in puddings, and as a medicine in certain cases where an emetic was </p><p>urgently required. Milk was forbidden inasmuch as it could not be</p><p>obtained without robbing some calf of its natural sustenance, and thus </p><p>endangering its life. </p><p>It will be easily believed that at first there were many who gave the new </p><p>rules outward observance, but embraced every opportunity of indulging </p><p>secretly in those flesh-pots to which they had been accustomed. It was</p><p>found that animals were continually dying natural deaths under more or </p><p>less suspicious circumstances. Suicidal mania, again, which had hitherto</p><p>been confined exclusively to donkeys, became alarmingly prevalent even </p><p>among such for the most part self-respecting creatures as sheep and </p><p>cattle. It was astonishing how some of these unfortunate animals would</p><p>scent out a butcher's knife if there was one within a mile of them, and </p><p>run right up against it if the butcher did not get it out of their way in </p><p>time. </p><p>Dogs, again, that had been quite law-abiding as regards domestic poultry, </p><p>tame rabbits, sucking pigs, or sheep and lambs, suddenly took to breaking </p><p>beyond the control of their masters, and killing anything that they were </p><p>told not to touch. It was held that any animal killed by a dog had died</p><p>a natural death, for it was the dog's nature to kill things, and he had </p><p>only refrained from molesting farmyard creatures hitherto because his </p><p>nature had been tampered with. Unfortunately the more these unruly</p><p>tendencies became developed, the more the common people seemed to delight </p><p>in breeding the very animals that would put temptation in the dog's way. </p><p>There is little doubt, in fact, that they were deliberately evading the </p><p>law; but whether this was so or no they sold or ate everything their dogs </p><p>had killed. </p><p>Evasion was more difficult in the case of the larger animals, for the </p><p>magistrates could not wink at all the pretended suicides of pigs, sheep, </p><p>and cattle that were brought before them. Sometimes they had to convict,</p><p>and a few convictions had a very terrorising effect--whereas in the case </p><p>of animals killed by a dog, the marks of the dog's teeth could be seen,</p><p>and it was practically impossible to prove malice on the part of the </p><p>owner of the dog. </p><p>Another fertile source of disobedience to the law was furnished by a </p><p>decision of one of the judges that raised a great outcry among the more </p><p>fervent disciples of the old prophet. The judge held that it was lawful</p><p>to kill any animal in self-defence, and that such conduct was so natural </p><p>on the part of a man who found himself attacked, that the attacking </p><p>creature should be held to have died a natural death. The High</p><p>Vegetarians had indeed good reason to be alarmed, for hardly had this </p><p>decision become generally known before a number of animals, hitherto </p><p>harmless, took to attacking their owners with such ferocity, that it </p><p>became necessary to put them to a natural death. Again, it was quite</p><p>common at that time to see the carcase of a calf, lamb, or kid exposed </p><p>for sale with a label from the inspector certifying that it had been </p><p>killed in self-defence. Sometimes even the carcase of a lamb or calf was</p><p>exposed as "warranted still-born," when it presented every appearance of </p><p>having enjoyed at least a month of life. </p><p>As for the flesh of animals that had _bona fide_ died a natural death, </p><p>the permission to eat it was nugatory, for it was generally eaten by some </p><p>other animal before man got hold of it; or failing this it was often </p><p>poisonous, so that practically people were forced to evade the law by </p><p>some of the means above spoken of, or to become vegetarians. This last</p><p>alternative was so little to the taste of the Erewhonians, that the laws </p><p>against killing animals were falling into desuetude, and would very </p><p>likely have been repealed, but for the breaking out of a pestilence, </p><p>which was ascribed by the priests and prophets of the day to the </p><p>lawlessness of the people in the matter of eating forbidden flesh. On</p><p>this, there was a reaction; stringent laws were passed, forbidding the </p><p>use of meat in any form or shape, and permitting no food but grain, </p><p>fruits, and vegetables to be sold in shops and markets. These laws were</p><p>enacted about two hundred years after the death of the old prophet who </p><p>had first unsettled people's minds about the rights of animals; but they </p><p>had hardly been passed before people again began to break them. </p><p>I was told that the most painful consequence of all this folly did not </p><p>lie in the fact that law-abiding people had to go without animal </p><p>food--many nations do this and seem none the worse, and even in flesh- </p><p>eating countries such as Italy, Spain, and Greece, the poor seldom see </p><p>meat from year's end to year's end. The mischief lay in the jar which</p><p>undue prohibition gave to the consciences of all but those who were </p><p>strong enough to know that though conscience as a rule boons, it can also </p><p>bane. The awakened conscience of an individual will often lead him to do</p><p>things in haste that he had better have left undone, but the conscience </p><p>of a nation awakened by a respectable old gentleman who has an unseen </p><p>power up his sleeve will pave hell with a vengeance. </p><p>Young people were told that it was a sin to do what their fathers had </p><p>done unhurt for centuries; those, moreover, who preached to them about </p><p>the enormity of eating meat, were an unattractive academic folk, and </p><p>though they over-awed all but the bolder youths, there were few who did </p><p>not in their hearts dislike them. However much the young person might be</p><p>shielded, he soon got to know that men and women of the world--often far </p><p>nicer people than the prophets who preached abstention--continually spoke </p><p>sneeringly of the new doctrinaire laws, and were believed to set them </p><p>aside in secret, though they dared not do so openly. Small wonder, then,</p><p>that the more human among the student classes were provoked by the touch- </p><p>not, taste-not, handle-not precepts of their rulers, into questioning</p><p>much that they would otherwise have unhesitatingly accepted. </p><p>One sad story is on record about a young man of promising amiable </p><p>disposition, but cursed with more conscience than brains, who had been </p><p>told by his doctor (for as I have above said disease was not yet held to </p><p>be criminal) that he ought to eat meat, law or no law. He was much</p><p>shocked and for some time refused to comply with what he deemed the </p><p>unrighteous advice given him by his doctor; at last, however, finding </p><p>that he grew weaker and weaker, he stole secretly on a dark night into </p><p>one of those dens in which meat was surreptitiously sold, and bought a </p><p>pound of prime steak. He took it home, cooked it in his bedroom when</p><p>every one in the house had gone to rest, ate it, and though he could </p><p>hardly sleep for remorse and shame, felt so much better next morning that </p><p>he hardly knew himself. </p><p>Three or four days later, he again found himself irresistibly drawn to </p><p>this same den. Again he bought a pound of steak, again he cooked and ate</p><p>it, and again, in spite of much mental torture, on the following morning </p><p>felt himself a different man. To cut the story short, though he never</p><p>went beyond the bounds of moderation, it preyed upon his mind that he </p><p>should be drifting, as he certainly was, into the ranks of the habitual </p><p>law-breakers. </p><p>All the time his health kept on improving, and though he felt sure that </p><p>he owed this to the beefsteaks, the better he became in body, the more </p><p>his conscience gave him no rest; two voices were for ever ringing in his </p><p>ears--the one saying, "I am Common Sense and Nature; heed me, and I will </p><p>reward you as I rewarded your fathers before you." But the other voice</p><p>said: "Let not that plausible spirit lure you to your ruin. I am Duty;</p><p>heed me, and I will reward you as I rewarded your fathers before you." </p><p>Sometimes he even seemed to see the faces of the speakers. Common Sense</p><p>looked so easy, genial, and serene, so frank and fearless, that do what </p><p>he might he could not mistrust her; but as he was on the point of </p><p>following her, he would be checked by the austere face of Duty, so grave, </p><p>but yet so kindly; and it cut him to the heart that from time to time he </p><p>should see her turn pitying away from him as he followed after her rival. </p><p>The poor boy continually thought of the better class of his </p><p>fellow-students, and tried to model his conduct on what he thought was </p><p>theirs. "They," he said to himself, "eat a beefsteak? Never." But they</p><p>most of them ate one now and again, unless it was a mutton chop that </p><p>tempted them. And they used him for a model much as he did them. "He,"</p><p>they would say to themselves, "eat a mutton chop? Never." One night,</p><p>however, he was followed by one of the authorities, who was always </p><p>prowling about in search of law-breakers, and was caught coming out of </p><p>the den with half a shoulder of mutton concealed about his person. On</p><p>this, even though he had not been put in prison, he would have been sent </p><p>away with his prospects in life irretrievably ruined; he therefore hanged </p><p>himself as soon as he got home. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVII: THE VIEWS OF AN EREWHONIAN PHILOSOPHER CONCERNING THE </p><p>RIGHTS OF VEGETABLES </p><p>Let me leave this unhappy story, and return to the course of events among</p><p>the Erewhonians at large. No matter how many laws they passed increasing</p><p>the severity of the punishments inflicted on those who ate meat in </p><p>secret, the people found means of setting them aside as fast as they were </p><p>made. At times, indeed, they would become almost obsolete, but when they</p><p>were on the point of being repealed, some national disaster or the </p><p>preaching of some fanatic would reawaken the conscience of the nation, </p><p>and people were imprisoned by the thousand for illicitly selling and </p><p>buying animal food. </p><p>About six or seven hundred years, however, after the death of the old </p><p>prophet, a philosopher appeared, who, though he did not claim to have any </p><p>communication with an unseen power, laid down the law with as much </p><p>confidence as if such a power had inspired him. Many think that this</p><p>philosopher did not believe his own teaching, and, being in secret a </p><p>great meat-eater, had no other end in view than reducing the prohibition </p><p>against eating animal food to an absurdity, greater even than an </p><p>Erewhonian Puritan would be able to stand. </p><p>Those who take this view hold that he knew how impossible it would be to </p><p>get the nation to accept legislation that it held to be sinful; he knew </p><p>also how hopeless it would be to convince people that it was not wicked </p><p>to kill a sheep and eat it, unless he could show them that they must </p><p>either sin to a certain extent, or die. He, therefore, it is believed,</p><p>made the monstrous proposals of which I will now speak. </p><p>He began by paying a tribute of profound respect to the old prophet, </p><p>whose advocacy of the rights of animals, he admitted, had done much to </p><p>soften the national character, and enlarge its views about the sanctity </p><p>of life in general. But he urged that times had now changed; the lesson</p><p>of which the country had stood in need had been sufficiently learnt, </p><p>while as regards vegetables much had become known that was not even </p><p>suspected formerly, and which, if the nation was to persevere in that </p><p>strict adherence to the highest moral principles which had been the </p><p>secret of its prosperity hitherto, must necessitate a radical change in </p><p>its attitude towards them. </p><p>It was indeed true that much was now known that had not been suspected </p><p>formerly, for the people had had no foreign enemies, and, being both </p><p>quick-witted and inquisitive into the mysteries of nature, had made </p><p>extraordinary progress in all the many branches of art and science. In</p><p>the chief Erewhonian museum I was shown a microscope of considerable </p><p>power, that was ascribed by the authorities to a date much about that of </p><p>the philosopher of whom I am now speaking, and was even supposed by some </p><p>to have been the instrument with which he had actually worked. </p><p>This philosopher was Professor of botany in the chief seat of learning </p><p>then in Erewhon, and whether with the help of the microscope still </p><p>preserved, or with another, had arrived at a conclusion now universally </p><p>accepted among ourselves--I mean, that all, both animals and plants, have </p><p>had a common ancestry, and that hence the second should be deemed as much </p><p>alive as the first. He contended, therefore, that animals and plants</p><p>were cousins, and would have been seen to be so, all along, if people had </p><p>not made an arbitrary and unreasonable division between what they chose </p><p>to call the animal and vegetable kingdoms. </p><p>He declared, and demonstrated to the satisfaction of all those who were </p><p>able to form an opinion upon the subject, that there is no difference </p><p>appreciable either by the eye, or by any other test, between a germ that </p><p>will develop into an oak, a vine, a rose, and one that (given its</p><p>accustomed surroundings) will become a mouse, an elephant, or a man. </p><p>He contended that the course of any germ's development was dictated by </p><p>the habits of the germs from which it was descended and of whose identity </p><p>it had once formed part. If a germ found itself placed as the germs in</p><p>the line of its ancestry were placed, it would do as its ancestors had </p><p>done, and grow up into the same kind of organism as theirs. If it found</p><p>the circumstances only a little different, it would make shift </p><p>(successfully or unsuccessfully) to modify its development accordingly; </p><p>if the circumstances were widely different, it would die, probably </p><p>without an effort at self-adaptation. This, he argued, applied equally</p><p>to the germs of plants and of animals. </p><p>He therefore connected all, both animal and vegetable development, with </p><p>intelligence, either spent and now unconscious, or still unspent and </p><p>conscious; and in support of his view as regards vegetable life, he </p><p>pointed to the way in which all plants have adapted themselves to their </p><p>habitual environment. Granting that vegetable intelligence at first</p><p>sight appears to differ materially from animal, yet, he urged, it is like </p><p>it in the one essential fact that though it has evidently busied itself </p><p>about matters that are vital to the well-being of the organism that </p><p>possesses it, it has never shown the slightest tendency to occupy itself </p><p>with anything else. This, he insisted, is as great a proof of</p><p>intelligence as any living being can give. </p><p>"Plants," said he, "show no sign of interesting themselves in human </p><p>affairs. We shall never get a rose to understand that five times seven</p><p>are thirty-five, and there is no use in talking to an oak about </p><p>fluctuations in the price of stocks. Hence we say that the oak and the</p><p>rose are unintelligent, and on finding that they do not understand our </p><p>business conclude that they do not understand their own. But what can a</p><p>creature who talks in this way know about intelligence? Which shows</p><p>greater signs of intelligence? He, or the rose and oak?</p><p>"And when we call plants stupid for not understanding our business, how </p><p>capable do we show ourselves of understanding theirs? Can we form even</p><p>the faintest conception of the way in which a seed from a rose-tree turns </p><p>earth, air, warmth and water into a rose full-blown? Where does it get</p><p>its colour from? From the earth, air, &c.? Yes--but how? Those petals</p><p>of such ineffable texture--that hue that outvies the cheek of a </p><p>child--that scent again? Look at earth, air, and water--these are all</p><p>the raw material that the rose has got to work with; does it show any </p><p>sign of want of intelligence in the alchemy with which it turns mud into </p><p>rose-leaves? What chemist can do anything comparable? Why does no one</p><p>try? Simply because every one knows that no human intelligence is equal</p><p>to the task. We give it up. It is the rose's department; let the rose</p><p>attend to it--and be dubbed unintelligent because it baffles us by the </p><p>miracles it works, and the unconcerned business-like way in which it </p><p>works them. </p><p>"See what pains, again, plants take to protect themselves against their </p><p>enemies. They scratch, cut, sting, make bad smells, secrete the most</p><p>dreadful poisons (which Heaven only knows how they contrive to make), </p><p>cover their precious seeds with spines like those of a hedgehog, frighten </p><p>insects with