11573	----	None 
1013	----	None 
24750	----	None 
15454	----	IMPERIUM IN IMPERIO A STUDY OF THE NEGRO RACE PROBLEM A NOVEL Sutton E. Griggs 1899 CONTENTS. CHAPTER. PAGE. Berl Trout's Declaration 1 I A Small Beginning 3 II The School 8 III The Parson's Advice 15 IV The Turning of a Worm 24 V Belton Finds a Friend 38 VI A Young Rebel 48 VII A Sermon, a Sock, And a Fight 64 VIII Many Mysteries Cleared Up 83 IX Love and Politics 95 X Cupid Again at Work 111 XI No Befitting Name 125 XII On the Dissecting Board 139 XIII Married and yet not Married 161 XIV " " " " " (Continued) 171 XV Weighty Matters 177 XVI Unwritten History 188 XVII Crossing the Rubicon 200 XVIII The Storm's Master 223 XIX The Parting of Ways 249 XX Personal (Berl Trout) 262 TO THE PUBLIC. The papers which are herewith submitted to you for your perusal and consideration, were delivered into my hands by Mr. Berl Trout. The papers will speak for themselves, but Mr. Trout now being dead I feel called upon to say a word concerning him. Mr. Berl Trout was Secretary of State in the Imperium In Imperio, from the day of its organization until the hour of his sad death. He was, therefore, thoroughly conversant with all of the details of that great organization. He was a warm personal friend of both Bernard and Belton, and learned from their own lips the stories of their eventful lives. Mr. Trout was a man noted for his strict veracity and for the absolute control that his conscience exercised over him. Though unacquainted with the Imperium In Imperio I was well acquainted with Berl, as we fondly called him. I will vouch for his truthfulness anywhere. Having perfect faith in the truthfulness of his narrative I have not hesitated to fulfil his dying request by editing his Ms., and giving it to the public. There are other documents in my possession tending to confirm the assertions made in his narrative. These documents were given me by Mr. Trout, so that, in case an attempt is made to pronounce him a liar, I might defend his name by coming forward with indisputable proofs of every important statement. Very respectfully, Sutton E. Griggs, March 1, 1899. Berkley, Va. IMPERIUM IN IMPERIO. BERL TROUT'S DYING DECLARATION. I am a traitor. I have violated an oath that was as solemn and binding as any ever taken by man on earth. I have trampled under my feet the sacred trust of a loving people, and have betrayed secrets which were dearer to them than life itself. For this offence, regarded the world over as the most detestable of horrors, I shall be slain. Those who shall be detailed to escort my foul body to its grave are required to walk backwards with heads averted. On to-morrow night, the time of my burial, the clouds should gather thick about the queenly moon to hide my funeral procession from her view, for fear that she might refuse to longer reign over a land capable of producing such a wretch as I. In the bottom of some old forsaken well, so reads _our_ law, I shall be buried, face downward, without a coffin; and my body, lying thus, will be transfixed with a wooden stave. Fifty feet from the well into which my body is lowered, a red flag is to be hoisted and kept floating there for time unending, to warn all generations of men to come not near the air polluted by the rotting carcass of a vile traitor. Such is my fate. I seek not to shun it. I have walked into odium with every sense alert, fully conscious of every step taken. While I acknowledge that I am a traitor, I also pronounce myself a patriot. It is true that I have betrayed the immediate plans of the race to which I belong; but I have done this in the interest of the whole human family--of which my race is but a part. My race may, for the time being, shower curses upon me; but eventually all races, including my own, shall call me blessed. The earth, in anger, may belch forth my putrid flesh with volcanic fury, but the out-stretched arms of God will receive my spirit as a token of approval of what I have done. With my soul feasting on this happy thought, I send this revelation to mankind and yield my body to the executioner to be shot until I am dead. Though death stands just before me, holding before my eyes my intended shroud woven of the cloth of infamy itself, I shrink not back. Yours, doomed to die, BERL TROUT. IMPERIUM IN IMPERIO CHAPTER I A SMALL BEGINNING. "Cum er long hunny an' let yer mammy fix yer 'spectabul, so yer ken go to skule. Yer mammy is 'tarmined ter gib yer all de book larning dar is ter be had eben ef she has ter lib on bred an' herrin's, an' die en de a'ms house." These words came from the lips of a poor, ignorant negro woman, and yet the determined course of action which they reveal vitally affected the destiny of a nation and saved the sun of the Nineteenth Century, proud and glorious, from passing through, near its setting, the blackest and thickest and ugliest clouds of all its journey; saved it from ending the most brilliant of brilliant careers by setting, with a shudder of horror, in a sea of human blood. Those who doubt that such power could emanate from such weakness; or, to change the figure, that such a tiny star could have dimensions greater than those of earth, may have every vestige of doubt removed by a perusal of this simple narrative. Let us now acquaint ourselves with the circumstances under which the opening words of our story were spoken. To do this, we must need lead our readers into humble and commonplace surroundings, a fact that will not come in the nature of a surprise to those who have traced the proud, rushing, swelling river to the mountain whence it comes trickling forth, meekly and humbly enough. The place was Winchester, an antiquated town, located near the northwestern corner of the State of Virginia. In October of the year 1867, the year in which our story begins, a white man by the name of Tiberius Gracchus Leonard had arrived in Winchester, and was employed as teacher of the school for colored children. Mrs. Hannah Piedmont, the colored woman whom we have presented to our readers as addressing her little boy, was the mother of five children,--three girls and two boys. In the order of their ages, the names of her children were: James Henry, aged fifteen, Amanda Ann, aged thirteen, Eliza Jane, aged eleven, Belton, aged eight, and Celestine, aged five. Several years previous to the opening of our history, Mr. Piedmont had abandoned his wife and left her to rear the children alone. School opened in October, and as fast as she could get books and clothing Mrs. Piedmont sent her children to school. James Henry, Amanda Ann, and Eliza Jane were sent at about a week's interval. Belton and Celestine were then left--Celestine being regarded as too young to go. This morning we find Belton's mother preparing him for school, and we shall stand by and watch the preparations. The house was low and squatty and was built of rock. It consisted of one room only, and over this there was a loft, the hole to climb into which was in plain view of any one in the room. There was only one window to the house and that one was only four feet square. Two panes of this were broken out and the holes were stuffed with rags. In one corner of the room there stood a bed in which Mrs. Piedmont and Amanda Ann slept. Under this was a trundle bed in which Eliza Jane and Celestine slept at the head, while Belton slept at the foot. James Henry climbed into the loft and slept there on a pallet of straw. The cooking was done in a fireplace which was on the side of the house opposite the window. Three chairs, two of which had no backs to them, completed the articles in the room. In one of these chairs Mrs. Piedmont was sitting, while Belton stood before her all dressed and ready to go to school, excepting that his face was not washed. It might be interesting to note his costume. The white lady for whom Mrs. Piedmont washed each week had given her two much-torn pairs of trousers, discarded by her young son. One pair was of linen and the other of navy blue. A leg from each pair was missing; so Mrs. Piedmont simply transferred the good leg of the linen pair to the suit of the navy blue, and dressed the happy Belton in that suit thus amended. His coat was literally a conglomeration of patches of varying sizes and colors. If you attempted to describe the coat by calling it by the name of the color that you thought predominated, at least a half dozen aspirants could present equal claims to the honor. One of Belton's feet was encased in a wornout slipper from the dainty foot of some young woman, while the other wore a turned over boot left in town by some farmer lad who had gotten himself a new pair. His hat was in good condition, being the summer straw last worn by a little white playfellow (when fall came on, this little fellow kindly willed his hat to Belton, who, in return for this favor, was to black the boy's shoes each morning during the winter). Belton's mother now held in her hand a wet cloth with which she wished to cleanse his face, the bacon skin which he gnawed at the conclusion of his meal having left a circle of grease around his lips. Belton did not relish the face washing part of the programme (of course hair combing was not even considered). Belton had one characteristic similar to that of oil. He did not like to mix with water, especially cold water, such as was on that wet cloth in his mother's hand. However, a hint in reference to a certain well-known leather strap, combined with the offer of a lump of sugar, brought him to terms. His face being washed, he and his mother marched forth to school, where he laid the foundation of the education that served him so well in after life. A man of tact, intelligence, and superior education moving in the midst of a mass of ignorant people, ofttimes has a sway more absolute than that of monarchs. Belton now entered the school-room, which in his case proves to be the royal court, whence he emerges an uncrowned king. CHAPTER II. THE SCHOOL. The house in which the colored school was held was, in former times, a house of worship for the white Baptists of Winchester. It was a long, plain, frame structure, painted white. Many years prior to the opening of the colored school it had been condemned as unsafe by the town authorities, whereupon the white Baptists had abandoned it for a more beautiful modern structure. The church tendered the use of the building to the town for a public school for the colored children. The roof was patched and iron rods were used to hold together the twisting walls. These improvements being made, school was in due time opened. The building was located on the outskirts of the town, and a large open field surrounded it on all sides. As Mrs. Piedmont and her son drew near to this building the teacher was standing on the door-steps ringing his little hand bell, calling the children in from their recess. They came running at full speed, helter skelter. By the time they were all in Mrs. Piedmont and Belton had arrived at the step. When Mr. Leonard saw them about to enter the building an angry scowl passed over his face, and he muttered half aloud: "Another black nigger brat for me to teach." The steps were about four feet high and he was standing on the top step. To emphasize his disgust, he drew back so that Mrs. Piedmont would pass him with no danger of brushing him. He drew back rather too far and began falling off the end of the steps. He clutched at the door and made such a scrambling noise that the children turned in their seats just in time to see his body rapidly disappearing in a manner to leave his feet where his head ought to be. Such a yell of laughter as went up from the throats of the children! It had in it a universal, spontaneous ring of savage delight which plainly told that the teacher was not beloved by his pupils. The back of the teacher's head struck the edge of a stone, and when he clambered up from his rather undignified position his back was covered with blood. Deep silence reigned in the school-room as he walked down the aisle, glaring fiercely right and left. Getting his hat he left the school-room and went to a near-by drug store to have his wounds dressed. While he was gone, the children took charge of the school-room and played pranks of every description. Abe Lincoln took the teacher's chair and played "'fessor." "Sallie Ann ain't yer got wax in yer mouf?" "Yes sar." "Den take dis stick and prop yer mouf opun fur half hour. Dat'll teach yer a lesson." "Billy Smith, yer didn't know yer lessun," says teacher Abe. "Yer may stan' on one leg de ballunce ob de ebenning." "Henry Jones, yer sassed a white boy ter day. Pull off yer jacket. I'll gib yer a lessun dat yer'll not furgit soon. Neber buck up to yer s'periors." "John Jones, yer black, nappy head rascal, I'll crack yer skull if yer doan keep quiut." "Cum year, yer black, cross-eyed little wench, yer. I'll teach yer to go to sleep in here." Annie Moore was the little girl thus addressed. After each sally from Abe there was a hearty roar of laughter, he imitated the absent teacher so perfectly in look, voice, manner, sentiment, and method of punishment. Taking down the cowhide used for flogging purposes Abe left his seat and was passing to and fro, pretending to flog those who most frequently fell heir to the teacher's wrath. While he was doing this Billy Smith stealthily crept to the teacher's chair and placed a crooked pin in it in order to catch Abe when he returned to sit down. Before Abe had gone much further the teacher's face appeared at the door, and all scrambled to get into their right places and to assume studious attitudes. Billy Smith thought of his crooked pin and had the "cold sweats." Those who had seen Billy put the pin in the chair were torn between two conflicting emotions. They wanted the pin to do its work, and therefore hoped. They feared Billy's detection and therefore despaired. However, the teacher did not proceed at once to take his seat. He approached Mrs. Piedmont and Belton, who had taken seats midway the room and were interested spectators of all that had been going on. Speaking to Mrs. Piedmont, he said: "What is your name?" She replied: "Hannah Lizabeth Piedmont." "Well, Hannah, what is your brat's name?" "His name am Belton Piedmont, arter his grandaddy." "Well, Hannah, I am very pleased to receive your brat. He shall not want for attention," he added, in a tone accompanied by a lurking look of hate that made Mrs. Piedmont shudder and long to have her boy at home again. Her desire for his training was so great that she surmounted her misgivings and carried out her purposes to have him enrolled. As the teacher was turning to go to his desk, hearing a rustling noise toward the door, he turned to look. He was, so to speak, petrified with astonishment. There stood on the threshold of the door a woman whose beauty was such as he had never seen surpassed. She held a boy by the hand. She was a mulatto woman, tall and graceful. Her hair was raven black and was combed away from as beautiful a forehead as nature could chisel. Her eyes were a brown hazel, large and intelligent, tinged with a slight look of melancholy. Her complexion was a rich olive, and seemed especially adapted to her face, that revealed not a flaw. The teacher quickly pulled off his hat, which he had not up to that time removed since his return from the drug store. As the lady moved up the aisle toward him, he was taken with stage fright. He recovered self-possession enough to escort her and the boy to the front and give them seats. The whole school divided its attention between the beautiful woman and the discomfitted teacher. They had not known that he was so full of smiles and smirks. "What is your name?" he enquired in his most suave manner. "Fairfax Belgrave," replied the visitor. "May I be of any service to you, madam?" At the mention of the word madam, she colored slightly. "I desire to have my son enter your school and I trust that you may see your way clear to admit him." "Most assuredly madam, most assuredly." Saying this, he hastened to his desk, opened it and took out his register. He then sat down, but the next instant leapt several feet into the air, knocking over his desk. He danced around the floor, reaching toward the rear of his pants, yelling: "Pull it out! pull it out! pull it out!" The children hid their faces behind their books and chuckled most gleefully. Billy Smith was struck dumb with terror. Abe was rolling on the floor, bellowing with uncontrollable laughter. The teacher finally succeeded in extricating the offending steel and stood scratching his head in chagrin at the spectacle he had made of himself before his charming visitor. He took an internal oath to get his revenge out of Mrs. Piedmont and her son, who had been the innocent means of his double downfall that day. His desk was arranged in a proper manner and the teacher took his pen and wrote two names, now famous the world over. "Bernard Belgrave, age 9 years." "Belton Piedmont, age 8 years." Under such circumstances Belton began his school career. CHAPTER III. THE PARSON'S ADVICE. With heavy heart and with eyes cast upon the ground, Mrs. Piedmont walked back home after leaving Belton with his teacher. She had intended to make a special plea for her boy, who had all along displayed such precociousness as to fill her bosom with the liveliest hopes. But the teacher was so repulsive in manner that she did not have the heart to speak to him as she had intended. She saw that the happenings of the morning had had the effect of deepening a contemptuous prejudice into hatred, and she felt that her child's school life was to be embittered by the harshest of maltreatment. No restraint was put upon the flogging of colored children by their white teachers, and in Belton's case his mother expected the worst. During the whole week she revolved the matter in her mind. There was a conflict in her bosom between her love and her ambition. Love prompted her to return and take her son away from school. Ambition bade her to let him stay. She finally decided to submit the whole matter to her parson, whom she would invite to dinner on the coming Sunday. The Sabbath came and Mrs. Piedmont aroused her family bright and early, for the coming of the parson to take dinner was a great event in any negro household. The house was swept as clean as a broom of weeds tied together could make it. Along with the family breakfast, a skillet of biscuits was cooked and a young chicken nicely baked. Belton was very active in helping his mother that morning, and she promised to give him a biscuit and a piece of chicken as a reward after the preacher was through eating his dinner. The thought of this coming happiness buoyed Belton up, and often he fancied himself munching that biscuit and biting that piece of chicken. These were items of food rarely found in that household. Breakfast over, the whole family made preparations for going to Sunday school. Preparations always went on peacefully until it came to combing hair. The older members of the family endured the ordeal very well; but little "Lessie" always screamed as if she was being tortured, and James Henry received many kicks and scratches from Belton before he was through combing Belton's hair. The Sunday school and church were always held in the day-school building. The Sunday school scholars were all in one class and recited out of the "blue back spelling book." When that was over, members of the school were allowed to ask general questions on the Bible, which were answered by anyone volunteering to do so. Everyone who had in any way caught a new light on a passage of scripture endeavored, by questioning, to find out as to whether others were as wise as he, and if such was not the case, he gladly enlightened the rest. The Sunday school being over, the people stood in groups on the ground surrounding the church waiting for the arrival of the parson from his home, Berryville, a town twelve miles distant. He was pastor of three other churches besides the one at Winchester, and he preached at each one Sunday in the month. After awhile he put in his appearance. He was rather small in stature, and held his head somewhat to one side and looked at you with that knowing look of the parrot. He wore a pair of trousers that had been black, but were now sleet from much wear. They lacked two inches of reaching down to the feet of his high-heeled boots. He had on a long linen cluster that reached below his knees. Beneath this was a faded Prince Albert coat and a vest much too small. On his head there sat, slightly tipped, a high-topped beaver that seemed to have been hidden between two mattresses all the week and taken out and straightened for Sunday wear. In his hand he held a walking cane. Thus clad he came toward the church, his body thrown slightly back, walking leisurely with the air of quiet dignity possessed by the man sure of his standing, and not under the necessity of asserting it overmuch in his carriage. The brothers pulled off their hats and the sisters put on their best smiles as the parson approached. After a cordial handshake all around, the preacher entered the church to begin the services. After singing a hymn and praying, he took for his text the following "passige of scripter:" "It air harder fur a camel to git through de eye of a cambric needle den fur a rich man to enter de kingdom of heben." This was one of the parson's favorite texts, and the members all settled themselves back to have a good "speritual" time. The preacher began his sermon in a somewhat quiet way, but the members knew that he would "warm up bye and bye." He pictured all rich men as trying to get into heaven, but, he asserted, they invariably found themselves with Dives. He exhorted his hearers to stick to Jesus. Here he pulled off his collar, and the sisters stirred and looked about them. A little later on, the preacher getting "warmer," pulled off his cuffs. The brethren laughed with a sort of joyous jumping up and down all the while--one crying "Gib me Jesus," another "Oh I am gwine home," and so on. One sister who had a white lady's baby in her arms got happy and flung it entirely across the room, it falling into Mrs. Piedmont's lap, while the frenzied woman who threw the child climbed over benches, rushed into the pulpit, and swung to the preacher's neck, crying--"Glory! Glory! Glory!" In the meanwhile Belton had dropped down under one of the benches and was watching the proceedings with an eye of terror. The sermon over and quiet restored, a collection was taken and given to the pastor. Mrs. Piedmont went forward to put some money on the table and took occasion to step to the pulpit and invite the pastor to dinner. Knowing that this meant chicken, the pastor unhesitatingly accepted the invitation, and when church was over accompanied Mrs. Piedmont and her family home. The preacher caught hold of Belton's hand as they walked along. This mark of attention, esteemed by Belton as a signal honor, filled his little soul with joy. As he thought of the manner in which the preacher stirred up the people, the amount of the collection that had been given him, and the biscuits and chicken that now awaited him, Belton decided that he, too, would like to become a preacher. Just before reaching home, according to a preconcerted plan, Belton and James Henry broke from the group and ran into the house. When the others appeared a little later on, these two were not to be seen. However, no question was asked and no search made. All things were ready and the parson sat down to eat, while the three girls stood about, glancing now and then at the table. The preacher was very voracious and began his meal as though he "meant business." We can now reveal the whereabouts of Belton and James Henry. They had clambered into the loft for the purpose of watching the progress of the preacher's meal, calculating at each step how much he would probably leave. James Henry found a little hole in the loft directly over the table, and through this hole he did his spying. Belton took his position at the larger entrance hole, lying flat on his stomach. He poked his head down far enough to see the preacher, but held it in readiness to be snatched back, if the preacher's eyes seemed to be about to wander his way. He was kept in a state of feverish excitement, on the one hand, by fear of detection, and on the other, by a desire to watch the meal. When about half of the biscuits were gone, and the preacher seemed as fresh as ever, Belton began to be afraid for his promised biscuit and piece of chicken. He crawled to James Henry and said hastily--"James, dees haf gone," and hurriedly resumed his watch. A moment later he called out in a whisper, "He's tuck anudder." Down goes Belton's head to resume his watch. Every time the preacher took another biscuit Belton called out the fact to James. All of the chicken was at last destroyed and only one biscuit remained; and Belton's whole soul was now centered on that biscuit. In his eagerness to watch he leaned a good distance out, and when the preacher reached forth his hand to take the last one Belton was so overcome that he lost his balance and tumbled out of his hole on the floor, kicking, and crying over and over again: "I knowed I wuzunt goin' to git naren dem biscuits." The startled preacher hastily arose from the table and gazed on the little fellow in bewilderment. As soon as it dawned upon him what the trouble was, he hastily got the remaining biscuit and gave it to Belton. He also discovered that his voracity had made enemies of the rest of the children, and he very adroitly passed a five cent piece around to each. James Henry, forgetting his altitude and anxious not to lose his recompense, cried out loudly from the loft: "Amanda Ann you git mine fur me." The preacher looked up but saw no one. Seeing that his request did not have the desired effect, James Henry soon tumbled down full of dust, straw and cobwebs, and came into possession of his appeasing money. The preacher laughed heartily and seemed to enjoy his experience highly. The table was cleared, and the preacher and Mrs. Piedmont dismissed the children in order to discuss unmolested the subject which had prompted her to extend an invitation to the parson. In view of the intense dislike the teacher had conceived for Belton, she desired to know if it were not best to withdraw him from school altogether, rather than to subject him to the harsh treatment sure to come. "Let me gib yer my advis, sistah Hannah. De greatest t'ing in de wul is edification. Ef our race ken git dat we ken git ebery t'ing else. Dat is de key. Git de key an' yer ken go in de house to go whare you please. As fur his beatin' de brat, yer musn't kick agin dat. He'll beat de brat to make him larn, and won't dat be a blessed t'ing? See dis scar on side my head? Old marse Sampson knocked me down wid a single-tree tryin' to make me stop larning, and God is so fixed it dat white folks is knocking es down ef we don't larn. Ef yer take Belton out of school yer'll be fighting 'genst de providence of God." Being thus advised by her shepherd, Mrs. Piedmont decided to keep Belton in school. So on Monday Belton went back to his brutal teacher, and thither we follow him. CHAPTER IV. THE TURNING OF A WORM. As to who Mr. Tiberius Gracchus Leonard was, or as to where he came from, nobody in Winchester, save himself, knew. Immediately following the close of the Civil War, Rev. Samuel Christian, a poor but honorable retired minister of the M.E. Church, South, was the first teacher employed to instruct the colored children of the town. He was one of those Southerners who had never believed in the morality of slavery, but regarded it as a deep rooted evil beyond human power to uproot. When the manacles fell from the hands of the Negroes he gladly accepted the task of removing the scales of ignorance from the blinded eyes of the race. Tenderly he labored, valiantly he toiled in the midst of the mass of ignorance that came surging around him. But only one brief year was given to this saintly soul to endeavor to blast the mountains of stupidity which centuries of oppression had reared. He fell asleep. The white men who were trustees of the colored school, were sorely puzzled as to what to do for a successor. A Negro, capable of teaching a school, was nowhere near. White young men of the South, generally, looked upon the work of teaching "niggers" with the utmost contempt; and any man who suggested the name of a white young lady of Southern birth as a teacher for the colored children was actually in danger of being shot by any member of the insulted family who could handle a pistol. An advertisement was inserted in the Washington Post to the effect that a teacher was wanted. In answer to this advertisement Mr. Leonard came. He was a man above the medium height, and possessed a frame not large but compactly built. His forehead was low and narrow; while the back of his head looked exceedingly intellectual. Looking at him from the front you would involuntarily exclaim: "What an infamous scoundrel." Looking at him from the rear you would say: "There certainly is brain power in that head." The glance of Mr. Leonard's eye was furtive, and his face was sour looking indeed. At times when he felt that no one was watching him, his whole countenance and attitude betokened the rage of despair. Most people who looked at him felt that he carried in his bosom a dark secret. As to scholarship, he was unquestionably proficient. No white man in all the neighboring section, ranked with him intellectually. Despite the lack of all knowledge of his moral character and previous life, he was pronounced as much too good a man to fritter away his time on "niggers." Such was the character of the man into whose hands was committed the destiny of the colored children of Winchester. As his mother foresaw would be the case, Belton was singled out by the teacher as a special object on which he might expend his spleen. For a man to be as spiteful as he was, there must have been something gnawing at his heart. But toward Bernard none of this evil spirit was manifested. He seemed to have chosen Bernard for his pet, and Belton for his "pet aversion." To the one he was all kindness; while to the other he was cruel in the extreme. Often he would purchase flowers from the florist and give to Bernard to bear home to his mother. On these days he would seemingly take pains to give Belton fresh bruises to take home to _his_ mother. When he had a particularly good dinner he would invite Bernard to dine with him, and would be sure to find some pretext for forbidding Belton to partake of his own common meal. Belton was by no means insensible to all these acts of discrimination. Nor did Bernard fail to perceive that he, himself, was the teacher's pet. He clambered on to the teacher's knees, played with his mustache, and often took his watch and wore it. The teacher seemed to be truly fond of him. The children all ascribed this partiality to the color of Bernard's skin, and they all, except Belton, began to envy and despise Bernard. Of course they told their parents of the teacher's partiality and their parents thus became embittered against the teacher. But however much they might object to him and desire his removal, their united protests would not have had the weight of a feather. So the teacher remained at Winchester for twelve years. During all these years he instructed our young friends Belton and Bernard. Strangely enough, his ardent love for Bernard and his bitter hatred of Belton accomplished the very same result in respect to their acquirements. The teacher soon discovered that both boys were talented far beyond the ordinary, and that both were ambitious. He saw that the way to wound and humiliate Belton was to make Bernard excel him. Thus he bent all of his energies to improve Bernard's mind. Whenever he heard Belton recite he brought all of his talents to bear to point out his failures, hoping thus to exalt Bernard, out of whose work he strove to keep all blemishes. Thus Belton became accustomed to the closest scrutiny, and prepared himself accordingly. The result was that Bernard did not gain an inch on him. The teacher introduced the two boys into every needed field of knowledge, as they grew older, hoping always to find some branch in which Bernard might display unquestioned superiority. There were two studies in which the two rivals dug deep to see which could bring forth the richest treasures; and these gave coloring to the whole of their afterlives. One, was the History of the United States, and the other, Rhetoric. In history, that portion that charmed them most was the story of the rebellion against the yoke of England. Far and wide they went in search of everything that would throw light on this epoch. They became immersed in the spirit of that heroic age. As a part of their rhetorical training they were taught to declaim. Thanks to their absorption in the history of the Revolution, their minds ran to the sublime in literature; and they strove to secure pieces to declaim that recited the most heroic deeds of man, of whatever nationality. Leonidas, Marco Bozarris, Arnold Winklereid, Louis Kossuth, Robert Emmett, Martin Luther, Patrick Henry and such characters furnished the pieces almost invariably declaimed. They threw their whole souls into these, and the only natural thing resulted. No human soul can breathe the atmosphere of heroes and read with bated breath their deeds of daring without craving for the opportunity to do the like. Thus the education of these two young men went on. At the expiration of twelve years they had acquired an academic education that could not be surpassed anywhere in the land. Their reputation as brilliant students and eloquent speakers had spread over the whole surrounding country. The teacher decided to graduate the young men; and he thought to utilize the occasion as a lasting humiliation of Belton and exaltation of his favorite, Bernard Belgrave. Belton felt this. In the first part of this last school year of the boys, he had told them to prepare for a grand commencement exercise, and they acted accordingly. Each one chose his subject and began the preparation of his oration early in the session, each keeping his subject and treatment secret from the other. The teacher had announced that numerous white citizens would be present; among them the congressman from the district and the mayor of the town. Belton determined upon two things, away down in his soul. He determined to win in the oratorical contest, and to get his revenge on his teacher on the day that the teacher had planned for his--(Belton's) humiliation. Bernard did not have the incentive that Belton did; but defeat was ever galling to him, and he, too, had determined to win. The teacher often reviewed the progress made by Bernard on his oration, but did not notice Belton's at all. He strove to make Bernard's oration as nearly perfect as labor and skill could make it. But Belton was not asleep as to either of the resolutions he had formed. Some nights he could be seen stealing away from the congressman's residence. On others he could be seen leaving the neighborhood of the school, with a spade in one hand and a few carpenter's tools in the other. He went to the congressman, who was a polished orator with a national reputation, in order that he might purge his oration from its impurities of speech. As the congressman read the oration and perceived the depth of thought, the logical arrangement, the beauty and rhythm of language, and the wide research displayed, he opened his eyes wide with astonishment. He was amazed that a young man of such uncommon talents could have grown up in his town and he not know it. Belton's marvelous talents won his respect and admiration, and he gave him access to his library and criticized his oration whenever needed. Secretly and silently preparations went on for the grand conflict. At last the day came. The colored men and women of the place laid aside all work to attend the exercises. The forward section of seats was reserved for the white people. The congressman, the mayor, the school trustees and various other men of standing came, accompanied by their wives and daughters. Scholars of various grades had parts to perform on the programme, but the eyes of all sought the bottom of the page where were printed the names of the two oratorical gladiators: "BELTON PIEDMONT. BERNARD BELGRAVE." The teacher had given Bernard the last place, deeming that the more advantageous. He appointed the congressman, the mayor, and one of the school trustees to act as judges, to decide to whom he should award a beautiful gold medal for the more excellent oration. The congressman politely declined and named another trustee in his stead. Then the contest began. As Belton walked up on the platform the children greeted him with applause. He announced as his subject: "The Contribution of the Anglo-Saxon to the Cause of Human Liberty." In his strong, earnest voice, he began to roll off his well turned periods. The whole audience seemed as if in a trance. His words made their hearts burn, and time and again he made them burst forth in applause. The white people who sat and listened to his speech looked upon it as a very revelation to them, they themselves not having had as clear a conception of the glory of their race as this Negro now revealed. When he had finished, white men and women crowded to the front to congratulate him upon his effort, and it was many minutes before quiet was restored sufficiently to allow the programme to proceed. Bernard took his position on the platform, announcing as his subject: "Robert Emmett." His voice was sweet and well modulated and never failed to charm. Admiration was plainly depicted on every face as he proceeded. He brought to bear all the graces of a polished orator, and more than once tears came into the eyes of his listeners. Particularly affecting was his description of Emmett's death. At the conclusion it was evident that his audience felt that it would have been difficult to have handled that subject better. The judges now retired to deliberate as to whom to give the prize. While they are out, let us examine Belton's plans for carrying out the second thing, upon the accomplishment of which he was determined; viz., revenge. In the rear of the schoolhouse, there stood an old wood-shed. For some slight offence the teacher had, two or three years back, made Belton the fire-maker for the balance of his school life instead of passing the task around according to custom. Thus the care of the wood-house had fallen permanently to Belton's lot. During the last year Belton had dug a large hole running from the floor of the wood-shed to a point under the platform of the school room. The dirt from this underground channel he cast into a deep old unused well, not far distant. Once under the platform, he kept on digging, making the hole larger by far. Numerous rocks abounded in the neighborhood, and these he used to wall up his underground room, so that it would hold water. Just in the middle of the school-room platform he cut, from beneath, a square hole, taking in the spot where the teacher invariably stood when addressing the school. He cut the boards until they lacked but a very little, indeed, of being cut through. All looked well above, but a baby would not be safe standing thereon. Belton contrived a kind of prop with a weight attached. This prop would serve to keep the cut section from breaking through. The attached weight was at rest in a hole left in the wall of the cavity near its top. If you dislocated the weight, the momentum that it would gather in the fall would pull down the prop to which it was attached. Finally, Belton fastened a strong rope to the weight, and ran the rope under the schoolhouse floor until it was immediately beneath his seat. With an auger he made a hole in the floor and brought the end through. He managed to keep this bit of rope concealed, while at the same time he had perfect command of his trap door. For two or three nights previous to commencement day Belton had worked until nearly morning filling this cistern with water. Now when through delivering his oration, he had returned to his seat to await the proper moment for the payment of his teacher. The judges were out debating the question as to who had won. They seemed to be unable to decide who was victorious and beckoned for the teacher to step outside. They said: "That black nigger has beat the yellow one all to pieces this time, but we don't like to see nigger blood triumph over any Anglo-Saxon blood. Ain't there any loop-hole where we can give it to Bernard, anyhow?" "Well, yes," said the teacher eagerly, "on the ground of good behavior." "There you hit it," said the Mayor. "So we all decide." The judges filed in, and the Mayor arose to announce their decision. "We award," said he to the breathless audience, "the prize to Bernard Belgrave." "No! no! no!" burst forth from persons all over the house. The congressman arose and went up to Belton and congratulated him upon his triumph over oratory, and lamented his defeat by prejudice. This action caused a perceptible stir in the entire audience. The teacher went to his desk and produced a large gold medal. He took his accustomed place on the platform and began thus: "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the proudest moment of my life." He got no further. Belton had pulled the rope, the rope had caused the weight to fall, and the weight had pulled the prop and down had gone the teacher into a well of water. "Murder! Murder! Murder!" he cried "Help! Help! Help! I am drowning. Take me out, it is cold." The audience rushed forward expecting to find the teacher in a dangerous situation; but they found him standing, apparently unharmed, in a cistern, the water being a little more than waist deep. Their fright gave way to humor and a merry shout went up from the throats of the scholars. The colored men and women laughed to one side, while the white people smiled as though they had admired the feat as a fine specimen of falling from the sublime to the ridiculous. Bending down over the well, the larger students caught hold of the teacher's arms and lifted him out. He stood before the audience wet and shivering, his clothes sticking to him, and water dripping from his hair. The medal was gone. The teacher dismissed the audience, drew his last month's pay and left that night for parts unknown. Sometimes, even a worm will turn when trodden upon. CHAPTER V. BELTON FINDS A FRIEND. Long before the rifle ball, the cannon shot, and the exploding shell were through their fiendish task of covering the earth with mortals slain; while the startled air was yet busy in hurrying to Heaven the groans of the dying soldier, accompanied as they were by the despairing shrieks of his loved ones behind; while horrid War, in frenzied joy, yet waved his bloody sword over the nation's head, and sought with eager eagle eyes every drop of clotted gore over which he might exult; in the midst of such direful days as these, there were those at the North whom the love of God and the eye of faith taught to leap over the scene of strife to prepare the trembling negro for the day of freedom, which, refusing to have a dawn, had burst in meridian splendor upon his dazzled gaze. Into the southland there came rushing consecrated Christians, men and women, eager to provide for the negro a Christian education. Those who stayed behind gathered up hoarded treasures and gladly poured them into the lap of the South for the same laudable purpose. As a result of the coming of this army of workers, bearing in their arms millions of money, ere many years had sped, well nigh every southern state could proudly boast of one or more colleges where the aspiring negro might quench has thirst for knowledge. So when Bernard and Belton had finished their careers at the Winchester public school, colleges abounded in the South beckoning them to enter. Bernard preferred to go to a northern institution, and his mother sent him to enter Harvard University. Belton was poor and had no means of his own with which to pursue his education; but by the hand of providence a most unexpected door was opened to him. The Winchester correspondent of the _Richmond Daily Temps_ reported the commencement exercises of the Winchester public school of the day that Belton graduated. The congressman present at the exercises spoke so highly of Belton's speech that the correspondent secured a copy from Belton and sent it to the editor of _The Temps_. This was printed in _The Temps_ and created a great sensation in political and literary circles in every section of the country. Every newspaper of any consequence reproduced the oration in full. It was published and commented upon by the leading journals of England. The President of the United States wrote a letter of congratulation to Belton. Everywhere the piece was hailed as a classic. After reading the oration, Mr. V.M. King, editor of _The Temps_, decided to take it home with him and read it to his wife. She met him at the door and as he kissed her she noticed that there was a sober look in his eye. Tenderly he brushed back a few stray locks of his wife's hair, saying as he did so, in a somewhat troubled tone: "Wife, it has come at last. May the good Lord cease not to watch over our beloved but erring land." She inquired as to what he meant. He led her to his study and read to her Belton's oration. In order to understand the words which we have just quoted as being spoken by him to his wife, let us, while he reads, become a little better acquainted with Mr. King and his paper, _The Temps_. Mr. King was born and reared in Virginia, was educated at a Northern University, and had sojourned for several years in England. He was a man of the broadest culture. For several years he had given the negro problem most profound study. His views on the subject were regarded by the white people of the South as ultra-liberal. These views he exploited through his paper, _The Temps_, with a boldness and vigor, gaining thereby great notoriety. Though a democrat in politics, he was most bitterly opposed to the practice, almost universal in the South, of cheating the negro out of his right to vote. He preached that it was unjust to the negro and fatal to the morals of the whites. On every possible occasion he viciously assaulted the practice of lynching, denouncing it in most scathing terms. In short, he was an outspoken advocate of giving the negro every right accorded him by the Constitution of the United States. He saw the South leading the young negro boy and girl to school, where, at the expense of the state, they were taught to read history and learn what real liberty was, and the glorious struggles through which the human race had come in order to possess it. He foresaw that the rising, educated negro would allow his eye to linger long on this bloody but glorious page until that most contagious of diseases, devotion to liberty, infected his soul. He reasoned that the negro who had endured the hardships of slavery might spend his time looking back and thanking God for that from which he had made his escape; but the young negro, knowing nothing of physical slavery, would be peering into the future, measuring the distance that he had yet to go before he was truly free, and would be asking God and his own right arm for the power to secure whatever rights were still withheld. He argued that, living as the negro did beneath the American flag, known as the flag of freedom, studying American history, and listening on the outer edge of great Fourth of July crowds to eloquent orators discourse on freedom, it was only a matter of a few years before the negro would deify liberty as the Anglo-Saxon race had done, and count it a joy to perish on her altar. In order that the Republic might ever stand, he knew that the principles of liberty would have to be continually taught with all the eloquence and astuteness at command; and if this teaching had the desired effect upon the white man it would also be powerful enough to awaken the negro standing by his side. So, his ear was to the ground, expecting every moment to hear the far off sounds of awakened negroes coming to ask for liberty, and if refused, to slay or be slain. When he read Belton's oration he saw that the flame of liberty was in his heart, her sword in his hand, and the disdain of death stamped on his brow. He felt that Belton was the morning star which told by its presence that dawn was near at hand. Thus it was that he said to his wife: "Wife, it has come at last. May the good Lord cease not to watch over our beloved land." This expression was not the offspring of fear as to the outcome of a possible conflict, for, Anglo-Saxon like, that was with him a foregone conclusion in favor of his own race. But he shuddered at the awful carnage that would of necessity ensue if two races, living house to house, street to street, should be equally determined upon a question at issue, equally disdainful of life, fighting with the rancor always attendant upon a struggle between two races that mutually despise and detest each other. He knew that it was more humane, more in accordance with right, more acceptable with God, to admit to the negro that Anglo-Saxon doctrine of the equality of man was true, rather than to murder the negro for accepting him at his word, though spoken to others. Feeling thus, he pleaded with his people to grant to the negro his rights, though he never hinted at a possible rebellion, for fear that the mention of it might hasten the birth of the idea in the brain of the negro. That evening, after he had read the oration to his wife and told her of his forebodings, he sat with his face buried in his hands, brooding over the situation. Late in the night he retired to rest, and the next morning, when he awoke, his wife was standing by his bed, calling him. She saw that his sleep was restless and thought that he was having troubled dreams. And so he was. He dreamed that a large drove of fatted swine were munching acorns in a very dense forest of oaks, both tall and large. The oaks were sending the acorns down in showers, and the hogs were greedily consuming them. The hogs ate so many that they burst open, and from their rotting carcasses fresh oaks sprang and grew with surprising rapidity. A dark cloud arose and a terrible hurricane swept over the forest; and the old and new oaks fought furiously in the storm, until a loud voice, like unto that of a God, cried out above all the din of the hurricane, saying in tones of thunder: "Know ye not that ye are parents and children? Parents, recognize your children. Children, be proud of the parents from whom you spring." The hurricane ceased, the clouds sped away as if in terror, and the oaks grew up together under a clear sky of the purest blue, and beautiful birds of all kinds built their nests in the trees, and carolled forth the sweetest songs. He placed upon the dream the following interpretation: The swine were the negroes. The oak trees were the white people. The acorns were the doctrine of human liberty, everywhere preached by Anglo-Saxons. The negroes, feasting off of the same thought, had become the same kind of being as the white man, and grew up to a point of equality. The hurricane was the contest between the two races over the question of equality. The voice was intended to inform the whites that they had brought about these aspirations in the bosom of the negro, and that the liberty-loving negro was their legitimate offspring, and not a bastard. The whites should recognize their own doings. On the other hand, the negro should not be over boastful, and should recognize that the lofty conception of the dignity of man and value and true character of liberty were taught him by the Anglo-Saxon. The birds betokened a happy adjustment of all differences; and the dream that began in the gloom of night ended in the dawn of day. Mr. King was very cheerful, therefore, and decided to send to Winchester for Belton, thinking that it might be a wise thing to keep an eye and a friendly hand on a young negro of such promise. In the course of a couple of days, Belton, in response to his request, arrived in Richmond. He called at the office of _The Temps_ and was ushered into Mr. King's office. Mr. King had him take a seat. He enquired of Belton his history, training, etc. He also asked as to his plans for the future. Finding that Belton was desirous of securing a college education, but was destitute of funds, Mr. King gladly embraced the opportunity of displaying his kind interest. He offered to pay Belton's way through college, and the offer was gladly accepted. He told Belton to call at his home that evening at seven o'clock to receive a check for his entire college course. At the appointed hour Belton appeared at Mr. King's residence. Mr. King was sitting on his front porch, between his wife and aged mother, while his two children, a girl and boy, were playing on the lawn. Belton was invited to take a seat, much to his surprise. Seeing a stranger, the children left their play and came to their father, one on each side. They looked with questioning eyes from father to Belton, as if seeking to know the purpose of the visit. Mr. King took the check from his pocket and extended it toward Belton, and said: "Mr. Piedmont, this will carry you through college. I have only one favor to ask of you. In all your dealings with my people recognize the fact that there are two widely separated classes of us, and that there is a good side to the character of the worst class. Always seek for and appeal to that side of their nature." Belton very feelingly thanked Mr. King, and assured him that he would treasure his words. He was true to his promise, and decided from that moment to never class all white men together, whatever might be the provocation, and to never regard any class as totally depraved. This is one of the keys to his future life. Remember it. CHAPTER VI. A YOUNG REBEL. In the city of Nashville, Tennessee, there is a far famed institution of learning called Stowe University, in honor of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." This institution was one of the many scores of its kind, established in the South by Northern philanthropy, for the higher education of the Negro. Though called a university, it was scarcely more than a normal school with a college department attached. It was situated just on the outskirts of the city, on a beautiful ten-acre plot of ground. The buildings were five in number, consisting of a dormitory for young men, two for young ladies, a building for recitations, and another, called the teachers' mansion; for the teachers resided there. These buildings were very handsome, and were so arranged upon the level campus as to present a very attractive sight. With the money which had been so generously given him by Mr. King, Belton entered this school. That was a proud day in his life when he stepped out of the carriage and opened the University gate, feeling that he, a Negro, was privileged to enter college. Julius Cæsar, on entering Rome in triumph, with the world securely chained to his chariot wheels; Napoleon, bowing to receive the diadem of the Cæsars' won by the most notable victories ever known to earth; General Grant, on his triumphal tour around the globe, when kings and queens were eager rivals to secure from this man of humble birth the sweeter smile; none of these were more full of pleasurable emotion than this poor Negro lad, who now with elastic step and beating heart marched with head erect beneath the arch of the doorway leading into Stowe University. Belton arrived on the Saturday preceding the Monday on which school would open for that session. He found about three hundred and sixty students there from all parts of the South, the young women outnumbering the young men in about the proportion of two to one. On the Sunday night following his arrival the students all assembled in the general assembly room of the recitation building, which room, in the absence of a chapel, was used as the place for religious worship. The president of the school, a venerable white minister from the North, had charge of the service that evening. He did not on this occasion preach a sermon, but devoted the hour to discoursing upon the philanthropic work done by the white people of the North for the freedmen of the South. A map of the United States was hanging on the wall, facing the assembled school. On this map there were black dots indicating all places where a school of learning had been planted for the colored people by their white friends of the North. Belton sat closely scrutinizing the map. His eyes swept from one end to the other. Persons were allowed to ask any questions desired, and Belton was very inquisitive. When the hour of the lecture was over he was deeply impressed with three thoughts: First, his heart went out in love to those who had given so freely of their means and to those who had dedicated their lives to the work of uplifting his people. Secondly, he saw an immense army of young men and women being trained in the very best manner in every section of the South, to go forth to grapple with the great problems before them. He felt proud of being a member of so promising an army, and felt that they were to determine the future of the race. In fact, this thought was reiterated time and again by the president. Thirdly, Belton was impressed that it was the duty of those receiving such great blessings to accomplish achievements worthy of the care bestowed. He felt that the eyes of the North and of the civilized world were upon them to see the fruits of the great labor and money spent upon them. Before he retired to rest that night, he besought God to enable him and his people, as a mark of appreciation of what had been done for the race, to rise to the full measure of just expectation and prove worthy of all the care bestowed. He went through school, therefore, as though the eyes of the world were looking at the race enquiringly; the eyes of the North expectantly; and the eyes of God lovingly,--three grand incentives to his soul. When these schools were first projected, the White South that then was, fought them with every weapon at its command. Ridicule, villification, ostracism, violence, arson, murder were all employed to hinder the progress of the work. Outsiders looked on and thought it strange that they should do this. But, just as a snake, though a venomous animal, by instinct knows its enemy and fights for its life with desperation, just so the Old South instinctively foresaw danger to its social fabric as then constituted, and therefore despised and fought the agencies that were training and inspiring the future leaders of the Negro race in such a manner as to render a conflict inevitable and of doubtful termination. The errors in the South, anxious for eternal life, rightfully feared these schools more than they would have feared factories making powder, moulding balls and fashioning cannons. But the New South, the South that, in the providence of God, is yet to be, could not have been formed in the womb of time had it not been for these schools. And so the receding murmurs of the scowling South that was, are lost in the gladsome shouts of the South which, please God, is yet to be. But lest we linger too long, let us enter school here with Belton. On the Monday following the Sunday night previously indicated, Belton walked into the general assembly room to take his seat with the other three hundred and sixty pupils. It was the custom for the school to thus assemble for devotional exercises. The teachers sat in a row across the platform, facing the pupils. The president sat immediately in front of the desk, in the center of the platform, and the teachers sat on either side of him. To Belton's surprise, he saw a colored man sitting on the right side of and next to the president. He was sitting there calmly, self-possessed, exactly like the rest. He crossed his legs and stroked his beard in a most matter of fact way. Belton stared at this colored man, with his lips apart and his body bent forward. He let his eyes scan the faces of all the white teachers, male and female, but would end up with a stare at the colored man sitting there. Finally, he hunched his seat-mate with his elbow and asked what man that was. He was told that it was the colored teacher of the faculty. Belton knew that there was a colored teacher in the school but he had no idea that he would be thus honored with a seat with the rest of the teachers. A broad, happy smile spread over his face, and his eyes danced with delight. He had, in his boyish heart, dreamed of the equality of the races and sighed and hoped for it; but here, he beheld it in reality. Though he, as a rule, shut his eyes when prayer was being offered, he kept them open that morning, and peeped through his fingers at that thrilling sight,--a colored man on equal terms with the white college professors. Just before the classes were dismissed to their respective class rooms, the teachers came together in a group to discuss some matter, in an informal way. The colored teacher was in the center of the group and discussed the matter as freely as any; and he was listened to with every mark of respect. Belton kept a keen watch on the conference and began rubbing his hands and chuckling to himself with delight at seeing the colored teacher participating on equal terms with the other teachers. The colored teacher's views seemed about to prevail, and as one after another the teachers seemed to fall in line with him Belton could not contain himself longer, but clapped his hands and gave a loud, joyful, "Ha! ha!" The eyes of the whole school were on him in an instant, and the faculty turned around to discover the source and cause of the disorder. But Belton had come to himself as soon as he made the noise, and in a twinkling was as quiet and solemn looking as a mouse. The faculty resumed its conference and the students passed the query around as to what was the matter with the "newcomer." A number tapped their heads significantly, saying: "Wrong here." How far wrong were they! They should have put their hands over their hearts and said: "The fire of patriotism here;" for Belton had here on a small scale, the gratification of the deepest passion of his soul, viz., Equality of the races. And what pleased him as much as anything else was the dignified, matter of fact way in which the teacher bore his honors. Belton afterwards discovered that this colored man was vice-president of the faculty. On a morning, later in the session, the president announced that the faculty would hold its regular weekly meeting that evening, but that he would have to be in the city to attend to other masters. Belton's heart bounded at the announcement. Knowing that the colored teacher was vice-president of the faculty, he saw that he would preside. Belton determined to see that meeting of the faculty if it cost him no end of trouble. He could not afford, under any circumstances, to fail to see that colored man preside over those white men and women. That night, about 8:30 o'clock, when the faculty meeting had progressed about half way, Belton made a rope of his bed clothes and let himself down to the ground from the window of his room on the second floor of the building. About twenty yards distant was the "mansion," in one room of which the teachers held their faculty meetings. The room in which the meeting was held was on the side of the "mansion" furthest from the dormitory from which Belton had just come. The "mansion" dog was Belton's friend, and a soft whistle quieted his bark. Belton stole around to the side of the house, where the meeting was being held. The weather was mild and the window was hoisted. Belton fell on his knees and crawled to the window, and pulling it up cautiously peeped in. He saw the colored teacher in the chair in the center of the room and others sitting about here and there. He gazed with rapture on the sight. He watched, unmolested, for a long while. One of the lady teachers was tearing up a piece of paper and arose to come to the window to throw it out. Belton was listening, just at that time, to what the colored teacher was saying, and did not see the lady coming in his direction. Nor did the lady see the form of a man until she was near at hand. At the sight she threw up her hands and screamed loudly from fright. Belton turned and fled precipitately. The chicken-coop door had been accidentally left open and Belton, unthinkingly, jumped into the chicken house. The chickens set up a lively cackle, much to his chagrin. He grasped an old rooster to stop him, but missing the rooster's throat, the rooster gave the alarm all the more vociferously. Teachers had now crowded to the window and were peering out. Some of the men started to the door to come out. Belton saw this movement and decided that the best way for him to do was to play chicken thief and run. Grasping a hen with his other hand, he darted out of the chicken house and fled from the college ground, the chickens squalling all the while. He leapt the college fence at a bound and wrung off the heads of the chickens to stop the noise. The teachers decided that they had been visited by a Negro, hunting for chickens; laughed heartily at their fright and resumed deliberations. Thus again a patriot was mistaken for a chicken thief; and in the South to-day a race that dreams of freedom, equality, and empire, far more than is imagined, is put down as a race of chicken thieves. As in Belton's case, this conception diverts attention from places where startling things would otherwise be discovered. In due time Belton crept back to the dormitory, and by a signal agreed upon, roused his room-mate, who let down the rope, by means of which he ascended; and when seated gave his room-mate an account of his adventure. Sometime later on, Belton in company with another student was sent over to a sister University in Nashville to carry a note for the president. This University also had a colored teacher who was one point in advance of Belton's. This teacher ate at the same table with the white teachers, while Belton's teacher ate with the students. Belton passed by the dining room of the teachers of this sister University and saw the colored teacher enjoying a meal with the white teachers. He could not enjoy the sight as much as he would have liked, from thinking about the treatment his teacher was receiving. He had not, prior to this, thought of that discrimination, but now it burned him. He returned to his school and before many days had passed he had called together all the male students. He informed them that they ought to perfect a secret organization and have a password. They all agreed to secrecy and Belton gave this as the pass word: "Equality or Death." He then told them that it was his ambition and purpose to coerce the white teachers into allowing the colored teacher to eat with them. They all very readily agreed; for the matter of his eating had been thoroughly canvassed for a number of sessions, but it seemed as though no one dared to suggest a combination. During slavery all combinations of slaves were sedulously guarded against, and a fear of combinations seems to have been injected into the Negro's very blood. The very boldness of Belton's idea swept the students away from the lethargic harbor in which they had been anchored, and they were eager for action. Belton was instructed to prepare the complaint, which they all agreed to sign. They decided that it was to be presented to the president just before devotional exercises and an answer was to be demanded forthwith. One of the young men had a sister among the young lady students, and, through her Belton's rebellion was organized among the girls and their signatures secured. The eventful morning came. The teachers glanced over the assembled students, and were surprised to see them dressed in their best clothes as though it was the Sabbath. There was a quiet satisfied look on their faces that the teachers did not understand. The president arrived a little late and found an official envelope on his desk. He hurriedly broke the seal and began to read. His color came and went. The teachers looked at him wonderingly. The president laid the document aside and began the devotional exercises. He was nervous throughout, and made several blunders. He held his hymn book upside down while they were singing, much to the amusement of the school. It took him some time to find the passage of scripture which he desired to read, and after reading forgot for some seconds to call on some one to pray. When the exercises were through he arose and took the document nervously in hand. He said; "I have in my hands a paper from the students of this institution concerning a matter with which they have nothing to do. This is my answer. The classes will please retire." Here he gave three strokes to the gong, the signal for dispersion. But not a student moved. The president was amazed. He could not believe his own eyes. He rang the gong a second time and yet no one moved. He then in nervous tones repeated his former assertions and then pulled the gong nervously many times in succession. All remained still. At a signal from Belton, all the students lifted their right hands, each bearing a small white board on which was printed in clear type: "Equality or Death." The president fell back, aghast, and the white teachers were all struck dumb with fear. They had not dreamed that a combination of their pupils was possible, and they knew not what it foreboded. A number grasped the paper that was giving so much trouble and read it. They all then held a hurried consultation and assured the students that the matter should receive due attention. The president then rang the gong again but the students yet remained. Belton then arose and stated that it was the determination of the students to not move an inch unless the matter was adjusted then and there. And that faculty of white teachers beat a hasty retreat and held up the white flag! They agreed that the colored teacher should eat with them. The students broke forth into cheering, and flaunted a black flag on which was painted in white letters; "Victory." They rose and marched out of doors two by two, singing "John Brown's Body lies mouldering in the grave, and we go marching on." The confused and bewildered teachers remained behind, busy with their thoughts. They felt like hens who had lost their broods. The cringing, fawning, sniffling, cowardly Negro which slavery left, had disappeared, and a new Negro, self-respecting, fearless, and determined in the assertion of his rights was at hand. Ye who chronicle history and mark epochs in the career of races and nations must put here a towering, gigantic, century stone, as marking the passing of one and the ushering in of another great era in the history of the colored people of the United States. Rebellions, for one cause or another, broke out in almost every one of these schools presided over by white faculties, and as a rule, the Negro students triumphed. These men who engineered and participated in these rebellions were the future leaders of their race. In these rebellions, they learned the power of combinations, and that white men could be made to capitulate to colored men under certain circumstances. In these schools, probably one hundred thousand students had these thoughts instilled in them. These one hundred thousand went to their respective homes and told of their prowess to their playmates who could not follow them to the college walls. In the light of these facts the great events yet to be recorded are fully accounted for. Remember that this was Belton's first taste of rebellion against the whites for the securing of rights denied simply because of color. In after life he is the moving, controlling, guiding spirit in one on a far larger scale; it need not come as a surprise. His teachers and school-mates predicted this of him. CHAPTER VII. A SERMON, A SOCK AND A FIGHT. Belton remained at Stowe University, acquiring fame as an orator and scholar. His intellect was pronounced by all to be marvelously bright. We now pass over all his school career until we come to the closing days of the session in which he graduated. School was to close on Thursday, and the Sunday night previous had been designated as the time for the Baccalaureate sermon. On this occasion the entire school assembled in the general assembly room,--the graduating class occupying the row of front seats stretching across the room. The class, this year, numbered twenty-five; and they presented an appearance that caused the hearts of the people to swell with pride. Dr. Lovejoy, president of the University, was to preach the sermon. He chose for his text, "The Kingdom of God is within us." We shall choose from his discourse just such thoughts as may throw light upon some events yet to be recorded, which might not otherwise be accounted for: "Young men, we shall soon push you forth into the midst of a turbulent world, to play such a part as the voice of God may assign you. You go forth, amid the shouts and huzzahs of cheering friends, and the anxious prayers of the faithful of God. The part that you play, the character of your return journey, triumphant or inglorious, will depend largely upon how well you have learned the lesson of this text. Remember that the kingdom of God is within you. Do not go forth into the world to demand favors of the world, but go forth to give unto the world. Be strong in your own hearts. "The world is like unto a wounded animal that has run a long way and now lies stretched upon the ground, the blood oozing forth from gaping wounds and pains darting through its entire frame. The huntsman, who comes along to secure and drink the feverish milk of this animal that is all but a rotting carcass, seriously endangers his own well being. So, young men, do not look upon this dying, decaying world to feed and support you. You must feed and support it. Carry fresh, warm, invigorating blood in your veins to inject into the veins of the world. This is far safer and nobler than sticking the lance into the swollen veins of the world, to draw forth its putrid blood for your own use. I not only exhort you but I warn you. You may go to this dying animal as a surgeon, and proceed to cut off the sound portions for your own use. You may deceive the world for awhile, but it will, ere long, discover whether you are a vandal or a surgeon; and if it finds you to be the former, when you are closest to its bosom, it will squeeze you tightly and tear your face to shreds. "I wish now to apply these thoughts to your immediate circumstances. "You shall be called upon to play a part in the adjusting of positions between the negro and Anglo-Saxon races of the South. The present status of affairs cannot possibly remain. The Anglo-Saxon race must surrender some of its outposts, and the negro will occupy these. To bring about this evacuation on the part of the Anglo-Saxon, and the forward march of the negro, will be your task. This is a grave and delicate task, fraught with much good or evil, weal or woe. Let us urge you to undertake it in the spirit to benefit the world, and not merely to advance your own glory. "The passions of men will soon be running high, and by feeding these passions with the food for which they clamor you may attain the designation of a hero. But, with all the energy of my soul, I exhort you to not play with fire, merely for the sake of the glare that it may cast upon you. Use no crisis for self-aggrandizement. Be so full of your own soul's wealth that these temptations may not appeal to you. When your vessel is ploughing the roughest seas and encountering the fiercest gales, consult as your chart the welfare of the ship and crew, though you may temporarily lose fame as a captain. "Young men, you are highly favored of God. A glorious destiny awaits your people. The gates of the beautiful land of the future are flung wide. Your people stand before these gates peering eagerly within. They are ready to march. They are waiting for their commanders and the command to move forward. You are the commanders who must give the command. I urge, I exhort, I beseech you, my dear boys, to think not of yourselves. Let your kingdom be within. Lead them as they ought to be led, taking no thought to your own glory. "If you heed my voice you shall become true patriots. If you disregard it, you will become time-serving demagogues, playing upon the passions of the people for the sake of short-lived notoriety. Such men would corral all the tigers in the forest and organize them into marauding regiments simply for the honor of being in the lead. Be ye none of these, my boys. May your Alma Mater never feel called upon to cry to God in anguish to paralyze the hand that she herself has trained. "Be not a burrowing parasite, feasting off of the world's raw blood. Let the world draw life from you. Use not the misfortunes of your people as stones of a monument erected to your name. If you do, the iron fist of time will knock it over on your grave to crumble your decaying bones to further dust. "Always serve the world as the voice of good conscience, instructed by a righteous God, may direct. Do this and thou shalt live; live in the sweetened memory of your countrymen; live in the heart of your Alma Mater; live when the earth is floating dust, when the stars are dead, when the sun is a charred and blackened ruin; live on the bosom of your Savior, by the throne of his God, in the eternal Heavens." The teacher's soul was truly in his discourse and his thoughts sank deep into the hearts of his hearers. None listened more attentively than Belton. None were more deeply impressed than he. None more readily incorporated the principles enumerated as a part of their living lives. When the preacher sat down he bowed his head in his hands. His frame shook. His white locks fluttered in the gentle spring breeze. In silence he prayed. He earnestly implored God to not allow his work and words to be in vain. The same fervent prayer was on Belton's lips, rising from the center of his soul. Somewhere, these prayers met, locked arms and went before God together. In due time the answer came. This sermon had much to do with Belton's subsequent career. But an incident apparently trivial in itself was the occasion of a private discourse that had even greater influence over him. It occurred on Thursday following the night of the delivery of the sermon just reported. It was on this wise: Belton had, in everything, excelled his entire class, and was, according to the custom, made valedictorian. His room-mate was insanely jealous of him, and sought every way possible to humiliate him. He had racked his brain for a scheme to play on Belton on commencement day, and he at last found one that gave him satisfaction. There was a student in Stowe University who was noted for his immense height and for the size and scent of his feet. His feet perspired freely, summer and winter, and the smell was exceedingly offensive. On this account he roomed to himself. Whenever other students called to see him he had a very effective way of getting rid of them, when he judged that they had stayed long enough. He would complain of a corn and forthwith pull off a shoe. If his room was crowded, this act invariably caused it to be empty. The fame of these feet spread to the teachers and young ladies, and, in fact, to the city. And the huge Mississippian seemed to relish the distinction. Whenever Belton was to deliver an oration he always arranged his clothes the night beforehand. So, on the Wednesday night of the week in question, he carefully brushed and arranged his clothes for the next day. In the valedictory there were many really touching things, and in rehearsing it before his room-mate Belton had often shed tears. Fearing that he might he so touched that tears would come to his eyes in the final delivery, he had bought a most beautiful and costly silk handkerchief. He carefully stowed this away in the tail pocket of his handsome Prince Albert suit of lovely black. He hung his coat in the wardrobe, very carefully, so that he would merely have to take it down and put it on the next day. His room-mate watched his movements closely, but slyly. He arose when he saw Belton hang his coat up. He went down the corridor until he arrived at the room occupied by the Mississippian. He knocked, and after some little delay, was allowed to enter. The Mississippian was busy rehearsing his oration and did not care to be bothered. But he sat down to entertain Belton's room-mate for a while. He did not care to rehearse his oration before him and he felt able to rout him at any time. They conversed on various things for a while, when Belton's room-mate took up a book and soon appeared absorbed in reading. He was sitting on one side of a study table in the center of the room while the Mississippian was on the other. Thinking that his visitor had now stayed about long enough, the Mississippian stooped down quietly and removed one shoe. He slyly watched Belton's room-mate, chuckling inwardly. But his fun died away into a feeling of surprise when he saw that his shoeless foot was not even attracting attention. He stooped down and pulled off the other shoe, and his surprise developed into amazement when he saw that the combined attack produced no result. Belton's room-mate seemed absorbed in reading. The Mississippian next pulled off his coat and pretending to yawn and stretch, lifted his arms just so that the junction of his arm with his shoulder was on a direct line with his visitor's nose. Belton's room-mate made a slight grimace, but kept on reading. The Mississippian was dumbfounded. He then signified his intention of retiring to bed and undressed, eyeing his visitor all the while, hoping that the scent of his whole body would succeed. He got into bed and was soon snoring loudly enough to be heard two or three rooms away; but Belton's room-mate seemed to pay no attention to the snoring. The Mississippian gave up the battle in disgust, saying to himself: "That fellow regards scents and noises just as though he was a buzzard, hatched in a cleft of the roaring Niagara Falls." So saying, he fell asleep in reality and the snoring increased in volume and speed. Belton's room-mate now took a pair of large new socks out of his pocket and put them into the Mississippian's shoes, from which he took the dirty socks already there. Having these dirty socks, he quietly tips out of the room and returns to his and Belton's room. Belton desired to make the speech of his life the next day, and had retired to rest early so as to be in prime nervous condition for the effort. His room-mate stole to the wardrobe and stealthily extracted the silk handkerchief and put these dirty socks in its stead. Belton was then asleep, perhaps dreaming of the glories of the morrow. Thursday dawned and Belton arose, fresh and vigorous. He was cheerful and buoyant that day; he was to graduate bedecked with all the honors of his class. Mr. King, his benefactor, was to be present. His mother had saved up her scant earnings and had come to see her son wind up the career on which she had sent him forth, years ago. The assembly room was decorated with choice flowers and presented the appearance of the Garden of Eden. On one side of the room sat the young lady pupils, while on the other the young men sat. Visitors from the city came in droves and men of distinction sat on the platform. The programme was a good one, but all eyes dropped to the bottom in quest of Belton's name; for his fame as an orator was great, indeed. The programme passed off as arranged, giving satisfaction and whetting the appetite for Belton's oration. The president announced Belton's name amid a thundering of applause. He stepped forth and cast a tender look in the direction of the fair maiden who had contrived to send him that tiny white bud that showed up so well on his black coat. He moved to the center of the platform and was lustily cheered, he walked with such superb grace and dignity. He began his oration, capturing his audience with his first sentence and bearing them along on the powerful pinions of his masterly oratory; and when his peroration was over the audience drew its breath and cheered wildly for many, many minutes. He then proceeded to deliver the valedictory to the class. After he had been speaking for some time, his voice began to break with emotion. As he drew near to the most affecting portion he reached to his coat tail pocket to secure his silk handkerchief to brush away the gathering tears. As his hand left his pocket a smile was on well-nigh every face in the audience, but Belton did not see this, but with bowed head, proceeded with his pathetic utterances. The audience of course was struggling between the pathos of his remarks and the humor of those dirty socks. Belton's sweetheart began to cry from chagrin and his mother grew restless, anxious to tell him or let him know in some way. Belton's head continued bowed in sadness, as he spoke parting words to his beloved classmates, and lifted his supposed handkerchief to his eyes to wipe away the tears that were now coming freely. The socks had thus come close to Belton's nose and he stopped of a sudden and held them at arm's length to gaze at that terrible, terrible scent producer. When he saw what he held in his hand he flung them in front of him, they falling on some students, who hastily brushed them off. The house, by this time, was in an uproar of laughter; and the astonished Belton gazed blankly at the socks lying before him. His mind was a mass of confusion. He hardly knew where he was or what he was doing. Self-possession, in a measure, returned to him, and he said: "Ladies and gentlemen, these socks are from Mississippi. I am from Virginia." This reference to the Mississippian was greeted by an even louder outburst of laughter. Belton bowed and left the platform, murmuring that he would find and kill the rascal who had played that trick on him. The people saw the terrible frown on his face, and the president heard the revengeful words, and all feared that the incident was not closed. Belton hurried out of the speakers' room and hastily ran to the city to purchase a pistol. Having secured it, he came walking back at a furious pace. By this time the exercises were over and friends were returning to town. They desired to approach Belton and compliment him, and urge him to look lightly on his humorous finale; but he looked so desperate that none dared to approach him. The president was on the lookout for Belton and met him at the door of the boys' dormitory. He accosted Belton tenderly and placed his hand on his shoulder. Belton roughly pushed him aside and strode into the building and roamed through it, in search of his room-mate, whom he now felt assured did him the trick. But his room-mate, foreseeing the consequences of detection, had made beforehand every preparation for leaving and was now gone. No one could quiet Belton during that whole day, and he spent the night meditating plans for wreaking vengeance. The next morning the president came over early, and entering Belton's room, was more kindly received. He took Belton's hand in his and sat down near his side. He talked to Belton long and earnestly, showing him what an unholy passion revenge was. He showed that such a passion would mar any life that yielded to it. Belton, he urged, was about to allow a pair of dirty socks to wreck his whole life. He drew a picture of the suffering Savior, crying out between darting pains the words of the sentence, the most sublime ever uttered: "Lord forgive them for they know not what they do." Belton was melted to tears of repentance for his unholy passion. Before the president left Belton's side he felt sure that henceforth a cardinal principle of his life would be to allow God to avenge all his wrongs. It was a narrow escape for Belton; but he thanked God for the lesson, severe as it was, to the day of his death. The world will also see how much it owes to God for planting that lesson in Belton's heart. Let us relate just one more incident that happened at the winding up of Belton's school life. As we have intimated, one young lady, a student of the school, was very near to Belton. Though he did not love her, his regard for her was very deep and his respect very great. School closed on Thursday, and the students were allowed to remain in the buildings until the following Monday, when, ordinarily, they left. The young men were allowed to provide conveyances for the young ladies to get to the various depots. They esteemed that a very great privilege. Belton, as you know, was a very poor lad and had but little money. After paying his expenses incident to his graduation, and purchasing a ticket home, he now had just one dollar and a quarter left. Out of this one dollar and a quarter he was to pay for a carriage ride of this young lady friend to the railway station. This, ordinarily, cost one dollar, and Belton calculated on having a margin of twenty-five cents. But you would have judged him the happy possessor of a large fortune, merely to look at him. The carriage rolled up to the girls' dormitory and Belton's friend stood on the steps, with her trunks, three in number. When Belton saw that his friend had three trunks, his heart sank. In order to be sure against exorbitant charges the drivers were always made to announce their prices before the journey was commenced. A crowd of girls was standing around to bid the young lady adieu. In an off-hand way Belton said: "Driver what is your fee?" He replied: "For you and the young lady and the trunks, two dollars, sir." Belton almost froze in his tracks, but, by the most heroic struggling, showed no signs of discomfiture on his face. Endeavoring to affect an air of indifference, he said: "What is the price for the young lady and the trunks?" "One dollar and fifty cents." Belton's eyes were apparently fixed on some spot in the immensity of space. The driver, thinking that he was meditating getting another hackman to do the work, added: "You can call any hackman you choose and you won't find one who will do it for a cent less." Belton's last prop went with this statement. He turned to his friend smilingly and told her to enter, with apparently as much indifference as a millionaire. He got in and sat by her side; but knew not how on earth he was to get out of his predicament. The young lady chatted gayly and wondered at Belton's dullness. Belton, poor fellow, was having a tough wrestle with poverty and was trying to coin something out of nothing. Now and then, at some humorous remark, he would smile a faint, sickly smile. Thus it went on until they arrived at the station. Belton by this time decided upon a plan of campaign. They alighted from the carriage and Belton escorted his friend into the coach. He then came back to speak to the driver. He got around the corner of the station house, out of sight of the train and beckoned for the driver to come to him. The driver came and Belton said: "Friend, here is one dollar and a quarter. It is all I have. Trust me for the balance until tomorrow." "Oh! no," replied the driver. "I must have my money to-day. I have to report to-night and my money must go in. Just fork over the balance, please." "Well," said Belton rather independently--for he felt that he now had the upper hand,--"I have given you all the money that I have. And you have got to trust me for the balance. You can't take us back," and Belton started to walk away. The driver said: "May be that girl has some money. I'll see her." Terror immediately seized Belton, and he clutched at the man eagerly, saying: "Ah, no, now, don't resort to any such foolishness. Can't you trust a fellow?" Belton was now talking very persuasively. The driver replied: "I don't do business that way. If I had known that you did not have the money I would not have brought you. I am going to the young lady." Belton was now thoroughly frightened and very angry; and he planted himself squarely in front of the driver and said: "You shall do no such thing!" The driver heard the train blow and endeavored to pass. Belton grasped him by the collar and putting a leg quickly behind him, tripped him to the ground, falling on top of him. The driver struggled, but Belton succeeded in getting astride of him and holding him down. The train shortly pulled out, and Belton jumped up and ran to wave a good-bye to his girl friend. Later in the day, the driver had him arrested and the police justice fined him ten dollars. A crowd of white men who heard Belton's story, admired his respect for the girl, and paid the fine for him and made up a purse. At Stowe University, Belton had learned to respect women. It was in these schools that the work of slavery in robbing the colored women of respect, was undone. Woman now occupied the same position in Belton's eye as she did in the eye of the Anglo-Saxon. There is hope for that race or nation that respects its women. It was for the smile of a woman that the armored knight of old rode forth to deeds of daring. It is for the smile of women that the soldier of to-day endures the hardships of the camp and braves the dangers of the field of battle. The heart of man will joyfully consent to be torn to pieces if the lovely hand of woman will only agree to bind the parts together again and heal the painful wounds. The Negro race had left the last relic of barbarism behind, and this young negro, fighting to keep that cab driver from approaching the girl for a fee, was but a forerunner of the negro, who, at the voice of a woman, will fight for freedom until he dies, fully satisfied if the hand that he worships will only drop a flower on his grave. Belton's education was now complete, as far as the school-room goes. What will he do with it? CHAPTER VIII. MANY MYSTERIES CLEARED UP. On the day prior to the one on which Bernard first entered the public school of Winchester, Fairfax Belgrave had just arrived in the town. A costly residence, beautifully located and furnished in the most luxurious manner, was on the eve of being sold. Mrs. Belgrave purchased this house and installed herself as mistress thereof. Here she lived in isolation with her boy, receiving no callers and paying no visits. Being a devoted Catholic, she attended all the services of her church and reared Bernard in that faith. For a time white and colored people speculated much as to who Mrs. Belgrave was, and as to what was the source of her revenue; for she was evidently a woman of wealth. She employed many servants and these were plied with thousands of questions by people of both races. But the life of Mrs. Belgrave was so circumspect, so far removed from anything suspicious, and her bearing was so evidently that of a woman of pure character and high ideals that speculation died out after a year or two, and the people gave up the finding out of her history as a thing impossible of achievement. With seemingly unlimited money at her command, all of Bernard's needs were supplied and his lightest wishes gratified. Mrs. Belgrave was a woman with very superior education. The range of her reading was truly remarkable. She possessed the finest library ever seen in the northern section of Virginia, and all the best of the latest books were constantly arriving at her home. Magazines and newspapers arrived by every mail. Thus she was thoroughly abreast with the times. As Bernard grew up, he learned to value associating with his mother above every other pleasure. She superintended his literary training and cultivated in him a yearning for literature of the highest and purest type. Politics, science, art, religion, sociology, and, in fact, the whole realm of human knowledge was invaded and explored. Such home training was an invaluable supplement to what Bernard received in school. When, therefore, he entered Harvard, he at once moved to the front rank in every particular. Many white young men of wealth and high social standing, attracted by his brilliancy, drew near him and became his fast friends. In his graduating year, he was so popular as to be elected president of his class, and so scholarly as to be made valedictorian. These achievements on his part were so remarkable that the Associated Press telegraphed the news over the country, and many were the laudatory notices that he received. The night of his graduation, when he had finished delivering his oration that swept all before it as does the whirlwind and the hurricane, as he stepped out of the door to take his carriage for home, a tall man with a broad face and long flowing beard stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Bernard turned and the man handed him a note. Tearing the envelope open he saw in his mother's well known handwriting the following: "Dear Bernie: "Follow this man and trust him as you would your loving mother. "Fairfax Belgrave." Bernard dismissed his carriage, ordered to take him to his lodging, and spoke to the man who had accosted him, saying that he was at his service. They walked a distance and soon were at the railroad station. They boarded the train and in due time arrived in Washington, D.C., Bernard asking no questions, knowing that a woman as habitually careful as his mother did not send that message without due care and grave purpose. In Washington they took a carriage and were driven to one of the most fashionable portions of the city, and stopped before a mansion of splendid appearance. Bernard's escort led the way into the house, having a key to which all of the doors responded. Bernard was left in the parlor and told to remain until some one called for him. The tall man with long flowing beard went to his room and removed his disguise. In a few minutes a negro servant, sent by this man, appeared and led Bernard to a room in the rear of the house on the second floor. It was a large room having two windows, one facing the east and the other the north. As he stepped into the room he saw sitting directly facing him a white man, tall and of a commanding appearance. His hair, and for that matter his whole noble looking head and handsome face bore a striking resemblance to Bernard's own. The latter perceived the likeness and halted in astonishment. The man arose and handed Bernard a note. Bernard opened it and found it exactly resembling the one handed him just prior to his journey to Washington. The man eyed Bernard from head to foot with a look that betrayed the keenest interest. Opening one of the drawers of his desk he drew forth a paper. It was a marriage certificate, certifying to a marriage between Fairfax Belgrave and ------. "I am your mother's lawful husband, and you are my legitimate child." Bernard knew not what to say, think, or feel. His mother had so carefully avoided any mention of her family affairs that he regarded them as among things sacred, and he never allowed even his thoughts to wander in that direction. "I am Senator ------ from the state of ------, chairman of ------ committee." The information contained in that sentence made Bernard rise from his seat with a bound. The man's name was a household word throughout the nation, and his reputation was international. "Be seated, Bernard, I have much to say to you. I have a long story to tell. I have been married twice. My first wife's brother was Governor of ------ and lived and died a bachelor. He was, however, the father of a child, whose mother was a servant connected with his father's household. The child was given to my wife to rear, and she accepted the charge. The child bloomed into a perfect beauty, possessed a charming voice, could perform with extraordinary skill on the piano, and seemed to have inherited the mind of her father, whose praises have been sung in all the land. "When this child was seventeen years of age my wife died. This girl remained in our house. I was yet a young man. Now that my wife was gone, attending to this girl fell entirely into my hands. I undertook her education. As her mind unfolded, so many beauteous qualities appeared that she excited my warm admiration. "By chance, I discovered that the girl loved me; not as a father, but as she would a lover. She does not know to this day that I made the discovery when I did. As for myself, I had for some time been madly in love with her. When I discovered, that my affections were returned, I made proposals, at that time regarded as honorable enough by the majority of white men of the South. "It seemed as though my proposition did not take her by surprise. She gently, but most firmly rejected my proposal. She told me that the proposal was of a nature to occasion deep and lasting repugnance, but that in my case she blamed circumstances and conditions more than she did me. The quiet, loving manner in which she resented insult and left no tinge of doubt as to her virtue, if possible, intensified my love. A few days later she came to me and said: 'Let us go to Canada and get married secretly. I will return South with you. No one shall ever know what we have done, and for the sake of your political and social future I will let the people apply whatever name they wish to our relationship.' "I gladly embraced the proposal, knowing that she would keep faith even unto death; although I realized how keenly her pure soul felt at being regarded as living with me dishonorably. Yet, love and interest bade her bow her head and receive the public mark of shame. "Heroic soul! That is the marriage certificate which I showed you. You were born. When you were four years old your mother told me that she must leave, as she could not bear to see her child grow up esteeming her an adulteress. "The war broke out, and I entered the army, and your mother took you to Europe, where she lived until the war was over, when she returned to Winchester, Virginia. Her father was a man of wealth, and you own two millions of dollars through your mother. At my death you shall have eight millions more. "So much for the past. Let me tell you of my plans and hopes for your future. This infernal race prejudice has been the curse of my life. Think of my pure-hearted, noble-minded wife, branded as a harlot, and you, my own son, stigmatized as a bastard, because it would be suicide for me to let the world know that you both are mine, though you both are the direct descendants of a governor, and a long line of heroes whose names are ornaments to our nation's history. "I want you to break down this prejudice. It is the wish of your mother and your father. You must move in the front, but all that money and quiet influence can do shall be done by me for your advancement. I paid Mr. Tiberius Gracchus Leonard two thousand dollars a year to teach you at Winchester. His is a master mind. One rash deed robbed the world of seeing a colossal intellect in high station. I shall tell you his history presently. "I desire you to go to Norfolk County, Virginia, and hang up your sign as an attorney at law. I wish you to run for congress from that district. Leonard is down there. As you will find out, he will be of inestimable service to you. "Now let me give you his history. Leonard was the most brilliant student that ever entered ------ University in the state of ------. Just prior to the time when he would have finished his education at school, the war broke out and he enlisted in the Confederate Army, and was made a colonel of a regiment. I was also a colonel, and when our ranks became depleted the two regiments were thrown into one. Though he was the ranking officer, our commander, as gallant and intrepid an officer as ever trod a battle field, was put in command. This deeply humilitated Leonard and he swore to be avenged. "One evening, when night had just lowered her black wings over the earth, we were engaging the enemy. Our commander was in advance of his men. Suddenly the commander fell, wounded. At first it was thought that the enemy bad shot him, but investigation showed that the ball had entered his back. It was presumed, then, that some of his own men had mistook him for an enemy and had shot him through mistake. Leonard had performed the nefarious deed knowingly. By some skillful detective work, I secured incontestible evidence of his guilt. I went to him with my proof and informed him of my intentions to lay it before a superior officer. His answer was: 'If you do, I will let the whole world know about your nigger wife.' I fell back as if stunned. Terror seized me. If he knew of my marriage might not others know it? Might not it be already generally known? These were the thoughts that coursed through my brain. However, with an effort I suppressed my alarm. Seeing that each possessed a secret that meant death and disgrace to the other (for I shall certainly kill myself if I am ever exposed) I entered into an agreement with him. "On the condition that he would prepare a statement confessing his guilt and detailing the circumstances of the crime and put this paper in my hand, I would show him my marriage certificate; and after that, each was to regard the other's secret as inviolate. "We thus held each other securely tied. His conscience, however, disturbed him beyond measure; and every evening, just after dusk, he fancied that he saw the form of his departed commander. It made him cowardly in battle and he at last deserted. "He informed me as to how my secret came into his possession. Soon after he committed his crime he felt sure that I was in possession of his secret, and he thought to steal into my tent and murder me. He stole in there one night to perpetrate the crime. I was talking in my sleep. In my slumber I told the story of my secret marriage in such circumstantial detail that it impressed him as being true. Feeling that he could hold me with that, he spared my life, determined to wound me deeper than death if I struck at him. "You see that he is a cowardly villain; but we sometimes have to use such. "Now, my son, go forth; labor hard and climb high. Scale the high wall of prejudice. Make it possible, dear boy, for me to own you ere I pass out of life. Let your mother have the veil of slander torn from her pure form ere she closes her eyes on earth forever." Bernard, handsome, brilliant, eloquent, the grandson of a governor, the son of a senator, a man of wealth, to whom defeat was a word unknown, steps out to battle for the freedom of his race; urged to put his whole soul into the fight because of his own burning desire for glory, and because out of the gloom of night he heard his grief stricken parents bidding him to climb where the cruel world would be compelled to give its sanction to the union that produced such a man as he. Bernard's training was over. He now had a tremendous incentive. Into life he plunges. CHAPTER IX. LOVE AND POLITICS. Acting on his father's advice Bernard arrived in Norfolk in the course of a few days. He realized that he was now a politician and decided to make a diligent study of the art of pleasing the populace and to sacrifice everything to the goddess of fame. Knowing that whom the people loved they honored, he decided to win their love at all hazards. He decided to become the obedient servant of the people that he might thus make all the people his servants. He took up hie abode at Hotel Douglass, a colored hotel at which the colored leaders would often congregate. Bernard mingled with these men freely and soon had the name among them of being a jovial good fellow. While at Harvard, Bernard had studied law simultaneously with his other studies and graduated from both the law and classical departments the same year. Near the city court house, in a row of somewhat dilapidated old buildings, he rented a law office. The rowdy and criminal element infested this neighborhood. Whenever any of these got into difficulties, Bernard was always ready to defend them. If they were destitute of funds he would serve them free of charge and would often pay their fines for them. He was ever ready to go on bonds of any who got into trouble. He gave money freely to those who begged of him. In this manner he became the very ideal of the vicious element, though not accounted by them as one of their number. Bernard was also equally successful in winning favor with the better element of citizens. Though a good Catholic at heart, he divided his time among all denominations, thus solving the most difficult problem for a Negro leader to solve; for the religious feeling was so intense that it was carried into almost every branch of human activity. Having won the criminal and religious circles, he thought to go forth and conquer the social world and secure its support. He decided to enter society and pay marked attention to that young lady that would most increase his popularity. We shall soon see how this would-be conqueror stood the very first fire. His life had been one of such isolation that he had not at all moved in social circles before this, and no young woman had ever made more than a passing impression on him. There was in Norfolk a reading circle composed of the brightest, most talented young men and women of the city. Upon taking a short vacation, this circle always gave a reception which was attended by persons of the highest culture in the city. Bernard received an invitation to this reception, and, in company with a fellow lawyer attended. The reception was held at the residence of a Miss Evangeline Leslie, a member of the circle. The house was full of guests when Bernard and his friend arrived. They rang the door bell and a young lady came to the door to receive them. She was a small, beautifully formed girl with a luxuriant growth of coal black hair that was arranged in such a way as to impart a queenly look to her shapely head. Her skin was dark brown, tender and smooth in appearance. A pair of laughing hazel eyes, a nose of the prettiest possible size and shape, and a chin that tapered with the most exquisite beauty made her face the Mecca of all eyes. Bernard was so struck with the girl's beauty that he did not greet her when she opened the door. He stared at her with a blank look. They were invited in. Bernard pulled off his hat and walked in, not saying a word but eyeing that pretty girl all the while. Even when his back was turned toward her, as he walked, his head was turned over his shoulders and his eye surveyed all the graceful curves of her perfect form and scanned those features that could but charm those who admire nature's work. When he had taken a seat in the corner of a room by the side of his friend he said: "Pray, who is that girl that met you at the door? I really did not know that a dark woman could look so beautiful." "You are not the only one that thinks that she is surpassingly beautiful," said his friend. "Her picture is the only Negro's picture that is allowed to hang in the show glasses of the white photographers down town. White and colored pay homage to her beauty." "Well," said Bernard, "that man who denies that girl's beauty should be sent to the asylum for the cure of a perverted and abnormal taste." "I see you are rather enthusiastic. Is it wise to admire mortgaged property?" remarked his friend. "What's that?" asked Bernard, quickly. "Is any body in my way?" "In your way?" laughed his friend. "Pray what do you mean? I don't understand you." "Come," said Bernard, "I am on pins. Is she married or about to be?" "Well, not exactly that, but she has told me that she cares a good bit for me." Bernard saw that his friend was in a mood to tease him and he arose and left his side. His friend chuckled gleefully to himself and said: "The would-be catcher is caught. I thought Viola Martin would duck him if anybody could. Tell me about these smile-proof bachelors. When once they are struck, they fall all to pieces at once." Bernard sought his landlady, who was present as a guest, and through her secured an introduction to Miss Viola Martin. He found her even more beautiful, if possible, in mind than in form and he sat conversing with her all the evening as if enchanted. The people present were not at all surprised; for as soon as Bernard's brilliancy and worth were known in the town and people began to love him, it was generally hoped and believed that Miss Martin would take him captive at first sight. Miss Viola Martin was a universal favorite. She was highly educated and an elocutionist of no mean ability. She sang sweetly and was the most accomplished pianist in town. She was bubbling over with good humor and her wit and funny stories were the very life of any circle where she happened to be. She was most remarkably well-informed on all leading questions of the day, and men of brain always enjoyed a chat with her. And the children and older people fairly worshipped her; for she paid especial attention to these. In all religious movements among the women she was the leading spirit. With all these points in her favor she was unassuming and bowed her head so low that the darts of jealousy, so universally hurled at the brilliant and popular, never came her way. No one in Norfolk was considered worthy of her heart and hand and the community was tenderly solicitous as to who should wed her. Bernard had made such rapid strides in their affections and esteem that they had already assigned him to their pet, Viola, or Vie as she was popularly called. When the time for the departure of the guests arrived, Bernard with great regret bade Miss Martin adieu. She ran upstairs to get her cloak, and a half dozen girls went tripping up stairs behind her; when once in the room set apart for the ladies' cloaks they began to gleefully pound Viola with pillows and smother her with kisses. "You have made a catch, Vie. Hold him," said one. "He'll hold himself," said another. To all of which Viola answered with a sigh. A mulatto girl stepped up to Viola and with a merry twinkle in her eye said: "Theory is theory and practice is practice, eh, Vie? Well, we would hardly blame you in this case." Viola earnestly replied: "I shall ask for no mercy. Theory and practice are one with me in this case." "Bah, bah, girl, two weeks will change that tune. And I, for one, won't blame you," replied the mulatto still in a whisper. The girls seeing that Viola did not care to be teased about Bernard soon ceased, and she came down stairs to be escorted home by the young man who had accompanied her there. This young man was, thus early, jealous of Bernard and angry at Viola for receiving his attentions, and as a consequence he was silent all the way home. This gave Viola time to think of that handsome, talented lawyer whom she had just met. She had to confess to herself that he had aroused considerable interest in her bosom and she looked forward to a promised visit with pleasure. But every now and then a sigh would escape her, such as she made when the girls were teasing her. Her escort bade her good-night at her father's gate in a most sullen manner, but Viola was so lost in thought that she did not notice it. She entered the house feeling lively and cheerful, but when she entered her room she burst into crying. She would laugh a while and cry a while as though she had a foretaste of coming bliss mixed with bitterness. Bernard at once took the place left vacant by the dropping away of the jealous young man and became Viola's faithful attendant, accompanying her wherever he could. The more he met Viola, the more beautiful she appeared to him and the more admirable he found her mind. Bernard almost forgot his political aspirations, and began to ponder that passage of scripture that said man should not be alone. But he did not make such progress with Viola as was satisfactory to him. Sometimes she would appear delighted to see him and was all life and gayety. Again she was scarcely more than polite and seemed perfectly indifferent to him. After a long while Bernard decided that Viola, who seemed to be very ambitious, treated him thus because he had not done anything worthy of special note. He somewhat slacked up in his attentions and began to devote himself to acquiring wide spread popularity with a view to entering Congress and reaching Viola in this way. The more he drew off from Viola the more friendly she would seem to him, and he began to feel that seeming indifference was perhaps the way to win her. Thus the matter moved along for a couple of years. In the mean time, Mr. Tiberius Gracchus Leonard, Bernard's old teacher, was busy in Norfolk looking after Bernard's political interests, acting under instructions from Bernard's father, Senator ------. About this stage of Bernard's courtship Mr. Leonard called on him and told him that the time was ripe for Bernard to announce himself for Congress. Bernard threw his whole soul into the project. He had another great incentive to cause him to wish to succeed, Viola Martin's hand and heart. In order to understand what followed we must now give a bit of Virginia political history. In the year ---- there was a split in the democratic party of Virginia on the question of paying Virginia's debt to England. The bolting section of the party joined hands with the republicans and whipped the regular democrats at the polls. This coalition thus formed was eventually made the Republican party of Virginia. The democrats, however, rallied and swept this coalition from power and determined to forever hold the state government if they had to resort to fraud. They resorted to ballot box stuffing and various other means to maintain control. At last, they passed a law creating a state electoral commission. This commission was composed of three democrats. These three democrats were given the power to appoint three persons in each county as an Electoral Board. These county electoral boards would appoint judges for each precinct or voting place in the county. They would also appoint a special constable at each voting booth to assist the illiterate voters. With rare exceptions, the officials were democrats, and with the entire state's election machinery in their hands the democrats could manage elections according to their "own sweet will." It goes without saying that the democrats always carried any and every precinct that they decided, and elections were mere farces. Such was the condition of affairs when Bernard came forward as a candidate from the Second Congressional District. The district was overwhelmingly republican, but the democrats always secured the office. It was regarded as downright foolhardy to attempt to get elected to Congress from the District as a republican; so the nomination was merely passed around as an honor, empty enough. It was such a feeling that inspired the republicans to nominate Bernard; but Bernard entered the canvass in dead earnest and conducted a brilliant campaign. The masses of colored people rallied around his flag. Ministers of colored churches came to his support. Seeing that the colored people were so determined to elect Bernard, the white republicans, leaders and followers, fell into line. Viola Martin organized patriotic clubs among the women and aroused whatever voters seemed lethargic. The day of election came and Bernard was elected by a majority of 11,823 votes; but the electoral boards gave the certificate of election to his opponent, alleging his opponent's majority to be 4,162. Bernard decided to contest the election in Congress, and here is where Leonard's fine work was shown. He had, for sometime, made it appear in Norfolk that he was a democrat of the most radical school. The leading democrats made his acquaintance and Leonard very often composed speeches for them. He thus became a favorite with certain prominent democrats and they let him into the secret workings of the electoral machinery. Thus informed, Leonard went to headquarters of the Democratic party at Richmond with a view to bribing the clerks to give him inside facts. He found the following to be the character of the work done at headquarters. A poll of all the voters in the state was made. The number of white and the number of colored voters in each voting precinct was secured. The number of illiterate voters of both races was ascertained. With these facts in their possession, they had conducted all the campaign necessary for them to carry on an election. Of course speakers were sent out as a sham, but they were not needed for anything more than appearances. Having the figures indicated above before them, they proceeded to assign to each district, each county, each city, each precinct just such majorities as they desired, taking pains to make the figures appear reasonable and differ somewhat from figures of previous years. Whenever it would do no harm, a precinct was granted to the republicans for the sake of appearances. Ballot boxes of varied patterns were secured and filled with ballots marked just as they desired. Some ballots were for republicans, some for democrats, and some marked wrong so as to indicate the votes of illiterates. The majorities, of course, were invariably such as suited the democrats. The ballots were all carefully counted and arranged; and tabulated statements of the votes cast put in. A sheet for the returns was put in, only awaiting the signatures of the officials at the various precincts in order to be complete. These boxes were carried by trusted messengers to their destinations. On election day, not these boxes, but boxes similar to them were used to receive the ballots. On the night of the election, the ballot boxes that actually received the votes were burned with all their contents and the boxes and ballots from Richmond were substituted. The judges of election took out the return sheet, already prepared, signed it and returned it to Richmond forthwith. Thus it could always be known thirty days ahead just what the exact vote in detail was to be throughout the entire state. In fact a tabulated statement was prepared and printed long before election day. Leonard paid a clerk at headquarters five thousand dollars for one of these tabulated statements. With this he hurried on to Washington and secretly placed it before the Republican Congressional Campaign Committee, with the understanding that it was to be used after election day as a basis for possible contest. Fifteen of the most distinguished clergymen in the nation were summoned to Washington and made affidavits, stating that they had seen this tabulated statement twenty days before the election took place. When Virginia's returns came in they were found to correspond in every detail to this tabulated report. As nothing but a prophet, direct from God, could have foreseen the results exactly as they did occur, this tabulated statement was proof positive of fraud on a gigantic scale. With this and a mass of other indisputable evidence at his back, secured by the shrewd Leonard, Bernard entered the contest for his seat. The House of Representatives was democratic by a small majority. The contest was a long and bitter one. The republicans were solidly for Bernard. The struggle was eagerly watched from day to day. It was commonly believed that the democrats would vote against Bernard, despite the clear case in his favor. The day to vote on the contest at last arrived and the news was flashed over the country that Bernard had triumphed. A handful of democrats had deserted their party and voted with the republicans. Bernard's father had redeemed his promise of secret support. Bernard's triumph in a democratic house caused the nation to rub its eyes and look again in wonder. The colored people hailed Bernard as the coming Moses. "Belgrave, Belgrave, Belgrave," was on every Negro tongue. Poems were addressed to him. Babies were named after him. Honorary titles were showered upon him. He was in much demand at fairs and gatherings of notable people. He accepted every invitation of consequence, whenever possible, and traveled far and wide winning friends by his bewitching eloquence and his pleasing personality. The democrats, after that defeat, always passed the second district by and Bernard held his seat in Congress from year to year unmolested. He made application and was admitted to plead law before the Supreme Court of the United States. And when we shall see him again it will be there, pleading in one of the most remarkable cases known to jurisprudence. CHAPTER X. CUPID AGAIN AT WORK. Belton, after graduating from Stowe University, returned with his mother to their humble home at Winchester. He had been away at school for four years and now desired to see his home again before going forth into the world. He remained at Winchester several days visiting all the spots where he had toiled or played, mourned or sung, wept or laughed as a child. He entered the old school house and gazed with eyes of love on its twisting walls, decaying floor and benches sadly in need of repair. A somewhat mournful smile played upon his lips as he thought of the revengeful act that he had perpetrated upon his first teacher, Mr. Leonard, and this smile died away into a more sober expression as he remembered how his act of revenge had, like chickens, come home to roost, when those dirty socks had made him an object of laughter at Stowe University on commencement day. Revenge was dead in his bosom. And it was well for the world that this young negro had been trained in a school where there was a friendly lance to open his veins and let out this most virulent of poisons. Belton lingered about home, thinking of the great problem of human life. He would walk out of town near sunset and, taking his seat on some grassy knoll would gaze on the Blue Ridge mountains. The light would fade out of the sky and the gloom of evening gather, but the mountains would maintain their same bold appearance. Whenever he cast his eyes in their direction, there they stood firm and immovable. His pure and lofty soul had an affinity for all things grand and he was always happy, even from childhood, when he could sit undisturbed and gaze at the mountains, huge and lofty, rising in such unconquerable grandeur, upward toward the sky. Belton chose the mountain as the emblem of his life and he besought God to make him such in the moral world. At length he tore himself loose from the scenes of his childhood, and embracing his fond mother, left Winchester to begin life in the city of Richmond, the capital of the old Confederacy. Through the influence of Mr. King, his benefactor, he secured a position as a teacher in one of the colored schools of that city. The principal of the school to which Belton was assigned was white, but all the rest of the teachers were young colored women. On the morning of his arrival at the school building Belton was taken in charge by the principal, and by him was carried around to be introduced to the various teachers. Before he reaches a certain room, let us give you a slight introduction to the occupant thereof. Antoinette Nermal was famed throughout the city for her beauty, intelligence and virtue. Her color was what is termed a light brown skin. We assure you that it was charming enough. She was of medium height, and for grace and symmetry her form was fit for a sculptor's model. Her pretty face bore the stamp of intellectuality, but the intellectuality of a beautiful woman, who was still every inch a woman despite her intellectuality. Her thin well-formed lips seemed arranged by nature in such a manner as to be incomplete without a kiss, and that lovely face seemed to reinforce the invitation. Her eyes were black, and when you gazed in them the tenderness therein seemed to be about to draw you out of yourself. They concealed and yet revealed a heart capable of passionate love. Those who could read her and wished her well were much concerned that she should love wisely; for it could be seen that she was to love with her whole heart, and to wreck her love was to wreck her life. She had passed through all her life thus far without seriously noticing any young man, thus giving some the impression that she was incapable of love, being so intellectual. Others who read her better knew that she despised the butterfly, flitting from flower to flower, and was preserving her heart to give it whole into the keeping of some worthy man. She neither sang nor played, but her soul was intensely musical and she had the most refined and cultivated taste in the musical circles in which she moved. She was amiable in disposition, but her amiability was not of the kind to lead her in quest of you; but if you came across her, she would treat you so pleasantly that you would desire to pass that way again. Belton and the principal are now on the way to her room. As they entered the door her back was to them, as she was gazing out of the window. Belton's eyes surveyed her graceful form and he was so impressed with its loveliness that he was sorry when she began to turn around. But when she was turned full around Belton forgot all about her form, and his eyes did not know which to contemplate longest, that rich complexion, those charming eyes, or those seductive lips. On the other hand, Miss Nermal was struck with Belton's personal appearance and as she contemplated the noble, dignified yet genial appearance which he presented, her lips came slightly apart, rendering her all the more beautiful. The principal said: "Miss Nermal, allow me to present to you our newly arrived associate in the work, Mr. Belton Piedmont." Miss Nermal smiled to Belton and said: "Mr. Piedmont, we are glad to have a man of your acknowledged talents in our midst and we anticipate much of you." Belton felt much flattered, surprised, overjoyed. He wished that he could find the person who had been so very kind as to give that marvelously beautiful girl such a good opinion of himself. But when he opened his mouth to reply he was afraid of saying something that would shatter this good opinion; so he bowed politely and merely said, "Thank you." "I trust that you will find our association agreeable," said Miss Nermal, smiling and walking toward him. This remark turned Belton's mind to thoughts that stimulated him to a brisk reply. "Oh assuredly, Miss Nermal. I am already more than satisfied that I shall expect much joy and pleasure from my association with you--I--I--I mean the teachers." Belton felt that he had made a bad break and looked around a little uneasily at the principal, violently condemning in his heart that rule which led principals to escort young men around; especially when there was a likelihood of meeting with such a lovely girl. If you had consulted Belton's wishes at that moment, school would have been adjourned immediately, the principal excused, and himself allowed to look at and talk to Miss Nermal as much as he desired. However, this was not to be. The principal moved to the door to continue his tour. Belton reluctantly followed. He didn't see the need of getting acquainted with all the teachers in one day. He thought that there were too many teachers in that building, anyhow. These were Belton's rebellious thoughts as he left Miss Nermal's room. Nevertheless, he finished his journey around to the various rooms and afterwards assumed charge of his own room. Some might ascribe his awkwardness in his room that day to the fact that the work was new to him. But we prefer to think that certain new and pleasing sensations in his bosom were responsible. When the young lady teachers got together at noon that day, the question was passed around as to what was thought of Mr. Piedmont. Those teachers whom Belton met before he entered Miss Nermal's room thought him "very nice." Those whom he met after he left her room thought him rather dull. Miss Nermal herself pronounced him "just grand." All of the girls looked at Miss Nermal rather inquiringly when she said this, for she was understood to usually pass young men by unnoticed. Each of the other girls, previous to seeing Belton, had secretly determined to capture the rising young orator in case his personal appearance kept pace with his acknowledged talents. In debating the matter they had calculated their chances of success and had thought of all possible rivals. Miss Nermal was habitually so indifferent to young men that they had not considered her as a possibility. They were quite surprised, to say the least, to hear her speak more enthusiastically of Belton than any of the rest had done. If Miss Nermal was to be their rival they were ready to abandon the field at once, for the charms of her face, form, and mind were irresistible when in repose; and what would they be if she became interested in winning the heart of a young man? When school was dismissed that afternoon Belton saw a group of teachers walking homeward and Miss Nermal was in the group. Belton joined them and somehow contrived to get by Miss Nermal's side. How much she aided him by unobserved shifting of positions is not known. All of the rest of the group lived nearer the school than did Miss Nermal and so, when they had all dropped off at respective gates, Miss Nermal yet had some distance to go. When Belton saw this, he was a happy fellow. He felt that the parents of the teachers had shown such excellent judgment in choosing places to reside. He would not have them change for the world. He figured that he would have five evenings of undisturbed bliss in each week walking home with Miss Nermal after the other teachers had left. Belton contrived to walk home with the same group each evening. The teachers soon noticed that Miss Nermal and Belton invariably walked together, and they managed by means of various excuses to break up the group; and Belton had the unalloyed pleasure of escorting Miss Nermal from the school-house door to her own front yard. Belton secured the privilege of calling to see Miss Nermal at her residence and he confined his social visits to her house solely. They did not talk of love to one another, but any one who saw the couple together could tell at a glance what was in each heart. Belton, however, did not have the courage to approach the subject. His passion was so intense and absorbing and filled him with so much delight that he feared to talk on the subject so dear to his heart, for fear of a repulse and the shattering of all the beautiful castles which his glowing imagination, with love as the supervising architect, had constructed. Thus matters moved along for some time; Miss Nermal thoroughly in love with Belton, but Belton prizing that love too highly to deem it possible for him to be the happy possessor thereof. Belton was anxious for some indirect test. He would often contrive little devices to test Miss Nermal's feelings towards him and in each case the result was all that he could wish, yet he doubted. Miss Nermal thoroughly understood Belton and was anxious for him to find some way out of his dilemma. Of course it was out of the question for her to volunteer to tell him that she loved him--loved him madly, passionately; loved him in every fibre of her soul. At last the opportunity that Belton was hoping for came. Miss Nermal and Belton were invited out to a social gathering of young people one night. He was Miss Nermal's escort. At this gathering the young men and women played games such as pinning on the donkey's tail, going to Jerusalem, menagerie, and various other parlor games. In former days, these social gatherings played some games that called for kissing by the young ladies and gentlemen, but Miss Nermal had opposed such games so vigorously that they had long since been dismissed from the best circles. Belton had posted two or three young men to suggest a play involving kissing, that play being called, "In the well." The suggestion was made and just for the fun of having an old time game played, they accepted the suggestion. The game was played as follows. Young men and young women would move their chairs as close back to the walls as possible. This would leave the center of the room clear. A young man would take his place in the middle of the floor and say, "I am in the well." A questioner would then ask, "How many feet?" The party in the well would then say, for instance, "Three feet." The questioner would then ask, "Whom will you have to take you out?" Whosoever was named by the party in the well was required by the rules of the game to go to him and kiss him the number of times equivalent to the number of feet he was in the well. The party thus called would then be in the well. The young men would kiss the ladies out and vice versa. Miss Nermal's views on kissing games were well known and the young men all passed her by. Finally, a young lady called Belton to the well to kiss her out. Belton now felt that his chance had came. He was so excited that when he went to the well he forgot to kiss her. Belton was not conscious of the omission but it pleased Antoinette immensely. Belton said, "I am in the well." The questioner asked, "How many feet?" Belton replied, "ONLY one." "Whom will you have to take you out?" queried the questioner. Belton was in a dazed condition. He was astounded at his own temerity in having deliberately planned to call Miss Nermal to kiss him before that crowd or for that matter to kiss him at all. However he decided to make a bold dash. He averted his head and said, "Miss Antoinette Nermal." All eyes were directed to Miss Nermal to see her refuse. But she cast a look of defiance around the room and calmly walked to where Belton stood. Their eyes met. They understood each other. Belton pressed those sweet lips that had been taunting him all those many days and sat down, the happiest of mortals. Miss Nermal was now left in the well to call for some one to take her out. For the first time, it dawned upon Belton that in working to secure a kiss for himself, he was about to secure one for some one else also. He glared around the room furiously and wondered who would be base enough to dare to go and kiss that angel. Miss Nermal was proceeding with her part of the game and Belton began to feel that she did not mind it even if she did have to kiss some one else. After all, he thought, his test would not hold good as she was, he felt sure, about to kiss another. While Belton was in agony over such thoughts Miss Nermal came to the point where she had to name her deliverer. She said, "The person who put me in here will have to take me out." Belton bounded from his seat and, if the fervor of a kiss could keep the young lady in the well from drowning, Miss Nermal was certainly henceforth in no more danger. Miss Nermal's act broke up that game. On the way home that night, neither Antoinette nor Belton spoke a word. Their hearts were too full for utterance. When they reached Miss Nermal's gate, she opened it and entering stood on the other side, facing Belton. Belton looked down into her beautiful face and she looked up at Belton. He felt her eyes pulling at the cords of his heart. He stooped down and in silence pressed a lingering kiss on Miss Nermal's lips. She did not move. Belton said, "I am in the well." Miss Nermal whispered, "I am too." Belton said, "I shall always be in the well." Miss Nermal said, "So shall I." Belton hastily plucked open the gate and clasped Antoinette to his bosom. He led her to a double seat in the middle of the lawn, and there with the pure-eyed stars gazing down upon them they poured out their love to each other. Two hours later Belton left her and at that late hour roused every intimate friend that he had in the city to tell them of his good fortune. Miss Nermal was no less reserved in her joy. She told the good news everywhere to all her associates. Love had transformed this modest, reserved young woman into a being that would not have hesitated to declare her love upon a house-top. CHAPTER XI. NO BEFITTING NAME. Happy Belton now began to give serious thought to the question of getting married. He desired to lead Antoinette to the altar as soon as possible and then he would be sure of possessing the richest treasure known to earth. And when he would speak of an early marriage she would look happy and say nothing in discouragement of the idea. She was Belton's, and she did not care how soon he claimed her as his own. His poverty was his only barrier. His salary was small, being only fifty dollars a month. He had not held his position long enough to save up very much money. He decided to start up an enterprise that would enable him to make money a great deal faster. The colored people of Richmond at that time had no newspaper or printing office. Belton organized a joint stock company and started a weekly journal and conducted a job printing establishment. This paper took well and was fast forging to the front as a decided success. It began to lift up its voice against frauds at the polls and to champion the cause of honest elections. It contended that practicing frauds was debauching the young men, the flower of the Anglo-Saxon race. One particularly meritorious article was copied in _The Temps_ and commented upon editorially. This article created a great stir in political circles. A search was instituted as to the authorship. It was traced to Belton, and the politicians gave the school board orders to dump Belton forthwith, on the ground that they could not afford to feed and clothe a man who would so vigorously "attack Southern Institutions," meaning by this phrase the universal practice of thievery and fraud at the ballot box. Belton was summarily dismissed. His marriage was of necessity indefinitely postponed. The other teachers were warned to give no further support to Belton's paper on pain of losing their positions. They withdrew their influence from Belton and he was, by this means, forced to give up the enterprise. He was now completely without an occupation, and began to look around for employment. He decided to make a trial of politics. A campaign came on and he vigorously espoused the cause of the Republicans. A congressional and presidential campaign was being conducted at the same time, and Belton did yeoman service. Owing to frauds in the elections the Democrats carried the district in which Belton labored, but the vote was closer than was ever known before. The Republicans, however, carried the nation and the President appointed a white republican as post-master of Richmond. In recognition of his great service to his party, Belton was appointed stamping clerk in the Post Office at a salary of sixty dollars per month. As a rule, the most prominent and lucrative places went to those who were most influential with the voters. Measured by this standard and by the standard of real ability, Belton was entitled to the best place in the district in the gift of the government; but the color of his skin was against him, and he had to content himself with a clerkship. At the expiration of one year, Belton proudly led the charming Antoinette Nermal to the marriage altar, where they became man and wife. Their marriage was the most notable social event that had ever been known among the colored people of Richmond. All of the colored people and many of the white people of prominence were at the wedding reception, and costly presents poured in upon them. This brilliant couple were predicted to have a glorious future before them. So all hearts hoped and felt. About two years from Belton's appointment as stamping clerk and one year from the date of his marriage, a congressional convention was held for the purpose of nominating a candidate for Congress. Belton's chief, the postmaster, desired a personal friend to have the honor. This personal friend was known to be prejudiced against colored people and Belton could not, therefore, see his way clear to support him for the nomination. He supported another candidate and won for him the nomination; but the postmaster dismissed him from his position as clerk. Crushed in spirit, Belton came home to tell his wife of their misfortune. Although he was entitled to the postmastership, according to the ethics of the existing political condition, he had been given a commonplace clerkship. And now, because he would not play the puppet, he was summarily dismissed from that humble position. His wife cheered him up and bade him to not be despondent, telling him that a man of his talents would beyond all question be sure to succeed in life. Belton began to cast around for another occupation, but, in whatever direction he looked, he saw no hope. He possessed a first class college education, but that was all. He knew no trade nor was he equipped to enter any of the professions. It is true that there were positions around by the thousands which he could fill, but his color debarred him. He would have made an excellent drummer, salesman, clerk, cashier, government official (county, city, state, or national) telegraph operator, conductor, or any thing of such a nature. But the color of his skin shut the doors so tight that he could not even peep in. The white people would not employ him in these positions, and the colored people did not have any enterprises in which they could employ him. It is true that such positions as street laborer, hod-carrier, cart driver, factory hand, railroad hand, were open to him; but such menial tasks were uncongenial to a man of his education and polish. And, again, society positively forbade him doing such labor. If a man of education among the colored people did such manual labor, he was looked upon as an eternal disgrace to the race. He was looked upon as throwing his education away and lowering its value in the eyes of the children who were to come after him. So, here was proud, brilliant Belton, the husband of a woman whom he fairly worshipped, surrounded in a manner that precluded his earning a livelihood for her. This set Belton to studying the labor situation and the race question from this point of view. He found scores of young men just in his predicament. The schools were all supplied with teachers. All other doors were effectually barred. Society's stern edict forbade these young men resorting to lower forms of labor. And instead of the matter growing better, it was growing worse, year by year. Colleges were rushing class after class forth with just his kind of education, and there was no employment for them. These young men, having no employment, would get together in groups and discuss their respective conditions. Some were in love and desired to marry. Others were married and desired to support their wives in a creditable way. Others desired to acquire a competence. Some had aged parents who had toiled hard to educate them and were looking to them for support. They were willing to work but the opportunity was denied them. And the sole charge against them was the color of their skins. They grew to hate a flag that would float in an undisturbed manner over such a condition of affairs. They began to abuse and execrate a national government that would not protect them against color prejudice, but on the contrary actually practiced it itself. Beginning with passively hating the flag, they began to think of rebelling against it and would wish for some foreign power to come in and bury it in the dirt. They signified their willingness to participate in such a proceeding. It is true that it was only a class that had thought and spoke of this, but it was an educated class, turned loose with an idle brain and plenty of time to devise mischief. The toiling, unthinking masses went quietly to their labors, day by day, but the educated malcontents moved in and out among them, convincing them that they could not afford to see their men of brains ignored because of color. Belton viewed this state of affairs with alarm and asked himself, whither was the nation drifting. He might have joined this army of malcontents and insurrection breeders, but that a very remarkable and novel idea occurred to him. He decided to endeavor to find out just what view the white people were taking of the Negro and of the existing conditions. He saw that the nation was drifting toward a terrible cataract and he wished to find out what precautionary steps the white people were going to take. So he left Richmond, giving the people to understand that he was gone to get a place to labor to support his wife. The people thought it strange that he did not tell where he was going and what he was to do. Speculation was rife. Many thought that it was an attempt at deserting his wife, whom he seemed unable to support. He arranged to visit his wife twice a month. He went to New York and completely disguised himself. He bought a wig representing the hair on the head of a colored woman. He had this wig made especially to his order. He bought an outfit of well fitting dresses and other garments worn by women. He clad himself and reappeared in Richmond. His wife and most intimate friends failed to recognize him. He of course revealed his identity to his wife but to no one else. He now had the appearance of a healthy, handsome, robust colored girl, with features rather large for a woman but attractive just the same. In this guise Belton applied for a position as nurse and was successful in securing a place in the family of a leading white man. He loitered near the family circle as much as he could. His ear was constantly at the key holes, listening. Sometimes he would engage in conversation for the purpose of drawing them out on the question of the Negro. He found out that the white man was utterly ignorant of the nature of the Negro of to-day with whom he has to deal. And more than that, he was not bothering his brain thinking about the Negro. He felt that the Negro was easily ruled and was not an object for serious thought. The barbers, the nurses, cooks and washerwomen, the police column of the newspapers, comic stories and minstrels were the sources through which the white people gained their conception of the Negro. But the real controling power of the race that was shaping its life and thought and preparing the race for action, was unnoticed and in fact unseen by them. The element most bitterly antagonistic to the whites avoided them, through intense hatred; and the whites never dreamed of this powerful inner circle that was gradually but persistently working its way in every direction, solidifying the race for the momentous conflict of securing all the rights due them according to the will of their heavenly Father. Belton also stumbled upon another misconception, which caused him eventually to lose his job as nurse. The young men in the families in which Belton worked seemed to have a poor opinion of the virtue of colored women. Time and again they tried to kiss Belton, and he would sometimes have to exert his full strength to keep them at a distance. He thought that while he was a nurse, he would do what he could to exalt the character of the colored women. So, at every chance he got, he talked to the men who approached him, of virtue and integrity. He soon got the name of being a "virtuous prude" and the white men decided to corrupt him at all hazards. Midnight carriage rides were offered and refused. Trips to distant cities were proposed but declined. Money was offered freely and lavishly but to no avail. Belton did not yield to them. He became the cynosure of all eyes. He seemed so hard to reach, that they began to doubt his sex. A number of them decided to satisfy themselves at all hazards. They resorted to the bold and daring plan of kidnapping and overpowering Belton. After that eventful night Belton did no more nursing. But fortunately they did not recognize who he was. He secretly left, had it announced that Belton Piedmont would in a short time return to Richmond, and throwing off his disguise, he appeared in Richmond as Belton Piedmont of old. The town was agog with excitement over the male nurse, but none suspected him. He was now again without employment, and another most grievous burden was about to be put on his shoulders. May God enable him to bear it. During all the period of their poverty stricken condition, Antoinette bore her deprivations like a heroine. Though accustomed from her childhood to plenty, she bore her poverty smilingly and cheerfully. Not one sigh of regret, not one word of complaint escaped her lips. She taught Belton to hope and have faith in himself. But everything seemed to grow darker and darker for him. In the whole of his school life, he had never encountered a student who could surpass him in intellectual ability; and yet, here he was with all his conceded worth, unable to find a fit place to earn his daily bread, all because of the color of his skin. And now the Lord was about to bless him with an offspring. He hardly knew whether to be thankful or sorrowful over this prospective gift from heaven. On the one hand, an infant in the home would be a source of unbounded joy; but over against this pleasing picture there stood cruel want pointing its wicked, mocking finger at him, anxious for another victim. As the time for the expected gift drew near, Belton grew more moody and despondent. Day by day he grew more and more nervous. One evening the nurse called him into his wife's room, bidding him come and look at his son. The nurse stood in the door and looked hard at Belton as he drew near to the side of his wife's bed. He lifted the lamp from the dresser and approached. Antoinette turned toward the wall and hid her head under the cover. Eagerly, tremblingly, Belton pulled the cover from the little child's face, the nurse all the while watching him as though her eyes would pop out of her head. Belton bent forward to look at his infant son. A terrible shriek broke from his lips. He dropped the lamp upon the floor and fled out of the house and rushed madly through the city. The color of Antoinette was brown. The color of Belton was dark. But the child was white! What pen can describe the tumult that raged in Belton's bosom for months and months! Sadly, disconsolately, broken in spirit, thoroughly dejected, Belton dragged himself to his mother's cottage at Winchester. Like a ship that had started on a voyage, on a bright day, with fair winds, but had been overtaken and overwhelmed in an ocean storm, and had been put back to shore, so Belton now brought his battered bark into harbor again. His brothers and sisters had all married and had left the maternal roof. Belton would sleep in the loft from which in his childhood he tumbled down, when disturbed about the disappearing biscuits. How he longed and sighed for childhood's happy days to come again. He felt that life was too awful for him to bear. His feelings toward his wife were more of pity than reproach. Like the multitude, he supposed that his failure to properly support her had tempted her to ruin. He loved her still if anything, more passionately than ever. But ah! what were his feelings in those days toward the flag which he had loved so dearly, which had floated proudly and undisturbed, while color prejudice, upheld by it, sent, as he thought, cruel want with drawn sword to stab his family honor to death. Belton had now lost all hope of personal happiness in this life, and as he grew more and more composed he found himself better prepared than ever to give his life wholly to the righting of the wrongs of his people. Tenderly he laid the image of Antoinette to rest in a grave in the very center of his heart. He covered her grave with fragrant flowers; and though he acknowledged the presence of a corpse in his heart, 'twas the corpse of one he loved. We must leave our beautiful heroine under a cloud just here, but God is with her and will bring her forth conqueror in the sight of men and angels. CHAPTER XII. ON THE DISSECTING BOARD. About this time the Legislature of Louisiana passed a law designed to prevent white people from teaching in schools conducted in the interest of Negroes. A college for Negroes had been located at Cadeville for many years, presided over by a white minister from the North. Under the operations of the law mentioned, he was forced to resign his position. The colored people were, therefore, under the necessity of casting about for a successor. They wrote to the president of Stowe University requesting him to recommend a man competent to take charge of the college. The president decided that Belton was an ideal man for the place and recommended him to the proper authorities. Belton was duly elected. He again bade home adieu and boarded the train for Cadeville, Louisiana. Belton's journey was devoid of special interest until he arrived within the borders of the state. At that time the law providing separate coaches for colored and white people had not been enacted by any of the Southern States. But in some of them the whites had an unwritten but inexorable law, to the effect that no Negro should be allowed to ride in a first-class coach. Louisiana was one of these states, but Belton did not know this. So, being in a first-class coach when he entered Louisiana, he did not get up and go into a second-class coach. The train was speeding along and Belton was quietly reading a newspaper. Now and then he would look out of a window at the pine tree forest near the track. The bed of the railway had been elevated some two or three feet above the ground, and to get the dirt necessary to elevate it a sort of trench had been dug, and ran along beside the track. The rain had been falling very copiously for the two or three days previous, and the ditch was full of muddy water. Belton's eyes would now and then fall on this water as they sped along. In the meanwhile the train began to get full, passengers getting on at each station. At length the coach was nearly filled. A white lady entered, and not at once seeing a vacant seat, paused a few seconds to look about for one. She soon espied an unoccupied seat. She proceeded to it, but her slight difficulty had been noted by the white passengers. Belton happened to glance around and saw a group of white men in an eager, animated conversation, and looking in his direction now and then as they talked. He paid no especial attention to this, however, and kept on reading. Before he was aware of what was going on, he was surrounded by a group of angry men. He stood up in surprise to discover its meaning. "Get out of this coach. We don't allow niggers in first-class coaches. Get out at once," said their spokesman. "Show me your authority to order me out, sir," said Belton firmly. "We are our own authority, as you will soon find out if you don't get out of here." "I propose," said Belton, "to stay right in this coach as long----" He did not finish the sentence, for rough fingers were clutching his throat. The whole group was upon him in an instant and he was soon overpowered. They dragged him into the aisle, and, some at his head and others at his feet, lifted him and bore him to the door. The train was speeding along at a rapid rate. Belton grew somewhat quiet in his struggling, thinking to renew it in the second-class coach, whither he supposed they were carrying him. But when they got to the platform, instead of carrying him across they tossed him off the train into that muddy ditch at which Belton had been looking. His body and feet fell into the water while his head buried itself in the soft clay bed. The train was speeding on and Belton eventually succeeded in extricating himself from his bed of mud and water. Covered from head to foot with red clay, the president-elect of Cadeville College walked down to the next station, two miles away. There he found his satchel, left by the conductor of the train. He remained at this station until the afternoon, when another train passed. This time he entered the second-class coach and rode unmolested to Monroe, Louisiana. There he was to have changed cars for Cadeville. The morning train, the one from which he was thrown, made connection with the Cadeville train, but the afternoon train did not. So he was under the necessity of remaining over night in the city of Monroe, a place of some twenty thousand inhabitants. Being hungry, he went forth in quest of a meal. He entered a restaurant and asked the white man whom he saw behind the counter for a meal. The white man stepped into a small adjoining room to fill the order, and Belton eat down on a high stool at the eating counter. The white man soon returned with some articles of food in a paper bag. Seeing Belton sitting down, he cried out: "Get up from there, you nigger. It would cost me a hundred dollars for you to be seen sitting there." Belton looked up in astonishment, "Do you mean to say that I must stand up here and eat?" he asked. "No, I don't mean any such thing. You must go out of here to eat." "Then," replied Belton, "I shall politely leave your food on your hands if I cannot be allowed to eat in here." "I guess you won't," the man replied. "I have cut this ham off for you and you have got to take it." Belton, remembering his experience earlier in the day, began to move toward the door to leave. The man seized a whistle and in an instant two or three policemen came running, followed by a crowd. Belton stood still to await developments. The clerk said to the policeman: "This high-toned nigger bought a meal of me and because I would not let him sit down and eat like white people he refused to pay me." The officers turned to Belton and said: "Pay that man what you owe him." Belton replied: "I owe him nothing. He refuses to accommodate me, and I therefore owe him nothing." "Come along with me, sir. Consider yourself under arrest." Wondering what kind of a country he had entered, Belton followed the officer and incredible as it may seem, was locked up in jail for the night. The next morning he was arraigned before the mayor, whom the officer had evidently posted before the opening of court. Belton was fined five dollars for vagrancy and was ordered to leave town within five hours. He paid his fine and boarded the train for Cadeville. As the train pulled in for Cadeville, a group of white men were seen standing on the platform. One of them was a thin, scrawny looking man with a long beard, very, very white. His body was slightly stooping forward, and whenever he looked at you he had the appearance of bending as if to see you better. When Belton stepped on to the platform this man, who was the village doctor, looked at him keenly. Belton was a fine specimen of physical manhood. His limbs were well formed, well proportioned and seemed as strong as oak. His manly appearance always excited interest wherever he was seen. The doctor's eyes followed him cadaverously. He went up to the postmaster, a short man with a large head. The postmaster was president of the band of "Nigger Rulers" of that section. The doctor said to the postmaster: "I'll be durned if that ain't the finest lookin' darkey I ever put my eye on. If I could get his body to dissect, I'd give one of the finest kegs of whiskey in my cellar." The postmaster looked at Belton and said: "Zakeland," for such was the doctor's name, "you are right. He is a fine looking chap, and he looks a little tony. If we 'nigger rulers' are ever called in to attend to him we will not burn him nor shoot him to pieces. We will kill him kinder decent and let you have him to dissect. I shall not fail to call for that whiskey to treat the boys." So saying they parted. Belton did not hear this murderous conversation respecting himself. He was joyfully received by the colored people of Cadeville, to whom he related his experiences. They looked at him as though he was a superior being bearing a charmed life, having escaped being killed. It did not come to their minds to be surprised at the treatment accorded him for what he had done. Their wonder was as to how he got off so easily. Belton took charge of the school and began the faithful performance of his duties. He decided to add an industrial department to his school and traveled over the state and secured the funds for the work. He sent to New Orleans for a colored architect and contractor who drew the plans and accepted the contract for erecting the building. They decided to have colored men erect the building and gathered a force for that purpose. The white brick-masons of Monroe heard of this. They organized a mob, came to Cadeville and ordered the men to quit work. They took charge of the work themselves, letting the colored brick-masons act as hod carriers for them. They employed a white man to supervise the work. The colored people knew that it meant death to resist and they paid the men as though nothing unusual had happened. Belton had learned to observe and wait. These outrages sank like molten lead into his heart, but he bore them all. The time for the presidential election was drawing near and he arose in the chapel one morning to lecture to the young men on their duty to vote. One of the village girls told her father of Belton's speech. The old man was shaving his face and had just shaved off one side of his beard when his daughter told him. He did not stop to pull the towel from around his neck nor to put down his razor. He rushed over to the house where Belton boarded and burst into his room. Belton threw up his hands in alarm at seeing this man come, razor in hand, towel around his neck and beard half off and half on. The man sat down to catch his breath. He began: "Mr. Piedmont, I learn that you are advising our young men to vote. I am sure you don't know in what danger you stand. I have come to give you the political history of this section of Louisiana. The colored people of this region far outnumber the white people, and years ago had absolute control of everything. The whites of course did not tamely submit, but armed themselves to overthrow us. We armed ourselves, and every night patrolled this road all night long looking for the whites to come and attack us. My oldest brother is a very cowardly and sycophantic man. The white people made a spy and traitor out of him. When the people found out that there was treachery in our ranks it demoralized them, and our organization went to pieces. "We had not the authority nor disposition to kill a traitor, and consequently we had no effective remedy against a betrayal. When the news of our demoralized condition reached the whites it gave them fresh courage, and they have dominated us ever since. They carry on the elections. We stay in our fields all day long on election day and scarcely know what is going on. Not long since a white man came through here and distributed republican ballots. The white people captured him and cut his body into four pieces and threw it in the Ouachita River. Since then you can't get any man to venture here to distribute ballots. "Just before the last presidential campaign, two brothers, Samuel and John Bowser, colored, happened to go down to New Orleans. Things are not so bad down there as they are up here in Northern Louisiana. These two brothers each secured a republican party ballot, and on election day somewhat boastfully cast them into the ballot box. There is, as you have perhaps heard, a society here known as 'Nigger Rulers.' The postmaster of this place is president of the society, and the teacher of the white public school is the captain of the army thereof. "They sent word to the Bowser brothers that they would soon be there to whip them. The brothers prepared to meet them. They cut a hole in the front side of the house, through which they could poke a gun. Night came on, and true to their word the 'Nigger Rulers' came. Samuel Bowser fired when they were near the house and one man fell dead. All of the rest fled to the cover of the neighboring woods. Soon they cautiously returned and bore away their dead comrade. They made no further attack that night. "The brothers hid out in the woods. Hearing of this and fearing that the men would make their escape the whites gathered in force and hemmed in the entire settlement on all sides. For three days the men hid in the woods, unable to escape because of the guard kept by the whites. The third night a great rain came up and the whites sought the shelter of their homes. "The brothers thus had a chance to escape. John escaped into Arkansas, but Samuel, poor fool, went only forty miles, remaining in Louisiana. The mob forced one of our number, who escorted him on horseback, to inform them of the road that Samuel took. In this way they traced and found him. They tied him on a horse and brought him back here with them. They kept him in the woods three days, torturing him. On the third day we heard the loud report of a gun which we supposed ended his life. None of us know where he lies buried. You can judge from this why we neglect voting." This speech wound up Belton's political career in Cadeville. He thanked the man for the information, assuring him that it would be of great value to him in knowing how to shape his course. After Belton had been at Cadeville a few years, he had a number of young men and women to graduate from the various departments of his school. He invited the pastor of a leading white church of Monroe to deliver an oration on the day of commencement exercises. The preacher came and was most favorably impressed with Belton's work, as exhibited in the students then graduating. He esteemed Belton as a man of great intellectual power and invited him to call at his church and house if he ever came to Monroe. Belton was naturally greatly elated over this invitation from a Southerner and felt highly complimented. One Sabbath morning, shortly thereafter, Belton happened to be in Monroe, and thinking of the preacher's kind invitation, went to his church to attend the morning service. He entered and took a seat near the middle of the church. During the opening exercises a young white lady who sat by his side experienced some trouble in finding the hymn. Belton had remembered the number given out and kindly took the book to find it. In an instant the whole church was in an uproar. A crowd of men gathered around Belton and led him out of doors. A few leaders went off to one side and held a short consultation. They decided that as it was Sunday, they would not lynch him. They returned to the body of men yet holding Belton and ordered him released. This evidently did not please the majority, but he was allowed to go. That afternoon Belton called at the residence of the minister in order to offer an explanation. The minister opened the door, and seeing who it was, slammed it in his face. Belton turned away with many misgivings as to what was yet to come. Dr. Zackland always spent his Sundays at Monroe and was a witness of the entire scene in which Belton had figured so prominently. He hastened out of church, and as soon as he saw Belton turned loose, hurried to the station and boarded the train for Cadeville, leaving his hymn book and Bible on his seat in the church. His face seemed lighted up with joy. "I've got him at last. Careful as he has been I've got him," he kept repeating over and over to himself. He left the train at Cadeville and ran to the postmaster's house, president of the "Nigger Rulers," and he was out of breath when he arrived there. He sat down, fanned himself with his hat, and when sufficiently recovered, said: "Well, we will have to fix that nigger, Piedmont. He is getting too high." "What's that he has been doing now? I have looked upon him as being an uncommonly good nigger. I have kept a good eye on him but haven't even had to hint at him," said the postmaster." "Well, he has shown his true nature at last. He had the gall to enter a white church in Monroe this morning and actually took a seat down stairs with the white folks; he did not even look at the gallery where he belonged." "Is that so?" burst out the postmaster incredulously. "I should say he did, and that's not all. A white girl who sat by him and could not read very well, failed to find the hymn at once. That nigger actually had the impudence to take her book and find the place for her." "The infernal scoundrel. By golly, he shall hang," broke in the postmaster. Dr. Zackland continued: "Naturally the congregation was infuriated and soon hustled the impudent scoundrel out. If services had not been going on, and if it had not been Sunday, there is no telling what would have happened. As it was they turned him loose. I came here to tell you, as he is our 'Nigger' living here at Cadeville, and the 'Nigger Rulers' of Cadeville will be disrespected if they let such presumptuous niggers go about to disturb religious services." "You are right about that, and we must soon put him out of the way. To-night will be his last night on earth," replied the postmaster. "Do you remember our bargain that we made about that nigger when he came about here?" asked Dr. Zackland. "No," answered the postmaster. "Well, I do. I have been all along itching for a chance to carry it out. You were to give me the nigger's body for dissecting purposes, in return for which I was to give you a keg of my best whiskey," said Dr. Zackland. "Ha, ha, ha," laughed the postmaster, "I do remember it now." "Well, I'll certainly stick up to my part of the program if you will stick to yours." "You can bet on me," returned Dr. Zackland. "I have a suggestion to make about the taking off of the nigger. Don't have any burning or riddling with bullets. Just hang him and fire one shot in the back of his head. I want him whole in the interest of society. That whiskey will be the finest that you will ever have and I want a good bargain for it." "I'll follow your instructions to the letter," answered the postmaster. "I'll just tell the boys that he, being a kind of decent nigger, we will give him a decent hanging. Meantime, Doctor, I must get out. To-day is Sunday and we must do our work to-morrow night. I must get a meeting of the boys to-night." So saying, the two arose, left the house and parted, one going to gather up his gang and the other to search up and examine his dissecting appliances. Monday night about 9 o'clock a mob came and took Belton out into the neighboring woods. He was given five minutes to pray, at the expiration of which time he was to be hanged. Belton seemed to have foreseen the coming of the mob, but felt somehow that God was at work to deliver him. Therefore he made no resistance, having unshaken faith in God. The rope was adjusted around his neck and thrown over the limb of a tree and Belton was swinging up. The postmaster then slipped forward and fired his pistol at the base of his skull and the blood came oozing forth. He then ordered the men to retire, as he did not care for them to remain to shoot holes in the body, as was their custom. As soon as they retired, three men sent by Dr. Zackland stole out of hiding and cut Belton's body down. Belton was not then dead, for he had only been hanging for seven minutes, and the bullet had not entered the skull but had simply ploughed its way under the skin. He was, however, unconscious, and to all appearances dead. The three men bore him to Dr. Zackland's residence, and entered a rear door. They laid him on a dissecting table in the rear room, the room in which the doctor performed all surgical operations. Dr. Zackland came to the table and looked down on Belton with a happy smile. To have such a robust, well-formed, handsome nigger to dissect and examine he regarded as one of the greatest boons of his medical career. The three men started to retire. "Wait," said Dr. Zackland, "let us see if he is dead." Belton had now returned to consciousness but kept his eyes closed, thinking it best to feign death. Dr. Zackland cut off the hair in the neighborhood of the wound in the rear of Belton's head and began cutting the skin, trying to trace the bullet. Belton did not wince. "The nigger is dead or else he would show some sign of life. But I will try pricking his palm." This was done, but while the pain was exceedingly excruciating, Belton showed no sign of feeling. "You may go now," said the doctor to his three attendants, "he is certainly dead." The men left. Dr. Zackland pulled out his watch and said: "It is now 10 o'clock. Those doctors from Monroe will be here by twelve. I can have everything exactly ready by that time." A bright ray of hope passed into Belton's bosom. He had two hours more of life, two hours more in which to plan an escape. Dr. Zackland was busy stirring about over the room. He took a long, sharp knife and gazed at its keen edge. He placed this on the dissecting table near Belton's feet. He then passed out of doors to get a pail of water, and left the door ajar. He went to his cabinet to get out more surgical instruments, and his back was now turned to Belton and he was absorbed in what he was doing. Belton's eyes had followed every movement, but in order to escape attention his eyelids were only slightly open. He now raised himself up, seized the knife that was near his feet and at a bound was at the doctor's side. The doctor turned around and was in dread alarm at the sight of the dead man returned to life. At that instant he was too terrified to act or scream, and before he could recover his self-possession Belton plunged the knife through his throat. Seizing the dying man he laid him on the dissecting board and covered him over with a sheet. He went to the writing desk and quickly scrawled the following note. "DOCTORS: "I have stepped out for a short while. Don't touch the nigger until I come. "Zackland." He pinned this note on that portion of the sheet where it would attract attention at once if one should begin to uncover the corpse. He did this to delay discovery and thus get a good start on those who might pursue him. Having done this he crept cautiously out of the room, leapt the back fence and made his way to his boarding place. He here changed his clothes and disappeared in the woods. He made his way to Baton Rouge and sought a conference with the Governor. The Governor ordered him under arrest and told him that the best and only thing he could do was to send him back to Cadeville under military escort to be tried for murder. This was accordingly done. The community was aroused over the death of Dr. Zackland at the hands of a negro. The sending of the military further incensed them. At the trial which followed, all evidence respecting the mob was excluded as irrelevant. Robbery was the motive assigned for the deed. The whole family with which Belton lived were arraigned as accomplices, because his bloody clothes were found in his room in their house. During the trial, the jury were allowed to walk about and mingle freely with the people and be thus influenced by the bitter public sentiment against Belton. Men who were in the mob that attempted Belton's murder were on the jury. In fact, the postmaster was the foreman. Without leaving their seats the jury returned a verdict of guilty in each case and all were sentenced to be hanged. The prisoners were taken to the New Orleans jail for safe keeping. While incarcerated here awaiting the day of execution, a newspaper reporter of a liberal New Orleans paper called on the prisoners. He was impressed with Belton's personality and promised to publish any statement that Belton would write. Belton then gave a thorough detailed account of every happening. The story was telegraphed broadcast and aroused sympathetic interest everywhere. Bernard read an account of it and hastened to his friend's side in New Orleans. In response to a telegram from Bernard a certain influential democratic senator came to New Orleans. Influence was brought to bear, and though all precedent was violated, the case was manoeuvred to the Supreme Court of the United States. Before this tribunal Bernard made the speech of his life and added to his fame as an orator. Competent judges said that the like of it had not been heard since the days of Daniel Webster. As he pleaded for his friend and the others accused the judges of the Supreme Court wept scalding tears. Bernard told of Belton's noble life, his unassuming ways, his pure Christianity. The decision of the lower court was reversed, a change of venue granted, a new trial held and an acquittal secured. Thus ended the tragic experience that burned all the remaining dross out of Belton's nature and prepared him for the even more terrible ordeal to follow in after years. CHAPTER XIII. MARRIED AND YET NOT MARRIED. Bernard was now at the very acme of fame. He had succeeded in becoming the most noted negro of his day. He felt that the time was not ripe for him to gather up his wealth and honors and lay them, with his heart, at Viola's feet. One afternoon he invited Viola to go out buggy riding with him, and decided to lay bare his heart to her before their return home. They drove out of Norfolk over Campostella bridge and went far into the country, chatting pleasantly, oblivious of the farm hands preparing the soil for seed sowing; for it was in balmy spring. About eight o'clock they were returning to the city and Bernard felt his veins throbbing; for he had determined to know his fate before he reached Viola's home. When midway the bridge he pulled his reins and the horse stood still. The dark waters of the small river swept on beneath them. Night had just begun to spread out her sombre wings, bedecked with silent stars. Just in front of them, as they looked out upon the center of the river, the river took a bend which brought a shore directly facing them. A green lawn began from the shore and ran back to be lost in the shadows of the evening. Amid a group of trees, there stood a little hut that looked to be the hut of an old widower, for it appeared neglected, forsaken, sad. Bernard gazed at this lonesome cottage and said: "Viola, I feel to-night that all my honors are empty. They feel to me like a load crushing me down rather than a pedestal raising me up. I am not happy. I long for the solitude of those trees. That decaying old house calls eloquently unto something within me. How I would like to enter there and lay me down to sleep, free from the cares and divested of the gewgaws of the world." Viola was startled by these sombre reflections coming from Bernard. She decided that something must be wrong. She was, by nature, exceedingly tender of heart, and she turned her pretty eyes in astonished grief at Bernard, handsome, melancholy, musing. "Ah, Mr. Belgrave, something terrible is gnawing at your heart for one so young, so brilliant, so prosperous as you are to talk thus. Make a confidante of me and let me help to remove the load, if I can." Bernard was silent and eat gazing out on the quiet flowing waters. Viola's eyes eagerly scanned his face as if to divine his secret. Bernard resumed speaking: "I have gone forth into life to win certain honors and snatch from fame a wreath, and now that I have succeeded, I behold this evening, as never before, that it is not worthy of the purpose for which I designed it. My work is all in vain." "Mr. Belgrave, you must not talk so sadly," said Viola, almost ready to cry. Bernard turned and suddenly grasped Viola's hands and said in passionate tones: "Viola, I love you. I have nothing to offer you worthy of you. I can find nothing worthy, attain nothing worthy. I love you to desperation. Will you give yourself to a wretch like me? Say no! don't throw away your beauty, your love on so common a piece of clay." Viola uttered a loud, piercing scream that dispersed all Bernard's thoughts and frightened the horse. He went dashing across the bridge, Bernard endeavoring to grasp the reins. When he at last succeeded, Viola had fainted. Bernard drove hurriedly towards Viola's home, puzzled beyond measure. He had never heard of a marriage proposal frightening a girl into a faint and he thought that there was surely something in the matter of which he knew nothing. Then, too, he was racking his brain for an excuse to give Viola's parents. But happily the cool air revived Viola and she awoke trembling violently and begged Bernard to take her home at once. This he did and drove away, much puzzled in mind. He revived the whole matter in his mind, and thoughts and opinions came and went. Perhaps she deemed him utterly unworthy of her. There was one good reason for this last opinion and one good one against it. He felt himself to be unworthy of such a girl, but on the other hand Viola had frequently sung his praises in his own ears and in the ears of others. He decided to go early in the morning and know definitely his doom. That night he did not sleep. He paced up and down the room glancing at the clock every five minutes or so. He would now and then hoist the window and strain his eyes to see if there were any sign of approaching dawn. After what seemed to him at least a century, the sun at last arose and ushered in the day. As soon as he thought Miss Martin was astir and unengaged, he was standing at the door. They each looked sad and forlorn. Viola knew and Bernard felt that some dark shadow was to come between them. Viola caught hold of Bernard's hand and led him silently into the parlor. Bernard sat down on the divan and Viola took a seat thereon close by his side. She turned her charming face, sweet in its sadness, up to Bernard's and whispered "kiss me, Bernard." Bernard seized her and kissed her rapturously. She then arose and sat in a chair facing him, at a distance. She then said calmly, determinedly, almost icily, looking Bernard squarely in the face: "Bernard, you know that I love you. It was I that asked you to kiss me. Always remember that. But as much as I love you I shall never be your wife. Never, never." Bernard arose and started toward Viola. He paused and gazed down upon that beautiful image that sat before him and said in anguish: "Oh God! Is all my labor in vain, my honors common dirt, my future one dreary waste? Shall I lose that which has been an ever shining, never setting sun to me? Viola! If you love me you shall be my wife." Viola bowed her head and shook it sadly, saying: "A power higher than either you or I has decreed it otherwise." "Who is he? Tell me who he is that dare separate us and I swear I will kill him," cried Bernard in a frenzy of rage. Viola looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, and said: "Would you kill God?" This question brought Bernard to his senses and he returned to his seat and sat down suddenly. He then said: "Viola Martin, you are making a fool of me. Tell me plainly why we cannot be man and wife, if you love me as you say you do?" "Bernard, call here to-morrow at 10 o'clock and I will tell you all. If you can then remove my objections all will be well." Bernard leaped up eager to get away, feeling that that would somewhat hasten the time for him to return. Viola did not seem to share his feelings of elation. But he did not mind that. He felt himself fully able to demolish any and all objections that Viola could bring. He went home and spent the day perusing his text-book on logic. He would conjure up imaginary objections and would proceed to demolish them in short order. He slept somewhat that night, anticipating a decisive victory on the morrow. When Bernard left Viola that morning, she threw herself prostrate on the floor, moaning and sobbing. After a while she arose and went to the dining room door. She looked in upon her mother, quietly sewing, and tried to say in a cheerful manner: "Mamma, I shall be busy writing all day in my room. Let no one disturb me." Her mother looked at her gently and lovingly and assured her that no one should disturb her. Her mother surmised that all had not gone well with her and Bernard, and that Viola was wrestling with her grief. Knowing that spats were common to young people in love she supposed it would soon be over. Viola went upstairs and entered her room. This room, thanks to Viola's industry and exquisite taste, was the beauty spot of the whole house. Pictures of her own painting adorned the walls, and scattered here and there in proper places were articles of fancy work put together in most lovely manner by her delicate fingers. Viola was fond of flowers and her room was alive with the scent of pretty flowers and beautiful roses. This room was a fitting scene for what was to follow. She opened her tiny writing desk. She wrote a letter to her father, one to her mother and one to Bernard. Her letter to Bernard had to be torn up and re-written time and again, for fast falling tears spoiled it almost as fast as she wrote. At last she succeeded in finishing his letter to her satisfaction. At eventide she came down stairs and with her mother, sat on the rear porch and saw the sun glide gently out of sight, without a struggle, without a murmur. Her eye lingered long on the spot where the sun had set and watched the hidden sun gradually steal all of his rays from the skies to use them in another world. Drawing a heavy sigh, she lovingly caught her mother around the waist and led her into the parlor. Viola now became all gayety, but her mother could see that it was forced. She took a seat at the piano and played and sang. Her rich soprano voice rang out clear and sweet and passers by paused to listen to the glorious strains. Those who paused to hear her sing passed on feeling sad at heart. Beginning in somewhat low tones, her voice gradually swelled and the full, round tones full of melody and pathos seemed to lift up and bear one irresistibly away. Viola's mother sat by and looked with tender solicitude on her daughter singing and playing as she had never before in her life. "What did it mean?" she asked herself. When Viola's father came from the postoffice, where he was a clerk, Viola ran to him joyously. She pulled him into the parlor and sat on his knee stroking his chin and nestling her head on his bosom. She made him tell her tales as he did when she was a child and she would laugh, but her laugh did not have its accustomed clear, golden ring. Kissing them good night, she started up to her bed room. When at the head of the stairway she returned and without saying a word kissed her parents again. When she was gone, the parents looked at each other and shook their heads. They knew that Viola was feeling keenly on account of something but felt that her cheerful nature would soon throw it off. But the blade was in her heart deeper than they knew. Viola entered her room, fastening the door behind her. She went to her desk, secured the three letters that she had written and placed them on the floor a few inches apart in a position where they would attract immediate attention upon entering the room. She then lay down upon her bed and put one arm across her bosom. With her other hand she turned on the gas jet by the head of her bed. She then placed this other hand across her bosom and ere long fell asleep to wake no more. The moon arose and shed its sad, quiet light through the half turned shutters, through the window pane. It seemed to force its way in in order to linger and weep over such queenly beauty, such worth, meeting with such an accursed end. Thus in this forbidden path Viola Martin had gone to him who said: "Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." CHAPTER XIV MARRIED AND YET NOT MARRIED. (Continued.) At ten o'clock on the next day, Bernard called at Viola's residence. Viola's mother invited him in and informed him that Viola had not arisen. Thinking that her daughter had spent much of the night in meditating on whatever was troubling her, She had thought not to awaken her so early. Bernard informed her that Viola had made an engagement with him for that morning at ten o'clock. Mrs. Martin looked alarmed. She knew that Viola was invariably punctual to an appointment and something unusual must be the matter. She left the room hurriedly and her knees smote together as she fancied she discovered the scent of escaping gas. She clung to the banisters for support and dragged her way to Viola's door. As she drew near, the smell of gas became unmistakable, and she fell forward, uttering a loud scream. Bernard had noticed the anxious look on Viola's mother's face and was listening eagerly. He beard her scream and dashed out of the parlor and up the stairs. He rushed past Mrs. Martin and burst open the door to Viola's door. He drew back aghast at the sight that met his gaze. The next instant he had seized her lifeless form, beautiful in death, and smothered those silent lips with kisses. Mrs. Martin regained sufficient strength to rush into the room, and when she saw her child was dead uttered a succession of piercing shrieks and fell to the floor in a swoon. This somewhat called Bernard's mind from his own grief. He lay Viola down upon her own bed most tenderly and set about to restore Mrs. Martin to consciousness. By this time the room was full of anxious neighbors. While they are making inquiry let us peruse the letters which the poor girl left behind. "MY DEAR, DEAR, HEART-BROKEN MAMA:-- "I am in the hands of God. Whatever He does is just, is right, is the only thing to be done. Knowing this, do not grieve after me. Take poor Bernard for your son and love him as you did me. I make that as my sole dying request of you. One long sweet clinging kiss ere I drop into the ocean of death to be lost in its tossing waves. "Viola." "BELOVED PAPA:-- "Your little daughter is gone. Her heart, though torn, bleeding, dead, gave, as it were, an after throb of pain as it thought of you. In life you never denied me a request. I have one to make from my grave, knowing that you will not deny me. Love Bernard as your son; draw him to you, so that, when in your old age you go tottering to your tomb in quest of me, you may have a son to bear you up. Take my lifeless body on your knee and kiss me as you did of old. It will help me to rest sweetly in my grave. "Your little Vie." "DEAR BERNARD:-- "Viola has loved and left you. Unto you, above all others, I owe a full explanation of the deed which I have committed; and I shall therefore lay bare my heart to you. My father was a colonel in the Civil War and when I was very young he would make my little heart thrill with patriotic fervor as he told me of the deeds of daring of the gallant Negro soldiers. As a result, when nothing but a tiny girl, I determined to be a heroine and find some outlet for my patriotic feeling. This became a consuming passion. In 18-- just two years prior to my meeting you, a book entitled, 'White Supremacy and Negro Subordination,' by the merest accident came into my possession. That book made a revelation to me of a most startling nature. "While I lived I could not tell you what I am about to tell you. Death has brought me the privilege. That book proved to me that the intermingling of the races in sexual relationship was sapping the vitality of the Negro race and, in fact, was slowly but surely exterminating the race. It demonstrated that the fourth generation of the children born of intermarrying mulattoes were invariably sterile or woefully lacking in vital force. It asserted that only in the most rare instances were children born of this fourth generation and in no case did such children reach maturity. This is a startling revelation. While this intermingling was impairing the vital force of our race and exterminating it, it was having no such effect on the white race for the following reason. Every half-breed, or for that, every person having a tinge of Negro blood, the white people cast off. We receive the cast off with open arms and he comes to us with his devitalizing power. Thus, the white man was slowly exterminating us and our total extinction was but a short period of time distant. I looked out upon our strong, tender hearted, manly race being swept from the face of the earth by immorality, and the very marrow in my bones seemed chilled at the thought thereof. I determined to spend my life fighting the evil. My first step was to solemnly pledge God to never marry a mulatto man. My next resolve was to part in every honorable way all courting couples of mulatto people that I could. My other and greatest task was to persuade the evil women of my race to cease their criminal conduct with white men and I went about pleading with them upon my knees to desist. I pointed out that such a course was wrong before God and was rapidly destroying the Negro race. I told them of my resolve to never marry a mulatto man. Many had faith in me and I was the means of redeeming numbers of these erring ones. When you came, I loved you. I struggled hard against that love. God, alone, knows how I battled against it. I prayed Him to take it from me, as it was eating my heart away. Sometimes I would appear indifferent to you with the hope of driving you away, but then my love would come surging with all the more violence and sweep me from my feet. At last, you seemed to draw away from me and I was happy. I felt free to you. But you at last proposed to me when I thought all such notions were dead. At once I foresaw my tragic end. My heart shed bloody tears, weeping over my own sad end, weeping for my beloved parents, weeping for my noble Bernard who was so true, so noble, so great in all things. "Bernard, how happy would I have been, how deliriously happy, could I but have stood beside you at the altar and sworn fidelity to you. Ours would have been an ideal home. But it was not to be. I had to choose between you and my race. Your noble heart, in its sober moments will sanction my choice, I would not have died if I could have lived without proving false to my race. Had I lived, my love and your agony, which I cannot bear, would have made me prove false to every vow. "Dear Bernard, I have a favor to ask of you. Secure the book of which I spoke to you. Study the question of the intermingling of the races. If miscegenation is in reality destroying us, dedicate your soul to the work of separating the white and colored races. Do not let them intermingle. Erect moral barriers to separate them. If you fail in this, make the separation physical; lead our people forth from this accursed land. Do this and I shall not have died in vain. Visit my grave now and then to drop thereon a flower and a flag, but no tears. If in the shadowy beyond, whose mists I feel gathering about me, there is a place where kindred spirits meet, you and I shall surely meet again. Though I could not in life, I will in death sign myself, "Your loving wife, "Viola Belgrave." Let us not enter this saddened home when the seals of those letters were broken. Let us not break the solemn silence of those who bowed their heads and bore the grief, too poignant for words. Dropping a tear of regret on the little darling who failed to remember that we have one atonement for all mankind and that further sacrifice was therefore needless, we pass out and leave the loving ones alone with their dead. But, we may gaze on Bernard Belgrave as he emerges from the room where his sun has set to rise no more. His eyes flash, his nostrils dilate, his bosom heaves, he lifts his proud head and turns his face so that the light of the sky may fall full upon it. And lifting up his hands, trembling with emotion as though supplicating for the strength of a god, he cries out; "By the eternal heavens these abominable horrors shall cease. The races, whose union has been fraught with every curse known to earth and hell, must separate. Viola demands it and Bernard obeys." It was this that sent him forth to where kings were eager to court his favor. CHAPTER XV. WEIGHTY MATTERS. With his hands thrust into his pockets, and his hat pulled over his grief stricken eyes, Bernard slowly wended his way to his boarding place. He locked himself in his room and denied himself to all callers. He paced to and fro, his heart a cataract of violent, tossing, whirling emotions. He sat down and leaned his head upon the bed, pressing his hand to his forehead as if to restore order there. While thus employed his landlady knocked at the door and called through the key hole, informing him that there was a telegram for him. Bernard arose, came out, signed for and received the telegram, tore it open and read as follows: Waco, Texas, ----l8---- "HON. BERNARD BELGRAVE, M.C., "Come to Waco at once. If you fail to come you will make the mistake of your life. Come. "BELTON PIEDMONT." "Yes, I'll go," shouted Bernard, "anywhere, for anything." He seemed to feel grateful for something to divert his thoughts and call him away from the scene where his hopes had died. He sent Viola's family a note truthfully stating that he was unequal to the task of attending Viola's funeral, and that for his part she was not dead and never should be. The parents had read Bernard's letter left by Viola and knew the whole story. They, too, felt that it was best for Bernard to go. Bernard took the train that afternoon and after a journey of four days arrived at Waco. Belton being apprised by telegram of the hour of his arrival, was at the station to meet him. Belton was actually shocked at the haggard appearance of his old play-fellow. It was such a contrast from the brilliant, glowing, handsome Bernard of former days. After the exchange of greetings, they entered a carriage and drove through the city. They passed out, leaving the city behind. After going about five miles, they came in sight of a high stone wall enclosure. In the middle of the enclosed place, upon a slight elevation, stood a building four stories high and about two hundred feet long and one hundred and eighty feet wide. In the center of the front side arose a round tower, half of it bulging out. This extended from the ground to a point about twenty feet above the roof of the building. The entrance to the building was through a wide door in this tower. Off a few paces was a small white cottage. Here and there trees abounded in patches in the enclosure, which seemed to comprise about twenty acres. The carriage drove over a wide, gravel driveway which curved so as to pass the tower door, and on out to another gate. Belton and Bernard alighted and proceeded to enter. Carved in large letters on the top of the stone steps were these words: "Thomas Jefferson College." They entered the tower and found themselves on the floor of an elevator, and on this they ascended to the fourth story. The whole of this story was one huge room, devoid of all kinds of furniture save a table and two chairs in a corner. In the center was an elevated platform about ten feet square, and on this stood what might have passed for either a gallows or an acting pole. Belton led Bernard to the spot where the two chairs and table stood and they sat down. Belton informed Bernard that he had brought him there so that there would be no possibility of anyone hearing what, he had to say. Bernard instantly became all attention. Belton began his recital: "I have been so fortunate as to unearth a foul conspiracy that is being hatched by our people. I have decided to expose them and see every one of them hung," "Pray tell me, Belton, what is the motive that prompts you to be so zealous in the work of ferreting out conspirators among your people to be hanged by the whites?" "It is this," said Belton: "you know as it is, the Negro has a hard time in this country. If we begin to develop traitors and conspirators we shall fare even worse. It is necessary, therefore, that we kill these vipers that come, lest we all be slain as vipers." "That may be true, but I don't like to see you in that kind of business," said Bernard. "Don't talk that way," said Belton, "for I counted upon your aid. I desire to secure you as prosecuting attorney in the case. When we thus expose the traitors, we shall earn the gratitude of the government and our race will be treated with more consideration in the future. We will add another page to the glorious record of our people's devotion by thus spurning these traitors." "Belton, I tell you frankly that my share in that kind of business will be infinitessimally small. But go on. Let me know the whole story, that I may know better what to think and do," replied Bernard. "Well, it is this," began Belton; "you know that there is one serious flaw in the Constitution of the United States, which has already caused a world of trouble, and there is evidently a great deal more to come. You know that a ship's boilers, engines, rigging, and so forth may be in perfect condition, but a serious leak in her bottom will sink the proudest vessel afloat. This flaw or defect in the Constitution of the United States is the relation of the General Government to the individual state. The vague, unsettled state of the relationship furnished the pretext for the Civil War. The General Government says to the citizen: 'I am your sovereign. You are my citizen and not the citizen of only one state. If I call on you to defend my sovereignty, you must do so even if you have to fight against your own state. But while I am your supreme earthly sovereign I am powerless to protect you against crimes, injustices, outrages against you. Your state may disfranchise you with or without law, may mob you; but my hands are so tied that I can't help you at all, although I shall force you to defend my sovereignty with your lives. If you are beset by Klu Klux, White Cappers, Bulldozers, Lynchers, do not turn your dying eyes on me for I am unable to help you.' Such is what the Federal Government has to say to the Negro. The Negro must therefore fight to keep afloat a flag that can afford him no more protection than could a helpless baby. The weakness of the General Government in this particular was revealed with startling clearness in connection with the murder of those Italians in New Orleans, a few years ago. This government had promised Italy to afford protection to the property and lives of her citizens sojourning in our midst. But when these men were murdered the General Government could not even bring the murderers to trial for their crime. Its treaty had been broken by a handfull of its own citizens and it was powerless to punish them. It had to confess its impotence to the world, and paid Italy a specified sum of money. The Negro finds himself an unprotected foreigner in his own home. Whatever outrages may be perpetrated upon him by the people of the state in which he lives, he cannot expect any character of redress from the General Government. So in order to supply this needed protection, this conspiracy of which I have spoken has been formed to attempt to unite all Negroes in a body to do that which the whimpering government childishly but truthfully says it cannot do. "These men are determined to secure protection for their lives and the full enjoyment of all rights and privileges due American citizens. They take a solemn oath, offering their very blood for the cause. I see that this will lead, eventually, to a clash of arms, and I wish to expose the conspiracy before it is too late. Cooperate with me and glory and honor shall attend us all of our days. Now, Bernard, tell me candidly what you think of the whole matter. May I not rely on you?" "Well, let me tell you just exactly what I think and just what I shall do," thundered Bernard, rising as he spoke. Pointing his finger at Belton, he said: "I think, sir, that you are the most infernal scoundrel that I ever saw, and those whom you call conspirators are a set of sublime patriots; and further," hissed Bernard in rage through his teeth, "if you betray those men, I will kill you." To Bernard's surprise Belton did not seem enraged as Bernard thought he would be. Knowing Belton's spirit he had expected an encounter after such words as he had just spoken. Belton looked indifferent and unconcerned, and arose, as if to yawn, when suddenly he threw himself on Bernard with the agility of a tiger and knocked him to the floor. From secret closets in the room sprang six able bodied men. They soon had Bernard securely bound. Belton then told Bernard that he must retract what he had said and agree to keep his revealed purpose a secret or he would never leave that room alive. "Then I shall die, and my only regret will be that I shall die at the hands of such an abominable wretch as you are," was Bernard's answer. Bernard was stood against the wall. The six men retired to their closets and returned with rifles. Bernard gazed at the men unflinchingly. They formed a line, ten paces in front of him. Belton gave Bernard one last chance, as he said, to save his life, by silence as to his plans. Bernard said: "If I live I shall surely proclaim your infamy to our people and slay you besides. The curse of our doomed race is just such white folks' niggers as you are. Shoot, shoot, shoot, you whelps." They took aim and, at a command from Belton, fired. When the smoke had lifted, Belton said: "Bernard, those were blank cartridges. I desired to give you another chance. If you consent to leave me unmolested to ferret out those conspirators I will take your word as your bond and spare your life. Will you accept your life at such a low price?" "Come here and let me give you my answer," said Bernard. "Let me whisper something in your ear." Belton drew near and Bernard spat in his face and said, "Take that, you knave." Belton ordered Bernard seized and carried to the center of the room where stood what appeared to be an acting pole, but what was in reality a complete gallows. A black cap was adjusted over Bernard's head and a rope tied to his hands. He was told that a horrible death awaited him. He was informed that the platform on which he stood was a trap door that concealed an opening in the center of the building, that extended to the first floor. He was told that he would be dropped far enough to have his arms torn from his body and would be left to die. Bernard perceptibly shuddered at the fate before him but he had determined long since to be true to every higher aspiration of his people, and he would die a death however horrible rather than stand by and see aspiring souls slaughtered for organizing to secure their rights at all hazards. He muttered a prayer to God, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and nerved himself for the ordeal, refusing to answer Belton's last appeal. Belton gave command to spring the trap door after he had counted three. In order to give Bernard a chance to weaken he put one minute between each count. "One----Two----Three----" he called out. Bernard felt the floor give way beneath his feet and he shot down with terrific speed. He nerved himself for the shock that was to tear his limbs from his body, but, strange to say, he felt the speed lessening as he fell and his feet eventually struck a floor with not sufficient force to even jar him severely. "Was this death? Was he dead or alive?" he was thinking within himself, when suddenly the mask was snatched from his face and he found himself in a large room containing desks arranged in a semi-circular form. There were one hundred and forty-five desks, and at each a person was seated. "Where was he? What did that assemblage mean? What did his strange experiences mean?" he asked himself. He stood there, his hands tied, his eye wandering from face to face. Within a few minutes Belton entered and the assemblage broke forth into cheers. Bernard had alighted on a platform directly facing the assemblage. Belton walked to his side and spread out his hands and said: "Behold the Chiefs of the conspirators whom you would not betray. Behold me, whom they have called the arch conspirator. You have nobly stood the test. Come, your reward awaits you. You are worthy of it and I assure you it is worthy of you." Bernard had not been killed in his fall because of a parachute which had been so arranged, unknown to him, to save him in the descent. CHAPTER XVI. UNWRITTEN HISTORY. Belton, smiling, locked his arm in Bernard's and said: "Come with me. I will explain it all to you." They walked down the aisle together. At the sight of these two most conspicuous representatives of all that was good and great in the race, moving down the aisle side by side, the audience began to cheer wildly and a band of musicians began playing "Hail to the Chief." All of this was inexplicable to Bernard; but he was soon to learn what and how much it meant. Belton escorted him across the campus to the small but remarkably pretty white cottage with green vines clinging to trellis work all around it. Here they entered. The rooms were furnished with rare and antique furniture and were so tastefully arranged as to astonish and please even Bernard, who had been accustomed from childhood to choice, luxuriant magnificence. They entered a side room, overlooking a beautiful lawn which could boast of lovely flowers and rose bushes scattered here and there. They sat down, facing each other. Bernard was a bundle of expectancy. He had passed through enough to make him so. Belton said: "Bernard, I am now about to put the keeping of the property, the liberty, and the very lives of over seven million five hundred thousand people into your hands." Bernard opened his eyes wide in astonishment and waited for Belton to further explain himself. "Realize," said Belton, "that I am carefully weighing each remark I make and am fully conscious of how much my statement involves." Bernard bowed his head in solemn thought. Viola's recent death, the blood-curdling experiences of the day, and now Belton's impressive words all united to make that a sober moment with him; as sober as any that he had ever had in his life. He looked Belton in the face and said: "May revengeful lightning transfix me with her fiercest bolts; may hell's most fiery pillars roll in fury around me; may I be despised of man and forgotten of my God, if I ever knowingly, in the slightest way, do aught to betray this solemn, this most sacred trust." Belton gazed fondly on the handsome features of his noble friend and sighed to think that only the coloring of his skin prevented him from being enrolled upon the scroll containing the names of the very noblest sons of earth. Arousing himself as from a reverie he drew near to Bernard and said: "I must begin. Another government, complete in every detail, exercising the sovereign right of life and death over its subjects, has been organized and maintained within the United States for many years. This government has a population of seven million two hundred and fifty thousand." "Do you mean all that you say, Belton?" asked Bernard eagerly. "I shall in a short time submit to you positive proofs of my assertion. You shall find that I have not overstated anything." "But, Belton, how in the world can such a thing be when I, who am thoroughly conversant with every movement of any consequence, have not even dreamed of such a thing." "All of that shall be made perfectly clear to you in the course of the narrative which I shall now relate." Bernard leaned forward, anxious to hear what purported to be one of the most remarkable and at the same time one of the most important things connected with modern civilization. Belton began: "You will remember, Bernard, that there lived, in the early days of the American Republic, a negro scientist who won an international reputation by his skill and erudition. In our school days, we spoke of him often. Because of his learning and consequent usefulness, this negro enjoyed the association of the moving spirits of the revolutionary period. By the publication of a book of science which outranked any other book of the day that treated of the same subject, this negro became a very wealthy man. Of course the book is now obsolete, science having made such great strides since his day. This wealthy negro secretly gathered other free negroes together and organized a society that had a two-fold object. The first object was to endeavor to secure for the free negroes all the rights and privileges of men, according to the teachings of Thomas Jefferson. Its other object was to secure the freedom of the enslaved negroes the world over. All work was done by this organization with the sole stipulation that it should be used for the furtherance of the two above named objects of the society, and for those objects alone. "During slavery this organization confined its membership principally to free negroes, as those who were yet in physical bondage were supposed to have aspirations for nothing higher than being released from chains, and were, therefore, not prepared to eagerly aspire to the enjoyment of the highest privileges of freedom. When the War of Secession was over and all negroes were free, the society began to cautiously spread its membership among the emancipated. They conducted a campaign of education, which in every case preceded an attempt at securing members. This campaign of education had for its object the instruction of the negro as to what real freedom was. He was taught that being released from chains was but the lowest form of liberty, and that he was no more than a common cur if he was satisfied with simply that. That much was all, they taught, that a dog howled for. They made use of Jefferson's writings, educating the negro to feel that he was not in the full enjoyment of his rights until he was on terms of equality with any other human being that was alive or had ever lived. This society used its influence secretly to have appointed over Southern schools of all kinds for negroes such teachers as would take especial pains to teach the negro to aspire for equality with all other races of men. "They were instructed to pay especial attention to the history of the United States during the revolutionary period. Thus, the campaign of education moved forward. The negroes gained political ascendancy in many Southern states, but were soon hurled from power, by force in some quarters, and by fraud in others. The negroes turned their eyes to the federal government for redress and a guarantee of their rights. The federal government said: 'Take care of yourselves, we are powerless to help you.' The 'Civil Rights Bill,' was declared null and void, by the Supreme Court. An 'honest election bill' was defeated in Congress by James G. Blaine and others. Separate coach laws were declared by the Supreme Court to be constitutional. State Constitutions were revised and so amended as to nullify the amendment of the Federal Constitution, giving the negro the right to vote. More than sixty thousand defenseless negroes were unlawfully slain. Governors would announce publicly that they favored lynching. The Federal Government would get elected to power by condemning these outrages, and when there, would confess its utter helplessness. One President plainly declared, what was already well known, 'that the only thing that they could do, would be to create a healthy sentiment.' This secret organization of which we have been speaking decided that some means must be found to do what the General Government could not do, because of a defect in the Constitution. They decided to organize a General Government that would protect the negro in his rights. This course of action decided upon, the question was as to how this could be done the most quickly and successfully. You well know that the negro has been a marvelous success since the war, as a builder of secret societies. "One member of this patriotic secret society, of which we have been speaking, conceived the idea of making use of all of these secret orders already formed by negroes. The idea met with instant approval. A house was found already to hand. These secret orders were all approached and asked to add one more degree and let this added degree be the same in every negro society. This proposition was accepted, and the Government formed at once. Each order remained, save in this last degree where all were one. This last degree was nothing more nor less than a compact government exercising all the functions of a nation. The grand purpose of the government was so apparent, and so needful of attention, that men rushed into this last degree pledging their lives to the New Government. "All differences between the race were to be settled by this Government, as it had a well organized judiciary. Negroes, members of this Government, were to be no longer seen fighting negroes before prejudiced white courts. An army was organized and every able-bodied citizen enlisted. After the adjournment of the lodge sessions, army drills were always executed. A Congress was duly elected, one member for every fifty thousand citizens. Branch legislatures were formed in each state. Except in a few, but important particulars, the constitution was modeled after that of the United States. "There is only one branch to our Congress, the members of which are elected by a majority vote, for an indefinite length of time, and may be recalled at any time by a majority vote. "This Congress passes laws relating to the general welfare of our people, and whenever a bill is introduced in the Congress of the United States affecting our race it is also introduced and debated here. "Every race question submitted to the United States judiciary, is also submitted to our own. A record of our decisions is kept side by side with the decisions of the United States. "The money which the scientist left was wisely invested, and at the conclusion of the civil war amounted to many millions. Good land at the South was offered after the war for twenty-five cents an acre. These millions were expended in the purchase of such lands, and our treasury is now good for $500,000,000. Our citizens own about $350,000,000. And all of this is pledged to our government in case it is needed. "We have at our disposal, therefore, $850,000,000. This money can he used by the Government in any way that it sees fit, so long as it is used to secure the recognition of the rights of our people. They are determined to be free and will give their lives, as freely as they have given their property. "This place is known as Jefferson College, but it is in reality the Capitol of our Government, and those whom you have just left are the Congressmen." "But, Belton," broke in Bernard, "how does it happen that I have been excluded from all this?" "That is explained in this way. The relation of your mother to the Anglo-Saxon race has not been clearly understood, and you and she have been under surveillance for many years. "It was not until recently deemed advisable to let you in, your loyalty to the race never having fully been tested. I have been a member for years. While I was at Stowe University, though a young man, I was chairman of the bureau of education and had charge of the work of educating the race upon the doctrine of human liberty. "While I was at Cadeville, La., that was my work. Though not attracting public attention, I was sowing seed broadcast. After my famous case I was elected to Congress here and soon thereafter chosen speaker, which position I now hold. "I shall now come to matters that concern you. Our constitution expressly stipulates that the first President of our Government should be a man whom the people unanimously desired. Each Congressman had to be instructed to vote for the same man, else there would be no election. This was done because it was felt that the responsibility of the first President would be so great, and have such a formative influence that he should be the selection of the best judgment of the entire nation. "In the second place, this would ensure his having a united nation at his back. Again, this forcing the people to be unanimous would have a tendency to heal dissensions within their ranks. In other words, we needed a George Washington. "Various men have been put forward for this honor and vigorous campaigns have been waged in their behalf. But these all failed of the necessary unanimous vote. At last, one young man arose, who was brilliant and sound, genial and true, great and good. On every tongue was his name and in every heart his image. Unsolicited by him, unknown to him, the nation by its unanimous voice has chosen him the President of our beloved Government. This day he has unflinchingly met the test that our Congress decreed and has come out of the furnace, purer than gold. He feared death no more than the caress of his mother, when he felt that that death was to be suffered in behalf of his oppressed people. I have the great honor, on this the proudest occasion of my life, to announce that I am commissioned to inform you that the name of our President is Bernard Belgrave. You, sir, are President of the Imperium In Imperio, the name of our Government, and to you we devote our property, our lives, our all, promising to follow your banner into every post of danger until it is planted on freedom's hill. You are given three months in which to verify all of my claims, and give us answer as to whether you will serve us." * * * * * Bernard took three months to examine into the reality and stability of the Imperium. He found it well nigh perfect in every part and presented a form of government unexcelled by that of any other nation. CHAPTER XVII. CROSSING THE RUBICON. Bernard assumed the Presidency of the Imperium and was duly inaugurated in a manner in keeping with the importance of his high office. He began the direction of its affairs with such energy and tactful discretion as betokened great achievements. He familiarized himself with every detail of his great work and was thoroughly posted as to all the resources at his command. He devoted much time to assuaging jealousies and healing breaches wherever such existed in the ranks of the Imperium. He was so gentle, so loving, yet so firm and impartial, that all factional differences disappeared at his approach. Added to his great popularity because of his talents, there sprang up for him personal attachments, marvelous in depth. He rose to the full measure of the responsibilities of his commanding position, and more than justified the fondest anticipations of his friends and admirers. In the meanwhile he kept an observant eye upon the trend of events in the United States, and his fingers were ever on the pulse of the Imperium. All of the evils complained of by the Imperium continued unabated; in fact, they seemed to multiply and grow instead of diminishing. Bernard started a secret newspaper whose business it was to chronicle every fresh discrimination, every new act of oppression, every additional unlawful assault upon the property, the liberty or the lives of any of the members of the Imperium. This was an illustrated journal, and pictures of horrors, commented upon in burning words, spread fire-brands everywhere in the ranks of the Imperium. Only members of the Imperium had access to this fiery journal. At length an insurrection broke out in Cuba, and the whole Imperium watched this struggle with keenest interest, as the Cubans were in a large measure negroes. In proportion as the Cubans drew near to their freedom, the fever of hope correspondingly rose in the veins of the Imperium. The United States of America sent a war ship to Cuba. One night while the sailors slept in fancied security, some powerful engine of destruction demolished the vessel and ended the lives of some 266 American seamen. A board of inquiry was sent by the United States Government to the scene of the disaster, and, after a careful investigation of a most thorough character, decided that the explosion was not internal and accidental but external and by design. This finding made war between the United States and Spain practically inevitable. While the whole nation was in the throes of war excitement, a terrible tragedy occurred. President McKinley had appointed Mr. Felix A. Cook, a colored man of ability, culture and refinement as postmaster of Lake City, South Carolina. The white citizens of this place made no protest against the appointment and all was deemed satisfactory. One morning the country awoke to be horrified with the news that Mr. Cook's home had been assaulted at night by a mob of white demons in human form. The mob set fire to the house while the occupants slept, and when Mr. Cook with his family endeavored to escape from the flames he was riddled with bullets and killed, and his wife and children were wounded. And the sole offense for which this dastardly crime was perpetrated, was that he decided to accept the honor which the government conferred upon him in appointing him postmaster of a village of 300 inhabitants. It was the color of his skin that made this acceptance odious in the eyes of his Anglo-Saxon neighbors! This incident naturally aroused as much indignation among the members of the Imperium as did the destruction of the war ship in the bosoms of the Anglo-Saxons of the United States. All things considered, Bernard regarded this as the most opportune moment for the Imperium to meet and act upon the whole question of the relationship of the negro race to the Anglo-Saxons. The Congress of the Imperium was called and assembled in special session at the Capitol building just outside of Waco. The session began on the morning of April--the same day on which the Congress of the United States had under consideration the resolutions, the adoption of which meant war with Spain. These two congresses on this same day had under consideration questions of vital import to civilization. The proceedings of the Anglo-Saxons have been told to the world in minute detail, but the secret deliberations of the Imperium are herein disclosed for the first time. The exterior of the Capitol at Waco was decorated with American flags, and red, white and blue bunting. Passers-by commented on the patriotism of Jefferson College. But, enveloped in this decoration there was cloth of the color of mourning. The huge weeping willows stood, one on each side of the speaker's desk. To the right of the desk, there was a group of women in widow's weeds, sitting on an elevated platform. There were fifty of these, their husbands having been made the victims of mobs since the first day of January just gone. To the left of the speaker's desk, there were huddled one hundred children whose garments were in tatters and whose looks bespoke lives of hardship. These were the offsprings robbed of their parents by the brutish cruelty of unthinking mobs. Postmaster Cook, while alive, was a member of the Imperium and his seat was now empty and draped in mourning. In the seat was a golden casket containing his heart, which had been raked from the burning embers on the morning following the night of the murderous assault. It was amid such surrounding as these that the already aroused and determined members of the Congress assembled. Promptly at 11 o'clock, Speaker Belton Piedmont took the chair. He rapped for order, and the chaplain offered a prayer, in which he invoked the blessings of God upon the negro race at the most important crisis in its history. Word was sent, by proper committee, across the campus informing the president that Congress was in session awaiting his further pleasure. According to custom, the president came in person to orally deliver his message. He entered in the rear of the building and marched forward. The Congress arose and stood with bowed heads as he passed through. The speaker's desk was moved back as a sign of the president's superior position, and directly in the center of the platform the president stood to speak. He was dressed in a Prince Albert suit of finest black. He wore a standing collar and a necktie snowy white. The hair was combed away from that noble brow of his, and his handsome face showed that he was nerved for what he regarded as the effort of his life. In his fierce, determined glance you could discover that latent fires, hitherto unsuspected even in his warm bosom, had been aroused. The whole man was to speak that day. And he spoke. We can give you his words but not his speech. Man can photograph the body, but in the photograph you can only glimpse the soul. Words can portray the form of a speech, but the spirit, the life, are missing and we turn away disappointed. That sweet, well modulated voice, full of tender pathos, of biting sarcasm, of withering irony, of swelling rage, of glowing fervor, according as the occasion demanded, was a most faithful vehicle to Bernard; conveying fully every delicate shade of thought. The following gives you but a faint idea of his masterly effort. In proportion as you can throw yourself into his surroundings, and feel, as he had felt, the iron in his soul, to that extent will you be able to realize how much power there was in what is now to follow: THE PRESIDENT'S MESSAGE. "Two terrible and discordant sounds have burst forth upon the erstwhile quiet air and now fill your bosom with turbulent emotions. One is the blast of the bugle, fierce and loud, calling us to arms against a foreign nation to avenge the death of American seamen and to carry the cup of liberty to a people perishing for its healing draught. The other is the crackling of a burning house in the night's dead hours, the piteous cries of pain and terror from the lips of wounded babes; the despairing, heart-rending, maddening shrieks of the wife and mother; the harrowing groans of the dying husband and father, and the gladsome shout of the fiendish mob of white American citizens, who have wrought the havoc just described, a deed sufficiently horrible to make Satan blush and hell hastily hide her face in shame. "I deem this, my fellow countrymen, as an appropriate time for us to consider what shall be our attitude, immediate and future, to this Anglo-Saxon race, which calls upon us to defend the fatherland and at the same moment treats us in a manner to make us execrate it. Let us, then, this day decide what shall be the relations that shall henceforth exist between us and the Anglo-Saxon race of the United States of America. "Seven million eyes are riveted upon you, hoping that you will be brave and wise enough to take such action as will fully atone for all the horrors of the past and secure for us every right due to all honorable, loyal, law-abiding citizens of the United States. Pleadingly they look to you to extract the arrow of shame which hangs quivering in every bosom, shame at continued humiliation, unavenged. "In order to arrive at a proper conclusion as to what the duty of the hour is, it would be well to review our treatment received at the hands of the Anglo-Saxon race and note the position that we are now sternly commanded by them to accept. "When this is done, to my mind, the path of duty will be as plain before our eyes as the path of the sun across the heavens. I shall, therefore, proceed to review our treatment and analyze our present condition, in so far as it is traceable to the treatment which we now receive from the Anglo-Saxon. "When in 1619 our forefathers landed on the American shore, the music of welcome with which they were greeted, was the clanking of iron chains ready to fetter them; the crack of the whip to be used to plow furrows in their backs; and the yelp of the blood-hound who was to bury his fangs deep into their flesh, in case they sought for liberty. Such was the music with which the Anglo-Saxon came down to the shore to extend a hearty welcome to the forlorn children of night, brought from a benighted heathen land to a community of _Christians!