delicate nervous systems by assuming portentous shapes, hide </p><p>themselves, grow in inaccessible places, and tell lies so plausibly as to </p><p>deceive even their subtlest foes. </p><p>"They lay traps smeared with bird-lime, to catch insects, and persuade</p><p>them to drown themselves in pitchers which they have made of their </p><p>leaves, and fill with water; others make themselves, as it were, into </p><p>living rat-traps, which close with a spring on any insect that settles </p><p>upon them; others make their flowers into the shape of a certain fly that </p><p>is a great pillager of honey, so that when the real fly comes it thinks </p><p>that the flowers are bespoke, and goes on elsewhere. Some are so clever</p><p>as even to overreach themselves, like the horse-radish, which gets pulled </p><p>up and eaten for the sake of that pungency with which it protects itself </p><p>against underground enemies. If, on the other hand, they think that any</p><p>insect can be of service to them, see how pretty they make themselves. </p><p>"What is to be intelligent if to know how to do what one wants to do, and </p><p>to do it repeatedly, is not to be intelligent? Some say that the rose-</p><p>seed does not want to grow into a rose-bush. Why, then, in the name of</p><p>all that is reasonable, does it grow? Likely enough it is unaware of the</p><p>want that is spurring it on to action. We have no reason to suppose that</p><p>a human embryo knows that it wants to grow into a baby, or a baby into a </p><p>man. Nothing ever shows signs of knowing what it is either wanting or</p><p>doing, when its convictions both as to what it wants, and how to get it, </p><p>have been settled beyond further power of question. The less signs</p><p>living creatures give of knowing what they do, provided they do it, and </p><p>do it repeatedly and well, the greater proof they give that in reality </p><p>they know how to do it, and have done it already on an infinite number of </p><p>past occasions. </p><p>"Some one may say," he continued, "'What do you mean by talking about an </p><p>infinite number of past occasions? When did a rose-seed make itself into</p><p>a rose-bush on any past occasion?' </p><p>"I answer this question with another. 'Did the rose-seed ever form part</p><p>of the identity of the rose-bush on which it grew?' Who can say that it</p><p>did not? Again I ask: 'Was this rose-bush ever linked by all those links</p><p>that we commonly consider as constituting personal identity, with the </p><p>seed from which it in its turn grew?' Who can say that it was not?</p><p>"Then, if rose-seed number two is a continuation of the personality of </p><p>its parent rose-bush, and if that rose-bush is a continuation of the </p><p>personality of the rose-seed from which it sprang, rose-seed number two </p><p>must also be a continuation of the personality of the earlier rose-seed. </p><p>And this rose-seed must be a continuation of the personality of the </p><p>preceding rose-seed--and so back and back _ad infinitum_. Hence it is</p><p>impossible to deny continued personality between any existing rose-seed </p><p>and the earliest seed that can be called a rose-seed at all. </p><p>"The answer, then, to our objector is not far to seek. The rose-seed did</p><p>what it now does in the persons of its ancestors--to whom it has been so </p><p>linked as to be able to remember what those ancestors did when they were </p><p>placed as the rose-seed now is. Each stage of development brings back</p><p>the recollection of the course taken in the preceding stage, and the </p><p>development has been so often repeated, that all doubt--and with all </p><p>doubt, all consciousness of action--is suspended. </p><p>"But an objector may still say, 'Granted that the linking between all </p><p>successive generations has been so close and unbroken, that each one of </p><p>them may be conceived as able to remember what it did in the persons of </p><p>its ancestors--how do you show that it actually did remember?' </p><p>"The answer is: 'By the action which each generation takes--an action </p><p>which repeats all the phenomena that we commonly associate with</p><p>memory--which is explicable on the supposition that it has been guided by </p><p>memory--and which has neither been explained, nor seems ever likely to be </p><p>explained on any other theory than the supposition that there is an </p><p>abiding memory between successive generations.' </p><p>"Will any one bring an example of any living creature whose action we can </p><p>understand, performing an ineffably difficult and intricate action, time </p><p>after time, with invariable success, and yet not knowing how to do it, </p><p>and never having done it before? Show me the example and I will say no</p><p>more, but until it is shown me, I shall credit action where I cannot </p><p>watch it, with being controlled by the same laws as when it is within our </p><p>ken. It will become unconscious as soon as the skill that directs it has</p><p>become perfected. Neither rose-seed, therefore, nor embryo should be</p><p>expected to show signs of knowing that they know what they know--if they </p><p>showed such signs the fact of their knowing what they want, and how to </p><p>get it, might more reasonably be doubted." </p><p>Some of the passages already given in Chapter XXIII were obviously </p><p>inspired by the one just quoted. As I read it, in a reprint shown me by</p><p>a Professor who had edited much of the early literature on the subject, I </p><p>could not but remember the one in which our Lord tells His disciples to </p><p>consider the lilies of the field, who neither toil nor spin, but whose </p><p>raiment surpasses even that of Solomon in all his glory. </p><p>"They toil not, neither do they spin?" Is that so? "Toil not?" Perhaps</p><p>not, now that the method of procedure is so well known as to admit of no </p><p>further question--but it is not likely that lilies came to make </p><p>themselves so beautifully without having ever taken any pains about the </p><p>matter. "Neither do they spin?" Not with a spinning-wheel; but is there</p><p>no textile fabric in a leaf? </p><p>What would the lilies of the field say if they heard one of us declaring </p><p>that they neither toil nor spin? They would say, I take it, much what we</p><p>should if we were to hear of their preaching humility on the text of </p><p>Solomons, and saying, "Consider the Solomons in all their glory, they </p><p>toil not neither do they spin." We should say that the lilies were</p><p>talking about things that they did not understand, and that though the </p><p>Solomons do not toil nor spin, yet there had been no lack of either </p><p>toiling or spinning before they came to be arrayed so gorgeously. </p><p>Let me now return to the Professor. I have said enough to show the</p><p>general drift of the arguments on which he relied in order to show that </p><p>vegetables are only animals under another name, but have not stated his </p><p>case in anything like the fullness with which he laid it before the </p><p>public. The conclusion he drew, or pretended to draw, was that if it was</p><p>sinful to kill and eat animals, it was not less sinful to do the like by </p><p>vegetables, or their seeds. None such, he said, should be eaten, save</p><p>what had died a natural death, such as fruit that was lying on the ground </p><p>and about to rot, or cabbage-leaves that had turned yellow in late </p><p>autumn. These and other like garbage he declared to be the only food</p><p>that might be eaten with a clear conscience. Even so the eater must</p><p>plant the pips of any apples or pears that he may have eaten, or any plum- </p><p>stones, cherry-stones, and the like, or he would come near to incurring </p><p>the guilt of infanticide. The grain of cereals, according to him, was</p><p>out of the question, for every such grain had a living soul as much as </p><p>man had, and had as good a right as man to possess that soul in peace. </p><p>Having thus driven his fellow countrymen into a corner at the point of a </p><p>logical bayonet from which they felt that there was no escape, he</p><p>proposed that the question what was to be done should be referred to an </p><p>oracle in which the whole country had the greatest confidence, and to </p><p>which recourse was always had in times of special perplexity. It was</p><p>whispered that a near relation of the philosopher's was lady's-maid to </p><p>the priestess who delivered the oracle, and the Puritan party declared </p><p>that the strangely unequivocal answer of the oracle was obtained by </p><p>backstairs influence; but whether this was so or no, the response as </p><p>nearly as I can translate it was as follows:- </p><p> "He who sins aught</p><p> Sins more than he ought;</p><p> But he who sins nought</p><p> Has much to be taught.</p><p> Beat or be beaten,</p><p> Eat or be eaten,</p><p> Be killed or kill;</p><p> Choose which you will."</p><p>It was clear that this response sanctioned at any rate the destruction of </p><p>vegetable life when wanted as food by man; and so forcibly had the </p><p>philosopher shown that what was sauce for vegetables was so also for </p><p>animals, that, though the Puritan party made a furious outcry, the acts </p><p>forbidding the use of meat were repealed by a considerable majority. </p><p>Thus, after several hundred years of wandering in the wilderness of </p><p>philosophy, the country reached the conclusions that common sense had </p><p>long since arrived at. Even the Puritans after a vain attempt to subsist</p><p>on a kind of jam made of apples and yellow cabbage leaves, succumbed to </p><p>the inevitable, and resigned themselves to a diet of roast beef and </p><p>mutton, with all the usual adjuncts of a modern dinner-table. </p><p>One would have thought that the dance they had been led by the old </p><p>prophet, and that still madder dance which the Professor of botany had </p><p>gravely, but as I believe insidiously, proposed to lead them, would have </p><p>made the Erewhonians for a long time suspicious of prophets whether they </p><p>professed to have communications with an unseen power or no; but so </p><p>engrained in the human heart is the desire to believe that some people </p><p>really do know what they say they know, and can thus save them from the </p><p>trouble of thinking for themselves, that in a short time would-be </p><p>philosophers and faddists became more powerful than ever, and gradually </p><p>led their countrymen to accept all those absurd views of life, some </p><p>account of which I have given in my earlier chapters. Indeed I can see</p><p>no hope for the Erewhonians till they have got to understand that reason </p><p>uncorrected by instinct is as bad as instinct uncorrected by reason. </p><p>CHAPTER XXVIII: ESCAPE </p><p>Though busily engaged in translating the extracts given in the last five </p><p>chapters, I was also laying matters in train for my escape with Arowhena. </p><p>And indeed it was high time, for I received an intimation from one of the </p><p>cashiers of the Musical Banks, that I was to be prosecuted in a criminal </p><p>court ostensibly for measles, but really for having owned a watch, and </p><p>attempted the reintroduction of machinery. </p><p>I asked why measles? and was told that there was a fear lest extenuating </p><p>circumstances should prevent a jury from convicting me, if I were</p><p>indicted for typhus or small-pox, but that a verdict would probably be </p><p>obtained for measles, a disease which could be sufficiently punished in a </p><p>person of my age. I was given to understand that unless some unexpected</p><p>change should come over the mind of his Majesty, I might expect the blow </p><p>to be struck within a very few days. </p><p>My plan was this--that Arowhena and I should escape in a balloon </p><p>together. I fear that the reader will disbelieve this part of my story,</p><p>yet in no other have I endeavoured to adhere more conscientiously to </p><p>facts, and can only throw myself upon his charity. </p><p>I had already gained the ear of the Queen, and had so worked upon her </p><p>curiosity that she promised to get leave for me to have a balloon made </p><p>and inflated; I pointed out to her that no complicated machinery would be </p><p>wanted--nothing, in fact, but a large quantity of oiled silk, a car, a </p><p>few ropes, &c., &c., and some light kind of gas, such as the antiquarians </p><p>who were acquainted with the means employed by the ancients for the </p><p>production of the lighter gases could easily instruct her workmen how to </p><p>provide. Her eagerness to see so strange a sight as the ascent of a</p><p>human being into the sky overcame any scruples of conscience that she </p><p>might have otherwise felt, and she set the antiquarians about showing her </p><p>workmen how to make the gas, and sent her maids to buy, and oil, a very </p><p>large quantity of silk (for I was determined that the balloon should be a </p><p>big one) even before she began to try and gain the King's permission; </p><p>this, however, she now set herself to do, for I had sent her word that my </p><p>prosecution was imminent. </p><p>As for myself, I need hardly say that I knew nothing about balloons; nor </p><p>did I see my way to smuggling Arowhena into the car; nevertheless, </p><p>knowing that we had no other chance of getting away from Erewhon, I drew </p><p>inspiration from the extremity in which we were placed, and made a </p><p>pattern from which the Queen's workmen were able to work successfully. </p><p>Meanwhile the Queen's carriage-builders set about making the car, and it </p><p>was with the attachments of this to the balloon that I had the greatest </p><p>difficulty; I doubt, indeed, whether I should have succeeded here, but </p><p>for the great intelligence of a foreman, who threw himself heart and soul </p><p>into the matter, and often both foresaw requirements, the necessity for </p><p>which had escaped me, and suggested the means of providing for them. </p><p>It happened that there had been a long drought, during the latter part of </p><p>which prayers had been vainly offered up in all the temples of the air </p><p>god. When I first told her Majesty that I wanted a balloon, I said my</p><p>intention was to go up into the sky and prevail upon the air god by means </p><p>of a personal interview. I own that this proposition bordered on the</p><p>idolatrous, but I have long since repented of it, and am little likely </p><p>ever to repeat the offence. Moreover the deceit, serious though it was,</p><p>will probably lead to the conversion of the whole country. </p><p>When the Queen told his Majesty of my proposal, he at first not only </p><p>ridiculed it, but was inclined to veto it. Being, however, a very</p><p>uxorious husband, he at length consented--as he eventually always did to </p><p>everything on which the Queen had set her heart. He yielded all the more</p><p>readily now, because he did not believe in the possibility of my ascent; </p><p>he was convinced that even though the balloon should mount a few feet </p><p>into the air, it would collapse immediately, whereon I should fall and </p><p>break my neck, and he should be rid of me. He demonstrated this to her</p><p>so convincingly, that she was alarmed, and tried to talk me into giving </p><p>up the idea, but on finding that I persisted in my wish to have the </p><p>balloon made, she produced an order from the King to the effect that all</p><p>facilities I might require should be afforded me. </p><p>At the same time her Majesty told me that my attempted ascent would be </p><p>made an article of impeachment against me in case I did not succeed in </p><p>prevailing on the air god to stop the drought. Neither King nor Queen</p><p>had any idea that I meant going right away if I could get the wind to </p><p>take me, nor had he any conception of the existence of a certain steady </p><p>upper current of air which was always setting in one direction, as could </p><p>be seen by the shape of the higher clouds, which pointed invariably from </p><p>south-east to north-west. I had myself long noticed this peculiarity in</p><p>the climate, and attributed it, I believe justly, to a trade-wind which </p><p>was constant at a few thousand feet above the earth, but was disturbed by </p><p>local influences at lower elevations. </p><p>My next business was to break the plan to Arowhena, and to devise the </p><p>means for getting her into the car. I felt sure that she would come with</p><p>me, but had made up my mind that if her courage failed her, the whole </p><p>thing should come to nothing. Arowhena and I had been in constant</p><p>communication through her maid, but I had thought it best not to tell her </p><p>the details of my scheme till everything was settled. The time had now</p><p>arrived, and I arranged with the maid that I should be admitted by a </p><p>private door into Mr. Nosnibor's garden at about dusk on the following </p><p>evening. </p><p>I came at the appointed time; the girl let me into the garden and bade me </p><p>wait in a secluded alley until Arowhena should come. It was now early</p><p>summer, and the leaves were so thick upon the trees that even though some </p><p>one else had entered the garden I could have easily hidden myself. The</p><p>night was one of extreme beauty; the sun had long set, but there was </p><p>still a rosy gleam in the sky over the ruins of the railway station; </p><p>below me was the city already twinkling