_ "The negro was seized and forced to labor hard that the Anglo-Saxon might enjoy rest and ease. While he sat in his cushioned chair, in his luxurious home, and dreamed of the blessedness of freedom, the enforced labor of slaves felled the forest trees, cleared away the rubbish, planted the seed and garnered the ripened grain, receiving therefor no manner of pay, no token of gratitude, no word of coldest thanks. "That same hammer and anvil that forged the steel sword of the Anglo-Saxon, with which he fought for freedom from England's yoke, also forged the chain that the Anglo-Saxon used to bind the negro more securely in the thralldom of slavery. For two hundred and forty-four years the Anglo-Saxon imposed upon the hapless, helpless negro, the bondage of abject slavery, robbed him of the just recompense of his unceasing toil, treated him with the utmost cruelty, kept his mind shrouded in the dense fog of ignorance, denied his poor sinful soul access to the healing word of God, and, while the world rolled on to joy and light, the negro was driven cowering and trembling, back, back into the darkest corners of night's deepest gloom. And when, at last, the negro was allowed to come forth and gaze with the eyes of a freeman on the glories of the sky, even this holy act, the freeing of the negro, was a matter of compulsion and has but little, if anything, in it demanding gratitude, except such gratitude as is due to be given unto God. For the Emancipation Proclamation, as we all know, came not so much as a message of love for the slave as a message of love for the Union; its primary object was to save the Union, its incident, to liberate the slave. Such was the act which brought to a close two hundred and forty-four years of barbarous maltreatment and inhuman oppression! After all these years of unremitting toil, the negro was pushed out into the world without one morsel of food, one cent of money, one foot of land. Naked and unarmed he was pushed forward into a dark cavern and told to beard the lion in his den. In childlike simplicity he undertook the task. Soon the air was filled with his agonizing cries; for the claws and teeth of the lion were ripping open every vein and crushing every bone. In this hour of dire distress the negro lifted up his voice in loud, long piteous wails calling upon those for help at whose instance and partially for whose sake he had dared to encounter the deadly foe. These whilom friends rushed with a loud shout to the cavern's mouth. But when they saw the fierce eyes of the lion gleaming in the dark and heard his fearful growl, this loud shout suddenly died away into a feeble, cowardly whimper, and these boastful creatures at the crackling of a dry twig turned and scampered away like so many jack-rabbits. "Having thus briefly reviewed our past treatment at the hand of the Anglo-Saxon, we now proceed to consider the treatment which we receive at his hands to-day. THE INDUSTRIAL SITUATION. "During the long period of slavery the Negro race was not allowed to use the mind as a weapon in the great 'battle for bread.' "The Anglo-Saxon said to the negro, in most haughty tones: 'In this great "battle for bread," you must supply the brute force while I will supply the brain. If you attempt to use your brain I will kill you; and before I will stoop so low as to use my own physical power to earn my daily bread I will kill myself.' "This edict of the Anglo-Saxon race, issued in the days of slavery, is yet in force in a slightly modified form. "He yet flees from physical exertion as though it were the leprosy itself, and yet, violently pushes the negro into that from which he has so precipitately fled, crying in a loud voice, 'unclean, unclean.' "If forced by circumstances to resort to manual labor, he chooses the higher forms of this, where skill is the main factor. But he will not labor even here with the negro, but drives him out and bars the door. "He will contribute the public funds to educate the negro and then exert every possible influence to keep the negro from earning a livelihood by means of that education. "It is true, that in the goodness of his heart he will allow the negro community to have a negro preacher, teacher, doctor, pharmacist and jackleg lawyer, but further than this he will not go. Practically all of the other higher forms of labor are hermetically sealed so far as the negro is concerned. "Thus, like Tantalus of old, we are placed in streams of water up to our necks, but when we stoop down to drink thereof the waters recede; luscious fruit, tempting to the eye and pleasing to the taste, is placed above our heads, only to be wafted away by the winds of prejudice, when, like Tantalus we reach up to grasp and eat. OUR CIVIL RIGHTS. "An Italian, a Frenchman, a German, a Russian, a Chinaman and a Swede come, let us suppose, on a visit to our country. "As they draw near our public parks they look up and see placards forbidding somebody to enter these places. They pause to read the signs to see who it is that is forbidden to enter. "Unable to understand our language, they see a negro child returning from school and they call the child to read and interpret the placard. It reads thus: 'Negroes and dogs not allowed in here.' "The little negro child, whose father's sweaty, unrequited toil cleared the spot whereon the park now stands, loiters outside of the wicker gate in company with the dogs of the foreigners and gazes wistfully through the cracks at the children of these strangers sporting on the lawn. "This is but a fair sample of the treatment which our race receives everywhere in the South. "If we enter a place where a sign tells us that the public is served, we do not know whether we are to be waited upon or driven out like dogs. "And the most shameful and hopeless feature connected with the question of our civil rights is that the Supreme Court has lent its official sanction to all such acts of discrimination. The highest court in the land is the chief bulwark of caste prejudice in democratic America. EDUCATION. "The race that thinks of us and treats us as we have just indicated has absolute charge of the education of our children. "They pay our teachers poorer salaries than they do their own; they give us fewer and inferior school buildings and they make us crawl in the dust before the very eyes of our children in order to secure the slightest concessions. "They attempt to muzzle the mouths of negro teachers, and he who proclaims too loudly the doctrine of equality as taught by Thomas Jefferson, will soon be in search of other employment. "Thus, they attempt to cripple our guides so that we may go forward at a feeble pace. "Our children, early in life, learn of our maltreatment, and having confidence in the unused strength of their parents, urge us to right our wrongs. "We listen to their fiery words and gaze in fondness on their little clinched fists. We then bow our heads in shame and lay bare to them the chains that yet hold our ankles, though the world has pronounced us free. "In school, they are taught to bow down and worship at the shrine of the men who died for the sake of liberty, and day by day they grow to disrespect us, their parents who have made no blow for freedom. But it will not always be thus! COURTS OF JUSTICE. "Colored men are excluded from the jury box; colored lawyers are discriminated against at the bar; and negroes, with the highest legal attainments, are not allowed to even dream of mounting the seat of a judge. "Before a court that has been lifted into power by the very hands of prejudice, justice need not be expected. The creature will, presumably, serve its creator; this much the creator demands. "We shall mention just one fact that plainly illustrates the character of the justice to be found in our courts. "If a negro murders an Anglo-Saxon, however justifiably, let him tremble for his life if he is to be tried in our courts. On the other hand, if an Anglo-Saxon murders a negro in cold blood, without the slightest provocation, he will, if left to the pleasure of our courts, die of old age and go down to his grave in perfect peace. "A court that will thus carelessly dabble and play in puddles of human blood needs no further comment at my hands. MOB LAW. "The courts of the land are the facile instruments of the Anglo-Saxon race. They register its will as faithfully as the thermometer does the slightest caprice of the weather. And yet, the poor boon of a trial in even such courts as these is denied the negro, even when his character is being painted with hell's black ink and charges that threaten his life are being laid at his door. He is allowed no chance to clear his name; no opportunity to bid a friend good bye; no time to formulate a prayer to God. "About this way of dealing with criminals there are three horrible features: First, innocent men are often slain and forced to sleep eternally in dishonored graves. Secondly, when men who are innocent are thus slain the real culprits are left behind to repeat their deeds and thus continue to bring reproach upon the race to which they belong. Thirdly, illegal execution always begets sympathy in the hearts of our people for a criminal, however dastardly may be his crime. Thus the execution loses all of its moral force as a deterrent. That wrath, that eloquence, which would all be used in abuse of the criminal is divided between him and his lynchers. Thus the crime for which the man suffers, is not dwelt upon with that unanimity to make it sufficiently odious, and, as a consequence, lynching increases crime. And, too, under the operation of the lynch-law the criminal knows that any old tramp is just as liable as himself to be seized and hanged. "This accursed practice, instead of decreasing, grows in extent year by year. Since the close of the civil war no less than sixty thousand of our comrades, innocent of all crime, have been hurried to their graves by angry mobs, and to-day their widows and orphans and their own departed spirits cry out to you to avenge their wrongs. "Woe unto that race, whom the tears of the widows, the cries of starving orphans, the groans of the innocent dying, and the gaping wounds of those unjustly slain, accuse before a righteous God! POLITICS. "'Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed!' "These words were penned by the man whom the South has taught us to revere as the greatest and noblest American statesman, whether those who are now alive or those who are dead. We speak of Thomas Jefferson. They have taught us that he was too wise to err and that his sayings are truth incarnate. They are ready to anathematize any man in their own ranks who will decry the self-evident truths which he uttered. "The Bible which the white people gave us, teaches us that we are men. The Declaration of Independence, which we behold them wearing over their hearts, tells us that all men are created equal. If, as the Bible says, we are men; if, as Jefferson says, all men are equal; if, as he further states, governments derive all just powers from the consent of the governed, then it follows that the American government is in duty bound to seek to know our will as respects the laws and the men who are to govern us. "But instead of seeking to know our will, they employ every device that human ingenuity can contrive to prevent us from expressing our opinion. The monarchial trait seems not to have left their blood. They have apparently chosen our race as an empire, and each Anglo-Saxon regards himself as a petty king, and some gang or community of negroes as his subjects. "Thus our voice is not heard in the General Government. Our kings, the Anglo-Saxons, speak for us, their slaves. In some states we are deprived of our right to vote by frauds, in others by violence, and in yet others by statutory enactment. But in all cases it is most effectually done. "Burdens may be put upon our shoulders that are weighing us down, but we have no means of protesting. Men who administer the laws may discriminate against us to an outrageous degree, but we have no power to remove or to punish them. "Like lean, hungry dogs, we must crouch beneath our master's table and snap eagerly at the crumbs that fall. If in our scramble for these crumbs we make too much noise, we are violently kicked and driven out of doors, where, in the sleet and snow, we must whimper and whine until late the next morning when the cook opens the door and we can then crouch down in the corner of the kitchen. "Oh! my Comrades, we cannot longer endure our shame and misery! "We can no longer lay supinely down upon our backs and let oppression dig his iron heel in our upturned pleading face until, perchance, the pity of a bystander may meekly request him to desist. "Fellow Countrymen, we must be free. The sun that bathes our land in light yet rises and sets upon a race of slaves. "The question remaining before us, then, is, How we are to obtain this freedom? In olden times, revolutions were effected by the sword and spear. In modern times the ballot has been used for that purpose. But the ballot has been snatched from our hands. The modern implement of revolutions has been denied us. I need not say more. Your minds will lead you to the only gate left open. "But this much I will say: let not so light, so common, so universal a thing as that which we call death be allowed to frighten you from the path that leads to true liberty and absolute equality. Let that which under any circumstances must come to one and all be no terror to you. "To the martyr, who perishes in freedom's cause, death comes with a beauteous smile and with most tender touch. But to the man whose blood is nothing but sour swill; who prefers to stay like fattening swine until pronounced fit for the butcher's knife; to such, death comes with a most horrifying visage, and seizing the victim with cold and clammy hands hurries with his disgusting load to some far away dumping ground. "How glad am I that I can glance over this audience and see written upon your faces utter disdain of death. "In concluding let me say, I congratulate you that after years of suffering and disunion our faces are now _all_ turned toward the golden shores of liberty's lovely land. "Some tell us that a sea is in our way, so deep that we cannot cross. Let us answer back in joyful tones as our vessels push out from the shore, that our clotted blood, shed in the middle of the sea, will float to the other side, even if we do not reach there ourselves. "Others tell us that towering, snow-capped mountains enclose the land. To this we answer, if we die on the mountain-side, we shall be shrouded in sheets of whitest snow, and all generations of men yet to come upon the earth will have to gaze upward in order to see our whitened forms. "Let us then, at all hazards, strike a blow for freedom. If it calls for a Thermopylæ, be free. If it calls for a Valley Forge, be free. If contending for our rights, given unto us by God, causes us to be slain, let us perish on the field of battle, singing as we pass out of the world, 'Sweet Freedom's song,' though every word of this soul-inspiring hymn must come forth wrapped in our hearts' warm blood. "Gentlemen of the Imperium in Imperio, I await your pleasure." CHAPTER XVIII. THE STORM'S MASTER. When Bernard ceased speaking and took his seat the house was as silent as a graveyard. All felt that the time for words had passed and the next and only thing in order was a deed. Each man seemed determined to keep his seat and remain silent until he had some definite plan to suggest. At length one man, somewhat aged, arose and spoke as follows: "Fellow citizens, our condition is indeed past enduring and we must find a remedy. I have spent the major portion of my life in close study of this subject, searching for a solution. My impression is that the negro will never leave this country. The day for the wholesale exodus of nations is past. We must, then, remain here. As long as we remain here as a separate and distinct race we shall continue to be oppressed. We must lose our identity. I, therefore, urge that we abandon the idea of becoming anything noteworthy as a separate and distinct race and send the word forth that we amalgamate." When the word "amalgamate" escaped his lips a storm of hisses and jeers drowned further speech and he quickly crouched down in his seat. Another arose and advocated emigration to the African Congo Free State. He pointed out that this State, great in area and rich in resources, was in the hands of the weak kingdom of Belgium and could be wrested from Belgium with the greatest ease. In fact, it might be possible to purchase it, as it was the personal property of King Leopold. He further stated that one of his chief reasons for suggesting emigration was that it would be a terrible blow to the South. The proud Southerner would then have his own forests to fell and fields to tend. He pictured the haughty Southern lady at last the queen of her own kitchen. He then called attention to the loss of influence and prestige which the South would sustain in the nation. By losing nearly one half of its population the South's representation in Congress would be reduced to such a point that the South would have no appreciable influence on legislation for one half a century to come. He called attention to the business depression that would ensue when the southern supply merchant lost such an extensive consumer as the negro. He wound up by urging the Imperium to go where they would enjoy all the rights of free men, and by picturing the demoralization and ruin of the South when they thus went forth. His suggestion met with much favor but he did not make clear the practicability of his scheme. At length a bold speaker arose who was courageous enough to stick a match to the powder magazine which Bernard had left uncovered in all their bosoms. His first declaration was: "I am for war!" and it was cheered to the echo. It was many minutes before the applause died away. He then began an impassioned invective against the South and recited in detail horror after horror, for which the South was answerable. He described hangings, revolting in their brutality; he drew vivid word pictures of various burnings, mentioning one where a white woman struck the match and ignited the pile of wood that was to consume the trembling negro. He told of the Texas horror, when a colored man named Smith was tortured with a red hot poker, and his eyes gouged out; after which he was slowly roasted to death. He then had Mrs. Cook arise and gather her children about her, and tell her sorrowful story. As she proceeded the entire assembly broke down in tears, and men fell on each other's necks and wept like babes. And oh! Their hearts swelled, their bosoms heaved, their breath came quick with choking passion, and there burst from all their throats the one hoarse cry: "War! war! war!" Bernard turned his head away from this affecting sight and in his soul swore a terrible oath to avenge the wrongs of his people. When quiet was sufficiently restored, the man with the match arose and offered the following resolutions: "WHEREAS, the history of our treatment by the Anglo-Saxon race is but the history of oppression, and whereas, our patient endurance of evil has not served to decrease this cruelty, but seems rather to increase it; and whereas, the ballot box, the means of peaceful revolution is denied us, therefore; "_Be it Resolved_: That the hour for wreaking vengeance for our multiplied wrongs has come. "_Resolved_ secondly: That we at once proceed to war for the purpose of accomplishing the end just named, and for the further purpose of obtaining all our rights due us as men. "_Resolved_ thirdly: That no soldier of the Imperium leave the field of battle until the ends for which this war was inaugurated are fully achieved." A dozen men were on their feet at once to move the adoption of these resolutions. The motion was duly seconded and put before the house. The Chairman asked: "Are you ready to vote?" "Ready!" was the unanimous, vociferous response. The chairman, Belton Piedmont, quietly said: "Not ready." All eyes were then pointed eagerly and inquiringly to him. He called the senior member of the house to the chair and came down upon the floor to speak. We are now about to record one of the most remarkable feats of oratory known to history. Belton stood with his massive, intellectual head thrown back and a look of determined defiance shot forth from his eyes. His power in debate was well known and the members settled themselves back for a powerful onslaught of some kind; but exactly what to expect they did not know. Fortunately for Belton's purpose, surprise, wonder, expectancy, had, for the time being, pushed into the background the more violent emotions surging a moment before. Belton turned his head slowly, letting his eye sweep the entire circle of faces before him, and there seemed to be a force and an influence emanating from the look. He began: "I call upon you all to bear me witness that I have ever in word and deed been zealous in the work of building up this Imperium, whose holy mission it is to grapple with our enemy and wrest from him our stolen rights, given to us by nature and nature's God. If there be one of you that knowest aught against my patriotism, I challenge him to declare it now; and if there be anything to even cast a suspicion upon me, I shall gladly court a traitor's ignoble doom." He paused here. No one accepted the challenge, for Belton was the acknowledged guiding star that had led the Imperium to the high point of efficiency where Bernard found it. "By your silence," Belton continued, "I judge that my patriotism is above suspicion; and this question being settled, I shall feel free to speak all that is within me on the subject now before me. I have a word to say in defence of the south--" "No! No! No! No!" burst from a score of throats. Friends crowded around Belton and begged him to desist. They told him that the current was so strong that it was death to all future usefulness to try to breast it. Belton waved them away and cried out in impassioned tones: "On her soil I was born; on her bosom I was reared; into her arms I hope to fall in death; and I shall not from fear of losing popular favor desist from pointing out the natural sources from which her sins arise, so that when judgment is pronounced justice will not hesitate to stamp it with her righteous seal." "Remember your scars!" shouted one. "Yes, I am scarred," returned Belton. "I have been in the hands of an angry mob; I have dangled from a tree at the end of a rope; I have felt the murderous pistol drive cold lead into my flesh; I have been accounted dead and placed upon the dissecting table; I have felt the sharp surgical knife ripping my flesh apart when I was supposed to be dead; all of these hardships and more besides I have received at the hands of the South; but she has not and cannot drive truth from my bosom, and the truth shall I declare this day." Seeing that it was useless to attempt to deter him, Belton continued his speech without interruption: "There are many things in the message of our most worthy President that demand attention. It was indeed an awful sin for the Anglo-Saxon to enslave the negro. But in judging a people we must judge them according to the age in which they lived, and the influence that surrounded them. "If David were on earth alive to-day and the ruler of an enlightened kingdom, he would be impeached forthwith, fined for adultery, imprisoned for bigamy, and hanged for murder. Yet while not measuring up to the standard of morality of to-day, he was the man after God's own heart in his day and generation. "If Abraham were here to-day he would be expelled from any church that had any regard for decency; and yet, he was the father of the faithful, for he walked according to the little light that struggled through the clouds and reached him. "When slavery was introduced into America, it was the universal practice of mankind to enslave. Knowing how quick we all are to heed the universal voice of mankind, we should be lenient toward others who are thus tempted and fall. "It has appeared strange to some that the Americans could fight for their own freedom from England and yet not think of those whom they then held in slavery. It should be remembered that the two kinds of slavery were by no means identical. The Americans fought for a theory and abstract principle. The negro did not even discern the points at issue; and the Anglo-Saxon naturally did not concern himself at that time with any one so gross as not to know anything of a principle for which he, (the Anglo-Saxon) was ready to offer up his life. "Our President alluded to the fact that the negro was unpaid for all his years of toil. It is true that he was not paid in coin, but he received that from the Anglo-Saxons which far outweighs in value all the gold coin on earth. He received instruction in the arts of civilization, a knowledge of the English language, and a conception of the one true God and his Christ. "While all of the other races of men were behind the ball of progress rolling it up the steep hill of time, the negro was asleep in the jungles of Africa. Newton dug for the law of gravitation; Herschel swept the starry sky in search of other worlds; Columbus stood upon the prow of the ship and braved the waves of the ocean and the fiercer ridicule of men; Martin Luther, single handed and alone, fought the Pope, the religious guide of the world; and all of this was done while the negro slept. After others had toiled so hard to give the bright light of civilization to the world, it was hardly to be expected that a race that slept while others worked could step up and at once enjoy all the fruits of others' toil. "Allow me to note this great fact; that by enslavement in America the negro has come into possession of the great English language. He is thus made heir to all the richest thoughts of earth. Had he retained his mother tongue, it would perhaps have been centuries untold before the masterpieces of earth were given him. As it is we can now enjoy the companionship of Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton, Bunyan, together with the favorite sons of other nations adopted into the English language, such as Dante, Hugo, Goethe, Dumas and hosts of others. Nor must we ever forget that it was the Anglo-Saxon who snatched from our idolatrous grasp the deaf images to which we prayed, and the Anglo-Saxon who pointed us to the Lamb of God that takes away the sins of the world. "So, beloved fellow citizens, when we calmly survey the evil and the good that came to us through American slavery, it is my opinion that we find more good for which to thank God than we find evil for which to curse man. "Our President truly says that Abraham Lincoln was in such a position that he was forced to set the negro free. But let us remember that it was Abraham Lincoln and those who labored with him that created this position, from which he could turn neither to the right nor to the left. "If, in his patriotic soul, we see love for the flag of his country overshadowing every other love, let us not ignorantly deny that other loves were there, deep, strong, and incapable of eradication; and let us be grateful for that. THE LABOR QUESTION. "Prejudice, pride, self-interest, prompt the whites to oppose our leaving in too large numbers the lower forms of labor for the higher; and they resort to any extreme to carry out their purpose. But this opposition is not an unmixed evil. The prejudice and pride that prompt them to exclude the Negro from the higher forms of labor, also exclude themselves from the lower forms, thus leaving the Negro in undisputed possession of a whole kingdom of labor. "Furthermore, by denying us clerical positions, and other higher types of labor we shall be forced into enterprises of our own to furnish labor for our own talent. Let us accept the lesson so plainly taught and provide enterprises to supply our own needs and employ our own talents. "If there is any one thing, more than another, that will push the Negro forth to build enterprises of his own, it will be this refusal of the whites to employ the higher order of labor that the race from time to time produces. This refusal will prove a blessing if we accept the lesson that it teaches. And, too, in considering this subject let us not feel that we are the only people who have a labor problem on hand to be solved. The Anglo-Saxon race is divided into two hostile camps--labor and capital. These two forces are gradually drawing together for a tremendous conflict, a momentous battle. The riots at Homestead, at Chicago, at Lattimer are but skirmishes between the picket lines, informing us that a general conflict is imminent. Let us thank God that we are not in the struggle. Let us thank Him that our labor problem is no worse than it is. OUR CIVIL RIGHTS. "For our civil rights we are struggling and we must secure them. But if they had all come to us when they first belonged to us, we must frankly admit that we would have been unprepared for them. "Our grotesque dress, our broken language, our ignorant curiosity, and, on the part of many our boorish manners, would have been nauseating in the extreme to men and women accustomed to refined association. Of course these failings are passing away: but the polished among you have often been made ashamed at the uncouth antics of some ignorant Negroes, courting the attention of the whites in their presence. Let us see to it, then, that we as a people, not a small minority of us, are prepared to use and not abuse the privileges that must come to us. "Let us reduce the question of our rejection to a question pure and simple of the color of our skins, and by the help of that God who gave us that color we shall win. "On the question of education much might be said in blame of the South, but far more may be said in her praise. "The evils of which our president spoke are grave and must be righted, but let us not fail to see the bright side. "The Anglo-Saxon child virtually pays for the education of the Negro child. You might hold that he might do more. It is equally true that he might do less. When we contrast the Anglo-Saxon, opening his purse and pouring out his money for the education of the Negro, with the Anglo-Saxon plaiting a scourge to flog the Negro aspiring to learn, the progress is marvelous indeed. "And, let us not complain too bitterly of the school maintained by the Southerner, for it was there that we learned what true freedom was. It was in school that our hearts grew warm as we read of Washington, of Jefferson, of Henry, apostles of human liberty. It was the school of the Southerner that has builded the Imperium which now lifts its hand in power and might to strike a last grand blow for liberty. COURTS OF JUSTICE. "As for the courts of justice, I have not one word to say in palliation of the way in which they pander to the prejudices of the people. If the courts be corrupt; if the arbitrator between man and man be unjust; if the wretched victim of persecution is to be stabbed to death in the house of refuge; then, indeed, has mortal man sunk to the lowest level. Though every other branch of organized society may reek with filth and slime, let the ermine on the shoulders of the goddess of justice ever be clean and spotless. "But remember this, that the Court of last resort has set the example which the lower courts have followed. The Supreme Court of the United States, it seems, may be relied upon to sustain any law born of prejudice against the Negro, and to demolish any law constructed in his interest. Witness the Dred Scott decision, and, in keeping with this, the decision on the Civil Rights Bill and Separate Coach Law. "If this court, commonly accepted as being constituted with our friends, sets such a terrible example of injustice, it is not surprising that its filthy waters corrupt the various streams of justice in all their ramifications. MOB LAW. "Of all the curses that have befallen the South, this is the greatest. It cannot be too vehemently declaimed against. But let us look well and see if we, as a people, do not bear some share of the responsibility for the prevalence of this curse. "Our race has furnished some brutes lower than the beasts of the field, who have stirred the passions of the Anglo-Saxon as nothing in all of human history has before stirred them. The shibboleth of the Anglo-Saxon race is the courage of man and the virtue of woman: and when, by violence, a member of a despised race assails a defenseless woman; robs her of her virtue, her crown of glory; and sends her back to society broken and crushed in spirit, longing, sighing, praying for the oblivion of the grave, it is not to be wondered at that hell is scoured by the Southern white man in search of plans to vent his rage. The lesson for him to learn is that passion is ever a blind guide and the more violent the more blind. Let him not cease to resent with all the intensity of his proud soul the accursed crime; but let this resentment pursue such a channel as will ensure the execution of the guilty and the escape of the innocent. As for us, let us cease to furnish the inhuman brutes whose deeds suggest inhuman punishments. "But, I am aware that in a large majority of cases where lynchings occur, outrages upon women are not even mentioned. This fact but serves as an argument against all lynchings; for when lawlessness breaks forth, no man can set a limit where it will stop. It also warns us as a race to furnish no crime that provokes lynching; for when lynching once gets started, guilty and innocent alike will suffer, and crimes both great and small will be punished alike. "In regard to the lynching of our Comrade Cook, I have this to say. Every feature connected with that crime but emphasizes its heinousness. Cook was a quiet, unassuming, gentlemanly being, enjoying the respect of all in a remarkable degree. Having wronged no one he was unconscious of having enemies. His wife and loving little ones had retired to rest and were enjoying the deep sleep of the innocent. A band of whites crept to his house under the cover of darkness, and thought to roast all alive. In endeavoring to make their escape the family was pursued by a shower of bullets and Cook fell to the ground, a corpse, leaving his loved ones behind, pursued by a fiendish mob. And the color of Cook's skin was the only crime laid at his door. "If ye who speculate and doubt as to the existence of a hell but peer into the hearts of those vile creatures who slew poor Cook, you will draw back in terror; for hell, black hell is there. To give birth to a deed of such infamy, their hearts must be hells in miniature. But there is one redeeming feature about this crime. Unlike others, it found no defense anywhere. The condemnation of the crime was universal. And the entire South cried out in bitter tones against the demons who had at last succeeded in putting the crown of infamy of all the ages upon her brow. POLITICS. "The South has defrauded us out of the ballot and she must restore it. But in judging her crime let us take an impartial view of its occasion. The ballot is supposed to be an expression of opinion. It is a means employed to record men's ideas. It is not designed as a vehicle of prejudice or gratitude, but of thought, opinion. When the Negro was first given the ballot he used it to convey expression of love and gratitude to the North, while it bore to the South a message of hate and revenge. No Negro, on pain of being ostracised or probably murdered, was allowed to exercise the ballot in any other way than that just mentioned. They voted in a mass, according to the dictates of love and hate. "The ballot was never designed for such a purpose. The white man snatched the ballot from the Negro. His only crime was, in not snatching it from him also, for he was voting on the same principle. Neither race was thinking. They were both simply feeling, and ballots are not meant to convey feelings. "But happily that day has passed and both races are thinking and are better prepared to vote. But the white man is still holding on to the stolen ballot box and he must surrender it. If we can secure possession of that right again, we shall use it to correct the many grievous wrongs under which we suffer. That is the one point on which all of our efforts are focused. Here is the storm center. Let us carry this point and our flag will soon have all of our rights inscribed thereon. The struggle is on, and my beloved Congress, let me urge one thing upon you. Leave out revenge as one of the things at which to aim. "In His Holy Word our most high God has said: 'Vengeance is mine.' Great as is this Imperium, let it not mount God's throne and attempt by violence to rob Him of his prerogatives. In this battle, we want Him on our side and let us war as becometh men who fear and reverence Him. Hitherto, we have seen vengeance terrible in his hands. "While we, the oppressed, stayed upon the plantation in peace, our oppressors were upon the field of battle engaged in mortal combat; and it was the blood of our oppressor, not our own, that was paid as the price of our freedom. And that same God is alive to-day; and let us trust Him for vengeance, and if we pray let our prayer be for mercy on those who have wronged us, for direful shall be their woes. "And now, I have a substitute proposition. Fellow Comrades, I am not for internecine war. O! Eternal God, lend unto these, my Comrades, the departed spirit of Dante, faithful artist of the horrors of hell, for we feel that he alone can paint the shudder-making, soul-sickening scenes that follow in the wake of fast moving internecine war. "Now, hear my solution of the race problem. The Anglo-Saxon does not yet know that we have caught the fire of liberty. He does not yet know that we have learned what a glorious thing it is to die for a principle, and especially when that principle is liberty. He does not yet know how the genius of his institutions has taken hold of our very souls. In the days of our enslavement we did not seem to him to be much disturbed about physical freedom. During the whole period of our enslavement we made only two slight insurrections. "When at last the war came to set us free we stayed in the field and fed the men who were reddening the soil with their blood in a deadly struggle to keep us in bondage forever. We remained at home and defended the helpless wives and children of men, who if they had been at home would have counted it no crime to have ignored all our family ties and scattered husbands and wives, mothers and children as ruthlessly as the autumn winds do the falling leaves. "The Anglo-Saxon has seen the eyes of the Negro following the American eagle in its glorious flight. The eagle has alighted on some mountain top and the poor Negro has been seen climbing up the rugged mountain side, eager to caress the eagle. When he has attempted to do this, the eagle has clawed at his eyes and dug his beak into his heart and has flown away in disdain; and yet, so majestic was its flight that the Negro, with tears in his eyes, and blood dripping from his heart has smiled and shouted: 'God save the eagle.' "These things have caused us to be misunderstood. We know that our patient submission in slavery was due to our consciousness of weakness; we know that our silence and inaction during the civil war was due to a belief that God was speaking for us and fighting our battle; we know that our devotion to the flag will not survive one moment after our hope is dead; but we must not be content with knowing these things ourselves. We must change the conception which the Anglo-Saxon has formed of our character. We should let him know that patience has a limit; that strength brings confidence; that faith in God will demand the exercise of our own right arm; that hope and despair are each equipped with swords, the latter more dreadful than the former. Before we make a forward move, let us pull the veil from before the eyes of the Anglo-Saxon that he may see the New Negro standing before him humbly, but firmly demanding every right granted him by his maker and wrested from him by man. "If, however, the revelation of our character and the full knowledge of our determined attitude does not procure our rights, my proposition, which I am about to submit, will still offer a solution. RESOLUTIONS. "1. Be it _Resolved_: That we no longer conceal from the Anglo-Saxon the fact that the Imperium exists, so that he may see that the love of liberty in our bosoms is strong enough to draw us together into this compact government. He will also see that each individual Negro does not stand by himself, but is a link in a great chain that must not be broken with impunity. "2. _Resolved_: That we earnestly strive to convince the Anglo-Saxon that we are now thoroughly wedded to the doctrine of Patrick Henry: 'Give me liberty or give me death,' Let us teach the Anglo-Saxon that we have arrived at the stage of development as a people, where we prefer to die in honor rather than live in disgrace. "3. _Resolved_: That we spend four years in endeavors to impress the Anglo-Saxon that he has a New Negro on his hands and must surrender what belongs to him. In case we fail by these means to secure our rights and privileges we shall all, at once, abandon our several homes in the various other states and emigrate in a body to the State of Texas, broad in domain, rich in soil and salubrious in climate. Having an unquestioned majority of votes we shall secure possession of the State government. "4. _Resolved_: That when once lawfully in control of that great state we shall, every man, die in his shoes before we shall allow vicious frauds or unlawful force to pursue us there and rob us of our acknowledged right. "5. _Resolved_: That we sojourn in the state of Texas, working out our destiny as a separate and distinct race in the United States of America. "Such is the proposition which I present. It is primarily pacific: yet it is firm and unyielding. It courts a peaceable adjustment, yet it does not shirk war, if war is forced. "But in concluding, let me emphasize that my aim, my hope, my labors, my fervent prayer to God is for a peaceable adjustment of all our differences upon the high plane of the equality of man. Our beloved President, in his message to this Congress, made a serious mistake when he stated that there were only two weapons to be used in accomplishing revolutions. He named the sword (and spear) and ballot. There is a weapon mightier than either of these. I speak of the pen. If denied the use of the ballot let us devote our attention to that mightier weapon, the pen. "Other races which have obtained their freedom erect monuments over bloody spots where they slew their fellow men. May God favor us to obtain our freedom without having to dot our land with these relics of barbaric ages. "The Negro is the latest comer upon the scene of modern civilization. It would be the crowning glory of even this marvelous age; it would be the grandest contribution ever made to the cause of human civilization; it would be a worthy theme for the songs of the Holy Angels, if every Negro, away from the land of his nativity, can by means of the pen, force an acknowledgment of equality from the proud lips of the fierce, all conquering Anglo-Saxon, thus eclipsing the record of all other races of men, who without exception have had to wade through blood to achieve their freedom. "Amid all the dense gloom that surrounds us, this transcendent thought now and then finds its way to my heart and warms it like a glorious Sun. Center your minds, beloved Congress, on this sublime hope, and God may grant it to you. But be prepared, if he deems us unfit for so great a boon, to buckle on our swords and go forth to win our freedom with the sword just as has been done by all other nations of men. "My speech is made, my proposition is before you. I have done my duty. Your destiny is in your own hands." Belton's speech had, like dynamite, blasted away all opposition. He was in thorough mastery of the situation. The waves of the sea were now calm, the fierce winds had abated, there was a great rift in the dark clouds. The ship of state was sailing placidly on the bosom of the erstwhile troubled sea, and Belton was at the helm. His propositions were adopted in their entirety without one dissenting voice. When the members left the Congress hall that evening they breathed freely, feeling that the great race problem was, at last, about to be definitely settled. But, alas! how far wrong they were! As Belton was leaving the chamber Bernard approached him and put his hands fondly on his shoulders. Bernard's curly hair was disordered and a strange fire gleamed in his eye. He said: "Come over to the mansion to-night. I wish much to see you. Come about nine P.M." Belton agreed to go. CHAPTER XIX. THE PARTING OF WAYS. At the hour appointed Belton was at the door of the president's mansion and Bernard was there to meet him. They walked in and entered the same room where years before Belton had, in the name of the Congress, offered Bernard the Presidency of the Imperium. The evening was mild, and the window, which ran down to the floor, was hoisted. The moon was shedding her full light and Bernard had not lighted his lamp. Each of them took seats near the window, one on one side and the other on the other, their faces toward the lawn. "Belton," said Bernard, "that was a masterly speech you made to-day. If orations are measured according to difficulties surmounted and results achieved, yours ought to rank as a masterpiece. Aside from that, it was a daring deed. Few men would have attempted to rush in and quell that storm as you did. They would have been afraid of being torn to shreds, so to speak, and all to no purpose. Let me congratulate you." So saying he extended his hand and grasped Belton's feelingly. Belton replied in a somewhat melancholy strain: "Bernard, that speech and its result ended my life's work. I have known long since that a crisis between the two races would come some day and I lived with the hope of being used by God to turn the current the right way. This I have done, and my work is over." "Ah, no, Belton; greater achievements, by far, you shall accomplish. The fact is, I have called you over here to-night to acquaint you with a scheme that means eternal glory and honor to us both." Belton smiled and shook his head. "When I fully reveal my plan to you, you will change your mind." "Well, Bernard, let us hear it." "When you closed your speech to-day, a bright light shot athwart my brain and revealed to me something glorious. I came home determined to work it out in detail. This I have done, and now I hand this plan to you to ascertain your views and secure your cooperation." So saying he handed Belton a foolscap sheet of paper on which the following was written: A PLAN OF ACTION FOR THE IMPERIUM IN IMPERIO. 1. Reconsider our determination to make known the existence of our Imperium, and avoid all mention of an emigration to Texas. 2. Quietly purchase all Texas land contiguous to states and territories of the Union. Build small commonplace huts on these lands and place rapid fire disappearing guns in fortifications dug beneath them. All of this is to be done secretly, the money to be raised by the issuance of bonds by the Imperium. 3. Encourage all Negroes who can possibly do so to enter the United States Navy. 4. Enter into secret negotiations with all of the foreign enemies of the United States, acquainting them of our military strength and men aboard the United States war ships. 5. Secure an appropriation from Congress to hold a fair at Galveston, inviting the Governor of Texas to be present. It will afford an excuse for all Negro families to pour into Texas. It will also be an excuse for having the war ships of nations friendly to us, in the harbor for a rendezvous. 6. While the Governor is away, let the troops proceed quietly to Austin, seize the capitol and hoist the flag of the Imperium. 7. We can then, if need be, wreck the entire navy of the United States in a night; the United States will then be prostrate before us and our allies. 8. We will demand the surrender of Texas and Louisiana to the Imperium. Texas, we will retain. Louisiana, we will cede to our foreign allies in return for their aid. Thus will the Negro have an empire of his own, fertile in soil, capable of sustaining a population of fifty million people. Belton ceased reading the paper and returned it to Bernard. "What is your opinion of the matter, Belton?" "It is treason," was Belton's terse reply. "Are you in favor of it?" asked Bernard. "No. I am not and never shall be. I am no traitor and never shall be one. Our Imperium was organized to secure our rights within the United States and we will make any sacrifice that can be named to attain that end. Our efforts have been to wash the flag free of all blots, not to rend it; to burnish every star in the cluster, but to pluck none out. "Candidly, Bernard, I love the Union and I love the South. Soaked as Old Glory is with my people's tears and stained as it is with their warm blood, I could die as my forefathers did, fighting for its honor and asking no greater boon than Old Glory for my shroud and native soil for my grave. This may appear strange, but love of country is one of the deepest passions in the human bosom, and men in all ages have been known to give their lives for the land in which they had known nothing save cruelty and oppression. I shall never give up my fight for freedom, but I shall never prove false to the flag. I may fight to keep her from floating over cesspools of corruption by removing the cesspool; but I shall never fight to restrict the territory in which she is to float. These are my unalterable opinions." Bernard said: "Well, Belton, we have at last arrived at a point of separation in our lives. I know the Anglo-Saxon race. He will never admit you to equality with him. I am fully determined on my course of action and will persevere." Each knew that further argument was unnecessary, and they arose to part. They stood up, looking each other squarely in the face, and shook hands in silence. Tears were in the eyes of both men. But each felt that he was heeding the call of duty, and neither had ever been known to falter. Belton returned to his room and retired to rest. Bernard called his messenger and sent him for every man of prominence in the Congress of the Imperium. They all slept in the building. The leaders got out of bed and hurried to the president. He laid before them the plan he had shown Belton. They all accepted it and pronounced it good. He then told them that he had submitted it to Belton but that Belton was opposed. This took them somewhat by surprise, and finding that Belton was opposed to it they were sorry that they had spoken so hastily. Bernard knew that such would be their feelings. He produced a written agreement and asked all who favored that plan to sign that paper, as that would be of service in bringing over other members. Ashamed to appear vacillating, they signed. They then left. The Congress assembled next day, and President Belgrave submitted his plan. Belton swept the assembly with his eyes and told at a glance that there was a secret, formidable combination, and he decided that it would be useless to oppose the plan. The President's plan was adopted. Belton alone voted no. Belton then arose and said: "Being no longer able to follow where the Imperium leads, I hereby tender my resignation as a member." The members stood aghast at these words, for death alone removed a member from the ranks of the Imperium, and asking to resign, according to their law was asking to be shot. Bernard and every member of the Congress crowded around Belton and begged him to reconsider, and not be so cruel to his comrades as to make them fire bullets into his noble heart. Belton was obdurate. According to the law of the Imperium, he was allowed thirty days in which to reconsider his request. Ordinarily those under sentence of death were kept in close confinement, but not so with Belton. He was allowed all liberty. In fact, it was the secret wish of every one that he might take advantage of his freedom and escape. But Belton was resolved to die. As he now felt that his days on earth were few, his mind began to turn toward Antoinette. He longed to see her once more and just let her know that he loved her still. He at length decided to steal away to Richmond and have a last interview with her. All the pent up passion of years now burst forth in his soul, and as the train sped toward Virginia, he felt that love would run him mad ere he saw Antoinette once more. While his train goes speeding on, let us learn a little of the woman whom he left years ago. Antoinette Nermal Piedmont had been tried and excluded from her church on the charge of adultery. She did not appear at the trial nor speak a word in her own defense. Society dropped her as you would a poisonous viper, and she was completely ostracised. But, conscious of her innocence and having an abiding faith in the justice of God, she moved along undisturbed by the ostracism. The only person about whom she was concerned was Belton. She yearned, oh! so much, to be able to present to him proofs of her chastity; but there was that white child. But God had the matter in hand. As the child grew, its mother noticed that its hair began to change. She also thought she discovered his skin growing darker by degrees. As his features developed he was seen to be the very image of Belton. Antoinette frequently went out with him and the people began to shake their heads in doubt. At length the child became Antoinette's color, retaining Belton's features. Public sentiment was fast veering around. Her former friends began to speak to her more kindly, and the people began to feel that she was a martyr instead of a criminal. But the child continued to steadily grow darker and darker until he was a shade darker than his father. The church met and rescinded its action of years ago. Every social organization of standing elected Antoinette Nermal Piedmont an honorary member. Society came rushing to her. She gently smiled, but did not seek their company. She was only concerned about Belton. She prayed hourly for God to bring him back to her. And now, unknown to her, he was coming. One morning as she was sitting on her front porch enjoying the morning breeze, she looked toward the gate and saw her husband entering. She screamed loudly, and rushed into her son's room and dragged him out of bed. She did not allow him time to dress, but was dragging him to the door. Belton rushed into the house. Antoinette did not greet him, but cried in anxious, frenzied tones: "Belton! there is your white child! Look at him! Look at him!" The boy looked up at Belton, and if ever one person favored another, this child favored him. Belton was dazed. He looked from child to mother and from mother to child. By and by it began to dawn on him that that child was somehow his child. His wife eyed him eagerly. She rushed to her album and showed him pictures of the child taken at various stages of its growth. Belton discerned the same features in each photograph, but a different shade of color of the skin. His knees began to tremble. He had come, as the most wronged of men, to grant pardon. He now found himself the vilest of men, unfit for pardon. A picture of all that his innocent wife had suffered came before him, and he gasped: "O, God, what crime is this with which my soul is stained?" He put his hands before his face. Antoinette divined his thoughts and sprang toward him. She tore his hands from his face and kissed him passionately, and begged him to kiss and embrace her once more. Belton shook his head sadly and cried: "Unworthy, unworthy." Antoinette now burst forth into weeping. The boy said: "Papa, why don't you kiss Mama?" Hearing the boy's voice, Belton raised his eyes, and seeing his image, which Antoinette had brought into the world, he grasped her in his arms and covered her face with kisses; and there was joy enough in those two souls to almost excite envy in the bosom of angels. Belton was now recalled to life. He again loved the world. The cup of his joy was full. He was proud of his beautiful, noble wife, proud of his promising son. For days he was lost in contemplation of his new found happiness. But at last, a frightful picture arose before him. He remembered that he was doomed to die, and the day of his death came galloping on at a rapid pace. Thus a deep river of sadness went flowing on through his happy Elysian fields. But he remained unshaken in his resolve. He had now learned to put duty to country above everything else. Then, too, he looked upon his boy and he felt that his son would fill his place in the world. But Antoinette was so happy that he could not have the heart to tell her of his fate. She was a girl again. She chatted and laughed and played as though her heart was full of love. In her happiness she freely forgave the world for all the wrongs that it had perpetrated upon her. At length the day drew near for Belton to go to Waco. He took a tender leave of his loved ones. It was so tender that Antoinette was troubled, and pressed him hard for an answer as to when he was to return or send for them. He begged her to be assured of his love and know that he would not stay away one second longer than was necessary. Thus assured, she let him go, after kissing him more than a hundred times. Belton turned his back on this home of happiness and love, to walk into the embrace of death. He arrived in Waco in due time, and the morning of his execution came. In one part of the campus there was a high knoll surrounded on all sides by trees. This knoll had been selected as the spot for the execution. In the early morn while the grass yet glittered with pearls of water, and as the birds began to chirp, Belton was led forth to die. Little did those birds know that they were chirping the funeral march of the world's noblest hero. Little did they dream that they were chanting his requiem. The sun had not yet risen but had reddened the east with his signal of approach. Belton was stationed upon the knoll, his face toward the coming dawn. With his hands folded calmly across his bosom, he stood gazing over the heads of the executioners, at the rosy east. His executioners, five in number, stood facing him, twenty paces away. They were commanded by Bernard, the President of the Imperium. Bernard gazed on Belton with eyes of love and admiration. He loved his friend but he loved his people more. He could not sacrifice his race for his dearest friend. Viola had taught him that lesson. Bernard's eyes swam with tears as he said to Belton in a hoarse whisper: "Belton Piedmont, your last hour has come. Have you anything to say?" "Tell posterity," said Belton, in firm ringing tones that startled the birds into silence, "that I loved the race to which I belonged and the flag that floated over me; and, being unable to see these objects of my love engage in mortal combat, I went to my God, and now look down upon both from my home in the skies to bless them with my spirit." Bernard gave the word of command to fire, and Belton fell forward, a corpse. On the knoll where he fell he was buried, shrouded in an American flag. CHAPTER XX. PERSONAL.--(Berl Trout) I was a member of the Imperium that ordered Belton to be slain. It fell to my lot to be one of the five who fired the fatal shots and I saw him fall. Oh! that I could have died in his stead! When he fell, the spirit of conservatism in the Negro race, fell with him. He was the last of that peculiar type of Negro heroes that could so fondly kiss the smiting hand. His influence, which alone had just snatched us from the edge of the precipice of internecine war, from whose steep heights we had, in our rage, decided to leap into the dark gulf beneath, was now gone; his restraining hand was to be felt no more. Henceforth Bernard Belgrave's influence would be supreme. Born of distinguished parents, reared in luxury, gratified as to every whim, successful in every undertaking, idolized by the people, proud, brilliant, aspiring, deeming nothing impossible of achievement, with Viola's tiny hand protruding from the grave pointing him to move forward, Bernard Belgrave, President of the Imperium In Imperio, was a man to be feared. As Bernard stood by the side of Belton's grave and saw the stiffened form of his dearest friend lowered to its last resting place, his grief was of a kind too galling for tears. He laughed a fearful, wicked laugh like unto that of a maniac, and said: "Float on proud flag, while yet you may. Rejoice, oh! ye Anglo-Saxons, yet a little while. Make my father ashamed to own me, his lawful son; call me a bastard child; look upon my pure mother as a harlot; laugh at Viola in the grave of a self-murderer; exhume Belton's body if you like and tear your flag from around him to keep him from polluting it! Yes, stuff your vile stomachs full of all these horrors. You shall be richer food for the buzzards to whom I have solemnly vowed to give your flesh." These words struck terror to my soul. With Belton gone and this man at our head, our well-organized, thoroughly equipped Imperium was a serious menace to the peace of the world. A chance spark might at any time cause a conflagration, which, unchecked, would spread destruction, devastation and death all around. I felt that beneath the South a mine had been dug and filled with dynamite, and that lighted fuses were lying around in careless profusion, where any irresponsible hand might reach them and ignite the dynamite. I fancied that I saw a man do this very thing in a sudden fit of uncontrollable rage. There was a dull roar as of distant rumbling thunder. Suddenly there was a terrific explosion and houses, fences, trees, pavement stones, and all things on earth were hurled high into the air to come back a mass of ruins such as man never before had seen. The only sound to be heard was a universal groan; those who had not been killed were too badly wounded to cry out. Such were the thoughts that passed through my mind. I was determined to remove the possibility of such a catastrophe. I decided to prove traitor and reveal the existence of the Imperium that it might be broken up or watched. My deed may appear to be the act of a vile wretch, but it is done in the name of humanity. Long ere you shall have come to this line, I shall have met the fate of a traitor. I die for mankind, for humanity, for civilization. If the voice of a poor Negro, who thus gives his life, will be heard, I only ask as a return that all mankind will join hands and help my poor down-trodden people to secure those rights for which they organized the Imperium, which my betrayal has now destroyed. I urge this because love of liberty is such an inventive genius, that if you destroy one device it at once constructs another more powerful. When will all races and classes of men learn that men made in the image of God will not be the slaves of another image? THE END. 
25439	----	None 
3797	----	None 
42816	----	Transcriber's note: The oe-ligature is represented by [oe] (example: ph[oe]nix). UNVEILING A PARALLEL. A Romance [Illustration] by TWO WOMEN OF THE WEST Copyright 1893, by Arena Publishing Company. All rights reserved. TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE. Chapter I. A Remarkable Acquaintance 5 Chapter II. A Woman 28 Chapter III. The Auroras' Annual 59 Chapter IV. Elodia 88 Chapter V. The Vaporizer 106 Chapter VI. Cupid's Gardens 124 Chapter VII. New Friends 147 Chapter VIII. A Talk With Elodia 157 Chapter IX. Journeying Upward 190 Chapter X. The Master 220 Chapter XI. A Comparison 248 Chapter 1. A REMARKABLE ACQUAINTANCE. "A new person is to me always a great event, and hinders me from sleep." --EMERSON. You know how certain kinds of music will beat everything out of your consciousness except a wild delirium of joy; how love of a woman will take up every cranny of space in your being,--and fill the universe beside,--so that people who are not en rapport with the strains that delight you, or with the beauty that enthralls you, seem pitiable creatures, not in touch with the Divine Harmony, with Supreme Loveliness. So it was with me, when I set my feet on Mars! My soul leaped to its highest altitude and I had but one vast thought,--"I have triumphed; I am here! And I am alone; Earth is unconscious of the glory that is mine!" I shall not weary you with an account of my voyage, since you are more interested in the story of my sojourn on the red planet than in the manner of my getting there. It is not literally red, by the way; that which makes it appear so at this distance is its atmosphere,--its "sky,"--which is of a soft roseate color, instead of being blue like ours. It is as beautiful as a blush. I will just say, that the time consumed in making the journey was incredibly brief. Having launched my aeroplane on the current of attraction which flows uninterruptedly between this world and that, traveling was as swift as thought. My impression is that my speed was constantly accelerated until I neared my journey's end, when the planet's pink envelope interposed its soft resistance to prevent a destructive landing. I settled down as gently as a dove alights, and the sensation was the most ecstatic I have ever experienced. When I could distinguish trees, flowers, green fields, streams of water, and people moving about in the streets of a beautiful city, it was as if some hitherto unsuspected chambers of my soul were flung open to let in new tides of feeling. My coming had been discovered. A college of astronomers in an observatory which stands on an elevation just outside the city, had their great telescope directed toward the Earth,--just as our telescopes were directed to Mars at that time,--and they saw me and made me out when I was yet a great way off. They were able to determine the exact spot whereon I would land, about a mile distant from the observatory, and repaired thither with all possible speed,--and they have very perfect means of locomotion, superior even to our electrical contrivances. Before I had time to look about me, I found myself surrounded, and unmistakably friendly hands outheld to welcome me. There were eight or ten of the astronomers,--some young, some middle-aged, and one or two elderly men. All of them, including the youngest, who had not even the dawn of a beard upon his chin, and the oldest, whose hair was silky white, were strikingly handsome. Their features were extraordinarily mobile and expressive. I never saw a more lively interest manifest on mortal countenances than appeared on theirs, as they bent their glances upon me. But their curiosity was tempered by a dignified courtesy and self-respect. They spoke, but of course I could not understand their words, though it was easy enough to interpret the tones of their voices, their manner, and their graceful gestures. I set them down for a people who had attained to a high state of culture and good-breeding. I suddenly felt myself growing faint, for, although I had not fasted long, a journey such as I had just accomplished is exhausting. Near by stood a beautiful tree on which there was ripe fruit. Some one instantly interpreted the glance I involuntarily directed to it, and plucked a cluster of the large rich berries and gave them to me, first putting one in his own mouth to show me that it was a safe experiment. While I ate,--I found the fruit exceedingly refreshing,--the company conferred together, and presently one of the younger men approached and took me gently by the arm and walked me away toward the city. The others followed us. We had not to go farther than the first suburb. My companion, whom they called Severnius, turned into a beautiful park, or grove, in the midst of which stood a superb mansion built of dazzling white stone. His friends waved us farewells with their hands,--we responding in like manner,--and proceeded on down the street. I learned afterwards that the park was laid out with scientific precision. But the design was intricate, and required study to follow the curves and angles. It seemed to me then like an exquisite mood of nature. The trees were of rare and beautiful varieties, and the shrubbery of the choicest. The flowers, whose colors could not declare themselves,--it being night,--fulfilled their other delightful function and tinctured the balmy air with sweet odors. Paths were threaded like white ribbons through the thick greensward. As we walked toward the mansion, I stopped suddenly to listen to a most musical and familiar and welcome sound,--the plash of water. My companion divined my thought. We turned aside, and a few steps brought us to a marble fountain. It was in the form of a chaste and lovely female figure, from whose chiseled fingers a shower of glittering drops continually poured. Severnius took an alabaster cup from the base of the statue, filled it, and offered me a drink. The water was sparkling and intensely cold, and had the suggestion rather than the fact of sweetness. "Delicious!" I exclaimed. He understood me, for he smiled and nodded his head, a gesture which seemed to say, "It gives me pleasure to know that you find it good." I could not conceive of his expressing himself in any other than the politest manner. We proceeded into the house. How shall I describe that house? Imagine a place which responds fully to every need of the highest culture and taste, without burdening the senses with oppressive luxury, and you have it! In a word, it was an ideal house and home. Both outside and inside, white predominated. But here and there were bits of color the most brilliant, like jewels. I found that I had never understood the law of contrast, or of economy in art; I knew nothing of "values," or of relationships in this wonderful realm, of which it maybe truly said, "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread." I learned subsequently that all Marsians of taste are sparing of rich colors, as we are of gems, though certain classes indulge in extravagant and gaudy displays, recognizing no law but that which permits them to have and to do whatsoever they like. I immediately discovered that two leading ideas were carried out in this house; massiveness and delicacy. There was extreme solidity in everything which had a right to be solid and stable; as the walls, and the supporting pillars, the staircases, the polished floors, and some pieces of stationary furniture, and the statuary,--the latter not too abundant. Each piece of statuary, by the way, had some special reason for being where it was; either it served some practical purpose, or it helped to carry out a poetical idea,--so that one was never taken aback as by an incongruity. Some of the floors were of marble, in exquisite mosaic-work, and others were of wood richly inlaid. The carpets were beautiful, but they were used sparingly. When we sat down in a room a servant usually brought a rug or a cushion for our feet. And when we went out under the trees they spread carpets on the grass and put pillows on the rustic seats. The decorations inside the house were the most airy and graceful imaginable. The frescoes were like clouds penetrated by the rarest tints,--colors idealized,--cunningly wrought into surpassingly lovely pictures, which did not at once declare the artist's intention, but had to be studied. They were not only an indulgence to the eye, but a charming occupation for the thoughts. In fact, almost everything about the place appealed to the higher faculties as well as to the senses. There comes to us, from time to time, a feeling of disenchantment toward almost everything life has to offer us. It never came to me with respect to Severnius' house. It had for me an interest and a fascination which I was never able to dissect, any more than you would be able to dissect the charm of the woman you love. With all its fine artistic elaborations, there was a simplicity about it which made it possible for the smallest nature to measure its capacity there, as well as the greatest. The proper sort of a yardstick for all uses has inch-marks. Severnius took me upstairs and placed a suite of rooms at my command, and indicated to me that he supposed I needed rest, which I did sorely. But I could not lie down until I had explored my territory. The room into which I had been ushered, and where Severnius left me, closing the noiseless door behind him, looked to me like a pretty woman's boudoir,--almost everything in it being of a light and delicate color. The walls were cream-tinted, with a deep frieze of a little darker shade, relieved by pale green and brown decorations. The wood work was done in white enamel paint. The ceiling was sprinkled with silver stars. Two or three exquisite water-colors were framed in silver, and the andirons, tongs and shovel, and the fender round the fire-place, and even the bedstead, were silver-plated. The bed, which stood in an alcove, was curtained with silk, and had delicacies of lace also, as fine and subtle as Arachne's web. The table and a few of the chairs looked like our spindle-legged Chippendale things. And two or three large rugs might have been of Persian lamb's wool. A luxurious couch was placed across one corner of the room and piled with down cushions. An immense easy chair, or lounging chair, stood opposite. The dressing table, of a peculiarly beautiful cream-colored wood, was prettily littered with toilet articles in carved ivory or silver mountings. Above it hung a large mirror. There was a set of shelves for books and bric-a-brac; a porphyry lamp-stand with a lamp dressed in an exquisite pale-green shade; a chiffonier of marquetry. The mantel ornaments were vases of fine pottery and marble statuettes. A musical instrument lay on a low bamboo stand. I could not play upon it, but the strings responded sweetly to the touch. A little investigation revealed a luxurious bath-room. I felt the need of a bath, and turned on the water and plunged in. As I finished, a clock somewhere chimed the hour of midnight. Before lying down, I put by the window draperies and looked out. I was amazed at the extreme splendor of the familiar constellations. Owing to the peculiarity of the atmosphere of Mars, the night there is almost as luminous as our day. Every star stood out, not a mere twinkling eye, or little flat, silver disk, but a magnificent sphere, effulgent and supremely glorious. Notwithstanding that it was long before I slept, I awoke with the day. I think its peculiar light had something to do with my waking. I did not suppose such light was possible out of heaven! It did not dazzle me, however; it simply filled me, and gave me a sensation of peculiar buoyancy. I had a singular feeling when I first stepped out of bed,--that the floor was not going to hold me. It was as if I should presently be lifted up, as a feather is lifted by a slight current of air skimming along on the ground. But I soon found that this was not going to happen. My feet clung securely to the polished wood and the soft wool of the rug at the bedside. I laughed quietly to myself. In fact I was in the humor to laugh. I felt so happy. Happiness seemed to be a quality of the air, which at that hour was particularly charming in its freshness and its pinkish tones. I had made my ablutions and was taking up my trousers to put them on, when there was a tap at the door and Severnius appeared with some soft white garments, such as he himself wore, thrown over his arm. In the most delicate manner possible, he conveyed the wish that I might feel disposed to put them on. I blushed,--they seemed such womanish things. He misinterpreted my confusion. He assured me by every means in his power that I was entirely welcome to them, that it would give him untold pleasure to provide for my every want. I could not stand out against such generosity. I reached for the things--swaddling clothes I called them--and Severnius helped me to array myself in them. I happened to glance into the mirror, and I did not recognize myself. I had some sense of how a barbarian must feel in his first civilized suit. At my friend's suggestion I hung my own familiar apparel up in the closet,--you may imagine with what reluctance. But I may say, right here, that I grew rapidly to my new clothes. I soon liked them. There was something very graceful in the cut and style of them. They covered and adorned the body without disguising it. They left the limbs and muscles free and encouraged grace of pose and movement. The elegant folds in which the garments hung from the shoulders and the waist, the tassels and fringes and artistic drapery arrangements, while seemingly left to their own caprice, were as secure in their place as the plumage of a bird,--which the wind may ruffle but cannot displace. I suspect that it requires a great deal of skill to construct a Marsian costume, whether for male or female. They are not altogether dissimilar; the women's stuffs are of a little finer quality ordinarily, but their dress is not usually so elaborately trimmed as the men's garb, which struck me as very peculiar. Both sexes wear white, or a soft cream. The fabric is either a sort of fine linen, or a mixture of silk and wool. After Severnius and I came to understand each other, as comrades and friends, he laughingly compared my dress, in which I had made my first appearance, to the saddle and housings of a horse. He declared that he and his friends were not quite sure whether I was a man or a beast. But he was too polite to give me the remotest hint, during our early acquaintance, that he considered my garb absurd. When, having completed my toilet, I indicated to him that I was ready for the next thing on the program,--which I sincerely hoped might be breakfast,--he approached me and taking my hand placed a gold ring on my finger. It was set with a superb rubellite enhanced with pearls. The stone was the only bit of color in my entire dress. Even my shoes were of white canvas. I thanked him as well as I was able for this especial mark of favor. I was pleased that he had given me a gem not only beautiful, but possessing remarkable qualities. I held it in a ray of sunlight and turned it this way and that, to show him that I was capable of appreciating its beauties and its peculiar characteristics. He was delighted, and I had the satisfaction of feeling that I had made a good impression upon him. He led the way down-stairs, and luckily into the breakfast room. We were served by men dressed similarly to ourselves, though their clothing was without trimming and was of coarser material than ours. They moved about the room swiftly and noiselessly. Motion upon that planet seems so natural and so easy. There is very little inertia to overcome. Our meal was rather odd; it consisted of fruits, some curiously prepared cereals, and a hot palatable drink. No meat. After this light but entirely satisfactory repast we ascended the grand stairway--a marvel of beauty in its elaborate carvings--and entered a lofty apartment occupying a large part of the last _etage_. I at first made out that it was a place devoted to the fine arts. I had noticed a somewhat conspicuous absence, in the rooms below, of the sort of things with which rich people in our country crowd their houses. I understood now, they were all marshaled up here. There were exquisitely carved vessels of all descriptions, bronzes, marbles, royal paintings, precious minerals. Here also were the riches of color. The brilliant morning light came through the most beautiful windows I have ever seen, even in our finest cathedrals. The large central stained glasses were studded round with prisms that played extraordinary pranks with the sunbeams, which, as they glanced from them, were splintered into a thousand scintillating bits, as splendid as jewels. We sat down, I filled--I do not know why--with a curious sense of expectancy that was half awe. Across one end of the great room was stretched a superb curtain of tapestry,--a mosaic in silk and wool. Severnius did not make any other sign or gesture to me except the one that bade me be seated. I watched him wonderingly but furtively. He seemed to be composing himself, as I have seen saintly people compose themselves in church. Not that he was saintly; he did not strike me as being that kind of a man, though there was that about him which proclaimed him to be a good man, whose friendship would be a valuable acquisition. He folded his hands loosely in his lap and sat motionless, his glance resting serenely on one of the great windows for a time and then passing on to other objects equally beautiful. We were still enwrapped in this august silence when I became conscious that somewhere, afar off, beyond the tapestry curtain, there were stealing toward us strains of unusual, ineffable music, tantalizingly sweet and vague. Gradually the almost indistinguishable sounds detached themselves from, and rose above, the pulsing silence,--or that unappreciable harmony we call silence,--and swelled up among the arches that ribbed the lofty ceiling, and rolled and reverberated through the great dome above, and came reflected down to us in refined and sublimated undulations. Our souls--my soul,--in this new wonder and ecstasy I forgot Severnius,--awoke in responsive raptures, inconceivably thrilling and exalted. I did not need to be told that it was sacred music, it invoked the Divine Presence unmistakably. No influence that had ever before been trained upon my spiritual senses had so compelled to adoration of the Supreme One who holds and rules all worlds. "He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back. * * * *" This I murmured, and texts of our scriptures, and fragments of anthems. It was as if I brought my earthly tribute to lay on this Marsian shrine. The gates did roll back, the heavens were broken up, new spiritual heights were shown to me, up which my spirit mounted. I looked at Severnius. His eyes were closed. His face, lighted as by an inner illumination, and his whole attitude, suggested a "waiting upon God," that "Intercourse divine, Which God permits, ordains, across the line." There stole insensibly upon the sound-burdened air, the hallowed perfume of burning incense. I conjectured, and truly as I afterward learned, that I was in my friend's private sanctuary. It was his spiritual lavatory, in which he made daily ablutions. A service in which the soul lays aside the forms necessary in public worship and stands unveiled before its God. It was a rare honor he paid me, in permitting me to accompany him. And he repeated it every morning during my stay in his house, except on one or two occasions. It speedily became almost a necessity to me. You know how it is when you have formed a habit of exercising your muscles in a gymnasium. If you leave it off, you are uncomfortable, you have a feeling that you have cheated your body out of its right. It was so with me, when for any reason I was obliged to forego this higher exercise. I was heavy in spirit, my conscience accused me of a wrong to one of the "selfs" in me,--for we have several selfs, I think. There was not always music. Sometimes a wonderful voice chanted psalms and praises, and recited poems that troubled the soul's deepest waters. At first I did not understand the words, of course, but the intonations spoke to me the same as music does. And I felt that I knew what the words expressed. Often there was nothing there but The Presence, which hushed our voices and set our souls in tune with heavenly things. No matter, I was fed and satisfied. At the end of a sweet half-hour, the music died away, and we rose and passed out of the sacred place. I longed to question Severnius, but was powerless. He led the way down into the library, which was just off the wide entrance hall. Books were ranged round the walls on shelves, the same as we dispose ours. But they were all bound in white cloth or white leather. The lettering on the backs was gold. I took one in my hand and flipped its leaves to show Severnius that I knew what a book was. He was delighted. He asked me, in a language which he and I had speedily established between ourselves, if I would not like to learn the Marsian tongue. I replied that it was what I wished above all things to do. We set to work at once. His teaching was very simple and natural, and I quickly mastered several important principles. After a little a servant announced some visitors, and Severnius went out into the hall to receive them. He left the door open, and I saw that the visitors were the astronomers I had met the night before. They asked to see me, and Severnius ushered them into the library. I stood up and shook hands with each one, as he advanced, and repeated their own formula for "How do you do!" which quite amused them. I suppose the words sounded very parrot-like,--I did not know where to put the accent. They congratulated me with many smiles and gesticulations on my determination to learn the language,--Severnius having explained this fact to them. He also told them that I had perhaps better be left to myself and him until I had mastered it, when of course I should be much more interesting to them and they to me. They acquiesced, and with many bows and waves of the hand, withdrew. The language, I found, was not at all difficult,--not so arbitrary as many of our modern languages. It was similar in form and construction to the ancient languages of southern Europe. The proper names had an almost familiar sound. That of the country I was in was Paleveria. The city was called Thursia, and there was a river flowing through it,--one portion of Severnius' grounds, at the back of the house, sloped to it,--named the Gyro. Chapter 2. A WOMAN. "Her face so fair, as flesh it seemed not, But heavenly portrait of bright angels hew, Clear as the skye withouten blame or blot, Through goodly mixture of complexion's dew; And in her cheeks the vermeil red did shew Like roses in a bed of lillies shed. * * * * * In her faire eyes two living lamps did flame." --SPENSER. Thus far, I had seen no women. I was curious on this point, and I was not kept long in suspense. Late in the afternoon of the day following my arrival, Severnius and I went out to walk about the grounds, and were returning through an avenue of eucalyptus trees,--of a variety more wide-spreading in their branches than any I have seen in our country,--when a person alighted from a carriage in the _porte cochere_ and, instead of entering the house, came to meet us. It was a woman. Though it was not left to her dress, nor her stature,--she was nearly as tall as myself,--to proclaim that fact; her grace and carriage would have determined her sex, if her beautiful face had not. She advanced swiftly, with long, free steps. Her white dress, similar in cut and style to ours, was relieved only by a girdle studded with gems. She carried a little white parasol with a gold fringe, and wore no head-gear to crush down her beautifully massed hair. I felt myself growing red under her lively gaze, and attributed it to my clothes. I was not accustomed to them yet, and I felt as you would to appear before a beautiful woman in your night shirt. Especially if you fancied you saw something in her eyes which made you suspect that she thought you cut a ludicrous figure. Of course that was my imagination, my apparel, in her eyes, must have been correct, since it was selected from among his best by my new friend, who was unmistakably a man of taste. Her face, which was indescribably lovely, was also keenly intelligent,--that sort of intelligence which lets nothing escape, which is as quick to grasp a humorous situation as a sublime truth. It was a face of power and of passion,--of, I might say, manly self-restraint,--but yet so soft! I now observed for the first time the effect of the pinkish atmosphere on the complexion. You have seen ladies in a room where the light came through crimson hangings or glass stained red. So it was here. Severnius smiled, spoke, and gave her his hand. The glance they bestowed upon each other established their relationship in my mind instantly. I had seen that glance a thousand times, without suspecting it had ever made so strong an impression upon me that in a case like this I should accept its evidence without other testimony. They were brother and sister. I was glad of that, for the reason, I suppose, that every unmarried man is glad to find a beautiful woman unmarried,--there are seductive possibilities in the situation. Severnius did his best to introduce us. He called her Elodia. I learned afterwards that ladies and gentlemen in that country have no perfunctory titles, like Mrs., or Mr., they support their dignity without that. It would have seemed belittling to say "Miss" Elodia. I had a feeling that she did not attach much importance to me, that she was half amused at the idea of me; a peculiar tilting-up of her eyebrows told me so, and I was piqued. It seemed unfair that, simply because she could not account for me, she should set me down as inferior, or impossible, or ridiculous, whichever was in her mind. She regarded me as I have sometimes regarded un-English foreigners in the streets of New York. She indulged her curiosity about me only for a moment, asking a few questions I inferred, and then passed me over as though she had more weighty matters in hand. I knew, later on, that she waived me as a topic of conversation when her brother insisted upon talking about me, saying half impatiently, "Wait till he can talk and explain himself, Severnius,--since you say he is going to learn our speech." I studied her with deep interest as we walked along, and no movement or accent of hers was lost upon me. Once she raised her hand--her wide sleeve slipped back and bared a lovely arm--to break off a long scimeter-shaped leaf from a bough overhead. Quicker than thought I sprang at the bough and snapped off the leaf in advance of her, and presented it with a low obeisance. She drew herself up with a look of indignant surprise, but instantly relented as though to a person whose eccentricities, for some reason or other, might better be excused. She did not, however, take the leaf,--it fluttered to the ground. She was not like any other woman,--any woman I had ever seen before. You could not accuse her of hauteur, yet she bore herself like a royal personage, though with no suggestion of affecting that sort of an air. You had to take her as seriously as you would the Czar. I saw this in her brother's attitude toward her. There was none of that condescension in his manner that there often is in our manner toward the women of our households. I began to wonder whether she might not be the queen of the realm! But she was not. She was simply a private citizen. She sat at the dinner table with us, and divided the honors equally with Severnius. I wish I could give you an idea of that dinner,--the dining-room, the service, the whole thing! It surpassed my finest conceptions of taste and elegance. We sat down not merely to eat,--though I was hungry enough!--but to enjoy ourselves in other ways. There was everything for the eye to delight in. The room was rich in artistic decorations upon which the rarest talent must have been employed. The table arrangements were superb; gold and silver, crystal, fine china, embroidered linen, flowers. And the food, served in many courses, was a happy combination of the substantial and the delicate. There was music--not too near--of a bright and lively character. Music enters largely into the life of these people. It seemed to me that something beat time to almost everything we did. The conversation carried on between the brother and sister--in which I could take no more part than a deaf-mute--was, I felt sure, extremely entertaining if not important. My eyes served me well,--for one sense is quick to assume the burdens of another,--and I knew that the talk was not mere banter, nor was it simply the necessary exchange of words and opinions about everyday matters which must take place in families periodically, concerning fuel, and provisions, and servants, and water-tax, and the like. It took a much higher range. The faces of both were animated, their eyes beamed brightly upon each other. It was clear that the brother did not talk down to her understanding, rather he talked up to it,--or no, they were on a level with each other, the highest level of both, for they held each other up to their best. However, Elodia had been away for a couple of days, I learned, and absence gives a bloom of newness which it is delightful to brush off. I did not detect any of the quality we call chivalry in Severnius' pose, nor of its complement in hers. Though one would hardly expect that between brothers and sisters anywhere. Still, we have a way with our near women relations which never ignores the distinction between the sexes; we humor them, patronize them, tyrannize over them. And they defer to, and exalt us, and usually acknowledge our superiority. It was not so with this pair. They respected and honored each other equally. And there was a charming _camaraderie_ between them, the same as if they had both been men--or women, if you single out the right kind. They held widely different opinions upon many subjects, but they never crowded them upon each other. Their tastes were dissimilar. For one thing, Elodia had not her brother's fine religious sense. She seldom entered the sanctuary, though once or twice I saw her there, seated far apart from Severnius and myself. Stimulated by the hope of some day being able to talk with her, and of convincing her that I was a person not altogether beneath her intelligence, I devoted myself, mind and soul, to the Paleverian language. In six weeks I could read and write it fairly well. Severnius was untiring in his teaching; and every day strengthened my regard for him as a man. He was an accomplished scholar, and he was as clean-souled as a child,--but not weakly or ignorantly so. He knew evil as well as good; but he renounced the one and accepted the other. He was a man "appointed by Almighty God to stand for a fact." And I never knew him to weaken his position by defending it. Often we spent hours in the observatory together. It was a glorious thing to me to watch the splendid fleet of asteroids sailing between Jupiter and Mars, and to single out the variously colored moons of Jupiter, and to distinguish with extraordinary clearness a thousand other wonders but dimly seen from the Earth. Even to study the moons of Mars, the lesser one whirling round the planet with such astonishing velocity, was a world of entertainment to me. I had begged Severnius not to ask me to see any visitors at all until I could acquit myself creditably in conversation. He agreed, and I saw no one. I believe that in those weeks of quiet study, observation, and close companionship of one noble man, my soul was cleared of much dross. I lived with books, Severnius, and the stars. At last, I no longer feared to trust myself to speak, even to Elodia. It was a great surprise to her, and evidently a pleasure too. My first brilliant attempt was at the dinner table. Severnius adroitly drew me into a conversation about our world. Elodia turned her delightful gaze upon me so frankly and approvingly that I felt myself blushing like a boy whom his pretty Sabbath-school teacher praises with her smile when he says his text. Up to that time, although she had been polite to me,--so entirely polite that I never for a moment felt myself an intruder in her home,--she apparently took no great interest in me. But now she voluntarily addressed me whenever we met, and took pains to draw me out. Once she glanced at a book I was reading, a rather heavy work, and smiled. "You have made astonishing progress," she said. "I have had the best of instructors," I replied. "Ah, yes; Severnius has great patience. And besides, he likes you. And then of course he is not wholly disinterested, he wants to hear about your planet." "And do you?" I asked foolishly. I wanted somehow to get the conversation to running in a personal channel. "O, of course," she returned indifferently, "though I am not an astronomer. I should like to hear something about your people." I took that cue joyfully, and soon we were on very sociable terms with each other. She listened to my stories and descriptions with a most flattering interest, and I soon found myself worshiping her as a goddess. Yes, as a goddess, not a woman. Her entire lack of coquetry prevented me from making love to her, or would have prevented me if I had dared to have such a thought. If there could have been anything tender between us, I think she must have made the advances. But this is foolish. I am merely trying to give you some idea of the kind of woman she was. But I know that I cannot do that; the quality of a woman must be felt to be understood. There was a great deal of social gayety in Thursia. We went out frequently, to opera, to concert, and to crowded gatherings in splendid homes. I observed that Elodia immediately became the centre of interest wherever she appeared. She gave fresh zest to every amusement or conversation. She seemed to dignify with her presence whatever happened to be going on, and made it worth while. Not that she distinguished herself in speech or act; she had the effect of being infinitely greater than anything she did or said and one was always looking out for manifestations of that. She kept one's interest in her up to the highest pitch. I often asked myself, "Why is it that we are always looking at her with a kind of inquiry in our glances?--what is it that we expect her to do?" It was a great part of her charm that she was not _blasé_. She was full of interest in all about her, she was keenly and delightfully alive. Her manners were perfect, and yet she seemed careless of etiquette and conventions. Her good manners were a part of herself, as her regal carriage was. It was her unvarying habit, almost, to spend several hours down town every day. I ventured to ask Severnius wherefore. He replied that she had large business interests, and looked carefully after them herself. I expressed astonishment, and Severnius was equally surprised at me. I questioned him and he explained. "My father was a banker," he said, "and very rich. My sister inherited his gift and taste for finance. I took after my mother's family, who were scientists. We were trained, of course, in our early years according to our respective talents. At our parents' death we inherited their fortune in equal shares. Elodia was prepared to take up my father's business where he left it. In fact he had associated her with himself in the business for some time previous to his departure, and she has carried it on very successfully ever since." "She is a banker!" said I. "Yes. I, myself, have always had a liking for astronomy, and I have been employed, ever since I finished my education, in the State Observatory." "And how do you employ your capital?" I asked. "Elodia manages it for me. It is all in the bank, or in investments which she makes. I use my dividends largely in the interest of science. The State does a great deal in that direction, but not enough." "And what, may I ask, does she do with her surplus,--your sister, I mean,--she must make a great deal of money?" "She re-invests it. She has a speculative tendency, and is rather daring; though they tell me she is very safe--far-sighted, or large-sighted, I should call it. I do not know how many great enterprises she is connected with,--railroads, lines of steamers, mining and manufacturing operations. And besides, she is public-spirited. She is much interested in the cause of education,--practical education for the poor especially. She is president of the school board here in the city, and she is also a member of the city council. A great many of our modern improvements are due to her efforts." My look of amazement arrested his attention. "Why are you so surprised?" he asked. "Do not your women engage in business?" "Well, not to such an extraordinary degree," I replied. "We have women who work in various ways, but there are very few of them who have large business interests, and they are not entrusted with important public affairs, such as municipal government and the management of schools!" "Oh!" returned Severnius with the note of one who does not quite understand. "Would you mind telling me why? Is it because they are incapable, or--unreliable?" Neither of the words he chose struck me pleasantly as applied to my countrywomen. I remembered that I was the sole representative of the Earth on Mars, and that it stood me in hand to be careful about the sort of impressions I gave out. It was as if I were on the witness' stand, under oath. Facts must tell the story, not opinions,--though personally I have great confidence in my opinions. I thought of our government departments where women are the experts, and of their almost spotless record for faithfulness and honesty, and replied: "They are both capable and reliable, in as far as they have had experience. But their chances have been circumscribed, and I believe they lack the inclination to assume grave public duties. I fear I cannot make you understand,--our women are so different, so unlike your sister." Elodia was always my standard of comparison. "Perhaps you men take care of them all," suggested Severnius, "and they have grown dependent. We have some such women here." "No, I do not think it is that entirely," said I. "For in my city alone, more than a hundred and seventy thousand women support not only themselves, but others who are dependent upon them." "Ah, indeed! but how?" "By work." "You mean servants?" "Not so-called. I mean intelligent, selfrespecting women; teachers, clerks, stenographers, type-writers." "I should think it would be more agreeable, and easier, for them to engage in business as our women do." "No doubt it would," I replied, feeling myself driven to a close scrutiny of the Woman Question, as we call it, for the first time in my life. For I saw that my friend was deeply interested and wanted to get at the literal truth. "But the women of my country," I went on, "the self-supporting ones, do not have control of money. They have a horror of speculation, and shrink from taking risks and making ventures, the failure of which would mean loss or ruin to others. A woman's right to make her living is restricted to the powers within herself, powers of brain and hand. She is a beginner, you know. She has not yet learned to make money by the labor of others; she does not know how to manipulate those who are less intelligent and less capable than herself, and to turn their ignorance and helplessness to her own account. Perhaps I had better add that she is more religious than man, and is sustained in this seeming injustice by something she calls conscience." Severnius was silent for a moment; he had a habit of setting his reason to work and searching out explanations in his own mind, of things not easily understood. As a rule, the Marsians have not only very highly developed physical faculties, such as sight and hearing, but remarkably acute intellects. They let no statement pass without examination, and they scrutinize facts closely and seek for causes. "If so many women," said he, "are obliged to support themselves and others beside, as you say, by their work simply, they must receive princely wages,--and of course they have no responsibilities, which is a great saving of energy." I remembered having heard it stated that in New York City, the United States Bureau gives the average of women's wages--leaving out domestic service and unskilled labor--as five dollars and eighty-five cents per week. I mentioned the fact, and Severnius looked aghast. "What, a mere pittance!" said he. "Only about a third as much as I give my stableman. But then the conditions are different, no doubt. Here in Thursia that would no more than fight off the wolf, as we say,--the hunger and cold. It would afford no taste of the better things, freedom, leisure, recreation, but would reduce life to its lowest terms,--mere existence." "I fear the conditions are much the same with us," I replied. "And do your women submit to such conditions,--do they not try to alter them, throw them off?" "They submit, of course," I said; "I never heard of a revolt or an insurrection among them! Though there seems to be growing up among them, lately, a determination strong as death, to work out of those conditions as fast as may be. They realize--just as men have been forced to realize in this century--that work of the hands cannot compete with work of machines, and that trained brains are better capital than trained fingers. So, slowly but surely, they are reaching up to the higher callings and working into places of honor and trust. The odds are against them, because the 'ins' always have a tremendous advantage over the 'outs.' The women, having never been in, must submit to a rigid examination and extraordinary tests. They know that, and they are rising to it. Whenever, it is said, they come into competition with men, in our colleges and training schools, they hold their own and more." "What are they fitting for?" asked Severnius. "Largely for the professions. They are becoming doctors, lawyers, editors, artists, writers. The enormous systems of public schools in my own and other countries is entirely in their hands,--except of course in the management and directorship." "Except in the management and directorship?" echoed Severnius. "Of course they do not provide and disburse the funds, see to the building of school-houses, and dictate the policy of the schools!" I retorted. "But they teach them; you can hardly find a male teacher except at the head of a school,--to keep the faculty in order." Severnius refrained from comment upon this, seeing, I suppose, that I was getting a little impatient. He walked along with his head down. I think I neglected to say that we were taking a long tramp into the country, as we often did. In order to change the conversation, I asked him what sort of a government they had in Paleveria, and was delighted when he replied that it was a free republic. "My country is a republic also," I said, proudly. "We both have much to be thankful for," he answered. "A republic is the only natural government in the world, and man cannot get above nature." I thought this remark rather singular,--at variance with progress and high civilization. But I let it pass, thinking to take it up at some future time. "How do you vote here?" I asked. "What are your qualifications and restrictions?" "Briefly told," he replied. "Every citizen may vote on all public questions, and in all elections." "But what constitutes citizenship?" "A native-born is a citizen when he or she reaches maturity. Foreigners are treated as minors until they have lived as long under the government as it takes for a child to come of age. It is thus," he added, facetiously, "that we punish people for presuming to be born outside our happy country." "Excuse me," I said, "but do I understand you to say that your women have the right of suffrage?" "Assuredly. Do not yours?" "Indeed no!" I replied, the masculine instinct of superiority swelling within me. Severnius wears spectacles. He adjusted them carefully on his nose and looked at me. "But did you not tell me just now that your country is a republic?" "It is, but we do not hold that women are our political equals," I answered. His face was an exclamation and interrogation point fused into one. "Indeed! and how do you manage it,--how, for instance, can you prevent them from voting?" "O, they don't often try it," I said, laughing. "When they do, we simply throw their ballots out of the count." "Is it possible! That seems to me a great unfairness. However, it can be accounted for, I suppose, from the fact that things are so different on the Earth to what they are here. Our government, you see, rests upon a system of taxation. We tax all property to defray governmental expenses, and for many other purposes tending toward the general good; which makes it necessary that all our citizens shall have a voice in our political economy. But you say your women have no property, and so--" "I beg your pardon!" I interposed; "I did not say that. We have a great many very rich women,--women whose husbands or fathers have left them fortunes." "Then they of course have a vote?" "They do not. You can't make a distinction like that." "No? But you exempt their property, perhaps?" "Of course not." "Do you tell me that you tax property, to whatever amount, and for whatever purpose, you choose, without allowing the owner her fractional right to decide about either the one or the other?" "Their interests are identical with ours," I replied, "so what is the difference? We men manage the government business, and I fancy we do it sufficiently well." I expanded my chest after this remark, and Severnius simply looked at me. I think that at that moment I suffered vicariously in his scornful regard for all my countrymen. I did not like the Socratic method he had adopted in this conversation, and I turned the tables on him. "Do your women hold office, other than in the school board and the council?" I asked. "O, yes, fully half our offices are filled by women." "And you make no discrimination in the kind of office?" "The law makes none; those things adjust themselves. Fitness, equipment, are the only things considered. A woman, the same as a man, is governed by her taste and inclination in the matter of office-holding. Do women never take a hand in state affairs on the Earth?" "Yes, in some countries they do,--monarchies. There have been a good many women sovereigns. There are a few now." "And are they successful rulers?" "Some are, some are not." "The same as men. That proves that your women are not really inferior." "Well, I should say not!" I retorted. "Our women are very superior; we treat them more as princesses than as inferiors,--they are angels." I was carried away in the heat of resentment, and knew that what I had said was half cant. "I beg your pardon!" said Severnius quickly; "I got a wrong impression from your statements. I fear I am very stupid. Are they all angels?" I gave him a furtive glance and saw that he was in earnest. His brows were drawn together with a puzzled look. I had a sudden vision of a scene in Five Points; several groups of frowsled, petticoated beings, laughing, joking, swearing, quarreling, fighting, and drinking beer from dirty mugs. "No, not all of them," I replied, smiling. "That was a figure of speech. There are so many classes." "Let us confine our discussion to one, then," he returned. "To the women who might be of your own family; that will simplify matters. And now tell me, please, how this state of things came about, this subjection of a part of your people. I cannot understand it,--these subjects being of your own flesh and blood. I should think it would breed domestic discontent, where some of the members of a family wield a power and enjoy a privilege denied to the others. Fancy my shaking a ballot over Elodia's head!" "O, Elodia!" I said, and was immediately conscious that my accent was traitorous to my countrywomen. I made haste to add, "Your sister is--incomparable. She is unusual even here. I have seen none others like her." "How do you mean?" "I mean that she is as responsible as a man; she is not inconsequent." "Are your women inconsequent?" "They have been called so, and we think it rather adds to their attractiveness. You see they have always been relieved of responsibility, and I assure you the large majority of them have no desire to assume it,--I mean in the matter of government and politics." "Yes?" I dislike an interrogative "yes," and I made no reply. Severnius added, "I suppose they have lost the faculty which you say they lack,--the faculty that makes people responsible,--through disuse. I have seen the same thing in countries on the other side of our globe, where races have been held as slaves for several centuries. They seem to have no ideas about personal rights, or liberties, as pertaining to themselves, and no inclination in that direction. It always struck me as being the most pathetic feature of their condition that they and everybody else accepted it as a matter of course, as they would a law of nature. In the place of strength and self-assertion there has come to them a dumb patience, or an unquestioning acquiescence like that of people born blind. Are your women happy?" "You should see them!" I exclaimed, with certain ball-room memories rushing upon me, and visions of fair faces radiant with the joy of living. But these were quickly followed by other pictures, and I felt bound to add, "Of late, a restless spirit has developed in certain circles,--" "The working circles, I suppose," interrupted Severnius. "You spoke of the working women getting into the professions." "Not those exclusively. Even the women of leisure are not so satisfied as they used to be. There has been, for a great many years, more or less chaffing about women's rights, but now they are beginning to take the matter seriously." "Ah, they are waking up, perhaps?" "Yes, some of them are waking up,--a good many of them. It is a little ridiculous, when one thinks of it, seeing they have no power to enforce their 'rights', and can never attain them except through the condescension of men. Tell me, Severnius, when did your women wake up?" Severnius smiled. "My dear sir, I think they have never been asleep!" We stalked along silently for a time; the subject passed out of my mind, or was driven out by the beauties of the landscape about us. I was especially impressed with the magnificence of the trees that hedged every little patch of farm land, and threw their protecting arms around houses and cottages, big and little; and with the many pellucid streams flowing naturally, or divided like strands of silk and guided in new courses, to lave the roots of trees or run through pasture lands where herds were feeding. A tree is something to be proud of in Paleveria, more than a fine residence; more even than ancient furniture and cracked china. Perhaps because the people sit out under their trees a great deal, and the shade of them has protected the heads of many generations, and they have become hallowed through sacred memories and traditions. In Paleveria they have tree doctors, whose business it is to ward off disease, heal wounded or broken boughs, and exterminate destructive insects. Severnius startled me suddenly with another question: "What, may I ask, is your theory of Man's creation?" "God made Man, and from one of his ribs fashioned woman," I replied catechetically. "Ours is different," said he. "It is this: A pair of creatures, male and female, sprang simultaneously from an enchanted lake in the mountain region of a country called Caskia, in the northern part of this continent. They were only animals, but they were beautiful and innocent. God breathed a Soul into them and they were Man and Woman, equals in all things." "A charming legend!" said I. Later on I learned the full breadth of the meaning of the equality he spoke of. At that time it was impossible for me to comprehend it, and I can only convey it to you in a complete account of my further experiences on that wonderful planet. Chapter 3. THE AURORAS' ANNUAL. It was winter, and snow was on the ground; white and sparkling, and as light as eider-down. Elodia kept a fine stable. Four magnificent white horses were harnessed to her sleigh, which was in the form of an immense swan, with a head and neck of frosted silver. The body of it was padded outside with white varnished leather, and inside with velvet of the color of a dove's breast. The robes were enormous skins of polar bears, lined with a soft, warm fabric of wool and silk. The harness was bestrung with little silver bells of most musical and merry tone; and all the trappings and accoutrements were superb. Elodia had luxurious tastes, and indulged them. Every day we took an exhilarating drive. The two deep, comfortable seats faced each other like seats in a landau. Severnius and I occupied one, and Elodia the other; so that I had the pleasure of looking at her whenever I chose, and of meeting her eyes in conversation now and then, which was no small part of my enjoyment. The mere sight of her roused the imagination and quickened the pulse. Her eyes were unusually dark, but they had blue rays, and were as clear and beautiful as agates held under water. In fact they seemed to swim in an invisible liquid. Her complexion had the effect of alabaster through which a pink light shines,--deepest in the cheeks, as though they were more transparent than the rest of her face. Her head, crowned with a fascinating little cap, rose above her soft furs like a regal flower. She was so beautiful that I wondered at myself that I could bear the sight of her. Strange to say, the weather was not cold, it was simply bracing,--hardly severe enough to make the ears tingle. The roads were perfect everywhere, and we often drove into the country. The horses flew over the wide white stretches at an incredible speed. One afternoon when, at the usual hour, the coachman rang the bell and announced that he was ready, I was greatly disappointed to find that we were not to have Elodia. But I said nothing, for I was shy about mentioning her name. When we were seated, Severnius gave directions to the driver. "Time yourself, Giddo, so that you will be at the Public Square at precisely three o'clock," said he, and turned to me. "We shall want to see the parade." "What parade?" I inquired. "Oh! has not Elodia told you? This is The Auroras' Annual,--a great day. The parade will be worth seeing." In the excitement of the drive, and in my disappointment about not having Elodia with us, I had almost forgotten about The Auroras' Annual, when three o'clock came. I had seen parades in New York City, until the spectacle had calloused my sense of the magnificent, and I very much doubted whether Mars had anything new to offer me in that line. Punctual to the minute, Giddo fetched up at the Square,--among a thousand or so of other turnouts,--with such a flourish as all Jehus love. We were not a second too soon. There was a sudden burst of music, infinitely mellowed by distance; and as far up the street as the eye could well reach there appeared a mounted procession, advancing slowly. Every charger was snow white, with crimped mane and tail, long and flowing, and with trappings of various colors magnificent in silver blazonry. The musicians only were on foot. They were beating upon drums and blowing transcendent airs through silver wind instruments. I do not know whether it was some quality of the atmosphere that made the strains so ravishing, but they swept over one's soul with a rapture that was almost painful. I could hardly sit still, but I was held down by the thought that if I should get up I would not know what to do. It is a peculiar sensation. On came the resplendent column with slow, majestic movement; and I unconsciously kept time with the drums, with Browning's stately lines on my tongue, but unspoken: "Steady they step adown the slope, Steady they climb the hill." There was no hill, but a very slight descent. As they drew nearer the splendor of the various uniforms dazzled my eyes. You will remember that everything about us was white; the buildings all of white stone or brick, the ground covered with snow, and the crowds of people lining the streets all dressed in the national color, or no-color. There were several companies in the procession, and each company wore distinguishing badges and carried flags and banners peculiar to itself. The housings on the horses of the first brigade were of yellow, and all the decorations of the riders corresponded; of the second pale blue, and of the third sky-pink. The uniforms of the riders were inconceivably splendid; fantastic and gorgeous head-gear, glittering belts, silken scarfs and sashes, badges and medals flashing with gems, and brilliant colors twisted into strange and curious devices. As the first division was about to pass, I lost my grip on myself and half started to my feet with a smothered exclamation, "Elodia!" Severnius put out his hand as though he were afraid I was going to leap out of the sleigh, or do something unusual. "What is it?" he cried, and following my gaze he added, "Yes, that is Elodia in front; she is the Supreme Sorceress of the Order of the Auroras." "The--_what_!" "Don't be frightened," he laughed; "the word means nothing,--it is only a title." I could not believe him when I looked at the advancing figure of Elodia. She sat her horse splendidly erect. Her fair head was crowned with a superb diadem of gold and topazes, with a diamond star in the centre, shooting rays like the sun. Her expression was grave and lofty; she glanced neither to right nor left, but gazed straight ahead--at nothing, or at something infinitely beyond mortal vision. Her horse champed its bits, arched its beautiful neck, and stepped with conscious pride; dangling the gold fringe on its sheeny yellow satin saddle-cloth, until one could hardly bear the sight. "The words mean nothing!" I repeated to myself. "It is not so; Severnius has deceived me. His sister is a sorceress; a--I don't know what! But no woman could preserve that majestic mien, that proud solemnity of countenance, if she were simply--playing! There is a mystery here." I scrutinized every rider as they passed. There was not a man among them,--all women. Their faces had all borrowed, or had tried to borrow, Elodia's queenly look. Many of them only burlesqued it. None were as beautiful as she. When it was all over, and the music had died away in the distance, we drove off,--Giddo threading his way with consummate skill, which redounded much to his glory in certain circles he cared for, through the crowded thoroughfares. I could not speak for many minutes, and Severnius was a man upon whom silence always fell at the right time. I never knew him to break in upon another's mood for his own entertainment. Nor did he spy upon your thoughts; he left you free. By-and-by, I appealed to him: "Tell me, Severnius, what does it mean?" "This celebration?" returned he. "With pleasure. Giddo, you may drive round for half an hour, and then take us to the Auroras' Temple,--it is open to visitors to-day." We drew the robes closely, and settled ourselves more comfortably, as we cleared the skirts of the crowd. It was growing late and the air was filled with fine arrows of frost, touched by the last sunbeams,--their sharp little points stinging our faces as we were borne along at our usual lively speed. "This society of the Auroras," said Severnius, "originated several centuries ago, in the time of a great famine. In those days the people were poor and improvident, and a single failure in their crops left them in a sorry condition. Some of the wealthiest women of the country banded themselves together and worked systematically for the relief of the sufferers. Their faces appeared so beautiful, and beamed with such a light of salvation as they went about from hut to hut, that they got the name of 'auroras' among the simple poor. And they banished want and hunger so magically, that they were also called 'sorcerers'." "O, then, it is a charitable organization?" I exclaimed, much relieved. "It was," replied Severnius. "It was in active operation for a hundred or so years. Finally, when there was no more need of it, the State having undertaken the care of its poor, it passed into a sentiment, such as you have seen to-day." "A very costly and elaborate sentiment," I retorted. "Yes, and it is growing more so, all the time," said he. "I sometimes wonder where it is going to stop! For those who, like Elodia, have plenty of money, it does not matter; but some of the women we saw in those costly robes and ornaments can ill afford them,--they mean less of comfort in their homes and less of culture to their children." "I should think their husbands would not allow such a waste of money," I said, forgetting the social economy of Mars. "It does not cost any more than membership in the orders to which the husbands themselves belong," returned he. "They argue, of course, that they need the recreation, and also that membership in such hightoned clubs gives them and their children a better standing and greater influence in society." Severnius did not forget his usual corollary,--the question with which he topped out every explanation he made about his country and people. "Have you nothing of the sort on the Earth?" he asked. "Among the women?