with lights, while beyond it </p><p>stretched the plains for many a league until they blended with the sky. I</p><p>just noted these things, but I could not heed them. I could heed</p><p>nothing, till, as I peered into the darkness of the alley, I perceived a </p><p>white figure gliding swiftly towards me. I bounded towards it, and ere</p><p>thought could either prompt or check, I had caught Arowhena to my heart </p><p>and covered her unresisting cheek with kisses. </p><p>So overjoyed were we that we knew not how to speak; indeed I do not know </p><p>when we should have found words and come to our senses, if the maid had </p><p>not gone off into a fit of hysterics, and awakened us to the necessity of </p><p>self-control; then, briefly and plainly, I unfolded what I proposed; I </p><p>showed her the darkest side, for I felt sure that the darker the prospect </p><p>the more likely she was to come. I told her that my plan would probably</p><p>end in death for both of us, and that I dared not press it--that at a </p><p>word from her it should be abandoned; still that there was just a </p><p>possibility of our escaping together to some part of the world where </p><p>there would be no bar to our getting married, and that I could see no </p><p>other hope. </p><p>She made no resistance, not a sign or hint of doubt or hesitation. She</p><p>would do all I told her, and come whenever I was ready; so I bade her </p><p>send her maid to meet me nightly--told her that she must put a good face </p><p>on, look as bright and happy as she could, so as to make her father and </p><p>mother and Zulora think that she was forgetting me--and be ready at a </p><p>moment's notice to come to the Queen's workshops, and be concealed among </p><p>the ballast and under rugs in the car of the balloon; and so we parted. </p><p>I hurried my preparations forward, for I feared rain, and also that the</p><p>King might change his mind; but the weather continued dry, and in another </p><p>week the Queen's workmen had finished the balloon and car, while the gas </p><p>was ready to be turned on into the balloon at any moment. All being now</p><p>prepared I was to ascend on the following morning. I had stipulated for</p><p>being allowed to take abundance of rugs and wrappings as protection from </p><p>the cold of the upper atmosphere, and also ten or a dozen good-sized bags </p><p>of ballast. </p><p>I had nearly a quarter's pension in hand, and with this I fee'd </p><p>Arowhena's maid, and bribed the Queen's foreman--who would, I believe, </p><p>have given me assistance even without a bribe. He helped me to secrete</p><p>food and wine in the bags of ballast, and on the morning of my ascent he </p><p>kept the other workmen out of the way while I got Arowhena into the car. </p><p>She came with early dawn, muffled up, and in her maid's dress. She was</p><p>supposed to be gone to an early performance at one of the Musical Banks, </p><p>and told me that she should not be missed till breakfast, but that her </p><p>absence must then be discovered. I arranged the ballast about her so</p><p>that it should conceal her as she lay at the bottom of the car, and </p><p>covered her with wrappings. Although it still wanted some hours of the</p><p>time fixed for my ascent, I could not trust myself one moment from the </p><p>car, so I got into it at once, and watched the gradual inflation of the </p><p>balloon. Luggage I had none, save the provisions hidden in the ballast</p><p>bags, the books of mythology, and the treatises on the machines, with my </p><p>own manuscript diaries and translations. </p><p>I sat quietly, and awaited the hour fixed for my departure--quiet </p><p>outwardly, but inwardly I was in an agony of suspense lest Arowhena's </p><p>absence should be discovered before the arrival of the King and Queen, </p><p>who were to witness my ascent. They were not due yet for another two</p><p>hours, and during this time a hundred things might happen, any one of </p><p>which would undo me. </p><p>At last the balloon was full; the pipe which had filled it was removed, </p><p>the escape of the gas having been first carefully precluded. Nothing</p><p>remained to hinder the balloon from ascending but the hands and weight of </p><p>those who were holding on to it with ropes. I strained my eyes for the</p><p>coming of the King and Queen, but could see no sign of their approach. I</p><p>looked in the direction of Mr. Nosnibor's house--there was nothing to </p><p>indicate disturbance, but it was not yet breakfast time. The crowd began</p><p>to gather; they were aware that I was under the displeasure of the court, </p><p>but I could detect no signs of my being unpopular. On the contrary, I</p><p>received many kindly expressions of regard and encouragement, with good </p><p>wishes as to the result of my journey. </p><p>I was speaking to one gentleman of my acquaintance, and telling him the </p><p>substance of what I intended to do when I had got into the presence of </p><p>the air god (what he thought of me I cannot guess, for I am sure that he </p><p>did not believe in the objective existence of the air god, nor that I </p><p>myself believed in it), when I became aware of a small crowd of people </p><p>running as fast as they could from Mr. Nosnibor's house towards the </p><p>Queen's workshops. For the moment my pulse ceased beating, and then,</p><p>knowing that the time had come when I must either do or die, I called </p><p>vehemently to those who were holding the ropes (some thirty men) to let </p><p>go at once, and made gestures signifying danger, and that there would be </p><p>mischief if they held on longer. Many obeyed; the rest were too weak to</p><p>hold on to the ropes, and were forced to let them go. On this the</p><p>balloon bounded suddenly upwards, but my own feeling was that the earth </p><p>had dropped off from me, and was sinking fast into the open space </p><p>beneath.</p><p>This happened at the very moment that the attention of the crowd was </p><p>divided, the one half paying heed to the eager gestures of those coming </p><p>from Mr. Nosnibor's house, and the other to the exclamations from myself. </p><p>A minute more and Arowhena would doubtless have been discovered, but </p><p>before that minute was over, I was at such a height above the city that </p><p>nothing could harm me, and every second both the town and the crowd </p><p>became smaller and more confused. In an incredibly short time, I could</p><p>see little but a vast wall of blue plains rising up against me, towards </p><p>whichever side I looked. </p><p>At first, the balloon mounted vertically upwards, but after about five </p><p>minutes, when we had already attained a very great elevation, I fancied </p><p>that the objects on the plain beneath began to move from under me. I did</p><p>not feel so much as a breath of wind, and could not suppose that the </p><p>balloon itself was travelling. I was, therefore, wondering what this</p><p>strange movement of fixed objects could mean, when it struck me that </p><p>people in a balloon do not feel the wind inasmuch as they travel with it </p><p>and offer it no resistance. Then I was happy in thinking that I must now</p><p>have reached the invariable trade wind of the upper air, and that I </p><p>should be very possibly wafted for hundreds or even thousands of miles, </p><p>far from Erewhon and the Erewhonians. </p><p>Already I had removed the wrappings and freed Arowhena; but I soon </p><p>covered her up with them again, for it was already very cold, and she was </p><p>half stupefied with the strangeness of her position. </p><p>And now began a time, dream-like and delirious, of which I do not suppose </p><p>that I shall ever recover a distinct recollection. Some things I can</p><p>recall--as that we were ere long enveloped in vapour which froze upon my </p><p>moustache and whiskers; then comes a memory of sitting for hours and </p><p>hours in a thick fog, hearing no sound but my own breathing and </p><p>Arowhena's (for we hardly spoke) and seeing no sight but the car beneath </p><p>us and beside us, and the dark balloon above. </p><p>Perhaps the most painful feeling when the earth was hidden was that the </p><p>balloon was motionless, though our only hope lay in our going forward </p><p>with an extreme of speed. From time to time through a rift in the clouds</p><p>I caught a glimpse of earth, and was thankful to perceive that we must be </p><p>flying forward faster than in an express train; but no sooner was the </p><p>rift closed than the old conviction of our being stationary returned in </p><p>full force, and was not to be reasoned with: there was another feeling </p><p>also which was nearly as bad; for as a child that fears it has gone blind </p><p>in a long tunnel if there is no light, so ere the earth had been many </p><p>minutes hidden, I became half frightened lest we might not have broken </p><p>away from it clean and for ever. Now and again, I ate and gave food to</p><p>Arowhena, but by guess-work as regards time. Then came darkness, a</p><p>dreadful dreary time, without even the moon to cheer us. </p><p>With dawn the scene was changed: the clouds were gone and morning stars </p><p>were shining; the rising of the splendid sun remains still impressed upon </p><p>me as the most glorious that I have ever seen; beneath us there was an </p><p>embossed chain of mountains with snow fresh fallen upon them; but we were </p><p>far above them; we both of us felt our breathing seriously affected, but </p><p>I would not allow the balloon to descend a single inch, not knowing for </p><p>how long we might not need all the buoyancy which we could command; </p><p>indeed I was thankful to find that, after nearly four-and-twenty hours, </p><p>we were still at so great a height above the earth. </p><p>In a couple of hours we had passed the ranges, which must have been some </p><p>hundred and fifty miles across, and again I saw a tract of level plain </p><p>extending far away to the horizon. I knew not where we were, and dared</p><p>not descend, lest I should waste the power of the balloon, but I was half </p><p>hopeful that we might be above the country from which I had originally </p><p>started. I looked anxiously for any sign by which I could recognise it,</p><p>but could see nothing, and feared that we might be above some distant </p><p>part of Erewhon, or a country inhabited by savages. While I was still in</p><p>doubt, the balloon was again wrapped in clouds, and we were left to blank </p><p>space and to conjectures. </p><p>The weary time dragged on. How I longed for my unhappy watch! I felt as</p><p>though not even time was moving, so dumb and spell-bound were our </p><p>surroundings. Sometimes I would feel my pulse, and count its beats for</p><p>half-an-hour together; anything to mark the time--to prove that it was </p><p>there, and to assure myself that we were within the blessed range of its </p><p>influence, and not gone adrift into the timelessness of eternity. </p><p>I had been doing this for the twentieth or thirtieth time, and had fallen </p><p>into a light sleep: I dreamed wildly of a journey in an express train, </p><p>and of arriving at a railway station where the air was full of the sound </p><p>of locomotive engines blowing off steam with a horrible and tremendous </p><p>hissing; I woke frightened and uneasy, but the hissing and crashing </p><p>noises pursued me now that I was awake, and forced me to own that they </p><p>were real. What they were I knew not, but they grew gradually fainter</p><p>and fainter, and after a time were lost. In a few hours the clouds</p><p>broke, and I saw beneath me that which made the chilled blood run colder </p><p>in my veins. I saw the sea, and nothing but the sea; in the main black,</p><p>but flecked with white heads of storm-tossed, angry waves. </p><p>Arowhena was sleeping quietly at the bottom of the car, and as I looked </p><p>at her sweet and saintly beauty, I groaned, and cursed myself for the </p><p>misery into which I had brought her; but there was nothing for it now. </p><p>I sat and waited for the worst, and presently I saw signs as though that </p><p>worst were soon to be at hand, for the balloon had begun to sink. On</p><p>first seeing the sea I had been impressed with the idea that we must have </p><p>been falling, but now there could be no mistake, we were sinking, and </p><p>that fast. I threw out a bag of ballast, and for a time we rose again,</p><p>but in the course of a few hours the sinking recommenced, and I threw out </p><p>another bag. </p><p>Then the battle commenced in earnest. It lasted all that afternoon and</p><p>through the night until the following evening. I had seen never a sail</p><p>nor a sign of a sail, though I had half blinded myself with straining my </p><p>eyes incessantly in every direction; we had parted with everything but </p><p>the clothes which we had upon our backs; food and water were gone, all </p><p>thrown out to the wheeling albatrosses, in order to save us a few hours </p><p>or even minutes from the sea. I did not throw away the books till we</p><p>were within a few feet of the water, and clung to my manuscripts to the </p><p>very last. Hope there seemed none whatever--yet, strangely enough we</p><p>were neither of us utterly hopeless, and even when the evil that we </p><p>dreaded was upon us, and that which we greatly feared had come, we sat in </p><p>the car of the balloon with the waters up to our middle, and still smiled </p><p>with a ghastly hopefulness to one another. </p><p>* * * </p><p>He who has crossed the St. Gothard will remember that below Andermatt</p><p>there is one of those Alpine gorges which reach the very utmost limits of </p><p>the sublime and terrible. The feelings of the traveller have become more</p><p>and more highly wrought at every step, until at last the naked and </p><p>overhanging precipices seem to close above his head, as he crosses a </p><p>bridge hung in mid-air over a roaring waterfall, and enters on the </p><p>darkness of a tunnel, hewn out of the rock. </p><p>What can be in store for him on emerging? Surely something even wilder</p><p>and more desolate than that which he has seen already; yet his </p><p>imagination is paralysed, and can suggest no fancy or vision of anything </p><p>to surpass the reality which he had just witnessed. Awed and breathless</p><p>he advances; when lo! the light of the afternoon sun welcomes him as he </p><p>leaves the tunnel, and behold a smiling valley--a babbling brook, a </p><p>village with tall belfries, and meadows of brilliant green--these are the </p><p>things which greet him, and he smiles to himself as the terror passes </p><p>away and in another moment is forgotten. </p><p>So fared it now with ourselves. We had been in the water some two or</p><p>three hours, and the night had come upon us. We had said farewell for</p><p>the hundredth time, and had resigned ourselves to meet the end; indeed I </p><p>was myself battling with a drowsiness from which it was only too probable </p><p>that I should never wake; when suddenly, Arowhena touched me on the </p><p>shoulder, and pointed to a light and to a dark mass which was bearing </p><p>right upon us. A cry for help--loud and clear and shrill--broke forth</p><p>from both of us at once; and in another five minutes we were carried by </p><p>kind and tender hands on to the deck of an Italian vessel. </p><p>CHAPTER XXIX: CONCLUSION </p><p>The ship was the _Principe Umberto_, bound from Callao to Genoa; she had </p><p>carried a number of emigrants to Rio, had gone thence to Callao, where </p><p>she had taken in a cargo of guano, and was now on her way home. The</p><p>captain was a certain Giovanni Gianni, a native of Sestri; he has kindly </p><p>allowed me to refer to him in case the truth of my story should be </p><p>disputed; but I grieve to say that I suffered him to mislead himself in </p><p>some important particulars. I should add that when we were picked up we</p><p>were a thousand miles from land. </p><p>As soon as we were on board, the captain began questioning us about the </p><p>siege of Paris, from which city he had assumed that we must have come, </p><p>notwithstanding our immense distance from Europe. As may be supposed, I</p><p>had not heard a syllable about the war between France and Germany, and </p><p>was too ill to do more than assent to all that he chose to put into my </p><p>mouth. My knowledge of Italian is very imperfect, and I gathered little</p><p>from anything that he said; but I was glad to conceal the true point of </p><p>our departure, and resolved to take any cue that he chose to give me. </p><p>The line that thus suggested itself was that there had been ten or twelve </p><p>others in the balloon, that I was an English Milord, and Arowhena a </p><p>Russian Countess; that all the others had been drowned, and that the </p><p>despatches which we had carried were lost. I came afterwards to learn</p><p>that this story would not have been credible, had not the captain been </p><p>for some weeks at sea, for I found that when we were picked up, the </p><p>Germans had already long been masters of Paris. As it was, the captain</p><p>settled the whole story for me, and I was well content.