--we have not," I answered. "I did not specify," he said. "O, well, the men have," I admitted; "I belong to one such organization myself,--the City Guards." "And you guard the city?" "No; there is nothing to guard it against at present. It's a 'sentiment,' as you say." "And do you parade?" "Yes, of course, upon occasion,--there are certain great anniversaries in our nation's history when we appear." "And why not your women?" I smiled to myself, as I tried to fancy some of the New York ladies I knew, arrayed in gorgeous habiliments for an equestrian exhibition on Broadway. I replied, "Really, Severnius, the idea is entirely new to me. I think they would regard it as highly absurd." "Do they regard you as absurd?" he asked, in that way of his which I was often in doubt about, not knowing whether he was in earnest or not. "I'm sure I do not know," I said. "They may,--our women have a keen relish for the ludicrous. Still, I cannot think that they do; they appear to look upon us with pride. And they present us with an elaborate silken banner about once a year, stitched together by their own fair fingers and paid for out of their own pocket money. That does not look as though they were laughing at us exactly." I said this as much to convince myself as Severnius. The half-hour was up and we were at the Temple gate. The building, somewhat isolated, reared itself before us, a grand conception in chiseled marble, glinting in the brilliant lights shot upon it from various high points. Already it was dark beyond the radius of these lights,--neither of the moons having yet appeared. Severnius dismissed the sleigh, saying that we would walk home,--the distance was not far,--and we entered the grounds and proceeded to mount the flight of broad steps leading up to the magnificent arched entrance. The great carved doors,--the carvings were emblematic,--swung back and admitted us. The Temple was splendidly illuminated within, and imagination could not picture anything more imposing than the great central hall and winding stairs, visible all the way up to the dome. Below, on one side of this lofty hall, there were extensive and luxurious baths. Severnius said the members of the Order were fond of congregating here,--and I did not wonder at that; nothing that appertains to such an establishment was lacking. Chairs and sofas that we would call "Turkish," thick, soft rugs and carpets, pictures, statuary, mirrors, growing plants, rare flowers, books, musical instruments. And Severnius told me the waters were delightful for bathing. The second story consisted of a series of spacious rooms divided from each other by costly portieres, into which the various emblems and devices were woven in their proper tinctures. All of these rooms were as sumptuously furnished as those connected with the baths; and the decorations, I thought, were even more beautiful, of a little higher or finer order. In one of the rooms a lady was playing upon an instrument resembling a harp. She dropped her hands from the strings and came forward graciously. "Perhaps we are intruding?" said Severnius. "Ah, no, indeed," she laughed, pleasantly; "no one could be more welcome here than the brother of our Supreme Sorceress!" "Happy the man who has a distinguished sister!" returned he. "I am unfortunate," she answered with a slight blush. "Severnius is always welcome for his own sake." He acknowledged the compliment, and with a certain reluctance, I thought, said, "Will you allow me, Claris, to introduce my friend--from another planet?" She took a swift step toward me and held out her hand. "I have long had a great curiosity to meet you, sir," she said. I bowed low over her hand and murmured that her curiosity could not possibly equal the pleasure I felt in meeting her. She gave Severnius a quick, questioning look. I believe she thought he had told me something about her. He let her think what she liked. "How is it you are here?" he asked. "You mean instead of being with the others?" she returned. "I have not been well lately, and I thought--or my husband thought--I had better not join the procession. I am awaiting them here." As she spoke, I noticed that she was rather delicate looking. She was tall and slight, with large, bright eyes, and a transparent complexion. If Elodia had not filled all space in my consciousness I think I should have been considerably interested in her. I liked her frank, direct way of meeting us and talking to us. We soon left her and continued our explorations. I wanted to ask Severnius something about her, but I thought he avoided the subject. He told me, however, that her husband, Massilia, was one of his closest friends. And then he added, "I wonder that she took his advice!" "Why so," I asked; "do not women here ever take their husbands' advice?" "Claris is not in the habit of doing so," he returned with, I thought, some severity. And then he immediately spoke of something else quite foreign to her. The third and last story comprised an immense hall or assembly room, and rows of deep closets for the robes and paraphernalia of the members of the Order. In one of these closets a skeleton was suspended from the ceiling and underneath it stood a coffin. On a shelf were three skulls with their accompanying cross-bones, and several cruel-looking weapons. Severnius said he supposed these hideous tokens were employed in the initiation of new members. It seemed incredible. I thought that, if it were so, the Marsian women must have stronger nerves than ours. A great many beautiful marble columns and pillars supported the roof of the hall, and the walls had a curiously fluted appearance. There was a great deal of sculpture, not only figures, but flowers, vines, and all manner of decorations,--even draperies chiseled in marble that looked like frozen lace, with an awful stillness in their ghostly folds. There was a magnificent canopied throne on an elevation like an old-fashioned pulpit, and seats for satellites on either side, and at the base. If I had been alone, I would have gone up and knelt down before the throne,--for of course that was where Elodia sat,--and I would have kissed the yellow cushion on which her feet were wont to rest when she wielded her jeweled scepter. The scepter, I observed, lay on the throne-chair. There was an orchestra, and there were "stations" for the various officials, and the walls were adorned with innumerable cabalistic insignia. I asked Severnius if he knew the meaning of any of them. "How should I know?" he replied in surprise. "Only the initiates understand those things." "Then these women keep their secrets," said I. "Yes, to be sure they do," he replied. The apartment to the right, on the entrance floor, opposite the baths, was the last we looked into, and was a magnificent banquet hall. A servant who stood near the door opened it as though it had been the door of a shrine, and no wonder! It was a noble room in its dimensions and in all its unparalleled adornments and appurtenances. The walls and ceiling bristled with candelabra all alight. The tables, set for a banquet, held everything that could charm the eye or tempt the appetite in such a place. I observed a great many inverted stemglasses of various exquisite styles and patterns, including the thin, flaring goblets, as delicate as a lily-cup, which mean the same thing to Marsians as to us. "Do these women drink champagne at their banquets?" I asked, with a frown. "O, yes," replied Severnius. "A banquet would be rather tame without, wouldn't it? The Auroras are not much given to drink, ordinarily, but on occasions like this they are liable to indulge pretty freely." "Is it possible!" I could say no more than this, and Severnius went on: "The Auroras, you see, are the cream of our society,--the _elite_,--and costly drinks are typical, in a way, of the highest refinement. Do you people never drink wine at your social gatherings?" "The men do, of course, but not the women," I replied in a tone which the whole commonwealth of Paleveria might have taken as a rebuke. "Ah, I fear I shall never be able to understand!" said he. "It is very confusing to my mind, this having two codes--social as well as political--to apply separately to members of an identical community. I don't see how you can draw the line so sharply. It is like having two distinct currents in a river-bed. Don't the waters ever get mixed?" "You are facetious," I returned, coldly. "No, really, I am in earnest," said he. "Do no women in your country ever do these things,--parade and drink wine, and the like,--which you say you men are not above doing?" I replied with considerable energy: "I have never before to-day seen women of any sort dress themselves up in conspicuous uniforms and exhibit themselves publicly for the avowed purpose of being seen and making a sensation, except in circuses. And circus women,--well, they don't count. And of course we have a class of women who crack champagne bottles and even quaff other fiery liquors as freely as men, but I do not need to tell you what kind of creatures those are." At that moment there were sounds of tramping feet outside, and the orchestra filed in at the farther end of the _salon_ and took their places on a high dais. At a given signal every instrument was in position and the music burst forth, and simultaneously the banqueters began to march in. They had put off their heavy outside garments but retained their ornaments and insignia. Their white necks and arms gleamed bewitchingly through silvered lace. They moved to their places without the least jostling or awkwardness, their every step and motion proving their high cultivation and grace. "We must get out of here," whispered Severnius in some consternation. But a squad of servants clogged the doorway and we were crowded backward, and in the interest of self-preservation we took refuge in a small alcove behind a screen of tall hot-house plants with enormous leaves and fronds. "Good heavens! what shall we do?" cried Severnius, beginning to perspire. "Let us sit down," said I, who saw nothing very dreadful in the situation except that it was warm, and the odor of the blossoms in front of us was overpowering. There was a bench in the alcove, and we seated ourselves upon it,--I with much comfort, for it was a little cooler down there, and my companion with much fear. "Would it be a disgrace if we were found here?" I asked. "I would not be found here for the world!" replied Severnius. "It would not be a disgrace, but it would be considered highly improper. Or, to put it so that you can better understand it, it would be the same as though they were men and we women." "That is clear!" said I; and I pictured to myself two charming New York girls of my acquaintance secreting themselves in a hall where we City Guards were holding a banquet,--ye gods! As the feast progressed, and as my senses were almost swept away by the scent of the flowers, I sometimes half fancied that it _was_ the City Guards who were seated at the tables. During the first half-hour everything was carried on with great dignity, speakers being introduced--this occurred in the interim between courses--in proper order, and responding with graceful and well-prepared remarks, which were suitably applauded. But after the glasses had been emptied a time or two all around, there came a change with which I was very familiar. Jokes abounded and jolly little songs were sung,--O, nothing you would take exception to, you know, if they had been men; but women! beautiful, cultivated, charming women, with eyes like stars, with cheeks that matched the dawn, with lips that you would have liked to kiss! And more than this: the preservers of our ideals, the interpreters of our faith, the keepers of our consciences! I felt as though my traditionary idols were shattered, until I remembered that these were not my countrywomen, thank heaven! Severnius was not at all surprised; he took it all as a matter of course, and was chiefly concerned about how we were going to get out of there. It was more easily accomplished than we could have imagined. The elegant candelabra were a cunningly contrived system of electric lights, and, as sometimes happens with us, they went out suddenly and left the place in darkness for a few convenient seconds. "Quick, now!" cried Severnius with a bound, and there was just time for us to make our escape. We had barely reached the outer door when the whole building was ablaze again. Severnius offered no comments on the events of the evening, except to say we were lucky to get out as we did, and of course I made none. At my suggestion we stopped at the observatory and spent a few hours there. Lost among the stars, my soul recovered its equilibrium. I have found that little things cease to fret when I can lift my thoughts to great things. It must have been near morning when I was awakened by the jingling of bells, and a sleigh driving into the _porte cochere_. A few moments later I heard Elodia and her maid coming up the stairs. Her maid attended her everywhere, and stationed herself about like a dummy. She was the sign always that Elodia was not far off; and I am sure she would have laid down her life for her mistress, and would have suffered her tongue to be cut out before she would have betrayed her secrets. I tell you this to show you what a power of fascination Elodia possessed; she seemed a being to be worshiped by high and low. Severnius and I ate our breakfast alone the following morning. The Supreme Sorceress did not get up, nor did she go down town to attend to business at all during the day. At lunch time she sent her maid down to tell Severnius that she had a headache. "Quite likely," he returned, as the girl delivered her message; "but I am sorry to hear it. If there is anything I can do for her, tell her to let me know." The girl made her obeisance and vanished. "We have to pay for our fun," said Severnius with a sigh. "I should not think your sister would indulge in such 'fun'!" I retorted as a kind of relief to my hurt sensibilities, I was so cruelly disappointed in Elodia. "Why my sister in particular?" returned he with a look of surprise. "Well, of course, I mean all those women,--why do they do such things? It is unwomanly, it--it is disgraceful!" I could not keep the word back, and for the first time I saw a flash of anger in my friend's eyes. "Come," said he, "you must not talk like that! That term may have a different signification to you, but with us it means an insult." I quickly begged his pardon and tried to explain to him. "Our women," I said, "never do things of that sort, as I have told you. They have no taste for them and no inclination in that direction,--it is against their very nature. And if you will forgive me for saying so, I cannot but think that such indulgence as we witnessed last night must coarsen a woman's spiritual fibre and dull the fine moral sense which is so highly developed in her." "Excuse me," interposed Severnius. "You have shown me in the case of your own sex that human nature is the same on the Earth that it is on Mars. You would not have me think that there are two varieties of human nature on your planet, corresponding with the sexes, would you? You say 'woman's' spiritual fibre and fine moral sense, as though she had an exclusive title to those qualities. My dear sir, it is impossible! you are all born of woman and are one flesh and one blood, whether you are male or female. I admit all you say about the unwholesome influence of such indulgence as wine drinking, late hours, questionable stories and songs,--a night's debauch, in fact, which it requires days sometimes to recover from,--but I must apply it to men as well as women; neither are at their best under such conditions. I think," he went on, "that I begin to understand the distinction which you have curiously mistaken for a radical difference. Your women, you say, have always been in a state of semi-subjection--" "No, no," I cried, "I never said so! On the contrary, they hold the very highest place with us; they are honored with chivalrous devotion, cared for with the tenderest consideration. We men are their slaves, in reality, though they call us their lords; we work for them, endure hardships for them, give them all that we can of wealth, luxury, ease. And we defend them from danger and save them every annoyance in our power. They are the queens of our hearts and homes." "That may all be," he replied coolly, "but you admit that they have always been denied their political rights, and it follows that their social rights should be similarly limited. Long abstinence from the indulgences which you regard as purely masculine, has resulted in a habit merely, not a change in their nature." "Then thank heaven for their abstinence!" I exclaimed. "That is all very well," he persisted, "but you must concede that in the first place it was forced upon them, and that was an injustice, because they were intelligent beings and your equals." "They ought to thank us for the injustice, then," I retorted. "I beg your pardon! they ought not. No doubt they are very lovely and innocent beings, and that your world is the better for them. But they, being restricted in other ways by man's authority, or his wishes, or by fear of his disfavor perhaps, have acquired these gentle qualities at the expense of--or in the place of--others more essential to the foundation of character; I mean strength, dignity, self-respect, and that which you once attributed to my sister,--responsibility." I was bursting with indignant things which I longed to say, but my position was delicate, and I bit my tongue and was silent. I will tell you one thing, my heart warmed toward my gentle countrywomen! With all their follies and frivolities, with all their inconsistencies and unaccountable ways, their whimsical fancies and petty tempers, their emotions and their susceptibility to new isms and religions, they still represented my highest and best ideals. And I thought of Elodia, sick upstairs from her last night's carousal, with contempt. Chapter 4. ELODIA. "If to her lot some female errors fall, Look to her face and you'll forget them all." --POPE. My contempt for Elodia vanished at the first intimation of her presence. I had expected to meet her with an air of cold superiority, but when she entered the dining-room that evening with her usual careless aplomb, the glance with which she favored me reduced me to my customary attitude toward her,--that of unquestioning admiration. Our physical nature is weak, and this woman dominated my senses completely, with her beauty, with her melodious voice, her singular magnetic attraction, and every casual expression of her face. On that particular evening, her dress was more than ordinarily becoming, I thought. She had left off some of the draperies she usually wore about her shoulders, and her round, perfect waist was more fully disclosed in outline. She was somewhat pale, and her eyes seemed larger and darker than their wont, and had deeper shadows. And a certain air of languor that hung about her was an added grace. She had, however, recovered sufficiently from the dissipations of the day before to make herself uncommonly agreeable, and I never felt in a greater degree the charm and stimulus of her presence and conversation. After dinner she preceded us into the parlor,--which was unusual, for she was always too sparing of her society, and the most we saw of her was at dinner or luncheon time,--and crossed over to an alcove where stood a large and costly harp whose strings she knew well how to thrum. "Elodia, you have never sung for our friend," said Severnius. She shook her head, and letting her eyes rest upon me half-unconsciously--almost as if I were not there in fact, for she had a peculiar way of looking at you without actually seeing you,--she went on picking out the air she had started to play. I subjoined a beseeching look to her brother's suggestive remark, but was not sure she noted it. But presently she began to sing and I dropped into a chair and sat spell-bound. Her voice was sweet, with a quality that stirred unwonted feelings; but it was not that alone. As she stood there in the majesty of her gracious womanhood, her exquisite figure showing at its best, her eyes uplifted and a something that meant power radiating from her whole being, I felt that, do what she might, she was still the grandest creature in that world to me! Soon after she had finished her song, while I was still in the thrall of it, a servant entered the room with a packet for Severnius, who opened and read it with evident surprise and delight. "Elodia!" he cried, "those friends of mine, those Caskians from Lunismar, are coming to make us a visit." "Indeed!" she answered, without much enthusiasm, and Severnius turned to me. "It is on your account, my friend, that I am to be indebted to them for this great pleasure," he explained. "On my account?" said I. "Yes, they have heard about you, and are extremely anxious to make your acquaintance?" "They must be," said Elodia, "to care to travel a thousand miles or so in order to do it." "Who are they, pray?" I asked. "They are a people so extraordinarily good," she said with a laugh, "so refined and sublimated, that they cast no shadow in the sun." Severnius gave her a look of mild protest. "They are a race exactly like ourselves, outwardly," he said, "who inhabit a mountainous and very picturesque country called Caskia, in the northern part of this continent." "O, that is where the Perfect Pair came from," I rejoined, remembering what he had told me about Man's origin on Mars. Elodia smiled. "Has Severnius been entertaining you with our religious fables?" she asked. I glanced at him and saw that he had not heard; he was finishing his letter. "You will be interested in these Caskians," he said to me animatedly as he folded it up; "I was. I spent some months in Lunismar, their capital, once, studying. They have rare facilities for reading the heavens there,--I mean of their own contrivance,--beside their natural advantages; their high altitude and the clearness of the air." "And they name themselves after the planetoids and other heavenly bodies," interjected Elodia, "because they live so near the stars. What is the name of the superlative creature you were so charmed with, Severnius?" "I suppose you mean my friend Calypso's wife, Clytia," returned he. "O, yes, I remember,--Clytia. Is she to favor us?" "Yes, and her husband and several others." "Any other women?" "One or two, I think." "And how are we to conduct ourselves during the visitation?" "As we always do; you will not find that they will put any constraint upon you." "No, hardly," said Elodia, with a slight curl of the lip. I was eager to hear more about these singular people,--the more eager, perhaps, because the thought of them seemed to arouse Elodia to an unwonted degree of feeling and interest. Her eyes glowed intensely, and the color flamed brightly in her cheeks. I pressed a question or two upon Severnius, and he responded: "According to the traditions and annals of the Caskians, they began many thousands of years ago to train themselves toward the highest culture and most perfect development of which mankind is capable. Their aim was nothing short of the Ideal, and they believed that the ideal was possible. It took many centuries to counteract and finally to eradicate hereditary evils, but their courage and perseverance did not give way, and they triumphed. They have dropped the baser natural propensities--" "As, in the course of evolution, it is said, certain species of animals dropped their tails to become Man," interrupted Elodia. She rose from the divan on which she had gracefully disposed herself when she quit playing, and glided from the room, sweeping a bow to us as she vanished, before Severnius or I could interpose an objection to her leaving us. Although there was never any appearance of haste in her manner, she had a swift celerity of movement which made it impossible to anticipate her intention. Severnius, however, did not care to interpose an objection, I think. He felt somewhat hurt by her sarcastic comments upon his friends, and he expanded more after she had gone. "You must certainly visit Lunismar before you leave Mars," he said. "You will feel well repaid for the trouble. It is a beautiful city, wonderful in its cleanness, in its dearth of poverty and squalor, and in the purity and elevation of its social tone. I think you will wish you might live there always." There seemed to be a regret in his voice, and I asked: "Why did not you remain there?" "Because of my sister," he answered. "But she will marry, doubtless." For some occult reason I hung upon his reply to this. He shook his head. "I do not think she will," he said. "And she and I are all that are left of our family." "She does not like,--or she does not believe in these Caskians?" I hoped he would contradict me, and he did. I had come to found my judgments of people and of things upon Elodia's, even against the testimony of my reason. If she disapproved of her brother's extraordinary friends and thought them an impossible people, why, then, I knew I should have misgivings of them, too; and I wanted to believe in them, not only on Severnius' account, but because they presented a curious study in psychology. "O, yes, she does," he said. "She thinks that their principles and their lives are all right for themselves, but would not be for her--or for us; and our adoption of them would be simply apish. She is genuine, and she detests imitation. She accepts herself--as she puts it--as she found herself. God, who made all things, created her upon a certain plane of life, and with certain tastes, faculties, passions and propensities, and that it is not her office to disturb or distort the order of His economy." "She does not argue thus in earnest," I deprecated. "It is difficult to tell when Elodia is in earnest," he replied. "She thinks my sanctuary in the top story of the house here, is a kind of weakness, because I brought the idea from Lunismar." "O, then, it is not common here in Thursia for people to have things of that sort in their homes!" I said in surprise. "Yes, it has gotten to be rather common," he replied. "Since you put in yours?" He admitted that to be the case. "You must think that you have done your country a great good," I began enthusiastically, "in introducing so beautiful an innovation, and--" "You are mistaken," he interrupted, "I think the contrary; because our rich people, and some who are not rich but only ambitious, took it up as a fad, and I believe it has really worked evil. It is considered aristocratic to have one's own private shrine, and not to go to church at all except in condescension, to patronize the masses. Elodia saw clearly just how it would be, before I began to carry out my plan. She has a logical mind, and her thought travels from one sequence to the next with unfailing accuracy. I recall her saying that one cannot superinduce the customs and habits of one society upon another of a different order, without affectation; and that you cannot put on a new religion, like a new garment, and feel yourself free in it." "Does she not believe, then, in progress, development?" "Only along the familiar lines. She thinks you can reach outward and upward from your natural environment, but you must not tear yourself out of it with violence. However, she admitted that my sanctuary was well enough for me, because of my having lived among the Caskians and studied their sublime ethics until I grew into the meanings of them. But no person can take them second-hand from me, because I could not bring away with me the inexpressible something which holds those people together in a perfect Unit. I can go to Caskia and catch the spirit of their religion, but I cannot bring Caskia here. It was a mistake in so far as my neighbors are concerned, since they only see in it, as I have said, a new fashion, a new diversion for their ennuied thoughts." "What is there peculiar about the religion of those people?" I asked. "The most peculiar thing about it is that they live it, rather than profess it," he replied. "I don't think I understand," said I, and after a moment's consideration of the matter in his own mind, he tried to make his meaning clear to me. "Do you often hear an upright man professing his honesty? It is a part of himself. He is so free of the law which enjoins honesty that he never gives it a thought. So with the man who is truly religious, he has flung off the harness and no longer needs to guide himself by bit and rein, or measure his conduct by the written code. My friends, the Caskians, have emancipated themselves from the thraldom of the law by absorbing its principles into themselves. It was like seed sown in the ground, the germs burst from the husk and shot upward; they are enjoying the flower and the fruit. That which all nations and peoples, and all individuals, prize and desire above everything else in life, is liberty. But I have seen few here in Paleveria who have any conception of the vast spiritual meanings of the word. We limit it to the physical; we say 'personal' liberty, as though that were all. You admire the man of high courage, because in that one thing he is free. So with all the virtues, named and unnamable; he is greatest who has loosed himself the most, who weighs anchor and sails away triumphant and free. But this is but a general picture of the Caskians; let me particularize: we are forbidden to steal, by both our civil and religious canons,--the coarseness of such a command would offend them as much as a direct charge of theft would offend you or myself, so exquisite is their sense of the rights of others, not only in the matter of property but in a thousand subtle ways. Robbery in any form is impossible with them. They would think it a crying sin for one to take the slightest advantage of another,--nay, to neglect an opportunity to assist another in the accomplishment of his rightful purpose would be criminal. We, here on Mars, and you upon the Earth, have discovered very sensitive elements in nature; they have discovered the same in their own souls. Their perceptions are singularly acute, their touch upon each other's lives finely delicate. In this respect we compare with them as the rude blacksmith compares with the worker in precious metals." "But do they also concern themselves with science?" I asked. "Assuredly," he answered. "Their inventions are remarkable, their methods infinitely superior to ours. They believe in the triple nature,--the spiritual, the intellectual, and the physical,--and take equal pains in the development and culture of all." "How wonderful!" I said, remembering that upon the Earth we have waves of culture breaking over the land from time to time, spasmodic, and never the same; to-day it may be physical, to-morrow intellectual, and by-and-by a superfine spiritual bloom. But, whichever it is, it sacrifices the other two and makes itself supreme. Severnius went on. As he proceeded, I was struck by the fact that the principles of our Christian civilization formed the basis of Paleverian law. "I wanted to give you some other instances," he said, "of the 'peculiarities' of the Caskians, as we started out with calling them. There is a law with us against bearing false witness; they hold each other in such honor and in such tenderness, that the command is an idle breath. There is nothing mawkish or sentimental about this, however; they, in fact, make no virtue of it, any more than you or I make a virtue of the things we do habitually--perhaps from unanalyzed motives of policy. You would not strike a man if you knew he would hit back and hurt you worse than he himself was hurt; well, these people have sensibilities so finely developed, that a wrong done to another reacts upon themselves with exquisite suffering. The law and its penalties are both unseen forces, operating on an internal not an external plane. With us, the authority which declares, 'Thou shalt not commit adultery,' becomes powerless at the threshold of marriage. Like other such laws which hold us together in an outward appearance of decency and good order, it is a dead letter to them up to the point where we drop and trample upon it; here they take it up and carry it into their inmost lives and thoughts in a way almost too fine for us to comprehend. Because we have never so much as dreamed of catching the spirit of that law." "What do you mean?" I demanded, with a wide stare. "Why, that marriage does not sanction lust. The Caskians hold that the exercise of the procreative faculty is a divine function, and should never be debased to mere animal indulgence. It has been said upon Divine Authority--as we believe--that if a man look upon a woman to lust after her, he has committed adultery in his heart. The Caskians interpret that to mean a man's wife, the same as any other woman, because--they hold--one who owes his being to lust and passion naturally inherits the evil and the curse, just as surely as though wedlock had not concealed the crime. Their children are conceived in immaculate purity." My look of prolonged amazement called out the usual question: "Have you no such class in any of your highly civilized countries?" "No, I think not. With us, children do not come in answer to an intelligent desire for their existence, but are too often simply the result of indulgence, and so unwelcome that their pre-natal life is overshadowed by sorrow and crime." "Well," said he, "it is the same here; our people believe that conception without lust is an impossibility in nature, and that instances of it are supernatural. And certainly it is incredible unless your mind can grasp the problem, or rather the great fact, of a people engaged for centuries in eliminating the purely animal instincts from their consciousness." After a moment he added: "In Caskia it would be considered shocking if a pair contemplating marriage were to provide themselves with only one suite of rooms, to be shared together day and night. Even the humblest people have their respective apartments; they think such separateness is absolutely essential to the perfect development of the individual,--for in the main we each must stand alone,--and to the preservation of moral dignity, and the fine sentiment and mutual respect which are almost certain to be lost in the lawlessness of undue familiarity. The relation between my friend Calypso and his wife is the finest thing I ever saw; they are lovers on the highest plane. It would be an impossibility for either of them to say or do a coarse or improper thing in the other's presence, or to presume, in any of the innumerable ways you and I are familiar with in our observations of husbands and wives, upon the marriage bond existing between them. This matter of animal passion," he went on, after a little pause, "has been at the bottom of untold crimes, and unnumbered miseries, in our land. I doubt if any other one thing has been prolific of more or greater evils,--even the greed of wealth. Men, and women, too, have sacrificed kingdoms for it, have bartered their souls for it. Countless homes have been desolated because of it, countless lives and hearts have been laid on its guilty altar. We ostracize the bastard; he is no more impure than the offspring of legalized licentiousness, and the law which protects the one and despises the other, cannot discriminate in the matter of after effects, cannot annul or enforce the curse of heredity. With these people the law of chastity is graven in the inmost heart, and in this matter, as in all others, each generation acknowledges its obligation to the next." Chapter 5. THE VAPORIZER. "Portable ecstasies ... corked up in a pint bottle." --DE QUINCEY. I was glad when spring came, when the trees began to bud, the grass to grow, the flowers to bloom; for, of all the seasons, I like it best,--this wonderful resurrection of life and sweetness! Thursia is a fine city,--not only in its costly and architecturally and æsthetically perfect buildings, public and private, but in its shaded avenues, its parks, lawns, gardens, fountains, its idyllic statues, and its monuments to greatness. Severnius took pains to exhibit all its attractions to me, driving with me slowly through the beautiful streets, and pointing out one conspicuous feature and another. Of course there were some streets which were not beautiful, but he avoided those as much as possible,--as I have done myself when I have had friends visiting me in New York. It is a compliment to your guest to show him the best there is and to spare him the worst. But often, too, we took long walks through fields and woods. When Elodia accompanied us, which she did a few times, the whole face of nature smiled, and I thought Paleveria the most incomparably charming country I had ever seen. Her presence gave importance to everything,--the song of a bird, the opening of a humble little flower, the babbling of water. But other things absorbed most of her time,--we only got the scraps, the remnants. When she was with us she relaxed, as though we were in some sort a recreation. She amused herself with us just as I have seen a busy father amuse himself with his family for an hour or so of an evening. And I think we really planned our little theatricals of evening conversation for her,--at least I did. I saved up whatever came to me of thought or incident to give to her at the dinner table. And she appreciated it; her mind bristled with keen points, upon which any ideas let loose were caught in a flash. The sudden illumination of her countenance when a new thing, or even an old thing in a new dress, was presented to her, was of such value to me that I found myself laying traps for it, inventing stories and incidents to touch her fancy. Besides her banking interests, over which she kept a close surveillance, she had a great many other matters that required to be looked after. As soon as the weather was fine enough, and business activities in the city began to be redoubled, especially in the matter of real estate, she made a point of driving about by herself to inspect one piece of property and another, and to make plans and see that they were carried out according to her ideas. And she was just as conscientious in the discharge of her official duties. She was constantly devising means for the betterment of the schools, both as to buildings and methods of instruction. I believe she knew every teacher personally,--and there must have been several thousand,--and her relations with all of them were cordial and friendly. Her approbation was a thing they strove for and valued,--not because of her official position and the authority she held in her hands, but because of a power which was innate in herself and that made her a leader and a protector. But I was too selfish to yield my small right to her society,--the right only of a guest in her house,--to these greater claims with absolute sweetness and patience. "Why does she take all these things upon herself?" I asked of Severnius. "Because she has a taste for them," he replied. "Or, as she would say, a need of them. It is an internal hunger. It is her nature to exert herself in these ways." "I cannot believe it is her nature; it is no woman's nature," I retorted. "It is a habit which she has cultivated until it has got the mastery of her." "Perhaps," returned Severnius, who was never much disposed to argue about his sister's vagaries--as they seemed to me. "All this is mannish," I went on. "There are other things for women to do. Why does she not give her time and attention to the softer graces, to feminine occupations?" "I see," he laughed; "you want her to drop these weighty matters and devote herself to amusing us! and you call that 'feminine.'" I joined in his laugh ruefully. "Perhaps I am narrow, and selfish, too," I admitted; "but she is so charming, she brings so much into our conversations whenever we can entice her to spend a moment with us." "Yes, that is true," he answered. "She gleans her ideas from a large and varied field." "I do not mean her ideas, so much as--well, as the delicious flavor of her presence and personality." "Her presence and her personality would not have much flavor, my friend, if she had no ideas, I am thinking." "O, yes, they would," I insisted. "They are the ether in which our own thoughts expand and take shape and color. They are the essence of her supreme beauty." He shook his head. "Beauty is nothing without intelligence. What is the camellia beside the rose? Elodia is the rose. She has several pleasing qualities that appeal to you at one and the same time." This was rather pretty, but a man's praises of his sister always sound tame to me. "She is adorable!" I cried with fervor. We were walking toward a depot connected with a great railway. For the first time I was to try the speed of a Marsian train. Severnius wanted me to visit the city of Frambesco, some two hundred miles from Thursia, in another state. After a short, ruminating silence I broke out again: "We don't even have her company evenings, to any extent. What does she do with her evenings?" "Who? O, Elodia! Why, she goes to her club. For recreation, you know." "That is complimentary to you and me," I said coolly. He brought his spectacles to bear upon me somewhat sharply. "Don't you think you are a little unreasonable?" he demanded. "You have curious ideas about individual liberty! Now, we hold that every soul shall be absolutely free,--that is, in its relations to other souls; it shall not be coerced by any other. It is as though souls were stars suspended in space, each moving in its appointed orbit. No one has the right to disturb the poise and equilibrium of another, not even the one nearest it. That is a Caskian idea, by the way; about the only one Elodia is enamored of. These souls, or spheres, are extremely sensitive; and they may, and do, exert a tremendous influence, one upon another,--but without violence." "Your meaning is clear," I said coldly. "My powers of attraction in this case are feeble. Is the club you speak of composed entirely of women?" "Certainly." "Do not the men here have clubs?" "O, yes; I belong to one, though I do not often attend. I will take you to visit it,--I wonder I had not thought of it before! But those things are disturbing; we scientists like to keep our minds clear, like the lenses of our telescopes." "Is Elodia's club a literary one?" I asked, though I was almost sure it was not. "O, no; it is for recreation purely, as I said. The same kind of a club, I suppose, that you men have. Of course, they have the current literature, which they skim over and discuss, so as to keep themselves informed about what is going on in the world. It is the only way you can keep up with the times, I think, for no one can read everything. They have games and various diversions. Elodia's clubhouse is furnished with elegant baths, for women have an extraordinary fondness for bathing. And they have a gymnasium,--you notice what splendid figures most of our women have!--and of course a wine cellar." "Severnius!" I cried. "You don't mean to tell me that these women have wines in their clubhouse?" "Why, yes," said he. "And it is tolerated, allowed, nobody objects?" "O, yes, there are plenty of objectors," he replied. "There is a very strong anti-intoxicant element here, but it has no actual force and exerts but little influence in--in our circles." Severnius was too modest a man to boast of belonging to the upper class of society, but that was what "our circles" meant. "But do not the male relatives of these women object,--their husbands, fathers, brothers?" "No, indeed, why should they? We do the same things they do, without demur from them." "But they should be looking after their domestic affairs, their children, their homes." "My dear sir! they have servants to attend to those matters." It seemed useless to discuss these things with Severnius, his point of view concerning the woman question was so different from mine. Nevertheless, I persisted. "Tell me, Severnius, do women on this planet do everything that men do?" "They have that liberty," he replied, "but there is sometimes a difference of tastes." "I am glad to hear it!" "For instance, they do not smoke. By the way, have a cigar?" He passed me his case and we both fired up. There is a peculiarly delightful flavor in Marsian tobacco. "They have a substitute though," he added, removing the fragrant weed from his lips to explain. "They vaporize." "They what?" "They have a small cup, a little larger than a common tobacco pipe, which they fill with alcohol and pulverized valerian root. This mixture when lighted diffuses a kind of vapor, a portion of which they inhale through the cup-stem, a slender, tortuous tube attached to the cup. The most of it, however, goes into the general air." "Good heavens!" I cried, "valerian! the most infernal, diabolical smell that was ever emitted from any known or unknown substance." "It is said to be soothing to the nerves," he replied. "But do you not find it horribly disagreeable, unbearable?" I suddenly recollected that, in passing through the upper hall of the house, I had once or twice detected this nauseating odor, in the neighborhood of Elodia's suite of rooms. "Yes, I do," he answered, "when I happen to come in contact with it, which is seldom. They are careful not to offend others to whom the vapor is unpleasant. Elodia is very delicate in these matters; she is fond of the vapor habit, but she allows no suggestion of it to cling to her garments or vitiate her breath." "It must be a great care to deodorize herself," I returned, with ill-concealed contempt. "That is her maid's business," said he. "Is it not injurious to health?" I asked. "Quite so; it often induces frightful diseases, and is sometimes fatal to life even." "And yet they persist in it! I should think you would interfere in your sister's case." "Well," said he, "the evils which attend it are really no greater than those that wait upon the tobacco habit; and, as I smoke, I can't advise with a very good grace. I have a sort of blind faith that these good cigars of mine are not going to do me any harm,--though I know they have harmed others; and I suppose Elodia reasons in the same friendly way with her vapor cup." The train stood on the track ready to start. I was about to spring up the steps of the last car when Severnius stopped me. "Not that one," he said; "that is the woman's special." I stepped back, and read the word _Vaporizer_,--printed in large gilt letters,--bent like a bow on the side of the car. "Do you mean to tell me, Severnius," I exclaimed, "that the railroad company devotes one of these magnificent coaches exclusively to the use of persons addicted to the obnoxious habit we have been speaking of?" "That is about the size of it," he returned,--he borrowed the phrase from me. "Come, make haste, or we shall be left; the next car is the smoker; we'll step into that and finish these cigars, after which I'll show you what sumptuous parlor coaches we have." As we mounted to the platform I could not resist glancing into the _Vaporizer_. There were only two or three ladies there, and one of them held in her ungloved hand the little cup with the tortuous stem which my friend had described to me. From it there issued a pale blue smoke or vapor, and oh! the smell of it! I held my breath and hurried after Severnius. "That is the most outrageous, abominable thing I ever heard of!" I declared, as we entered the smoker and took our seats. "O, it is nothing," he returned, smiling; "you are a very fastidious fellow. I saw you look into that car; did you observe the lady in blue?" "I should think I did! she was in the act," I replied. "And I recognized her, too; she is that Madam Claris you introduced me to in the Auroras' Temple, is she not?" "Yes; but did you notice her cup?" "Not particularly." "It is carved out of the rarest wood we have,--wood that hardens like stone with age,--and has an indestructible lining and is studded with costly gems; the thing is celebrated, an heirloom in Claris' family. They like to sport those things, the owners of them do. They are a mark of distinction,--or, as they might say in some of your countries, a patent of nobility." "I suppose, then, that only the rich and the aristocratic 'vaporize'?" "By no means; whatever the aristocracy do, humble folk essay to imitate. These vapor cups are made in great quantities, of the commonest clay, and sold for a penny apiece." "Then it must be a natural taste, among your women?" said I. "No, no more than smoking is among men. They say it is nauseating in the extreme, at first, and requires great courage and persistence to continue in it up to the point of liking. There is no doubt that it becomes very agreeable to them in the end, and that it is almost impossible to break the habit when once it is fixed." "And what do they do with their cups,--I mean, how do they carry them about when they are not using them?" I asked. "Put them in a morocco case, the same as you would a meerschaum, and drop them into a fanciful little bag which they wear on the arm, suspended by a chain or ribbon." Frambesco could not compare with Thursia either in size or beauty; and it had a totally different air, a kind of swagger, you might say. I felt the mercury in my moral barometer drop down several degrees as we walked about the streets amid much filth, and foul odors, and unsightly spectacles. I made the natural comments to my friend, and he replied that neither Frambesco nor any other city on the continent could hold a candle to Thursia, where the best of every thing was centered. We observed a great many enormous placards posted about conspicuously, announcing a game of fisticuffs to take place that afternoon in an amphitheatre devoted to such purposes; and we decided to look in upon it. I think it was I who suggested it, for I had no little curiosity about the "tactics" of the manly art in that country, having seen Sullivan and several other famous hitters in our own. Severnius had considerable difficulty in procuring tickets, and finally paid a fabulous price to a speculator for convenient seats. The great cost of admission of course kept out the rabble, and, in a way, it was an eminently respectable throng that was assembled,--I mean in so far as money and rich clothes make for respectability. But there was an unmistakable coarseness in most of the faces, or if not that, a curiosity which bordered on coarseness. I was amazed to see women in the audience; but this was nothing to the horror that quivered through me like a deadly wound, when the combatants sprang into the arena and squared off for action. For they, too, were women,--women with tender, rosy flesh; with splendid dark eyes gleaming with high excitement. Their long, fair hair was braided and twisted into a hard knot on top of the head. They wore no gloves. Ah, a woman's hands are soft enough without padding!--I thought. They went at it in scientific fashion and were careful to observe the etiquette of the game; it was held "foul" to attack the face. In fact it was more of a wrestling than a sparring match,--a test of strength, prowess, agility. But I recoiled from it with loathing, and feeling myself grow sick and faint, I muttered something to Severnius and rushed out of the place. He followed me, of course; the performance was quite as distasteful to him as to me, the only difference being that he was familiar with the idea and I was not. As I passed out, I observed that many of the women were vaporizing and many of the men smoking. I suppose it was, in part, the intolerable abomination of these commingled smells that affected me, for I experienced a physical as well as moral nausea. I did not get over it for hours, and I was as glad as a child when it came time to take the train back to Thursia. My disgust was so great that I could not discuss the matter with Severnius, as I was wont to discuss other matters with him. There was one thing for which I was supremely thankful,--that Elodia was not there. A few days later, the subject accidentally came up, and I had the satisfaction of hearing her denounce the barbarity as emphatically as I could denounce it,--and more sweepingly, for she included male fighters in her condemnation, and I was unable to make her see that that was quite another matter. Chapter 6. CUPID'S GARDENS. "O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose." --SHAKSPEARE. During the time that intervened before the arrival of the Caskians, to make their proposed visit, I gleaned many more interesting hints from Severnius relative to their life and conduct, which greatly whetted my curiosity to meet them. For instance, we were one day engaged in a conversation, he, Elodia, and myself, upon the subject of the province of poetry in history,--but that does not matter,--when dinner was announced in the usual way; that is, the way which assumes without doubt that nothing else in the world is so important as dinner. It may be a bell, or a gong, or a verbal call, but it is as imperative as the command of an autocrat. It brings to the ground, with the suddenness of a mental shock, the finest flights of the imagination. It wakes the soul from transcendent dreams, cools the fervor of burning eloquence, breaks the spell of music. More than this: it destroys the delicate combination of mental states and forces sometimes induced when several highly trained minds have fallen into an attitude of acute sympathy toward one another,--a rare and ineffable thing!--and are borne aloft through mutual helpfulness to regions of thought and emotion infinitely exalted, which can never be reproduced. I have often had this experience myself, and have wished that the cook was a creature of supernatural intuitions, so that he could divine the right moment in which to proclaim that the soup was served! There is a right moment, a happy moment, when the flock of intellectual birds, let loose to whirl and circle and soar in the upper air, descend gracefully and of their own accord to the agreeable level of soup. On the occasion to which I have referred, I tried to ignore, and to make my companions ignore, the discordant summons--by a kind of dominant action of my mind upon theirs--in order that we might continue the talk a little longer. We three had never before shown ourselves off to each other to such striking advantage; we traveled miles in moments, we expanded, we unrolled reams of intelligence which were apprehended in a flash, as a whole landscape is apprehended in a glare of lightning. It was as if our words were tipped with flame and carried their illumination along with them. I knew that there never would, never could, come another such time, but Elodia thwarted my effort to hold it a moment longer. "Come!" she cried gayly, rising to her feet and breaking off in the middle of a beautiful sentence, the conclusion of which I was waiting for with tremors of delight,--for her views, as it happened, accorded with mine,--"the ideal may rule in art, but not in life; it is very unideal to eat, but the stomach is the dial of the world." "We make it so," said Severnius. "Of course, we make all our sovereigns," she returned. "We set the dial to point at certain hours, and it simply holds us to our agreement,--it and the _chef_." "That reminds me of our Caskian friends," said Severnius. "They have exceedingly well-ordered homes, but occasionally one of the three Natures waits upon another; the Mind may yield to some contingency connected with the Body, or the Body waive its right in favor of the Spirit." "I had supposed they were more machine-like," commented Elodia, with her usual air of not being able to take a great interest in the Caskians. "They are the farthest from that of any people I know," he answered. "They have great moments, now and then, when a few people are gathered together, and their thought becomes electrical and their minds mingle as you have seen the glances of eyes mingle in a language more eloquent than speech,--and, to tell the truth, we ourselves have such moments, I'll not deny that; but the difference is, that they appreciate the value of them and hold them fast, while we open our hands and let them fly away like uncoveted birds, or worthless butterflies. I have actually known a meal to be dropped out entirely in Calypso's house, forgotten in the felicity of an intellectual or spiritual delectation!" "Thank heaven, that we live in Thursia!" cried Elodia, "where such lapses are impossible." "They are next to impossible there," said Severnius; "but they do happen, which proves a great deal. They are in the nature of miracles, they are so wonderful,--and yet not so wonderful. We forget sometimes that we have a soul, and they forget that they have a body; there's no great difference." "There is a mighty difference," answered Elodia. "We are put into a material world, to enjoy material benefits. I should think those people would miss a great deal of the actual good of life in the pursuit of the unactual,--always taking their flights from lofty pinnacles, and skipping the treasures that lie in the valleys." "On the contrary," he returned, "the humblest little flower that grows, the tiniest pebble they pick up on the beach, the smallest voice in nature, all have place in their economy. They miss nothing; they gather up into their lives all the treasures that nature scatters about. If a bird sings, they listen and say, 'That song is for me;' or, if a blossom opens, 'I will take its beauty into my heart.' These things, which are free to all, they accept freely. Their physical senses are supplemented,--duplicated as it were, in finer quality,--by exquisite inner perceptions." The morning after this conversation, Severnius and I took a long drive in a new direction. We went up the river a mile or so, the road winding through an avenue of century-old elms, whose great, graceful branches interlocked overhead and made a shade so dense that the very atmosphere seemed green. We were so earnestly engaged in conversation that I did not observe when we left the avenue and entered a wood. We drove some distance through this, and then the road branched off and skirted round a magnificent park,--the finest I had seen,--bordered by a thick hedge, all abloom with white, fragrant flowers, and fenced with a fretwork of iron, finished with an inverted fringe of bristling points. Within, were evidences of costly and elaborate care; the trees were of noble growth and the greensward like stretches of velvet over which leaf-shadows flickered and played. The disposition of shrubbery and flowers, the chaste and beautiful statuary, the fountains, brooklets, arbors, and retreats; the rustic effects in bridges, caves, grottoes, and several graceful arches, hidden in wreathed emerald, from which snow-white cherubs with wings on their shoulders peeped roguishly, all betokened ingenious design, and skilful and artistic execution. Beyond, seen vaguely through the waving foliage, were handsome buildings, of the elegant cream-colored stone so much in vogue in Thursia. Here and there, I espied a fawn; one pretty creature, with a ribbon round its neck, was drinking at a fountain, and at the same time some beautiful birds came and perched upon the marble rim and dipped into the sparkling water. "How lovely! how idyllic!" I cried. "What place is it, Severnius, and why have I never seen it before?" His answer came a little reluctantly, I thought. "It is called Cupid's Gardens." "And what does it mean?" I asked. "Does not its name and those naked imps sufficiently explain it?" he replied. As I looked at him, a blush actually mantled his cheek. "It is a rendezvous," he explained, "where women meet their lovers." "How curious! I never heard of such a thing," said I. "Do you mean that the place was planned for that purpose, or did the name get fastened upon it through accident? Surely you are joking, Severnius; women can receive their lovers in their homes here, the same as with us!" "Their suitors, not their lovers," he replied. "You make a curious distinction!" said I. "Women sometimes marry their suitors, never their lovers,--any more than men marry their mistresses." "Great heavens, Severnius!" I felt the blood rush to my face and then recede, and a cold perspiration broke out all over me. There was a question in my mind which I did not dare to ask, but Severnius divined it. "Is it a new idea to you?" said he. "Have you no houses of prostitution in your country, licensed by law, as this is?" "For men, not for women," said I. "Ah! another of your peculiar discriminations!" he returned. "Well, surely you will agree with me that in this matter, at least, there should be discrimination?" I urged. He shook his head with that exasperating stubbornness one occasionally finds in sweet-tempered people. "No, I cannot agree with you, even in this," he replied. "What possible reason is there why men, more than women, should be privileged to indulge in vice?" "Why, in the very nature of things!" I cried. "There is a hygienic principle involved; you know,--it is a statistical fact,--that single men are neither so vigorous nor so long-lived as married men, and a good many men do not marry." "Well, a good many more women do not marry; what of those?" "Severnius! I cannot believe you are in earnest. Women!--that is quite another matter. Women are differently constituted from men; their nature--" "O, come!" he interrupted; "I thought we had settled that question--that their nature is of a piece with our own. It happens in your world, my friend, that your women were kept to a strict line of conduct, according to your account, by a severe discipline,--including even the death penalty,--until their virtue, from being long and persistently enforced, grew into a habit and finally became a question of honor." "Yes, stronger than death, thank God!" I affirmed. "Well, then, it seems to me that the only excuse men have to offer for their lack of chastity--I refer to the men on your planet--is that they have not been hedged about by the wholesome restraints that have developed self-government in women. I cannot admit your 'hygienic' argument in this matter; life is a principle that needs encouragement, and a man of family has more incentives to live, and usually his health is better cared for, than a single man, that is all." We rode in silence for some time. I finally asked, nodding toward the beautiful enclosure still in view: "How do they manage about this business; do they practice any secrecy?" "Of course!" he replied. "I hope you do not think we live in open and shameless lawlessness? Usually it is only the very wealthy who indulge in such 'luxuries,' and they try to seal the lips of servants and go-betweens with gold. But it does not always work; it is in the nature of those things to leak out." "And if one of these creatures is found out, what then?" I asked. He answered with some severity: "'Creatures' is a harsh name to apply to women, some of whom move in our highest circles!" "I beg your pardon! call them what you like, but tell me, what happens when there is an _exposé_? Are they denounced, ostracized, sat upon?" I inquired. "No, not so bad as that," said he. "Of course there is a scandal, but it makes a deal of difference whether the scandal is a famous or an infamous one. If the woman's standing is high in other respects,--if she has money, political influence, talent, attractiveness,--there is very little made of it; or if society feels itself particularly insulted, she may conciliate it by marrying an honest man whose respectability and position protect her." "What! does an honest man--a gentleman--ever marry such a woman as that?" I cried. "Frequently; and sometimes they make very good wives. But it is risky. I have a friend, a capital fellow, who was so unfortunate as to attract such a woman, and who finally yielded to her persuasions and married her." "Heavens! do the women propose?" "Certainly, when they choose to do so; what is there objectionable in that?" I made no reply, and he continued, "My friend, as I said, succumbed to her pleadings partly--as I believe--because she threw herself upon his mercy, though she is a beautiful woman, and he might have been fascinated to some extent. She told him that his love and protection would be her salvation, and that his denial of her would result in her total ruin; and that for his sake she would reform her life. He is both chivalrous and tender, and, withal, a little romantic, and he consented. My opinion is that, if she could have had him without marriage, she would have preferred it; but he is a true man, a man of honor. Women of her sort like virtuous men, and seldom marry any other. Her love proved to be an ephemeral passion--such as she had had before--and the result has been what you might expect, though Claris is not, by any means, the worst woman in the world." "Claris?" I exclaimed. "Ah! I did not mean to speak her name," he returned in some confusion; "and I had forgotten that you knew her. Well, yes, since I have gone so far, it is my friend Massilia's wife that I have been speaking of. In some respects she is an admirable woman, but she has broken her husband's heart and ruined his life." "Admirable!" I repeated with scorn; "why, in my country, such conduct would damn a woman eternally, no matter what angelic qualities she might possess. She would be shown no quarter in any society--save the very lowest." "And how about her counterpart of the other sex?" asked Severnius, slyly. I disregarded this, and returned: "Did he not get a divorce?" "No; the law does not grant a divorce in such a case. There was where Claris was shrewder than her husband; she made herself safe by confessing her misdeeds to him, and cajoling him into marrying her in spite of them." "I beg your pardon, but what a fool he was!" Severnius acquiesced in this. "I tried to dissuade him," he said, "before the miserable business was consummated,--he made me his confidant,--but it was too late, she had him under her influence." Another silence fell upon us, which I broke by asking, "Who were those pretty youngsters we saw lounging about on the lawn back there?" I referred to several handsome young men whom I had observed strolling through the beautiful grounds. He looked at me in evident surprise at the question, and replied: "Why, those are some of the professional 'lovers'." "Great Cæsar's ghost!" "Yes," he went on; "some of our most promising youths are decoyed into those places. It is a distressing business,--a hideous business! And, on the other hand, there are similar institutions where lovely young girls are the victims. I do not know which is the more deplorable,--sometimes I think the latter is. A tender mother would wish that her daughter had never been born, if she should take up with such a life; and an honorable father would rather see his son gibbeted than to find him inside that railing." "I should think so!" I responded, and inquired, "What kind of standing have these men in the outside world?" "About the same that a leper would have. They are ignored and despised by the very women who court their caresses here. In fact, they are on a level with the common, paid courtesan,--the lowest rank there is. I have often thought it a curious thing that either men or women should so utterly despise these poor instruments of their sensual delights!" My friend saw that I was too much shocked to moralize on the subject, and he presently began to explain, and to modify the facts a little. "You see, these fellows, when they begin this sort of thing, are mostly mere boys, with the down scarcely started on their chins; in the susceptible, impressionable stage, when a woman's honeyed words--ay, her touch, even--may turn the world upside down to them. The life, of course, has its attractions,--money and luxury; to say nothing of the flattery, which is sweeter. Still, few, if any, adopt it deliberately. Often they are wilily drawn into 'entanglements' outside; for the misery of it is, that good society, as I have said before, throws its cloak around these specious beguilers, and the unfortunate dupe does not dream whither he is being led,--youth has such a sincere faith in beauty, and grace, and feminine charm! Sometimes reverses and disaster, of one kind or another, or a cheerless home environment, drive a young man into seeking refuge and lethean pleasures here. It is a form of dissipation similar to the drink habit, only a thousand times worse." "Worse?" I cried. "It is infernal, diabolical, damnable! And it is woman who accomplishes this horrible ruin!--and is 'received' in society, which, if too flagrantly outraged, will not forgive her unless she marries some good man!" "O, not always that," protested Severnius; "the unlucky sinner sometimes recovers caste by a course of penitence, by multiplying her subscriptions to charities, and by costly peace-offerings to the aforesaid outraged society." "What sort of peace-offerings?" I asked. "Well, an entertainment, perhaps, something superb, something out of the common; or may be a voyage in her private yacht. Bait of that sort is too tempting for any but the high and mighty, the real aristocrats, to withstand. The simply respectable, but weak-hearted,--who are a little below her level in point of wealth, position, or ancestry,--fall into her net. I have observed that a woman who has forfeited her place in the highest rank of society usually begins her reascent by clutching hold of the skirts of honest folk who are flattered by her condescension, and whose sturdy arms assist her to rise again." "I have observed the same thing myself," I rejoined, but he had not finished; there was a twinkle in his eye as he went on: "If you were to reveal the secret of your air-ship to a woman of this kind she would probably seize upon it as a means of salvation; she would have one constructed, on a large and handsome scale, and invite a party to accompany her on an excursion to the Earth. And though she were the worst of her class, every mother's son--and daughter--of us would accept! for none of us hold our self-respect at a higher figure than that, I imagine." "Yes, Severnius, you do," I replied emphatically. "I beg your pardon! I would knock off a good deal for a visit to your planet," he said, laughing. By this time we had left Cupid's Gardens far behind. The road bent in again toward the river, which we presently crossed. If it had not been for the dreadful things I had just listened to, I think I should have been in transports over the serene loveliness of the prospect around us. The view was especially fine from the summit of the bridge; it is a "high" bridge, for the Gyro is navigated by great steam-ships and high-masted schooners. Severnius bade the driver stop a moment that we might contemplate the scene, but I had little heart for its beauties. And yet I can recall the picture now with extraordinary clearness. The river has many windings, and the woods often hide it from view; but it reappears, again and again, afar off, in green meadows and yellowing fields,--opalescent jewels in gold or emerald setting. Here and there, in the distance, white sails were moving as if on land. Far beyond were vague mountain outlines, and over all, the tender rose-blush of the sky. The sweetness of it, contrasted with the picture newly wrought in my mind, saddened me. Some distance up the river, on the other side, we passed an old, dilapidated villa, or group of buildings jumbled together without regard to effect evidently, but yet picturesque. They were half hidden in mammoth forest trees that had never been trimmed or trained, but spread their enormous limbs wheresoever they would. Unpruned shrubbery and trailing vines rioted over the uneven lawn, and the rank, windblown grass, too long to stand erect, lay in waves like a woman's hair. In a general way, the lawn sloped downward toward the road, so that we could see nearly the whole of it over the high, and ugly, board fence which inclosed it. Under the trees, a little way back, I observed a group of young girls lolling in hammocks and idling in rustic chairs. They caught sight of us and sprang up, laughing boistterously. I thought they were going to run away in pretended and playful flight; but instead, they came toward us, and blew kisses at us off their fingers. I looked at Severnius. "What does this mean?" I asked. "Why," he said, and the blush mantled his handsome face again, "this place is the counterpart of Cupid's Gardens,--a resort for men." "I thought so," I replied. By-and-by he remarked, "I hope you will not form too bad an opinion of us, my friend! You have learned to-day what horrible evils exist among us, but I assure you that the sum total of the people who practice them constitutes but a small proportion of our population. And the good people here, the great majority, look upon these things with the same aversion and disgust that you do, and are doing their best--or they think they are--to abolish them." "How?--by legislation?" I asked. "Partly; but more through education. Our preachers and teachers have taken the matter up, but they are handicapped by the delicacy of the question and the privacy involved in it, which seems to hinder discussion even, and to forestall advice. Though this is the only way to accomplish anything, I think. I have very little faith in legislative measures against secret vices; it is like trying to dam a stream which cannot be dammed but must break out somewhere. I am convinced that my friends, the Caskians, have solved the question in the only possible way,--by elevating and purifying the marriage relation. I hope some good may be accomplished by the visit of the few who are coming here!" "Will they preach or lecture?" I asked, with what seemed to me a moment later to be stupid simplicity. "O, no!" replied Severnius, with the same air of modest but emphatic protest which they themselves would have doubtless assumed had the question been put to them. "It was simply their personal influence I had reference to. I do not know that I can make you understand, but their presence always seemed to me like a disinfectant of evil. With myself, when I was among them, all the good that was in me responded to their nobility; the evil in me slept, I suppose." I made a skeptical rejoinder to the implication in his last sentence, for to me he seemed entirely devoid of evil; and we finished the drive in silence. Chapter 7. NEW FRIENDS. "Having established his equality with class after class, of those with whom he would live well, he still finds certain others, before whom he cannot possess himself, because they have somewhat fairer, somewhat grander, somewhat purer, which extorts homage of him."--EMERSON. It is scarcely egotistical for me to say that I was much sought after, not only by the citizens of Thursia, but by many distinguished people from other cities and countries. Among them were many men and women of great scientific learning, who made me feel that I ought to have provided myself with a better equipment of knowledge relative to my own world, before taking my ambitious journey to Mars! They were exceedingly polite, but I fear they were much disappointed in many of my hazy responses to their eager questionings. I learned by this experience the great value of exact information. In a country like ours, where so much, and so many sorts, of knowledge are in the air, a person is apt, unless he is a student of some particular thing, to get little more than impressions. There was I,--an average (let me hope!) American citizen,--at the mercy of inquisitive experts in a hundred different arts and trades, concerning which, in the main, my ideas might be conservatively described as "general." You may imagine how unsatisfactory this was to people anxious to know about our progress in physics and chemistry, botany, and the great family of "ologies,"--or rather about our processes in developing the principles of these great sciences. With the astronomers and the electricians I got along all right; and I was also able to make myself interesting,--or so I fancied--in describing our social life, our educational and political institutions, and our various forms of religion. Our modes of dress were a matter of great curiosity to most of these people, and I was often asked to exhibit my terrestrial garments. It was when the crowd of outside visitors was at its thickest that the Caskians arrived, and as their stay was brief, covering only two days, you may suppose that we did not advance far on the road to mutual acquaintance. But to tell the truth, there was not a moment's strangeness between us after we had once clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes. It might have been partly due to my own preparedness to meet them with confidence and trust; but more, I think, to their singular freedom from the conventional barriers with which we hedge round our selfness. Their souls spoke to mine, and mine answered back, and the compact of friendship was sealed in a glance. I cannot hope to give you a very clear idea of their perfect naturalness, their perfect dignity, their kindliness, or their delightful gayety,--before which stiffness, formality, ceremony, were borne down, dissolved as sunshine dissolves frost. No menstruum is so wonderful as the quality of merriment, take it on any plane of life; when it reaches the highest, and is subtilized by cultured and refined intellects, it creates an atmosphere in which the most frigid autocrat of society, and of learning, too, must thaw. The haughtiest dame cannot keep her countenance in the face of this playful spirit toying with her frills. The veriest old dry-as-dust, hibernating in mouldy archæological chambers, cannot resist the blithesome thought which dares to illumine his antique treasures with a touch of mirth. I was struck by Clytia's beauty, which in some ways seemed finer than Elodia's. The two women were about the same height and figure. But Clytia's coloring was pure white and black, except for the healthy carmine of her lips, and occasional fluctuations of the rose tint in her cheeks. I was present when they first met, in the drawing-room. Elodia rose to her full stature, armed cap-a-pie with her stateliest manner, but with a gracious sense of hospitality upon her. I marked with pleasure that Clytia did not rush upon her with any exuberance of gladness,--as some women would have done in a first meeting with their friend's sister,--for that would have disgusted Elodia and driven her to still higher ground. How curious are our mental attitudes toward our associates, and how quickly adjusted! Here had I been in Elodia's house, enjoying her companionship--if not her friendship--for months; and yet, you see, I secretly did not wish any advantage to be on her side. It could not have been disloyalty, for the impulse was swift and involuntary. I would like to suppose that it sprang from my instantaneous recognition of the higher nature; but it did not. It was due, no doubt, to a fear for the more timid one--as I fancied it to be. I had a momentary sensation as of wanting to "back" Clytia,--knowing how formidable my proud hostess could be, and, I feared, would be,--but the beautiful Caskian did not need my support. She was not timid. I never saw anything finer than her manner; the most consummate woman of the world could not have met the situation with more dignity and grace, and with not half so much simplicity. Her limpid dark eyes met Elodia's blue-rayed ones, and the result was mutual respect, with a slight giving on Elodia's part. I felt that I had, for the first time in my life, seen a perfect woman; a woman of such fine proportions, of such nice balance, that her noble virtues and high intelligence did not make her forget even the smallest amenities. She kept in hand every faculty of her triple being, so that she was able to use each in its turn and to give to everything about her its due appreciation. She had, as Balzac says, the gift of admiration and of comprehension. That which her glance rested upon, that which her ear listened to, responded with all that was in them. I thought it a wonderful power that could so bring out the innate beauties and values of even inanimate things. Elodia's eyes rested upon her, from time to time, with a keen and questioning interest. I think that, among other things, she was surprised--as I was--at the elegance, the "style" even, of Clytia's dress. Although there is very little fashion on that planet, as we know the word, there is a great deal of style. I had speedily mastered all its subtle gradations, and could "place" a woman with considerable certainty, by, let me say, her manner of wearing her clothes, if not the clothes themselves. I have never studied woman's apparel in detail, it always seems as mysterious to me as woman herself does; but I have a good eye for effects in that line, as most men have, and I knew that Clytia's costume was above criticism. She wore, just where they seemed to be needed,--as the keystone is needed in an arch,--a few fine gems. I could not conceive of her putting them on to arouse the envy of any other woman, or to enhance her personal charms in the eyes of a man. She dressed well, as another would sing well. Sight is the sense we value most, but how often is it offended! You can estimate the quality of a woman by the shade of green she chooses for her gown. And there is poetry in the fit of a gown, as there is in the color of it. Clytia knew these things, these higher principles of dress, as the nightingale knows its song,--through the effortless working of perfected faculties. But not she alone. My description of her will answer for the others; the Caskians are a people, you see, who neglect nothing. We upon the Earth are in the habit of saying, with regretful cadence, Life is short. It is because our life is all out of proportion. We are trying to cheat time; we stuff too much plunder into our bags, and discriminate against the best. Clytia and Calypso and their friend Ariadne, a young girl, stayed with us throughout their visit; the others of their party were entertained elsewhere. On each of the two evenings they were with us, Elodia invited a considerable company of people,--not so many as to crowd the rooms, nor so few as to make them seem empty. Those gatherings were remarkable events, I imagine, in a good many lives. They were in mine. At the close of each evening I retired to my room in a state of high mental intoxication; my unaccustomed brain had taken too large a draught of intellectual champagne. And when I awoke in the morning, it was with a sense of fatigue of mind, the same as one feels fatigue of body the day after extraordinary feats of physical exertion. But not so the guests! who came down into the breakfast room as radiant as ever and in full possession of themselves. With them fatigue seemed impossible. We do not know--because we are so poorly trained--the wonderful elasticity of a human being, in all his parts. We often see it exemplified in single faculties,--the voice of a singer, the legs of a runner, the brain of a lawyer, the spirit of a religionist. But, as I have said before, we are all out of proportion, and any slight strain upon an unused faculty gives us the cramp. The fact is, the most of us are cripples in some sense. We lack a moral leg, a spiritual arm; there are parts of us that are neglected, withered, paralyzed. One thing in the Caskians which especially pleased me, and which I am sure made a strong--and favorable--impression upon Elodia, too, was that their conduct and conversation never lacked the vital human interest without which all philosophy is cold, and all religion is asceticism. It appeared that these people had taken the long journey not only to meet me, but that they might extend to me in person a cordial invitation to visit their country. Severnius warmly urged me to accept, assuring me, with unmistakable sincerity, that it would give him pleasure to put his purse at my disposal for the expenses of the journey,--I having brought up this point as a rather serious obstacle. As it would only add one more item to the great sum of my indebtedness to my friend, I took him at his word, and gave my promise to the Caskians to make the journey to Lunismar sometime in the near future. And with that they left us, and left behind them matter for conversation for many a day. Chapter 8. A TALK WITH ELODIA. "It behoveth us also to consider the nature of him that offendeth."--SENECA. The longer I delayed my visit to Caskia, the more difficult it became for me to tear myself away from Thursia. You may guess the lodestar that held me back. It was as if I were attached to Elodia by an invisible chain which, alas! in no way hindered her free movements, because she was unconscious of its existence. Sometimes she treated me with a charmingly frank _camaraderie_, and at other times her manner was simply, almost coldly, courteous,--which I very well knew to be due to the fact that she was more than usually absorbed in her business or official affairs; she was never cold for a purpose, any more than she was fascinating for a purpose. She was singularly sincere, affecting neither smiles nor frowns, neither affability nor severity, from remote or calculating motives. In brief, she did not employ her feminine graces, her sexpower, as speculating capital in social commerce. The social conditions in Thursia do not demand that women shall pose in a conciliatory attitude toward men--upon whose favor their dearest privileges hang. Marriage not being an economic necessity with them, they are released from certain sordid motives which often actuate women in our world in their frantic efforts to avert the appalling catastrophe of missing a husband; and they are at liberty to operate their matrimonial campaigns upon other grounds. I do not say higher grounds, because that I do not know. I only know that one base factor in the marriage problem,--the ignoble scheming to secure the means of living, as represented in a husband,--is eliminated, and the spirit of woman is that much more free. We men have a feeling that we are liable at any time to be entrapped into matrimony by a mask of cunning and deceit, which heredity and long practice enable women to use with such amazing skill that few can escape it. We expect to be caught with chaff, like fractious colts coquetting with the halter and secretly not unwilling to be caught. Another thing: woman's freedom to propose--which struck me as monstrous--takes away the reproach of her remaining single; the supposition being, as in the case of a bachelor, that it is a matter of choice with her. It saves her the dread of having it said that she has never had an opportunity to marry. Courtship in Thursia may lack some of the tantalizing uncertainties which give it zest with us, but marriage also is robbed of many doubts and misgivings. Still I could not accustom myself with any feeling of comfort to the situation there,--the idea of masculine pre-eminence and womanly dependence being too thoroughly ingrained in my nature. Elodia, of course, did many things and held many opinions of which I did not approve. But I believed in her innate nobility, and attributed her defects to a pernicious civilization and a government which did not exercise its paternal right to cherish, and restrain, and protect, the weaker sex, as they should be cherished, and restrained, and protected. And how charming and how reliable she was, in spite of her defects! She had an atomic weight upon which you could depend as upon any other known quantity. Her presence was a stimulus that quickened the faculties and intensified the emotions. At least I may speak for myself; she awoke new feelings and aroused new powers within me. Her life had made her practical but not prosaic. She had imagination and poetic feeling; there were times when her beautiful countenance was touched with the grandeur of lofty thought, and again with the shifting lights of a playful humor, or the flashings of a keen but kindly wit. She had a laugh that mellowed the heart, as if she took you into her confidence. It is a mark of extreme favor when your superior, or a beautiful woman, admits you to the intimacy of a cordial laugh! Even her smiles, which I used to lie in wait for and often tried to provoke, were not the mere froth of a light and careless temperament; they had a significance like speech. Though she was so busy, and though she knew so well how to make the moments count, she could be idle when she chose, deliciously, luxuriously idle,--like one who will not fritter away his pence, but upon occasion spends his guineas handsomely. At the dinner hour she always gave us of her best. Her varied life supplied her with much material for conversation,--nothing worth noticing ever escaped her, in the life and conduct of people about her. She was fond of anecdote, and could garnish the simplest story with an exquisite grace. Upon one of her idle days,--a day when Severnius happened not to be at home,--she took up her parasol in the hall after we had had luncheon, and gave me a glance which said, "Come with me if you like," and we went out and strolled through the grounds together. Her manner had not a touch of coquetry; I might have been simply another woman, she might have been simply another man. But I was so stupid as to essay little gallantries, such as had been, in fact, a part of my youthful education; she either did not observe them or ignored them, I could not tell which. Once I put out my hand to assist her over a ridiculously narrow streamlet, and she paid no heed to the gesture, but reefed her skirts, or draperies, with her own unoccupied hand and stepped lightly across. Again, when we were about to ascend an abrupt hill, I courteously offered her my arm. "O, no, I thank you!" she said; "I have two, which balance me very well when I climb." "You are a strange woman," I exclaimed with a blush. "Am I?" she said, lifting her brows. "Well, I suppose--or rather you suppose--that I am the product of my ancestry and my training." "You are, in some respects," I assented; and then I added, "I have often tried to fancy what effect our civilization would have had upon you." "What effect do you think it would have had?" she asked, with quite an unusual--I might say earthly--curiosity. "I dare not tell you," I replied, thrilling with the felicity of a talk so personal,--the first I had ever had with her. "Why not?" she demanded, with a side glance at me from under her gold-fringed shade. "It would be taking too great a liberty." "But if I pardon that?" There was an archness in her smile which was altogether womanly. What a grand opportunity, I thought, for saying some of the things I had so often wanted to say to her! but I hesitated, turning hot and then cold. "Really," I said, "I cannot. I should flatter you, and you would not like that." For the first time, I saw her face crimson to the temples. "That would be very bad taste," she replied; "flattery being the last resort--when it is found that there is nothing in one to compliment. Silence is better; you have commendable tact." "Pardon my stupid blunder!" I cried; "you cannot think I meant that! Flattery is exaggerated, absurd, unmeaning praise, and no praise, the highest, the best, could do you justice, could--" She broke in with a disdainful laugh: "A woman can always compel a pretty speech from a man, you see,--even in Mars!" "You did not compel it," I rejoined earnestly, "if I but dared,--if you would allow me to tell you what I think of you, how highly I regard--" She made a gesture which cut short my eloquence, and we walked on in silence. Whenever there has been a disturbance in the moral atmosphere, there is nothing like silence to restore the equilibrium. I, watching furtively, saw the slight cloud pass from her face, leaving the intelligent serenity it usually wore. But still she did not speak. However, there was nothing ominous in that, she was never troubled with an uneasy desire to keep conversation going. On top of the hill there were benches, and we sat down. It was one of those still afternoons in summer when nature seems to be taking a siesta. Overhead it was like the heart of a rose. The soft, white, cottony clouds we often see suspended in our azure ether, floated--as soft, as white, as fleecy--in the pink skies of Mars. Elodia closed her parasol and laid it across her lap and leaned her head back against the tree in whose shade we were. It was an acute pleasure, a rapture indeed, to sit so near to her and alone with her, out of hearing of all the world. But she was calmly unconscious, her gaze wandering dreamily through half-shut lids over the wide landscape, which included forests and fields and meadows, and many windings of the river, for we had a high point of observation. I presently broke the silence with a bold, perhaps an inexcusable question, "Elodia, do you intend ever to marry?" It was a kind of challenge, and I held myself rigid, waiting for her answer, which did not come immediately. She turned her eyes toward me slowly without moving her head, and our glances met and gradually retreated, as two opposing forces might meet and retreat, neither conquering, neither vanquished. Hers went back into space, and she replied at last as if to space,--as if the question had come, not from me alone, but from all the voices that urge to matrimony. "Why should I marry?" "Because you are a woman," I answered promptly. "Ah!" her lip curled with a faint smile, "your reason is very general, but why limit it at all, why not say because I am one of a pair which should be joined together?" The question was not cynical, but serious; I scrutinized her face closely to make sure of that before answering. "I know," I replied, "that here in Mars there is held to be no difference in the nature and requirements of the sexes, but it is a false hypothesis, there is a difference,--a vast difference! all my knowledge of humanity, my experience and observation, prove it." "Prove it to you, no doubt," she returned, "but not to me, because my experience and observation have been the reverse of yours. Will you kindly tell me," she added, "why you think I should wish to marry any more than a man,--or what reasons can be urged upon a woman more than upon a man?" An overpowering sense of helplessness fell upon me,--as when one has reached the limits of another's understanding and is unable to clear the ground for further argument. "O, Elodia! I cannot talk to you," I replied. "It is true, as you say, that our conclusions are based upon diverse premises; we are so wide apart in our views on this subject that what I would say must seem to you the merest cant and sentiment." "I think not; you are an honest man," she rejoined with an encouraging smile, "and I am greatly interested in your philosophy of marriage." I acknowledged her compliment. "Well," I began desperately, letting the words tumble out as they would, "it is woman's nature, as I understand it, to care a great deal about being loved,--loved wholly and entirely by one man who is worthy of her love, and to be united to him in the sacred bonds of marriage. To have a husband, children; to assume the sweet obligations of family ties, and to gather to herself the tenderest and purest affections humanity can know, is surely, indisputably, the best, the highest, noblest, province of woman." "And not of man?" "These things mean the same to men, of course," I replied, "though in lesser degree. It is man's office--with us--to buffet with the world, to wrest the means of livelihood, of comfort, luxury, from the grudging hand of fortune. It is the highest grace of woman that she accepts these things at his hands, she honors him in accepting, as he honors her in bestowing." I was aware that I was indulging in platitudes, but the platitudes of Earth are novelties in Mars. Her eyes took a long leap from mine to the vague horizon line. "It is very strange," she said, "this distinction you make, I cannot understand it at all. It seems to me that this love we are talking about is simply one of the strong instincts implanted in our common nature. It is an essential of our being. Marriage is not, it is a social institution; and just why it is incumbent upon one sex more than upon the other, or why it is more desirable for one sex than the other, is inconceivable to me. If either a man, or a woman, desires the ties you speak of, or if one has the vanity to wish to found a respectable family, then, of course, marriage is a necessity,--made so by our social and political laws. It is a luxury we may have if we pay the price." I was shocked at this cold-blooded reasoning, and cried, "O, how can a woman say that! have you no tenderness, Elodia? no heart-need of these ties and affections,--which I have always been taught are so precious to woman?" She shrugged her shoulders, and, leaning forward a little, clasped her hands about her knees. "Let us not make it personal," she said; "I admitted, that these things belong to our common nature, and I do not of course except myself. But I repeat that marriage is a convention, and--I am not conventional." "As to that," I retorted, "all the things that pertain to civilization, all the steps which have ever been taken in the direction of progress, are conventions: our clothing, our houses, our religions, arts, our good manners. And we are bound to accept every 'convention' that makes for the betterment of society, as though it were a revelation from God." I confess that this thought was the fruit of my brief intercourse with the Caskians, who hold that there is a divine power continually operating upon human consciousness,--not disclosing miracles, but enlarging and perfecting human perceptions. I was thinking of this when Elodia suddenly put the question to me: "Are you married?" "No, I am not," I replied. The inquiry was not agreeable to me; it implied that she had been hitherto altogether too indifferent as to my "eligibility,"--never having concerned herself to ascertain the fact before. "Well, you are perhaps older than I am," she said, "and you have doubtless had amours?" I was as much astounded by the frankness of this inquiry as you can be, and blushed like a girl. She withdrew her eyes from my face with a faint smile and covered the question by another: "You intend to marry, I suppose?" "I do, certainly," I replied, the resolution crystallizing on the instant. She drew a long sigh. "Well, I do not, I am so comfortable as I am." She patted the ground with her slipper toe. "I do not wish to impose new conditions upon myself. I simply accept my life as it comes to me. Why should I voluntarily burden myself with a family, and all the possible cares and sorrows which attend the marriage state! If I cast a prophetic eye into the future, what am I likely to see?--Let us say, a lovely daughter dying of some frightful malady; an idolized son squandering my wealth and going to ruin; a husband in whom I no longer delight, but to whom I am bound by a hundred intricate ties impossible to sever. I think I am not prepared to take the future on trust to so great an extent! Why should the free wish for fetters? Affection and sympathy are good things, indispensable things in fact,--but I find them in my friends. And for this other matter: this need of love, passion, sentiment,-which is peculiarly ephemeral in its impulses, notwithstanding that it has such an insistent vitality in the human heart,--may be satisfied without entailing such tremendous responsibilities." I looked at her aghast; did she know what she was saying; did she mean what her words implied? "You wrong yourself, Elodia," said I; "those are the sentiments, the arguments, of a selfish person, of a mean and cowardly spirit. And you have none of those attributes; you are strong, courageous, generous--" "You mistake me," she interrupted, "I am entirely selfish; I do not wish to disturb my present agreeable pose. Tell me, what is it that usually prompts people to marry?" "Why, love, of course," I answered. "Well, you are liable to fall in love with my maid--" "Not after having seen her mistress!" I ejaculated. "If she happens to possess a face or figure that draws your masculine eye," she went on, the rising color in her cheek responding to my audacious compliment; "though there may be nothing in common between you, socially, intellectually, or spiritually. What would be the result of such a marriage, based upon simple sex-love?" I had known many such marriages, and was familiar with the results, but I did not answer. We tacitly dropped the subject, and our two minds wandered away as they would, on separate currents. She was the first to break this second silence. "I can conceive of a marriage," she said, "which would not become burdensome, any more than our best friendships become burdensome. Beside the attraction on the physical plane--which I believe is very necessary--there should exist all the higher affinities. I should want my husband to be my most delightful companion, able to keep my liking and to command my respect and confidence as I should hope to his. But I fear that is ideal." "The ideal is only the highest real," I answered, "the ideal is always possible." "Remotely!" she said with a laugh. "The chances are many against it." "But even if one were to fall short a little in respect to husband or wife, I have often observed that there are compensations springing out of the relation, in other ways," I returned. "You mean children? O, yes, that is true, when all goes well. I will tell you," she added, her voice dropping to the tone one instantly recognizes as confidential, "that I am educating several children in some of our best schools, and that I mean to provide for them with sufficient liberality when they come of age. So, you see, I have thrown hostages to fortune and shall probably reap a harvest of gratitude,--in place of filial affection." She laughed with a touch of mockery. I suppose every one is familiar with the experience of having things--facts, bits of knowledge,--"come" to him, as we say. Something came to me, and froze the marrow in my bones. "Elodia," I ventured, "you asked me a very plain question a moment ago, will you forgive me if I ask you the same,--have you had amours?" The expression of her face changed slightly, which might have been due to the expression of mine. "We have perhaps grown too frank with each other," she said, "but you are a being from another world, and that must excuse us,--shall it?" I bowed, unable to speak. "One of the children I spoke of, a little girl of six, is my own natural child." She made this extraordinary confession with her glance fixed steadily upon mine. I am a man of considerable nerve, but for a moment the world was dark to me and I had the sensation of one falling from a great height. And then suddenly relief came to me in the thought, She is not to be judged by the standards that measure morality in my country! When I could command my voice again I asked: "Does this little one know that she is your child,--does any one else know?" "Certainly not," she answered in a tone of surprise, and then with an ironical smile, "I have treated you to an exceptional confidence. It is a matter of etiquette with us to keep these things hidden." As I made no response she added: "Is it a new thing to you for a parent not to acknowledge illegitimate children?" "Even the lowest class of mothers we have on Earth do not often abandon their offspring," I replied. "Neither do they here," she said. "The lowest class have nothing to gain and nothing to lose, and consequently there is no necessity that they should sacrifice their natural affections. In this respect, the lower classes are better off than we aristocrats." "You beg the question," I returned; "you know what I mean! I should not have thought that you, Elodia, could ever be moved by such unworthy considerations--that you would ever fear the world's opinions! you who profess manly qualities, the noblest of which is courage!" "Am I to understand by that," she said, "that men on your planet acknowledge their illegitimate progeny, and allow them the privileges of honored sons and daughters?" Pushed to this extremity, I could recall but a single instance,--but one man whose courage and generosity, in a case of the kind under discussion, had risen to the level of his crime. I related to her the story of his splendid and prolonged life, with its one blot of early sin, and its grace of practical repentance. And upon the other hand, I told her of the one distinguished modern woman, who has had the hardihood to face the world with her offenses in her hands, as one might say. "Are you not rather unjust to the woman?" she asked. "You speak of the man's acknowledgment of his sin as something fine, and you seem to regard hers as simply impudent." "Because of the vast difference between the moral attitude of the two," I rejoined. "He confessed his error and took his punishment with humility; she slaps society in the face, and tries to make her genius glorify her misdeeds." "Possibly society is to blame for that, by setting her at bay. If I have got the right idea about your society, it is as unrelenting to the one sex as it is indulgent to the other. Doubtless it was ready with open arms to receive back the offending, repentant man, but would it not have set its foot upon the woman's neck if she had given it the chance, if she had knelt in humility as he did? A tree bears fruit after its kind; so does a code of morals. Gentleness and forgiveness breed repentance and reformation, and harshness begets defiance." She added with a laugh, "What a spectacle your civilization would present if all the women who have sinned had the genius and the spirit of a Bernhardt!" "Or all the men had the magnanimity of a Franklin," I retorted. "True!" she said, and after a moment she continued, "I am not so great as the one, nor have I the 'effrontery' of the other. But it is not so much that I lack courage; it is rather, perhaps, a delicate consideration for, and concession to, the good order of society." I regarded her with amazement, and she smiled. "Really, it is true," she said. "I believe in social order and I pay respect to it--" "By concealing your own transgressions," I interpolated. "Well, why not? Suppose I and my cult--a very large class of eminently respectable sinners!--should openly trample upon this time-honored convention; the result would eventually be, no doubt, a moral anarchy. We have a very clear sense of our responsibility to the masses. We make the laws for their government, and we allow ourselves to seem to be governed by them also,--so that they may believe in them. We build churches and pay pew rent, though we do not much believe in the religious dogmas. And we leave off wine when we entertain temperance people." "But why do you do these things?" I asked; "to what end?" "Simply for the preservation of good order and decency. You must know that the pleasant vices of an elegant person are brutalities in the uncultured. The masses have no tact or delicacy, they do not comprehend shades, and refinements of morals and manners. They can understand exoteric but not esoteric philosophy. We have really two codes of laws." "I think it would be far better for the masses--whom you so highly respect!--" I said, "if you were to throw off your masks and stand out before them just as you are. Let moral anarchy come if it must, and the evil be consumed in its own flame; out of its ashes the ph[oe]nix always rises again, a nobler bird." "How picturesque!" she exclaimed; "do you know, I think your language must be rich in imagery. I should like to learn it." I did not like the flippancy of this speech, and made no reply. After a brief pause she added, "There is truth in what you say, a ball must strike hard before it can rebound. Society must be fearfully outraged before it turns upon the offender, if he be a person of consequence. But you cannot expect the offender to do his worst, to dash himself to pieces, in order that a better state of morals may be built upon his ruin. We have not yet risen to such sublimity of devotion and self-sacrifice. I think the fault and the remedy both, lie more with the good people,--the people who make a principle of moral conduct. They allow us to cajole them into silence, they wink at our misdeeds. They know what we are up to, but they conceal the knowledge,--heaven knows why!--as carefully as we do our vices. Contenting themselves with breaking out in general denunciations which nobody accepts as personal rebuke." This was such a familiar picture that for a moment I fancied myself upon the Earth again. And I thought, what a difficult position the good have to maintain everywhere, for having accepted the championship of a cause whose standards are the highest and best! We expect them to be wise, tender, strong, just, stern, merciful, charitable, unyielding, forgiving, sinless, fearless. "Elodia," I said presently, "you can hardly understand what a shock this--this conversation has been to me. I started out with saying that I had often tried to fancy what our civilization might have done for you. I see more clearly now. You are the victim of the harshest and cruelest assumption that has ever been upheld concerning woman,--that her nature is no finer, holier than man's. I have reverenced womanhood all my life as the highest and purest thing under heaven, and I will, I must, hold fast to that faith, to that rock on which the best traditions of our Earth are founded." "Do your women realize what they have got to live up to?" she asked ironically. "There are things in men which offset their virtues," I returned, in justice to my own sex. "Where men are strong, women are gentle, where women are faithful, men are brave, and so on." "How charming to have the one nature dovetail into the other so neatly!" she exclaimed. "I seem to see a vision, shall I tell it to you,--a vision of your Earth? In the Beginning, you know that is the way in which all our traditions start out, there was a great heap of Qualities stacked in a pyramid upon the Earth. And the human creatures were requested to step up and help themselves to such as suited their tastes. There was a great scramble, and your sex, having some advantages in the way of muscle and limb,--and not having yet acquired the arts of courtesy and gallantry for which you are now so distinguished,--pressed forward and took first choice. Naturally you selected the things which were agreeable to possess in themselves, and the exercise of which would most redound to your glory; such virtues as chastity, temperance, patience, modesty, piety, and some minor graces, were thrust aside and eventually forced upon the weaker sex,--since it was necessary that all the Qualities should be used in order to make a complete Human Nature. Is not that a pretty fable?" She arose and shook out her draperies and spread her parasol. There were crimson spots in her cheeks, I felt that I had angered her,--and on the other hand, she had outraged my finest feelings. But we were both capable of self-government. "It must be near dinner time," she said, quietly. I walked along by her side in silence. As we again crossed the brooklet, she stooped and picked a long raceme of small white, delicately odorous flowers, and together we analyzed them, and I recognized them as belonging to our family of _convallaria majalis_. This led to a discussion of comparative botany on the two planets,--a safe, neutral topic. In outward appearance our mutual attitude was unchanged. Inwardly, there had been to me something like the moral upheaval of the universe. For the first time I had melancholy symptoms of nostalgia, and passionately regretted that I had ever exchanged the Earth for Mars. Severnius had returned. After dinner he invited me out onto the veranda to smoke a cigar,--he was very particular not to fill the house with tobacco smoke. Elodia, he said, did not like the odor. I wondered whether he took such pains out of consideration for her, or whether he simply dreaded her power to retaliate with her obnoxious vapor. The latter supposition, however, I immediately repudiated as being unjust to him; he was the gentlest and sweetest of men. My mind was so full of the subject Elodia and I had discussed that I could not forbear repeating my old question to him: "Tell me, my friend," I entreated, "do you in your inmost soul believe that men and women have one common nature,--that women are no better at all than men, and that men may, if they will, be as pure as--well as women ought to be?" Severnius smiled. "If you cannot find an answer to your first question here in Paleveria, I think you may in any of the savage countries, where I am quite positive the women exhibit no finer qualities than their lords. And for a very conclusive reply to your second question,--go to Caskia!" "Does the same idea of equality, or likeness rather, exist in Caskia that prevails here?" I asked. "O, yes," said he, "but their plane of life is so much higher. I cannot but believe in the equality" he added, "bad as things are with us. We hope that we are progressing onward and upward; all our teaching and preaching tend toward that, as you may find in our churches and schools, and in our literature. I am so much of an optimist as to believe that we are getting better and better all the time. One evidence is that there is less of shamelessness than there used to be with respect to some of the grossest offences against decency. People do not now glory in their vices, they hide them." "Then you approve of concealment!" I exclaimed. "It is better than open effrontery, it shows that the moral power in society is the stronger; that it is making the way of the transgressor hard, driving him into dark corners." I contrasted this in my mind with Elodia's theory on the same subject. The two differed, but there was a certain harmony after all. Severnius added, apropos of what had gone before, "It does not seem fair to me that one half of humanity should hang upon the skirts of the other half; it is better that we should go hand in hand, even though our progress is slow." "But that cannot be," I returned; "there are always some that must bear the burden while others drag behind." "O, certainly; that is quite natural and right," he assented. "The strong should help the weak. What I mean is that we should not throw the burden upon any particular class, or allow to any particular class special indulgences. That--pardon me!