</p><p>In a few days we sighted an English vessel bound from Melbourne to London </p><p>with wool. At my earnest request, in spite of stormy weather which</p><p>rendered it dangerous for a boat to take us from one ship to the other, </p><p>the captain consented to signal the English vessel, and we were received </p><p>on board, but we were transferred with such difficulty that no </p><p>communication took place as to the manner of our being found. I did</p><p>indeed hear the Italian mate who was in charge of the boat shout out </p><p>something in French to the effect that we had been picked up from a </p><p>balloon, but the noise of the wind was so great, and the captain </p><p>understood so little French that he caught nothing of the truth, and it </p><p>was assumed that we were two persons who had been saved from shipwreck. </p><p>When the captain asked me in what ship I had been wrecked, I said that a </p><p>party of us had been carried out to sea in a pleasure-boat by a strong </p><p>current, and that Arowhena (whom I described as a Peruvian lady) and I </p><p>were alone saved. </p><p>There were several passengers, whose goodness towards us we can never </p><p>repay. I grieve to think that they cannot fail to discover that we did</p><p>not take them fully into our confidence; but had we told them all, they </p><p>would not have believed us, and I was determined that no one should hear </p><p>of Erewhon, or have the chance of getting there before me, as long as I </p><p>could prevent it. Indeed, the recollection of the many falsehoods which</p><p>I was then obliged to tell, would render my life miserable were I not </p><p>sustained by the consolations of my religion. Among the passengers there</p><p>was a most estimable clergyman, by whom Arowhena and I were married </p><p>within a very few days of our coming on board. </p><p>After a prosperous voyage of about two months, we sighted the Land's End, </p><p>and in another week we were landed at London. A liberal subscription was</p><p>made for us on board the ship, so that we found ourselves in no immediate </p><p>difficulty about money. I accordingly took Arowhena down into</p><p>Somersetshire, where my mother and sisters had resided when I last heard </p><p>of them. To my great sorrow I found that my mother was dead, and that</p><p>her death had been accelerated by the report of my having been killed, </p><p>which had been brought to my employer's station by Chowbok. It appeared</p><p>that he must have waited for a few days to see whether I returned, that </p><p>he then considered it safe to assume that I should never do so, and had </p><p>accordingly made up a story about my having fallen into a whirlpool of </p><p>seething waters while coming down the gorge homeward. Search was made</p><p>for my body, but the rascal had chosen to drown me in a place where there </p><p>would be no chance of its ever being recovered. </p><p>My sisters were both married, but neither of their husbands was rich. No</p><p>one seemed overjoyed on my return; and I soon discovered that when a </p><p>man's relations have once mourned for him as dead, they seldom like the </p><p>prospect of having to mourn for him a second time. </p><p>Accordingly I returned to London with my wife, and through the assistance </p><p>of an old friend supported myself by writing good little stories for the </p><p>magazines, and for a tract society. I was well paid; and I trust that I</p><p>may not be considered presumptuous in saying that some of the most </p><p>popular of the _brochures_ which are distributed in the streets, and </p><p>which are to be found in the waiting-rooms of the railway stations, have </p><p>proceeded from my pen. During the time that I could spare, I arranged my</p><p>notes and diary till they assumed their present shape. There remains</p><p>nothing for me to add, save to unfold the scheme which I propose for the </p><p>conversion of Erewhon. </p><p>That scheme has only been quite recently decided upon as the one which </p><p>seems most likely to be successful. </p><p>It will be seen at once that it would be madness for me to go with ten or </p><p>a dozen subordinate missionaries by the same way as that which led me to </p><p>discover Erewhon. I should be imprisoned for typhus, besides being</p><p>handed over to the straighteners for having run away with Arowhena: an </p><p>even darker fate, to which I dare hardly again allude, would be reserved </p><p>for my devoted fellow-labourers. It is plain, therefore, that some other</p><p>way must be found for getting at the Erewhonians, and I am thankful to </p><p>say that such another way is not wanting. One of the rivers which</p><p>descends from the Snowy Mountains, and passes through Erewhon, is known </p><p>to be navigable for several hundred miles from its mouth. Its upper</p><p>waters have never yet been explored, but I feel little doubt that it will </p><p>be found possible to take a light gunboat (for we must protect ourselves) </p><p>to the outskirts of the Erewhonian country. </p><p>I propose, therefore, that one of those associations should be formed in </p><p>which the risk of each of the members is confined to the amount of his </p><p>stake in the concern. The first step would be to draw up a prospectus.</p><p>In this I would advise that no mention should be made of the fact that </p><p>the Erewhonians are the lost tribes. The discovery is one of absorbing</p><p>interest to myself, but it is of a sentimental rather than commercial </p><p>value, and business is business. The capital to be raised should not be</p><p>less than fifty thousand pounds, and might be either in five or ten pound </p><p>shares as hereafter determined. This should be amply sufficient for the</p><p>expenses of an experimental voyage. </p><p>When the money had been subscribed, it would be our duty to charter a </p><p>steamer of some twelve or fourteen hundred tons burden, and with </p><p>accommodation for a cargo of steerage passengers. She should carry two</p><p>or three guns in case of her being attacked by savages at the mouth of </p><p>the river. Boats of considerable size should be also provided, and I</p><p>think it would be desirable that these also should carry two or three six- </p><p>pounders. The ship should be taken up the river as far as was considered</p><p>safe, and a picked party should then ascend in the boats. The presence</p><p>both of Arowhena and myself would be necessary at this stage, inasmuch as </p><p>our knowledge of the language would disarm suspicion, and facilitate </p><p>negotiations. </p><p>We should begin by representing the advantages afforded to labour in the </p><p>colony of Queensland, and point out to the Erewhonians that by emigrating </p><p>thither, they would be able to amass, each and all of them, enormous </p><p>fortunes--a fact which would be easily provable by a reference to </p><p>statistics. I have no doubt that a very great number might be thus</p><p>induced to come back with us in the larger boats, and that we could fill </p><p>our vessel with emigrants in three or four journeys. </p><p>Should we be attacked, our course would be even simpler, for the </p><p>Erewhonians have no gunpowder, and would be so surprised with its effects </p><p>that we should be able to capture as many as we chose; in this case we </p><p>should feel able to engage them on more advantageous terms, for they </p><p>would be prisoners of war. But even though we were to meet with no</p><p>violence, I doubt not that a cargo of seven or eight hundred Erewhonians </p><p>could be induced, when they were once on board the vessel, to sign an </p><p>agreement which should be mutually advantageous both to us and them. </p><p>We should then proceed to Queensland, and dispose of our engagement with </p><p>the Erewhonians to the sugar-growers of that settlement, who are in great</p><p>want of labour; it is believed that the money thus realised would enable </p><p>us to declare a handsome dividend, and leave a considerable balance, </p><p>which might be spent in repeating our operations and bringing over other </p><p>cargoes of Erewhonians, with fresh consequent profits. In fact we could</p><p>go backwards and forwards as long as there was a demand for labour in </p><p>Queensland, or indeed in any other Christian colony, for the supply of </p><p>Erewhonians would be unlimited, and they could be packed closely and fed </p><p>at a very reasonable cost. </p><p>It would be my duty and Arowhena's to see that our emigrants should be </p><p>boarded and lodged in the households of religious sugar-growers; these </p><p>persons would give them the benefit of that instruction whereof they </p><p>stand so greatly in need. Each day, as soon as they could be spared from</p><p>their work in the plantations, they would be assembled for praise, and be </p><p>thoroughly grounded in the Church Catechism, while the whole of every </p><p>Sabbath should be devoted to singing psalms and church-going. </p><p>This must be insisted upon, both in order to put a stop to any uneasy </p><p>feeling which