--is the fault I find with your civilization; you make your women the chancellors of virtue, and claim for your sex the privilege of being virtuous or not, as you choose." He smiled as he added, "Do you know, your loyalty and tender devotion to individual women, and your antagonistic attitude toward women in general--on the moral plane--presents the most singular contrast to my mind!" "No doubt," I said; "it is a standing joke with us. We are better in the sample than in the whole piece. As individuals, we are woman's devoted slaves, and lovers, and worshipers; as a political body, we are her masters, from whom she wins grudging concessions; as a social factor, we refuse her dictation." I was not in a mood to discuss the matter further. I was sick at heart and angry,--not so much with Elodia as with the conditions that had made her what she was, a woman perfect in every other respect, but devoid of the one supreme thing,--the sense of virtue. She was now to me simply a splendid ruin, a temple without holiness. I went up to my room and spent the night plunged in the deepest sadness I had ever known. When one is suffering an insupportable agony, he catches at the flimsiest delusions for momentary relief. He says to himself, "My friend is not dead!" "My beloved is not false!" So I tried to cheat myself. I argued, "Why, this is only a matter of education with me, surely; how many women, with finer instincts than mine, have loved and married men of exactly the same stamp as Elodia!" But I put away the thought with a shudder, feeling that it would be a far more dreadful thing to relax my principles and to renounce my faith in woman's purity than to sacrifice my love. The tempter came in another form. Suppose she should repent? But my soul revolted. No, no; Jesus might pardon a Magdalene, but I could not. Elodia was dead; Elodia had never been! That night I buried her; I said I would never look upon her face again. But the morning brought resurrection. How hard a thing it is to destroy love! Chapter 9. JOURNEYING UPWARD. "The old order changeth, giving place to the new, And God fulfils himself in many ways." --TENNYSON. My conversation with Elodia had the effect of crystallizing my nebulous plans about visiting the Caskians into a sudden resolve. I could not remain longer in her presence without pain to myself; and, to tell the truth, I dreaded lest her astounding lack of the moral sense--which should be the foundation stone of woman's character--would eventually dull my own. Men are notoriously weak where women are concerned--the women they worship. As soon as I had communicated with the Caskians and learned that they were still anticipating my coming, with--they were so kind as to say it--the greatest pleasure, I prepared to set forth. In the meantime, an event occurred which further illustrated the social conditions in Paleveria. Claris, the wife of Massilla, died very suddenly, and I was astonished at the tremendous sensation the circumstance occasioned throughout the city. It seemed to me that the only respect it was possible to pay to the memory of such a woman must be that which is expressed in absolute silence,--even charity could not be expected to do more than keep silent. But I was mistaken, Claris had been a woman of distinction, in many ways; she was beautiful, rich, and talented, and she had wielded an influence in public and social affairs. Immediately, the various periodicals in Thursia, and in neighboring cities, flaunted lengthy eulogistic obituaries headed with more or less well executed portraits of the deceased. It seemed as if the authors of these effusions must have run through dictionaries of complimentary terms, which they culled lavishly and inserted among the acts and facts of her life with a kind of journalistic sleight-of-hand. And private comment took its cue from these authorities. It was said that she was a woman of noble traits, and pretty anecdotes were told of her, illustrating her generous impulses, her wit, her positiveness. She had had great personal magnetism, many had loved her, many had also feared her, for her tongue could cut like a sword. It was stated that her children had worshiped her, and that her death had prostrated her husband with grief. Of the chief blackness of her character none spoke. Severnius invited me to attend the funeral obsequies which took place in the Auroras' Temple, where the embalmed body lay in state; with incense burning and innumerable candles casting their pallid light upon the bier. I observed as we drove through the streets that the closed doors of all the business houses exhibited the emblems of respect and sorrow. The Auroras were assembled in great numbers, having come from distant parts of the country to do honor to the dead. They were in full regalia, with mourning badges, and carried inverted torches. The religious ceremonies and mystic rites of the Order were elaborate and impressive. The dirge which followed, and during which the members of the Order formed in procession and began a slow march, was so unutterably and profoundly sad that I could not keep back the tears. A little sobbing voice directly in front of me wailed out "Mamma! Mamma!" A woman stooped down and whispered, "Do you want to go up and kiss Mamma 'good-by' before they take her away?" But the child shrank back, afraid of the pomp and ghostly magnificence surrounding the dead form. Elodia was of course the chief figure in the procession, and she bore herself with a grave and solemn dignity in keeping with the ceremonies. The sight of her beautiful face, with its subdued but lofty expression, was more than I could bear. I leaned forward and dropped my face in my hands, and let the sorrow-laden requiem rack my soul with its sweet torture as it would. That was my last day in Thursia. I had at first thought of taking my aeroplane along with me, reflecting that I might better begin my homeward flight from some mountain top in Caskia; but Severnius would not hear of that. "No indeed!" said he, "you must return to us again. I wish to get ready a budget for you to carry back to your astronomers, which I think will be of value to them, as I shall make a complete map of the heavens as they appear to us. Then we shall be eager to hear about your visit. And besides, we want to see you again on the ground of friendship, the strongest reason of all!" "You are too kind!" I responded with much feeling. I knew that he was as sincere as he was polite. This was at the last moment, and Elodia was present to bid me "good-by." She seconded her brother's invitation,--"O, yes, of course you must come back!" and turned the whole power of her beautiful face upon me, and for the first time gave me her hand. I had coveted it a hundred times as it lay lissome and white in her lap. I clasped it, palm to palm. It was as smooth as satin, and not moist,--I dislike a moist hand. I felt that up to that moment I had always undervalued the sense of touch,--it was the finest of all the senses! No music, no work of art, no wondrous scene, had ever so thrilled me and set my nerves a-quiver, as did the delicate, firm pressure of those magic fingers. The remembrance of it made my blood tingle as I went on my long journey from Thursia to Lunismar. It was a long journey in miles, though not in time, we traveled like the wind. Both Clytia and Calypso were at the station to meet me, with their two children, Freya and Eurydice. I learned that nearly all Caskians are named after the planetoids or other heavenly bodies,--a very appropriate thing, since they live so near the stars! My heart went out to the children the moment my eyes fell upon their faces. They were as beautiful as Raphael's cherubs, you could not look upon them without thrills of delight. They were two perfect buds of the highest development humanity has ever attained to,--so far as we know. I felt that it was a wonderful thing to know that in these lovely forms there lurked no germs of evil, over their sweet heads there hung no Adam's curse! They were seated in a pretty pony carriage, with a white canopy top lined with blue silk. Freya held the lines. It appeared that Eurydice had driven down and he was to drive back. The father and mother were on foot. They explained that it was difficult to drive anything but the little carriage up the steep path to their home on the hillside, half a mile distant. "Who would wish for any other means of locomotion than nature has given him, in a country where the buoyant air makes walking a luxury!" I cried, stretching my legs and filling my lungs, with an unwonted sense of freedom and power. I had become accustomed to the atmosphere of Paleveria, but here I had the same sensations I had experienced when I first landed there. "If you would rather, you may take my place, sir?" said the not much more than knee-high Freya, ready to relinquish the lines. I felt disposed to laugh, but not so the wise parents. "The little ponies could not draw our friend up the hill, he is too heavy," explained Clytia. "Thank you, my little man, all the same!" I added. It was midsummer in Paleveria, but here I observed everything had the newness and delightful freshness of spring. A busy, bustling, joyous, tuneful spring. The grass was green and succulent; the sap was in the trees and their bark was sleek and glossy, their leaves just unrolled. Of the wild fruit trees, every branch and twig was loaded with eager buds crowding upon each other as the heads of children crowd at a cottage window when one goes by. Every thicket was full of bird life and music. I heard the roar of a waterfall in the distance, and Calypso told me that a mighty river, the Eudosa, gathered from a hundred mountain streams, was compressed into a deep gorge or canyon and fell in a succession of cataracts just below the city, and finally spread out into a lovely lake, which was a wonder in its way, being many fathoms deep and as transparent as the atmosphere. We paused to listen,--the children also. "How loud it is to-day, Mamma," exclaimed Freya. His mother assented and turned to me with a smile. "The falls of Eudosa constitute a large part of our life up here," she said; "we note all its moods, which are many. Sometimes it is drowsy, and purrs and murmurs; again it is merry, and sings; or it is sublime, and rises to a thunderous roar. Always it is sound. Do you know, my ears ached with the silence when I was down in Paleveria!" I have said Clytia's eyes were black; it was not an opaque blackness, you could look through them down into her soul. I likened them in my mind to the waters of the Eudosa which Calypso had just described. Every moment something new attracted our attention and the brief journey was full of incident; the children were especially alive to the small happenings about us, and I never before took such an interest in what I should have called insignificant things. Sometimes the conversation between my two friends and myself rose above the understanding of the little ones, but they were never ignored,--nor were they obtrusive; they seemed to know just where to fit their little questions and remarks into the talk. It was quite wonderful. I understood, of course, that the children had been brought down to meet me in order that I might make their acquaintance immediately and establish my relations with them, since I was to be for some time a member of the household. They had their small interests apart from their elders--carefully guarded by their elders--as children should have; but whenever they were permitted to be with us, they were of us. They were never allowed to feel that loneliness in a crowd which is the most desolate loneliness in the world. Clytia especially had the art of enveloping them in her sympathy, though her intellectual faculties were employed elsewhere. And how they loved her! I have seen nothing like it upon the Earth. Perhaps I adapt myself with unusual readiness to new environments, and assimilate more easily with new persons than most people do. I had, as you know, left Paleveria with deep reluctance, under compulsion of my will--moved by my better judgment; and throughout my journey I had deliberately steeped myself in sweet and bitter memories of my life there, to the exclusion of much that might have been interesting and instructive to me on the way,--a foolish and childish thing to have done. And now, suddenly, Paleveria dropped from me like a garment. Some moral power in these new friends, and perhaps in this city of Lunismar,--a power I could feel but could not define,--raised me to a different, unmistakably a higher, plane. I felt the change as one feels the change from underground to the upper air. We first walked a little way through the city, which quite filled the valley and crept up onto the hillsides, here and there. Each building stood alone, with a little space of ground around it, upon which grass and flowers and shrubbery grew, and often trees. Each such space bore evidence that it was as tenderly and scrupulously tended as a Japanese garden. It was the cleanest city I ever saw; there was not an unsightly place, not a single darksome alley or lurking place for vice, no huddling together of miserable tenements. I remarked upon this and Calypso explained: "Our towns used to be compact, but since electricity has annihilated distance we have spread ourselves out. We have plenty of ground for our population, enough to give a generous slice all round. Lunismar really extends through three valleys." Crystal streams trickled down from the mountains and were utilized for practical and æsthetic purposes. Small parks, exquisitely pretty, were very numerous, and in them the sparkling water was made to play curious pranks. Each of these spots was an ideal resting place, and I saw many elderly people enjoying them,--people whom I took to be from sixty to seventy years of age, but who, I was astonished to learn, were all upwards of a hundred. Perfect health and longevity are among the rewards of right living practiced from generation to generation. The forms of these old people were erect and their faces were beautiful in intelligence and sweetness of expression. I remarked, apropos of the general beauty and elegance of the buildings we passed: "This must be the fine quarter of Lunismar." "No, not especially," returned Calypso, "it is about the same all over." "Is it possible! then you must all be rich?" said I. "We have no very poor," he replied, "though of course some have larger possessions than others. We have tried, several times in the history of our race, to equalize the wealth of the country, but the experiment has always failed, human nature varies so much." "What, even here?" I asked. "What do you mean?" said he. "Why, I understand that you Caskians have attained to a most perfect state of development and culture, and--" I hesitated and he smiled. "And you think the process eliminates individual traits?" he inquired. Clytia laughingly added: "I hope, sir, you did not expect to find us all exactly alike, that would be too tame!" "You compliment me most highly," said Calypso, seriously, "but we must not permit you to suppose that we regard our 'development' as anywhere near perfect, In fact, the farther we advance, the greater, and the grander, appears the excellence to which we have not yet attained. Though it would be false modesty--and a disrespect to our ancestors--not to admit that we are conscious of having made some progress, as a race. We know what our beginnings were, and what we now are." After a moment he went on: "I suppose the principle of differentiation, as we observe it in plant and animal life, is the same in all life, not only physical, but intellectual, moral, spiritual. Cultivation, though it softens salient traits and peculiarities, may develop infinite variety in every kind and species." I understood this better later on, after I had met a greater number of people, and after my perceptions had become more delicate and acute,--or when a kind of initiatory experience had taught me how to see and to value excellence. A few years ago a border of nasturtiums exhibited no more than a single color tone, the pumpkin yellow; and a bed of pansies resembled a patch of purple heather. Observe now the chromatic variety and beauty produced by intelligent horticulture! A group of commonplace people--moderately disciplined by culture--might be compared to the pansies and nasturtiums of our early recollection, and a group of these highly refined Caskians to the delicious flowers abloom in modern gardens. We crave variety in people, as we crave condiments in food. For me, this craving was never so satisfied--and at the same time so thoroughly stimulated--as in Caskian society, which had a spiciness of flavor impossible to describe. Formality was disarmed by perfect breeding, there was nothing that you could call "manner." The delicate faculty of intuition produced harmony. I never knew a single instance in which the social atmosphere was disagreeably jarred,--a common enough occurrence where we depend upon the machinery of social order rather than upon the vital principle of good conduct. I inquired of Calypso, as we walked along, the sources of the people's wealth. He replied that the mountains were full of it. There were minerals and precious stones, and metals in great abundance; and all the ores were manufactured in the vicinity of the mines before being shipped to the lower countries and exchanged for vegetable products. This prompted me to ask the familiar question: "And how do you manage the labor problem?" He did not understand me until after I had explained about our difficulties in that line. And then he informed me that most of the people who worked in mines and factories had vested interests in them. "Physical labor, however," he added, "is reduced to the minimum; machinery has taken the place of muscle." "And thrown an army of workers out of employment and the means of living, I suppose?" I rejoined, taking it for granted that the small share-holders had been squeezed out, as well as the small operators. "O, no, indeed," he returned, in surprise. "It has simply given them more leisure. Everybody now enjoys the luxury of spare time, and may devote his energies to the service of other than merely physical needs." He smiled as he went on, "This labor problem the Creator gave us was a knotty one, wasn't it? But what a tremendous satisfaction there is in the thought--and in the fact--that we have solved it." I was in the dark now, and waited for him to go on. "To labor incessantly, to strain the muscles, fret the mind, and weary the soul, and to shorten the life, all for the sake of supplying the wants of the body, and nothing more, is, I think, an inconceivable hardship. And to have invoked the forces of the insensate elements and laid our burdens upon them, is a glorious triumph." "Yes, if all men are profited by it," I returned doubtfully. "They are, of course," said he, "at least with us. I was shocked to find it quite different in Paleveria. There, it seemed to me, machinery--which has been such a boon to the laborers here--has been utilized simply and solely to increase the wealth of the rich. I saw a good many people who looked as though they were on the brink of starvation." "I don't see how you manage it otherwise," I confessed. "It belongs to the history of past generations," he replied. "Perhaps the hardest struggle our progenitors had was to conquer the lusts of the flesh,--of which the greed of wealth is doubtless the greatest. They began to realize, generations ago, that Mars was rich enough to maintain all his children in comfort and even luxury,--that none need hunger, or thirst, or go naked or houseless, and that more than this was vanity and vain-glory. And just as they, with intense assiduity, sought out and cultivated nature's resources--for the reduction of labor and the increase of wealth--so they sought out and cultivated within themselves corresponding resources, those fit to meet the new era of material prosperity; namely, generosity and brotherly love." "Then you really and truly practice what you preach!" said I, with scant politeness, and I hastened to add, "Severnius told me that you recognize the trinity in human nature. Well, we do, too, upon the Earth, but the Three have hardly an equal chance! We preach the doctrine considerably more than we practice it." "I understand that you are a highly intellectual people," remarked Calypso, courteously. "Yes, I suppose we are," said I; "our achievements in that line are nothing to be ashamed of. And," I added, remembering some felicitous sensations of my own, "there is no greater delight than the travail of intellect which brings forth great ideas." "Pardon me!" he returned, "the travail of soul which brings forth a great love--a love willing to share equally with others the fruits of intellectual triumph--is, to my mind, infinitely greater." We had reached the terrace, or little plateau, on which my friends' house stood; it was like a strip of green velvet for color and smoothness. The house was built of rough gray stone which showed silver glintings in the sun. Here and there, delicate vines clung to the walls. There was a carriage porch--into which the children drove--and windows jutting out into the light, and many verandas and little balconies, that seemed to give the place a friendly and hospitable air. Above there was a spacious observatory, in which was mounted a very fine telescope that must have cost a fortune,--though my friends were not enormously rich, as I had learned from Severnius. But these people do not regard the expenditure of even very large sums of money for the means of the best instruction and the best pleasures as extravagance, if no one suffers in consequence. I cannot go into their economic system very extensively here, but I may say that it provides primarily that all shall share bountifully in the general good; and after that, individuals may gratify their respective tastes--or rather, satisfy their higher needs; for their tastes are never fanciful, but always real--as they can afford. I do not mean that this is a written law, a formal edict, to be evaded by such cunning devices as we know in our land, or at best loosely construed; nor is it a mere sentiment preached from pulpits and glorified in literature,--a beautiful but impracticable conception! It is purely a moral law, and being such it is a vital principle in each individual consciousness. The telescope was Calypso's dearest possession, but I never doubted his willingness to give it up, if there should come a time when the keeping of it would be the slightest infringement of this law. I may add that in all the time I spent in Caskia, I never saw a man, woman, or child, but whose delight in any possession would have been marred by the knowledge that his, or her, gratification meant another's bitter deprivation. The question between Thou and I was always settled in favor of Thou. And no barriers of race, nationality, birth, or position, affected this universal principle. I made a discovery in relation to the Caskians which would have surprised and disappointed me under most circumstances; they had no imagination, and they were not given to emotional excitation. Their minds touched nothing but what was real. But mark this: Their real was our highest ideal. The moral world was to them a real world; the spiritual world was to them a real world. They had no need of imagery. And they were never carried away by floods of feeling, for they were always up to their highest level,--I mean in the matter of kindness and sympathy and love. Moreover, their intellectual perceptions were so clear, and the mysteries of nature were unrolled before their understanding in such orderly sequence, that although their increase of knowledge was a continuous source of delight, it never came in shocks of surprise or excited childish wonderment. I cannot hope to give you more than a faint conception of the dignity and majesty of a people whose triple nature was so highly and so harmoniously developed. One principle governed the three: Truth. They were true to every law under which they had been created and by which they were sustained. They were taught from infancy--but of this further on. I wish to reintroduce Ariadne to you and let her explain some of the wonders of their teaching, she being herself a teacher. The observatory was a much used apartment, by both the family and by guests. It was a library also, and it contained musical instruments. A balcony encircled it on the outside, and here we often sat of evenings, especially if the sky was clear and the stars and moon were shining. The heavens as seen at night were as familiar to Clytia and Calypso, and even to the children, as a friend's face. It was pleasant to sit out upon the balcony even on moonless nights and when the stars were hidden, and look down upon the city all brilliantly alight, and listen to the unceasing music of the Falls of Eudosa. I, too, soon learned his many "moods." Back of the house there rose a long succession of hills, ending finally in snow-capped mountains, the highest of which was called the Spear, so sharply did it thrust its head up through the clouds into the heavens. The lower hills had been converted into vineyards. A couple of men were fixing the trellises, and Calypso excused himself to his wife and me and went over to them. A neatly dressed maid came out of the house and greeted the children, who had much important news to relate concerning their drive; and a last year's bird-nest to show her, which they took pains to explain was quite useless to the birds, who were all making nice new nests. The sight of the maid,--evidently an intelligent and well-bred girl,--whose face beamed affectionately upon the little ones, prompted a question from me: "How do you manage about your servants, I mean house servants," I asked; "do you have people here who are willing to do menial work?" Clytia looked up at me with an odd expression. Her answer, coming from any one less sincere, would have sounded like cant. "We do not regard any work as mean." "But some kinds of work are distasteful, to say the least," I insisted. "Not if you love those for whom you labor," she returned. "A mother does not consider any sort of service to her child degrading." "O, I know that," said I; "that is simply natural affection." "But natural affection, you know, is only the germ of love. It is narrow,--only a little broader than selfishness." "Well, tell me how it applies in this question of service?" I asked. "I am not able to comprehend it in the abstract." "We do not require people to do anything for us which we would not do for ourselves, or for them," she said. "And then, we all work. We believe in work; it means strength to the body and relief to the mind. No one permits himself to be served by another for the unworthy reason, openly or tacitly confessed, that he is either too proud, or too indolent, to serve himself." "Then why have servants at all?" I asked. "My husband explained to you," she returned, "that our people are not all equally rich; and they are not all adapted to what you would call, perhaps, the higher grades of service. You see the little maid yonder with the children; she has the gifts of a teacher,--our teachers are very carefully chosen, and as carefully instructed. She has been placed with me for our mutual benefit,--I could not intrust my little ones to the care of a mere paid nurse who thought only of her wages. Nor could she work simply for wages. The money consideration is the smallest item in the arrangement. My husband superintends some steel works in which he has some shares. The man he is talking with now--who is attending to the grape vines--has also a large interest in the steel works, but he has no taste or faculty for engaging in that kind of business. He might spend his whole life in idleness if he chose, or in mental pursuits, for he is a very scholarly man, but he loves the kind of work he is doing now, and our vineyard is his especial pride. Moreover," a beautiful smile touched her face as she looked up at the two men on the hillside, "Fides loves my Calypso, they are soul friends!" When I became more familiar with the household, I found that the same relations existed all round; mutual pleasure, mutual sympathy, mutual helpfulness. First there seemed to be on the part of each employe a distinct preference and liking for the kind of work he or she had undertaken to do; second, a fitness and careful preparation for the work; and last, the love of doing for those who gave appreciation, love, and another sort of service or assistance in return. I heard one of them say one day: "I ask nothing better than to be permitted to cook the meals for these dear people!" This was a woman who wrote monthly articles on chemistry and botany for one of the leading scientific journals. She was a middle-aged woman and unmarried, who did not wish to live alone, who abhorred "boarding," and who had found just such a comfortable nest in Clytia's home as suited all her needs and desires. Of course she did not slave in the kitchen all day long, and her position did not debar her from the best and most intelligent society, nor cut her off from the pleasure and privileges that sweeten life. She brought her scientific knowledge to the preparation of the food she set before us, and took as much pride in the results of her skill as an inventor takes in his appliances. And such wholesome, delicious, well-cooked dishes I have never eaten elsewhere. Clytia believed in intelligently prepared food, as she believed in intelligent instruction for her children; she would have thought it a crime to set an ignorant person over her kitchen. And this woman of whom I am speaking knew that she held a place of honor and trust, and she filled it not only with dignity but lovingness. She had some younger women to assist her, whom she was instructing in the science and the art of cooking, and who would by-and-by take responsible positions themselves. These women, or girls, assisted also in the housekeeping, which was the most perfect system in point of cleanliness, order and beauty that it is possible to conceive of in a home; because skill, honesty and conscientiousness enter into every detail of the life of these people. The body is held in honor, and its needs are respected. Life is sacred, and physical sins,--neglect or infringement of the laws of health,--are classed in the same category with moral transgressions. In fact, the same principles and the same mathematical rules apply in the Three Natures of Man,--refined of course to correspond with the ascending scale from the lowest to the highest, from the physical to the spiritual. But so closely are the Three allied that there are no dividing lines,--there is no point where the Mind may say, "Here my responsibility ends," or where the Body may affirm, "I have only myself to please." Day by day these truths became clear to me. There was nothing particularly new in anything that I heard,--indeed it was all singularly familiar, in sound. But the wonder was, that the things we idealize, and theorize about, they accept literally, and absorb into their lives. They have made living facts of our profoundest philosophy and our sublimest poetry. Are we then too philosophical, too poetical,--and not practical? A good many centuries have rolled up their records and dropped them into eternity since we were given the simple, wonderful lesson, "Whatsoever a man sows that shall he also reap,"--and we have not learned it yet! St. Paul's voice rings through the Earth from age to age, "Work out your own salvation," and we do not comprehend. These people have never had a Christ--in flesh and blood--but they have put into effect every precept of our Great Teacher. They have received the message, from whence I know not,--or rather by what means I know not,--"A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another." Chapter 10. THE MASTER. "I spoke as I saw. I report, as a man may report God's work--all's Love, yet all's Law." -- BROWNING. I have spoken of Ariadne, and promised to re-introduce her to you. You will remember her as the graceful girl who accompanied Clytia and her husband to Thursia. She had not made quite so strong an impression upon me as had the elder woman, perhaps because I was so preoccupied with, and interested in watching the latter's meeting with Elodia. Certainly there was nothing in the young woman herself, as I speedily ascertained, to justify disparagement even with Clytia. I was surprised to find that she was a member of our charming household. She was an heiress; but she taught in one of the city schools, side by side with men and women who earned their living by teaching. I rather deprecated this fact in conversation with Clytia one day; I said that it was hardly fair for a rich woman to come in and usurp a place which rightfully belonged to some one who needed the work as a means of support,--alas! that _I_ should have presumed to censure anything in that wonderful country. With knowledge came modesty. Clytia's cheeks crimsoned with indignation. "Our teachers are not beneficiaries," she replied; "nor do we regard the positions in our schools--the teachers' positions--as charities to be dispensed to the needy. The profession is the highest and most honorable in our land, and only those who are fitted by nature and preparation presume to aspire to the office. There is no bar against those who are so fitted,--the richest and the most distinguished stand no better, and no poorer, chance than the poorest and most insignificant. We must have the best material, wherever it can be found." We had but just entered the house, Clytia and I, when Ariadne glided down the stairs into the room where we sat, and approached me with the charming frankness and unaffectedness of manner which so agreeably characterizes the manners of all these people. She was rather tall, and slight; though her form did not suggest frailty. She resembled some elegant flower whose nature it is to be delicate and slender. She seemed even to sway a little, and undulate, like a lily on its stem. I regarded her with attention, not unmixed with curiosity,--as a man is prone to regard a young lady into whose acquaintance he has not yet made inroads. My chief impression about her was that she had remarkable eyes. They were of an indistinguishable, dark color, large horizontally but not too wide open,--eyes that drew yours continually, without your being able to tell whether it was to settle the question of color, or to find out the secret of their fascination, or whether it was simply that they appealed to your artistic sense--as being something finer than you had ever seen before. They were heavily fringed at top and bottom, and so were in shadow except when she raised them toward the light. Her complexion was pale, her hair light and fluffy; her brows and lashes were several shades darker than the hair. Her hands were lovely. Her dress was of course white, or cream, of some soft, clinging material; and she wore a bunch of blue flowers in her belt, slightly wilted. There is this difference in women: some produce an effect simply, and others make a clear-cut, cameo-like impression upon the mind. Ariadne was of the latter sort. Whatever she appropriated, though but a tiny blossom, seemed immediately to proclaim its ownership and to swear its allegiance to her. From the moment I first saw her there, the blue flowers in her belt gave her, in my mind, the supreme title to all of their kind. I could never bear to see another woman wear the same variety,--and I liked them best when they were a little wilted! Her belongings suggested herself so vividly that if one came unexpectedly upon a fan, a book, a garment of hers, he was affected as by a presence. I soon understood why it was that my eyes sought her face so persistently, drawn by a power infinitely greater than the mere power of beauty; it was due to the law of moral gravitation,--that by which men are attracted to a leader, through intuitive perception of a quality in him round which their own energies may nucleate. We all recognize the need of a centre, of a rallying-point,--save perhaps the few eccentrics, detached particles who have lost their place in the general order, makers of chaos and disturbers of peace. It is this power which constitutes one of the chief qualifications of a teacher in Lunismar; because it rests upon a fact universally believed in,--spiritual royalty; an august force which cannot be ignored, and is never ridiculed--as Galileo was ridiculed, and punished, for his wisdom; because there ignorance and prejudice do not exist, and the superstition which planted the martyr's stake has never been known. Ariadne said that she had been up in the observatory, and that there were indications of an approaching storm. "I hope it may be a fine one!" exclaimed Clytia. I thought this rather an extraordinary remark--coming from one of the sex whose formula is more likely to be, "I hope it will not be a severe one." At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, the majesty of whose presence I certainly felt before my eyes fell upon him. Or it might have been the reflection I saw in the countenances of my two companions,--I stood with my back to the door, facing them,--which gave me the curious, awe-touched sensation. I turned round, and Clytia immediately started forward. Ariadne exclaimed in an undertone, with an accent of peculiar sweetness,--a commingling of delight, and reverence, and caressing tenderness: "Ah! the Master!" Clytia took him by the hand and brought him to me, where I stood rooted to my place. "Father, this is our friend," she said simply, without further ceremony of introduction. It was enough. He had come on purpose to see me, and therefore he knew who I was. As for him--one does not explain a king! The title by which Ariadne had called him did not at the moment raise an inquiry in my mind. I accepted it as the natural definition of the man. He was a man of kingly proportions, with eyes from which Clytia's had borrowed their limpid blackness. His glance had a wide compresiveness, and a swift, sure, loving insight. He struck me as a man used to moving among multitudes, with his head above all, but his heart embracing all. You may think it strange, but I was not abashed. Perfect love casteth out fear; and there was in this divine countenance--I may well call it divine!--the lambent light of a love so kindly and so tender, that fear, pride, vanity, egotism, even false modesty--our pet hypocrisy--surrendered without a protest. I think I talked more than any one else, being delicately prompted to furnish some account of the world to which I belong, and stimulated by the profound interest with which the Master attended to every word that I said. But I received an equal amount of information myself,--usually in response to the questions with which I rounded up my periods, like this: We do so, and so, upon the Earth; how is it here? The replies threw an extraordinary light upon the social order and conditions there. I naturally dwelt upon the salient characteristics of our people,--I mean, of course, the American people. I spoke of our enormous grasp of the commercial principle; of our manipulation of political and even social forces to great financial ends; of our easy acquisition of fortunes; of our tremendous push and energy, directed to the accumulation of wealth. And of our enthusiasms, and institutions; our religions and their antagonisms, and of the many other things in which we take pride. And I learned that in Caskia there is no such thing as speculative enterprise. All business has an actual basis most discouraging to the adventurous spirit in search of sudden riches. There is no monetary skill worthy the dignified appellation of financial management,--and no use for that particular development of the talent of ingenuity. All the systems involving the use of money conduct their affairs upon the simplest arithmetical rules in their simplest form; addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. There are banks, of course, for the mutual convenience of all, but there are no magnificent delusions called "stocks;" no boards of trade, no bulls and bears, no "corners," no mobilizing of capital for any questionable purposes; no gambling houses; no pitfalls for unwary feet; and no mad fever of greed and scheming coursing through the veins of men and driving them to insanity and self-destruction. More than all, there are no fictitious values put upon fads and fancies of the hour,--nor even upon works of art. The Caskians are not easily deceived. An impostor is impossible. Because the people are instructed in the quality of things intellectual, and moral, and spiritual, as well as in things physical. They are as sure of the knowableness of art, as they are--and as we are--of the knowableness of science. Art is but refined science, and the principles are the same in both, but more delicately, and also more comprehensively, interpreted in the former than in the latter. One thing more: there are no would-be impostors. The law operates no visible machinery against such crimes, should there be any. The Master explained it to me in this way: "The Law is established in each individual conscience, and rests securely upon self-respect." "Great heavens!" I cried, as the wonder of it broke upon my understanding, "and how many millions of years has it taken your race to attain to this perfection?" "It is not perfection," he replied, "it only approximates perfection; we are yet in the beginning." "Well, by the grace of God, you are on the right way!" said I. "I am familiar enough with the doctrines you live by, to know that it is the right way; they are the same that we have been taught, theoretically, for centuries, but, to tell the truth, I never believed they could be carried out literally, as you appear to carry them out. We are tolerably honest, as the word goes, but when honesty shades off into these hair-splitting theories, why--we leave it to the preachers, and--women." "Then you really have some among you who believe in the higher truths?" the Master said, and his brows went up a little in token of relief.--My picture of Earth-life must have seemed a terrible one to him! "O, yes, indeed," said I, taking my cue from this. And I proceeded to give some character sketches of the grand men and women of Earth whose lives have been one long, heroic struggle for truth, and to whom a terrible death has often been the crowning triumph of their faith. I related to him briefly the history of America from its discovery four hundred years ago; and told him about the splendid material prosperity,--the enormous wealth, the extraordinary inventions, the great population, the unprecedented free-school system, and the progress in general education and culture,--of a country which had its birth but yesterday in a deadly struggle for freedom of conscience; and of our later, crueller war for freedom that was not for ourselves but for a despised race. I described the prodigious waves of public and private generosity that have swept millions of money into burned cities for their rebuilding, and tons of food into famine-stricken lands for the starving. I told him of the coming together in fellowship of purpose, of the great masses, to face a common danger, or to meet a common necessity; and of the moral and intellectual giants who in outward appearance and in the seeming of their daily lives are not unlike their fellows, but to whom all eyes turn for help and strength in the hour of peril. But I did not at that time undertake any explanation of our religious creeds, for it somehow seemed to me that these would not count for much with a people who expressed their theology solely by putting into practice the things they believed. I had the thought in mind though, and determined to exploit it later on. As I have said before, the Master listened with rapt attention, and when I had finished, he exclaimed, "I am filled with amazement! a country yet so young, so far advanced toward Truth!" He gave himself up to contemplation of the picture I had drawn, and in the depths of his eyes I seemed to see an inspired prophecy of my country's future grandeur. Presently he rose and went to a window, and, with uplifted face, murmured in accents of the sublimest reverence that have ever touched my understanding, "O, God, All-Powerful!" And a wonderful thing happened: the invocation was responded to by a voice that came to each of our souls as in a flame of fire, "Here am I." The velocity of worlds is not so swift as was our transition from the human to the divine. But it was not an unusual thing, this supreme triumph of the spirit; it is what these people call "divine worship,"--a service which is never perfunctory, which is not ruled by time or place. One may worship alone, or two or three, or a multitude, it matters not to God, who only asks to be worshiped in spirit and in truth,--be the time Sabbath or mid-week, the place temple, or field, or closet. A little later I remarked to the Master,--wishing to have a point cleared up,-- "You say there are no fictitious values put upon works of art; how do you mean?" He replied, "Inasmuch as truth is always greater than human achievement--which at best may only approximate the truth,--the value of a work of art should be determined by its merit alone, and not by the artist's reputation, or any other remote influence,--of course I do not include particular objects consecrated by association or by time. But suppose a man paints a great picture, for which he recieves a great price, and thereafter uses the fame he has won as speculating capital to enrich himself,--I beg the pardon of every artist for setting up the hideous hypothesis!--But to complete it: the moment a man does that, he loses his self-respect, which is about as bad as anything that can happen to him; it is moral suicide. And he has done a grievous wrong to art by lowering the high standard he himself helped to raise. But his crime is no greater than that of the name-worshipers, who, ignorantly, or insolently, set up false standards and scorn the real test of values. However, these important matters are not left entirely to individual consciences; artists, and so-called art-critics, are not the only judges of art. We have no mysterious sanctuaries for a privileged few; all may enter,--all are indeed made to enter, not by violence, but by the simple, natural means employed in all teaching. All will not hold the brush, or the pen, or the chisel; but from their earliest infancy our children are carefully taught to recognize the forms of truth in all art; the eye was made to see, the ear to hear, the mind to understand." The visit was at an end. When he left us it was as though the sun had passed under a cloud. Clytia went out with him, her arm lovingly linked in his; and I turned to Ariadne. "Tell me," I said, "why is he called Master? Is it a formal title, or was it bestowed in recognition of the quality of the man?" "Both," she answered. "No man receives the title who has not the 'quality.' But it is in one way perfunctory; it is the distinguishing title of a teacher of the highest rank." "And what are teachers of the highest rank, presidents of colleges?" I asked. "O, no," she replied with a smile, "they are not necessarily teachers of schools--old and young alike are their pupils. They are those who have advanced the farthest in all the paths of knowledge, especially the moral and the spiritual." "I understand," said I; "they are your priests, ministers, pastors,--your Doctors of Divinity." "Perhaps," she returned, doubtfully; our terminology was not always clear to those people. "Usually," she went on, "they begin with teaching in the schools,--as a kind of apprenticeship. But, naturally, they rise; there is that same quality in them which forces great poets and painters to high positions in their respective fields." "Then they rank with geniuses!" I exclaimed, and the mystery of the man in whose grand company I had spent the past hour was solved. Ariadne looked at me as though surprised that I should have been ignorant of so natural and patent a fact. "Excuse me!" said I, "but it is not always the case with us; any man may set up for a religious teacher who chooses, with or without preparation,--just as any one may set up for a poet, or a painter, or a composer of oratorio." "Genius must be universal on your planet then," she returned innocently. I suppose I might have let it pass, there was nobody to contradict any impressions I might be pleased to convey! but there is something in the atmosphere of Lunismar which compels the truth, good or bad. "No," said I, "they do it by grace of their unexampled self-trust,--a quality much encouraged among us,--and because we do not legislate upon such matters. The boast of our country is liberty, and in some respects we fail to comprehend the glorious possession. Too often we mistake lawlessness for liberty. The fine arts are our playthings, and each one follows his own fancy, like children with toys." "Follows-his-own-fancy," she repeated, as one repeats a strange phrase, the meaning of which is obscure. "By the way," I said, "you must be rather arbitrary here. Is a man liable to arrest or condign punishment, if he happens to burlesque any of the higher callings under the impression that he is a genius?" She laughed, and I added, "I assure you that this is not an uncommon occurrence with us." "It would be impossible here," she replied, "because no one could so mistake himself, though it seems egotistical for one of us to say so! but"--a curious expression touched her face, a questioning, doubting, puzzled look--"we are speaking honestly, are we not?" I wondered if I had betrayed my American characteristic of hyperbole, and I smiled as I answered her: "My countrymen are at my mercy, I know; but had I a thousand grudges against them, I beg you to believe that I am not so base as to take advantage of my unique opportunity to do them harm! We are a young people, as I said awhile ago, a very young people; and in many respects we have the innocent audacity of babes. Yes," I added, "I have told you the truth,--but not all of it; Earth, too, is pinnacled with great names,--of Masters, like yours, and poets, and painters, and scientists, and inventors. Even in the darkest ages there have been these points of illumination. What I chiefly wonder at here, is the universality of intelligence, of understanding. You are a teacher of children, pray tell me how you teach. How do you get such wonderful results? I can comprehend--a little--'what' you people are, I wish to know the 'how,' the 'why'." "All our teaching," she said, "embraces the three-fold nature. The physical comes first of course, for you cannot reach the higher faculties through barriers of physical pain and sickness, hunger and cold. The child must have a good body, and to this end he is taught the laws that govern his body, through careful and attentive observance of cause and effect. And almost immediately, he begins to have fascinating glimpses of similar laws operating upon a higher than the physical plane. Children have boundless curiosity, you know, and this makes the teacher's work easy and delightful,--for we all love to tell a piece of news! Through this faculty, the desire to know, you can lead a child in whatever paths you choose. You can almost make him what you choose. A little experience teaches a child that every act brings consequences, good or bad; but he need not get all his knowledge by experience, that is too costly. The reasoning faculty must be aroused, and then the conscience,--which is to the soul what the sensatory nerves are to the body. But the conscience is a latent faculty, and here comes in the teacher's most delicate and important work. Conscience is quite dependent upon the intellect; we must know what is right and what is wrong, otherwise conscience must stagger blindly." "Yes, I know," I interrupted, "the consciences of some very good people in our world have burned witches at the stake." "Horrible!" she said with a shudder. She continued: "This, then, is the basis. We try, through that simple law of cause and effect, which no power can set aside, to supply each child with a safe, sure motive for conduct that will serve him through life, as well in his secret thought as in outward act. No one with this principle well-grounded in him will ever seek to throw the blame of his misdeeds upon another. We teach the relative value of repentance; that though it cannot avert or annul the effects of wrong-doing, it may serve to prevent repetition of the wrong." "Do you punish offenders?" I asked. She smiled. "Punishment for error is like treating symptoms instead of the disease which produced them, is it not?--relief for the present, but no help for the future. Punishment, and even criticism, are dangerous weapons, to be used, if at all, with a tact and skill that make one tremble to think of! They are too apt to destroy freedom of intercourse between teacher and pupil. Unjust criticism, especially, shuts the teacher from an opportunity to widen the pupil's knowledge. Too often our criticisms are barriers which we throw about ourselves, shutting out affection and confidence; and then we wonder why friends and family are sealed books to us!" "That is a fact," I assented, heartily, "and no one can keep to his highest level if he is surrounded by an atmosphere of coldness and censure. Even Christ, our Great Teacher, affirmed that he could not do his work in certain localities because of prevailing unbelief." "There is one thing which it is difficult to learn," went on Ariadne, "discrimination, the fitness of things. I may not do that which is proper for another to do,--why? Because in each individual consciousness is a special and peculiar law of destiny upon which rests the burden of personal responsibility. It is this law of the individual that makes it an effrontery for any one to constitute himself the chancellor of another's conscience, or to sit in judgment upon any act which does not fall under the condemnation of the common law. It is given to each of us to create a world,--within ourselves and round about us,--each unlike all the others, though conforming to the universal principles of right, as poets, however original, conform to the universal principles of language. We have choice--let me give you a paradox!--every one may have first choice of inexhaustible material in infinite variety. But how to choose!" I quoted Milton's lines: "He that has light within his own clear breast, May sit in the center and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts, Benighted walks under the mid-day sun; Himself is his own dungeon." She thanked me with a fine smile. Clytia had come in a few moments before, but her entrance had been such that it had caused no disturbing vibrations in the current of sympathetic understanding upon which Ariadne and myself were launched. Now, however, we came ashore as it were, and she greeted us as returned voyagers love to be greeted, with cordial welcome. She informed us that dinner was ready, and I was alarmed lest we might have delayed that important function. The children had disappeared for the day, having already had their dinner in the nursery under the supervision of their mother. Calypso had invited in his friend Fides. He was a man of powerful frame, and strong, fine physionomy; with a mind as virile as the former, and as clear-cut as the latter. The woman who had created the dinner--I do not know of a better word--also sat at table with us, and contributed many a gem to the thought of the hour. Thought may seem an odd word to use in connection with a dinner conversation,--unless it is a "toast" dinner! but even in their gayest and lightest moods these people are never thoughtless. Their minds instead of being lumbering machinery requiring much force and preparation to put in motion, are set upon the daintiest and most delicate wheels. Their mental equipment corresponds with the astonishing mechanical contrivances for overcoming friction in the physical world. And this exquisite machinery is applied in exactly the same ways,--sometimes for utility, and sometimes for simple enjoyment. Ariadne's prediction had been correct, the storm-king was mustering his forces round the mountain-tops, and the Eudosa was answering the challenge from the valley. After dinner we went up into the observatory, and from thence passed out onto the balcony, thrilled by the same sense of delightful expectancy you see in the unennuied eyes of Youth, waiting for the curtain to go up at a play. All save myself had of course seen thunder-storms in Lunismar, but none were _blasé_. There was eagerness in every face. We took our station at a point which gave us the best view of the mountains, and saw the lightning cut their cloud-enwrapped sides with flaming swords, and thrust gleaming spears down into the darkling valley, as if in furious spite at the blackness which had gathered everywhere. For the sun had sunk behind a wall as dense as night and left the world to its fate. Before the rain began to fall there was an appalling stillness, which even the angry mutterings of the Eudosa could not overcome. And then, as though the heavens had marshaled all their strength for one tremendous assault, the thunder broke forth. I have little physical timidity, but the shock struck me into a pose as rigid as death. The others were only profoundly impressed, spiritually alive to the majesty of the performance. That first explosion was but the prelude to the mighty piece played before us, around us, at our feet, and overhead. Earth has been spared the awfulness--(without destruction)--and has missed the glory of such a storm as this. But the grandest part was yet to come. The rain lasted perhaps twenty minutes, and then a slight rent was made in the thick and sombre curtain that covered the face of the heavens, and a single long shaft of light touched the frozen point of the Spear and turned its crystal and its snow to gold. The rest of the mountain was still swathed in cloud. A moment more, and a superb rainbow, and another, and yet another, were flung upon the shoulder of the Spear, below the glittering finger. The rent in the curtain grew wider, and beyond, all the splendors of colors were blazoned upon the shimmering draperies that closed about and slowly vanished with the sun. We sat in silence for a little time. I happened to be near Fides, and I presently turned to him and said: "That was a most extraordinary manifestation of the Almighty's power!" He looked at me but did not reply. Ariadne, who had heard my remark, exclaimed laughingly: "Fides thinks the opening of a flower is a far more wonderful manifestation than the stirring up of the elements!" In the midst of the storm I had discovered the Master standing at the farther end of the balcony, and beside him a tall, slender woman with thick, white hair, whom I rightly took to be his wife. I was presented to her shortly, and the mental comment I made at the moment, I never afterward reversed,--"She is worthy to be the Master's wife!" Although the rain had ceased, the sky was a blank, as night settled upon the world. Not a star shone. But it was cool and pleasant, and we sat and talked for a couple of hours. Suddenly, a band of music on the terrace below silenced our voices. It was most peculiar music: now it was tone-pictures thrown upon the dark background of shadows; and now it was a dance of sprites; and now a whispered confidence in the ear. It made no attempt to arouse the emotions, to produce either sadness or exaltation. It was a mere frolic of music. When it was over, I went down stairs, with the others, humming an inaudible tune, as though I had been to the opera. Chapter 11. A COMPARISON. "He who rests on what he is, has a destiny above destiny, and can make mouths at fortune." --EMERSON. "Work out your own salvation." --ST. PAUL. I had a feeling, when I retired to my room that night, as if years lay between me and the portion of my life which I had spent in Paleveria. But across the wide gulf my soul embraced Severnius. All that was beautiful, and lovable, and noble in that far-off country centered in him, as light centres in a star. But of Elodia I could not think without pain. I even felt a kind of helpless rage mingling with the pain,--remembering that it was simply the brutality of the social system under which she had been reared, that had stamped so hideous a brand upon a character so fair. I contrasted her in my mind with the women asleep in the rooms about me, whose thoughts were as pure as the thoughts of a child. Had she been born here, I reflected, she would have been like Clytia, like Ariadne. And oh! the pity of it, that she had not! I was restless, wakeful, miserable, thinking of her; remembering her wit, her intelligence, her power; remembering how charming she was, how magnetic, and alas! how faulty! She gave delight to all about her, and touched all life with color. But she was like a magnificent bouquet culled from the gardens of wisdom and beauty; a thing of but temporary value, whose fragrance must soon be scattered, whose glory must soon pass away. Ariadne was the white and slender lily, slowly unfolding petal after petal in obedience to the law of its own inner growth. Should the blossom be torn asunder its perfume would rise as incense about its destroyer, and from the life hidden at its root would come forth more perfect blossoms and more delicate fragrance. I had arrived at this estimate of her character by a process more unerring and far swifter than reason. You might call it spiritual telegraphy. The thought of her not only restored but immeasurably increased my faith in woman; and I fell asleep at last soothed and comforted. I awoke in the morning to the sound of singing. It was Ariadne's voice, and she was touching the strings of a harp. All Caskians sing, and all are taught to play upon at least one musical instrument. Every household is an orchestra. Ariadne's voice was exceptionally fine--where all voices were excellent. Its quality was singularly bird-like; sometimes it was the joyous note of the lark, and again it was the tenderly sweet, and passionately sad, dropping-song of the mocking-bird. When I looked out of my window, the sun was just silvering the point of the Spear, and light wreaths of mist were lifting from the valleys. I saw the Master, staff in hand, going up toward the mountains, and Fides was coming across the hills. I had wondered, when I saw the Master and his wife on the balcony the night before, how they came to be there at such an hour on such a night. I took the first opportunity to find out. The only way to find out about people's affairs in Caskia, is by asking questions, or, by observation--which takes longer. They speak with their lives instead of their tongues, concerning so many things that other people are wordy about. They are quite devoid of theories. But they are charmingly willing to impart what one wishes to know. I learned that Clytia's parents lived within a stone's throw of her house on one side, and Calypso's grandparents at about the same distance on the other. And I also learned that it was an arrangement universally practiced; the clustering together of families, in order that the young might always be near at hand to support, and protect, and to smooth the pathway of the old. Certain savage races upon the Earth abandon the aged to starvation and death; certain other races, not savage, abandon them to a loneliness that is only less cruel. But these extraordinarily just people repay to the helplessness of age, the tenderness and care, the loving sympathy, which they themselves received in the helplessness of infancy. The grandparents happened to be away from home, and I did not meet them for some days. On that first morning we had Clytia's parents to breakfast. Immediately after breakfast the circle broke up. It was Clytia's morning to visit and assist in the school which her little ones attended; Ariadne started off to her work, with a fresh cluster of the delicious blue flowers in her belt; and I had the choice of visiting the steel-works with Calypso, or taking a trip to Lake Eudosa, on foot, with the Master. I could hardly conceal the delight with which I decided in favor of the latter. We set off at once, and what a walk it was! A little way through the city, and then across a strip of lush green meadow, starred with daisies, thence into sweet-smelling woods, and then down, down, down, along the rocky edge of the canyon, past the deafening waterfalls to the wonderful Lake! We passed, on our way through the city, a large, fine structure which, upon inquiry, I found to be the place where the Master "taught" on the Sabbath day. "Do you wish to look in?" he asked, and we turned back and entered. The interior was beautiful and vast, capacious enough to seat several thousand people; and every Sunday it was filled. I thought it a good opportunity for finding out something about the religion of this people, and I began by asking: "Are there any divisions in your Church,--different denominations, I mean?" He seemed unable to comprehend me, and I was obliged to enter into an explanation, which I made as simple as possible, of course, relative to the curse of Adam and the plan of redemption. In order that he might understand the importance attaching to our creeds, I told him of the fierce, sanguinary struggles of past ages, and the grave controversies of modern times, pertaining to certain dogmas and tenets,--as to whether they were essential, or non-essential to salvation. "Salvation from what?" he asked. "Why, from sin." "But how? We know only one way to be saved from sin." "And what is that?" I inquired. "Not to sin." "But that is impossible!" I rejoined, feeling that he was trifling with the subject. Though that was unlike him. "Yes, it is impossible," he replied, gravely. "God did not make us perfect. He left us something to do for ourselves." "That is heretical," said I. "Don't you believe in the Fall of Man?" "No, I think I believe in the Rise of Man," he answered, smiling. "O, I keep forgetting," I exclaimed, "that I am on another planet!" "And that this planet has different relations with God from what your planet has?" returned he. "I cannot think so, sir; it is altogether a new idea to me, and--pardon me!--an illogical one. We belong to the same system, and why should not the people of Mars have the sentence for sin revoked, as well as the people of Earth? Why should not we have been provided with an intercessor? But tell me, is it really so?--do you upon the Earth not suffer the consequences of your acts?" "Why, certainly we do," said I; "while we live. The plan of salvation has reference to the life after death." He dropped his eyes to the ground. "You believe in that life, do you not?" I asked. "Believe in it!"--he looked up, amazed. "All life is eternal; as long as God lives, we shall live." A little later he said: "You spoke of the fall of man,--what did you mean?" "That Man was created a perfect being, but through sin became imperfect, so that God could not take him back to Himself,--save by redemption." "And God sent His Only Son to the Earth, you say, to redeem your race from the consequences of their own acts?" "So we believe," said I. After another brief silence, he remarked: "Man did not begin his life upon this planet in perfection." At this moment we passed a beautiful garden, in which there was an infinite profusion of flowers in infinite variety. "Look at those roses!" he exclaimed; "God planted the species, a crude and simple plant, and turned it over to man to do what he might with it; and in the same way he placed man himself here,--to perfect himself if he would. I am not jealous of God, nor envious of you; but just why He should have arranged to spare you all this labor, and commanded us to work out our own salvation, I cannot comprehend." It struck me as a remarkable coincidence that he should have used the very words of one of our own greatest logicians. A longer silence followed. The Master walked with his head inclined, in the attitude of profound thought. At last he drew a deep breath and looked up, relaxing his brows. "It may be prodigiously presumptuous," he said, "but I am inclined to think there has been a mistake somewhere." "How, a mistake?" I asked. He paid no heed to the question, but said: "Tell me the story,--tell me the exact words, if you can, of this Great Teacher whom you believe to be the Son of God?" I gave a brief outline of the Saviour's life and death, and it was a gratification to me--because it seemed, in some sort, an acknowledgment, or concession to my interpretation,--to see that he was profoundly affected. "Oh!" he cried,--his hands were clenched and his body writhed as with the actual sufferings of the Man of Sorrows,--"that a race of men should have been brought through such awful tribulation to see God! Why could they not accept the truth from his lips?" "Because they would not. They kept crying 'Give us a sign,' and he gave himself to death." I grouped together as many of the words of Christ as I could recall, and I was surprised, not only that his memory kept its grasp on them all, but that he was able to see at once their innermost meaning. It was as if he dissolved them in the wonderful alembic of his understanding, and instantly restored them in crystals of pure truth, divested alike of mysticism and remote significance. He took them up, one by one, and held them to the light, as one holds precious gems. He knew them, recognized them, and appraised them with the delight, and comprehensiveness, and the critical judgment of a connoisseur of jewels. "You believe that Christ came into your world," he said, "that you 'might have life.' That is, he came to teach you that the life of the soul, and not the body, is the real life. He died 'that you might live,' but it was not the mere fact of his death that assured your life. He was willing to give up his life in pledge of the truth of what he taught, that you might believe that truth, and act upon that belief, and so gain life. He taught only the truth,--his soul was a fountain of truth. Hence, when he said, Suffer the little children to come unto me, it was as though he said, Teach your children the truths I have taught you. And when he cried in the tenderness of his great and yearning love, Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest, he meant,--oh! you cannot doubt it, my friend,--he meant, Come, give up your strifes, and hatreds, your greeds, and vanities, and selfishness, and the endless weariness of your pomps and shows; come to me and learn how to live, and where to find peace, and contentment. 'A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another.' This was the 'easy yoke,' and the 'light burden,' which your Christ offered to you in place of the tyranny of sin. 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.' There is nothing finer than that,--there is no law above that! We Caskians have been trying to work upon that principle for thousands of years. It is all that there is of religion, save the spiritual perception of abstract truths which we may conceive of; more or less clearly, as attributes of God. Your Great Teacher explained to you that God is a spirit, and should be worshiped in spirit and in truth. Hence we may worship Him where and when we will. Worship is not a ceremony, but profound contemplation of the infinite wisdom, the infinite power, and the infinite love of God. The outdoor world,--here, where we stand now, with the marvelous sky above us, the clouds, the sun; this mighty cataract before us; and all the teeming life, the beauty, the fragrance, the song,--is the best place of all. I pity the man who lacks the faculty of worship! it means that though he may have eyes he sees not, and ears he hears not." "Do you believe in temples of worship?" I asked. "Yes," he replied, "I believe in them; for though walls and stained windows shut out the physical glories of the world, they do not blind the eyes of the spirit. And if there is one in the pulpit who has absorbed enough of the attributes of God into his soul to stand as an interpreter to the people, it is better than waiting outside. Then, too, there is grandeur in the coming together of a multitude to worship in oneness of spirit. And all things are better when shared with others. I believe that art should bring its best treasures to adorn the temples of worship, and that music should voice this supreme adoration. But in this matter, we should be careful not to limit God in point of locality. What does the saying mean, 'I asked for bread, and ye gave me a stone?' I think it might mean, for one thing, 'I asked where to find God, and you pointed to a building.' The finite mind is prone to worship its own creations of God. There are ignorant races upon this planet,--perhaps also upon yours,--who dimly recognize Deity in this way; they bring the best they have of skill in handiwork, to the making of a pitiful image to represent God; and then, forgetting the motive, they bow down to the image. We call that idolatry. But it is hard even for the enlightened to avoid this sin." He paused a moment and then went on: "I cannot comprehend the importance you seem to place upon the forms and symbols, nor in what way they relate to religion, but they may have some temporary value, I can hardly judge of that. Baptism, you say, is a token and a symbol, but do a people so far advanced in intelligence and perception, still require tokens and symbols? And can you not, even yet, separate the spiritual meaning of Christ's words from their literal meaning? You worship the man--the God, if you will,--instead of that for which he stood. He himself was a symbol, he stood for the things he wished to teach. 'I am the truth,' 'I am the life.' Do you not see that he meant, 'I am the exponent of truth, I teach you how to live; hearken unto me.' In those days in which he lived, perhaps, language was still word-pictures, and the people whom he taught could not grasp the abstract, hence he used the more forcible style, the concrete. He could not have made this clearer, than in those remarkable words, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" "I know," I replied, as he paused for some response from me; "my intellect accepts your interpretation of these things, but this symbolic religion of ours is ingrained in our very consciences, so that neglect of the outward forms of Christianity seems almost worse than actual sin." "And it will continue to be so," he said, "until you learn to practice the truth for truth's sake,--until you love your neighbor--not only because Christ commanded it, but because the principle of love is 'ingrained in your consciences.' As for belonging to a church, I can only conceive of that in the social sense, for every soul that aspires upward belongs to Christ's church universal. They are the lambs of his flock, the objects of his tenderest care. But I can see how a great number of religious societies, or organizations, are possible, as corresponding with the requirements of different groups of people." "Yes," I said, glad of this admission, "and these societies are all aiming at the same thing that you teach,--the brotherhood of man. They clothe the poor, they look after the sick, they send missionaries to the heathen, they preach morality and temperance,--all, in His Name, because, to tell the truth, they cannot conceive of any virtue disassociated from the man, Jesus. Jesus is the great leader of the spiritual forces marshaled under the banners of truth upon the Earth. In all their good works, which are so great and so many, good christians give Christ the glory, because, but for him, they would not have had the Truth, the Life,--the world was so dark, so ignorant. All the ancient civilizations upon the Earth,--and some of them were magnificent!--have perished, because they did not possess this truth and this spiritual life which Christ taught. There was a great deal of knowledge, but not love; there was a great deal of philosophy, but it was cold. There was mysticism, but it did not satisfy. Do you wonder, sir, that a world should love the man who brought love into that world,--who brought peace, good-will, to men?" "No, no," said the Master, "I do not wonder. It is grand, sublime! And he gave his body to be destroyed by his persecutors, in order to prove to the world that there is a life higher than the physical, and indestructible,--and that physical death has no other agony than physical pain. Ah, I see, I understand, and I am not surprised that you call this man your redeemer! I think, my friend," he added, "that you have now a civilization upon the Earth, which will not perish!" After a moment, he remarked, turning to me with a smile, "We are not so far apart as we thought we were, when we first started out, are we?" "No," said I, "the only wonder to me is, that you should have been in possession, from the beginning, of the same truths that were revealed to us only a few centuries ago, through, as we have been taught to believe, special Divine Favor." "Say, rather, Infinite Divine Love," he returned; "then we shall indeed stand upon the same plane, all alike, children of God." As we continued our walk, his mind continued to dwell upon the teachings of Christ, and he sought to make clear to me one thing after another. "Pray without ceasing," he repeated, reflectively. "Well, now, it would be impossible to take that literally; the literal meaning of prayer is verbal petition. The real meaning is, the sincere desire of the soul. You are commanded to pray in secret, and God will reward you openly. Put the two together and you have this: Desire constantly, within your secret soul, to learn and to practice the truth; and your open reward shall be the countless blessings which are attracted to the perfect life, the inner life. 'Ask whatsoever you will, in my name, and it shall be granted you.' That is, 'Ask in the name of truth and love.' Shall you pray for a personal blessing or favor which might mean disaster or injury to another? Prayer is the desire and effort of the soul to keep in harmony with God's great laws of the universe." * * * * * As it had been in Thursia, so it was here; people came to see me from all parts, and there were some remarkable companies in Clytia's parlors! Usually they were spontaneous gatherings, evening parties being often made up with little or no premeditation. There was music always, in great variety, and of the most delightful and elevated character,--singing, and many kinds of bands. And sometimes there was dancing,--not of the kind which awakened in De Quincey's soul, "the very grandest form of passionate sadness,"--but of a kind that made me wish I had been the inventor of the phrase, "poetry of motion," so that I could have used it here, fresh and unhackneyed. In all, there was no more voluptuousness than in the frolic of children. Conversation might--and often was--as light as the dance of butterflies, but it was liable at any moment to rise, upon a hint, or a suggestion, to the most sublimated regions of thought,--for these people do not leave their minds at home when they go into society. And here, in society, I saw the workings of the principle of brotherly love, in a strikingly beautiful aspect. There was no disposition on the part of any one to outdo another; rather there seemed to be a general conspiracy to make each one rise to his best. The spirit of criticism was absent, and the spirit of petty jealousy. The women without exception were dressed with exquisite taste, because this is a part of their culture. And every woman was beautiful, for loving eyes approved her; and every man was noble, for no one doubted him. If the sky was clear, a portion of each evening was spent in the observatory, or out upon the balcony, as the company chose, and the great telescope was always in requisition, and always pointed to the Earth!--if the Earth was in sight. The last evening I spent in Lunismar was such an one as I have described. Ariadne and I happened to be standing together, and alone, in a place upon the balcony which commanded a view of our world. It was particularly clear and brilliant that night, and you may imagine with what feelings I contemplated it, being about to return to it! We had been silent for some little time, when she turned her eyes to me--those wonderful eyes!--and said, a little sadly, I thought: "I shall never look upon Earth again, without happy memories of your brief visit among us." A strange impulse seized me, and I caught her hands and held them fast in mine. "And I, O, Ariadne! when I return to Earth again, and lift my eyes toward heaven, it will not be Mars that I shall see, but only--Ariadne!" A strange light suddenly flashed over her face and into her eyes as she raised them to mine, and in their clear depths was revealed to me the supreme law of the universe, the law of life, the law of love. In a voice tremulous with emotion--sad, but not hopeless--she murmured: "And I, also, shall forget my studies in the starry fields of space to watch for your far-distant planet--the Earth--which shall forever touch all others with its glory." And there, under the stars, with the plaintive music of the Eudosa in our ears, and seeing dimly through the darkness the white finger of the snowy peaks pointing upward, we looked into each other's eyes and--"I saw a new heaven and a new earth." THE END. [Illustration: Books] _From the Press of the Arena Publishing Company._ The Rise of the Swiss Republic. By W. D. MCCRACKAN, A.M. It contains over four hundred pages, printed from new and handsome type, on a fine quality of heavy paper. The margins are wide, and the volume is richly bound in cloth. Price, postpaid, $3.00. Sultan to Sultan. By M. FRENCH-SHELDON (Bebe Bwana). Being a thrilling account of a remarkable expedition to the Masai and other hostile tribes of East Africa, which was planned and commanded by this intrepid woman. =A Sumptuous Volume of Travels.= Handsomely illustrated; printed on coated paper and richly bound in African red silk-finished cloth. Price, postpaid, $5.00. The League of the Iroquois. By BENJAMIN HATHAWAY. It is instinct with good taste and poetic feeling, affluent of picturesque description and graceful portraiture, and its versification is fairly melodious.--_Harper's Magazine._ Has the charm of Longfellow's "Hiawatha."--_Albany Evening Journal._ Of rare excellence and beauty.--_American Wesleyan._ Evinces fine qualities of imagination, and is distinguished by remarkable grace and fluency.--_Boston Gazette._ The publication of this poem alone may well serve as a mile-post in marking the pathway of American literature. The work is a marvel of legendary lore, and will be appreciated by every earnest reader.--_Boston Times._ Price, postpaid, cloth, $1.00; Red Line edition, $1.50. COPLEY SQUARE SERIES. I. Bond-Holders and Bread-Winners. By S. S. KING, Esq., Kansas City, Kansas. The most powerful book of the year. Its argument is irresistible. You should read it. President L. L. POLK, National F. A. and I. U., says: "It should be placed in the hands of every voter of this country." Price, postpaid, 25 cents; per hundred, $12.50. II. Money, Land, and Transportation. CONTENTS: 1. A New Declaration of Rights. _Hamlin Garland._ 2. The Farmer, Investor, and the Railway. _C. Wood Davis._ 3. The Independent Party and Money at Cost. _R. B. Hassell._ Price, single copy, 25 cents; per hundred, $10. III. Industrial Freedom. The Triple Demand of Labor. CONTENTS: 1. The Money Question. _Hon. John Davis._ 2. The Sub-Treasury Plan. _C. C. Post._ 3. The Railroad Problem. _C. Wood Davis and Ex-Gov. Lionel A. Sheldon._ Price, single copy, 25 cents; per hundred, $10. IV. Esau; or, The Banker's Victim. "ESAU" is the title of a new book by Dr. T. A. BLAND. It is a political novel of purpose and power. As a romance it is fascinating; as a history of a mortgage it is tragic; and as an _exposé_ of the financial policy of the old parties it is clear and forcible. It is a timely and valuable campaign book. Price, single copy, 25 cents; per hundred, $12.50. V. The People's Cause. CONTENTS: 1. The Threefold Contention of Industry. _Gen. J. B. Weaver, Presidential Nominee of People's Party._ 2. The Negro Question In the South. _Hon. Thos. E. Watson, M. C. from Georgia._ 3. The Menace of Plutocracy. _B. O. Flower, Editor of "The Arena."_ 4. The Communism of Capital. _Hon. John Davis, M. C. from Kansas._ 5. The Pending Presidential Campaign. _Hon. J. H. Kyle, State Senator from South Dakota; Thos. E. Watson, M. C. from Georgia._ Price, 25 cents a copy; per hundred, $10. * * * * * Salome Shepard, Reformer. By HELEN M. WINSLOW. A New England story. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. The Law of Laws. By S. B. WAIT. The author takes advance metaphysical grounds on the origin, nature, and destiny of the soul. "It is offered as a contribution to the thought of that unnumbered fraternity of spirit whose members are found wherever souls are sensitive to the impact of the truth and feel another's burden as their own."--_Author's Preface._ 256 pages; handsome cloth. Price, postpaid, $1.50. Life. A Novel. By WILLIAM W. WHEELER. A book of thrilling interest from cover to cover. In the form of a novel called "LIFE," William W. Wheeler has put before the public some of the clearest statements of logical ideas regarding humanity's present aspects, its inherent and manifest powers, and its future, that we have ever read. The book is strong, keen, powerful; running over with thought, so expressed as to clearly convey the author's ideas; everything is to the point, nothing superfluous--and for this it is specially admirable.--_The Boston Times._ Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Along Shore with a Man of War. By MARGUERITE DICKINS. A delightful story of travel, delightfully told, handsomely illustrated, and beautifully bound. Price, postpaid, $1.50. Evolution. Popular lectures by leading thinkers, delivered before the Brooklyn Ethical Association. This work is of inestimable value to the general reader who is interested in Evolution as applied to religious, scientific, and social themes. It is the joint work of a number of the foremost thinkers in America to-day. One volume, handsome cloth, illustrated, complete index. 408 pp. Price, postpaid, $2.00. Sociology. Popular lectures by eminent thinkers, delivered before the Brooklyn Ethical Association. This work is a companion volume to "Evolution," and presents the best thought of representative thinkers on social evolution. One volume, handsome cloth, with diagram and complete index. 412 pp. Price, postpaid, $2.00. The Dream Child. A fascinating romance of two worlds. By FLORENCE HUNTLEY. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. A Mute Confessor. The romance of a Southern town. By WILL N. HARBEN, author of "White Marie," "Almost Persuaded," etc. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Redbank; Life on a Southern Plantation. By M. L. COWLES. A typical Southern story by a Southern woman. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Psychics. Facts and Theories. By Rev. MINOT J. SAVAGE. A thoughtful discussion of Psychical problems. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Civilization's Inferno: Studies in the Social Cellar. By B. O. FLOWER. I. Introductory chapter. II. Society's Exiles. III. Two Hours in the Social Cellar. IV. The Democracy of Darkness. V. Why the Ishmaelites Multiply. VI. The Froth and the Dregs. VII. A Pilgrimage and a Vision. VIII. Some Facts and a Question. IX. What of the Morrow? Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Is This Your Son, My Lord? By HELEN H. GARDENER. The most powerful novel written by an American. A terrible _expose_ of conventional immorality and hypocrisy. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Pray You, Sir, Whose Daughter? By HELEN H. GARDENER. A brilliant novel of to-day, dealing with social purity and the "age of consent" laws. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. A Spoil of Office. A novel. By HAMLIN GARLAND. The truest picture of Western life that has appeared in American fiction. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Lessons Learned from Other Lives. By B. O. FLOWER. There are fourteen biographies in this volume, dealing with the lives of Seneca and Epictetus, the great Roman philosophers; Joan of Arc, the warrior maid; Henry Clay, the statesman; Edwin Booth and Joseph Jefferson, the actors; John Howard Payne, William Cullen Bryant, Edgar Allan Poe, Alice and Ph[oe]be Cary, and John G. Whittier, the poets; Alfred Russell Wallace, the scientist; Victor Hugo, the many-sided man of genius. "The book sparkles with literary jewels."--_Christian Leader_, Cincinnati, Ohio. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Songs. By NEITH BOYCE. Illustrated with original drawings by ETHELWYN WELLS CONREY. A beautiful gift book. Bound in white and gold. Price, postpaid, $1.25. The Finished Creation, and Other Poems. By BENJAMIN HATHAWAY, author of "The League of the Iroquois," "Art Life," and other Poems. Handsomely bound in white parchment vellum, stamped in silver. Price, postpaid, $1.25. Wit and Humor of the Bible. By Rev. MARION D. SHUTTER, D.D. A brilliant and reverent treatise. Published only in cloth. Price, postpaid, $1.50. Son of Man; or, Sequel to Evolution. By CELESTIA ROOT LANG. Published only in cloth. This work, in many respects, very remarkably discusses the next step in the Evolution of Man. It is in perfect touch with advanced Christian Evolutionary thought, but takes a step beyond the present position of Religion Leaders. Price, postpaid, $1.25. Jason Edwards: An Average Man. By HAMLIN GARLAND. A powerful and realistic story of to-day. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Who Lies? An Interrogation. By BLUM and ALEXANDER. A book that is well worth reading. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Main Travelled Roads. Six Mississippi Valley stories. By HAMLIN GARLAND. "The sturdy spirit of true democracy runs through this book."--_Review of Reviews._ Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. Irrepressible Conflict Between Two World-Theories. By Rev. MINOT J. SAVAGE. The most powerful presentation of Theistic Evolution _versus_ Orthodoxy that has ever appeared. Price: paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. _For sale by all booksellers. Sent postpaid upon receipt of the price._ Arena Publishing Company, Copley Square, BOSTON, MASS. 
49207	----	ANNO DOMINI 2000; OR, _WOMAN'S DESTINY_. BY SIR JULIUS VOGEL, K.C.M.G. LONDON: HUTCHINSON AND CO., 25, PATERNOSTER SQUARE. 1889. Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. Dedicated TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CARNARVON, WHO, BY HIS SUCCESSFUL EFFORTS TO CONSOLIDATE THE CANADIAN DOMINIONS, HAS GREATLY AIDED THE CAUSE OF FEDERATION. CONTENTS. PAGE PROLOGUE 3 CHAPTER I. THE YEAR 2000--UNITED BRITAIN 27 CHAPTER II. THE EMPEROR AND HILDA FITZHERBERT 59 CHAPTER III. LORD REGINALD PARAMATTA 67 CHAPTER IV. A PARTIAL VICTORY 83 CHAPTER V. CABINET NEGOTIATIONS 99 CHAPTER VI. BAFFLED REVENGE 119 CHAPTER VII. HEROINE WORSHIP 165 CHAPTER VIII. AIR-CRUISERS 177 CHAPTER IX. TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE 193 CHAPTER X. LORD REGINALD AGAIN 215 CHAPTER XI. GRATEFUL IRELAND 233 CHAPTER XII. THE EMPEROR PLANS A CAMPAIGN 251 CHAPTER XIII. LOVE AND WAR 261 CHAPTER XIV. THE FOURTH OF JULY RETRIEVED 287 CHAPTER XV. CONCLUSION 295 EPILOGUE 309 PROLOGUE. A.D. 1920. George Claude Sonsius in his early youth appeared to have before him a fair, prosperous future. His father and mother were of good family, but neither of them inherited wealth. When young Sonsius finished his university career, the small fortune which his father possessed was swept away by the failure of a large banking company. All that remained from the wreck was a trifling annuity payable during the lives of his father and mother, and this they did not live long to enjoy. They died within a year of each other, but they had been able to obtain for their son a fairly good position in a large mercantile house as foreign correspondent. At twenty-five the young man married; and three years afterwards he unfortunately met with a serious accident, that made him for two years a helpless invalid and at the end of the time left him with his right hand incapable of use. Meanwhile his appointment had lapsed, his wife's small fortune had disappeared, and during several years his existence had been one continual struggle with ever-increasing want and penury. The end was approaching. The father and mother and their one crippled son, twelve years old, dwelt in the miserable attic of a most dilapidated house in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of London. The roof over their heads did not even protect them from the weather. The room was denuded of every article of furniture with the exception of two worthless wooden cases and a horsehair mattress on which the unhappy boy stretched his pain-wrung limbs. Early in life this child suffered only from weakness of the spine, but his parents could afford no prolonged remedial measures. Not that they were unkind to him. On the contrary, they devoted to him every minute they could spare, and lavished on him all the attention that affection comparatively powerless from want of means could dictate. But the food they were able to give him was scant instead of, as his condition demanded, varied and nutritious. At length chronic disease of the spine set in, and his life became one long misery. Parochial aid was refused unless they would go into the poor-house, but the one thing Mrs. Sonsius could not bring herself to endure was the separation from her son which was demanded of her as a condition of relief. For thirty hours they had been without food, when the father, maddened by the moanings of his wife and child, rushed into the street, and passing a baker's shop which appeared to be empty, stole from it a loaf of bread. The proprietor, however, saw the action from an inner room. He caught Sonsius just as he was leaving the shop. He did not care to give the thief in charge, necessitating as it would several attendances at the police court. He took the administration of justice into his own hands, and dealt the unhappy man two severe blows in the face. To a healthy person the punishment would have done comparatively little harm, but Sonsius was weakened by disease and starvation, and the shock of the blows was too much for him. He fell prone on the pavement, and all attempts to restore him to consciousness proved unavailing. Then his history became public property. Scores of people remembered the pleasant-mannered, well-looking young man who had distinguished himself at college, and for whom life seemed to promise a pleasant journey. The horrible condition of his wife and child, the desperation that drove him to the one lapse from an otherwise stainless life, the frightful contrast between the hidden poverty and the gorgeous wealth of the great metropolis, became themes upon which every newspaper dilated after its own fashion. Some papers even went so far as to ask, "Was it a crime for a man to steal a loaf of bread to save his wife and child from starvation?" In grim contrast with the terrible conclusion of his wretched career, the publicity cast upon it elicited the fact that a few weeks earlier he had inherited by the death of a distant relative an enormous fortune, all efforts to trace him through the changes of residence that increasing poverty had necessitated having proved unavailing. Now that the wretched father and husband was dead, the wife for whom the bread was stolen had become a great lady, the boy was at length to receive the aid that wealth could give him. Poor George Claude Sonsius has nothing to do with our story, but his fate led to the alleviation of a great deal of misery that otherwise might have been in store for millions of human beings. Loud and clear rang out the cry, "What was the use of denouncing slavery when want like this was allowed to pass unheeded by the side of superfluous wealth?" The slave-owner has sufficient interest in his slaves, it was alleged, as a rule, to care for their well-being. Even criminals were clothed and fed. Had not, it was asked, every human being the right to demand from a world which through the resources of experience and science became constantly more productive a sufficiency of sustenance? The inquest room was crowded. The coroner and jury were strongly affected as they viewed the body laid out in a luxuriously appointed coffin. Wealth denied to the living was lavished on the dead. No longer in rags and tatters, the lifeless body seemed to revert to the past. Shrunken as was the frame, and emaciated the features, there remained evidence sufficient to show that the now inanimate form was once a fine and handsome man. The evidence was short, and the summing up of the coroner decisive. He insisted that the baker had not wilfully committed wrong and should not be made responsible for the consequences that followed his rough recovery of his property. A butcher and a general provision dealer on the jury took strongly the same view. How were poor tradesmen to protect themselves? They must take the law in their own hands, they argued, otherwise it would be better to submit to being robbed rather than waste their time in police courts. They wanted a verdict of justifiable homicide. Another juryman (a small builder) urged a verdict of misadventure; at first he called it peradventure. But the rest of the jury felt otherwise. Some desired a verdict of manslaughter, and it was long before the compromise of "Death by accident" was agreed to. Deep groans filled the room as the result was announced. That same night a large crowd of men and women assembled outside the baker's shop with hostile demonstrations. The windows were destroyed, and an attempt made to break in the door. A serious riot would probably have ensued but for the arrival of a large body of police. Again the fate of George Sonsius became the familiar topic of the press. But the impression was not an ephemeral one. The fierce spirit of discontent which for years had been smouldering burst into flames. A secret society called the "Live and Let Live" was formed, with ramifications throughout the world. The force of numbers, the force of brute strength, was appealed to. A bold and outspoken declaration was made that every human being had an inherent right to sufficient food and clothing and comfortable lodging. Truly poor George Sonsius died for the good of many millions of his fellow-creatures. Our history will show the point at length achieved. Shortly after poor Sonsius' death a remarkable meeting was held in the city of London. The representatives of six of the largest financial houses throughout the globe assembled by agreement to discuss the present material condition of the world and its future prospects. There was Lord de Cardrosse, head of the English house of that name and chief, moreover, of the family, whose branches presided over princely houses of finance in six of the chief cities of the continent of Europe. Second only in power in Great Britain, the house of Bisdat and Co. was represented by Charles James Bisdat, a man of scarcely forty, but held to be the greatest living authority on abstruse financial questions. The Dutch house of Von Serge Brothers was represented by its head, Cornelius Julius Von Serge. The greatest finance house in America, Rorgon, Bryce and Co., appeared by its chief, Henry Tudor Rorgon; and the scarcely less powerful house of Lockay, Stanfield and Co., of San Francisco, Melbourne, Sydney, and Wellington, was represented by its chief, Alfred Demetrius. The German and African house of Werther, Scribe and Co. was present in the person of its head, Baron Scribe; and the French and Continental houses of the De Cardrosse family were represented by the future head of the family, the Baroness de Cardrosse. The deliberations were carried on in French. Two or more of these houses had no doubt from time to time worked together in one transaction; but their uniform position was one of independence towards each other, verging more towards antagonism than to union. In fact, the junction for ordinary purposes of such vast powers as these kings of finance wielded would be fatal to liberty and freedom. A single instance will suffice to show the power referred to, which even one group of financiers could wield. Five years previously all Europe was in a ferment. War was expected from every quarter. It depended not on one, but on many questions. The alliances were doubtful. Nothing seemed certain but that neutrality would be impossible, and that the Continent would be divided into two or more great camps. The final decision appeared to rest with Great Britain. There an ominous disposition for war was displaying itself. The inclination of the Sovereign and the Cabinet was supposed to be in that direction. But the family of De Cardrosses throughout Europe was for peace. The chief of the family was the head of the English house, and it was decided he should interview the Prime Minister of England and acquaint him with the views of this great financial group. His reception was not flattering; but if he felt mortified, he did not show it. He expressed himself deeply sensible of the honour done to him by his being allowed to state his opinions; and with a reverential inclination he bowed himself from the presence of the greatest statesman of his day, the Right Honourable Randolph Stanley. That afternoon it was bruited about that, in view of coming possibilities, the De Cardrosse family had determined to realise securities all over Europe and send gold to America. The next morning a disposition to sell was reported from every direction, and five millions sterling of gold were collected for despatch to New York. In twenty-four hours there was a panic throughout Great Britain and Europe. The Bank of England asked for permission to suspend specie payments, but could indicate no limit to which such a permission should be set. It seemed as if Europe would be drained of gold. The great rivals of the De Cardrosses looked on and either could not or would not interfere. A hurried Cabinet meeting was convened, and as a result a conference by telephone was arranged between the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the Ministers of the Great Powers of Europe. Commencing by twos and threes, the conference developed into an assemblage for conversational purposes of at least twenty of the chief statesmen and diplomatists of the Old World. Rumour said that even monarchs in two or three cases were present and inspired the telephonic utterances of their Ministers. How the result was arrived at was known best to those who took part in the conference, but peace and disarmament were agreed on if certain contingencies involving the exercise of vast power and the expenditure of enormous capital could be provided for. No other conclusion could be arrived at, and one way or the other the outcome had to be settled within twenty-four hours. The conference had lasted from ten o'clock to four. At five o'clock by invitation Lord de Cardrosse waited on the Prime Minister, who received him much more cordially than before. "You have caused me," he said, "to learn a great deal during the last forty-eight hours." "I could not presume to teach you anything. Events have spoken," was the reply. "And who controlled them if not the houses of De Cardrosse?" "You do us too much honour. It is you who govern; we are of those who are governed." "The alliance between power and modesty," said the Prime Minister, with pardonable irony, "is irresistible. Tell me, my Lord, is it too late for your views to prevail?" A slight, almost imperceptible start was the only movement the De Cardrosse made. The enormous self-repression he was exercising cannot be exaggerated. The future strength of the family depended on the issue. There was, however, no tremor in his voice when he answered, "If you adopt them, I do not think it is too late." "But do you realise the sacrifices in all directions that have to be made?" said the Minister in faltering tones. "I think I do." "And you think to secure peace those sacrifices should be made?" "I do." "Will you tell me what those sacrifices are?" he asked. Lord de Cardrosse smiled. "You desire me," he said, "to tell you what you already know." Then he proceeded to describe to the amazed Prime Minister in brief but pregnant terms one after the other the conditions that had been agreed on. Once only he paused and indicated that the condition he was describing he accepted reluctantly. "I do not conceal," said the astounded Prime Minister, "my surprise at the extent of your knowledge; and clearly you approve the only compromise possible. It is needless to tell you that the acceptance of this compromise requires the use of means not at the disposal of the Governments. In one word, will it suit you to supply them?" "I might," responded Lord de Cardrosse, "ask you until two o'clock to-morrow to give an answer; but I do not wish to add to your anxiety. If you will undertake to entirely and absolutely confine within your own breast the knowledge of what my answer will be, I will undertake that that answer at two o'clock to-morrow shall be 'Yes.'" Silently they shook hands. Probably these two men had never before so thoroughly appreciated the strength and speciality of their several powers. The panic continued until two o'clock the following day, when an enormous reaction took place. The part the De Cardrosse family played in securing peace was suspected by a few only. Its full extent the Prime Minister alone knew. He it was who enjoyed the credit for saving the world from a desolating war. And now, after an interval of five years, the sovereigns of finance met in conclave. In obedience to the generally expressed wish, Lord de Cardrosse took the chair. "I need scarcely say," he began, "that I am deeply sensible of the compliment you pay me in asking me to preside over such a meeting. We in this room represent a living power throughout the globe, before which the reigning sovereigns of the world are comparatively helpless. But, because of our great strength, it is undesirable that we should work unitedly except for very great and humane objects. For the mere purpose of money-making, I feel assured you all agree with me in desiring no combination, no monopoly, that would pit us against the rest of the world." He paused for a moment, evidently desiring to disguise the strength of the emotion with which he spoke. He resumed in slower and apparently more mastered words. "I wish I could put it to you sufficiently strongly that our houses would not have considered any good that could result to them and to you a sufficient excuse for inviting such a combination. We hold that the only cause that could justify it is the conviction that for the good of mankind a vast power requires to be wielded which is not to be found in the ordinary machinery of government." A murmur of applause went round the table; and Mr. Demetrius, with much feeling, said, "You make me very happy by the assurance you have given. I will not conceal from you that our house anticipated as much, or it would not have been represented. We are too largely concerned with States in which free institutions are permanent not to avoid anything which might savour of a disposition to combine financial forces for the benefit of financial houses." Lord de Cardrosse then proceeded to explain that his family, in serious and prolonged conclave, could come to no other conclusion than that certain influences were at work which would cause great suffering to mankind and sap and destroy the best institutions which civilisation and science had combined to create. The time had come to answer the question, Should human knowledge, human wants, and human skill continue to advance to an extent to which no limit could be put, or should the survival of the fittest and strongest be fought out in a period of anarchy? "It amounts," he said in a tone of profound conviction, "to this: the ills under which the masses suffer accumulate. There is no use in comparing what they have to-day with what they had fifty years ago. A person who grows from infancy to manhood in a prison may feel contented until he knows what the liberty is that others enjoy. The born blind are happier than those who become blind by accident. To our masses the knowledge of liberty is open, and they feel they are needlessly deprived of it. Wider and wider to their increasing knowledge opens out the horizon of possible delights; more and more do they feel that they are deprived of what of right belongs to them." He paused, as if inviting some remarks from his hearers. Mr. Bisdat, who spoke in an interrogative rather than an affirmative tone, took up the thread. "I am right, I think, in concluding that your remarks do not point against or in favour of any school of politics or doctrines of party. You direct our notice to causes below the surface to which the Government of the day--I had almost said the hour,--do not penetrate, causes which you believe, if left to unchecked operation, will undermine the whole social fabric." "It is so," emphatically replied Lord de Cardrosse. "The evils are not only apparent; but equally apparent is it that no remedy is being applied, and that we are riding headlong to anarchy." Again he paused, and Mr. Rorgon took up the discussion. "If we," he said, "the princes of finance, do not find a remedy, how long will the enlarged intelligence of the people submit to conditions which are at war with the theory of the equality and liberty of mankind?" "Yes," said the Baroness de Cardrosse, speaking for the first time, "it is clear that there is a limit to the inequality of fortune to which men and women will submit. Equality of possessions there cannot be; but, if I may indulge in metaphor, we cannot expect that the bulk of humankind will be content with being entirely shut out from the sunlight of existence." The gentlemen present bowed low in approval; and Mr. Demetrius said, "The simile of the Baroness is singularly appropriate. There are myriads of human beings to whom the sunshine of life is denied. A too universal evil invites resistance by means which in lesser cases might be scouted. In short, if the remedy is left to anarchy, anarchy there will be. Even in our young lands the shadow of the coming evil is beginning to show itself. Indeed," he added, with an air of musing abstraction, "it is not unfair to deduce from what has been said, that, even if the evils are less in the new lands of the West and the South, superior general intelligence may more than proportionally increase the wants of the multitude and the sense of wrong under which they labour." The conference extended over three days. Every one agreed that interference with the ordinary conditions of finance was inexpedient except in extreme cases, but they were unanimous in thinking that an extreme case had to be dealt with. They finally decided by the use of an extended paper currency, with its necessary guarantees, to increase the circulating medium and to raise the prices both of products and labour. Some other decisions were adopted having especial reference to the employment of labour and insurance against want in cases of disablement through illness, accident, or old age. So ended the most remarkable conference of any age or time. CHAPTER I. THE YEAR 2000--UNITED BRITAIN. Time has passed. There have been many alterations, few of an extreme character. The changes are mostly the results of gradual developments worked out by the natural progress of natural laws. But as constant dropping wears away a stone, constant progression, comparatively imperceptible in its course, attains to immense distances after the lapse of time. This applies though the momentum continually increases the rate of the progress. Thus the well-being of the human kind has undoubtedly increased much more largely during the period between 1900 and 2000 than during the previous century, but equally in either century would it be difficult to select any five years as an example of the turning-point of advancement. Progression, progression, always progression, has been the history of the centuries since the birth of Christ. Doubtless the century we have now entered on will be yet more fruitful of human advancement than any of its predecessors. The strongest point of the century which "Has gone, with its thorns and its roses, With the dust of dead ages to mix," has been the astonishing improvement of the condition of mankind and the no less striking advancement of the intellectual power of woman. The barriers which man in his own interest set to the occupation of woman having once been broken down, the progress of woman in all pursuits requiring judgment and intellect has been continuous; and the sum of that progress is enormous. It has, in fact, come to be accepted that the bodily power is greater in man, and the mental power larger in woman. So to speak, woman has become the guiding, man the executive, force of the world. Progress has necessarily become greater because it is found that women bring to the aid of more subtle intellectual capabilities faculties of imagination that are the necessary adjuncts of improvement. The arts and caprices which in old days were called feminine proved to be the silken chains fastened by men on women to lull them into inaction. Without abating any of their charms, women have long ceased to submit to be the playthings of men. They lead men, as of yore, but not so much through the fancy or the senses as through the legitimate consciousness of the man that in following woman's guidance he is tending to higher purposes. We are generalising of course to a certain extent. The variable extent of women's influence is now, as it has been throughout the ages past, the point on which most of the dramas of the human race depend. The increased enjoyment of mankind is a no less striking feature of the last hundred years. Long since a general recognition was given to the theory that, whilst equality of possession was an impossible and indeed undesirable ideal, there should be a minimum of enjoyment of which no human being should be deprived unless on account of crime. Crime as an occupation has become unknown, and hereditary crime rendered impossible. On the other hand, the law has constituted such provisions for reserves of wealth that anything more than temporary destitution is precluded. Such temporary destitution can only be the result of sheer improvidence, the expenditure, for instance, within a day of what should be expended in a week. The moment it becomes evident, its recurrence is rendered impossible, because the assistance, instead of being given weekly, is rendered daily. Private charity has been minimised; indeed, it is considered to be injurious: and all laws for the recovery of debts have been abolished. The decision as to whether there is debt and its amount is still to be obtained, but the satisfaction of all debt depends solely on the sense of honour or expediency of the debtor. The posting the name of a debtor who refuses to satisfy his liabilities has been found to be far more efficacious than any process of law. The enjoyment of what in the past would have been considered luxuries has become general. The poorest household has with respect to comforts and provisions a profusion which a hundred years since was wanting in households of the advanced classes. Long since there dawned upon the world the conviction-- First. That labour or work of some kind was the only condition of general happiness. Second. That every human being was entitled to a certain proportion of the world's good things. Third. That, as the capacity of machinery and the population of the world increased production, the theory of the need of labour could not be realised unless with a corresponding increase of the wants of mankind; and that, instead of encouraging a degraded style of living, it was in the interests of the happiness of mankind to encourage a style of living in which the refinements of life received marked consideration. Great Britain, as it used to be called, has long ceased to be a bundle of sticks. The British dominions have been consolidated into the empire of United Britain; and not only is it the most powerful empire on the globe, but at present no sign is shown of any tendency to weakness or decay. Yet there was a time--about the year 1920--when the utter disintegration of the Empire seemed not only possible, but probable. The Irish question was still undecided. For many years it had continued to be the sport of Ministers. Cabinet succeeded Cabinet; each had its Irish nostrum; each seemed to think that the Irish question was a good means of delaying questions nearer home. The power of the nation sensibly waned. What nation could be strong with pronounced disaffection festering in its midst? At length, when rumours of a great war were rife upon the result of which the very existence of Great Britain as a nation might depend, the Colonies interposed. By this time the Canadian, Australasian, and Cape colonies had become rich, populous, and powerful. United, they far exceeded in importance the original mother-country. At the instigation of the Premier of Canada, a confidential intercolonial conference was held. In consequence of the deliberations that ensued, a united representation was made to the Prime Minister of England to the effect that the Colonies could no longer regard without concern the prolonged disquiet prevailing in Ireland. They would suffer should any disaster overtake the Empire, and disaster was courted by permitting the continuation of Irish disaffection. Besides, the Colonies, enjoying as they did local government, could see no reason why Ireland should be treated differently. The message was a mandate, and was meant to be so. The Prime Minister of England, however, puffed up with the pride of old traditions, did not or would not so understand it, and returned an insolent answer. Within twenty-four hours the Colonial Ministers sent a joint respectful address to the King of England representing that they were equally his Majesty's advisers with his Ministers residing in England, and refusing to make any further communications to or through his present advisers. The Ministry had to retire; a new one was formed. Ireland received the boon it had long claimed of local government, and the whole Empire was federated on the condition that the federation was irrevocable and that every part of it should fight to the last to preserve the union. The King of England and Emperor of India was crowned amidst great pomp Emperor of Britain. All parts of the Empire joined their strength and resources. A federal fleet was formed on the basis that it was to equal in power in every respect the united fleets of all the rest of the world. Conferences with the Great Powers took place in consequence of which Egypt, Belgium, and the whole of the ports bordering the English Channel and Straits of Dover, and the whole of South Africa became incorporated into the empire of Britain. Some concessions, however, were made in other directions. These results were achieved within fifteen years of the interference by the Colonies in federal affairs, and the foundation was laid for the powerful empire which Britain has become. Two other empires and one republic alone approach it in power, and a cordial understanding exists between them to repress war to the utmost extent possible. They constitute the police of the world. Each portion of the Emperor of Britain's possessions enjoys local government, but the federal government is irresistibly strong. It is difficult to say which is the seat of government, as the Federal Parliament is held in different parts of the world, and the Emperor resides in many places. With the utmost comfort he can go from end to end of his dominions in twelve days. If a headquarter does remain, it may probably be conceded that Alexandria fulfils that position. The House of Lords has ceased to exist as a separate chamber. The peers began to feel ashamed of holding positions not in virtue of their abilities, but because of the accident of birth. It was they who first sought and ultimately obtained the right to hold seats in the elective branch of the Legislature; and finally it was decided that the peerage should elect a certain number of its own members to represent it in the Federal Parliament: in other words, the accidents of birth were controlled by the selection of the fittest. Our scene opens in Melbourne, in the year 2000--a few years prior to the date at which we are writing. The Federal Parliament was sitting there that year. The Emperor occupied his magnificent palace on the banks of the Yarra, above Melbourne, which city and its suburbs possessed a population of nearly two millions. In a large and handsome room in the Federal buildings, a young woman of about twenty-three years of age was seated. She was born in New Zealand. She entered the local parliament before she was twenty.[A] At twenty-two she was elected to the Federal Parliament, and she had now become Under-Secretary of State for Home Affairs. From her earliest youth she had never failed in any intellectual exercise. Her intelligence was considered phenomenal. Her name was Hilda Richmond Fitzherbert. She was descended from families which for upwards of a century produced distinguished statesmen--a word, it should be mentioned, which includes both sexes. She was fair to look at in both face and figure. Dark violet eyes, brown hair flecked with a golden tinge, clearly cut features, and a glorious complexion made up a face artistically perfect; but these charms were what the observer least noticed. The expression of the face was by far its chief attraction, and words fail to do justice to it. There was about it a luminous intelligence, a purity, and a pathos that seemed to belong to another world. No trace of passion yet stamped it. If the love given to all humanity ever became a love devoted to one person, the expression of the features might descend from the spiritual to the passionate. Even then to human gaze it might become more fascinating. But that test had not come. As she rose from her chair you saw that she was well formed, though slight in figure and of full height. She went to an instrument at a side-table, and spoke to it, the materials for some half-dozen letters referring to groups of papers that lay on the table. When she concluded, she summoned a secretary, who removed the papers and the phonogram on which her voice had been impressed. These letters were reproduced, and brought to her for signature. Copies attached to the several papers were initialled. Meanwhile she paced up and down the room in evident deep distraction. At length she summoned a messenger, and asked him to tell the Countess of Middlesex that she wished to see her. In a few minutes Lady Middlesex entered the room. She was about thirty years of age, of middle height, and pleasing appearance, though a close observer might imagine he saw something sinister in the expression of her countenance. After a somewhat ceremonious greeting, Miss Fitzherbert commenced: "I have carefully considered what passed at our last interview. It is difficult to separate our official and unofficial relations. I am still at a loss to determine whether you have spoken to me as the Assistant Under-Secretary to the Under-Secretary or as woman to woman." Lady Middlesex quickly rejoined, "Will you let me speak to you as woman to woman, and forget for a moment our official relations?" "Can you doubt it?" replied Miss Fitzherbert. "But remember that our wishes are not always under our control, and that, though I may not desire to remember to your prejudice what you say, I may not be able to free myself from recollection." "And yet," said Lady Middlesex, with scarcely veiled irony, "the world says Miss Fitzherbert does not know what prejudice means!" The slightest possible movement of impatience was all the rejoinder vouchsafed to this speech. Lady Middlesex continued, "I spoke to you as strongly as I dared, as strongly as my position permitted, about my brother Reginald--Lord Reginald Paramatta. He suffers under a sense of injury. He is miserable. He feels that it is to you that he owes his removal to a distant station. He loves you, and does not know if he may venture to tell you so." "No woman," replied Miss Fitzherbert, "is warranted in regarding with anger the love of a good man; but you know, or ought to know, that my life is consecrated to objects that are inconsistent with my entertaining the love you speak of." "But," said Lady Middlesex, "can you be sure that it always will be so?" "We can be sure of nothing." "Nay," replied Lady Middlesex, "do not generalise. Let me at least enjoy the liberty you have accorded me. If you did not feel that there were possibilities for Reginald in conflict with your indifference, why should you trouble yourself with his removal?" "I have not admitted that I am concerned in his removal." "You know you are; you cannot deny it." Miss Fitzherbert was dismayed at the position into which she had allowed herself to be forced. She must either state what truth forbade or admit that to some extent Lord Reginald had obtained a hold on her thoughts. "Other men," pursued Lady Middlesex, with remorseless directness, "have aspired as Reginald does; and you have known how to dispose of their aspirations without such a course as that of which my brother has been the object." "I have understood," said Miss Fitzherbert, "that Lord Reginald is promoted to an important position, one that ought to be intensely gratifying to so comparatively young a man." "My brother has only one wish, and you are its centre. He desires only one position." "I did not infer, Lady Middlesex," said Miss Fitzherbert, with some haughtiness, "that you designed to use the permission you asked of me to become a suitor on your brother's behalf." "Why else should I have asked such permission?" replied Lady Middlesex, with equal haughtiness. Then, with a sudden change of mood and manner, "Miss Fitzherbert, forgive me. My brother is all in all to me. My husband and my only child are dead. My brother is all that is left to me to remind me of a once happy home. Do not, I pray, I entreat you, embitter his life. Ask yourself--forgive me for saying so--if ambition rather than consecration to a special career may not influence you; and if your conscience replies affirmatively, remember the time will come to you, as it has come to other women, when success, the applause of the crowd, and a knowledge of great deeds effected will prove a poor consolation for the want of one single human being on whom to lavish a woman's love. Most faculties become smaller by disuse, but it is not so with the affections; they revenge themselves on those who have dared to disbelieve in their force." "You assume," said Miss Fitzherbert, "that I love your brother." "Is it not so?" "No! a thousand times no!" "You feel that you might love him. That is the dawn of love." "Listen, Lady Middlesex. That dawn has not opened to me. I will not deny, I have felt a prepossession in favour of your brother; but I have the strongest conviction that my life will be better and happier because of my refusing to give way to it. For me there is no love of the kind. In lonely maidenhood I will live and die. If my choice is unwise, I will be the sufferer; and I have surely the right to make it. My lady, our interview is at an end." Lady Middlesex rose and bowed her adieu, but another thought seemed to occur to her. "You will," she said, "at least see my brother before he goes. Indeed, otherwise I doubt his leaving. He told me this morning that he would resign." Miss Fitzherbert after a moment's thought replied, "I will see your brother. Bid him call on me in two hours' time. Good-bye." As she was left alone a look of agony came over her face. "Am I wise?" she said. "That subtle woman knew how to wound me. She is right. I could love; I could adore the man I loved. Will all the triumphs of the world and the sense of the good I do to others console me during the years to come for the sunshine of love to which every woman has a claim? Yes, I do not deny the claim, high as my conception is of a woman's destiny." After a few moments' pause, she started up indignantly. "Am I then," she ejaculated half aloud, "that detestable thing a woman with a mission, and does the sense of that mission restrain me from yielding to my inclination?" Again she paused, and then resumed, "No, it is not so. I have too easily accepted Lady Middlesex's insinuation. I am neither ambitious nor philanthropic to excess. It is a powerful instinct that speaks to me about Lord Reginald. To a certain extent I am drawn to him, but I doubt him, and it is that which restrains me. I am more disposed to be frightened of than to love him. Why do I doubt him? Some strong impulse teaches me to do so. What do I doubt? I doubt his loving me with a love that will endure, I doubt our proving congenial companions, and--why may I not say it to myself?--I doubt his character. I question his sincerity. The happiness of a few months might be followed by a life of misery. I must be no weak fool to allow myself to be persuaded." Hilda Fitzherbert was a thoroughly good, true-hearted, and lovable girl. Clever, well informed, and cultivated to the utmost, she had no disposition to prudery or priggishness. She was rather inclined to under- than over-value herself. Lady Middlesex's clever insinuations had caused her for the moment to doubt her own conduct; but reflection returned in time, and once more she became conscious that she felt for Lord Reginald no more attachment than any woman might entertain for a handsome, accomplished man who persistently displayed his admiration. She was well aware that under ordinary circumstances such feelings as she had, might develop into strong love if there were no reverse to the picture; but in this case conviction--call it, if you will, an instinct--persuaded her there was an opposite side. She felt that Lord Reginald was playing a part; that, if his true character stood revealed to her, an unfathomable abyss would yawn between them. Her reflections were disturbed by the entrance of a lady of very distinguished mien. She might indeed look distinguished, for the Right Honourable Mrs. Hardinge was not only Prime Minister of the empire of Britain, but the most powerful and foremost statesman in the world. In her youth she had been a lovely girl; and even now, though not less than forty years of age, she was a beautiful--it might be more correct to say, a grand--woman. A tall, dignified, and stately figure was set off by a face of which every feature was artistically correct and capable of much variety of expression; and over that expression she held entire command. She had, if she wished it, an arch and winning manner, such as no one but a cultivated Irishwoman possesses; the purest Irish blood ran through her veins. She could say "No" in a manner that more delighted the person whose request she was refusing than would "Yes" from other lips. An adept in all the arts of conversation, she could elicit information from the most inscrutable statesmen, who under her influence would fancy she was more confidential to them than they to her. By indomitable strength she had fought down an early inclination to impulsiveness. The appearance still remained, but no statesman was more slow to form opinions and less prone to change them. She could, if necessary, in case of emergency, act with lightning rapidity; but she had schooled herself to so act only in cases of extreme need. She had a warm heart, and in the private relations of life no one was better liked. Hilda Fitzherbert worshipped her; and Mrs. Hardinge, childless and with few relations, loved and admired the girl with a strength and tenacity that made their official relations singularly pleasant. "My dear Hilda," she said, "why do you look so disturbed, and how is it you are idle? It is rare to find you unoccupied." Hilda, almost in tears, responded, "Dear Mrs. Hardinge, tell me, do tell me, what do you really think of Lord Reginald Paramatta?" If Mrs. Hardinge felt any surprise at the extraordinary abruptness of the question, she did not permit it to be visible. "My dear, the less you think of him the better. I will tell you how I read his character. He is unstable and insincere, capable of any exertion to attain the object on which he has set his mind; the moment he has gained it the victory becomes distasteful to him. I have offered him the command of our London forces to please you, but I tell you frankly I did so with reluctance. Nor would I have promoted him to the post but that it has long ceased to possess more than traditional importance. Those chartered sybarites the Londoners can receive little harm from Lord Reginald, and the time has long passed for him to receive any good. Such as it is, his character is moulded; and professionally he is no doubt an accomplished officer and brave soldier. Besides that, he possesses more than the ordinary abilities of a man." Hilda looked her thanks, but said no more than "Your opinion does not surprise me, and it tallies with my own judgment." "Dear girl, do not try to dispute that judgment. And now to affairs of much importance. I have come from the Emperor, and I see great difficulties in store for us." Probably Hilda had never felt so grateful to Mrs. Hardinge as she did now for the few words in which she had expressed so much, with such fine tact. An appearance of sympathy or surprise would have deeply wounded the girl. "Dear mamma," she said--as sometimes in private in moments of affection she was used to do--"does his Highness still show a disinclination to the settlement to which he has almost agreed?" "He shows the most marked disinclination, for he told me with strong emotion that he felt he would be sacrificing the convictions of his race." The position of the Emperor was indeed a difficult one. A young, high-spirited, generous, and brave man, he was asked by his Cabinet to take a step which in his heart he abhorred. A short explanation is necessary to make the case clear. When the Imperial Constitution of Britain was promulgated, women were beginning to acquire more power; but no one thought of suggesting that the preferential succession to the direct heirs male should be withdrawn. Meanwhile women advanced, and in all other classes of life they gained perfect equality with regard to the laws of succession and other matters, but the custom still remained by which the eldest daughter of the Emperor would be excluded in favour of the eldest son. Some negotiations had proceeded concerning the marriage of the Emperor to the daughter of the lady who enjoyed the position of President of the United States, an intense advocate of woman's equality. She was disposed, if not determined, to make it a condition of the marriage that the eldest child, whether son or daughter, should succeed. The Emperor's Cabinet had the same view, and it was one widely held throughout the Empire. But there were strong opinions on the other side. The increasing number of women elected by popular suffrage to all representative positions and the power which women invariably possessed in the Cabinet aroused the jealous anger of men. True, the feeling was not in the ascendant, and other disabilities of women were removed; but in this particular case, the last, it may be said, of women's disabilities, a separate feeling had to be taken into account. The ultra-Conservatives throughout the Empire, including both men and women, were superstitiously tenacious of upholding the Constitution in its integrity and averse to its being changed in the smallest particular. They felt that everything important to the Empire depended upon the irrevocable nature of the Constitution, and that the smallest change might be succeeded by the most organic alterations. The merits of the question mattered nothing in their opinion in comparison with the principle which they held it was a matter of life and death not to disturb. It was now proposed to introduce a Bill to enable the Emperor to declare that the succession should be to the eldest child. The Cabinet were strongly in favour of it, and to a great extent their existence as a Government depended on it. The Emperor was well disposed to his present advisers, but, it was no secret, was strongly averse to this one proposal. The contemplated match was an affair of State policy rather than of inclination. He had seldom met his intended bride, and was not prepossessed with her. She was good-looking and a fine girl; but she had unmistakably red hair, an adornment not to his taste. Besides, she was excessively firm in her opinions as to the superiority of women over men; and he strongly suspected she would be for ever striving to rule not only the household, but the Empire. It is difficult to fathom the motives of the human mind, difficult not only to others, but to the persons themselves concerned. The Emperor thought that his opposition to placing the succession on an equality between male and female was purely one of loyalty to his ancestors and to the traditions of the Empire. But who could say that he did not see in a refusal to pass the necessary Act a means of escaping the distasteful nuptials? Mrs. Hardinge had come from a long interview with him, and it was evident that she greatly doubted his continued support. She resumed, "His Highness seems very seriously to oppose the measure, and indeed quite ready to give up his intended marriage. I wonder," she said, looking keenly at Hilda, "whether he has seen any girl he prefers." The utter unconsciousness with which Hilda heard this veiled surmise appeared to satisfy Mrs. Hardinge; and she continued, "Tell me, dear, what do you think?" "I am hardly in a position to judge. Does the Emperor give no reasons for his opposition?" "Yes, he has plenty of reasons; but his strongest appears to be that whoever is ruler of the Empire should be able to lead its armies." "I thought," said Miss Fitzherbert, "that he had some good reason." "Do you consider this a good reason?" inquired Mrs. Hardinge sharply. "From his point of view, yes; from ours, no," said Hilda gently, but promptly. "Then you do not think that we should retreat from our position even if retreat were possible?" "No," replied Hilda. "Far better to leave office than to make a concession of which we do not approve in order to retain it." "You are a strange girl," said Mrs. Hardinge. "If I understand you rightly, you think both sides are correct." "I think that there is a great deal to be said on both sides, and this is constantly the case with important controversies. Between the metal and the flint the spark of truth is struck. I should think it no disgrace to be defeated on a subject about which we could show good cause. I might even come to think that better cause had been shown against us after the discussion was over; but to flee the discussion, to sacrifice conviction to expediency--that would be disgraceful." "Then," said Mrs. Hardinge, with some interest, "if the Emperor were to ask your opinion, you would try to persuade him to our side?" "Yes and no. I would urge strongly my sense of the question and my opinion that it is better to settle at once a controversy about which there is so much difference of opinion. But I should respect his views; and if they were conscientious, I should not dare to advise him to sacrifice them." An interruption unexpected by Miss Fitzherbert, but apparently not surprising to Mrs. Hardinge, occurred. An aide-de-camp of the Emperor entered. After bowing low to the ladies, he briefly said, "His Imperial Majesty desires the presence of Miss Fitzherbert." A summons so unusual raised a flush to the girl's cheek. She looked at Mrs. Hardinge. "I had intended to tell you," said that lady, "that the Emperor mentioned he would like to speak to you on the subject we have been considering." Then, turning to the aide-de-camp, she said, "Miss Fitzherbert will immediately wait on his Majesty." The officer left the room. Hilda archly turned to Mrs. Hardinge. "So, dear mamma, you were preparing me for this interview?" "Dear child," said the elder lady, "you want no preparation. Whatever the consequences to me, I will not ask you to put any restraint on the expression of your opinions." FOOTNOTE: [A] Every adult of eighteen years of age was allowed to vote and was consequently, by the laws of the Empire, eligible for election. CHAPTER II. THE EMPEROR AND HILDA FITZHERBERT. The Emperor received Miss Fitzherbert with a cordial grace, infinitely pleasing and flattering to that young lady. She of course had often seen his Majesty at Court functions, but never before had he summoned her to a separate audience. And indeed, high though her official position and reputation were, she did not hold Cabinet rank; and a special audience was a rare compliment, such as perhaps no one in her position had ever previously enjoyed. The Emperor was a tall man of spare and muscular frame, with the dignity and bearing of a practised soldier. It was impossible not to recognise that he was possessed of immense strength and power of endurance. He had just celebrated his twenty-seventh birthday, and looked no more than his age. His face was of the fair Saxon type. His eyes were blue, varying with his moods from almost dark violet to a cold steel tint. Few persons were able to disguise from him their thoughts when he fixed on them his eyes, with the piercing enquiry of which they were capable. His eyes were indeed singularly capable of a great variety of expression. He could at will make them denote the thoughts and feelings which he wished to make apparent to those with whom he conversed. Apart from his position, no one could look at him without feeling that he was a distinguished man. He was of a kindly disposition, but capable of great severity, especially towards any one guilty of a mean or cowardly action. He was of a highly honourable disposition, and possessed an exalted sense of duty. He rarely allowed personal inclination to interfere with public engagements; indeed, he was tenaciously sensitive on the point, and sometimes fancied that he permitted his judgment to be obscured by his prepossessions when he had really good grounds for his conclusions. On the very subject of his marriage he was constantly filled with doubt as to whether his objection to the proposed alteration in the law of succession was well founded on public grounds or whether he was unconsciously influenced by his personal disinclination to the contemplated union. He realised the truth of the saying of a very old author-- "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." After indicating to Miss Fitzherbert his wish that she should be seated, he said to her, "I have been induced to ask your attendance by a long conversation I have had with Mrs. Hardinge. I have heard the opinions she has formed, and they seem to me the result of matured experience. It occurred to me that I would like to hear the opinions of one who, possessed of no less ability, has been less subject to official and diplomatic exigencies. I may gather from you how much of personal feeling should be allowed to influence State affairs." "Your Majesty is very gracious," faltered Hilda, "but Mrs. Hardinge has already told you the opinion of the Cabinet. Even if I differed from it, which I do not, I could not venture to obtrude my view on your Majesty." "Yes, you could," said the Emperor, "if I asked you, or let me say commanded you." "Sir, your wishes are commands. I do not pretend to have deeply studied the matter. I think the time has come to finally settle a long-mooted question and to withdraw from woman the last disability under which she labours." "My objection," interposed the Emperor, "or hesitation is in no manner caused by any doubt as to woman's deserving to be on a par with man in every intellectual position." "Then, Sir, may I ask, why do you hesitate? The greatest Sovereign that ever reigned over Great Britain, as it was formerly called, was a woman." "I cordially agree with you. No Sovereign ever deserved better of the subjects of the realm than my venerated ancestress Queen Victoria. But again I say, I do not question woman's ability to occupy the throne to the greatest advantage." "Why, may I ask, then does your Majesty hesitate?" "I can scarcely reply to my own satisfaction. I give great heed to the objections commonly stated against altering the Constitution, but I do not feel certain that these alone guide me. There is another, and to me very important, reason. It appeals to me not as Sovereign only, but as soldier. My father and my grandfather led the troops of the Empire when they went forth to battle. Happily in our day war is a remote contingency, but it is not impossible. We preserve peace by being prepared for war. It seems to me a terrible responsibility to submit to a change which might result in the event of war in the army not being led by its emperor." "Your Majesty," said Miss Fitzherbert, "what am I to say? To deny the cogency of your reasons is like seeking to retain power, for you know the fate of the Cabinet depends upon this measure, to which it has pledged itself." "Miss Fitzherbert," said the Emperor gravely, "no one will suspect you of seeking to retain office for selfish purposes, and least of all would I suppose it, or I would not ask your counsel. Tell me now," he said, with a winning look, "as woman to man, not as subject to Sovereign, what does your heart dictate?" "Sir," said Miss Fitzherbert with great dignity, rising from her seat, "I am deeply sensible of the honour you do me; and I cannot excuse myself from responding to it. In the affairs of life, and more especially State affairs, I have noticed that both sides to a controversy have frequently good grounds for their advocacy; and, moreover, it often happens that previous association fastens on each side the views it holds. I am strong in the belief, we are right in wishing this measure to pass; but since you insist on my opinion, I cannot avoid declaring as far as I, a non-militant woman, can judge, that, were I in your place, I would hold the sentiment you express and refuse my sanction." Hilda spoke with great fervour, as one inspired. The Emperor scarcely concealed his admiration; but he merely bowed courteously, and ended the interview with the words, "I am greatly indebted to you for your frankness and candour." CHAPTER III. LORD REGINALD PARAMATTA. As Miss Fitzherbert returned to her room, she did not know whether to feel angry or pleased with herself. She was conscious she had not served the interest of her party or of herself, but she realised that she was placed in a situation in which candour was demanded of her, and it seemed to her that the Emperor was the embodiment of all that was gracious and noble in man. Her secretary informed her that Lord Reginald Paramatta was waiting to see her by appointment. Lord Reginald was a man of noticeable presence. Above the ordinary height, he seemed yet taller because of the extreme thinness of his frame. Yet he by no means wore an appearance of delicacy. On the contrary, he was exceedingly muscular; and his bearing was erect and soldierlike. He was well known as a brilliant officer, who had deeply studied his profession. But he was not only known as a soldier: he held a high political position. He had for many years continued to represent an Australian constituency in the Federal Parliament. His naturally dark complexion was further bronzed by exposure to the sun. His features were good and strikingly like those of his sister, the Countess of Middlesex. He had also the same sinister expression. The Paramattas were a very old New South Wales family. They were originally sheep-farmers, or squatters as they used to be called. They owned large estates in New South Wales and nearly half of a thriving city. The first lord was called to the peerage in 1930, in recognition of the immense sums that he had devoted to philanthropic and educational purposes. Lord Reginald was the second son of the third and brother of the fourth peer. He inherited from his mother a large estate in the interior of New South Wales. Miss Fitzherbert greeted Lord Reginald with marked coolness. "Your sister," she said, "told me you were kind enough to desire to wish me farewell before you left to take the London command, upon which allow me to congratulate you." "Thanks!" briefly replied his Lordship. "An appointment that places me so far from you is not to my mind a subject of congratulation." Miss Fitzherbert drew herself up, and with warmth remarked, "I am surprised that you should say this to me." "You ought not to be surprised," replied Lord Reginald. "My sister told you of my feelings towards you, if indeed I have not already sufficiently betrayed them." "Your sister must have also told you what I said in reply. Pray, my lord, do not inflict on both of us unnecessary pain." "Do not mistake my passion for a transitory one. Miss Fitzherbert, Hilda, my life is bound up in yours. It depends on you to send me forth the most happy or the most miserable of men." "Your happiness would not last. I am convinced we are utterly unsuited to each other. My answer is 'No' in both our interests." "Do not say so finally. Take time. Tell me I may ask you again after the lapse of some few months." "To tell you so would be to deceive. My answer can never change." "You love some one else, then?" "The question, my lord, is not fair nor seemly, nor have you the right to put it. Nevertheless I will say there is no foundation for your surmise." "Then why finally reject me? Give me time to prove to you how thoroughly I am in earnest." "I have not said I doubted it. But no lapse of years can alter the determination I have come to. I hope, Lord Reginald, that you will be happy, and that amidst the distractions of London you will soon forget me." "That would be impossible, but it will not be put to the test. I shall not go to London. I believe it is your wish that we should be separated." "I have no wish on the subject. There is nothing more to be said," replied Hilda, with extreme coldness. "Yes, there is. Do not think that I abandon my hope. I will remain near you. I will not let you forget me. I leave you in the conviction that some day you will give me a different answer. When the world is less kind to you than hitherto, you may learn to value the love of one devoted being. There is no good-bye between us." Hilda suppressed the intense annoyance that both his words and manner occasioned. She merely remarked, with supreme hauteur, "You will at least be good enough to rid me of your presence here." Her coldness seemed to excite the fury of Lord Reginald beyond the point of control. "As I live, you shall repent this in the future," he muttered in audible accents. Shortly afterwards a letter from Lord Reginald was laid before the Premier. He was gratified, he wrote, for the consideration the official appointment displayed; but he could not accept it: his parliamentary duties forbade his doing so. If, he continued, it was considered that his duty as an officer demanded his accepting the offer, he would send in his papers and retire from the service, though of course he would retain his position in the Volunteer force unless the Emperor wished otherwise. It should be explained that the Volunteer force was of at least equal importance to the regular service. Officers had precedence interchangeably according to seniority. Long since the absurdity had been recognised of placing the Volunteer force on a lower footing than the paid forces. Regular officers eagerly sought to be elected to commands in Volunteer regiments, and the colonel of a Volunteer regiment enjoyed fully as much consideration in every respect as the colonel of any of the paid regiments. The duty of defending all parts of the Empire from invasion was specially assigned to volunteers. The Volunteer force throughout the Empire numbered at least two million, besides which there was a Volunteer reserve force of three quarters of a million, which comprised the best men selected from the volunteers. The vacancies were filled up each year by fresh selections to make up the full number. The Volunteer reserve force could be mobilised at short notice, and was available for service anywhere. Its members enjoyed many prized social distinctions. The regular force of the Empire was comparatively small. In order to understand the availability of the Volunteer reserve force, regard must be had to the immense improvement in education. No child attained man or woman's estate without a large theoretical and practical knowledge of scientific laws and their ordinary application. For example, few adults were so ignorant as not to understand the modes by which motive power of various descriptions was obtained and the principles on which the working depended--each person was more or less an engineer. A hundred years since, education was deemed to be the mastering of a little knowledge about a great variety of subjects. Thoroughness was scarcely regarded, and the superficial apology for preferring quantity to quality was "Education does not so much mean imparting knowledge as training the faculties to acquire it." This plausible plea afforded the excuse for wasting the first twenty years of life of both sexes in desultory efforts to acquire a mastery over the dead languages. "It is a good training to the mind and a useful means of learning the living languages" was in brief the defence for the shocking waste of time. Early in the last century it fell to the lot of the then Prince of Wales, great-grandfather to the present Emperor, to prick this educational bladder. He stoutly declared that his sons should learn neither Latin nor Greek. "Why," he said, "should we learn ancient Italian any more than the Italians should learn the dialects of the ancient Britons?" "There is a Greek and Latin literature," was the reply, "but no literature of ancient Britain." "Yes," replied the Prince, "there is a literature; but does our means of learning the dead languages enable two persons in ten thousand after years of study to take up promiscuously a Latin or Greek book and read it with ease and comfort? They spend much more time in learning Latin and Greek than their own language, but who ever buys a Latin or Greek book to read when he is travelling?" "But a knowledge of Latin is so useful in acquiring living languages." "Fudge!" said this unceremonious prince, who, by the way, was more than an average classical scholar. "If I want to go to Liverpool, I do not proceed there by way of New York. I will back a boy to learn how to speak and read with interest three European languages before he shall be able, even with the aid of a dictionary, to laboriously master the meaning of a Latin book he has not before studied." He continued, "Do you think one person out of fifty thousand who have learnt Greek is so truly imbued with the spirit of the Iliad as are those whose only acquaintance with it is through the translations of Derby, Gladstone, or even Pope? It is partly snobbishness," he proceeded, with increased warmth. "The fact is, it is expensive and wasteful to learn Greek and Latin; and so the rich use the acquirement as another means of walling up class against class. At any rate, I will destroy the fashion; and so that there shall be no loss of learning, I will have every Greek and Latin work not yet translated that can be read with advantage by decent and modest people rendered into the English language, if it cost me a hundred thousand pounds: and then there will be no longer an excuse for the waste of millions on dead languages, to say nothing of the loss occasioned by the want of education in other subjects that is consequent on the prominence given to the so-called classical attainments." The Prince was equal to his word. Science and art, mathematical and technical acquirements, took the place of the classics; and people became really well informed. Living languages, it was found, could be easily learnt in a few months by personal intercourse with a fluent speaker. This digression has been necessary to explain how it was that the volunteers were capable of acquiring all the scientific knowledge necessary to the ranks of a force trained to the highest military duties. As to the officers, the position was sufficiently coveted to induce competitors for command in Volunteer regiments to study the most advanced branches of the profession. It will be understood Lord Reginald, while offering to retire from the regular service, but intending to retain his Volunteer command, really made no military sacrifice, whilst he took up a high ground embarrassing to the authorities. He forced them either to accept his refusal of the London command, and be a party to the breach of discipline involved in a soldier declining to render service wherever it was demanded, or to require his retirement from the regular service, with the certainty of all kinds of questions being asked and surmises made. It was no doubt unusual to offer him such a splendid command without ascertaining that he was ready to accept it, and there was a great risk of Miss Fitzherbert's name being brought up in an unpleasant manner. Women lived in the full light of day, and several journals were in the habit of declaring that the likes and dislikes of women were allowed far too much influence. What an opportunity would be afforded to them if they could hang ever so slightly Lord Reginald's retirement on some affair of the heart connected with that much-envied young statesman Miss Fitzherbert! Mrs. Hardinge rapidly realised all the features of the case. "He means mischief, this man," she said; "but he shall not hurt Hilda if I can help it." Then she minuted "Write Lord Reginald that I regret he is unable to accept an appointment which I thought would give him pleasure, and which he is so qualified to adorn." She laughed over this sentence. "He will understand its irony," she thought, "and smart under it." She continued, "Add that I see no reason for his retirement from the regular service. It was through accident he was not consulted before the offer was officially made. I should be sorry to deprive the Empire of his brilliant services. Mark 'Confidential.'" Then she thought to herself, "This is the best way out of it. He has gained to a certain extent a triumph, but he cannot make capital out of it." CHAPTER IV. PARTIAL VICTORY. Parliament was about to meet, and the Emperor was to open it with a speech delivered by himself. Much difference of opinion existed as to whether reference should be made to the question of altering the nature of the succession. The Emperor desired that all reference to it should be omitted. He told Mrs. Hardinge frankly he had decided not to agree to an alteration, but he said his greatest pain in refusing was the consciousness that it might deprive him of his present advisers. If the recommendation were formally made, he should be compelled to say that he would not concur until he had recourse to other advisers. He wished her not to impose on him such a necessity. "But," said Mrs. Hardinge, "your Majesty is asking us to hold office at the expense of our opinions." "Not so," replied his Majesty. "All pressing need of dealing with the question is over. I have resolved to break off the negotiations with the President of the United States for her daughter's hand. I do not think the union would be happy for either, and I take exception to the strong terms in which the President has urged a change in the succession of our imperial line. You see that the question is no longer an urgent one." "I hardly know to which direction our duty points," Mrs. Hardinge said. "We think the question urgent whether or not your Majesty marries at once." "Pray do not take that view. There is another reason. I have determined, as I have said, not to accept such advice without summoning other advisers. In adopting this step, I am strictly within my constitutional rights; and I do not say, if a new Cabinet also recommends an alteration in the law of succession I will refuse to accept the advice. I will never voluntarily decline to recognise the constitutional rights which I have sworn to uphold. So it might be that a change of Cabinet would not alter the result, and then it would be held that I had strained my constitutional power in making the change. I do not wish to appear in this or any other question to hold individual opinions. Frankly I will tell you that I doubt if you have the strength to carry your proposed change even if I permitted you to submit it. If I am correct in my conjecture, the question will be forced on you from the other side; and you will be defeated on it. In that case I shall not have interfered; and, as I have said, I prefer not to do so. So you see, Mrs. Hardinge, that I am selfish in wishing you to hold back the question. It is in my own interest that I do so, and you may dismiss all feeling of compunction." "Your Majesty has graciously satisfied me that I may do as you suggest without feeling that I am actuated by undue desire to continue in office. I agree with your Majesty the parliamentary result is doubtful. It greatly depends on the line taken by Lord Reginald Paramatta and the forty or fifty members who habitually follow him." The Emperor's speech was received with profound respect. But as soon as he left the council-chamber a murmur of astonishment ran round. It was generally anticipated that the announcement of the royal marriage would be made. The Federal Chamber was of magnificent dimensions. It accommodated with comfort the seven hundred and fifty members and one thousand persons besides. The Chamber was of circular shape. A line across the centre divided the portion devoted to the members from that occupied by the audience. The latter were seated tier on tier, but not crowded. The members had each a comfortable chair and a little desk in front, on which he could either write or by the hand telegraph communicate telegrams to his friends outside for retransmission if he desired it. He could receive messages also, and in neither case was the least noise made by the instrument. The council-chamber possessed astonishing acoustic powers. Vast as were its dimensions, a comparatively feeble voice could be clearly heard at the remotest distance. As soon as some routine business was concluded the leader of the Opposition, a lady of great reputation for statesmanship, rose, and, partly by way of interrogation, expressed surprise that no intimation had been made respecting the future happiness of the reigning family. This was about as near a reference to the person of the Sovereign as the rules of the House permitted. Mrs. Hardinge curtly replied that she had no intimation to make, a reply which was received with a general murmur of amazement. The House seemed to be on the point of proceeding to the ordinary business, when Lord Reginald Paramatta rose and said "he ventured to ask, as no reference was made to the subject in the speech, what were the intentions of the Government on the question of altering the law of succession of the imperial family." This interruption was received with much surprise. Lord Reginald had long been a member possessed of great influence. He had a considerable following, numbering perhaps not less than fifty. His rule of conduct hitherto had been to deprecate party warfare. He tried to hold the balance, and neither side had yet been able to number him and his following as partisans. That he should lead the way to an attack of an extreme party character seemed most astonishing. The few words that he had uttered were rapidly translated into meaning that he intended to throw in his lot with the Opposition. Mrs. Hardinge, however, appeared to feel no concern as she quietly replied that she was not aware that the question pressed for treatment. "I am afraid," said Lord Reginald, "that I am unable to agree with this opinion; and it is my duty to test the feelings of the House on the subject." Then he read to the intently listening members a resolution of which he gave notice that it was desirable, in order that no uncertainty should exist on the subject, to record the opinion of the House that the law of succession should not be altered. Loud cheers followed the announcement; and the leader of the Opposition, who was equally taken by surprise, congratulated Lord Reginald, with some little irony, on the decided position he had at last assumed. Mrs. Hardinge, without any trace of emotion or anxiety, rose amidst the cheers of her side of the House. The noble and gallant member, she said, had given notice of a resolution which the Government would consider challenged its position. It would be better to take it before proceeding to other business, and if, as she expected, the reply to the Imperial speech would not occasion discussion, to-morrow could be devoted to it. Lord Reginald replied to-morrow would suit him, and the sitting soon came to an end. Mrs. Hardinge could not but feel surprise at the accuracy of the Emperor's anticipation. She was sure he was not aware of Lord Reginald's intention, and she knew that the latter was acting in revenge for the slight he had received at the hands of Hilda Fitzherbert. She felt that the prospect of the motion being carried was largely increased through Lord Reginald having so cleverly appropriated it to himself. But it was equally evident from the cordiality with which the proposal was received that, if Lord Reginald had not brought it on, some one else would. She saw also that the Countess of Cairo (the leader of the Opposition) had rapidly decided to support Lord Reginald, though she might have reasonably objected to his appropriating the subject. "He is clever," Mrs. Hardinge reflected. "He accurately gauged Lady Cairo's action. What a pity neither Hilda nor I can trust him! He is as bad in disposition as he is able in mind." The next day, after the routine business was disposed of, Lord Reginald's resolution was called on. That it excited immense interest the crowded state of the hall in every part attested. Two of the Emperor's aides-de-camp were there, each with a noiseless telegraph apparatus in front of him to wire alternately the progress of the debate. Reporters were similarly communicating with the _Argus_, _Age_, and _Telegraph_ in Melbourne, and with the principal papers in Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide, and New Zealand. Lord Reginald rose amidst loud cheers from the Opposition side of the House. He made a temperate but exceedingly able speech. He would explain before he concluded why he had taken the lead in bringing the question on. Hitherto he had not sought to take a prominent place in politics. He was a soldier by profession, and he would infinitely prefer distinguishing himself as a soldier than as a politician; and, as he would show, it was as a soldier that he came forward. He disclaimed any hostility to the equality of the sexes or any objection to the increasing power in public affairs to which women were attaining. He fully recognised that the immense progress of the world during the last hundred years was largely due to the intellectual advancement of women. He equally rejected the idea that women were unfitted to rule over a constitutionally governed empire. Then he dwelt at great length on the inexpediency of permitting the Constitution to be altered in any one particular, and this part of his speech was warmly cheered by a considerable section on each side of the Chamber. The effect of these remarks was, however, marred as far as the Government party were concerned by a sneering reference to their disposition to changes of all kinds; and he attempted a feeble joke by insinuating that the most desirable change of all might be a change of government. Then he came to his main argument and explained that it was this consideration which had impelled him to take up the question. He was, as he had said, a soldier; but he was not one who overlooked the misery caused by war. He did not long for war, nor did he think that war was a probable contingency; but he felt that the British Empire should always be ready for war as the best means of avoiding it, and as a soldier he believed no greater prestige could be given to the forces of their vast dominions than the knowledge that the Emperor was ready to lead them in person. "I would not," he said, "exclude the female line; but I would not give it larger probabilities of succession than it enjoys at present. Again, as a soldier I declare that the interests of the Empire forbid our doing anything to limit the presence at the head of his forces of the ruler of the Empire." Lord Reginald sat down amidst cheers. He had been listened to with profound attention, and parts of his speech were warmly applauded. Still, on the whole, the speech was not a success. Every one felt that there was something wanting. The speaker seemed to be deficient in sincerity. The impression left was that he had some object in view. The malign air with which the little joke was uttered about a change of government was most repelling. It came with singularly bad grace from one who tried to make out that he was unwillingly forced into opposition to a Government with which he had been friendly. Mrs. Hardinge rose amidst loud and continuous cheers. She combated each argument of the last speaker. She admitted her great disinclination to change the Constitution, but, she asked, was reverence for the Constitution promoted by upholding it on the ground not of its merits, but of the inexpediency of varying it? She freely admitted that her feelings were in favour of changing the laws of succession, but she had not brought forward any proposal to that effect, nor, as an advocate of a change, did she see any immediate or early need of bringing down proposals. Was it a good precedent to make great Ministerial changes depend on resolutions affecting not questions before the House, not proposals made by the Government, but sentiments or opinions they were supposed to entertain? This was a great change in parliamentary procedure, a larger one than those changes which the noble lord had sneeringly credited her with advocating. Then she gave Lord Reginald a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. She pictured him as head of the Government in consequence of carrying his resolution; she selected certain unpopular sentiments which he was known to entertain, and, amidst great laughter, travestied Lord Reginald's defence of his fads in response to resolutions of the same kind as they were now discussing. She grew eloquent even to inspiration in describing the abilities of the female Sovereigns of the past. And as to the soldier's point of view she asked did not history tell them that the arms of the country had been as successful under female as under male rulers? The noble lord, she said, amidst roars of laughter, had intended to come forward as a soldier; but, for her part, she thought he had posed as a courtier, and sarcastically she hinted that he was as able in one capacity as the other. "He is sad, sir," she continued, "over the possibility that any one but the Emperor should lead the forces; but if all that is said as to the noble lord's ambition be correct, he would prefer leading the troops himself to following the lead of the most exalted commander." She concluded with an eloquent appeal to her own party. She did not deny the opinions of her colleagues and herself, but asked was it wise to allow a great party to be broken up by a theoretical discussion upon a subject not yet before the country, and which for a long while might not come before it? Mrs. Hardinge's speech was received most enthusiastically, and at its conclusion it was clear that she had saved her party from breaking up. Not a vote would be lost to it. The result merely depended on what addition Lord Reginald's own following could bring to the usual strength of the Opposition. After some more debating a division ensued, and the resolution was lost by two votes only. Both sides cheered, but there was breathless silence when Mrs. Hardinge rose. She made no reference to the debate beyond the very significant one of asking that the House should adjourn for a week. CHAPTER V. CABINET NEGOTIATIONS. Mrs. Hardinge tendered the resignation of the Government to the Emperor, who at once sent for Lady Cairo, the leader of the Opposition. He asked her to form an administration. "Your Majesty," she said, "knows that, though I am in opposition to the present Premier, I greatly admire both her ability and honesty of purpose. I am not at all satisfied that she is called on to resign, or that the small majority she had on the late resolution indicates that she has not a large following on other questions." "I hold," said the Emperor, "the balance evenly between the great parties of the State; and I respect the functions of the Opposition no less than those of the Government. It is the opinion of my present advisers that a strong administration is necessary, and that, after such a division as that of the other night, the Opposition should have the opportunity offered to them of forming a Government." "I respect," replied Lady Cairo, "Mrs. Hardinge's action, and under like circumstances would have pursued a like course. But though Mrs. Hardinge is right in offering us the opportunity, it does not follow that we should be wise in accepting it." "You are of that," replied the Emperor, "of course the best judge. But I should not like so grave a step as the one which Mrs. Hardinge has felt it her duty to take to be construed into a formality for effacing the effect of a vote of the House. I am averse," said the wise ruler, "to anything which might even remotely make me appear as the medium of, or interferer with, parliamentary action. I esteem Mrs. Hardinge, and I esteem you, Lady Cairo; but if the resignation now tendered to me went no further than at present, it might justly be surmised that I had permitted myself to be the means of strengthening what Mrs. Hardinge considered an insufficient parliamentary confidence. I therefore ask you not to give me a hasty answer, but to consult your friends and endeavour to form a strong Government." No more could be said. Lady Cairo, with becoming reverence, signified her submission to the Emperor's wishes. She summoned her chief friends and colleagues, and had many earnest conferences with them separately and collectively. It was readily admitted that, if they formed a Government, there was a considerable number of members who, though not their supporters, would protect them in a fair trial. It was indeed certain that Mrs. Hardinge would be too generous to indulge in factious opposition, and that, if they avoided any notoriously controversial measure, she would herself help them to get through the session. But Lady Cairo was a large-minded statesman. She loved power, but, because she loved it, was averse to exercising it on sufferance. She could not but be sensible such would be her position, and that she would have to trust less to the strength of her own party than to the forbearance of her opponents. Besides, there was a point about which a great difference of opinion existed. She could not attempt to form a Government unless in combination with Lord Reginald, who moved the resolution. The animosity he had displayed to the Government made it probable, almost certain, that he would do what he could to aid her; it might even be expected that he would induce all or nearly all of his followers to come over to her; but again and again she asked herself the question would such an alliance be agreeable to her? Joint action during an animated debate was widely different from the continued intimacy of official comradeship. She liked Lord Reginald no better than other persons liked him. She had very clear perceptions, and was of a high and honourable nature. Lord Reginald inspired her with distrust. It was his misfortune to awaken that feeling in the minds of those persons with whom he came into contact. Her most trusted colleagues were generally of the same opinion, though several prominent members of the party thought it a mistake not to accept the opportunity and test its chances. Her intimate friends expressed their opinion with diffidence. They would not accept the responsibility of dissuading her from taking office. They knew that it was a high position and one to which individually she would do justice, and they knew also that many contingencies might convert a Government weak at the outset into a strong one. But she could read between the lines, the more especially that she shared the distrust at which they hinted. Two of the colleagues she most valued went so far as to leave her to understand that they would not join her Government, though of course they would support it. They excused themselves on private grounds; but she was shrewd enough to see these were the ostensible, not the real, reasons. Lady Cairo was not one of those persons who habitually try to persuade themselves to what their inclinations lead. What she had said to the Emperor satisfied the most fastidious loyalty. She was perfectly free to take office. No one could question either her action or her motive. She need not fear the world's opinion if she consulted her own inclination, and nineteen out of twenty persons would have been satisfied. She was not; she still saw before her the necessity of acting with one colleague at least, Lord Reginald, who would be distasteful to her: and as a strong party statesman, she was not well disposed generally to the bulk of his followers, whose inclination led them to endeavour to hold the balance of power between contending parties. She determined on consulting her aged mother, now a confirmed invalid, but once a brilliant and powerful statesman, noted for her high sense of honour. "My dear," said this helpless lady when she had heard all her daughter had to tell her, "no one but yourself can measure the strength or the justice of the distaste you feel for the alliance you must make if you accept the splendid responsibilities offered to you. But the distaste exists, and it is not likely to become less. I doubt if you are justified in disregarding it. Your time will come, my dear; and it will be a pleasure to you to think that you have not sought it at the expense of a personal sacrifice of doubts, that would not exist if all grounds for them were wanting. You must decide. I will go no further than to say this. I cannot persuade you to allow your inclination for office to overrule your disinclination to a powerful section of those who must share your responsibilities. It is sadly often the case that the instinct to sacrifice inclination is more reliable than the disposition to follow it." Three days after their last interview the Emperor again received Lady Cairo. "Your Majesty, I have to decline, with great respect and much gratitude for the confidence you reposed in me, the task of forming a Government with which you graciously charged me." "Is this your deliberate decision? I am told that you would have no difficulty in carrying on the business of the session if Lord Reginald and his party supported you.' "That is a contingency, Sir, on which I could not count." "How! He has not promised to support you?" "I have not asked him. Our chance presence in the same division lobby did not appear to me a sufficient basis of agreement." "Then," said the Emperor, "the mover of the resolution that has occasioned so much trouble has not been consulted?" "It is so, your Majesty, as far as I am concerned. I did not understand that you made coalition with him a condition of my attempt to form a Government. I hope, Sir, you acquit me of having disregarded your wishes." "I do, Lady Cairo. I made no conditions, nor was I entitled to do so. I left you quite free. Only it seemed to me you must act with the support of Lord Reginald and his following, and that therefore you would necessarily consult him." "I would not say anything in disparagement of Lord Reginald; but may it not be that my party do not think there has been such habitual agreement with him as to warrant our assuming that a coalition would be for the public interest, to say nothing of our own comfort?" "I see," muttered the Emperor in barely audible voice, "always the same distrust of this man, able and brave though he be." Then aloud, "Lady Cairo, what am I to do? Should I send for Lord Reginald and ask him to attempt to form a Government?" "I implore your Majesty not to ask me for advice. Mrs. Hardinge is still in power. May I," she said in a tone of pathetic entreaty, "utter half a dozen words not officially, but confidentially?" "Certainly you have my permission." "Then, Sir, you will understand me when I say that personal opinions, confidence, trust, and liking may have so much to do with the matter that it will be graciously kind of your Majesty to allow me to state only this much in my place in the House: that, after considering the charge you entrusted to me, I felt compelled to refuse it, not believing that I could form a Government which would enjoy the confidence of a majority of the House." "Let it be so," said the Emperor good-humouredly. "That may be your version. I must not put my troubles upon you." "Your Majesty is most good, most kind. I can never be sufficiently grateful." The Emperor had gained one more devoted admirer. Few who came into personal contact with him failed to be fascinated by his wonderful sympathy and grace. All human character appeared an open book to his discernment. He sent for Mrs. Hardinge. "I fear," he said, "you will not be pleased at what I am about to say. Lady Cairo has declined to form a Government. I may have to refuse to accept your resignation, or rather to ask you to withdraw it. First, however, I wish your advice; but before I formally seek it tell me would it be distasteful to you to give it." He paused to afford an opportunity to Mrs. Hardinge to speak, of which she did not avail herself. "Lady Cairo," he continued, "did not communicate at all with the mover of the resolution, Lord Reginald. Will you be averse to my asking you to advise me on the subject?" It will be observed that he did not ask for the advice. He well knew, if he did so, Mrs. Hardinge would be bound to declare that he had asked for advice, and whether she gave it or not, would still be unable to conceal that it was sought from her. The Emperor now only put his question on the footing of whether she was willing that he should seek her opinion. Mrs. Hardinge appreciated his consideration. It all came back to the point that the objection to Lord Reginald was of a personal nature, and as such it was in the last degree distasteful to every one to be mixed up with its consideration. "Your Majesty," said Mrs. Hardinge, "has a claim to seek my advice on the subject; but there are reasons which make me very averse to giving it. If I can avoid doing so, you will make me very grateful." The Emperor mused. "Whatever the special reasons may be, why should I force on so valuable a public servant the necessity of making a lifelong enemy of this unscrupulous man? To me his enmity matters little. I will myself decide the point. Lord Reginald did not carry his resolution, and Mrs. Hardinge need not have tendered her resignation. She did offer it; and, guided by constitutional rule, I sent for the leader of the Opposition. I did not take advice from Mrs. Hardinge as to whether I should send for Lord Reginald or Lady Cairo. I acted on my own responsibility, as in such cases I prefer doing. I am opposed to the principle of a retiring Minister selecting his or her successor. I had the right to suppose that Lady Cairo would consult Lord Reginald, though not to complain of her failing to do so. If I send for Lord Reginald, it must be of my own initiative There is no reason why I should consult Mrs. Hardinge now, seeing that I did not consult her at first. So much then is settled. Now I must myself decide if I will send for Lord Reginald. It will be distasteful to me to do so. I have no confidence in the man, and it would be a meaningless compliment, for he cannot form a Government. Why should I make a request I know cannot be complied with? Constitutional usage does not demand it; in fact, the precedent will be injurious. Because of a sudden accidental combination, the representative of a small party has no right to be elevated into the most important leader. Such a practice would encourage combinations injurious to party government. If I had intended to send for Lord Reginald, I ought to have summoned him before I sought Lady Cairo. I am quite satisfied that the course I pursued was constitutional and wise, and I should throw doubt upon it by sending for Lord Reginald now." These reflections were made in less time than it takes to write them down. "Mrs. Hardinge," said the Emperor, "we now begin our official interview. Be kind enough to efface from your mind what has hitherto passed. I have to ask you to withdraw your resignation. Lady Cairo, the leader of the Opposition, has declined to act, on the ground that she cannot form a Government which will sufficiently possess the confidence of a majority of the House." "It shall be as your Majesty wishes," said Mrs. Hardinge. When the House met, Mrs. Hardinge, by agreement with Lady Cairo, merely stated that, after the division of last week, she had felt it her duty to tender the resignation of her Government to the Emperor. Lady Cairo in very few words explained that the Emperor had sent for her and entrusted her with the formation of a Government, and that, after sufficient consideration, she resolved it was not desirable she should undertake the task, as she could not rely on a majority in the House and could not submit to lead it on sufferance. Mrs. Hardinge again rose, and explained that, at the request of the Emperor, she had withdrawn her resignation. Loud cheers from all sides of the House followed the intimation. Public feeling during the week had abundantly shown itself to be against a change of government upon what really amounted to a theoretical question, as the matter was not before the House upon which the resolution was nearly carried. It was argued that even if carried it would have been a most unsatisfactory reason for a change of government. There was one member in the Chamber to whom all that had passed was gall and wormwood. Lord Reginald left the House last week a marked and distinguished man. For the first twenty-four hours he received from those persons throughout the Empire who made it their business to stand well with "the powers that be" congratulations of a most flattering description. To-day there was "none so poor to do him reverence." The change was intolerable to a man of his proud and haughty disposition. The worst feature of it was that he could not single out any one specially for complaint. There was no disguising from himself what every one in the House knew, and what every one throughout the Empire soon would know: that the Emperor himself and the leaders of both the great parties did not think him worthy of consideration. As we have seen, there was no actual slight; that is to say, constitutional usages had been followed. But to his mind he had been slighted in a most marked and offensive fashion. Why was he not sent for at first? Why did not Lady Cairo consult him? Why was Mrs. Hardinge asked to withdraw her resignation without his assistance being sought--he, the mover of the resolution; he, the man who brought on the crisis about which miles of newspaper columns had since been written? He forgot that no one had asked him to take the action he did, that he had sought no advice on the subject, and that politicians who elect to act on their own account have no right to complain of the isolation they court. Scarcely any one spoke to him. A member near him, noticing his extreme pallor, asked him if he was unwell; but no one seemed to care about him or to remember that he had had anything to do with the crisis which, to the rejoicing of all sides, was over. "The newspapers," he thought, "will not forget." They had blamed him during the last week; now they would ridicule and laugh at him. He writhed at the reflection; and when he reached the quiet of his own home, he paced his large study as one demented. "I will be revenged," he muttered over and over again. "I will show them I am not so powerless a being; they shall all repent the insult they have put on me: and as for that girl, that image of snow--she has set Mrs. Hardinge against me. She shall grovel at my feet; she shall implore me to marry her." CHAPTER VI. BAFFLED REVENGE. Hilda's most confidential secretary was her sister, Maud Fitzherbert. She was some two or three years younger, a lovely, graceful girl, and possessed of scarcely less intellectual power than Hilda. She had perhaps less inclination for public life; but both the girls were learned in physical laws, in mathematics, in living languages, in everything, in short, to which they devoted their extraordinary mental powers. They adored each other, and Maud looked up to Hilda as to a divinity. The latter was writing in her room. Maud came to her. "Lord Montreal is most anxious to see you for a few minutes." Lord Montreal was a fine-looking, handsome young man of twenty-five years of age. He was a brave soldier, a genial companion, and a general favourite. He was the second son of the Duke of Ontario. He had known the Fitzherberts since they were children, and the families were intimate. Hilda greeted him cordially. "I will not detain you," he said; "but I have had important information confided to me in strict secrecy. I cannot tell you who was my informant, and you must not use my name. Will you accept the conditions?" "I must, I suppose, if you insist on them." "I must insist on them. My information much concerns my commanding officer, Lord Reginald Paramatta, with whom I am only on formal terms; and therefore my name must not appear. As to my informant, his condition was absolute secrecy as to his name. The gist of what he told me was that Lord Reginald is organising a secret society, with objects certainly not loyal to the Emperor, if indeed they are not treasonable. I gathered that there is something more contemplated than theoretical utterances, and that action of a most disastrous character may follow if steps to arrest it be not at once taken. The information was imparted to me in order that I might bring it to you. I feel that I have been placed in a false position by being made the recipient without proof of statements so damaging to my superior officer; and though I fear that I may be placing a trouble upon you, I have on reflection not thought myself warranted in withholding the statement, as it was made to me with the object of its reaching you. Never again will I give assurances about statements the nature of which I do not know." Miss Fitzherbert seemed to be destined to annoyance through Lord Reginald. She was now called to set the detective power in force against a man who a few days since so eagerly sought her hand. "I certainly wish," she said, "that you will not give promises which will land you into bringing me information of this kind." "You surely," said Montreal, "do not care for Lord Reginald?" "I may not and do not care for him, but it is not agreeable to be asked to search out criminal designs on the part of a person with whom one is acquainted." "Forgive me, Hilda," said Montreal. "It was thoughtless of me not to think that I might give you pain. But, you see, I regard you as indifferent to everything but public affairs. Now Maud is different;" and he looked at the fair girl who still remained in the room, with eyes in which warm affection was plainly visible. "Maud has a heart, of course; but I have not," said Hilda, with more irritation than she was accustomed to display. The poor girl had suffered much annoyance during the last few days, and the climax was attained that afternoon when she read in a paper purposely sent to her a strangely inverted account of her relations with Lord Reginald. According to this journal, Mrs. Hardinge had treated Lord Reginald cruelly because she could not induce him to respond to the affection which her protegée Hilda Fitzherbert felt for the great soldier. In spite of, or perhaps on account of, her vast mental power, Hilda was possessed of a singularly sensitive character. She gave herself up to public affairs in the full conviction that women could do so without sacrificing in the smallest degree their self-respect. She had a high conception of the purity and holiness of woman's individual existence, and it seemed to her a sacrilege to make the public life of a woman the excuse for dragging before the eyes of the world anything that affected her private feelings. She was intensely annoyed at this paragraph. In the end, we may say in anticipation. Lord Reginald did not come out of it with advantage. The next issue of the paper contained the following passage: "In reference to what appeared in our columns last week about Miss Fitzherbert, we must apologise to that lady. We are informed by Mrs. Hardinge that the facts were absolutely inverted. It is not Lord Reginald who is unwilling. It is Lord Reginald who has received a _decidedly_ negative reply." Hilda was not one to readily inflict her own annoyances on others. She recovered herself in a moment as she saw the pained look on Maud's face. "Forgive me, Montreal; forgive me, Maud," she said. "I have much to disturb me. I did not mean to be unkind. Of course, Montreal, I should have liked your aid in this matter; but as you cannot give it, I must see what I can do without it. Good-bye, Montreal. Maud dear, send at once to Colonel Laurient, and ask him if he will do me the kindness to come to see me at once." Colonel Laurient was a very remarkable man. He was on his mother's side of an ancient Jewish family, possessing innumerable branches all over the world. At various times members of the family had distinguished themselves both in public life and in scientific, commercial, and financial pursuits. Colonel Laurient was the second son of one of the principal partners in the De Childrosse group, the largest and most wealthy financial house in the world. When his education was completed, he decided not to enter into the business, as his father gave him the option of doing. He had inherited an enormous fortune from his aunt, the most celebrated scientific chemist and inventor of her day. She had left him all the law permitted her to leave to one relation. He entered the army, and also obtained a seat in Parliament. As a soldier he gained a reputation for extreme skill and discretion in the guerilla warfare that sometimes was forced on the authorities in the British Asiatic possessions. On one occasion by diplomatic action he changed a powerful foe on the frontier of the Indian possessions to a devoted friend, his knowledge of languages and Asiatic lore standing him in good stead. This action brought him to the notice of the Emperor, who soon attached him to his personal service, and, it was said, put more faith in his opinions than in those of any person living. He was rather the personal friend than the servant of the Emperor. Some twenty years before the date of our story it was found necessary to give to the then Sovereign a private service of able and devoted men. It was the habit of the Emperor of United Britain to travel about the whole of his vast dominions. The means of travelling were greatly enlarged, and what would at one time have been considered a long and fatiguing expedition ceased to possess any difficulty or inconvenience. A journey from London to Melbourne was looked upon with as much indifference as one from London to the Continent used to be. It became apparent that either the freedom of the Emperor to roam about at pleasure must be much curtailed, or that he must be able to travel without encroaching on the ordinary public duty of his constitutional advisers. Thus a species of personal bodyguard grew up, with the members of which, according as his temperament dictated, the Sovereign became on more or less intimate personal terms. The officers holding this coveted position had no official status. If there was any payment, the Emperor made it. There was no absolute knowledge of the existence of the force, if such it could be called, or of who composed it. That the Sovereign had intimate followers was of course known, and it was occasionally surmised that they held recognised and defined positions. But it was merely surmise, after all; and not half a dozen people outside of Cabinet rank could have positively named the friends of the Emperor who were members of the bodyguard. Colonel Laurient retired from Parliament, where he had rather distinguished himself in the treatment of questions requiring large geographical and historical knowledge; and it was commonly supposed, he wished to give more attention to his military duties. In reality he became chief of the Emperor's bodyguard, and, it might be said, was the eyes and ears of the Sovereign. With consummate ability he organised a secret intelligence department, and from one end of the dominions to the other he became aware of everything that was passing. Not infrequently the Emperor amazed Cabinet Ministers with the extent of his knowledge of immediate events. Colonel Laurient never admitted that he held any official position, and literally he did not hold any such position. He received no pay, and his duties were not defined. He loved the Emperor personally for himself, and the Emperor returned the feeling. Really the most correct designation to give to his position was to term him the Emperor's most devoted friend and to consider that in virtue thereof the members of the bodyguard regarded him as their head, because he stood to them in the place of the Emperor himself. Hilda Fitzherbert knew something, and conjectured more, as to his position. She was frequently brought into communication with him, and after she heard Lord Montreal's story she instantly determined to consult him. He came quickly on her invitation. He was always pleased to meet her. Colonel Laurient was a tall, slender man, apparently of about thirty-five years of age. His complexion was very dark; and his silky, curly hair was almost of raven blackness. His features were small and regular, and of that sad but intellectual type common to some of the pure-bred Asiatic races. You would deem him a man who knew how to "suffer and be strong;" you would equally deem him one whom no difficulty could frighten, no obstacle baffle. You would expect to see his face light up to enjoyment not because of the prospect of ordinary pleasure, but because of affairs of exceeding gravity which called for treatment by a strong hand and subtle brain. His manner was pleasing and deferential; and he had a voice of rare harmony, over which he possessed complete control. Cordial greetings passed between him and Miss Fitzherbert. There was no affectation of apology being necessary for sending for him or of pleasure on his part at the summons. Briefly she told him of Lord Montreal's communication. He listened attentively, then carelessly remarked, "Lord Reginald's conduct has been very peculiar lately." Do what she would, the girl could not help giving a slight start at this remark, made as it was with intention. Colonel Laurient at once perceived that there was more to be told than he already was aware of. He knew a great deal that had passed with Lord Reginald, and guessed more; and gradually, with an apparently careless manner, he managed to elicit so much from Hilda that she thought it wiser to tell him precisely all that had occurred, especially the account of her last interview with Lord Reginald and his subsequent letter resigning his appointment. "Confidences with me," he said, "are entirely safe. Now I understand his motives, you and I start on fair terms, which we could not do whilst you knew more than I did." Then they discussed what had better be done. "It may be," Colonel Laurient said, "that there is nothing in it. There is a possibility that it is a pure invention, and it is even possible that Lord Reginald may have himself caused the invention to reach you for the purpose of giving you annoyance. Montreal's informant may have been instigated by Lord Reginald. Then there is the possibility--we may say probability--that the purposes of the society do not comprise a larger amount of disaffection or dissatisfaction than the law permits. And, lastly, there is let us say the barest possibility that Lord Reginald, enraged to madness, may have determined on some really treasonable action. You know in old days it was said, 'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned;' but in our time we would not give the precedence for wounded vanity to woman; man is not wanting in the same susceptibility, and Lord Reginald has passed through a whole series of humiliating experiences. I knew some of them before I saw you this afternoon. You have filled up the list with a bitter from which he doubtless suffers more than from all the rest." Miss Fitzherbert appeared to care little for this strain of conjecture. "What is the use of it?" she said. "However infinitesimal the risk of treasonable designs, the Emperor must not be allowed to run it." "You are right," said Colonel Laurient. "I do not, as you know, appear in these matters; but I have means of obtaining information of secret things. Within twenty-four hours I will see you again and let you know what it all means. We can then decide the course to take." Some explanation is necessary to enable Colonel Laurient's remarks about the limits of disaffection to be understood. Freedom of thought and expression was amongst the cardinal liberties of the subject most prized. In order to recognise its value, it was long since determined that a line should be drawn beyond which the liberty should not extend. It was argued that nothing could be more cruel than to play with disaffection of a dangerous nature. Not only was it the means of increasing the disaffection, but of gradually drawing eminent people into compromising positions. The line then was drawn at this point:--upon any subject that did not affect the fundamental principles of the Constitution change might be permissible, but any advocacy or even suggestion of destroying those fundamental principles was regarded as treasonable. The Constitution was so framed as to indicate within itself the principles which were susceptible of modification or change, such, for example, as the conditions of the franchise and the modes of conducting elections. But there were three fundamental points concerning which no change was allowable, and these were--first, that the Empire should continue an empire; secondly, that the sovereignty should remain in the present reigning family; and thirdly, that the union of the different parts of the dominion was irrevocable and indissoluble. It will be remembered that a great aversion had been expressed by the upholders of the Constitution to the proposal to change the law of succession within the imperial family. It could not be said to touch on the second fundamental principle, as it did not involve a change of dynasty; yet many thought it too nearly approached one of the sacred, unchangeable principles. As regards the fundamental principles, no discussion was permissible. To question even the wisdom of continuing the Empire, of preserving the succession in the imperial family, or of permitting a separation of any of the dominions was held to be rank treason; and no mercy was shown to an offender. Outside of these points changes could be made, and organisations to promote changes were legitimate, however freely they indulged in plain speech. The conduct of the Emperor himself was legitimately a subject of comment, especially on any point in which he appeared to fail in respect to the Constitution he had sworn to uphold. It need scarcely be said that the Constitution was no longer an ill-defined and unwritten one. Such a Constitution worked well enough as long as the different parts of the Empire were united only during pleasure. When the union became irrevocable, it was a natural necessity that the conditions of union should be defined. It may be convenient here to state some of the broad features of the governing and social system. It has already been said that, without approaching to communism, it had long since been decided that every human being was entitled to a share in the good things of the world, and that destitution was abhorrent. It was also recognised that the happiest condition of humanity was a reasonable amount of work and labour. For that very reason, it was decided not to make the labour distasteful by imposing it as a necessity. The love of work, not its necessity, was the feeling it was desirable to implant. Manual work carried with it no degradation, and there was little work to be done which did not require intelligence. Mere brute force was superseded by the remarkable contrivances for affording power and saving labour which were brought even to the humblest homes. The waves, tides, and winds stored up power which was convertible into electricity or compressed air; and either of these aids to labour-saving could be carried from house to house as easily as water. If men and women wished to be idle and State pensioners, it was open to them to follow their inclination; but they had to wear uniforms, and they were regarded as inferior by the healthy body politic. The aged, infirm, and helpless might enjoy State aid without being subjected to such a humiliation or to any disability. The starting-point was that, if a person was not sufficiently criminal to be the inmate of a prison, he should not be relegated to a brutal existence. It was at first argued that such a system would encourage inaction and idleness; the State would be deluged with pensioners. But subtler counsels prevailed. Far-seeing men and women argued that the condition of the world was becoming one of contracted human labour; and if the viciously inclined refused to work, there would be more left to those who had the ambition to be industrious. "But," was the rejoinder, "you are stifling ambition by making the lowest round of the ladder so comfortable and luxurious." To this was replied, "Your argument is superficial. Survey mankind; and you will see that, however lowly its lowest position, there is a ceaseless, persistent effort to rise on the part of nearly every well-disposed person, from the lowliest to the most exalted." Ambition, it was urged, was natural to man, but it was least active amongst the poverty-crushed classes. Mankind as a whole might be described as myriads of units striving to ascend a mountain. The number of those contented to rest on the plateaus to which they had climbed was infinitesimal compared with the whole. It would be as difficult to select them as it would be to pick out a lazy bee from a whole hive. Whether you started at the lowest class, with individuals always on the point of starvation, with families herded together with less decency than beasts of the fields, and with thousands of human beings who from cradle to grave knew not what happiness meant, or made the start from a higher elevation, upon which destitution was impossible, there would still continue the climbing of myriads to greater heights and the resting on plateaus of infinitesimally few; indeed, as poverty tended to crush ambition, there would be a larger range of aspiration accompanying an improvement in the condition of the lowliest class. And so it proved. The system of government and taxation followed the theory of the range above destitution. Taxes were exacted in proportion to the ability to pay them. The payments for the many services the Post Office rendered were not regarded as taxation. The customs duties were looked upon as payments made in proportion to the desires of the people to use dutiable goods. If high customs duties meant high prices, they also meant high wages. The Empire, following the practice of other countries, was utterly averse to giving employment to the peoples of foreign nations. Every separate local dominion within the Empire was at liberty to impose by its legislature what duties it pleased as between itself and other parts of the Empire, but it was imperatively required to collect three times the same duties on commodities from foreign countries. This was of course meant to be prohibitive of foreign importations, and was practicable because the countries within the Empire could supply every commodity in the world. It was argued that to encourage foreign importations merely meant to pit cheap labour against the price for labour within the Empire. Besides the customs duties, the revenue was almost entirely made up of income tax and succession duties. Stamp duties, as obstacles to business, were considered an evidence of the ignorance of the past. The first five hundred pounds a year of income was free; but beyond that amount the State appropriated one clear fourth of all incomes. Similarly one quarter of the value of all successions, real or personal, in excess of ten thousand pounds, was payable to the State; and disposition by gifts before death came within the succession values. A man or woman was compelled to leave half his or her property, after payment of succession duty, in defined proportion to the children and wife or husband, as the case might be, or failing these to near relations; the other half he or she might dispose of at pleasure. It was argued that to a certain extent the amasser of wealth had only a life interest in it, and that it was not for the happiness of the successors of deceased people to come into such wealth that the ambition to work and labour would be wanting. The system did not discourage the amassment of wealth; on the contrary, larger fortunes were made than in former times. Higher prices gave to fortunes of course a comparatively less purchasing power; but taking the higher prices into consideration, the accumulation of wealth became a more honourable ambition and a pleasanter task when it ceased to be purchased at the expense of the comfort of the working classes. The customs duties belonged to the separate Governments that collected them, and the quarter-income tax and succession duties were equally divided between the Imperial and the Dominion Governments. Thus the friction between them was minimised. The Imperial Government and the Dominion Governments both enjoyed during most years far more revenue than they required, and so large a reserve fund was accumulated that no inconvenience was felt in years of depression. Part of the surplus revenues arising from the reserve fund was employed in large educational and benevolent works and undertakings. The result of the system was that pecuniary suffering in all directions was at an end; but the ambition to acquire wealth, with its concomitant powers, was in no degree abated. Of course there was not universal content--such a condition would be impossible--but the controversies were, as a rule, less bitter than the former ones which prevailed between different classes. The man-and-woman struggle was one of the large points of constant difference, and again there was much difference of opinion as to whether the quarter-income and succession duties might be reduced to a fifth. It was argued, on the one hand, that the reserve funds were becoming too large, and that the present generation was working too much for its successors. On the other hand, it was urged that the present generation in working for its successors was merely perpetuating the gift which it had inherited, and that by preserving the reserve funds great strength was given to contend against any reverses that the future might have in store. Another point of controversy was the strength of the naval and military forces. A comparatively small school of public men argued that the cost and strength might be materially reduced without risk or danger, but the general feeling was not with them. This has been a long digression, but it was necessary to the comprehension of our story. It will easily be understood from what has been said that, supposing the alleged action of Lord Reginald was dictated by revenge, it was difficult to see, unless he resorted to treasonable efforts, what satisfaction he could derive from any agitation. Colonel Laurient the next afternoon fulfilled his promise of waiting on Hilda. She had suffered great anxiety during the interval--the anxiety natural to ill-defined fears and doubts. He looked careworn, and his manner was more serious than on the previous day. "I have found out all about it," he said; "and I am sorry there is more cause for anxiety than we thought yesterday. It is undoubtedly true that Lord Reginald is organising some combination; and although the proof is wanting, there is much reason to fear that his objects are not of a legitimate nature. It is impossible to believe, he would take the trouble which he is assuming, to deal only with questions to which he has never shown an inclination. I am persuaded that behind the cloak of his ostensible objects lies ambition or revenge, or perhaps both, pointing to extreme and highly dangerous action." "You are probably right," said Miss Fitzherbert, who knew from the manner of the Emperor's favourite that he was much disturbed by what he had heard. "But even so, what obstacle lies in the way of putting an end to the projected action, whatever its nature?" "There is a great obstacle," promptly replied the Colonel; "and that is the doubt as to what the nature of the project is. Lord Reginald is a clever man; and notwithstanding his late failure, he has plenty of friends and admirers, especially among his own sex, and amongst soldiers, both volunteers and regulars. I have ascertained enough to show me that the leaders intend to keep within ostensibly legitimate limits until the time comes to unfold their full design to their followers, and that then they will trust to the comradeship of the latter and to their fears of being already compromised." Hilda was quick of apprehension. "I see they will organise to complain perhaps of the nature of the taxation, and only expose their treasonable objects at a later time." Colonel Laurient gazed on her with admiration. "How readily you comprehend!" he said. "I believe you alone can grapple with the situation." The girl flushed, and then grew pale. She did not know what physical fear meant. Probably, if her feelings were analysed, it would have been found that the ruling sensation she experienced was an almost delirious pleasure at the idea that she could do a signal service to the Emperor. She replied, however, with singular self-repression. "I am not quick enough," she said, with a slight smile, "to understand how I can be of any use." "The organisation has been proceeding some time, although I fancy Lord Reginald has only lately joined and accepted the leadership. It numbers thousands who believe themselves banded together only to take strong measures to reduce taxation, on the ground that the reserve funds have become amply large enough to permit such reduction. But the leaders have other views; and I have ascertained that they propose to hold a meeting three days hence, at which it is possible--nay, I think, probable--there will be an unreserved disclosure." "Why not," said Miss Fitzherbert, "arrest them in the midst of their machinations?" "There lies the difficulty," responded the Colonel. "It entirely depends on the nature of the disclosures whether the Government authorities are entitled to take any action. If the disclosures fall short of being treasonable, it would be held that there was interference of a most unpardonable character with freedom of speech and thought; and the last of it would never be heard. Dear Miss Fitzherbert," he said caressingly, "we want some one at the meeting with a judgment so evenly balanced and accurate that she will be able on the instant to decide if the treasonable intentions are sufficiently expressed or if it would be safer not to interfere. I know no one so quick and at the same time so logical in her judgment as you. In vain have I thought of any one else whom it would be nearly so safe to employ." "But how could it be managed?" inquired Hilda. "Every one knows my appearance. My presence would be immediately detected." "Pray listen to me," said the Colonel, delighted at having met with no strenuous opposition. He had feared, he would have great difficulty in persuading Miss Fitzherbert to take the part he intended for her; and, to his surprise, she seemed inclined to meet him half-way. Then he explained that the meeting was to be held in the Parliamentary Hall, a celebrated place of meeting. It had been constructed with the express purpose of making it impossible that any one not inside the Hall could hear what was taking place. The edifice was an enormous one of stone. Inside this building, about fifteen feet from the walls all round, and twenty feet from the roof, was a second erection, composed entirely of glass. So that as long as the external building was better lighted than the interior one the presence of a human being could be detected outside the walls or on the roof of the hall of meeting. The chamber was artificially cooled, as indeed were most of the houses in the cities of Australia, excepting during the winter months. "This is the place of all others," said Miss Fitzherbert, "where it would be difficult for an unauthorised person to be present." "Not so," replied Colonel Laurient. "The inside hall is to be in darkness, and the exterior dimly lighted. Only the vague outlines of each person's form will be revealed; and every one is to come cloaked, and with a large overshadowing hat. From what I can gather, the revelation is to be gradual and only to be completed if it should seem to be approved during its progress. I expect Lord Reginald will be the last to give in his adhesion, so that it might be said he was deceived as to the purpose of the meeting if he should see fit to withdraw from the declaration of its real object. Mind, you are to be sole judge as to whether the meeting transgresses the line which divides the legitimate from the treasonable." "Why not act yourself?" said Hilda. "If you think for a moment," he replied, "you will understand my influence is maintained only so long as it is hidden. If I appeared to act, it would cease altogether. Unfortunately I must often let others do what I would gladly do myself. Believe me, it is painful to me to put tasks on you of any kind, much less a task of so grave a nature. By heavens!" he exclaimed, carried away for a moment, "there is a reason known to me only why I might well dread for myself the great service you will do the Emperor." He was recalled to himself by the amazed look of the girl. "Forgive me," he ejaculated. "I did not mean anything. But there is no danger to you; of that be assured." "Colonel Laurient," said Hilda gravely, "you ought to know me well enough not to suppose I am guided by fear." "I do know it," he answered, "otherwise I should not have asked you to undertake the great task I have set before you. No woman whose mind was disturbed by alarm could do justice to it." He told her that in some way, he did not mention how, he had control over the manager of the building, who had let it under a false impression, and asked her if she was aware of the comparatively late discovery of how to produce artificial magnetism. "I ought to be," she replied, with a smile, "for I am credited with having been the first to discover the principle of the remote branch of muscular magnetising electricity on which it depends." "I had forgotten," he said, with an answering smile. "One may be forgiven for forgetting for a moment the wide nature of your investigations and discoveries." Then he explained to her that the principle could be put into practice with perfect certainty and safety, and that he would take care everything was properly arranged. He would see her again and tell her the pass-words, the part of the Hall she was to occupy, and the mode she was to adopt to summon assistance. The evening of the meeting came, and for half an hour there were numerous arrivals at the many doors of the huge building. Each person had separately to interchange the pass-words at both the outer and inner doors. At length about twelve hundred people were assembled. The lights outside the glass hall were comparatively feeble. The powerful electric lamps were not turned on. The inner hall was unlighted, and received only a dull reflection from the outer lights. Some surprise was expressed by the usual frequenters of the Hall at the appearance inside the glass wall of a wooden dais, sufficiently large to hold three or four people, and with shallow steps on one side leading up to it. Inquiry was made as to its object. The doorkeeper, suitably instructed, replied carelessly it was thought, they might require a stage from which the speakers could address the audience. The present meeting certainly did not want it. The speakers had no desire to individually bring themselves into notice. Hilda, muffled up as were the rest, quietly took a seat close to the steps of the dais. No president was appointed; no one appeared to have any control; yet as the meeting proceeded it was evident that its tactics had been carefully thought out, and that most, if not all, of the speakers were fulfilling the parts allotted to them. First a tall, elderly man rose, and with considerable force and fluency enlarged upon the evils of the present large taxation. He went into figures, and his speech ought to have been effective, only no one seemed to take any interest in it. Then there loomed on the meeting the person apparently of a middle-aged woman. The cloaks and hats carefully mystified the identities of the sexes and individual peculiarities. This speaker went a little further. She explained that maintaining the Empire as a whole entailed the sacrifice of regulating the taxation so as to suit the least wealthy portions. She carefully guarded herself from being more than explanatory. The comparative poverty of England and the exactions of the self-indulgent Londoners, she said, necessitated a scale of taxation that hardy and rich Australia, New Zealand, and Canada did not require. Then a historically disposed young woman rose and dwelt upon the time when England thought a great deal more of herself than of the Colonies and to curry favour with foreign countries placed them on the same footing as her own dominions. Little by little various speakers progressed, testing at every step the feelings of the audience, until at last one went so far as to ask the question whether the time would ever come when Australia would be found to be quite large and powerful enough to constitute an empire of itself. "Mind," said he, "I do not say the time will come." Then an apparently excited Australian arose. She would not, she said, say a word in favour of such an empire; but she, an Australian bred and born, and with a long line of Australian ancestors, was not going to listen to any doubts being thrown on Australia or Australians. The country and the people, she declared, amidst murmuring signs of assent, were fit for any destiny to which they might be called. Then a logical speaker rose and asked why were they forbidden to discuss the question as to whether it was desirable to retain the present limits of the Empire or to divide it. He would not state what his opinion was, but he would say this: that he could not properly estimate the arguments in favour of preserving the integrity of the Empire unless he was at liberty to hear the arguments and answer them of those who held an opposite opinion. When this speaker sat down, there was a momentary pause. It seemed as if there was a short consultation between those who were guiding the progress of the meeting. Whether or not this was the case, some determination appeared to be arrived at; and a short, portly man arose and said he did not care for anybody or anything. He would answer the question to which they had at length attained by saying that in his opinion the present empire was too large, that Australia ought to be formed into a separate empire, and that she would be quite strong enough to take care of herself. The low murmur of fear with which this bold announcement was heard soon developed into loud cheers, especially from that part of the Hall where the controlling influence seemed to be held. Then all restraint was cast aside; and speaker after speaker affirmed, in all varieties of eloquence, that Australia must be an empire. Some discussed whether New Zealand should be included, but the general opinion appeared to be that she should be left to her own decision in the matter. Then the climax was approached. A speaker rose and said there appeared to be no doubt in the mind of the meeting as to the Empire of Australia; he hoped there was no doubt that Lord Reginald Paramatta should be the first Emperor. The meeting seemed to be getting beyond the control of its leaders. It did not appear to have been part of their programme to put forward Lord Reginald's name at this stage. It was an awkward fix, for no person by name was supposed to be present, so that he could neither disclaim the honour nor express his thanks for it. One of the controllers, a grave, tall woman, long past middle age, dealt with this difficulty. They must not, she said, go too far at first; it was for them now to say whether Australia should be an empire. She loved to hear the enthusiasm with which Lord Reginald Paramatta's name was received. Australia boasted no greater or more distinguished family than the Paramattas; and as for Lord Reginald, every one knew that a braver and better soldier did not live. Still they must decide on the Empire before the Emperor, and each person present must answer the question was he or she favourable to Australia being constructed into a separate empire? They could not in this light distinguish hands held up. Each person must rise and throw off his or her cloak and hat and utter the words, "I declare that I am favourable to Australia being constituted an empire." Then, evidently with the intention of making the controllers and Lord Reginald speak last, she asked the occupant of the seat to the extreme left of the part of the Hall most distant from her to be the first to declare. Probably he and a few others had been placed there for that purpose. At any rate, he rose without hesitation, threw off his cloak, removed his hat, and said, "I declare myself in favour of Australia being constituted an empire." Person after person from left to right and from right to left of each line of chairs followed the same action and uttered the same words, and throughout the Hall there was a general removal of cloaks and hats. At length it came to Hilda Fitzherbert's turn. Without a moment's hesitation, the brave girl rose, dropped her cloak and hat, and in a voice distinctly heard from end to end of the Hall said, "I declare I am not in favour of Australia being constituted an empire." For a second there was a pause of consternation. Then arose a Babel of sounds: "Spy!" "Traitor!" "It is Hilda Fitzherbert;" "She must not leave the Hall alive;" "We have been betrayed." Shrieks and sobs were amongst the cries to be distinguished. Then there arose a mighty roar of "She must die," and a movement towards her. It was stilled for a moment. Lord Reginald rose, and, with a voice heard above all the rest, he thundered forth, "She shall not die. She shall live on one condition. Leave her to me;" and he strode towards her. In one second the girl, like a fawn, sprang up the steps of the dais, and touched a button concealed in the wall, and then a second button. Words are insufficient to describe the effect. The first button was connected with wires that ran through the flooring and communicated to every being in the Hall excepting to Hilda, on the insulated dais, a shock of magnetic electricity, the effect of which was to throw them into instantaneous motionless rigidity. No limb or muscle could be moved; as the shock found them they remained. And the pressure of the second button left no doubt of the fact, for it turned on the electric current to all the lamps inside and outside of the Hall, until the chamber became a blaze of dazzling light. There was no longer disguise of face or person, and every visage was at its worst. Fear, terror, cruelty, or revenge was the mastering expression on nearly every countenance. Some faces showed that the owners had been entrapped and betrayed into a situation they had not sought. But these were few, and could be easily read. On the majority of the countenances there was branded a mixture of greed, thwarted ambition, personal malignity, and cruelty horrible to observe. The pose of the persons lent a ludicrous aspect to the scene. Lord Reginald, for instance, had one foot in front of the other in the progress he was making towards Hilda. His body was bent forward. His face wore an expression of triumphant revenge and brutal love terrible to look at. Evidently he had thought there "was joy at last for my love and my revenge." Hilda shuddered as she glanced down upon the sardonic faces beneath her, and touched a third button. An answering clarionet at once struck out the signal to advance, and the measured tread of troops in all directions was heard. The poor wretches in the Hall preserved consciousness of what was passing around, though they could not exercise their muscular powers and felt no bodily pain. An officer at the door close to the dais saluted Miss Fitzherbert. "Be careful," she said, "to put your foot at once on the dais and come up to me." He approached her. "Have you your orders?" she asked. "My orders," he said, "are to come from you. We have photographers at hand." "Have a photograph," she instructed him, "taken of the whole scene, then of separate groups, and lastly of each individual. Have it done quickly," she added, "for the poor wretches suffer mental, if not physical, pain. Then every one may go free excepting the occupants of the three top rows. The police should see that these do not leave Melbourne." She bowed to the officer, and sprang down the steps and out of the Hall. At the outer door a tall form met her. She did not require to look--she was blinded by the light within--to be convinced that it was Colonel Laurient who received her and placed her in a carriage. She was overcome. The terrible scene she had passed through had been too much for her. She did not faint; she appeared to be in a state of numbed inertness, as if she had lost all mental and physical power. Colonel Laurient almost carried her into the house, and, with a face of deathly pallor, consigned her to the care of her sister. Maud had been partly prepared to expect that Hilda would be strongly agitated by some painful scene, and she was less struck by her momentary helplessness than by the agonised agitation of that usually self-commanding being Colonel Laurient. Probably no one had ever seen him like this before. It may be that he felt concern not only for Hilda herself, but for the part he had played in placing her in so agitating a position. CHAPTER VII. HEROINE WORSHIP. It was nearly twelve o'clock before Hilda roused herself from a long and dreamless slumber, consequent upon the fatigue and excitement of the previous evening. She still felt somewhat exhausted, but no physician could have administered a remedy so efficacious as the one she found ready to hand. On the table beside her was a small packet sealed with the imperial arms. She removed the covering; and opening the case beneath, a beautifully painted portrait of the Emperor on an ivory medallion met her enraptured gaze. The portrait was set round with magnificent diamonds. But she scarcely noticed them; it was the painting itself that charmed her. The Emperor looked just as he appeared when he said to her, "Tell me now as woman to man, not as subject to emperor." There was the same winning smile, the same caressing yet commanding look. She involuntarily raised the medallion to her lips, and then blushed rosy red over face and shoulders. She turned the medallion, and on the back she found these words engraved: "Albert Edward to Hilda, in testimony of his admiration and gratitude." He must have had these words engraved during the night. The maid entered. "Miss Fitzherbert," she said, "during the last two hours there have been hundreds of cards left for you. There is quite a continuous line of carriages coming to the door, and there have been bundles of telegrams. Miss Maud is opening them." Hilda realised the meaning of the line-- "Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame." Then the maid told her Mrs. Hardinge was most anxious to see her and was waiting. She would not allow her to be awakened. Hilda said she would have her bath and see Mrs. Hardinge in the little boudoir adjoining her dressing-room in a few minutes. Quite recovered from her last night's agitation, Hilda looked her best in a charmingly fashioned dressing-gown as she entered the room where Mrs. Hardinge was waiting to receive her. "My dear, dear girl," said that lady as she embraced her, "I am delighted. You are well again? I need not ask. Your looks proclaim it. You are the heroine of the hour. The Emperor learnt everything last night, and the papers all over the world are full of it to-day. Maud says the telegrams are from every part of the globe, not only within our own empire, but from Europe, and the United States, and South America. You are a brave girl." "Pray do not say so, Mrs. Hardinge. I only did my duty--what any one in my place would have done. Tell me all that has happened." Mrs. Hardinge, nothing reluctant, replied with animated looks and gestures. "Laurient has told me everything. You instructed the officer, it seems, to keep a watch over only the occupants of the three further rows. Lord Reginald had left those, and was approaching you. The officer, following your words literally, allowed him to leave unwatched. Some sixty only of the people were placed under espionage. Nearly every one of the rest who were present is supposed to have left Melbourne, including Lord Reginald. We sent to his house to arrest him, but he had departed in one of his fastest long-distance air-cruisers. It is supposed that he has gone to Europe, or to America, or to one of his remote estates in the interior of this continent. I am not sure that the Emperor was displeased at his departure. When the intelligence reached him, he said to me, 'That will save Miss Fitzherbert from appearing in public to give evidence. As for the rest, it does not matter. They have been fooled to serve that man's ends.' So now they are free. But their names are known; indeed, their ridiculous appearance is immortalised. A likeness was taken of every one, but the _tout ensemble_ is superbly grotesque. It is well so few people know the secret of artificial magnetism." Hilda showed Mrs. Hardinge the Emperor's magnificent present, and asked what was she to do. Should she write a letter of thanks? "Do so," said the shrewd woman of the world. "Who knows that he will not value the acknowledgment as you value the gift?" Again Hilda's face was suffused in red. "I must go away," she said to herself, "until I can better command myself." Then she begged Mrs. Hardinge not to mention about the Emperor's gift. "I shall only tell Maud of it. I felt it was right to tell you." "Of course it was," said Mrs. Hardinge; "but it may be well not to mention it further. There are thousands of persons who honour and admire you; but there are thousands also who already envy you, and who will not envy you the less because of this great deed." Then she told Hilda that the Emperor wished to do her public honour by making her a countess in her own right. Hilda shrank from the distinction. "It will lose me my seat in Parliament," she said. "No. You will only have to stand for re-election, and no one will oppose you." "But," said the girl, "I am not rich enough." "If report is correct, you soon will be. The river-works in New Zealand are nearly finished; they will make you, it is said, a millionaire." "I had forgotten them for the moment, but it is not safe to count on their success until the test is actually made. This reminds me that they will be finished next week; and my friends in New Zealand think that my sister and I ought to be present, if only in honour of our dear grandfather, who left us the interest we hold in the river. Can you spare me for ten days?" "Of course I can, Hilda dear. The change will do you good. Laurient is going. He is said to have an interest in the works. And Montreal is going also. He too had an interest, but I think he parted with it." They discussed whether Hilda should go to the fête that was to be held on Monday to celebrate the centenary of the completion of the irrigation of the Malee Scrub Plains. These plains were once about as desolate and unromantic a locality as could be found; but a Canadian firm, Messrs. Chaffey Brothers, had undertaken to turn the wilderness into a garden by irrigation, and they had entirely succeeded. An enormous population now inhabited the redeemed lands, and a fête was to be held in commemoration of the century that had elapsed since the great work was completed. The Emperor himself had agreed to be there. Hilda begged to be excused. Her nerves were shaken. She would dread the many congratulations she would receive and the requests to repeat over and over again the particulars of the scene which inspired her now with only horror and repulsion. "You must not show yourself to-day," Mrs. Hardinge said; "and I will cry you off to-morrow on the ground of illness. Next day go to New Zealand, and by the time you return you will be yourself again." "You may say too I am abundantly occupied," said Hilda archly as Maud entered the room with an enormous package of open telegrams in her hands. "Dear Hilda, you do look well to-day. I am so pleased," said the delighted girl as she flung down the telegrams and embraced her sister. There was something singularly pathetic in the love of these two girls. Mrs. Hardinge left them together. Hilda showed the medallion in strict confidence. Maud was literally enraptured with it. "How noble, how handsome, he is! I know only one other man so beautiful." Then she paused in confusion; and Hilda rather doubted the exception, though she knew it was their old playfellow Montreal who was intended. "Who is the traitor," she said, "you dare to compare with your Sovereign?" Maud, almost in tears, declared she did not mean what she said. The Emperor was very handsome. "Do not be ashamed, my dear, to be true to your feelings," said Hilda sententiously. "A woman's heart is an empire of itself, and he who rules over it may be well content with a single loyal subject." "Nonsense, Hilda! Do not tease me. An emperor, too, may rule over a woman's heart." This was rather carrying the war into the opposite camp. Miss Fitzherbert thought it time to change the subject. They discussed the telegrams. Then Maud told Hilda how frightfully agitated Laurient was the previous evening. Finally they decided they would go to New Zealand the day after the next. They debated if they should proceed in their own air-cruiser or in the public one that left early every morning. It was about a sixteen hours' journey in the public conveyance, but in their own it would take less time. Besides, they wished to go straight to Dunedin, where the girls had a beautiful residence, and where their friends were chiefly located. Hilda represented Dunedin in the New Zealand Parliament, and local government honours had been freely open to her; but, under the tutelage of Mrs. Hardinge, she had preferred entering into federal politics, though she continued in the New Zealand Parliament. Most of the leading federal statesmen interested themselves with one or other Dominion government. There was such an absence of friction between the federal and the separate dominion governments that no inconvenience resulted from the dual attention, while it led to a more intimate knowledge of local duties. Maud bashfully remembered that Lady Taieri had asked them to go to Dunedin on her beautiful cruiser. "She was making up a party," said Maud; "and she mentioned that Colonel Laurient and Lord Montreal were amongst the number." Hilda saw the wistful look in Maud's eyes. "Let us go with Lady Taieri," she said; and so it was arranged. CHAPTER VIII. AIR-CRUISERS. We trust our readers will not be wearied because it is necessary to give them at some length an explanation concerning the aerial machines to which reference has so often been made as air-cruisers. It need scarcely be said that from time immemorial a great deal of attention has been directed to the question whether aerial travelling could he made subservient to the purposes of man. Balloons, as they were called, made of strong fabrics filled with a gas lighter than air, were to some extent used, but rarely for practical purposes. They were in considerable request for military objects, and it is recorded that Gambetta managed to get out of Paris in a balloon when that city was beleaguered by the German army in 1871. The principle of the balloon was the use of a vessel which, weighing, with all its contents, less than a similar volume of the atmosphere, would consequently rise in the air. But evidently no great progress could be made with such an apparatus. The low specific gravity of the atmosphere forbade the hope of its being possible to carry a heavy weight in great quantity on a machine that depended for its buoyancy on a less specific gravity. Besides, there was danger in using a fabric because of its liability to irreparable destruction by the smallest puncture. The question then was mooted, Could not an aerial machine be devised to work although of higher specific gravity than the air? Birds, it was argued, kept themselves afloat by the motion of their wings, although their weight was considerably greater than a similar volume of the air through which they travelled. This idea was pursued. The cheap production of aluminium, a strong but light metal, gave an impulse to the experiment; and it was at length proved quite satisfactorily that aerial travelling was practicable in vessels considerably heavier than the air, by the use of quickly revolving fans working in the directions that were found to be suitable to the progress of the vessel. But great power was required to make the fans revolve, and the machinery to yield great power was proportionately heavy. It was especially heavy if applied separately to a portion of the fans, whilst it was dangerous to rely on one set of machinery, since any accident to it would mean cessation of the movement of the whole of the fans and consequently instant destruction. It was considered that, for safety's sake, there should be at least three sets of fans, worked by separate machinery, and that any one set should be able to preserve sufficient buoyancy although the other two were disabled. But whilst it was easy to define the conditions of safety, it was not easy to give them effect. All applications of known engines, whether of steam, water gas, electricity, compressed air, or petroleum, were found to be too bulky; and although three sets of machines were considered necessary, one set only was generally used, and many accidents occurred in consequence. The aerial mode of travelling was much employed by the adventurous, but hundreds of people lost their lives annually. At length that grand association the Inventors' Institution came to the rescue. The founders of the Inventors' Institution, though working really with the object of benefiting humanity, were much too wise to place the undertaking on a purely philanthropic basis. On the contrary, they constructed it on a commercial basis. The object was to encourage the progress of valuable inventions, and they were willing to lend sums from trifling amounts to very large ones to aid the development of any invention of which they approved. They might lend only a trifle to obtain a patent or a large sum to make exhaustive experiments. The borrower had to enter into a bond to repay the amount tenfold or to any less extent demanded by the Institution at its own discretion. It was clearly laid down that, when the invention proved a failure through no fault of the inventor, he would not be asked for any repayment. In case of moderate success, he would only be asked for moderate repayment, and so on. The fairness of the Institution's exercise of discretion was rarely, if ever, called into question. Once they lent nearly thirty thousand pounds to finally develop an invention. Within four years they called upon the inventor to repay nearly three hundred thousand, but he was nothing loath. The invention was a great commercial success and yielding him at the rate of nearly a million per annum. This association offered a large reward for the best suggestion as to the nature of an invention to render aerial travelling safe, quick, and economical. A remarkable paper gained the prize. The writer was an eminent chemist. He expressed the opinion that the one possible means of success was the use of a power which, as in the case of explosives, could be easily produced from substances of comparative light weight. He urged, it was only of late years that any real knowledge of the nature of explosives was obtained. It was nearly four hundred years after the discovery of gunpowder before any possible substitutes were invented. It was again a long time before it was discovered that explosives partook of two distinctly separate characters. One was the quick or shattering compound producing instantaneous effect; the other was the slow or rending compound of more protracted action. He dwelt on the fact that in all cases the force yielded by explosives was through the change of a solid into a gaseous body, and that the volume of the gaseous body was greatly increased by the expansion consequent on the heat evolved during decomposition. The total amount of heat evolved during decomposition did not differ, but evidently the concentration of heat at any one time depended on the rapidity of the decomposition. The volume of gas, independent of expansion by heat, varied also with different substances. Blasting oil, for instance, gave nearly thirteen hundred times its own volume of gas, and this was increased more than eight times by the concentration of heat; gunpowder only yielded in gas expanded by heat eight hundred times its own volume: or, in other words, the one yielded through decomposition thirteen times the volume of the other. He went on to argue that what was required was the leisurely chemical decomposition of a solid into a gas without sensible explosion, and of such a slow character as to avoid the production of great heat. He referred, as an example of the change resulting from the contact of two bodies, to the effect of safety matches. The match would only ignite by contact with a specially prepared surface. This match was as great an improvement on the old primitive match, as would be a decomposing material the force of which could be controlled, an improvement on the present means of obtaining power. He expressed a positive opinion that substances could be found whose rapidity of decomposition, and consequent heat and strength, could be nicely regulated, so that a force could be employed which would not be too sudden nor too strong to be used in substitution of steam or compressed air. He was, moreover, of opinion that, instead of the substances being mixed ready for use, with the concurrent danger, a mode could be devised of bringing the different component parts into contact in a not dissimilar manner to the application of the safety match, thereby assuring absolute immunity from danger in the carriage of the materials. This discovery could be made, he went on to say; and upon it depended improvement in aerial travelling. Each fan could be impelled by a separate machine of a light weight, worked with perfect safety by a cheap material; for the probabilities were, the substance would be cheaply producible. Each aerial vessel should carry three or four times the number of separate fans and machinery necessary to obtain buoyancy. The same substances probably could be used to procure buoyancy in the improbable event of all the machines breaking down. Supposing, as he suspected would be the case, that the resultant gas of the decomposition was lighter than air, a hollow case of a strong elastic fabric could be fastened to the whole of the outside exposed surface of the machine; and this could be rapidly inflated by the use of the same material. The movement of a button should be sufficient to produce decomposition, and as a consequence to charge the whole of this casing with gas lighter than the air. As the heat attending the decomposition subsided the elastic fabric would sufficiently collapse. The danger then would not be so much of descending too rapidly through the atmosphere as of remaining in it; a difficulty, however, which a system of valves would easily overcome. The Institution offered twenty-five thousand pounds for a discovery on the lines indicated; and the Government offered seventy-five thousand pounds more on the condition that they should have the right to purchase the invention and preserve it as a secret, they supplying the material for civil purposes, but retaining absolute control over it for military purposes. This proviso was inserted because of the opinion of the writer that the effects he looked for might not so much depend on the chemical composition of the substances as on their molecular conditions, and that these might defy the efforts of analysts. If he was wrong, and the nature of the compound could be ascertained by analysis, the Government need not buy the invention; they could leave the discoverer to enjoy its advantages by patenting it, and share with other nations the uses that could be made of it for purposes of warfare. It was some time before the investigations were completely successful. There was no lack of attention to the subject, the inducements being so splendid. Many fatal accidents occurred through the widely spread attention given to the properties of explosives and to the possibility of modifying their effects. On one occasion it was thought that success was attained. Laboratory experiments were entirely satisfactory, and at length it was determined to have a grand trial of the substance. A large quantity was prepared, and it was applied to the production of power in various descriptions of machinery. Many distinguished people were present, including a Cabinet Minister, a Lord of the Admiralty, the Under-Secretary for Defence, the President of the Inventors' Institution, several members of Parliament, a dozen or more distinguished men and women of science, and the inventor himself. The assemblage was a brilliant one; but, alas! not one of those present lived to record an opinion of the invention. The substance discovered was evidently not wanting in power. How far it was successful no one ever learnt. It may have been faultily made or injudiciously employed. But the very nature of the composition was lost, for the inventor went with the rest. An explosion occurred; and all the men and women within the building were scattered miles around, with fragments of the edifice itself. The largest recognisable human remains discovered were the well-defined joint of a little finger. A great commotion followed. The eminent chemist who wrote the paper suggesting the discovery was covered with obloquy. Suggestions were made that the law should restrain such investigations. Some people went so far as to describe them as diabolical. All things, however, come to those who wait; and at length a discovery was made faithfully resembling the one prognosticated by the great chemist. Strange to say, the inventor or discoverer was a young Jewish woman not yet thirty years of age. From childhood she had taken an intense interest in the question, and the terrible accident above recorded seemed to spur her on to further exertion. She had a wonderful knowledge of ancient languages, and she searched for information concerning chemical secrets which she believed lost to the present day. She had a notion that the atomic structure of substances was better known to students in the early ages. It was said that the hint she acted on was conveyed to her by some passage in a Chaldean inscription of great antiquity. She neither admitted nor denied it. Perhaps the susceptibilities of an intensely Eastern nature led her to welcome the halo of romance cast over her discovery. Be that as it may, it is certain she discovered a substance, or rather substances which, brought into contact with each other, faithfully fulfilled all that the chemist had ventured to suggest. Together with unwavering efficiency there was perfect safety; and so much of the action depended on the structure, not the composition, that the efforts of thousands of _savants_ failed to discover the secret of the invention. What the substances were in composition, and what they became after decomposition was easily determined, but how to make them in a form that fulfilled the purpose required defied every investigation. The inventor did not patent her invention. After making an enormous fortune from it, she sold it to the Government, who took over the manufactory and its secrets; and whilst they sold it in quantity for ordinary use, they jealously guarded against its accumulation in foreign countries for possible warlike purposes. This invention, as much almost as its vast naval and military forces, gave to the empire of Britain the great power it possessed. The United States alone affected to underrate that power. It was the habit of Americans to declare that they did not believe in standing armies or fleets. If they wanted to fight, they could afford to spend any amount of treasure; and they could do more in the way of organising than any nation in the world. They were not going to spend money on keeping themselves in readiness for what might never happen. But we have not now to consider the aerial ships from their warlike point of view. It should be mentioned that the inventor of this new form of power was the aunt of Colonel Laurient. She died nearly twenty years before this history, and left to him, her favourite nephew, so much of her gigantic fortune as the law permitted her to devise to one inheritor. CHAPTER IX. TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. A little after sunrise on a prematurely early spring morning at the end of August Lady Taieri's air-cruiser left Melbourne. There was sufficient heat to make the southerly course not too severe, and it was decided to call at Stewart's Island to examine its vast fishery establishments. A gay and happy party was on board. Lord and Lady Taieri were genial, lively people, and liked by a large circle of friends. They loved nothing better than to assemble around them pleasant companions, and to entertain them with profuse hospitality. No provision was wanting to amuse the party, which consisted, besides the two Miss Fitzherberts, Lord Montreal, and Colonel Laurient, of nearly twenty happy young people of both sexes. General and Lady Buller also were there. The General was the descendant of an old New Zealand family which had acquired immense wealth by turning to profitable use large areas of pumice-stone land previously supposed to be useless. The Bullers were always scientifically disposed; and one lady of the family, a professor of agricultural science, was convinced that the pumice-stone land could be made productive. It was not wanting in fertilising properties; but the difficulty was that on account of its porous nature, it could not retain moisture. Professor Buller first had numerous artesian wells bored, and obtained at regular distances an ample supply of water over a quarter of a million of acres of pumice land, which she purchased for two shillings an acre. After a great many experiments, she devised a mixture of soil, clay, and fertilising agents capable of being held in water by suspension. She drenched the land with the water thus mixed. The pumice acted as a filter, retaining the particles and filtering the water. As the land dried it became less porous. Grass seed was surface-sown. Another irrigation of the charged water and a third, after some delay, of clear water, completed the work. When once vegetation commenced, there was no difficulty. The land was found particularly suitable for subtropical fruits and for grapes. Vast fruit-canning works were established; and a special effervescent wine known as Bullerite was produced, and was held in higher estimation than the best champagne. Whilst more exhilarating, it was less intoxicating. It fetched a very high price, for it could be produced nowhere but on redeemed pumice land. Not a little proud was General Buller of his ancestor's achievement. He was in the habit of declaring that he did not care for the wealth he inherited in consequence; it was the genius that devised and carried out the reclamation, he said, which was to him its greatest glory. Nevertheless in practice he did not seem to disregard the substantial results he enjoyed. General Buller was a soldier of great scientific attainments. His only child, Phoebe, a beautiful girl of seventeen, was with them. She was the object of admiration of most of the young men on board, Lord Montreal alone excepted. Beyond some conventional civilities, he seemed unconscious of the presence of any one but Maud Fitzherbert; and she was nothing reluctant to receive his attentions. The cruiser