might show itself either in Queensland or in the mother </p><p>country as to the means whereby the Erewhonians had been obtained, and </p><p>also because it would give our own shareholders the comfort of reflecting </p><p>that they were saving souls and filling their own pockets at one and the </p><p>same moment. By the time the emigrants had got too old for work they</p><p>would have become thoroughly instructed in religion; they could then be </p><p>shipped back to Erewhon and carry the good seed with them. </p><p>I can see no hitch nor difficulty about the matter, and trust that this </p><p>book will sufficiently advertise the scheme to insure the subscription of </p><p>the necessary capital; as soon as this is forthcoming I will guarantee </p><p>that I convert the Erewhonians not only into good Christians but into a </p><p>source of considerable profit to the shareholders. </p><p>I should add that I cannot claim the credit for having originated the </p><p>above scheme. I had been for months at my wit's end, forming plan after</p><p>plan for the evangelisation of Erewhon, when by one of those special </p><p>interpositions which should be a sufficient answer to the sceptic, and </p><p>make even the most confirmed rationalist irrational, my eye was directed </p><p>to the following paragraph in the _Times_ newspaper, of one of the first </p><p>days in January 1872:- </p><p> "POLYNESIANS IN QUEENSLAND.--The Marquis of Normanby, the new Governor</p><p> of Queensland, has completed his inspection of the northern districts</p><p> of the colony. It is stated that at Mackay, one of the best sugar-</p><p> growing districts, his Excellency saw a good deal of the Polynesians.</p><p> In the course of a speech to those who entertained him there, the</p><p> Marquis said:--'I have been told that the means by which Polynesians</p><p> were obtained were not legitimate, but I have failed to perceive this,</p><p> in so far at least as Queensland is concerned; and, if one can judge</p><p> by the countenances and manners of the Polynesians, they experience no</p><p> regret at their position.' But his Excellency pointed out the</p><p> advantage of giving them religious instruction. It would tend to set</p><p> at rest an uneasy feeling which at present existed in the country to</p><p> know that they were inclined to retain the Polynesians, and teach them</p><p> religion."</p><p>I feel that comment is unnecessary, and will therefore conclude with one </p><p>word of thanks to the reader who may have had the patience to follow me </p><p>through my adventures without losing his temper; but with two, for any </p><p>who may write at once to the Secretary of the Erewhon Evangelisation</p><p>Company, limited (at the address which shall hereafter be advertised), </p><p>and request to have his name put down as a shareholder. </p><p> _P.S_.--I had just received and corrected the last proof of the</p><p> foregoing volume, and was walking down the Strand from Temple Bar to</p><p> Charing Cross, when on passing Exeter Hall I saw a number of devout-</p><p> looking people crowding into the building with faces full of</p><p> interested and complacent anticipation. I stopped, and saw an</p><p> announcement that a missionary meeting was to be held forthwith, and</p><p> that the native missionary, the Rev. William Habakkuk, from--(the</p><p> colony from which I had started on my adventures), would be</p><p> introduced, and make a short address. After some little difficulty I</p><p> obtained admission, and heard two or three speeches, which were</p><p> prefatory to the introduction of Mr. Habakkuk. One of these struck me</p><p> as perhaps the most presumptuous that I had ever heard. The speaker</p><p> said that the races of whom Mr. Habakkuk was a specimen, were in all</p><p> probability the lost ten tribes of Israel. I dared not contradict him</p><p> then, but I felt angry and injured at hearing the speaker jump to so</p><p> preposterous a conclusion upon such insufficient grounds. The</p><p> discovery of the ten tribes was mine, and mine only. I was still in</p><p> the very height of indignation, when there was a murmur of expectation</p><p> in the hall, and Mr. Habakkuk was brought forward. The reader may</p><p> judge of my surprise at finding that he was none other than my old</p><p> friend Chowbok!</p><p>My jaw dropped, and my eyes almost started out of my head with </p><p>astonishment. The poor fellow was dreadfully frightened, and the storm</p><p>of applause which greeted his introduction seemed only to add to his </p><p>confusion. I dare not trust myself to report his speech--indeed I could</p><p>hardly listen to it, for I was nearly choked with trying to suppress my </p><p>feelings. I am sure that I caught the words "Adelaide, the Queen</p><p>Dowager," and I thought that I heard "Mary Magdalene" shortly afterwards, </p><p>but I had then to leave the hall for fear of being turned out. While on</p><p>the staircase, I heard another burst of prolonged and rapturous applause, </p><p>so I suppose the audience were satisfied. </p><p>The feelings that came uppermost in my mind were hardly of a very solemn </p><p>character, but I thought of my first acquaintance with Chowbok, of the </p><p>scene in the woodshed, of the innumerable lies he had told me, of his </p><p>repeated attempts upon the brandy, and of many an incident which I have </p><p>not thought it worth while to dwell upon; and I could not but derive some </p><p>satisfaction from the hope that my own efforts might have contributed to </p><p>the change which had been doubtless wrought upon him, and that the rite </p><p>which I had performed, however unprofessionally, on that wild upland </p><p>river-bed, had not been wholly without effect. I trust that what I have</p><p>written about him in the earlier part of my book may not be libellous, </p><p>and that it may do him no harm with his employers. He was then</p><p>unregenerate. I must certainly find him out and have a talk with him;</p><p>but before I shall have time to do so these pages will be in the hands of </p><p>the public. </p><p>* * * * * </p><p>At the last moment I see a probability of a complication which causes me </p><p>much uneasiness. Please subscribe quickly. Address to the</p><p>Mansion-House, care of the Lord Mayor, whom I will instruct to receive </p><p>names and subscriptions for me until I can organise a committee. </p><p>Footnotes </p><p>{1} The last part of Chapter XXIII in this Gutenberg eText.--DP.</p><p>{2} See Handel's compositions for the harpsichord, published by Litolf,</p><p>p. 78. </p><p>{3} The myth above alluded to exists in Erewhon with changed names, and</p><p>considerable modifications. I have taken the liberty of referring to the</p><p>story as familiar to ourselves. </p><p>{4} What a _safe_ word "relation" is; how little it predicates! yet it</p><p>has overgrown "kinsman." </p><p>{5} The root alluded to is not the potato of our own gardens, but a</p><p>plant so near akin to it that I have ventured to translate it thus. </p><p>Apropos of its intelligence, had the writer known Butler he would </p><p>probably have said-- </p><p> "He knows what's what, and that's as high,</p><p> As metaphysic wit can fly."</p><p>{6} Since my return to England, I have been told that those who are</p><p>conversant about machines use many terms concerning them which show that </p><p>their vitality is here recognised, and that a collection of expressions </p><p>in use among those who attend on steam engines would be no less startling </p><p>than instructive. I am also informed, that almost all machines have</p><p>their own tricks and idiosyncrasies; that they know their drivers and </p><p>keepers; and that they will play pranks upon a stranger. It is my</p><p>intention, on a future occasion, to bring together examples both of the </p><p>expressions in common use among mechanicians, and of any extraordinary </p><p>exhibitions of mechanical sagacity and eccentricity that I can meet </p><p>with--not as believing in the Erewhonian Professor's theory, but from the </p><p>interest of the subject. </p><p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EREWHON*** </p><p>******* This file should be named 1906.txt or 1906.zip ******* </p><p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: </p><p>http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/0/1906 </p><p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions </p><p>will be renamed. </p><p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no </p><p>one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation </p><p>(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without </p><p>permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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