was beautifully constructed of pure aluminium. Everything conducive to the comfort of the passengers was provided. The machinery was very powerful, and the cruiser rose and fell with the grace and ease of a bird. After clearing the land, it kept at about a height of fifty feet above the sea, and, without any strain on the machinery, made easily a hundred miles an hour. About four o'clock in the afternoon a descent was made on Stewart's Island. The fishing establishments here were of immense extent and value. They comprised not only huge factories for tinning the fresh fish caught on the banks to the south-east, but large establishments for dressing the seal-skins brought from the far south, as also for sorting and preparing for the market the stores of ivory brought from near the Antarctic Pole, the remnants of prehistoric animals which in the regions of eternal cold had been preserved intact for countless ages. To New Zealand mainly belonged the credit of Antarctic research. Commenced in the interests of science, it soon became endowed with permanent activity on account of its commercial results. A large island, easily accessible, which received the name of Antarctica, was discovered within ten degrees of the Pole, stretching towards it, so that its southern point was not more than ten miles from the southern apex of the world. From causes satisfactorily explained by scientists, the temperature within a hundred-mile circle of the Pole was comparatively mild. There was no wind; and although the cold was severe, it was bearable, and in comparison with the near northern latitudes it was pleasant. On this island an extraordinary discovery was made. There were many thousands of a race of human beings whose existence was hitherto unsuspected. The instincts of man for navigating the ocean are well known. A famous scientific authority, Sir Charles Lyell, once declared that, if all the world excepting one remote little island were left unpeopled, the people of that island would spread themselves in time over every portion of the earth's surface. The Antarctic Esquimaux were evidently of the same origin as the Kanaka race. They spoke a language curiously little different from the Maori dialect, although long centuries must have elapsed since the migrating Malays, carried to the south probably against their own will, found a resting-place in Antarctica. Nature had generously assimilated them to the wants of the climate. Their faces and bodies were covered with a thick growth of short curly hair, which, though it detracted from their beauty, greatly added to their comfort. They were a docile, peaceful, intelligent people. They loved to come up to Stewart's Island during the winter and to return before the summer made it too hot for them to exist, laden with the presents which were always showered upon them. They were too useful to the traders of Stewart's Island not to receive consideration at their hands. The seal-skins and the ivory obtained from Antarctica were the finest in the world, and the latter was procured in immense quantities from the ice-buried remains of animals long since extinct as a living race. Lady Taieri's friends spent a most pleasant two hours on the island. Some recent arrivals from Antarctica were objects of great interest. A young chief especially entertained them by his description of the wonders of Antarctica and his unsophisticated admiration of the novelties around him. He appeared to be particularly impressed with Phoebe Buller. The poor girl blushed very much; and her companions were highly amused when the interpreter told them that the young chief said she would be very good-looking if her face was covered with hair, and that he would be willing to take her back with him to Antarctica. Lady Taieri proposed that they should all visit the island and be present at the wedding. This sally was too much. Phoebe Buller retired to her cabin on the cruiser, and was not seen again until the well-lighted farms and residences on the beautiful Taieri plains, beneath the flying vessel, reminded its occupants that they were close to their destination. During the next six days Lady Taieri gave a series of magnificent entertainments. There were dances, dinner-parties, picnics, a visit to the glacier region of Mount Cook, and finally a ball in Dunedin of unsurpassed splendour. This was on the eve of the opening of the river-works; and all the authorities of Wellington, including the Governor and his Ministers, honoured the ball with their presence. An account of the river-works will not be unacceptable. So long since as 1863 it was discovered that the river Molyneux, or Clutha as it was sometimes called, contained over a great length rich gold deposits. More or less considerable quantities of the precious metal were obtained from time to time when the river was unusually low. But at no time was much of the banks and parts adjacent thereto uncovered. Dredging was resorted to, and a great deal of gold obtained; but it was pointed out that the search in that manner was something like the proverbial exploration for a needle in a haystack. A great scientist, Sir Julius Von Haast, declared that during the glacial period the mountains adjacent to the valley of the Molyneux were ground down by the action of glaciers from an average height of several thousand feet. Every ounce of the pulverised matter must have passed through the valley drained by the river; and he made a calculation which showed that, if the stuff averaged a grain to the ton, there must be in the interstices of the river bed many thousands of tons of gold. Nearly fifty years before the period of this history the grandfather of Hilda and Maud Fitzherbert set himself seriously to unravel the problem. His design was to deepen the bed of the Mataura river, running through Southland, and to make an outlet to it from Lake Whakatip. Simultaneously he proposed to close the outlet from the lake into the Molyneux and, by the aid of other channels, cut at different parts of the river to divert the tributary streams, to lay bare and clear from water fully fifty miles of the river bed between Lake Whakatip and the Dunstan. It was an enormous work. The cost alone of obtaining the various riparian and residential rights absorbed over two millions sterling. Twice, too, were the works on the point of completion, and twice were they destroyed by floods and storms. Mr. Fitzherbert had to take several partners, and his own enormous fortune was nearly dissipated. He had lost his son and his son's wife when his grandchildren, Hilda and Maud, were of tender age. After his death the two girls found a letter from him in which he told them he had settled on each of them three thousand pounds a year and left to them jointly his house and garden near Dunedin, with the furniture, just as they had always lived in it. Beyond this comparatively inconsiderable bequest, he wrote, he had devoted everything to the completion of the great work of his life. It was certain now that the river would be uncovered; and if he was right in his expectations, they would become enormously wealthy. If it should prove he was wrong, "which," he continued, "I consider impossible, you will not think unkindly of the old grandfather whose dearest hope it was to make you the richest girls in the world." The time had come when these works, upon which so much energy had been expended, and which had been fruitful of so many disappointments, were to be finished; and a great deal of curiosity as to the result was felt in every part of the Empire. Hilda and Maud Fitzherbert had two and a half tenths each of the undertaking, and Montreal and his younger brother had each one tenth, which they had inherited, but it was understood that Montreal had parted with his own share to Colonel Laurient; two tenths were reserved for division amongst those people whose riparian and other rights Mr. Fitzherbert had originally purchased; and of the remaining tenth one half was the property of Sir Central Vincent Stout, Baronet, a young though very able lawyer, the other half belonged to Lord Larnach, one of the wealthiest private bankers in the Empire. There was by no means unanimity of opinion concerning the result of the works. Some people held, they would prove a total failure, and that the money spent on them had been wasted by visionary enthusiasts; others thought, a moderate amount of gold might be obtained; while very few shared the sanguine expectations which had led old Fitzherbert to complacently spend the huge sums he had devoted to his life's ideal. And now the result of fifty years of toil and anxiety was to be decided. It was an exceptionally fine day, and thousands of people from all parts of New Zealand thronged to the ceremony. Some preferred watching the river Molyneux subside as the waters gradually ran out; others considered the grander sight to be the filling of the new channel of the Mataura river. It had been arranged that two small levers pressed by a child would respectively have the effect of opening the gates that barred the new channel to the Mataura and of closing the gates that admitted the lake waters to the Molyneux. As the levers were pressed a signal was to run down the two rivers, in response to which guns stationed at frequent intervals were to thunder out a salute. Precisely at twelve the loud roar of artillery announced the transfer of the waters. Undoubtedly the grander sight was on the Mataura river. The progress of the liberated water as it rushed onward in a great seething, foaming, swirling mass, gleaming under the bright rays of the sun, formed a picture not easily to be forgotten. But the other river attracted more attention, for there not only nature played a part, but the last scene was to be enacted in a drama of great human interest. And this scene was more slowly progressing. The subsidence of the water was not very quick. The Molyneux was a quaint, many-featured river, partly fed by melted snow, partly by large surface drainage, both finding their way to the river through the lake, and by independent tributaries. At times the Molyneux was of great volume and swiftness. On the present occasion it was on moderate terms--neither at its slowest nor fastest. But as the river flowed on without its usual accession from the lake and the diverted tributaries, an idealist might have fancied that it was fading away through grief at the desertion of its allies. Lady Taieri's party were located on a dais erected on the banks of the river about twenty miles from the lake. After an hour or so the subsidence of the water became well marked; and occasionally heaps of crushed quartz, called tailings, from gold workings on the banks, became visible. Some natural impediments had prevented these from flowing down the river and built them up several feet in height. Here and there crevices, deep and narrow or shallow and wide, became apparent. The time was approaching when it would be known if there was utter failure or entire success or something midway between. It had been arranged that, if any conspicuous deposit of gold became apparent, a signal should be given, in response to which all the guns along the river banks should be fired. At a quarter past one o'clock the guns pealed forth; and loud as was the noise they made, it seemed trifling compared with the cheers which ran up and down the river from both banks from the throats of the countless thousands of spectators. The announcement of success occasioned almost delirious joy. It seemed as if every person in the vast crowd had an individual interest in the undertaking. The telephone soon announced that at a turn in the river about seven miles from the lake what appeared to be a large pool of fine gold was uncovered. Even as the news became circulated there appeared in the middle of the river right opposite Lady Taieri's stand a faint yellow glow beneath the water. Gradually it grew brighter and brighter, until at length to the eyes of the fascinated beholders there appeared a long, irregular fissure of about twenty-five feet in length by about six or seven in width which appeared to be filled with gold. Some of the company now rushed forward, and, amidst the deafening cheers of the onlookers, dug out into boxes which had been prepared for the purpose shovelsful of gold. Fresh boxes were sent for, but the gold appeared to be inexhaustible. Each box held five thousand ounces; and supposing the gold to be nearly pure, fifty boxes would represent the value of a million sterling. Five hundred boxes were filled, and still the pool opposite Hilda was not emptied, and it was reported two equally rich receptacles were being drained in other parts. Guards of the Volunteer forces were told off to protect the gold until it could be placed in safety. Hilda and Maud were high-minded, generous girls, with nothing of a sordid nature in their composition; but they were human, and what human being could be brought into contact with the evidence of the acquisition of such vast wealth without feelings of quickened, vivid emotion? It is only justice to them to say that their feelings were not in the nature of a sense of personal gratification so much as one of ecstatic pleasure at the visions of the enormous power for good which this wealth would place in their hands. Every one crowded round with congratulations. As Colonel Laurient joined the throng Hilda said to him, "Why should I not equally congratulate you? You share the gold with us." "Do I?" he said, with his inscrutable smile. "I had forgotten." Lord Montreal, with a face in which every vestige of colour was wanting, gravely congratulated Hilda, then, turning to her sister, said in a voice the agitation of which he could not conceal, "No one, Miss Maud, more warmly congratulates you or more fervently wishes you happiness." Before the astonished girl could reply he had left the scene. It may safely be said that Maud now bitterly regretted the success of the works. She understood that Montreal, a poor man, was too proud to owe to any woman enormous wealth. "What can I do with it? How can I get rid of it?" she wailed to Hilda, who in a moment took in the situation. "Maud dearest," she said, "control yourself. All will be well." And she led her sister off the dais into the cruiser, in which they returned to Lady Taieri's house. They met Montreal in the gallery leading to their apartments. He bowed gravely. Maud could not restrain herself. "You will kill me, Montreal," she said. "What do I care for wealth?" "Maud, you would not have me sacrifice my self-respect," he said, and passed on. He seemed almost unconscious where he was going. He was roused from his bitter reverie. "Colonel Laurient will be greatly obliged if you will go to him at once," said a servant. "Show me to his room," replied Montreal briefly. "Laurient," said Montreal, "believe me, I am not jealous of your good fortune." "My good fortune!" said Laurient. "I do not know of anything very good. I always felt sure that you would pay me what you owe me." "Pay you what I owe you!" said Montreal, in a voice of amazement. "Yes," replied Laurient. "You know that I come of a race of money-lenders, and I have sent for you to ask you for my money and interest." But Montreal was too sad to understand a joke; and Laurient had noticed what passed with Maud, and formed a shrewd conjecture that the gold had not made either of them happy. "Listen to me," he continued. "It is three years since you came to me and asked me to buy your share in the Molyneux works, as you had need of the money. I replied by asking what you wanted for your interest. You named a sum much below what I thought its value--a belief which to-day's results have proved to be correct. I am not in the habit of acquiring anything from a friend in distress at less than its proper value, and I was about to say so when I thought, 'I will lend this money on the security offered. I will not worry Montreal by letting him think that he is in debt and has to find the interest every half-year. There is quite sufficient margin for interest and principal too; and when the gold is struck, he will repay me.' I made this arrangement apparent in my will and by the execution of a deed of trust. The share is still yours, and out of the first money you receive you can repay me. Nay," he said, stopping Montreal's enthusiastic thanks. "I said I was a money-lender. Here is a memorandum of the interest, and you will see each year I have charged interest on the previous arrears--perfect usury. Go, my dear boy. I hate thanks, and I do not want money." Montreal could not control himself to speak. Two minutes afterwards he was in Hilda and Maud's sitting-room. "Forgive me, Maud darling! I have the share. I thought I had lost it," he said incoherently; but he made his meaning clear by the unmistakable caress of a lover. Hilda left the room--an example the historian must follow. CHAPTER X. LORD REGINALD AGAIN. The following telegram reached Hilda next morning: "I heartily congratulate you, dear Hilda, on the success of your grandfather's great undertaking. The Emperor summoned me and desired me to send you his congratulations. I am also to say that he wishes as a remarkable event of his reign to show his approval of the patience, skill, and enterprise combined in the enormous works successfully concluded yesterday. The honour is to come to you as your grandfather's representative. Besides that, on account of your noble deed last week he wished to raise you to the peerage. He will now raise you to the rank of duchess, and suggests the title of Duchess of New Zealand; but that of course is as you wish. You must, my dear, accept it. A duchess cannot be an under-secretary, and I am not willing to lose you. Mr. Hazelmere has repeated his wish to resign; and I now beg you to enter the Cabinet as Lord President of the Board of Education, a position for which your acquirements peculiarly fit you. Your re-election to Parliament will be a mere ceremony. Make a speech to your constituents in Dunedin. Then take the waters at Rotomahana and Waiwera. In two months you can join us in London, where the next session of Parliament will be held. You will be quite recovered from all your fatigue by then." In less than two weeks Hilda, Duchess of New Zealand, was re-elected to Parliament by her Dunedin constituents. Next day she left for Rotomahana with a numerous party of friends who were to be her guests. She had engaged the entire accommodation of one of the hotels. Maud and Hilda before they left Dunedin placed at the disposal of the Mayor half a million sterling to be handed to a properly constituted trust for the purpose of encouraging mining pursuits, and developing mining undertakings. New Zealand was celebrated for the wonderfully curative power of its waters. At Rotomahana, Te Aroha, and Waiwera in the North Island, and at Hammer Plains and several other localities in the Middle Island innumerable springs, hot and cold, existed, possessing a great variety of medicinal properties. There was scarcely a disease for which the waters of New Zealand did not possess either cure or alleviation. At one part of the colony or another these springs were in use the whole year round. People flocked to them from all quarters of the world. It was estimated that the year previous to the commencement of this history, more than a million people visited the various springs. Rotomahana, Te Aroha, and Waiwera were particularly pleasant during the months of October, November, and December. Hilda proposed passing nearly three weeks at each. Rotomahana was a city of hotels of all sizes and descriptions. Some were constructed to hold only a comparatively few guests and to entertain them on a scale of great magnificence. Every season these houses were occupied by distinguished visitors. Not infrequently crowned heads resorted to them for relief from the maladies from which even royalty is not exempt. Others of the hotels were of great size, capable indeed of accommodating several thousands of visitors. The Grandissimo Hotel comfortably entertained five thousand people. Most of the houses were built of ground volcanic scoria, pressed into bricks. Some of them were constructed of Oamaru stone, dressed with a peculiar compound that at the same time hardened and gave it the appearance of marble. The house that Hilda took appeared like a solid block of Carrara marble, relieved with huge glass windows and with balconies constructed of gilt aluminium. Balconies of plain or gilt aluminium adorned most of the hotels, and gave them a very pretty appearance. Te Aroha was a yet larger city than Rotomahana, as, besides its use as a health resort, it was the central town of an extensive and rich mining district. Waiwera was on a smaller scale, but in point of appearance the most attractive. Who indeed could do justice to thy charms, sweet Waiwera? A splendid beach of sand, upon which at short intervals two picturesque rivers debouched to the sea, surrounded with wooded heights of all degrees of altitude, and with many variations in the colour of the foliage, it is not to be wondered at that persons managed in this charming scene to forget the world and to reveal whatever of poetry lay dormant in their composition. Few who visited Waiwera did not sometimes realise the sentiment-- "I love not man the less, but nature more." Hilda had duly passed through the Rotomahana and Te Aroha cures, and she had been a week at Waiwera, when one morning two hours after sunrise, as she returned from her bath, she was delighted at the receipt of the following letter, signed by Mrs. Hardinge: "I have prepared a surprise for you, dearest Hilda. Mr. Decimus has lent me his yacht, and I am ready to receive you on board. Come off at once by yourself. We can talk over many things better here than on shore." A beautifully appointed yacht lay in the offing six hundred yards from the shore, and a well-manned boat was waiting to take Hilda on board. She flew to her room, completed her toilet, and in ten minutes was on the boat and rowing off to the yacht. She ascended the companion ladder, and was received on deck by a young officer. "I am to ask your Grace to wait a few minutes," he said. Hilda gazed round the entrancing view on sea, land, and river, beaming beneath a bright and gorgeous sun, forgetting everything but the sense of the loveliness around her. She could never tell how long she was so absorbed. She aroused herself with a start to feel the vessel moving and to see before her the dreaded figure of Lord Reginald Paramatta. Meanwhile the spectators on the shore were amazed to see Hilda go off to the yacht alone, and the vessel weigh anchor and steam away swiftly. Maud and Lady Taieri, returning from their baths along the beautiful avenue of trees, were speedily told of the occurrence, and a council rapidly held with Laurient and Montreal. Mrs. Hardinge's letter was found in Hilda's room. "Probably," said Lady Taieri, "the morning is so fine that Mrs. Hardinge is taking the Duchess for a cruise while they talk together." "I do not think so," said the Colonel. "Look at the speed the vessel is making. They would not proceed at such a rate if a pleasant sail were the only object. She is going at the rate of thirty miles an hour." Maud started with surprise, and again glanced at the letter. "You are right, Colonel Laurient," she said, with fearful agitation; "this writing is like that of Mrs. Hardinge, but it is not hers. I know her writing too well not to be sure it is an imitation. Oh, help Hilda; do help her! Montreal, you must aid. She is the victim of a plot." Meanwhile the vessel raced on; but with a powerful glass they could make out that there was only one female figure on board, and that a male figure stood beside her. "Hilda," said Lord Reginald, bowing low, "forgive me. All is fair in love and war. My life without you is a misery." "Do you think, my lord," said the girl, very pale but still courageous, "that this course you have adopted is one that will commend you to my liking?" "I will teach you to love me. You cannot remain unresponsive to the intense affection I bear you." "True love, Lord Reginald, is not steeped in selfishness; it has regard for the happiness of its object. Do you think you can make me happy by tearing me from my friends by an artifice like this?" "I will make it up to you. I implore your forgiveness. Try to excuse me." Hilda during this rapid dialogue did not lose her self-possession. She knew the fears of her friends on shore would soon be aroused. She wondered at her own want of suspicion. Time, she felt, was everything. When once doubt was aroused, pursuit in the powerful aerial cruiser they had on shore would be rapid. "I entreat you, Lord Reginald," she said, "to turn back. Have pity on me. See how defenceless I am against such a conspiracy as this." Lord Reginald was by nature brave, and the wretched cheat he was playing affected him more because of its cowardly nature than by reason of its outrageous turpitude. He was a slave to his passions and desires. He would have led a decently good life if all his wishes were capable of gratification, but there was no limit to the wickedness of which he might be guilty in the pursuit of desires he could not satisfy. He either was, or fancied himself to be, desperately in love with Hilda; and he believed, though without reason, that she had to some extent coquetted with him. Even in despite of reason and evidence to the contrary, he imagined she felt a prepossession in his favour, that an act of bravery like this might stir into love. He did not sufficiently understand woman. To his mind courage was the highest human quality, and he thought an exhibition of signal bravery even at the expense of the woman entrapped by it would find favour in her eyes. Hilda's words touched him keenly, though in some measure he thought they savoured of submission. "She is imploring now," he thought, "instead of commanding." "Ask me," he said, in a tone of exceeding gentleness, "anything but to turn back. O Hilda, you can do with me what you like if you will only consent to command!" "Leave me then," she replied, "for a time. Let me think over my dreadful position." "I will leave you for a quarter of an hour, but do not say the position is dreadful." He walked away, and the girl was left the solitary occupant of the deck. The beautiful landscape was still in sight. It seemed a mockery that all should appear the same as yesterday, and she in such dreadful misery. Smaller and smaller loomed the features on the shore as the wretched girl mused on. Suddenly a small object appeared to mount in the air. "It is the cruiser," she exclaimed aloud, with delight. "They are in pursuit." "No, Hilda," said Lord Reginald, who suddenly appeared at her side, "I do not think it is the cruiser; and if it be, it can render you no aid. Look round this vessel; you will observe guns at every degree of elevation. No cruiser can approach us without instant destruction." "But you would not be guilty of such frightful wickedness. Lord Reginald, let me think better of you. Relent. Admit that you did not sufficiently reflect on what you were doing, and that you are ready to make the only reparation in your power." "No," said Lord Reginald, much moved, "I cannot give you up. Ask me for anything but that. See! you are right; the cruiser is following us. It is going four miles to our one. Save the tragedy that must ensue. I have a clergyman in the cabin yonder. Marry me at once, and your friends shall come on board and congratulate you as Lady Paramatta." "That I will never be. I would prefer to face death." "Is it so bitter a lot?" said Lord Reginald, stung into irritation. "If persuasion is useless, I must insist. Come to the cabin with me at once." "Dare you affect to command me?" said Hilda, drawing herself up with a dignity that was at once grave and pathetic. "I will dare everything for you. It is useless," he said as she waved her handkerchief to the fast-approaching cruiser. "If it come too close, its doom is sealed. Be ready to fire," he roared out to the captain; and brief, stern words were passed from end to end of the vessel. "Now, Hilda, come. The scene is not one fit for you. Come you shall," he said, approaching her and placing his arm round her waist. "Never! I would rather render my soul to God," exclaimed the brave, excited girl. With one spring she stood on the rail of the bulwarks, and with another leapt far out into the ocean. Lord Reginald gazed on her in speechless horror, and was about to follow overboard. "It is useless," the captain said, restraining him. "The boat will save her." In two minutes it was lowered, but such was the way on the yacht that the girl floating on the water was already nearly a mile distant. The cruiser and the boat raced to meet her. The yacht's head also was turned; and she rapidly approached the scene, firing at the cruiser as she did so. The latter reached Hilda first. Colonel Laurient jumped into the water, and caught hold of the girl. The beat was near enough for one of its occupants with a boathook to strike him a terrible blow on the arm. The disabled limb fell to his side, but he held her with iron strength with his other arm. The occupants of the cruiser dragged them both on board; and Colonel Laurient before he fainted away had just time to cry out, "Mount into the air, and fly as fast as you can." The scene that followed was tragical. Two of the occupants of the boat had grasped the sides of the cruiser, and were carried aloft with it. Before they could be dragged on board a shot from the yacht struck them both, and crushed in part of the side of the vessel, besides injuring many sets of fans. Another shot did damage on the opposite side. But still she rose, and to aid her buoyancy the casing was inflated. Soon she was out of reach of the yacht; and, with less speed than she left it, she returned to Waiwera. The yacht turned round, and steamed out to sea at full speed. Hilda's immersion did her no harm, but her nerves were much shaken, and for many days she feared to be left alone. Colonel Laurient's arm was dreadfully shattered. The doctor at first proposed amputation, but the Colonel sternly rejected the suggestion. With considerable skill it was set, and in a few days the doctors announced that the limb was saved. Colonel Laurient, however, was very ill. For a time, indeed, even his life was in danger. He suffered from more than the wounded arm. Perhaps the anxiety during the dreadful pursuit as to what might be happening on board the yacht had something to do with it. Hilda was untiring in her attention to Laurient; no sister could have nursed him more tenderly, and indeed it was as a sister she felt for him. One afternoon, as he lay pale and weak, but convalescent, on a sofa by the window, gazing out at the sea, Hilda entered the room with a cup of soup and a glass of bullerite. "You must take this," she said. "I will do anything you tell me," he replied, "if only in acknowledgment of your infinite kindness." "Why should you talk of kindness?" said the girl, with tears in her eyes. "Can I ever repay you for what you have done?" "Yes, Hilda, you could repay me; but indeed there is nothing to repay, for I suffered more than you did during that terrible time of uncertainty." The girl looked very sad. The Colonel marked her countenance, and over his own there came a look of weariness and despair. But he was brave still, as he always was. "Hilda, dearest Hilda," he said, "I will not put a question to you that I know you cannot answer as I would wish; it would only pain you and stand in the way perhaps of the sisterly affection you bear for me. I am not one to say all or nothing. The sense of your presence is a consolation to me. No, I will not ask you. You know my heart, and I know yours. Your destiny will be a higher and happier one than that of the wife of a simple soldier." "Hush!" she said. "Ambition has no place in my heart. Be always a brother to me. You can be to me no more." And she flew from the room. CHAPTER XI. GRATEFUL IRELAND. At the end of October Maud was married from the house of the two sisters in Dunedin. No attribute of wealth and pomp was wanting to make the wedding a grand one. Both Maud and Montreal were general favourites, and the number and value of the presents they received were unprecedented. Hilda gave her sister a suite of diamonds and one of pearls, each of priceless value. One of the most gratifying gifts was from the Emperor; it was a small miniature on ivory of Hilda, beautifully set in a diamond bracelet. It was painted by a celebrated artist. The Emperor had specially requested the Duchess to sit for it immediately Maud's engagement became known. It was surmised that the artist had a commission to paint a copy as well as the original. Immediately after the wedding Lord and Lady Montreal left in an air-cruiser to pass their honeymoon in Canada, and the Duchess of New Zealand at once proceeded to London, where she was rapturously received by Mrs. Hardinge. She reached London in time to be present at its greatest yearly fête, the Lord Mayor's Show, on the 9th November. According to old chronicles, there was a time when these annual shows were barbarous exhibitions of execrable taste, suitably accompanied with scenes of coarse vulgarity. All this had long since changed. The annual Lord Mayor's Show had become a real work of elaborated art. Either it was made to represent some particular event, some connected thread of history, or some classical author's works. For example, there had been a close and accurate representation of Queen Victoria's Jubilee procession, again a series of tableaux depicting the life of the virtuous though unhappy Mary Queen of Scots, a portrayal of Shakespeare's heroes and heroines, and a copy of the procession that celebrated the establishment of local government in Ireland. The present year was devoted to a representation of all the kings and queens of England up to the proclamation of the Empire. It began with the "British warrior queen," Boadicea, and ended with the grandfather of the present Emperor. Each monarch was represented with his or her retinue in the exact costumes of the respective periods. No expense was spared on these shows. They were generally monumental works of research and activity, and were in course of preparation for several years. In many respects London still continued to be the greatest city of the Empire. Its population was certainly the largest, and no other place could compare with it in the possession of wealthy inhabitants. But wealth was unequally distributed. Although there were more people than elsewhere enjoying great riches, the aggregate possessions were not as large in proportion to the population as in other cities, such as Melbourne, Sydney, and Dublin. The Londoners were luxurious to the verge of effeminacy. A door left open, a draught at a theatre, were considered to seriously reflect on the moral character of the persons responsible for the same. A servant summarily dismissed for neglecting to close a door could not recover any arrears of wages due to him or her. Said a great lady once to an Australian gentleman, "Are not these easterly winds dreadful? I hope you have nothing of the kind in your charming country." "We have colder winds than those you have from the east," he replied. "We have blasts direct from the South Pole, and we enjoy them. My lady, we would not be what we are," drawing himself up, "if the extremes of heat and cold were distasteful to us." She looked at him with something of curiosity mixed with envy. "You are right," she said. "It is a manly philosophy to endeavour to enjoy that which cannot be remedied." The use of coal and gas having long since been abandoned in favour of heat and light from electricity, the buildings in London had lost their begrimed appearance, and the old dense fogs had disappeared. A city of magnificent buildings, almost a city of palaces, London might be termed. Where there used to be rookeries for the poor there were now splendid edifices of many stories, with constant self-acting elevators. It was the same with regard to residence as with food and clothing. The comforts of life were not denied to people of humble means. Parliament was opened with much pomp and magnificence, and a mysterious allusion, in the speech from the throne, to large fiscal changes proposed, excited much attention. The Budget was delivered at an early date amidst intense excitement, which turned into unrestrained delight when its secrets were revealed. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, the Right Honourable Gladstone Churchill, examined critically the state of the finances, the enormous accumulations of the reserve funds all over the dominions, and the continued increase of income from the main sources of revenue. "The Government," he said, "are convinced the time has come to make material reductions in the taxation. They propose that the untaxable minimum of income shall be increased from five to six hundred pounds, and the untaxable minimum of succession value from ten to twelve thousand pounds, and that, instead of a fourth of the residue in each case reverting to the State, a fifth shall be substituted." Then he showed by figures and calculations that not only was the relief justifiable, but that further relief might be expected in the course of a few years. He only made one exception to the proposed reductions. Incomes derived from foreign loans and the capital value of such loans were still to be subject to the present taxation. Foreign loans, he said, were mischievous in more than one respect. They armed foreign nations, necessitating greater expense to the British Empire in consequence. They also created hybrid subjects of the Empire, with sympathies divided between their own country and foreign countries. There was room for the expenditure of incalculable millions on important works within the Empire, and those who preferred to place their means abroad must contribute in greater proportion to the cost of government at home. They had not, he declared, any prejudice against foreign countries. It was better for them and for Britain that each country should attend to its own interests and its own people. Probably no Budget had been received with so much acclamation since that in which the Chancellor of the Exchequer declared the policy of the Empire to be one of severe protection to the industries of its vast dominions. Singularly, it was Lord Gladstone Churchill, great-grandfather of the present Chancellor of the Exchequer, who made the announcement, seventy years previously, that the time had arrived for abandoning the free trade which however he admitted had been of benefit to the parent country prior to federation. The proposed fiscal reforms were rapidly confirmed; and Parliament rose towards the middle of December, in time to allow members to be present at the great annual fête in Dublin. We have already described how it was that the federation of the Empire, including local government in Ireland, was brought about by the intervention of the Colonies. The Irish people, warm-hearted and grateful, felt they could never be sufficiently thankful. They would not allow the declaration of the Empire to be so great an occasion of celebration, as the anniversary of the day on which the premiers of the six Australasian colonies, of the Dominion of Canada, and of the South African Dominion met and despatched the famous cablegram which, after destroying one administration, resulted in the federation of the empire of Britain. A magnificent group representing these prime ministers, moulded in life-size, was erected, and has always remained the most prominent object, in Dublin. The progress of Ireland after the establishment of the Empire was phenomenal, and it has since generally been regarded as the most prosperous country in the world. Under the vivifying influence of Protection, the manufactures of Ireland advanced with great strides. Provisions were made by which the evils of absenteeism were abated. Formerly enormous fortunes were drawn from Ireland by persons who never visited it. An Act was passed by which persons owning large estates but constantly absent from the country were compelled to dispose of their property at a full, or rather, it might be said, an excessive, value. The Government of Ireland declared that the cost of doing away with the evils of absenteeism was a secondary consideration. The population of Ireland became very large. Hundreds of thousands of persons descended from those who had gone to America from Ireland came to the country, bringing with them that practical genius for progress of all sorts which so distinguishes the American people. The improvement of Ireland was always in evidence to show the advantages of the federation of the Empire and of the policy of making the prosperity of its own people the first object of a nation. The Irish fête-day that year was regarded with even more than the usual fervour, and that is saying a great deal. It was to be marked by a historical address which Mrs. Hardinge had consented to deliver. Mrs. Hardinge was the idol of the Irish. With the best blood of celebrated Celtic patriots in her veins, she never allowed cosmopolitan or national politics to make her forget that she was thoroughly Irish. She gloried in her country, and was credited with being better acquainted with its history and traditions than any other living being. She spoke in a large hall in Dublin to thousands of persons, who had no difficulty in hearing every note of the flexible, penetrating, musical voice they loved so well. She spoke of the long series of difficulties that had occurred before Ireland and England had hit upon a mode of living beneficial and happy to both, because the susceptibilities of the people of either country were no longer in conflict. "Undoubtedly," she said, "Ireland has benefited materially from the uses she has made of local government; but the historian would commit a great mistake who allowed it to be supposed that aspirations of a material and sordid kind have been at the root of the long struggle the Irish have made for self-government. I put it to you," she continued, amidst the intense enthusiasm of her hearers, "supposing we suffered from the utmost depression, instead of enjoying as we do so much prosperity, and we were to be offered as the price of relinquishing self-government every benefit that follows in the train of vast wealth, would we consent to the change?" The vehement "No" which she uttered in reply to her own question was re-echoed from thousands of throats. She directed particular attention to what she called the Parnell period. "Looked at from this distance," she said, "it was ludicrous in the extreme. Government succeeded Government; and each adopted whilst in office the same system of partial coercion, partial coaxing, which it condemned its successor for pursuing. The Irish contingent went from party to party as they thought each oscillated towards them. Many Irish members divided their time between Parliament and prison. The Governments of the day adopted the medium course: they would not repress the incipient revolution, and they would not yield to it. Agrarian outrages were committed by blind partisans and weak tools who thought that an exhibition of unscrupulous ferocity might aid the cause. The leaders of the Irish party were consequently placed on the horns of a dilemma. They had either to discredit their supporters, or to admit themselves favourable to criminal action. They were members of Parliament. They had to take the oath of allegiance. They did not dare to proclaim themselves incipient rebels." Then Mrs. Hardinge quoted, amidst demonstrative enthusiasm, Moore's celebrated lines-- "Rebellion, foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gained-- How many a spirit born to bless Has shrunk beneath that withering name Whom but a day an hour's success, Had wafted to eternal fame." "But, my dear friends," pursued Mrs. Hardinge, "do not think that I excuse crime. The end does not justify the means. Even the harm from which good results is to be execrated. The saddest actors in history are those who by their own infamy benefited or hoped to benefit others. "For one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; Not all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honeyed words of rhyme Can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime." When the applause these lines elicited subsided, Mrs. Hardinge dilated on the proposed Home Rule that Mr. Gladstone offered. Naturally the Irish party accepted it, but a close consideration convinced her that it was fortunate it was not carried into effect. The local powers Mr. Gladstone offered were very moderate, far less than the Colonies then possessed, whilst, as the price of them, Ireland was asked to virtually relinquish all share in the government of the country. Gladstone saw insuperable difficulties in the way of establishing a federal parliament; and without it his proposals, if carried into operation, would have made Ireland still more governed from England than it was without the so-called Home Rule. In fact, the fruition of Mr. Gladstone's proposals would have driven Ireland to fight for independence. "We Irish are not disposed," declared Mrs. Hardinge, "to submit to be excluded from a share in the government of the nation to which we belong. Mr. Gladstone would virtually have so excluded us; and if we had taken as a boon the small instalment of self-government he offered, we could only have taken it with the determination to use the power we acquired for the purpose of seeking more or of gaining independence. Yes, my fellow-countrymen," she continued amidst loud cheers, "it was good for us, seeing how happily we now live with England, that we did not take Mr. Gladstone's half-measure. Yet there was great suffering and great delay. Weariness and concession stilled the question for a time; but the Irish continued in a state of more or less suppressed irritation, both from the sense of the indignity of not being permitted local government, and from the actual evils resulting from absenteeism. Relief came at length. It came from the great Colonies the energy of all of us--Irish, English, and Scotch--had built up." Long, continuous cheering interrupted the speaker. "You may well cheer," she continued. "The memory of the great colonial heroes whose action we this day commemorate, and whom, as usual, we will crown with wreaths of laurel, will always remain as green in our memory as the Isle of Erin itself." She proceeded to describe individually the prime ministers of the Colonies who had brought the pressure to bear upon the Central Government. "The Colonies," she said, "became every day, as they advanced in wealth and progress, more interested in the nation to which they belonged. They saw that nation weakened and discredited at home and abroad by the ever-present contingency of Irish disaffection. They felt, besides, that the Colonies, which had grown not only materially, but socially, happy under the influence of free institutions, could not regard with indifference the denial of the same freedom to an important territory of the nation. Their action did equal honour to their intellect and virtue." Mrs. Hardinge concluded by describing with inimitable grace the various benefits which had arisen from satisfying Ireland's wants. "The boon she received," the speaker declared, "Ireland has returned tenfold. It was owing to her that the Empire was federated; at one moment it stood in the balance whether this great cluster of States should be consolidated into the present happy and united Empire or become a number of disintegrated communities, threatened with all the woes to which weak States are subject." After this address Mrs. Hardinge, in the presence of an immense multitude, placed a crown of laurel on the head of each of the statues of the colonial statesmen, commencing with the Prime Minister of Canada. Those statues later in the day were almost hidden from sight, for they were covered with a mass of many thousand garlands. CHAPTER XII. THE EMPEROR PLANS A CAMPAIGN. One day early in May Colonel Laurient was alone with the Emperor, who was walking up and down the room in a state of great excitement. His eyes glittered with an expression of almost ferocity. The veins in his forehead stood out clear and defined, like cords. No one had seen him like this before. "To think they should dare to enter my territory! They shall never cease to regret it," he declared as he paced the room. Two hours before, the Emperor had been informed that the troops of the United States had crossed into Canada, the excuse, some dispute about the fisheries, the real cause, chagrin of the President at the Emperor's rejection of her daughter's hand. "This shall be a bitter lesson to the Yankees," continued the Emperor. "They do not know with whom they have to deal. I grant they were right to seek independence, because the Government of my ancestor goaded them to it. But they shall learn there is a limit to their power, and that they are weak as water compared with the parent country they abandoned. Listen, Laurient," he went on more calmly as he took a seat by a table on which was spread a large map of the United States and Canada. "I have made up my mind what to do, and you are to help me. You are now my first military aide-de-camp. In that capacity and as head of the bodyguard you may appear in evidence." "I shall only be too glad to render any assistance in my power. I suppose that the troops will at once proceed to Canada?" "Would you have me," said the Emperor, "do such a wrong to my Canadian subjects? You know, by the constitution of the Empire, each State is bound to protect itself from invasion. Do you think that my Canadian volunteers are not able to perform this duty?" "I know, your Majesty, that no finer body of troops is to be found in the Empire than the Canadian volunteers and Volunteer reserve. But I thought you seemed disinclined to refrain from action." "There you are right, nor do I mean to remain idle. No; I intend a gigantic revenge. I will invade the States myself." Colonel Laurient's eyes glittered. He recognised the splendid audacity of the idea, and he was not one to feel fear. "Carry the war into the enemy's camp!" he said. "I ought to have thought of it. It is an undertaking worthy of you, Sir." "I have arranged everything with my advisers, who have given me, as commander of the forces, full executive discretion. You have a great deal to do. You will give, in strict confidence, to some person information which he is to cause to be published in the various papers. That information will be that all the ships and a large force are ordered immediately to the waters of the St. Lawrence. To give reality to the intelligence, the newspapers are to be severely blamed and threatened for publishing it. But you are to select trustworthy members of the bodyguard who are verbally to communicate to the admirals and captains what is really to be done. Nothing is to be put in writing beyond the evidence of your authority to give instructions, which I now hand to you. Those instructions are to be by word of mouth. All the large, powerful vessels on the West Indian, Mediterranean, and Channel stations are to meet at Sandy Hook, off New York, on the seventeenth evening from this, with the exception of twenty which are to proceed to Boston. They are to carry with them one hundred thousand of the Volunteer reserve force, fifty thousand of the regular troops, and fifty thousand ordinary volunteers who may choose to offer their services. In every case the ostensible destination is Quebec. My faithful volunteers will not object to the deceit. Part of the force may be carried in air-cruisers, of which there must be in attendance at least three hundred of the best in the service. The air-cruisers as soon as it is dark on the evening appointed are to range all round New York for miles and cut and destroy the telegraph wires in every direction. Twenty of the most powerful, carrying a strong force of men, are to proceed to Washington during the night and bring the President of the United States a prisoner to the flagship, the _British Empire_. They are to leave Washington without destroying property. About ten o'clock the men are to disembark at New York from the air-cruisers, and take possession of every public building and railway station. They are also during the night to disembark from the vessels. There will be little fighting. The Yankees boast of keeping no standing army. They have had a difficulty to get together the hundred and fifty thousand men they have marched into Canada. Similar action to that at New York is to be adopted at Boston. As soon as sufficient troops are disembarked I will march them into Canada at the rear of the invaders, and my Canadian forces are to attack them in front. I will either destroy the United States forces or take them prisoners. All means of transport by rail or river are to be seized, and also the newspaper offices. The morning publication of the newspapers in New York and Boston is to be suppressed; and if all be well managed, only a few New York and Boston people will know until late the day after our arrival that their cities are in my hands. My largest yacht, the _Victoria_, is to go to New York. I will join it there in an air-cruiser. Confidential information of all these plans is to be verbally communicated to the Governor of Canada by an aide-de-camp, who will proceed to Ottawa to-morrow morning in a swift air-cruiser. During this night you must arrange for all the information being distributed by trusty men. I wish the intended invasion to be kept a profound secret, excepting from those specially informed. Every one is to suppose that Canada is the destination. I want the United States to strengthen its army in Canada to the utmost. As to its fleet, as soon as my vessels have disembarked the troops they can proceed to destroy or capture such of the United States vessels of war as have dared to intrude on our Canadian waters." The Emperor paused. Colonel Laurient had taken in every instruction. His eyes sparkled with animation and rejoicing, but he did not venture to express his admiration. The Emperor disliked praise. "Laurient," he continued as he grasped his favourite's hand, "go. I will detain you no longer. I trust you as myself." The Colonel bowed low and hastened away. It may seem that the proposed mobilization was incredible. But all the forces of the Empire were constantly trained to unexpected calls to arms. Formerly intended emergency measures were designed for weeks in advance; and though they purported to be secret, every intended particular was published in the newspapers. This was playing at soldiering. The Minister presiding over all the land and sea forces has long since become more practical. He orders for mobilization without notice or warning, and practice has secured extraordinarily rapid results. CHAPTER XIII. LOVE AND WAR. We seldom give to Hilda her title of Duchess of New Zealand, for she is endeared to us, not on account of her worldly successes, but because of her bright, lovable, unsullied womanly nature. She was dear to all who had the privilege of knowing her. The fascination she exercised was as powerful as it was unstudied. Her success in no degree changed her kindly, sympathetic nature. She always was, and always would be, unselfish and unexacting. She was staying with Mrs. Hardinge whilst the house she had purchased in London was being prepared for her. When Maud was married, she had taken Phoebe Buller for her principal private secretary. Miss Buller was devoted to Hilda, and showed herself to be a very able and industrious secretary. She had gained Hilda's confidence, and was entrusted with many offices requiring for their discharge both tact and judgment. She was much liked in London society, and was not averse to general admiration. She was slightly inclined to flirtation, but she excused this disposition to herself by the reflection that it was her duty to her chief to learn as much as she could from, and about every one. She had a devoted admirer in Cecil Fielding, a very able barrister. As a rule, the most successful counsel were females. Men seldom had much chance with juries. But Cecil Fielding was an exception. Besides great logical powers, he possessed a voice of much variety of expression and of persuasive sympathy. But however successful he was with juries, he was less fortunate with Phoebe. That young lady did not respond to his affection. She inclined more to the military profession generally and to Captain Douglas Garstairs in particular. He was one of the bodyguard, and now that war was declared was next to Colonel Laurient the chief aide-de-camp. By the Colonel's directions, the morning after the interview with the Emperor, he waited on the Duchess of New Zealand to confer with her as to the selection of a woman to take charge of the ambulance corps to accompany the forces on the ostensible expedition to Canada. Hilda summoned Phoebe and told her to take Captain Garstairs to see Mary Maudesley, and ascertain if that able young woman would accept the position on so short a notice. Hilda had always taken great interest in the organisation of all institutions dedicated to dealing with disease. Lately she had contributed large sums to several of these establishments in want of means, and she had specially endowed an ambulance institution to train persons to treat cases of emergency consequent on illness or accident. She had thus been brought into contact with Mary Maudesley, and had noticed her astonishing power of organisation and her tenderness for suffering. Mary Maudesley was the daughter of parents in humble life. She was about twenty-seven years of age. Her father was subforeman in a large metal factory. He had risen to the position by his assiduity, ability, and trustworthiness. He received good wages; but having a large family, he continued to live in the same humble condition as when he was one of the ordinary hands at the factory. He occupied a flat on the eighth story of a large residential building in Portman Square, which had once been an eminently fashionable neighbourhood. Besides the necessary sleeping accommodation, he had a sitting-room and kitchen. His residence might be considered the type of the accommodation to which the humblest labourers were accustomed. No one in the British Empire was satisfied with less than sufficient house accommodation, substantial though plain food, and convenient, decent attire. Mary when little more than fourteen years old had been present at an accident by which a little child of six years old was knocked down and had one leg and both arms broken. The father of the child had recently lost his wife. He lived in the same building as the Maudesleys, and Mary day and night attended to the poor little sufferer until it regained health and strength. Probably this gave direction to the devotion which she subsequently showed to attendance on the sick. She joined an institution where nurses were trained to attend cases of illness in the homes of the humble. She was perfectly fearless, notwithstanding she had been twice stricken down with dangerous illness, the result of infection from patients she had nursed. Miss Buller thought it desirable to see Miss Maudesley at her own house, both because it might be necessary to consult her further, and because she wished to observe what were her domestic surroundings. They were pleased with what they saw. The flat was simply but usefully furnished. There was no striving after display. Everything was substantial and good of its kind without being needlessly expensive. Grace and beauty were not wanting. Some excellent drawings and water-coloured paintings by Mr. Maudesley and one or two of his children decorated the walls. There were two or three small models of inventions of Mr. Maudesley's and one item of luxury in great beauty in the shape of flowers, with which the sitting-room was amply decorated. We are perhaps wrong in terming flowers luxuries, for after all, luxuries are things with which people can dispense; and there were few families who did not regard flowers as a necessary ornament of a home, however humble it and its surroundings might be. Miss Buller explained to Miss Maudesley that the usual head of the war ambulance corps required a substitute, as she was unable to join the expedition. It was her wish as well as that of the Duchess of New Zealand that Miss Maudesley should take her place. Fortunately Miss Maudesley's engagements were sufficiently disposable to enable her to accept the notable distinction thus offered to her. Miss Buller was greatly pleased with the unaffected manner in which she expressed her thanks and her willingness to act. Captain Garstairs returned with Phoebe Buller to her official room. "Good-bye, Miss Buller," he said. "I hope you will allow me to call on you when I return, if indeed the exigencies of war allow me to return." "Of course you will return. And why do you call me Miss Buller?" said the girl, with downcast eyes and pale face. For the time all traces of coquetry were wanting. "May I call you Phoebe? And do you wish me to return?" "Why not? Good-bye." The cold words were belied by the moistened eyes. The bold soldier saw his opportunity. Before he left the room they were engaged to be married. It is curious how war brings incidents of this kind to a crisis. At the risk of wearying our readers with a monotony of events, another scene in the same mansion must be described. The Emperor did Mrs. Hardinge the honour of visiting her at her own house. So little did she seem surprised, that it almost appeared she expected him. She, however, pleaded an urgent engagement, and asked permission to leave Hilda as her substitute. The readiness with which the permission was granted seemed also to be prearranged, and the astonished girl found herself alone with the Emperor before she had fully realised that he had come to see Mrs. Hardinge. He turned to her a bright and happy face, but his manner was signally deferential. "You cannot realise, Duchess, how I have longed to see you alone once more." Hilda, confused beyond expression, turned to him a face from which every trace of colour had departed. "Do you remember," he proceeded, "the last time we were alone? You allowed me then to ask you a question as from man to woman. May I again do so?" He took her silence for consent, and went on in a tone from which he vainly endeavoured to banish the agitation that overmastered him. "Hilda, from that time there has been but one woman in the world for me. My first, my only, love, will you be my wife?" "Your Majesty," said the girl, who as his agitation increased appeared to recover some presence of mind, "what would the world say? The Emperor may not wed with a subject." "Why not? Am I to be told that, with all the power that has come to me, I am to be less free to secure my own happiness than the humblest of my subjects? Hilda, I prefer you to the throne if the choice had to be made. But it has not. I will remain the Emperor in order to make you the Empress. But say you can love the man, not the monarch." "I do not love the Emperor," said the girl, almost in a whisper. These unflattering words seemed highly satisfactory to Albert Edward as he sought from her sweet lips a ratification of her love not for the Emperor, but the man. They both thought Mrs. Hardinge's absence a very short one when she returned, and yet she had been away an hour. "Dear Mrs. Hardinge," said the Emperor, with radiant face, "Hilda has consented to make me the happiest man in all my wide dominions." Mrs. Hardinge caught Hilda in her arms, and embraced her with the affection of a mother. "Your Majesty," she said at length, "does Hilda great honour. Yet I am sure you will never regret it." "Indeed I shall not," he replied, with signal promptitude. "And it is she who does me honour. When I return from America and announce my engagement, I will take care that I let the world think so." On the evening which had been fixed, the war and transport vessels and air-cruisers met off New York; and in a few hours the city was in the hands of the Emperor's forces. There was a little desultory fighting as well as some casualties, but there were few compared with the magnitude of the operation. The railway and telegraph stations, public buildings, and newspaper offices were in the hands of the invaders. Colonel Laurient himself led the force to Washington. At about four o'clock in the morning between twenty and thirty air-cruisers, crowded with armed soldiers, reached that city. With a little fighting, the Treasury and Arsenal were taken possession of, and the newspaper offices occupied. About one thousand men invaded the White House, some entering by means of the air-cruisers through the roof and others forcing their way through the lower part of the palace. There was but little resistance; and within an hour the President of the United States, in response to Colonel Laurient's urgent demand, received him in one of the principal rooms. She was a fine, handsome woman of apparently about thirty-five years of age. Her daughter, a young lady of seventeen, was in attendance on her. They did not show much sign of the alarm to which they had been subjected or of the haste with which they had prepared themselves to meet the British envoy. They received Colonel Laurient with all the high-bred dignity they might have exhibited on a happier occasion. Throughout the interview his manner, though firm, was most deferential. "Madam," he said, bowing low to the President, "my imperial master the Emperor of Britain, in response to what he considers your wanton invasion of British territory in his Canadian dominions, has taken possession of New York, and requires me to lead you a prisoner to the British flagship stationed off that city. I need scarcely say that personally the task so far as it is painful to you is not agreeable to me. I have ten thousand men with me and a large number of air-cruisers. I regret to have to ask you to leave immediately." The President, deeply affected, asked if she might be allowed to take her daughter and personal attendants with her. "Most certainly, Madam," replied Laurient. "I am only too happy to do anything to conduce to your personal comfort. You may be sure, you will suffer from no want of respect and attention." Within an hour the President, her daughter, and attendants left Washington in Colonel Laurient's own air-cruiser. An hour afterwards a second cruiser followed with the ladies' luggage. Meanwhile the telegraph lines round Washington were destroyed, and the officers of the forces stationed at Washington were made prisoners of war and taken on board the cruisers. At six o'clock in the morning the whole of the remaining cruisers left, and rapidly made their way to New York. The President, Mrs. Washington-Lawrence, and her daughter were received on board the flagship with the utmost respect. The officers vied with each other in showing them attention, but they were not permitted to make any communication with the shore. About noon the squadron, after disembarking the land forces, left for the St. Lawrence waters, and succeeded in capturing twenty-five of the finest vessels belonging to the United States, besides innumerable smaller ones. The Emperor left fifty thousand men, well supplied with guns, arms, and ammunition, in charge of New York, and at the head of an army of one hundred thousand men, the flower of the British force in the Northern Hemisphere, proceeded rapidly to the Canadian frontier. About a hundred miles on the other side of the frontier they came upon traces of the near presence of the American forces. Here it was that the most conspicuous act of personal courage was displayed, and the hero was Lord Reginald Paramatta. He happened to be in London when war was announced, and he volunteered to accompany one of the battalions. It should be mentioned that no proceedings had been initiated against Lord Reginald either for his presence at the treasonable meeting, or for his attempted abduction of Hilda. Her friends were entirely averse to any action being taken, as the publicity would have been most repugnant to her. It became necessary early in the night to ascertain the exact position of the American forces, and to communicate with the Canadian forces on the other side, with the view to joint action. The locality was too unknown and the night too dark to make the air-cruisers serviceable. The reconnoitring party were to make their way as best they could through the American lines, communicate with the Canadian commander, and return as soon as possible in an air-cruiser. Each man carried with him an electric battery of intense force, by means of which he could either produce a strong light, or under certain conditions a very powerful offensive and defensive weapon. Only fifty men were to compose the force, and Lord Reginald's offer to lead them was heartily accepted. His bravery, judgment, and coolness in action were undeniable. At midnight he started, and, with the assistance of a guide, soon penetrated to an eminence from which the lights of the large United States camp below could be plainly discerned. The forces were camped on the plain skirted by the range of hills from one of which Lord Reginald made his observations. The plain was of peculiar shape, resembling nearly the figure that two long isosceles triangles joined at the base would represent. The force was in its greatest strength at the middle, and tapered down towards each end. Far away on the other edge of the plain, evidence of the Canadian camp could be dimly perceived. The ceaseless movements in the American camp betokened preparations for early action. After a long and critical survey both of the plain and of the range of hills, Lord Reginald determined to cross at the extreme left. The scouts of the Americans were stationed far up upon the chain of hills, and Lord Reginald saw that it would be impossible to traverse unnoticed the range from where he stood to the point at which he had determined to descend to the plain. He had to retire to the other side of the range and make his progress to the west (the camp faced the north) on the outer side of the range that skirted the camp. The hill from which he had decided to descend was nearly two miles distant from the point at which he made his observation. But the way was rough and tortuous, and it took nearly two hours to reach a comparatively low hill skirting the plain at the narrowest point. The force below was also narrowed out. Less than half a mile in depth seemed to be occupied by the American camp at this point. The Canadian camp was less extended. Its extreme west appeared to be attainable by a diagonal line of about two miles in length, with an inclination from the straight of about seventy degrees. Lord Reginald had thus to force his way through nearly half a mile of the camp, and then to cross nearly two miles between both forces. The commander halted his followers, and in a low tone proceeded to give his instructions. The men were to march in file two deep, about six feet were to separate each rank, and the files were to be twenty feet apart. Each two men of the same file were to carry extended between them the flexible platinum aluminium electric wire, capable of bearing an enormous strain, that upon a touch of the button of the battery, carried by each man, would destroy any living thing which came in contact with it. Lord Reginald and the officer next to him in rank, who was none other than Captain Douglas Garstairs, were to lead the way. In a few moments the wires between each two men were adjusted. They were to proceed very slowly down the hill until they were observed, then with a rush, to skirt the outside of the camp. Once past the camp, the wires were to be disconnected, and the men, as much separated as possible, were to make to the opposite camp with the utmost expedition. Slowly and noiselessly amidst the intense shadow of the hill Lord Reginald and his companion led the way towards the extreme end of the camp. They had nearly reached the level ground when at three feet distance a sentry stood before them and shouted, "Who goes there?" Poor wretch, they were his last words. Lord Reginald and his companion with a rapid movement rushed on either side of him, and the moment the wire touched him he sank to the ground a lifeless mass. Then ensued a commotion almost impossible to describe. Lord Reginald and Captain Garstairs were noted runners. They proceeded at a strong pace outside of the tents. As the men rushed out to stop them, the fatal wire performed its ghastly execution. Three times three men sank lifeless in their path, before they cleared the outside of the tents. The Americans could only fire at intervals, for fear of hitting their own men. Of the twenty-five couples of Lord Reginald's force, fifteen passed the tents; twenty of the brave men were stricken down, whilst the way was strewn with the bodies of the Americans who had succumbed to the mysterious electric force. And now the time had come for each one to save himself. The wires were disconnected, the batteries thrown down, and for dear life every one rushed towards the Canadian camp. But the noise had been heard along the line, and a wonderful consequence ensued. From end to end of the American camp the electric lights were turned on to the strength of many millions of candle-power. The lights left the camp in darkness; the rays were turned outwards to the spare ground that separated the camps. The Canadians responded by turning on their lights, and the plain between the two camps was irradiated with a dazzling brightness which even the sunlight could not emulate. The forlorn hope dashed on. Thousands of pieces were fired at the straggling men. It was fortunate they were so much apart, as it led to the same man being shot at many times. Of the thirty who passed the tents ten men at intervals fell before the murderous fire. Lord Reginald had been grazed by a shot the effects of which he scarcely felt. He and his companions were within a hundred yards of safety. But that safety was not to be. Captain Garstairs was struck. "Good-bye, Reginald. Tell Phoebe Buller----" He could say no more. Lord Reginald arrested his progress, and as coolly as if he were in a drawing-room lifted the wounded man tenderly and carefully in his arms, and without haste or fear covered the intervening distance to the Canadian camp. He was not struck. Who indeed shall say that he was aimed at? His great deed was equally seen by each army in the bright blaze of light; and when he reached the haven of safety, a cheer went up from each side, for there were brave men in both armies, ready to admire deeds of valour. Only ten men reached the Canadian camp; but, under the sanction of a flag of truce, five more were brought in alive, and they subsequently recovered from their wounds. Captain Garstairs was shot in the leg both above and below the knee. He remained in the Canadian camp that day. At first it was feared he would lose the limb. But, to anticipate events, when the Emperor's forces joined the Canadian, Mary Maudesley took charge of him; and Captain Garstairs had ample cause to congratulate himself on the visit he had paid to secure the services of that lady. He was in the habit of declaring afterwards that it was the most successful expedition of his life, for it was the means of securing him a wife and of saving him a limb. Lord Reginald rapidly explained the situation to the Canadian commander-in-chief. The Emperor's army could come up in three hours. It was evident from the movements under the hills opposite, as shown by the electric light, that the Americans did not mean to waste time. It was probable that at the first dawn of day they would set their army in motion; and it was arranged that the Canadians, without hastening the action, should, on the Americans advancing, proceed to meet them, so that they would be nearer the Emperor's forces as these advanced in rear of the enemy. Scarcely half an hour after he reached the Canadian lines Lord Reginald ascended in a swift air-cruiser, and passing high above the American camp, reached the Emperor's forces before day dawned. Lord Reginald briefly communicated the result of his expedition. He took no credit to himself, did not dwell on the dangerous passage nor his heroic rescue of Captain Garstairs. Nevertheless the incident soon became known, and enhanced Lord Reginald's popularity. The army was rapidly in motion; and after the Canadian and American forces became engaged, the British army, led by the Emperor in person, appeared on the crest of the hills and descended towards the plains. The American commander-in-chief knew nothing of the British army in his rear. Tidings had not reached him of the occupation of New York and Boston. The incident of the rush of Lord Reginald and his party across the plain from camp to camp and the return of an air-cruiser towards the United States frontier had occasioned him surprise; but his mind did not dwell on it in the midst of the immediate responsible duties he had to perform. On the other hand, he was expecting reinforcements from the States; and when the new force appeared on the summit of the hills, he congratulated himself mentally; for the battle with the Canadian army threatened to go hard with him. Before he was undeceived the British troops came thundering down the hills, and he was a prisoner to an officer of the Emperor's own staff. The British troops went onwards, and the destruction of the American forces was imminent. But the Emperor could not bear the idea of the carnage inflicted on persons speaking the same language, and whose forefathers were the subjects of his own ancestors. "Spare them," he appealed to the commander-in-chief. "They are hopelessly at our mercy. Let them surrender." The battle was stayed as speedily as possible; and the British and Canadian forces found themselves in possession of over one hundred and thirty thousand prisoners, besides all the arms, ammunition, artillery, and camp equipage. It was a tremendous victory. CHAPTER XIV. THE FOURTH OF JULY RETRIEVED. The prisoners were left at Quebec suitably guarded; but the British and Canadian forces, as fast as the railways could carry them, returned to New York. The United States Constitution had not made provision for the imprisonment or abduction of the President of the Republic, and there was some doubt as to how the place of the chief of the executive should be supplied. It was decided that, as in the President's absence on ordinary occasions the deputy President represented him, so the same precedent should be followed in the case of the present extraordinary absence. The President, however, was not anxious to resume her position. It was to her headstrong action that the invasion of Canada was owing. The President of the United States possesses more individual power in the way of moving armies and declaring war than any other monarch. This has always been the case. A warlike spirit is easily fostered in any nation. Still the wise and prudent were aghast at the President's hasty action on what seemed the slight provocation of the renewal of the immemorial fisheries dispute. Of course public opinion could not gauge the sense of wrong that the rejection by the Emperor of her daughter's hand had occasioned in the mind of the President. Now that the episode was over, and the empire of Britain had won a triumph which amply redeemed the humiliation of centuries back, when the English colonies of America won their independence by force of arms, public opinion was very bitter against the President. The glorious 4th of July was virtually abolished. How could they celebrate the independence and forget to commemorate the retrieval by their old mother-country of all her power and prestige? No wonder then that Mrs. Washington-Lawrence did not care to return to the States! "My dear," she said to her daughter in one of the luxurious cabins assigned to them on the flagship, "do you think that I ought to send in my resignation?" "I cannot judge," replied the young lady. "You appear quite out of it. Negotiations are said to be proceeding, but you are not consulted or even informed of what is going on." "If it were not for you," said the elder lady, "I would never again set foot on the United States soil. Captain Hamilton" (alluding to the captain of the vessel they were on, the _British Empire_) "says I ought not to do so." "I do not see that his advice matters," promptly answered the young lady. "If Admiral Benedict had said so, I might have considered it more important." "I think more of the captain's opinion," said Mrs. Washington-Lawrence. "Perhaps he thinks more of yours," retorted the unceremonious daughter. "But what do you mean about returning for my sake?" "My dear, you are very young, and cannot remain by yourself. Besides, you will want to settle in the United States when you marry, to look after the large property your father left you, and that will come to you when you are twenty-one." "I think, mother, you have interfered quite sufficiently about my marrying. We should not be here now but for your anxiety to dispose of me." Mrs. Washington-Lawrence thought this very ungrateful, for her efforts were not at the time at all repugnant to the ambitious young lady. However, a quarrel was averted; and milder counsels prevailed. At length the elder lady confessed, with many blushes, Captain Hamilton had proposed to her, and that she would have accepted him but for the thought of her daughter's probable dissatisfaction. This aroused an answering confession from Miss Washington-Lawrence. The admiral, it appeared, had twice proposed to her; and she had consented to his obtaining the Emperor's permission, a condition considered necessary under the peculiar circumstances. The Emperor readily gave his consent. It was an answer to those of his own subjects who had wished him to marry the New England girl with the red hair, and opened the way to his announcing his marriage with Hilda. The two weddings of mother and daughter took place amidst much rejoicing throughout the whole squadron. The Emperor gave to each bride a magnificent set of diamonds. Negotiations meanwhile with the United States proceeded as to the terms on which the Emperor would consent to peace, a month's truce having been declared in the meanwhile. Mrs. Hardinge and Hilda met the chief ministers of the two powerful empires in Europe, and satisfied them that the British Government would not ask anything prejudicial to their interests. The terms were finally arranged. The United States were to pay the empire of Britain six hundred millions sterling and to salute the British flag. The Childrosse family and Rorgon, Mose and Co. undertook to find the money for the United States Government. The Emperor consented to retire from New York in six months unless within that time a plebiscite of that State and the New English States declared by a majority of two to one the desire of the people to again become the subjects of the British Empire, in which case New York would be constituted the capital of the Dominion of Canada. To anticipate events, it may at once be said that the majority in favour of reannexation was over four to one, and that the union was celebrated with enormous rejoicing. Most of the United States vessels were returned to her, and the British Government, on behalf of the Empire, voluntarily relinquished the money payment, in favour of its being handed to the States seceding from the Republic to join the Canadian Dominion. This provision was a wise one, for otherwise the new States of the Canadian Dominion would have been less wealthy than those they joined. CHAPTER XV. CONCLUSION. The Emperor went to Quebec for a week, and thence returned to London, in the month of July. There he announced his intended marriage, and that it would very soon take place. The ovations showered on the Emperor in consequence of his successful operations in the United States defy description. He was recognised as the first military genius of the day. Many declared that he excelled all military heroes of the past, and that a better-devised and more ably carried-into-effect military movement was not to be found in the pages of history, ancient or modern. At such a time, had the marriage been really unpopular, much would have been conceded to the desire to do honour to his military successes. But the marriage was not unpopular in a personal sense. There was great difference of opinion as to the wisdom of an emperor marrying a subject instead of seeking a foreign alliance. On the one hand, difficulties of court etiquette were alleged; on the other, it was contended that Britain had nothing to gain from foreign marriage alliances, that she was strong enough without them, and that they frequently were sources of weakness rather than strength. The Duchess of New Zealand sat alone in her study in the new mansion in London of which she had just taken possession. It was magnificently furnished and decorated, but she would soon cease to have a use for it. She was to be married in a week, and the Empress of Britain would have royal residences in all parts of her wide dominions. She intended to make a present of her new house, with its contents, to Phoebe Buller on her marriage with Colonel Garstairs. He won his promotion in the United States war. She was writing a letter to her sister, Lady Montreal. A slight noise attracted her attention. She looked up, and with dismay beheld the face of Lord Reginald Paramatta. "How dare you thus intrude?" she said, in an accent of strong indignation, though she could scarcely restrain a feeling of pity, so ill and careworn did he look. "Do not grudge me," he said, in deprecatory tones, "a few moments of your presence. I am dying for the want of you." "My lord," replied Hilda, "you should be sensible that nothing could be more distasteful to me than such a visit after your past conduct." "I do not deny your cause of complaint; but, Hilda--let me call you so this once--remember it was all for love of you." "I cannot remember anything of the kind. True love seeks the happiness of the object it cherishes, not its misery." "You once looked kindly on me." "Lord Reginald, I never loved you, nor did I ever lead you to believe so. A deep and true instinct told me from the first that I could not be happy with you." "You crush me with your cruel words," said Lord Reginald. "When I am away from you, I persuade myself that I have not sufficiently pleaded my cause; and then with irresistible force I long to see you." "All your wishes," said the girl, "are irresistible because you have never learned to govern them. If you truly loved me, you would have the strength to sacrifice your love to the conviction that it would wreck my happiness." The girl paused. Then, with a look of impassioned sincerity, she went on, "Lord Reginald, let me appeal to your better nature. You are brave. No one more rejoiced than I did over your great deed in Canada. I forgot your late conduct, and thought only of our earlier friendship. Be brave now morally as well as physically. Renounce the feelings I cannot reciprocate; and when next I meet you, let me acknowledge in you the hero who has conquered himself." "In vain. In vain. I cannot do it. There is no alternative for me but you or death. Hilda, I will not trifle with time. I am here to carry you away. You must be mine." "Dare you threaten me," said she, "and in my own house?" Her hand was on the button on the table to summon assistance, but he arrested the movement and put his arm round her waist. With a loud and piercing scream, Hilda flew towards the door. Before she reached it, it opened; and there entered a tall man, with features almost indistinguishable from the profuse beard, whiskers, and moustache with which they were covered. Hilda screamed out, "Help me. Protect me." "I am Laurient," he whispered to the agitated girl. "Go to the back room, and this whistle will bring immediate aid. The lower part of the house and staircase are crowded with that man's followers." Hilda rushed from the room before Lord Reginald could reach her. Colonel Laurient closed the door, and pulled from his face its hirsute adornments. "I am Colonel Laurient, at your service. You have to reckon with me for your cruel persecution of that poor girl." "How came you here?" asked Lord Reginald, who was almost stunned with astonishment. "My lord," replied Laurient, "since your attempt at Waiwera to carry the Duchess away you have been unceasingly shadowed. Your personal attendants were in the pay of those who watched over that fair girl's safety. Your departure from Canada was noted, the object of your stay in London suspected. Your intended visit to-day was guessed at, and I was one of the followers who accompanied you. But there is no time for explanation. You shall account to me as a friend of the Emperor for your conduct to the noble woman he is about to marry. She shall be persecuted no longer; one or both of us shall not leave this room alive." He pulled out two small firing-pieces, each with three barrels. "Select one," he said briefly. "Both weapons are loaded. We shall stand at opposite ends of this large room." At no time would Lord Reginald have been likely to refuse a challenge of this kind, and least of all now. His one desire was revenge on some one to satisfy the terrible cravings of his baffled passions. "I am under the impression," he said, with studied calmness, "that I already owe something to your interference. I am not reluctant to acquit myself of the debt." In a few minutes the help Hilda summoned arrived. Laurient had taken care to provide assistance near at hand. When the officers in charge of the aid entered the room, a sad sight presented itself. Both Lord Reginald and Colonel Laurient were prostrate on the ground, the former evidently fatally stricken, the latter scarcely less seriously wounded. They did not venture to move Lord Reginald. At his earnest entreaty, Hilda came to him. It was a terrible ordeal for her. It was likely both men would die, and their death would be the consequence of their vain love for her. But how different the nature of the love, the one unselfish and sacrificing, seeking only her happiness, the other brutally indifferent to all but its own uncontrollable impulses. It seemed absurd to call by the same name sentiments so widely opposite, the one so ennobling, the other so debasing. She stood beside the couch on which they had lifted him. "Hilda," he whispered in a tone so low, she could scarcely distinguish what he said, "the death I spoke of has come; and I do not regret it. It was you or death, as I told you; and death has conquered." He paused for a few moments, then resumed, "My time is short. Say you forgive me all the unhappiness I have caused you." Hilda was much affected. "Reginald," she faltered, "I fully, freely forgive you for all your wrongs to me; but can I forget that Colonel Laurient may also meet his death?" "A happy death, for it will have been gained in your service." "Reginald, dear Reginald, if your sad anticipation is to be realised, should you not cease to think of earthly things?" "Pray for me," he eagerly replied. "You were right in saying my passions were ungovernable, but I have never forgotten the faith of my childhood. I am past forgiveness, for I sinned and knew that I was sinning." "God is all-merciful," said the tearful girl. She sank upon her knees before the couch, and in low tones prayed the prayers familiar to her, and something besides extemporised from her own heart. She thought of Reginald as she first knew him, of the great deeds of which he had been capable, of the melancholy consequence of his uncontrolled love for herself. She prayed with an intense earnestness that he might be forgiven; and as she prayed a faint smile irradiated the face of the dying man, and with an effort to say, "Amen," he drew his last breath. Three days later Hilda stood beside another deathbed. All that care and science could effect was useless; Colonel Laurient was dying. The fiat had gone forth; life was impossible. The black horses would once more come to the door of the new mansion. He who loved Hilda so truly, so unselfishly, was to share the fate of that other unworthy lover. Hilda's grief was of extreme poignancy, and scarcely less grieved was the Emperor himself. He had passed most of his time since he had learnt Laurient's danger beside his couch, and now the end was approaching. On one side of the bed was the Emperor, on the other Hilda, Duchess of New Zealand. How puerile the title seemed in the presence of the dread executioner who recognises no distinction between peasant and monarch. The mightiest man on earth was utterly powerless to save his friend, and the day would come when he and the lovely girl who was to be his bride would be equally powerless to prolong their own lives. In such a presence the distinctions of earth seemed narrowed and distorted. "Sir," said the dying man, "my last prayer is that you and Hilda may be happy. She is the noblest woman I have ever met. You once told me," he said, turning to her, "that you felt for me a sister's love. Will you before I die give me a sister's kiss and blessing?" Hilda, utterly unable to control her sobs, bent down and pressed a kiss upon his lips. It seemed as if life passed away at that very moment. He never moved or spoke again. He was buried in the grounds of one of the royal residences, and the Emperor and Hilda erected a splendid monument to his memory. No year ever passed without their visiting the grave of the man who had served them so well. Their marriage was deferred for a month in consequence of Colonel Laurient's death, but the ceremony was a grand one. Nothing was wanting in the way of pomp and display to invest it with the utmost importance. Throughout the whole Empire there were great rejoicings. It really appeared as if the Emperor could not have made a more popular marriage, and that unalloyed happiness was in store for him and his bride. EPILOGUE. Twenty years have passed. The Emperor is nearly fifty, and the Empress is no longer young. They have preserved their good looks; but on the countenance of each is a settled melancholy expression, wanting in the days which preceded their marriage. Their union seemed to promise a happy life, no cloud showed itself on the horizon of their new existence, and yet sadness proved to be its prominent feature. A year after their marriage a son was born, amidst extravagant rejoicings throughout the Empire. Another year witnessed the birth of a daughter, and a third child was shortly expected, when a terrible event occurred. A small dog, a great favourite of the child, slightly bit the young prince. The animal proved to be mad, a fact unsuspected until too late to apply adequate remedial measures to the boy, and the heir to the Empire died amidst horrible suffering. The grief of the parents may be better imagined than described. The third child, a boy, was prematurely born, and grew up weak and sickly. Two more children were subsequently born, but both died in early childhood. The princess, the elder-born of the two survivors, grew into a beautiful woman. She was over eighteen years old when this history reopens. Her brother was a year younger. The contrast between the two was remarkable. Princess Victoria was a fine, healthy girl, with a lovely complexion. She inherited her mother's beauty and her father's dignity and grace of manner. She was the idol of every one with whom she came in contact. The charm and fascination of her demeanour were enhanced by the dignity of presence which never forsook her. Her brother, poor boy, was thin and delicate-looking, and a constant invalid, though not afflicted with any organic disease. They both were clever, but their tastes were widely apart. The Princess was an accomplished linguist; and few excelled her in knowledge of history, past and contemporaneous. She took great interest in public affairs. No statesman was better acquainted with the innumerable conditions which cumbered the outward seeming of affairs of state. Prince Albert Edward, on the contrary, took no heed of public affairs. He rarely read a newspaper; but he was a profound mathematician, a constant student of physical laws: and, above all, he had a love for the study of human character. When only sixteen, he gained a gold medal for a paper sent in anonymously to the Imperial Institute, dealing with the influence of circumstances and events upon mental and moral development. The essay was very deep, and embodied some new and rather startling theories, closely reasoned, as to the effects of training and education. The Princess was her father's idol; and though he was too just to wish to prejudice his son's rights, he could not without bitter regret remember that but for his action long ago his daughter would have been heiress to the throne. Fate, with strange irony, had made the Empress also alter her views. The weak and sickly son had been the special object of long years of care. The poor mother, bereaved of three children out of five, clung to this weak offspring as the shipwrecked sailor to the plank which is his sole chance of life. The very notion of the loved son losing the succession was a cruel shock to her. The theoretical views which she shared with Mrs. Hardinge years since, were a weak barrier to the promptings of maternal love. So it happened that the Emperor ardently regretted that he had prevented the proposed change in the order of succession, and the Empress as much rejoiced that the views of her party had not prevailed. But the Emperor was essentially a just man. He recognised that before children had been born to him the question was open to treatment, but that it was different now when his son enjoyed personal rights. Ardently as he desired his daughter should reign, he would not on any consideration agree that his son should be set aside without his own free and full consent. What annoyed him most was the fallacy of his own arguments long ago. It will be remembered, he had laid chief stress on the probability that the female succession would reduce the chance of the armies being led by the Emperor in person in case of war. But it was certain that, if his son succeeded, he would not head the army in battle. The young Prince had passed through the military training prescribed for every male subject of the Empire, but he had no taste for military knowledge. Not that he wanted courage; on the contrary, he had displayed conspicuous bravery on several occasions. Once he had jumped off a yacht in rough weather to save one of his staff who had fallen overboard; and on another occasion, when a fire took place at sea, he was cooler and less terror-stricken than any of the persons who surrounded him. But for objects and studies of a militant character he had an aversion, almost a contempt; and it was certain he never would become a great general. The fallacy of his principal objection to the change in the order of succession was thus brought home to the Emperor with bitter emphasis. Perhaps the worst effect of all was the wall of estrangement that was being built up between him and the Empress. When two people constantly in communication feel themselves prevented from discussing the subject nearest to the heart and most constant to the mind of each, estrangement must grow up, no matter how great may be their mutual love. The Emperor and Empress loved each other as much as ever, but to both the discussion of the question of succession was fraught with bitter pain. The time had, however, come when they must discuss it. The Princess had already reached her legal majority, and the Prince would shortly arrive at the age which was prescribed as the majority of the heir to the throne. His own unfitness for the sovereignty and the exceeding suitability of his sister were widely known, and the newspapers had just commenced a warm discussion on the subject. The Cabinet, too, were inclined to take action. Many years since, Mrs. Hardinge died quite suddenly of heart disease; and Lady Cairo had for a long period filled the post of Prime Minister. Lady Garstairs, _née_ Phoebe Buller, was leader of the Opposition. She was still a close friend of the Empress, and she shared the opinion of her imperial mistress that the subject had better not be dealt with. But Lady Cairo, who had always thought it ought to have been settled before the Emperor's marriage, was very much embarrassed now by the strong and general demand that the question should be immediately reopened. She had several interviews with the Emperor on the subject. His Majesty did not conceal his personal desire that his daughter should succeed, or his opinion that she was signally fitted for the position; but nothing, he declared, would induce him to allow his son's rights to be assailed without the Prince's full and free consent. Meanwhile the Prince showed no sign. It seemed as if he alone of all the subjects of the Empire knew and cared nothing about the matter. He rarely spoke of public affairs, and scarcely ever read the newspapers, especially those portions of them devoted to politics. The Emperor felt a discussion with the Empress could no longer be avoided; and we meet them once more at a long and painful interview, in which they unburdened the thoughts which each had concealed from the other for years past. "Dear Hilda," said the Emperor, "do not misunderstand me. I would rather renounce the crown than allow our son's rights to be prejudiced without his approval." "Yes, yes, I understand that," said the Empress; "and I recognise your sense of justice. I do not think that you love Albert as much as you do Victoria, and you certainly have not that pride in him which you have in her; whilst I--I love my boy, and cannot bear that he should suffer." "My dear," said the Emperor, "that is where we differ. I love Albert, and I admire his high character; but I do not think it would be for his happiness that he should reign, nor that he should now relinquish all the studies in which he delights, in order to take his proper position as heir to the throne. In a few weeks he will be of age; and if he is to succeed me, duties of a most onerous and constant character will devolve on him. He is, I will do him the justice to say, too conscientious to neglect his duty; and I believe he will endeavour to attend to public affairs and cast away all those studies that most delight him: but the change will make him miserable." "You are a wise judge of the hearts and ways of men and women, and it would ill become me to disregard your opinion; but, Albert, does it not occur to you that our Albert might live to regret any renunciation he made in earlier life?" "I admit the possibility," said the Emperor; "but he is stable and mature beyond his years. His dream is to benefit mankind by the studies he pursues. He has already met with great success in those studies, and I think they will bring their own reward; but should anything occur to make him renounce them, he may, I admit, lament too late the might-have-been." "Supposing," said the Empress, "he married an ambitious wife and had sons like you were, dear Albert, in your young manhood?" "One cannot judge one's self; yet I think I should have accepted whatever was my position, and not have allowed vain repinings to prevent my endeavouring to perform the duties that devolved on me." "Forgive me, Albert, for doubting it. You would, I am sure, have been true to yourself." "You confirm my own impression. Recollect, Hilda, true ambition prompts to legitimate effort, not to vain grief for the unattainable. It may be that Victoria's own children will succeed; but Albert's children, if they are ambitious, will not be denied a brilliant career." "I cannot argue the matter, for it is useless to deny that I refuse to see our son as he is. I love him to devotion, yet the grief is always with me that the son is not like the father." "Hilda dear, he is not like the father in some respects; but the very difference perhaps partakes of the higher life. When the last day comes to him and to me, who shall say that he will not look back to his conduct through life with more satisfaction than I shall be able to do?" "I will not allow you to underrate yourself. You are faultless in my eyes. No human being has ever had cause to complain of you." "Tut! tut! You are too partial a judge." But he kissed her tenderly, and his eyes gleamed with a pleasure for a very long while unknown to them, as she brought to him the conviction that the love and admiration of her youth had survived all the sorrows of their after-lives. At this juncture the Prince entered the room. "Pardon me," he said. "I thought my mother was alone;" and he was about to retire. The Emperor looked at the Empress, and he gathered from her answering glance that she shared with him the desire that all reserve and concealment should be at an end. In a moment his resolution was formed. His son should know everything and decide for himself. "Stay, Albert," he said. "I am glad to have an opportunity of talking with you in the presence of your mother." "I am equally glad, Sir. Indeed, I should have asked you later in the day to have given me an audience." "Why do you wish to see me?" said the Emperor, who in a moment suspected what proved to be the case: that his son anticipated his own wish for an exchange of confidence. "During the last few days it has become known to me, Sir, that a controversy is going on respecting the order of succession to the throne. I have," producing a small package, "cuttings from some of the principal newspapers from which I gather there is a strong opinion in favour of a change in the order of succession. I glean from them that by far the larger number are agreed on the point that it would be better my sister should succeed to you." He paused a moment, and then in a clear and distinct tone said, "I am of the same opinion." The Empress interposed. "Are you sure of your own mind? Do you recognise what it is you would renounce--the position of foremost ruler on the wide globe?" "I think I realise it. I am not much given to the study of contemporaneous history, but I am well acquainted with all the circumstances of my father's great career." The parents looked at each other in surprise. "Yes; there is no one," he resumed, "who is more proud of the Emperor than his only son." With much emotion the father clasped the son's hand. "What is it you wish, Albert?" he said. "I would like Victoria to be present if you would not mind," replied the Prince, looking at his mother. "May I fetch her?" The Empress nodded. "You will find her in the next room." The Princess Victoria was a lovely and splendid girl. It was impossible to look at her without feeling that she would adorn the highest position. The Emperor's face lighted up as he glanced at her; and the Empress, much impressed with what her husband had said, kissed the Princess with unusual tenderness. She probably wished her daughter to feel that she was not averse to any issue which might result from the momentous interview about to take place. "Sir," said the young Prince, addressing his father, "I know how important your time is, so I will not prolong what I wish to say. Until I saw these papers," holding up the extracts, "I confess I was unaware of the great interest which is now being taken in the question of the succession. But I cannot assert that the subject is new to me; on the contrary, I have thought it over deeply, and it was my intention to speak to you about it when in a few weeks I should attain my majority." "My dear boy, pray believe that it was through consideration to you I have refrained from speaking to you on the subject." "I know it, Sir, and thank you," said the boy with feeling; "but the time has come when there must be no longer any reserve between us. You know, I do not take much interest in public affairs, and I fear it has grieved you that my inclinations have been so alien to what my position as heir to the throne required. But I am not unacquainted with the principles of the constitution of the Empire. I will not pretend that I have studied them from a statesman's point of view. They have absorbed my attention in the course of my favourite study of human character. I have closely (if it did not seem conceited, I might say philosophically) investigated the Constitution with the object of determining to what extent it operates as an educational medium affecting the character of the nation. The question of the succession is settled by the Constitution Act, and no alteration is possible in justice, that does not fully reserve the rights of all living beings. I am first in the order of succession, and no law of man can take it from me excepting with my full consent." "Albert," interrupted the Emperor, "you say rightly; and I assure you that I am fully prepared to adopt this view. No consideration will induce me to consent to any alteration which will prejudice you excepting with your own desire; and indeed I am doubtful if even with your desire I should be justified in allowing you at so early a period of your life to make a renunciation." "I am grateful, Sir, for this assurance. Its memory will live in my mind. And now let me say that, having for a long while considered the subject with the utmost attention I could give to it, I am of opinion that the present law by which the female succession is partly barred is not a just one. I will not, however, say that it ought to be altered against a living representative; but I decidedly think that it should be amended as regards those unborn. The decision I have come to then does not depend upon the amendment in the Constitution which I believe to be desirable. It arises from personal causes. I believe that my sister Victoria is as specially fitted for the dignity and functions of empress, as I am the reverse." The Princess Victoria started up in great agitation. She was not without ambition, and it could not be questioned that the position of empress had fascinating attraction for her active mind and courageous spirit. But she dearly loved her brother, and her predominant feeling at the moment was regard for his interests. "Albert," she said with great energy, "I will not have you make any sacrifice for me. You will be a good and clever man, and will adorn whatever position you are called to." "I thank you, Victoria," said the boy gravely. "I am delighted that you think so well of me. But you must not consider I am making a sacrifice. My inclinations are entirely against public life. The position of next heir, and in time of emperor, would give me no pleasure. My ambition--and I am not without it--points to triumphs of a different kind. No success in the council or in the field would give me the gratification that the reception of my paper by the Imperial Institute occasioned me, and the gold medal which I gained without my name as author being known. Why I have dwelt on your fitness for the position, Victoria, is because I do not believe that I should be justified in renouncing the succession unless I could honestly feel that a better person would take my place." "Albert," interposed the Empress, "let your mother say a word before you proceed further. I will not interfere with any decision that may be arrived at. I leave that to your father, in whose wisdom I have implicit faith. But I must ask you, Have you thought over all contingencies, not only of what has happened in the past or of what is now occurring, but of what the future may have in store?" "I have, my mother, thought over the future as well as the past." "You may marry, Albert. Your wife may grieve for the position you have renounced; you may have children: they may inherit your father's grand qualities. Will you yourself not grieve to see them subordinate to their cousins, your sister's children?" "Mother, I probably shall not marry; and if I do, my renunciation of the succession will justify me in marrying as my heart dictates, and not to satisfy State exigencies. I shall be well assured that whomever I marry will be content to take me for myself, and not for what I might have been. As to the children, they will be educated to the station to which they will belong, surely a sufficiently exalted one." The Emperor now interposed. "You are young," he said, "to speak of wife and children; but you have spoken with the sense and discretion of mature years. I understand, that if you renounce the succession, you will do so in the full belief that you will be consulting your own happiness and not injuring those who might be your subjects, because you leave to them a good substitute in your sister." "You have rightly described my sentiments," said the boy. "Then, Albert," said the Emperor, "I will give my consent to the introduction of a measure that, preserving your rights, will as regards the future give to females an equal right with males to the succession. As regards yourself, I think the Act should give you after your majority a right, entirely depending on your own discretion, of renunciation in favour of your sister, and provide that such renunciation shall be finally operative." Our history for the present ends with the passage of the Act described by the Emperor; an Act considered to be especially memorable, since it removed the last disability under which the female sex laboured. * * * * * It is perhaps desirable to explain that three leading features have been kept in view in the production of the foregoing anticipation of the future. First, it has been designed to show that a recognised dominance of either sex is unnecessary, and that men and women may take part in the affairs of the world on terms of equality, each member of either sex enjoying the position to which he or she is entitled by reason of his or her qualifications. The second object is to suggest that the materials are to hand for forming the dominions of Great Britain into a powerful and beneficent empire. The third purpose is to attract consideration to the question as to whether it is not possible to relieve the misery under which a large portion of mankind languishes on account of extreme poverty and destitution. The writer has a strong conviction that every human being is entitled to a sufficiency of food and clothing and to decent lodging whether or not he or she is willing to or capable of work. He hates the idea of anything approaching to Communism, as it would be fatal to energy and ambition, two of the most ennobling qualities with which human beings are endowed. But there is no reason to fear that ambition would be deadened because the lowest scale of life commenced with sufficiency of sustenance. Experience, on the contrary, shows that the higher the social status the more keen ambition becomes. Aspiration is most numbed in those whose existence is walled round with constant privation. Figures would of course indicate that the cost of the additional provision would be enormous, but the increase is more seeming than real. Every commodity that man uses is obtained by an expenditure of more or less human labour. The extra cost would mean extra employment and profit to vast numbers of people, and the earth itself is capable of an indefinite increase of the products which are necessary to man's use. The additional employment available would in time make work a privilege, not a burden; and the objects of the truest sympathy would be those who would not or who could not work. The theory of forcing a person to labour would be no more recognised than one of forcing a person to listen to music or to view works of art. Of course it will be urged that natives of countries where the earth is prolific are not, as a rule, industrious. But this fact must be viewed in connection with that other fact that to these countries the higher aims which grow in the path of civilisation have not penetrated. An incalculable increase of wealth, position, and authority would accompany an ameliorated condition of the proletariat, so that the scope of ambition would be proportionately enlarged. There would still be much variety of human woe and joy; and though the lowest rung of the ladder would not descend to the present abysmal depth of destitution and degradation, the intensely comprehensive line of the poet would continue as monumental as ever,-- "The meanest hind in misery's sad train still looks beneath him." Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. * * * * * HUTCHINSON & CO.'S PUBLICATIONS. _Nearly Ready._ +IN AUSTRALIAN WILDS+, And other Colonial Tales and Sketches. By L. J. FARJEON, C. HADDON CHAMBERS, EDWARD JENKINS, "TASMA," and others. Edited by PHILIP MENNELL. Crown 8vo, in handsomely printed coloured wrapper, 1s. _In the Press._ +THE MAID OF ORLEANS+, And the Great War of the English in France. By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS, Author of "Memorable Battles in English History," etc. Large crown 8vo, handsomely bound in cloth, with 8 Illustrations, 3s. 6d. _In the Press._ COMPANION VOLUME TO "THE ALDINE RECITER." +THE ALDINE DIALOGUES.+ Edited by ALFRED H. MILES. Cloth, crown 4to, bevelled boards, gilt, 3s. 6d. _Nearly Ready._ +THE A1 RECITER. Part 4.+ Edited by ALFRED H. MILES. 128 large pages of Poetry and Prose by leading English and American Authors. Crown 4to, 6d. London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 25, Paternoster Square. POPULAR NOVELS BY AUTHORS OF THE DAY. Price 2s. each, Paper Boards. Handsome Library Edition, in cloth, 2s. 6d. BY MRS. RIDDELL. AUSTIN FRIARS. TOO MUCH ALONE. THE RICH HUSBAND. MAXWELL DREWITT. FAR ABOVE RUBIES. A LIFE'S ASSIZE. THE WORLD IN THE CHURCH. HOME, SWEET HOME. PHEMIE KELLER. RACE FOR WEALTH. THE EARL'S PROMISE. MORTOMLEY'S ESTATE. FRANK SINCLAIR'S WIFE. THE RULING PASSION. MY FIRST AND MY LAST LOVE. CITY AND SUBURB. ABOVE SUSPICION. JOY AFTER SORROW. BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. GERALD ESTCOURT. LOVE'S CONFLICT. TOO GOOD FOR HIM. WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN. FOR EVER AND EVER. NELLY BROOKE. VERONIQUE. HER LORD AND MASTER. THE PREY OF THE GODS. THE GIRLS OF FEVERSHAM. MAD DUMARESQ. NO INTENTIONS. PETRONEL. BY SYDNEY S. HARRIS. THE SUTHERLANDS. RUTLEDGE. CHRISTINE. THE TWO COUSINS. London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 25, Paternoster Square. BY J. SHERIDAN LEFANU. CHECKMATE. ALL IN THE DARK. GUY DEVERELL. THE ROSE AND THE KEY. TENANTS OF MALORY. WILLING TO DIE. WYLDER'S HAND. THE HOUSE BY THE CHURCHYARD. BY G. A. SALA. QUITE ALONE. BY JOSEPH HATTON. CLYTIE. THE TALLANTS OF BARTON. IN THE LAP OF FORTUNE. VALLEY OF POPPIES. IN SOCIETY. CHRISTOPHER KENRICK. CRUEL LONDON. THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. BITTER SWEETS. BY F. W. ROBINSON. CHRISTIE'S FAITH. CARRY'S CONFESSION. UNDER THE SPELL. HOUSE OF ELMORE. MILLY'S HERO. MR. STEWART'S INTENTIONS. NO MAN'S FRIEND. WILD FLOWERS. POOR HUMANITY. OWEN, A WAIF. WOODLEIGH. A WOMAN'S RANSOM. MATTIE, A STRAY. SLAVES OF THE RING ONE AND TWENTY. BY SAM SLICK. THE SEASON TICKET. BY COLONEL WALMSLEY. CHASSEUR D'AFRIQUE. THE LIFEGUARDSMAN. BRANKSOME DENE. London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 25, Paternoster Square. _SECOND EDITION. JUST PUBLISHED._ LETTS'S POPULAR ATLAS OF THE WORLD. A series of 156 Maps and Plans (size of each, 17 inches by 14), delineating the whole surface of the globe, and containing many original and interesting features not to be found in any other atlas, with a copious consulting index of 100,000 names. PRICES. £. s. d. Maps folded and bound in cloth 2 2 0 Maps " " in half morocco 2 12 6 Maps flat and bound in half morocco 3 0 0 Maps backed with linen and bound in half morocco 5 0 0 _N.B.--This Atlas has had by far the largest sale of any collection of maps published in English or any other language._ OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. "To notice adequately this extraordinary work is beyond our power. Unless such a feat had been done, we should have doubted if it were possible."--_Academy._ "The unmounted form of Messrs. Letts's Atlas is beyond all question the cheapest full compendium of geographical information to be obtained, and the mounted form one of the most handsome."--_Saturday Review._ "For general reference in all matters connected with commercial geography, it would be difficult to point to a more useful publication than this atlas."--_Royal Geographical Society's Proceedings._ "Remarkable alike for the number and quality of its maps, the variety of modes in which the aid of colour is called into requisition to convey not merely information regarding geographical and political divisions, or facts in physical geography in its widest sense, but numerous other kinds of valuable information."--_Daily News._ "The information is brought up to the latest date, is closely packed, and clearly printed; the only fault, if any, being that it is redundant.... Letts's atlas may be pronounced a durable and exhaustive one."--_Spectator._ "Both the physical features, and the main commercial, agricultural, and mineral products of different countries, with the chief lines of navigation and of railway and telegraph, overland and submarine cables, are shown with remarkable distinctness.... The drawing and printing are beautifully clear; the colouring is significant and agreeable."--_Illustrated London News._ "'Letts's complete Popular Atlas' is certainly one of the very best, if not actually the best popular work of its kind; in several particulars it is an improvement on other atlases."--_Graphic._ "The publishers may boast that they have succeeded in combining an atlas with a statistical encyclopædia. Maps are lavishly provided.... It is a marvel of cheapness, and of great and painstaking labour."--_Scotsman._ London: HUTCHINSON & CO., 25, Paternoster Square. 
1971	----	Transcribed from the 1916 A. C. Fifield edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk EREWHON REVISITED TWENTY YEARS LATER Both by the Original Discoverer of the Country and by his Son I forget when, but not very long after I had published "Erewhon" in 1872, it occurred to me to ask myself what course events in Erewhon would probably take after Mr. Higgs, as I suppose I may now call him, had made his escape in the balloon with Arowhena. Given a people in the conditions supposed to exist in Erewhon, and given the apparently miraculous ascent of a remarkable stranger into the heavens with an earthly bride--what would be the effect on the people generally? There was no use in trying to solve this problem before, say, twenty years should have given time for Erewhonian developments to assume something like permanent shape, and in 1892 I was too busy with books now published to be able to attend to Erewhon. It was not till the early winter of 1900, i.e. as nearly as may be thirty years after the date of Higgs's escape, that I found time to deal with the question above stated, and to answer it, according to my lights, in the book which I now lay before the public. I have concluded, I believe rightly, that the events described in Chapter XXIV. of "Erewhon" would give rise to such a cataclysmic change in the old Erewhonian opinions as would result in the development of a new religion. Now the development of all new religions follows much the same general course. In all cases the times are more or less out of joint--older faiths are losing their hold upon the masses. At such times, let a personality appear, strong in itself, and made to seem still stronger by association with some supposed transcendent miracle, and it will be easy to raise a Lo here! that will attract many followers. If there be a single great, and apparently well-authenticated, miracle, others will accrete round it; then, in all religions that have so originated, there will follow temples, priests, rites, sincere believers, and unscrupulous exploiters of public credulity. To chronicle the events that followed Higgs's balloon ascent without shewing that they were much as they have been under like conditions in other places, would be to hold the mirror up to something very wide of nature. Analogy, however, between courses of events is one thing--historic parallelisms abound; analogy between the main actors in events is a very different one, and one, moreover, of which few examples can be found. The development of the new ideas in Erewhon is a familiar one, but there is no more likeness between Higgs and the founder of any other religion, than there is between Jesus Christ and Mahomet. He is a typical middle- class Englishman, deeply tainted with priggishness in his earlier years, but in great part freed from it by the sweet uses of adversity. If I may be allowed for a moment to speak about myself, I would say that I have never ceased to profess myself a member of the more advanced wing of the English Broad Church. What those who belong to this wing believe, I believe. What they reject, I reject. No two people think absolutely alike on any subject, but when I converse with advanced Broad Churchmen I find myself in substantial harmony with them. I believe--and should be very sorry if I did not believe--that, mutatis mutandis, such men will find the advice given on pp. 277-281 and 287-291 of this book much what, under the supposed circumstances, they would themselves give. Lastly, I should express my great obligations to Mr. R. A. Streatfeild of the British Museum, who, in the absence from England of my friend Mr. H. Festing Jones, has kindly supervised the corrections of my book as it passed through the press. SAMUEL BUTLER. May 1, 1901. CHAPTER I: UPS AND DOWNS OF FORTUNE--MY FATHER STARTS FOR EREWHON Before telling the story of my father's second visit to the remarkable country which he discovered now some thirty years since, I should perhaps say a few words about his career between the publication of his book in 1872, and his death in the early summer of 1891. I shall thus touch briefly on the causes that occasioned his failure to maintain that hold on the public which he had apparently secured at first. His book, as the reader may perhaps know, was published anonymously, and my poor father used to ascribe the acclamation with which it was received, to the fact that no one knew who it might not have been written by. _Omne ignotum pro magnifico_, and during its month of anonymity the book was a frequent topic of appreciative comment in good literary circles. Almost coincidently with the discovery that he was a mere nobody, people began to feel that their admiration had been too hastily bestowed, and before long opinion turned all the more seriously against him for this very reason. The subscription, to which the Lord Mayor had at first given his cordial support, was curtly announced as closed before it had been opened a week; it had met with so little success that I will not specify the amount eventually handed over, not without protest, to my father; small, however, as it was, he narrowly escaped being prosecuted for trying to obtain money under false pretences. The Geographical Society, which had for a few days received him with open arms, was among the first to turn upon him--not, so far as I can ascertain, on account of the mystery in which he had enshrouded the exact whereabouts of Erewhon, nor yet by reason of its being persistently alleged that he was subject to frequent attacks of alcoholic poisoning--but through his own want of tact, and a highly-strung nervous state, which led him to attach too much importance to his own discoveries, and not enough to those of other people. This, at least, was my father's version of the matter, as I heard it from his own lips in the later years of his life. "I was still very young," he said to me, "and my mind was more or less unhinged by the strangeness and peril of my adventures." Be this as it may, I fear there is no doubt that he was injudicious; and an ounce of judgement is worth a pound of discovery. Hence, in a surprisingly short time, he found himself dropped even by those who had taken him up most warmly, and had done most to find him that employment as a writer of religious tracts on which his livelihood was then dependent. The discredit, however, into which my father fell, had the effect of deterring any considerable number of people from trying to rediscover Erewhon, and thus caused it to remain as unknown to geographers in general as though it had never been found. A few shepherds and cadets at up-country stations had, indeed, tried to follow in my father's footsteps, during the time when his book was still being taken seriously; but they had most of them returned, unable to face the difficulties that had opposed them. Some few, however, had not returned, and though search was made for them, their bodies had not been found. When he reached Erewhon on his second visit, my father learned that others had attempted to visit the country more recently--probably quite independently of his own book; and before he had himself been in it many hours he gathered what the fate of these poor fellows doubtless was. Another reason that made it more easy for Erewhon to remain unknown, was the fact that the more mountainous districts, though repeatedly prospected for gold, had been pronounced non-auriferous, and as there was no sheep or cattle country, save a few river-bed flats above the upper gorges of any of the rivers, and no game to tempt the sportsman, there was nothing to induce people to penetrate into the fastnesses of the great snowy range. No more, therefore, being heard of Erewhon, my father's book came to be regarded as a mere work of fiction, and I have heard quite recently of its having been seen on a second-hand bookstall, marked "6d. very readable." Though there was no truth in the stories about my father's being subject to attacks of alcoholic poisoning, yet, during the first few years after his return to England, his occasional fits of ungovernable excitement gave some colour to the opinion that much of what he said he had seen and done might be only subjectively true. I refer more particularly to his interview with Chowbok in the wool-shed, and his highly coloured description of the statues on the top of the pass leading into Erewhon. These were soon set down as forgeries of delirium, and it was maliciously urged, that though in his book he had only admitted having taken "two or three bottles of brandy" with him, he had probably taken at least a dozen; and that if on the night before he reached the statues he had "only four ounces of brandy" left, he must have been drinking heavily for the preceding fortnight or three weeks. Those who read the following pages will, I think, reject all idea that my father was in a state of delirium, not without surprise that any one should have ever entertained it. It was Chowbok who, if he did not originate these calumnies, did much to disseminate and gain credence for them. He remained in England for some years, and never tired of doing what he could to disparage my father. The cunning creature had ingratiated himself with our leading religious societies, especially with the more evangelical among them. Whatever doubt there might be about his sincerity, there was none about his colour, and a coloured convert in those days was more than Exeter Hall could resist. Chowbok saw that there was no room for him and for my father, and declared my poor father's story to be almost wholly false. It was true, he said, that he and my father had explored the head-waters of the river described in his book, but he denied that my father had gone on without him, and he named the river as one distant by many thousands of miles from the one it really was. He said that after about a fortnight he had returned in company with my father, who by that time had become incapacitated for further travel. At this point he would shrug his shoulders, look mysterious, and thus say "alcoholic poisoning" even more effectively than if he had uttered the words themselves. For a man's tongue lies often in his shoulders. Readers of my father's book will remember that Chowbok had given a very different version when he had returned to his employer's station; but Time and Distance afford cover under which falsehood can often do truth to death securely. I never understood why my father did not bring my mother forward to confirm his story. He may have done so while I was too young to know anything about it. But when people have made up their minds, they are impatient of further evidence; my mother, moreover, was of a very retiring disposition. The Italians say:- "Chi lontano va ammogliare Sara ingannato, o vorra ingannare." "If a man goes far afield for a wife, he will be deceived--or means deceiving." The proverb is as true for women as for men, and my mother was never quite happy in her new surroundings. Wilfully deceived she assuredly was not, but she could not accustom herself to English modes of thought; indeed she never even nearly mastered our language; my father always talked with her in Erewhonian, and so did I, for as a child she had taught me to do so, and I was as fluent with her language as with my father's. In this respect she often told me I could pass myself off anywhere in Erewhon as a native; I shared also her personal appearance, for though not wholly unlike my father, I had taken more closely after my mother. In mind, if I may venture to say so, I believe I was more like my father. I may as well here inform the reader that I was born at the end of September 1871, and was christened John, after my grandfather. From what I have said above he will readily believe that my earliest experiences were somewhat squalid. Memories of childhood rush vividly upon me when I pass through a low London alley, and catch the faint sickly smell that pervades it--half paraffin, half black-currants, but wholly something very different. I have a fancy that we lived in Blackmoor Street, off Drury Lane. My father, when first I knew of his doing anything at all, supported my mother and myself by drawing pictures with coloured chalks upon the pavement; I used sometimes to watch him, and marvel at the skill with which he represented fogs, floods, and fires. These three "f's," he would say, were his three best friends, for they were easy to do and brought in halfpence freely. The return of the dove to the ark was his favourite subject. Such a little ark, on such a hazy morning, and such a little pigeon--the rest of the picture being cheap sky, and still cheaper sea; nothing, I have often heard him say, was more popular than this with his clients. He held it to be his masterpiece, but would add with some naivete that he considered himself a public benefactor for carrying it out in such perishable fashion. "At any rate," he would say, "no one can bequeath one of my many replicas to the nation." I never learned how much my father earned by his profession, but it must have been something considerable, for we always had enough to eat and drink; I imagine that he did better than many a struggling artist with more ambitious aims. He was strictly temperate during all the time that I knew anything about him, but he was not a teetotaler; I never saw any of the fits of nervous excitement which in his earlier years had done so much to wreck him. In the evenings, and on days when the state of the pavement did not permit him to work, he took great pains with my education, which he could very well do, for as a boy he had been in the sixth form of one of our foremost public schools. I found him a patient, kindly instructor, while to my mother he was a model husband. Whatever others may have said about him, I can never think of him without very affectionate respect. Things went on quietly enough, as above indicated, till I was about fourteen, when by a freak of fortune my father became suddenly affluent. A brother of his father's had emigrated to Australia in 1851, and had amassed great wealth. We knew of his existence, but there had been no intercourse between him and my father, and we did not even know that he was rich and unmarried. He died intestate towards the end of 1885, and my father was the only relative he had, except, of course, myself, for both my father's sisters had died young, and without leaving children. The solicitor through whom the news reached us was, happily, a man of the highest integrity, and also very sensible and kind. He was a Mr. Alfred Emery Cathie, of 15 Clifford's Inn, E.C., and my father placed himself unreservedly in his hands. I was at once sent to a first-rate school, and such pains had my father taken with me that I was placed in a higher form than might have been expected considering my age. The way in which he had taught me had prevented my feeling any dislike for study; I therefore stuck fairly well to my books, while not neglecting the games which are so important a part of healthy education. Everything went well with me, both as regards masters and school-fellows; nevertheless, I was declared to be of a highly nervous and imaginative temperament, and the school doctor more than once urged our headmaster not to push me forward too rapidly--for which I have ever since held myself his debtor. Early in 1890, I being then home from Oxford (where I had been entered in the preceding year), my mother died; not so much from active illness, as from what was in reality a kind of _maladie du pays_. All along she had felt herself an exile, and though she had borne up wonderfully during my father's long struggle with adversity, she began to break as soon as prosperity had removed the necessity for exertion on her own part. My father could never divest himself of the feeling that he had wrecked her life by inducing her to share her lot with his own; to say that he was stricken with remorse on losing her is not enough; he had been so stricken almost from the first year of his marriage; on her death he was haunted by the wrong he accused himself--as it seems to me very unjustly--of having done her, for it was neither his fault nor hers--it was Ate. His unrest soon assumed the form of a burning desire to revisit the country in which he and my mother had been happier together than perhaps they ever again were. I had often heard him betray a hankering after a return to Erewhon, disguised so that no one should recognise him; but as long as my mother lived he would not leave her. When death had taken her from him, he so evidently stood in need of a complete change of scene, that even those friends who had most strongly dissuaded him from what they deemed a madcap enterprise, thought it better to leave him to himself. It would have mattered little how much they tried to dissuade him, for before long his passionate longing for the journey became so overmastering that nothing short of restraint in prison or a madhouse could have stayed his going; but we were not easy about him. "He had better go," said Mr. Cathie to me, when I was at home for the Easter vacation, "and get it over. He is not well, but he is still in the prime of life; doubtless he will come back with renewed health and will settle down to a quiet home life again." This, however, was not said till it had become plain that in a few days my father would be on his way. He had made a new will, and left an ample power of attorney with Mr. Cathie--or, as we always called him, Alfred--who was to supply me with whatever money I wanted; he had put all other matters in order in case anything should happen to prevent his ever returning, and he set out on October 1, 1890, more composed and cheerful than I had seen him for some time past. I had not realised how serious the danger to my father would be if he were recognised while he was in Erewhon, for I am ashamed to say that I had not yet read his book. I had heard over and over again of his flight with my mother in the balloon, and had long since read his few opening chapters, but I had found, as a boy naturally would, that the succeeding pages were a little dull, and soon put the book aside. My father, indeed, repeatedly urged me not to read it, for he said there was much in it--more especially in the earlier chapters, which I had alone found interesting--that he would gladly cancel if he could. "But there!" he had said with a laugh, "what does it matter?" He had hardly left, before I read his book from end to end, and, on having done so, not only appreciated the risks that he would have to run, but was struck with the wide difference between his character as he had himself portrayed it, and the estimate I had formed of it from personal knowledge. When, on his return, he detailed to me his adventures, the account he gave of what he had said and done corresponded with my own ideas concerning him; but I doubt not the reader will see that the twenty years between his first and second visit had modified him even more than so long an interval might be expected to do. I heard from him repeatedly during the first two months of his absence, and was surprised to find that he had stayed for a week or ten days at more than one place of call on his outward journey. On November 26 he wrote from the port whence he was to start for Erewhon, seemingly in good health and spirits; and on December 27, 1891, he telegraphed for a hundred pounds to be wired out to him at this same port. This puzzled both Mr. Cathie and myself, for the interval between November 26 and December 27 seemed too short to admit of his having paid his visit to Erewhon and returned; as, moreover, he had added the words, "Coming home," we rather hoped that he had abandoned his intention of going there. We were also surprised at his wanting so much money, for he had taken a hundred pounds in gold, which from some fancy, he had stowed in a small silver jewel-box that he had given my mother not long before she died. He had also taken a hundred pounds worth of gold nuggets, which he had intended to sell in Erewhon so as to provide himself with money when he got there. I should explain that these nuggets would be worth in Erewhon fully ten times as much as they would in Europe, owing to the great scarcity of gold in that country. The Erewhonian coinage is entirely silver--which is abundant, and worth much what it is in England--or copper, which is also plentiful; but what we should call five pounds' worth of silver money would not buy more than one of our half-sovereigns in gold. He had put his nuggets into ten brown holland bags, and he had had secret pockets made for the old Erewhonian dress which he had worn when he escaped, so that he need never have more than one bag of nuggets accessible at a time. He was not likely, therefore, to have been robbed. His passage to the port above referred to had been paid before he started, and it seemed impossible that a man of his very inexpensive habits should have spent two hundred pounds in a single month--for the nuggets would be immediately convertible in an English colony. There was nothing, however, to be done but to cable out the money and wait my father's arrival. Returning for a moment to my father's old Erewhonian dress, I should say that he had preserved it simply as a memento and without any idea that he should again want it. It was not the court dress that had been provided for him on the occasion of his visit to the king and queen, but the everyday clothing that he had been ordered to wear when he was put in prison, though his English coat, waistcoat, and trousers had been allowed to remain in his own possession. These, I had seen from his book, had been presented by him to the queen (with the exception of two buttons, which he had given to Yram as a keepsake), and had been preserved by her displayed upon a wooden dummy. The dress in which he escaped had been soiled during the hours that he and my mother had been in the sea, and had also suffered from neglect during the years of his poverty; but he wished to pass himself off as a common peasant or working-man, so he preferred to have it set in order as might best be done, rather than copied. So cautious was he in the matter of dress that he took with him the boots he had worn on leaving Erewhon, lest the foreign make of his English boots should arouse suspicion. They were nearly new, and when he had had them softened and well greased, he found he could still wear them quite comfortably. But to return. He reached home late at night one day at the beginning of February, and a glance was enough to show that he was an altered man. "What is the matter?" said I, shocked at his appearance. "Did you go to Erewhon, and were you ill-treated there?" "I went to Erewhon," he said, "and I was not ill-treated there, but I have been so shaken that I fear I shall quite lose my reason. Do not ask me more now. I will tell you about it all to-morrow. Let me have something to eat, and go to bed." When we met at breakfast next morning, he greeted me with all his usual warmth of affection, but he was still taciturn. "I will begin to tell you about it," he said, "after breakfast. Where is your dear mother? How was it that I have . . . " Then of a sudden his memory returned, and he burst into tears. I now saw, to my horror, that his mind was gone. When he recovered, he said: "It has all come back again, but at times now I am a blank, and every week am more and more so. I daresay I shall be sensible now for several hours. We will go into the study after breakfast, and I will talk to you as long as I can do so." Let the reader spare me, and let me spare the reader any description of what we both of us felt. When we were in the study, my father said, "My dearest boy, get pen and paper and take notes of what I tell you. It will be all disjointed; one day I shall remember this, and another that, but there will not be many more days on which I shall remember anything at all. I cannot write a coherent page. You, when I am gone, can piece what I tell you together, and tell it as I should have told it if I had been still sound. But do not publish it yet; it might do harm to those dear good people. Take the notes now, and arrange them the sooner the better, for you may want to ask me questions, and I shall not be here much longer. Let publishing wait till you are confident that publication can do no harm; and above all, say nothing to betray the whereabouts of Erewhon, beyond admitting (which I fear I have already done) that it is in the Southern hemisphere." These instructions I have religiously obeyed. For the first days after his return, my father had few attacks of loss of memory, and I was in hopes that his former health of mind would return when he found himself in his old surroundings. During these days he poured forth the story of his adventures so fast, that if I had not had a fancy for acquiring shorthand, I should not have been able to keep pace with him. I repeatedly urged him not to overtax his strength, but he was oppressed by the fear that if he did not speak at once, he might never be able to tell me all he had to say; I had, therefore, to submit, though seeing plainly enough that he was only hastening the complete paralysis which he so greatly feared. Sometimes his narrative would be coherent for pages together, and he could answer any questions without hesitation; at others, he was now here and now there, and if I tried to keep him to the order of events he would say that he had forgotten intermediate incidents, but that they would probably come back to him, and I should perhaps be able to put them in their proper places. After about ten days he seemed satisfied that I had got all the facts, and that with the help of the pamphlets which he had brought with him I should be able to make out a connected story. "Remember," he said, "that I thought I was quite well so long as I was in Erewhon, and do not let me appear as anything else." When he had fully delivered himself, he seemed easier in his mind, but before a month had passed he became completely paralysed, and though he lingered till the beginning of June, he was seldom more than dimly conscious of what was going on around him. His death robbed me of one who had been a very kind and upright elder brother rather than a father; and so strongly have I felt his influence still present, living and working, as I believe for better within me, that I did not hesitate to copy the epitaph which he saw in the Musical Bank at Fairmead, {1} and to have it inscribed on the very simple monument which he desired should alone mark his grave. * * * * * The foregoing was written in the summer of 1891; what I now add should be dated December 3, 1900. If, in the course of my work, I have misrepresented my father, as I fear I may have sometimes done, I would ask my readers to remember that no man can tell another's story without some involuntary misrepresentation both of facts and characters. They will, of course, see that "Erewhon Revisited" is written by one who has far less literary skill than the author of "Erewhon;" but again I would ask indulgence on the score of youth, and the fact that this is my first book. It was written nearly ten years ago, _i.e_. in the months from March to August 1891, but for reasons already given it could not then be made public. I have now received permission, and therefore publish the following chapters, exactly, or very nearly exactly, as they were left when I had finished editing my father's diaries, and the notes I took down from his own mouth--with the exception, of course, of these last few lines, hurriedly written as I am on the point of leaving England, of the additions I made in 1892, on returning from my own three hours' stay in Erewhon, and of the Postscript. CHAPTER II: TO THE FOOT OF THE PASS INTO EREWHON When my father reached the colony for which he had left England some twenty-two years previously, he bought a horse, and started up country on the evening of the day after his arrival, which was, as I have said, on one of the last days of November 1890. He had taken an English saddle with him, and a couple of roomy and strongly made saddle-bags. In these he packed his money, his nuggets, some tea, sugar, tobacco, salt, a flask of brandy, matches, and as many ship's biscuits as he thought he was likely to want; he took no meat, for he could supply himself from some accommodation-house or sheep-station, when nearing the point after which he would have to begin camping out. He rolled his Erewhonian dress and small toilette necessaries inside a warm red blanket, and strapped the roll on to the front part of his saddle. On to other D's, with which his saddle was amply provided, he strapped his Erewhonian boots, a tin pannikin, and a billy that would hold about a quart. I should, perhaps, explain to English readers that a billy is a tin can, the name for which (doubtless of French Canadian origin) is derived from the words "_faire bouillir_." He also took with him a pair of hobbles and a small hatchet. He spent three whole days in riding across the plains, and was struck with the very small signs of change that he could detect, but the fall in wool, and the failure, so far, to establish a frozen meat trade, had prevented any material development of the resources of the country. When he had got to the front ranges, he followed up the river next to the north of the one that he had explored years ago, and from the head waters of which he had been led to discover the only practicable pass into Erewhon. He did this, partly to avoid the terribly dangerous descent on to the bed of the more northern river, and partly to escape being seen by shepherds or bullock-drivers who might remember him. If he had attempted to get through the gorge of this river in 1870, he would have found it impassable; but a few river-bed flats had been discovered above the gorge, on which there was now a shepherd's hut, and on the discovery of these flats a narrow horse track had been made from one end of the gorge to the other. He was hospitably entertained at the shepherd's hut just mentioned, which he reached on Monday, December 1. He told the shepherd in charge of it that he had come to see if he could find traces of a large wingless bird, whose existence had been reported as having been discovered among the extreme head waters of the river. "Be careful, sir," said the shepherd; "the river is very dangerous; several people--one only about a year ago--have left this hut, and though their horses and their camps have been found, their bodies have not. When a great fresh comes down, it would carry a body out to sea in twenty-four hours." He evidently had no idea that there was a pass through the ranges up the river, which might explain the disappearance of an explorer. Next day my father began to ascend the river. There was so much tangled growth still unburnt wherever there was room for it to grow, and so much swamp, that my father had to keep almost entirely to the river-bed--and here there was a good deal of quicksand. The stones also were often large for some distance together, and he had to cross and recross streams of the river more than once, so that though he travelled all day with the exception of a couple of hours for dinner, he had not made more than some five and twenty miles when he reached a suitable camping ground, where he unsaddled his horse, hobbled him, and turned him out to feed. The grass was beginning to seed, so that though it was none too plentiful, what there was of it made excellent feed. He lit his fire, made himself some tea, ate his cold mutton and biscuits, and lit his pipe, exactly as he had done twenty years before. There was the clear starlit sky, the rushing river, and the stunted trees on the mountain-side; the woodhens cried, and the "more-pork" hooted out her two monotonous notes exactly as they had done years since; one moment, and time had so flown backwards that youth came bounding back to him with the return of his youth's surroundings; the next, and the intervening twenty years--most of them grim ones--rose up mockingly before him, and the buoyancy of hope yielded to the despondency of admitted failure. By and by buoyancy reasserted itself, and, soothed by the peace and beauty of the night, he wrapped himself up in his blanket and dropped off into a dreamless slumber. Next morning, _i.e_. December 3, he rose soon after dawn, bathed in a backwater of the river, got his breakfast, found his horse on the river- bed, and started as soon as he had duly packed and loaded. He had now to cross streams of the river and recross them more often than on the preceding day, and this, though his horse took well to the water, required care; for he was anxious not to wet his saddle-bags, and it was only by crossing at the wide, smooth, water above a rapid, and by picking places where the river ran in two or three streams, that he could find fords where his practised eye told him that the water would not be above his horse's belly--for the river was of great volume. Fortunately, there had been a late fall of snow on the higher ranges, and the river was, for the summer season, low. Towards evening, having travelled, so far as he could guess, some twenty or five and twenty miles (for he had made another mid day halt), he reached the place, which he easily recognised, as that where he had camped before crossing to the pass that led into Erewhon. It was the last piece of ground that could be called a flat (though it was in reality only the sloping delta of a stream that descended from the pass) before reaching a large glacier that had encroached on the river-bed, which it traversed at right angles for a considerable distance. Here he again camped, hobbled his horse, and turned him adrift, hoping that he might again find him some two or three months hence, for there was a good deal of sweet grass here and there, with sow-thistle and anise; and the coarse tussock grass would be in full seed shortly, which alone would keep him going for as long a time as my father expected to be away. Little did he think that he should want him again so shortly. Having attended to his horse, he got his supper, and while smoking his pipe congratulated himself on the way in which something had smoothed away all the obstacles that had so nearly baffled him on his earlier journey. Was he being lured on to his destruction by some malicious fiend, or befriended by one who had compassion on him and wished him well? His naturally sanguine temperament inclined him to adopt the friendly spirit theory, in the peace of which he again laid himself down to rest, and slept soundly from dark till dawn. In the morning, though the water was somewhat icy, he again bathed, and then put on his Erewhonian boots and dress. He stowed his European clothes, with some difficulty, into his saddle-bags. Herein also he left his case full of English sovereigns, his spare pipes, his purse, which contained two pounds in gold and seven or eight shillings, part of his stock of tobacco, and whatever provision was left him, except the meat--which he left for sundry hawks and parrots that were eyeing his proceedings apparently without fear of man. His nuggets he concealed in the secret pockets of which I have already spoken, keeping one bag alone accessible. He had had his hair and beard cut short on shipboard the day before he landed. These he now dyed with a dye that he had brought from England, and which in a few minutes turned them very nearly black. He also stained his face and hands deep brown. He hung his saddle and bridle, his English boots, and his saddle-bags on the highest bough that he could reach, and made them fairly fast with strips of flax leaf, for there was some stunted flax growing on the ground where he had camped. He feared that, do what he might, they would not escape the inquisitive thievishness of the parrots, whose strong beaks could easily cut leather; but he could do nothing more. It occurs to me, though my father never told me so, that it was perhaps with a view to these birds that he had chosen to put his English sovereigns into a metal box, with a clasp to it which would defy them. He made a roll of his blanket, and slung it over his shoulder; he also took his pipe, tobacco, a little tea, a few ship's biscuits, and his billy and pannikin; matches and salt go without saying. When he had thus ordered everything as nearly to his satisfaction as he could, he looked at his watch for the last time, as he believed, till many weeks should have gone by, and found it to be about seven o'clock. Remembering what trouble it had got him into years before, he took down his saddle-bags, reopened them, and put the watch inside. He then set himself to climb the mountain side, towards the saddle on which he had seen the statues. CHAPTER III: MY FATHER WHILE CAMPING IS ACCOSTED BY PROFESSORS HANKY AND PANKY My father found the ascent more fatiguing than he remembered it to have been. The climb, he said, was steady, and took him between four and five hours, as near as he could guess, now that he had no watch; but it offered nothing that could be called a difficulty, and the watercourse that came down from the saddle was a sufficient guide; once or twice there were waterfalls, but they did not seriously delay him. After he had climbed some three thousand feet, he began to be on the alert for some sound of ghostly chanting from the statues; but he heard nothing, and toiled on till he came to a sprinkling of fresh snow--part of the fall which he had observed on the preceding day as having whitened the higher mountains; he knew, therefore, that he must now be nearing the saddle. The snow grew rapidly deeper, and by the time he reached the statues the ground was covered to a depth of two or three inches. He found the statues smaller than he had expected. He had said in his book--written many months after he had seen them--that they were about six times the size of life, but he now thought that four or five times would have been enough to say. Their mouths were much clogged with snow, so that even though there had been a strong wind (which there was not) they would not have chanted. In other respects he found them not less mysteriously impressive than at first. He walked two or three times all round them, and then went on. The snow did not continue far down, but before long my father entered a thick bank of cloud, and had to feel his way cautiously along the stream that descended from the pass. It was some two hours before he emerged into clear air, and found himself on the level bed of an old lake now grassed over. He had quite forgotten this feature of the descent--perhaps the clouds had hung over it; he was overjoyed, however, to find that the flat ground abounded with a kind of quail, larger than ours, and hardly, if at all, smaller than a partridge. The abundance of these quails surprised him, for he did not remember them as plentiful anywhere on the Erewhonian side of the mountains. The Erewhonian quail, like its now nearly, if not quite, extinct New Zealand congener, can take three successive flights of a few yards each, but then becomes exhausted; hence quails are only found on ground that is never burned, and where there are no wild animals to molest them; the cats and dogs that accompany European civilisation soon exterminate them; my father, therefore, felt safe in concluding that he was still far from any village. Moreover he could see no sheep or goat's dung; and this surprised him, for he thought he had found signs of pasturage much higher than this. Doubtless, he said to himself, when he wrote his book he had forgotten how long the descent had been. But it was odd, for the grass was good feed enough, and ought, he considered, to have been well stocked. Tired with his climb, during which he had not rested to take food, but had eaten biscuits, as he walked, he gave himself a good long rest, and when refreshed, he ran down a couple of dozen quails, some of which he meant to eat when he camped for the night, while the others would help him out of a difficulty which had been troubling him for some time. What was he to say when people asked him, as they were sure to do, how he was living? And how was he to get enough Erewhonian money to keep him going till he could find some safe means of selling a few of his nuggets? He had had a little Erewhonian money when he went up in the balloon, but had thrown it over, with everything else except the clothes he wore and his MSS., when the balloon was nearing the water. He had nothing with him that he dared offer for sale, and though he had plenty of gold, was in reality penniless. When, therefore, he saw the quails, he again felt as though some friendly spirit was smoothing his way before him. What more easy than to sell them at Coldharbour (for so the name of the town in which he had been imprisoned should be translated), where he knew they were a delicacy, and would fetch him the value of an English shilling a piece? It took him between two and three hours to catch two dozen. When he had thus got what he considered a sufficient stock, he tied their legs together with rushes, and ran a stout stick through the whole lot. Soon afterwards he came upon a wood of stunted pines, which, though there was not much undergrowth, nevertheless afforded considerable shelter and enabled him to gather wood enough to make himself a good fire. This was acceptable, for though the days were long, it was now evening, and as soon as the sun had gone the air became crisp and frosty. Here he resolved to pass the night. He chose a part where the trees were thickest, lit his fire, plucked and cleaned four quails, filled his billy with water from the stream hard by, made tea in his pannikin, grilled two of his birds on the embers, ate them, and when he had done all this, he lit his pipe and began to think things over. "So far so good," said he to himself; but hardly had the words passed through his mind before he was startled by the sound of voices, still at some distance, but evidently drawing towards him. He instantly gathered up his billy, pannikin, tea, biscuits, and blanket, all of which he had determined to discard and hide on the following morning; everything that could betray him he carried full haste into the wood some few yards off, in the direction opposite to that from which the voices were coming, but he let his quails lie where they were, and put his pipe and tobacco in his pocket. The voices drew nearer and nearer, and it was all my father could do to get back and sit down innocently by his fire, before he could hear what was being said. "Thank goodness," said one of the speakers (of course in the Erewhonian language), "we seem to be finding somebody at last. I hope it is not some poacher; we had better be careful." "Nonsense!" said the other. "It must be one of the rangers. No one would dare to light a fire while poaching on the King's preserves. What o'clock do you make it?" "Half after nine." And the watch was still in the speaker's hand as he emerged from darkness into the glowing light of the fire. My father glanced at it, and saw that it was exactly like the one he had worn on entering Erewhon nearly twenty years previously. The watch, however, was a very small matter; the dress of these two men (for there were only two) was far more disconcerting. They were not in the Erewhonian costume. The one was dressed like an Englishman or would- be Englishman, while the other was wearing the same kind of clothes but turned the wrong way round, so that when his face was towards my father his body seemed to have its back towards him, and _vice verso_. The man's head, in fact, appeared to have been screwed right round; and yet it was plain that if he were stripped he would be found built like other people. What could it all mean? The men were about fifty years old. They were well-to-do people, well clad, well fed, and were felt instinctively by my father to belong to the academic classes. That one of them should be dressed like a sensible Englishman dismayed my father as much as that the other should have a watch, and look as if he had just broken out of Bedlam, or as King Dagobert must have looked if he had worn all his clothes as he is said to have worn his breeches. Both wore their clothes so easily--for he who wore them reversed had evidently been measured with a view to this absurd fashion--that it was plain their dress was habitual. My father was alarmed as well as astounded, for he saw that what little plan of a campaign he had formed must be reconstructed, and he had no idea in what direction his next move should be taken; but he was a ready man, and knew that when people have taken any idea into their heads, a little confirmation will fix it. A first idea is like a strong seedling; it will grow if it can. In less time than it will have taken the reader to get through the last foregoing paragraphs, my father took up the cue furnished him by the second speaker. "Yes," said he, going boldly up to this gentleman, "I am one of the rangers, and it is my duty to ask you what you are doing here upon the King's preserves." "Quite so, my man," was the rejoinder. "We have been to see the statues at the head of the pass, and have a permit from the Mayor of Sunch'ston to enter upon the preserves. We lost ourselves in the thick fog, both going and coming back." My father inwardly blessed the fog. He did not catch the name of the town, but presently found that it was commonly pronounced as I have written it. "Be pleased to show it me," said my father in his politest manner. On this a document was handed to him. I will here explain that I shall translate the names of men and places, as well as the substance of the document; and I shall translate all names in future. Indeed I have just done so in the case of Sunch'ston. As an example, let me explain that the true Erewhonian names for Hanky and Panky, to whom the reader will be immediately introduced, are Sukoh and Sukop--names too cacophonous to be read with pleasure by the English public. I must ask the reader to believe that in all cases I am doing my best to give the spirit of the original name. I would also express my regret that my father did not either uniformly keep to the true Erewhonian names, as in the cases of Senoj Nosnibor, Ydgrun, Thims, &c.--names which occur constantly in Erewhon--or else invariably invent a name, as he did whenever he considered the true name impossible. My poor mother's name, for example, was really Nna Haras, and Mahaina's Enaj Ysteb, which he dared not face. He, therefore, gave these characters the first names that euphony suggested, without any attempt at translation. Rightly or wrongly, I have determined to keep consistently to translation for all names not used in my father's book; and throughout, whether as regards names or conversations, I shall translate with the freedom without which no translation rises above construe level. Let me now return to the permit. The earlier part of the document was printed, and ran as follows:- "Extracts from the Act for the afforesting of certain lands lying between the town of Sunchildston, formerly called Coldharbour, and the mountains which bound the kingdom of Erewhon, passed in the year Three, being the eighth year of the reign of his Most Gracious Majesty King Well-beloved the Twenty-Second. "Whereas it is expedient to prevent any of his Majesty's subjects from trying to cross over into unknown lands beyond the mountains, and in like manner to protect his Majesty's kingdom from intrusion on the part of foreign devils, it is hereby enacted that certain lands, more particularly described hereafter, shall be afforested and set apart as a hunting-ground for his Majesty's private use. "It is also enacted that the Rangers and Under-rangers shall be required to immediately kill without parley any foreign devil whom they may encounter coming from the other side of the mountains. They are to weight the body, and throw it into the Blue Pool under the waterfall shown on the plan hereto annexed; but on pain of imprisonment for life they shall not reserve to their own use any article belonging to the deceased. Neither shall they divulge what they have done to any one save the Head Ranger, who shall report the circumstances of the case fully and minutely to his Majesty. "As regards any of his Majesty's subjects who may be taken while trespassing on his Majesty's preserves without a special permit signed by the Mayor of Sunchildston, or any who may be convicted of poaching on the said preserves, the Rangers shall forthwith arrest them and bring them before the Mayor of Sunchildston, who shall enquire into their antecedents, and punish them with such term of imprisonment, with hard labour, as he may think fit, provided that no such term be of less duration than twelve calendar months. "For the further provisions of the said Act, those whom it may concern are referred to the Act in full, a copy of which may be seen at the official residence of the Mayor of Sunchildston." Then followed in MS. "XIX. xii. 29. Permit Professor Hanky, Royal Professor of Worldly Wisdom at Bridgeford, seat of learning, city of the people who are above suspicion, and Professor Panky, Royal Professor of Unworldly Wisdom in the said city, or either of them" [here the MS. ended, the rest of the permit being in print] "to pass freely during the space of forty-eight hours from the date hereof, over the King's preserves, provided, under pain of imprisonment with hard labour for twelve months, that they do not kill, nor cause to be killed, nor eat, if another have killed, any one or more of his Majesty's quails." The signature was such a scrawl that my father could not read it, but underneath was printed, "Mayor of Sunchildston, formerly called Coldharbour." What a mass of information did not my father gather as he read, but what a far greater mass did he not see that he must get hold of ere he could reconstruct his plans intelligently. "The year three," indeed; and XIX. xii. 29, in Roman and Arabic characters! There were no such characters when he was in Erewhon before. It flashed upon him that he had repeatedly shewn them to the Nosnibors, and had once even written them down. It could not be that . . . No, it was impossible; and yet there was the European dress, aimed at by the one Professor, and attained by the other. Again "XIX." what was that? "xii." might do for December, but it was now the 4th of December not the 29th. "Afforested" too? Then that was why he had seen no sheep tracks. And how about the quails he had so innocently killed? What would have happened if he had tried to sell them in Coldharbour? What other like fatal error might he not ignorantly commit? And why had Coldharbour become Sunchildston? These thoughts raced through my poor father's brain as he slowly perused the paper handed to him by the Professors. To give himself time he feigned to be a poor scholar, but when he had delayed as long as he dared, he returned it to the one who had given it him. Without changing a muscle he said-- "Your permit, sir, is quite regular. You can either stay here the night or go on to Sunchildston as you think fit. May I ask which of you two gentlemen is Professor Hanky, and which Professor Panky?" "My name is Panky," said the one who had the watch, who wore his clothes reversed, and who had thought my father might be a poacher. "And mine Hanky," said the other. "What do you think, Panky," he added, turning to his brother Professor, "had we not better stay here till sunrise? We are both of us tired, and this fellow can make us a good fire. It is very dark, and there will be no moon this two hours. We are hungry, but we can hold out till we get to Sunchildston; it cannot be more than eight or nine miles further down." Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said, "My man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress? Why are you not in ranger's uniform, and what is the meaning of all those quails?" For his seedling idea that my father was in reality a poacher was doing its best to grow. Quick as thought my father answered, "The Head Ranger sent me a message this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston by to-morrow afternoon. As for the dress, we can run the quails down quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear out old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town. My uniform is in the ranger's shelter an hour and a half higher up the valley." "See what comes," said Panky, "of having a whippersnapper not yet twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger. As for this fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him." "The man is all right, Panky," said Hanky, "and seems to be a decent fellow enough." Then to my father, "How many brace have you got?" And he looked at them a little wistfully. "I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight brace. I must run down ten more brace to-morrow." "I see, I see." Then, turning to Panky, he said, "Of course, they are wanted for the Mayor's banquet on Sunday. By the way, we have not yet received our invitation; I suppose we shall find it when we get back to Sunchildston." "Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!" groaned my father inwardly; but he changed not a muscle of his face, and said stolidly to Professor Hanky, "I think you must be right, sir; but there was nothing said about it to me, I was only told to bring the birds." Thus tenderly did he water the Professor's second seedling. But Panky had his seedling too, and, Cain-like, was jealous that Hanky's should flourish while his own was withering. "And what, pray, my man," he said somewhat peremptorily to my father, "are those two plucked quails doing? Were you to deliver them plucked? And what bird did those bones belong to which I see lying by the fire with the flesh all eaten off them? Are the under-rangers allowed not only to wear the forbidden dress but to eat the King's quails as well?" The form in which the question was asked gave my father his cue. He laughed heartily, and said, "Why, sir, those plucked birds are landrails, not quails, and those bones are landrail bones. Look at this thigh-bone; was there ever a quail with such a bone as that?" I cannot say whether or no Professor Panky was really deceived by the sweet effrontery with which my father proffered him the bone. If he was taken in, his answer was dictated simply by a donnish unwillingness to allow any one to be better informed on any subject than he was himself. My father, when I suggested this to him, would not hear of it. "Oh no," he said; "the man knew well enough that I was lying." However this may be, the Professor's manner changed. "You are right," he said, "I thought they were landrail bones, but was not sure till I had one in my hand. I see, too, that the plucked birds are landrails, but there is little light, and I have not often seen them without their feathers." "I think," said my father to me, "that Hanky knew what his friend meant, for he said, 'Panky, I am very hungry.'" "Oh, Hanky, Hanky," said the other, modulating his harsh voice till it was quite pleasant. "Don't corrupt the poor man." "Panky, drop that; we are not at Bridgeford now; I am very hungry, and I believe half those birds are not quails but landrails." My father saw he was safe. He said, "Perhaps some of them might prove to be so, sir, under certain circumstances. I am a poor man, sir." "Come, come," said Hanky; and he slipped a sum equal to about half-a-crown into my father's hand. "I do not know what you mean, sir," said my father, "and if I did, half-a- crown would not be nearly enough." "Hanky," said Panky, "you must get this fellow to give you lessons." CHAPTER IV: MY FATHER OVERHEARS MORE OF HANKY AND PANKY'S CONVERSATION My father, schooled under adversity, knew that it was never well to press advantage too far. He took the equivalent of five shillings for three brace, which was somewhat less than the birds would have been worth when things were as he had known them. Moreover, he consented to take a shilling's worth of Musical Bank money, which (as he has explained in his book) has no appreciable value outside these banks. He did this because he knew that it would be respectable to be seen carrying a little Musical Bank money, and also because he wished to give some of it to the British Museum, where he knew that this curious coinage was unrepresented. But the coins struck him as being much thinner and smaller than he had remembered them. It was Panky, not Hanky, who had given him the Musical Bank money. Panky was the greater humbug of the two, for he would humbug even himself--a thing, by the way, not very hard to do; and yet he was the less successful humbug, for he could humbug no one who was worth humbugging--not for long. Hanky's occasional frankness put people off their guard. He was the mere common, superficial, perfunctory Professor, who, being a Professor, would of course profess, but would not lie more than was in the bond; he was log-rolled and log-rolling, but still, in a robust wolfish fashion, human. Panky, on the other hand, was hardly human; he had thrown himself so earnestly into his work, that he had become a living lie. If he had had to play the part of Othello he would have blacked himself all over, and very likely smothered his Desdemona in good earnest. Hanky would hardly have blacked himself behind the ears, and his Desdemona would have been quite safe. Philosophers are like quails in the respect that they can take two or three flights of imagination, but rarely more without an interval of repose. The Professors had imagined my father to be a poacher and a ranger; they had imagined the quails to be wanted for Sunday's banquet; they had imagined that they imagined (at least Panky had) that they were about to eat landrails; they were now exhausted, and cowered down into the grass of their ordinary conversation, paying no more attention to my father than if he had been a log. He, poor man, drank in every word they said, while seemingly intent on nothing but his quails, each one of which he cut up with a knife borrowed from Hanky. Two had been plucked already, so he laid these at once upon the clear embers. "I do not know what we are to do with ourselves," said Hanky, "till Sunday. To-day is Thursday--it is the twenty-ninth, is it not? Yes, of course it is--Sunday is the first. Besides, it is on our permit. To-morrow we can rest; what, I wonder, can we do on Saturday? But the others will be here then, and we can tell them about the statues." "Yes, but mind you do not blurt out anything about the landrails." "I think we may tell Dr. Downie." "Tell nobody," said Panky. They then talked about the statues, concerning which it was plain that nothing was known. But my father soon broke in upon their conversation with the first instalment of quails, which a few minutes had sufficed to cook. "What a delicious bird a quail is," said Hanky. "Landrail, Hanky, landrail," said the other reproachfully. Having finished the first birds in a very few minutes they returned to the statues. "Old Mrs. Nosnibor," said Panky, "says the Sunchild told her they were symbolic of ten tribes who had incurred the displeasure of the sun, his father." I make no comment on my father's feelings. "Of the sun! his fiddlesticks' ends," retorted Hanky. "He never called the sun his father. Besides, from all I have heard about him, I take it he was a precious idiot." "O Hanky, Hanky! you will wreck the whole thing if you ever allow yourself to talk in that way." "You are more likely to wreck it yourself, Panky, by never doing so. People like being deceived, but they like also to have an inkling of their own deception, and you never inkle them." "The Queen," said Panky, returning to the statues, "sticks to it that . . . " "Here comes another bird," interrupted Hanky; "never mind about the Queen." The bird was soon eaten, whereon Panky again took up his parable about the Queen. "The Queen says they are connected with the cult of the ancient Goddess Kiss-me-quick." "What if they are? But the Queen sees Kiss-me-quick in everything. Another quail, if you please, Mr. Ranger." My father brought up another bird almost directly. Silence while it was being eaten. "Talking of the Sunchild," said Panky; "did you ever see him?" "Never set eyes on him, and hope I never shall." And so on till the last bird was eaten. "Fellow," said Panky, "fetch some more wood; the fire is nearly dead." "I can find no more, sir," said my father, who was afraid lest some genuine ranger might be attracted by the light, and was determined to let it go out as soon as he had done cooking. "Never mind," said Hanky, "the moon will be up soon." "And now, Hanky," said Panky, "tell me what you propose to say on Sunday. I suppose you have pretty well made up your mind about it by this time." "Pretty nearly. I shall keep it much on the usual lines. I shall dwell upon the benighted state from which the Sunchild rescued us, and shall show how the Musical Banks, by at once taking up the movement, have been the blessed means of its now almost universal success. I shall talk about the immortal glory shed upon Sunch'ston by the Sunchild's residence in the prison, and wind up with the Sunchild Evidence Society, and an earnest appeal for funds to endow the canonries required for the due service of the temple." "Temple! what temple?" groaned my father inwardly. "And what are you going to do about the four black and white horses?" "Stick to them, of course--unless I make them six." "I really do not see why they might not have been horses." "I dare say you do not," returned the other drily, "but they were black and white storks, and you know that as well as I do. Still, they have caught on, and they are in the altar-piece, prancing and curvetting magnificently, so I shall trot them out." "Altar-piece! Altar-piece!" again groaned my father inwardly. He need not have groaned, for when he came to see the so-called altar- piece he found that the table above which it was placed had nothing in common with the altar in a Christian church. It was a mere table, on which were placed two bowls full of Musical Bank coins; two cashiers, who sat on either side of it, dispensed a few of these to all comers, while there was a box in front of it wherein people deposited coin of the realm according to their will or ability. The idea of sacrifice was not contemplated, and the position of the table, as well as the name given to it, was an instance of the way in which the Erewhonians had caught names and practices from my father, without understanding what they either were or meant. So, again, when Professor Hanky had spoken of canonries, he had none but the vaguest idea of what a canonry is. I may add further that as a boy my father had had his Bible well drilled into him, and never forgot it. Hence biblical passages and expressions had been often in his mouth, as the effect of mere unconscious cerebration. The Erewhonians had caught many of these, sometimes corrupting them so that they were hardly recognizable. Things that he remembered having said were continually meeting him during the few days of his second visit, and it shocked him deeply to meet some gross travesty of his own words, or of words more sacred than his own, and yet to be unable to correct it. "I wonder," he said to me, "that no one has ever hit on this as a punishment for the damned in Hades." Let me now return to Professor Hanky, whom I fear that I have left too long. "And of course," he continued, "I shall say all sorts of pretty things about the Mayoress--for I suppose we must not even think of her as Yram now." "The Mayoress," replied Panky, "is a very dangerous woman; see how she stood out about the way in which the Sunchild had worn his clothes before they gave him the then Erewhonian dress. Besides, she is a sceptic at heart, and so is that precious son of hers." "She was quite right," said Hanky, with something of a snort. "She brought him his dinner while he was still wearing the clothes he came in, and if men do not notice how a man wears his clothes, women do. Besides, there are many living who saw him wear them." "Perhaps," said Panky, "but we should never have talked the King over if we had not humoured him on this point. Yram nearly wrecked us by her obstinacy. If we had not frightened her, and if your study, Hanky, had not happened to have been burned . . . " "Come, come, Panky, no more of that." "Of course I do not doubt that it was an accident; nevertheless if your study had not been accidentally burned, on the very night the clothes were entrusted to you for earnest, patient, careful, scientific investigation--and Yram very nearly burned too--we should never have carried it through. See what work we had to get the King to allow the way in which the clothes were worn to be a matter of opinion, not dogma. What a pity it is that the clothes were not burned before the King's tailor had copied them." Hanky laughed heartily enough. "Yes," he said, "it was touch and go. Why, I wonder, could not the Queen have put the clothes on a dummy that would show back from front? As soon as it was brought into the council chamber the King jumped to a conclusion, and we had to bundle both dummy and Yram out of the royal presence, for neither she nor the King would budge an inch. Even Panky smiled. "What could we do? The common people almost worship Yram; and so does her husband, though her fair-haired eldest son was born barely seven months after marriage. The people in these parts like to think that the Sunchild's blood is in the country, and yet they swear through thick and thin that he is the Mayor's duly begotten offspring--Faugh! Do you think they would have stood his being jobbed into the rangership by any one else but Yram?" My father's feelings may be imagined, but I will not here interrupt the Professors. "Well, well," said Hanky; "for men must rob and women must job so long as the world goes on. I did the best I could. The King would never have embraced Sunchildism if I had not told him he was right; then, when satisfied that we agreed with him, he yielded to popular prejudice and allowed the question to remain open. One of his Royal Professors was to wear the clothes one way, and the other the other." "My way of wearing them," said Panky, "is much the most convenient." "Not a bit of it," said Hanky warmly. On this the two Professors fell out, and the discussion grew so hot that my father interfered by advising them not to talk so loud lest another ranger should hear them. "You know," he said, "there are a good many landrail bones lying about, and it might be awkward." The Professors hushed at once. "By the way," said Panky, after a pause, "it is very strange about those footprints in the snow. The man had evidently walked round the statues two or three times, as though they were strange to him, and he had certainly come from the other side." "It was one of the rangers," said Hanky impatiently, "who had gone a little beyond the statues, and come back again." "Then we should have seen his footprints as he went. I am glad I measured them." "There is nothing in it; but what were your measurements?" "Eleven inches by four and a half; nails on the soles; one nail missing on the right foot and two on the left." Then, turning to my father quickly, he said, "My man, allow me to have a look at your boots." "Nonsense, Panky, nonsense!" Now my father by this time was wondering whether he should not set upon these two men, kill them if he could, and make the best of his way back, but he had still a card to play. "Certainly, sir," said he, "but I should tell you that they are not my boots." He took off his right boot and handed it to Panky. "Exactly so! Eleven inches by four and a half, and one nail missing. And now, Mr. Ranger, will you be good enough to explain how you became possessed of that boot. You need not show me the other." And he spoke like an examiner who was confident that he could floor his examinee in _viva voce_. "You know our orders," answered my father, "you have seen them on your permit. I met one of those foreign devils from the other side, of whom we have had more than one lately; he came from out of the clouds that hang higher up, and as he had no permit and could not speak a word of our language, I gripped him, flung him, and strangled him. Thus far I was only obeying orders, but seeing how much better his boots were than mine, and finding that they would fit me, I resolved to keep them. You may be sure I should not have done so if I had known there was snow on the top of the pass." "He could not invent that," said Hanky; "it is plain he has not been up to the statues." Panky was staggered. "And of course," said he ironically, "you took nothing from this poor wretch except his boots." "Sir," said my father, "I will make a clean breast of everything. I flung his body, his clothes, and my own old boots into the pool; but I kept his blanket, some things he used for cooking, and some strange stuff that looks like dried leaves, as well as a small bag of something which I believe is gold. I thought I could sell the lot to some dealer in curiosities who would ask no questions." "And what, pray, have you done with all these things?" "They are here, sir." And as he spoke he dived into the wood, returning with the blanket, billy, pannikin, tea, and the little bag of nuggets, which he had kept accessible. "This is very strange," said Hanky, who was beginning to be afraid of my father when he learned that he sometimes killed people. Here the Professors talked hurriedly to one another in a tongue which my father could not understand, but which he felt sure was the hypothetical language of which he has spoken in his book. Presently Hanky said to my father quite civilly, "And what, my good man, do you propose to do with all these things? I should tell you at once that what you take to be gold is nothing of the kind; it is a base metal, hardly, if at all, worth more than copper." "I have had enough of them; to-morrow morning I shall take them with me to the Blue Pool, and drop them into it." "It is a pity you should do that," said Hanky musingly: "the things are interesting as curiosities, and--and--and--what will you take for them?" "I could not do it, sir," answered my father. "I would not do it, no, not for--" and he named a sum equivalent to about five pounds of our money. For he wanted Erewhonian money, and thought it worth his while to sacrifice his ten pounds' worth of nuggets in order to get a supply of current coin. Hanky tried to beat him down, assuring him that no curiosity dealer would give half as much, and my father so far yielded as to take 4 pounds, 10s. in silver, which, as I have already explained, would not be worth more than half a sovereign in gold. At this figure a bargain was struck, and the Professors paid up without offering him a single Musical Bank coin. They wanted to include the boots in the purchase, but here my father stood out. But he could not stand out as regards another matter, which caused him some anxiety. Panky insisted that my father should give them a receipt for the money, and there was an altercation between the Professors on this point, much longer than I can here find space to give. Hanky argued that a receipt was useless, inasmuch as it would be ruin to my father ever to refer to the subject again. Panky, however, was anxious, not lest my father should again claim the money, but (though he did not say so outright) lest Hanky should claim the whole purchase as his own. In so the end Panky, for a wonder, carried the day, and a receipt was drawn up to the effect that the undersigned acknowledged to have received from Professors Hanky and Panky the sum of 4 pounds, 10s. (I translate the amount), as joint purchasers of certain pieces of yellow ore, a blanket, and sundry articles found without an owner in the King's preserves. This paper was dated, as the permit had been, XIX. xii. 29. My father, generally so ready, was at his wits' end for a name, and could think of none but Mr. Nosnibor's. Happily, remembering that this gentleman had also been called Senoj--a name common enough in Erewhon--he signed himself "Senoj, Under-ranger." Panky was now satisfied. "We will put it in the bag," he said, "with the pieces of yellow ore." "Put it where you like," said Hanky contemptuously; and into the bag it was put. When all was now concluded, my father laughingly said, "If you have dealt unfairly by me, I forgive you. My motto is, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'" "Repeat those last words," said Panky eagerly. My father was alarmed at his manner, but thought it safer to repeat them. "You hear that, Hanky? I am convinced; I have not another word to say. The man is a true Erewhonian; he has our corrupt reading of the Sunchild's prayer." "Please explain." "Why, can you not see?" said Panky, who was by way of being great at conjectural emendations. "Can you not see how impossible it is for the Sunchild, or any of the people to whom he declared (as we now know provisionally) that he belonged, could have made the forgiveness of his own sins depend on the readiness with which he forgave other people? No man in his senses would dream of such a thing. It would be asking a supposed all-powerful being not to forgive his sins at all, or at best to forgive them imperfectly. No; Yram got it wrong. She mistook 'but do not' for 'as we.' The sound of the words is very much alike; the correct reading should obviously be, 'Forgive us our trespasses, but do not forgive them that trespass against us.' This makes sense, and turns an impossible prayer into one that goes straight to the heart of every one of us." Then, turning to my father, he said, "You can see this, my man, can you not, as soon as it is pointed out to you?" My father said that he saw it now, but had always heard the words as he had himself spoken them. "Of course you have, my good fellow, and it is because of this that I know they never can have reached you except from an Erewhonian source." Hanky smiled,--snorted, and muttered in an undertone, "I shall begin to think that this fellow is a foreign devil after all." "And now, gentlemen," said my father, "the moon is risen. I must be after the quails at daybreak; I will therefore go to the ranger's shelter" (a shelter, by the way, which existed only in my father's invention), "and get a couple of hours' sleep, so as to be both close to the quail-ground; and fresh for running. You are so near the boundary of the preserves that you will not want your permit further; no one will meet you, and should any one do so, you need only give your names and say that you have made a mistake. You will have to give it up to-morrow at the Ranger's office; it will save you trouble if I collect it now, and give it up when I deliver my quails. "As regards the curiosities, hide them as you best can outside the limits. I recommend you to carry them at once out of the forest, and rest beyond the limits rather than here. You can then recover them whenever, and in whatever way, you may find convenient. But I hope you will say nothing about any foreign devil's having come over on to this side. Any whisper to this effect unsettles people's minds, and they are too much unsettled already; hence our orders to kill any one from over there at once, and to tell no one but the Head Ranger. I was forced by you, gentlemen, to disobey these orders in self-defence; I must trust your generosity to keep what I have told you secret. I shall, of course, report it to the Head Ranger. And now, if you think proper, you can give me up your permit." All this was so plausible that the Professors gave up their permit without a word but thanks. They bundled their curiosities hurriedly into "the poor foreign devil's" blanket, reserving a more careful packing till they were out of the preserves. They wished my father a very good night, and all success with his quails in the morning; they thanked him again for the care he had taken of them in the matter of the landrails, and Panky even went so far as to give him a few Musical Bank coins, which he gratefully accepted. They then started off in the direction of Sunch'ston. My father gathered up the remaining quails, some of which he meant to eat in the morning, while the others he would throw away as soon as he could find a safe place. He turned towards the mountains, but before he had gone a dozen yards he heard a voice, which he recognised as Panky's, shouting after him, and saying-- "Mind you do not forget the true reading of the Sunchild's prayer." "You are an old fool," shouted my father in English, knowing that he could hardly be heard, still less understood, and thankful to relieve his feelings. CHAPTER V: MY FATHER MEETS A SON, OF WHOSE EXISTENCE HE WAS IGNORANT; AND STRIKES A BARGAIN WITH HIM The incidents recorded in the two last chapters had occupied about two hours, so that it was nearly midnight before my father could begin to retrace his steps and make towards the camp that he had left that morning. This was necessary, for he could not go any further in a costume that he now knew to be forbidden. At this hour no ranger was likely to meet him before he reached the statues, and by making a push for it he could return in time to cross the limits of the preserves before the Professors' permit had expired. If challenged, he must brazen it out that he was one or other of the persons therein named. Fatigued though he was, he reached the statues as near as he could guess, at about three in the morning. What little wind there had been was warm, so that the tracks, which the Professors must have seen shortly after he had made them, had disappeared. The statues looked very weird in the moonlight but they were not chanting. While ascending, he pieced together the information he had picked up from the Professors. Plainly, the Sunchild, or child of the sun, was none other than himself, and the new name of Coldharbour was doubtless intended to commemorate the fact that this was the first town he had reached in Erewhon. Plainly, also, he was supposed to be of superhuman origin--his flight in the balloon having been not unnaturally believed to be miraculous. The Erewhonians had for centuries been effacing all knowledge of their former culture; archaeologists, indeed, could still glean a little from museums, and from volumes hard to come by, and still harder to understand; but archaeologists were few, and even though they had made researches (which they may or may not have done), their labours had never reached the masses. What wonder, then, that the mushroom spawn of myth, ever present in an atmosphere highly charged with ignorance, had germinated in a soil so favourably prepared for its reception? He saw it all now. It was twenty years next Sunday since he and my mother had eloped. That was the meaning of XIX. xii. 29. They had made a new era, dating from the day of his return to the palace of the sun with a bride who was doubtless to unite the Erewhonian nature with that of the sun. The New Year, then, would date from Sunday, December 7, which would therefore become XX. i. 1. The Thursday, now nearly if not quite over, being only two days distant from the end of a month of thirty- one days, which was also the last of the year, would be XIX. xii. 29, as on the Professors' permit. I should like to explain here what will appear more clearly on a later page--I mean, that the Erewhonians, according to their new system, do not believe the sun to be a god except as regards this world and his other planets. My father had told them a little about astronomy, and had assured them that all the fixed stars were suns like our own, with planets revolving round them, which were probably tenanted by intelligent living beings, however unlike they might be to ourselves. From this they evolved the theory that the sun was the ruler of this planetary system, and that he must be personified, as they had personified the air-god, the gods of time and space, hope, justice, and the other deities mentioned in my father's book. They retain their old belief in the actual existence of these gods, but they now make them all subordinate to the sun. The nearest approach they make to our own conception of God is to say that He is the ruler over all the suns throughout the universe--the suns being to Him much as our planets and their denizens are to our own sun. They deny that He takes more interest in one sun and its system than in another. All the suns with their attendant planets are supposed to be equally His children, and He deputes to each sun the supervision and protection of its own system. Hence they say that though we may pray to the air-god, &c., and even to the sun, we must not pray to God. We may be thankful to Him for watching over the suns, but we must not go further. Going back to my father's reflections, he perceived that the Erewhonians had not only adopted our calendar, as he had repeatedly explained it to the Nosnibors, but had taken our week as well, and were making Sunday a high day, just as we do. Next Sunday, in commemoration of the twentieth year after his ascent, they were about to dedicate a temple to him; in this there was to be a picture showing himself and his earthly bride on their heavenward journey, in a chariot drawn by four black and white horses--which, however, Professor Hanky had positively affirmed to have been only storks. Here I interrupted my father. "But were there," I said, "any storks?" "Yes," he answered. "As soon as I heard Hanky's words I remembered that a flight of some four or five of the large storks so common in Erewhon during the summer months had been wheeling high aloft in one of those aerial dances that so much delight them. I had quite forgotten it, but it came back to me at once that these creatures, attracted doubtless by what they took to be an unknown kind of bird, swooped down towards the balloon and circled round it like so many satellites to a heavenly body. I was fearful lest they should strike at it with their long and formidable beaks, in which case all would have been soon over; either they were afraid, or they had satisfied their curiosity--at any rate, they let us alone; but they kept with us till we were well away from the capital. Strange, how completely this incident had escaped me." I return to my father's thoughts as he made his way back to his old camp. As for the reversed position of Professor Panky's clothes, he remembered having given his own old ones to the Queen, and having thought that she might have got a better dummy on which to display them than the headless scarecrow, which, however, he supposed was all her ladies-in-waiting could lay their hands on at the moment. If that dummy had never been replaced, it was perhaps not very strange that the King could not at the first glance tell back from front, and if he did not guess right at first, there was little chance of his changing, for his first ideas were apt to be his last. But he must find out more about this. Then how about the watch? Had their views about machinery also changed? Or was there an exception made about any machine that he had himself carried? Yram too. She must have been married not long after she and he had parted. So she was now wife to the Mayor, and was evidently able to have things pretty much her own way in Sunch'ston, as he supposed he must now call it. Thank heaven she was prosperous! It was interesting to know that she was at heart a sceptic, as was also her light-haired son, now Head Ranger. And that son? Just twenty years of age! Born seven months after marriage! Then the Mayor doubtless had light hair too; but why did not those wretches say in which month Yram was married? If she had married soon after he had left, this was why he had not been sent for or written to. Pray heaven it was so. As for current gossip, people would talk, and if the lad was well begotten, what could it matter to them whose son he was? "But," thought my father, "I am glad I did not meet him on my way down. I had rather have been killed by some one else." Hanky and Panky again. He remembered Bridgeford as the town where the Colleges of Unreason had been most rife; he had visited it, but he had forgotten that it was called "The city of the people who are above suspicion." Its Professors were evidently going to muster in great force on Sunday; if two of them had robbed him, he could forgive them, for the information he had gleaned from them had furnished him with a _pied a terre_. Moreover, he had got as much Erewhonian money as he should want, for he had resolved to retrace his steps immediately after seeing the temple dedicated to himself. He knew the danger he should run in returning over the preserves without a permit, but his curiosity was so great that he resolved to risk it. Soon after he had passed the statues he began to descend, and it being now broad day, he did so by leaps and bounds, for the ground was not precipitous. He reached his old camp soon after five--this, at any rate, was the hour at which he set his watch on finding that it had run down during his absence. There was now no reason why he should not take it with him, so he put it in his pocket. The parrots had attacked his saddle-bags, saddle, and bridle, as they were sure to do, but they had not got inside the bags. He took out his English clothes and put them on--stowing his bags of gold in various pockets, but keeping his Erewhonian money in the one that was most accessible. He put his Erewhonian dress back into the saddle-bags, intending to keep it as a curiosity; he also refreshed the dye upon his hands, face, and hair; he lit himself a fire, made tea, cooked and ate two brace of quails, which he had plucked while walking so as to save time, and then flung himself on to the ground to snatch an hour's very necessary rest. When he woke he found he had slept two hours, not one, which was perhaps as well, and by eight he began to reascend the pass. He reached the statues about noon, for he allowed himself not a moment's rest. This time there was a stiffish wind, and they were chanting lustily. He passed them with all speed, and had nearly reached the place where he had caught the quails, when he saw a man in a dress which he guessed at once to be a ranger's, but which, strangely enough, seeing that he was in the King's employ, was not reversed. My father's heart beat fast; he got out his permit and held it open in his hand, then with a smiling face he went towards the Ranger, who was standing his ground. "I believe you are the Head Ranger," said my father, who saw that he was still smooth-faced and had light hair. "I am Professor Panky, and here is my permit. My brother Professor has been prevented from coming with me, and, as you see, I am alone." My father had professed to pass himself off as Panky, for he had rather gathered that Hanky was the better known man of the two. While the youth was scrutinising the permit, evidently with suspicion, my father took stock of him, and saw his own past self in him too plainly--knowing all he knew--to doubt whose son he was. He had the greatest difficulty in hiding his emotion, for the lad was indeed one of whom any father might be proud. He longed to be able to embrace him and claim him for what he was, but this, as he well knew, might not be. The tears again welled into his eyes when he told me of the struggle with himself that he had then had. "Don't be jealous, my dearest boy," he said to me. "I love you quite as dearly as I love him, or better, but he was sprung upon me so suddenly, and dazzled me with his comely debonair face, so full of youth, and health, and frankness. Did you see him, he would go straight to your heart, for he is wonderfully like you in spite of your taking so much after your poor mother." I was not jealous; on the contrary, I longed to see this youth, and find in him such a brother as I had often wished to have. But let me return to my father's story. The young man, after examining the permit, declared it to be in form, and returned it to my father, but he eyed him with polite disfavour. "I suppose," he said, "you have come up, as so many are doing, from Bridgeford and all over the country, to the dedication on Sunday." "Yes," said my father. "Bless me!" he added, "what a wind you have up here! How it makes one's eyes water, to be sure;" but he spoke with a cluck in his throat which no wind that blows can cause. "Have you met any suspicious characters between here and the statues?" asked the youth. "I came across the ashes of a fire lower down; there had been three men sitting for some time round it, and they had all been eating quails. Here are some of the bones and feathers, which I shall keep. They had not been gone more than a couple of hours, for the ashes were still warm; they are getting bolder and bolder--who would have thought they would dare to light a fire? I suppose you have not met any one; but if you have seen a single person, let me know." My father said quite truly that he had met no one. He then laughingly asked how the youth had been able to discover as much as he had. "There were three well-marked forms, and three separate lots of quail bones hidden in the ashes. One man had done all the plucking. This is strange, but I dare say I shall get at it later." After a little further conversation the Ranger said he was now going down to Sunch'ston, and, though somewhat curtly, proposed that he and my father should walk together. "By all means," answered my father. Before they had gone more than a few hundred yards his companion said, "If you will come with me a little to the left, I can show you the Blue Pool." To avoid the precipitous ground over which the stream here fell, they had diverged to the right, where they had found a smoother descent; returning now to the stream, which was about to enter on a level stretch for some distance, they found themselves on the brink of a rocky basin, of no great size, but very blue, and evidently deep. "This," said the Ranger, "is where our orders tell us to fling any foreign devil who comes over from the other side. I have only been Head Ranger about nine months, and have not yet had to face this horrid duty; but," and here he smiled, "when I first caught sight of you I thought I should have to make a beginning. I was very glad when I saw you had a permit." "And how many skeletons do you suppose are lying at the bottom of this pool?" "I believe not more than seven or eight in all. There were three or four about eighteen years ago, and about the same number of late years; one man was flung here only about three months before I was appointed. I have the full list, with dates, down in my office, but the rangers never let people in Sunch'ston know when they have Blue-Pooled any one; it would unsettle men's minds, and some of them would be coming up here in the dark to drag the pool, and see whether they could find anything on the body." My father was glad to turn away from this most repulsive place. After a time he said, "And what do you good people hereabouts think of next Sunday's grand doings?" Bearing in mind what he had gleaned from the Professors about the Ranger's opinions, my father gave a slightly ironical turn to his pronunciation of the words "grand doings." The youth glanced at him with a quick penetrative look, and laughed as he said, "The doings will be grand enough." "What a fine temple they have built," said my father. "I have not yet seen the picture, but they say the four black and white horses are magnificently painted. I saw the Sunchild ascend, but I saw no horses in the sky, nor anything like horses." The youth was much interested. "Did you really see him ascend?" he asked; "and what, pray, do you think it all was?" "Whatever it was, there were no horses." "But there must have been, for, as you of course know, they have lately found some droppings from one of them, which have been miraculously preserved, and they are going to show them next Sunday in a gold reliquary." "I know," said my father, who, however, was learning the fact for the first time. "I have not yet seen this precious relic, but I think they might have found something less unpleasant." "Perhaps they would if they could," replied the youth, laughing, "but there was nothing else that the horses could leave. It is only a number of curiously rounded stones, and not at all like what they say it is." "Well, well," continued my father, "but relic or no relic, there are many who, while they fully recognise the value of the Sunchild's teaching, dislike these cock and bull stories as blasphemy against God's most blessed gift of reason. There are many in Bridgeford who hate this story of the horses." The youth was now quite reassured. "So there are here, sir," he said warmly, "and who hate the Sunchild too. If there is such a hell as he used to talk about to my mother, we doubt not but that he will be cast into its deepest fires. See how he has turned us all upside down. But we dare not say what we think. There is no courage left in Erewhon." Then waxing calmer he said, "It is you Bridgeford people and your Musical Banks that have done it all. The Musical Bank Managers saw that the people were falling away from them. Finding that the vulgar believed this foreign devil Higgs--for he gave this name to my mother when he was in prison--finding that--But you know all this as well as I do. How can you Bridgeford Professors pretend to believe about these horses, and about the Sunchild's being son to the sun, when all the time you know there is no truth in it?" "My son--for considering the difference in our ages I may be allowed to call you so--we at Bridgeford are much like you at Sunch'ston; we dare not always say what we think. Nor would it be wise to do so, when we should not be listened to. This fire must burn itself out, for it has got such hold that nothing can either stay or turn it. Even though Higgs himself were to return and tell it from the house-tops that he was a mortal--ay, and a very common one--he would be killed, but not believed." "Let him come; let him show himself, speak out and die, if the people choose to kill him. In that case I would forgive him, accept him for my father, as silly people sometimes say he is, and honour him to my dying day." "Would that be a bargain?" said my father, smiling in spite of emotion so strong that he could hardly bring the words out of his mouth. "Yes, it would," said the youth doggedly. "Then let me shake hands with you on his behalf, and let us change the conversation." He took my father's hand, doubtfully and somewhat disdainfully, but he did not refuse it. CHAPTER VI: FURTHER CONVERSATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON--THE PROFESSORS' HOARD It is one thing to desire a conversation to be changed, and another to change it. After some little silence my father said, "And may I ask what name your mother gave you?" "My name," he answered, laughing, "is George, and I wish it were some other, for it is the first name of that arch-impostor Higgs. I hate it as I hate the man who owned it." My father said nothing, but he hid his face in his hands. "Sir," said the other, "I fear you are in some distress." "You remind me," replied my father, "of a son who was stolen from me when he was a child. I searched for him, during many years, and at last fell in with him by accident, to find him all the heart of father could wish. But alas! he did not take kindly to me as I to him, and after two days he left me; nor shall I ever again see him." "Then, sir, had I not better leave you?" "No, stay with me till your road takes you elsewhere; for though I cannot see my son, you are so like him that I could almost fancy he is with me. And now--for I shall show no more weakness--you say your mother knew the Sunchild, as I am used to call him. Tell me what kind of a man she found him." "She liked him well enough in spite of his being a little silly. She does not believe he ever called himself child of the sun. He used to say he had a father in heaven to whom he prayed, and who could hear him; but he said that all of us, my mother as much as he, have this unseen father. My mother does not believe he meant doing us any harm, but only that he wanted to get himself and Mrs. Nosnibor's younger daughter out of the country. As for there having been anything supernatural about the balloon, she will have none of it; she says that it was some machine which he knew how to make, but which we have lost the art of making, as we have of many another. "This is what she says amongst ourselves, but in public she confirms all that the Musical Bank Managers say about him. She is afraid of them. You know, perhaps, that Professor Hanky, whose name I see on your permit, tried to burn her alive?" "Thank heaven!" thought my father, "that I am Panky;" but aloud he said, "Oh, horrible! horrible! I cannot believe this even of Hanky." "He denies it, and we say we believe him; he was most kind and attentive to my mother during all the rest of her stay in Bridgeford. He and she parted excellent friends, but I know what she thinks. I shall be sure to see him while he is in Sunch'ston, I shall have to be civil to him but it makes me sick to think of it." "When shall you see him?" said my father, who was alarmed at learning that Hanky and the Ranger were likely to meet. Who could tell but that he might see Panky too? "I have been away from home a fortnight, and shall not be back till late on Saturday night. I do not suppose I shall see him before Sunday." "That will do," thought my father, who at that moment deemed that nothing would matter to him much when Sunday was over. Then, turning to the Ranger, he said, "I gather, then, that your mother does not think so badly of the Sunchild after all?" "She laughs at him sometimes, but if any of us boys and girls say a word against him we get snapped up directly. My mother turns every one round her finger. Her word is law in Sunch'ston; every one obeys her; she has faced more than one mob, and quelled them when my father could not do so." "I can believe all you say of her. What other children has she besides yourself?" "We are four sons, of whom the youngest is now fourteen, and three daughters." "May all health and happiness attend her and you, and all of you, henceforth and for ever," and my father involuntarily bared his head as he spoke. "Sir," said the youth, impressed by the fervency of my father's manner, "I thank you, but you do not talk as Bridgeford Professors generally do, so far as I have seen or heard them. Why do you wish us all well so very heartily? Is it because you think I am like your son, or is there some other reason?" "It is not my son alone that you resemble," said my father tremulously, for he knew he was going too far. He carried it off by adding, "You resemble all who love truth and hate lies, as I do." "Then, sir," said the youth gravely, "you much belie your reputation. And now I must leave you for another part of the preserves, where I think it likely that last night's poachers may now be, and where I shall pass the night in watching for them. You may want your permit for a few miles further, so I will not take it. Neither need you give it up at Sunch'ston. It is dated, and will be useless after this evening." With this he strode off into the forest, bowing politely but somewhat coldly, and without encouraging my father's half proffered hand. My father turned sad and unsatisfied away. "It serves me right," he said to himself; "he ought never to have been my son; and yet, if such men can be brought by hook or by crook into the world, surely the world should not ask questions about the bringing. How cheerless everything looks now that he has left me." * * * * * By this time it was three o'clock, and in another few minutes my father came upon the ashes of the fire beside which he and the Professors had supped on the preceding evening. It was only some eighteen hours since they had come upon him, and yet what an age it seemed! It was well the Ranger had left him, for though my father, of course, would have known nothing about either fire or poachers, it might have led to further falsehood, and by this time he had become exhausted--not to say, for the time being, sick of lies altogether. He trudged slowly on, without meeting a soul, until he came upon some stones that evidently marked the limits of the preserves. When he had got a mile or so beyond these, he struck a narrow and not much frequented path, which he was sure would lead him towards Sunch'ston, and soon afterwards, seeing a huge old chestnut tree some thirty or forty yards from the path itself, he made towards it and flung himself on the ground beneath its branches. There were abundant signs that he was nearing farm lands and homesteads, but there was no one about, and if any one saw him there was nothing in his appearance to arouse suspicion. He determined, therefore, to rest here till hunger should wake him, and drive him into Sunch'ston, which, however, he did not wish to reach till dusk if he could help it. He meant to buy a valise and a few toilette necessaries before the shops should close, and then engage a bedroom at the least frequented inn he could find that looked fairly clean and comfortable. He slept till nearly six, and on waking gathered his thoughts together. He could not shake his newly found son from out of them, but there was no good in dwelling upon him now, and he turned his thoughts to the Professors. How, he wondered, were they getting on, and what had they done with the things they had bought from him? "How delightful it would be," he said to himself, "if I could find where they have hidden their hoard, and hide it somewhere else." He tried to project his mind into those of the Professors, as though they were a team of straying bullocks whose probable action he must determine before he set out to look for them. On reflection, he concluded that the hidden property was not likely to be far from the spot on which he now was. The Professors would wait till they had got some way down towards Sunch'ston, so as to have readier access to their property when they wanted to remove it; but when they came upon a path and other signs that inhabited dwellings could not be far distant, they would begin to look out for a hiding-place. And they would take pretty well the first that came. "Why, bless my heart," he exclaimed, "this tree is hollow; I wonder whether--" and on looking up he saw an innocent little strip of the very tough fibrous leaf commonly used while green as string, or even rope, by the Erewhonians. The plant that makes this leaf is so like the ubiquitous New Zealand _Phormium tenax_, or flax, as it is there called, that I shall speak of it as flax in future, as indeed I have already done without explanation on an earlier page; for this plant grows on both sides of the great range. The piece of flax, then, which my father caught sight of was fastened, at no great height from the ground, round the branch of a strong sucker that had grown from the roots of the chestnut tree, and going thence for a couple of feet or so towards the place where the parent tree became hollow, it disappeared into the cavity below. My father had little difficulty in swarming the sucker till he reached the bough on to which the flax was tied, and soon found himself hauling up something from the bottom of the tree. In less time than it takes to tell the tale he saw his own familiar red blanket begin to show above the broken edge of the hollow, and in another second there was a clinkum-clankum as the bundle fell upon the ground. This was caused by the billy and the pannikin, which were wrapped inside the blanket. As for the blanket, it had been tied tightly at both ends, as well as at several points between, and my father inwardly complimented the Professors on the neatness with which they had packed and hidden their purchase. "But," he said to himself with a laugh, "I think one of them must have got on the other's back to reach that bough." "Of course," thought he, "they will have taken the nuggets with them." And yet he had seemed to hear a dumping as well as a clinkum-clankum. He undid the blanket, carefully untying every knot and keeping the flax. When he had unrolled it, he found to his very pleasurable surprise that the pannikin was inside the billy, and the nuggets with the receipt inside the pannikin. The paper containing the tea having been torn, was wrapped up in a handkerchief marked with Hanky's name. "Down, conscience, down!" he exclaimed as he transferred the nuggets, receipt, and handkerchief to his own pocket. "Eye of my soul that you are! if you offend me I must pluck you out." His conscience feared him and said nothing. As for the tea, he left it in its torn paper. He then put the billy, pannikin, and tea, back again inside the blanket, which he tied neatly up, tie for tie with the Professor's own flax, leaving no sign of any disturbance. He again swarmed the sucker, till he reached the bough to which the blanket and its contents had been made fast, and having attached the bundle, he dropped it back into the hollow of the tree. He did everything quite leisurely, for the Professors would be sure to wait till nightfall before coming to fetch their property away. "If I take nothing but the nuggets," he argued, "each of the Professors will suspect the other of having conjured them into his own pocket while the bundle was being made up. As for the handkerchief, they must think what they like; but it will puzzle Hanky to know why Panky should have been so anxious for a receipt, if he meant stealing the nuggets. Let them muddle it out their own way." Reflecting further, he concluded, perhaps rightly, that they had left the nuggets where he had found them, because neither could trust the other not to filch a few, if he had them in his own possession, and they could not make a nice division without a pair of scales. "At any rate," he said to himself, "there will be a pretty quarrel when they find them gone." Thus charitably did he brood over things that were not to happen. The discovery of the Professors' hoard had refreshed him almost as much as his sleep had done, and it being now past seven, he lit his pipe--which, however, he smoked as furtively as he had done when he was a boy at school, for he knew not whether smoking had yet become an Erewhonian virtue or no--and walked briskly on towards Sunch'ston. CHAPTER VII: SIGNS OF THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS CATCH MY FATHER'S EYE ON EVERY SIDE He had not gone far before a turn in the path--now rapidly widening--showed him two high towers, seemingly some two miles off; these he felt sure must be at Sunch'ston, he therefore stepped out, lest he should find the shops shut before he got there. On his former visit he had seen little of the town, for he was in prison during his whole stay. He had had a glimpse of it on being brought there by the people of the village where he had spent his first night in Erewhon--a village which he had seen at some little distance on his right hand, but which it would have been out of his way to visit, even if he had wished to do so; and he had seen the Museum of old machines, but on leaving the prison he had been blindfolded. Nevertheless he felt sure that if the towers had been there he should have seen them, and rightly guessed that they must belong to the temple which was to be dedicated to himself on Sunday. When he had passed through the suburbs he found himself in the main street. Space will not allow me to dwell on more than a few of the things which caught his eye, and assured him that the change in Erewhonian habits and opinions had been even more cataclysmic than he had already divined. The first important building that he came to proclaimed itself as the College of Spiritual Athletics, and in the window of a shop that was evidently affiliated to the college he saw an announcement that moral try-your-strengths, suitable for every kind of ordinary temptation, would be provided on the shortest notice. Some of those that aimed at the more common kinds of temptation were kept in stock, but these consisted chiefly of trials to the temper. On dropping, for example, a penny into a slot, you could have a jet of fine pepper, flour, or brickdust, whichever you might prefer, thrown on to your face, and thus discover whether your composure stood in need of further development or no. My father gathered this from the writing that was pasted on to the try-your-strength, but he had no time to go inside the shop and test either the machine or his own temper. Other temptations to irritability required the agency of living people, or at any rate living beings. Crying children, screaming parrots, a spiteful monkey, might be hired on ridiculously easy terms. He saw one advertisement, nicely framed, which ran as follows:- "Mrs. Tantrums, Nagger, certificated by the College of Spiritual Athletics. Terms for ordinary nagging, two shillings and sixpence per hour. Hysterics extra." Then followed a series of testimonials--for example:- "Dear Mrs. Tantrums,--I have for years been tortured with a husband of unusually peevish, irritable temper, who made my life so intolerable that I sometimes answered him in a way that led to his using personal violence towards me. After taking a course of twelve sittings from you, I found my husband's temper comparatively angelic, and we have ever since lived together in complete harmony." Another was from a husband:- "Mr. --- presents his compliments to Mrs. Tantrums, and begs to assure her that her extra special hysterics have so far surpassed anything his wife can do, as to render him callous to those attacks which he had formerly found so distressing." There were many others of a like purport, but time did not permit my father to do more than glance at them. He contented himself with the two following, of which the first ran:- "He did try it at last. A little correction of the right kind taken at the right moment is invaluable. No more swearing. No more bad language of any kind. A lamb-like temper ensured in about twenty minutes, by a single dose of one of our spiritual indigestion tabloids. In cases of all the more ordinary moral ailments, from simple lying, to homicidal mania, in cases again of tendency to hatred, malice, and uncharitableness; of atrophy or hypertrophy of the conscience, of costiveness or diarrhoea of the sympathetic instincts, &c., &c., our spiritual indigestion tabloids will afford unfailing and immediate relief. "_N.B_.--A bottle or two of our Sunchild Cordial will assist the operation of the tabloids." The second and last that I can give was as follows:- "All else is useless. If you wish to be a social success, make yourself a good listener. There is no short cut to this. A would-be listener must learn the rudiments of his art and go through the mill like other people. If he would develop a power of suffering fools gladly, he must begin by suffering them without the gladness. Professor Proser, ex-straightener, certificated bore, pragmatic or coruscating, with or without anecdotes, attends pupils at their own houses. Terms moderate. "Mrs. Proser, whose success as a professional mind-dresser is so well- known that lengthened advertisement is unnecessary, prepares ladies or gentlemen with appropriate remarks to be made at dinner-parties or at- homes. Mrs. P. keeps herself well up to date with all the latest scandals." "Poor, poor, straighteners!" said my father to himself. "Alas! that it should have been my fate to ruin you--for I suppose your occupation is gone." Tearing himself away from the College of Spiritual Athletics and its affiliated shop, he passed on a few doors, only to find himself looking in at what was neither more nor less than a chemist's shop. In the window there were advertisements which showed that the practice of medicine was now legal, but my father could not stay to copy a single one of the fantastic announcements that a hurried glance revealed to him. It was also plain here, as from the shop already more fully described, that the edicts against machines had been repealed, for there were physical try-your-strengths, as in the other shop there had been moral ones, and such machines under the old law would not have been tolerated for a moment. My father made his purchases just as the last shops were closing. He noticed that almost all of them were full of articles labelled "Dedication." There was Dedication gingerbread, stamped with a moulded representation of the new temple; there were Dedication syrups, Dedication pocket-handkerchiefs, also shewing the temple, and in one corner giving a highly idealised portrait of my father himself. The chariot and the horses figured largely, and in the confectioners' shops there were models of the newly discovered relic--made, so my father thought, with a little heap of cherries or strawberries, smothered in chocolate. Outside one tailor's shop he saw a flaring advertisement which can only be translated, "Try our Dedication trousers, price ten shillings and sixpence." Presently he passed the new temple, but it was too dark for him to do more than see that it was a vast fane, and must have cost an untold amount of money. At every turn he found himself more and more shocked, as he realised more and more fully the mischief he had already occasioned, and the certainty that this was small as compared with that which would grow up hereafter. "What," he said to me, very coherently and quietly, "was I to do? I had struck a bargain with that dear fellow, though he knew not what I meant, to the effect that I should try to undo the harm I had done, by standing up before the people on Sunday and saying who I was. True, they would not believe me. They would look at my hair and see it black, whereas it should be very light. On this they would look no further, but very likely tear me in pieces then and there. Suppose that the authorities held a _post-mortem_ examination, and that many who knew me (let alone that all my measurements and marks were recorded twenty years ago) identified the body as mine: would those in power admit that I was the Sunchild? Not they. The interests vested in my being now in the palace of the sun are too great to allow of my having been torn to pieces in Sunch'ston, no matter how truly I had been torn; the whole thing would be hushed up, and the utmost that could come of it would be a heresy which would in time be crushed. "On the other hand, what business have I with 'would be' or 'would not be?' Should I not speak out, come what may, when I see a whole people being led astray by those who are merely exploiting them for their own ends? Though I could do but little, ought I not to do that little? What did that good fellow's instinct--so straight from heaven, so true, so healthy--tell him? What did my own instinct answer? What would the conscience of any honourable man answer? Who can doubt? "And yet, is there not reason? and is it not God-given as much as instinct? I remember having heard an anthem in my young days, 'O where shall wisdom be found? the deep saith it is not in me.' As the singers kept on repeating the question, I kept on saying sorrowfully to myself--'Ah, where, where, where?' and when the triumphant answer came, 'The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom, and to depart from evil is understanding,' I shrunk ashamed into myself for not having foreseen it. In later life, when I have tried to use this answer as a light by which I could walk, I found it served but to the raising of another question, 'What is the fear of the Lord, and what is evil in this particular case?' And my easy method with spiritual dilemmas proved to be but a case of _ignotum per ignotius_. "If Satan himself is at times transformed into an angel of light, are not angels of light sometimes transformed into the likeness of Satan? If the devil is not so black as he is painted, is God always so white? And is there not another place in which it is said, 'The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,' as though it were not the last word upon the subject? If a man should not do evil that good may come, so neither should he do good that evil may come; and though it were good for me to speak out, should I not do better by refraining? "Such were the lawless and uncertain thoughts that tortured me very cruelly, so that I did what I had not done for many a long year--I prayed for guidance. 'Shew me Thy will, O Lord,' I cried in great distress, 'and strengthen me to do it when Thou hast shewn it me.' But there was no answer. Instinct tore me one way and reason another. Whereon I settled that I would obey the reason with which God had endowed me, unless the instinct He had also given me should thrash it out of me. I could get no further than this, that the Lord hath mercy on whom He will have mercy, and whom He willeth He hardeneth; and again I prayed that I might be among those on whom He would shew His mercy. "This was the strongest internal conflict that I ever remember to have felt, and it was at the end of it that I perceived the first, but as yet very faint, symptoms of that sickness from which I shall not recover. Whether this be a token of mercy or no, my Father which is in heaven knows, but I know not." From what my father afterwards told me, I do not think the above reflections had engrossed him for more than three or four minutes; the giddiness which had for some seconds compelled him to lay hold of the first thing he could catch at in order to avoid falling, passed away without leaving a trace behind it, and his path seemed to become comfortably clear before him. He settled it that the proper thing to do would be to buy some food, start back at once while his permit was still valid, help himself to the property which he had sold the Professors, leaving the Erewhonians to wrestle as they best might with the lot that it had pleased Heaven to send them. This, however, was too heroic a course. He was tired, and wanted a night's rest in a bed; he was hungry, and wanted a substantial meal; he was curious, moreover, to see the temple dedicated to himself, and hear Hanky's sermon; there was also this further difficulty, he should have to take what he had sold the Professors without returning them their 4 pounds, 10s., for he could not do without his blanket, &c.; and even if he left a bag of nuggets made fast to the sucker, he must either place it where it could be seen so easily that it would very likely get stolen, or hide it so cleverly that the Professors would never find it. He therefore compromised by concluding that he would sup and sleep in Sunch'ston, get through the morrow as he best could without attracting attention, deepen the stain on his face and hair, and rely on the change so made in his appearance to prevent his being recognised at the dedication of the temple. He would do nothing to disillusion the people--to do this would only be making bad worse. As soon as the service was over, he would set out towards the preserves, and, when it was well dark, make for the statues. He hoped that on such a great day the rangers might be many of them in Sunch'ston; if there were any about, he must trust the moonless night and his own quick eyes and ears to get him through the preserves safely. The shops were by this time closed, but the keepers of a few stalls were trying by lamplight to sell the wares they had not yet got rid of. One of these was a bookstall, and, running his eye over some of the volumes, my father saw one entitled-- "The Sayings of the Sunchild during his stay in Erewhon, to which is added a true account of his return to the palace of the sun with his Erewhonian bride. This is the only version authorised by the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks; all other versions being imperfect and inaccurate.--Bridgeford, XVIII., 150 pp. 8vo. Price 3s. The reader will understand that I am giving the prices as nearly as I can in their English equivalents. Another title was-- "The Sacrament of Divorce: an Occasional Sermon preached by Dr. Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks for the Province of Sunch'ston. 8vo, 16 pp. 6d. Other titles ran-- "Counsels of Imperfection." 8vo, 20 pp. 6d. "Hygiene; or, How to Diagnose your Doctor. 8vo, 10 pp. 3d. "The Physics of Vicarious Existence," by Dr. Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks for the Province of Sunch'ston. 8vo, 20 pp. 6d. There were many other books whose titles would probably have attracted my father as much as those that I have given, but he was too tired and hungry to look at more. Finding that he could buy all the foregoing for 4s. 9d., he bought them and stuffed them into the valise that he had just bought. His purchases in all had now amounted to a little over 1 pound, 10s. (silver), leaving him about 3 pounds (silver), including the money for which he had sold the quails, to carry him on till Sunday afternoon. He intended to spend say 2 pounds (silver), and keep the rest of the money in order to give it to the British Museum. He now began to search for an inn, and walked about the less fashionable parts of the town till he found an unpretending tavern, which he thought would suit him. Here, on importunity, he was given a servant's room at the top of the house, all others being engaged by visitors who had come for the dedication. He ordered a meal, of which he stood in great need, and having eaten it, he retired early for the night. But he smoked a pipe surreptitiously up the chimney before he got into bed. Meanwhile other things were happening, of which, happily for his repose, he was still ignorant, and which he did not learn till a few days later. Not to depart from chronological order I will deal with them in my next chapter. CHAPTER VIII: YRAM, NOW MAYORESS, GIVES A DINNER-PARTY, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH SHE IS DISQUIETED BY WHAT SHE LEARNS FROM PROFESSOR HANKY: SHE SENDS FOR HER SON GEORGE AND QUESTIONS HIM The Professors, returning to their hotel early on the Friday morning, found a note from the Mayoress urging them to be her guests during the remainder of their visit, and to meet other friends at dinner on this same evening. They accepted, and then went to bed; for they had passed the night under the tree in which they had hidden their purchase, and, as may be imagined, had slept but little. They rested all day, and transferred themselves and their belongings to the Mayor's house in time to dress for dinner. When they came down into the drawing-room they found a brilliant company assembled, chiefly Musical-Bankical like themselves. There was Dr. Downie, Professor of Logomachy, and perhaps the most subtle dialectician in Erewhon. He could say nothing in more words than any man of his generation. His text-book on the "Art of Obscuring Issues" had passed through ten or twelve editions, and was in the hands of all aspirants for academic distinction. He had earned a high reputation for sobriety of judgement by resolutely refusing to have definite views on any subject; so safe a man was he considered, that while still quite young he had been appointed to the lucrative post of Thinker in Ordinary to the Royal Family. There was Mr. Principal Crank, with his sister Mrs. Quack; Professors Gabb and Bawl, with their wives and two or three erudite daughters. Old Mrs. Humdrum (of whom more anon) was there of course, with her venerable white hair and rich black satin dress, looking the very ideal of all that a stately old dowager ought to be. In society she was commonly known as Ydgrun, so perfectly did she correspond with the conception of this strange goddess formed by the Erewhonians. She was one of those who had visited my father when he was in prison twenty years earlier. When he told me that she was now called Ydgrun, he said, "I am sure that the Erinyes were only Mrs. Humdrums, and that they were delightful people when you came to know them. I do not believe they did the awful things we say they did. I think, but am not quite sure, that they let Orestes off; but even though they had not pardoned him, I doubt whether they would have done anything more dreadful to him than issue a _mot d'ordre_ that he was not to be asked to any more afternoon teas. This, however, would be down-right torture to some people. At any rate," he continued, "be it the Erinyes, or Mrs. Grundy, or Ydgrun, in all times and places it is woman who decides whether society is to condone an offence or no." Among the most attractive ladies present was one for whose Erewhonian name I can find no English equivalent, and whom I must therefore call Miss La Frime. She was Lady President of the principal establishment for the higher education of young ladies, and so celebrated was she, that pupils flocked to her from all parts of the surrounding country. Her primer (written for the Erewhonian Arts and Science Series) on the Art of Man-killing, was the most complete thing of the kind that had yet been done; but ill-natured people had been heard to say that she had killed all her own admirers so effectually that not one of them had ever lived to marry her. According to Erewhonian custom the successful marriages of the pupils are inscribed yearly on the oak paneling of the college refectory, and a reprint from these in pamphlet form accompanies all the prospectuses that are sent out to parents. It was alleged that no other ladies' seminary in Erewhon could show such a brilliant record during all the years of Miss La Frime's presidency. Many other guests of less note were there, but the lions of the evening were the two Professors whom we have already met with, and more particularly Hanky, who took the Mayoress in to dinner. Panky, of course, wore his clothes reversed, as did Principal Crank and Professor Gabb; the others were dressed English fashion. Everything hung upon the hostess, for the host was little more than a still handsome figure-head. He had been remarkable for his good looks as a young man, and Strong is the nearest approach I can get to a translation of his Erewhonian name. His face inspired confidence at once, but he was a man of few words, and had little of that grace which in his wife set every one instantly at his or her ease. He knew that all would go well so long as he left everything to her, and kept himself as far as might be in the background. Before dinner was announced there was the usual buzz of conversation, chiefly occupied with salutations, good wishes for Sunday's weather, and admiration for the extreme beauty of the Mayoress's three daughters, the two elder of whom were already out; while the third, though only thirteen, might have passed for a year or two older. Their mother was so much engrossed with receiving her guests that it was not till they were all at table that she was able to ask Hanky what he thought of the statues, which she had heard that he and Professor Panky had been to see. She was told how much interested he had been with them, and how unable he had been to form any theory as to their date or object. He then added, appealing to Panky, who was on the Mayoress's left hand, "but we had rather a strange adventure on our way down, had we not, Panky? We got lost, and were benighted in the forest. Happily we fell in with one of the rangers who had lit a fire." "Do I understand, then," said Yram, as I suppose we may as well call her, "that you were out all last night? How tired you must be! But I hope you had enough provisions with you?" "Indeed we were out all night. We staid by the ranger's fire till midnight, and then tried to find our way down, but we gave it up soon after we had got out of the forest, and then waited under a large chestnut tree till four or five this morning. As for food, we had not so much as a mouthful from about three in the afternoon till we got to our inn early this morning." "Oh, you poor, poor people! how tired you must be." "No; we made a good breakfast as soon as we got in, and then went to bed, where we staid till it was time for us to come to your house." Here Panky gave his friend a significant look, as much as to say that he had said enough. This set Hanky on at once. "Strange to say, the ranger was wearing the old Erewhonian dress. It did me good to see it again after all these years. It seems your son lets his men wear what few of the old clothes they may still have, so long as they keep well away from the town. But fancy how carefully these poor fellows husband them; why, it must be seventeen years since the dress was forbidden!" We all of us have skeletons, large or small, in some cupboard of our lives, but a well regulated skeleton that will stay in its cupboard quietly does not much matter. There are skeletons, however, which can never be quite trusted not to open the cupboard door at some awkward moment, go down stairs, ring the hall-door bell, with grinning face announce themselves as the skeleton, and ask whether the master or mistress is at home. This kind of skeleton, though no bigger than a rabbit, will sometimes loom large as that of a dinotherium. My father was Yram's skeleton. True, he was a mere skeleton of a skeleton, for the chances were thousands to one that he and my mother had perished long years ago; and even though he rang at the bell, there was no harm that he either could or would now do to her or hers; still, so long as she did not certainly know that he was dead, or otherwise precluded from returning, she could not be sure that he would not one day come back by the way that he would alone know, and she had rather he should not do so. Hence, on hearing from Professor Hanky that a man had been seen between the statues and Sunch'ston wearing the old Erewhonian dress, she was disquieted and perplexed. The excuse he had evidently made to the Professors aggravated her uneasiness, for it was an obvious attempt to escape from an unexpected difficulty. There could be no truth in it. Her son would as soon think of wearing the old dress himself as of letting his men do so; and as for having old clothes still to wear out after seventeen years, no one but a Bridgeford Professor would accept this. She saw, therefore, that she must keep her wits about her, and lead her guests on to tell her as much as they could be induced to do. "My son," she said innocently, "is always considerate to his men, and that is why they are so devoted to him. I wonder which of them it was? In what part of the preserves did you fall in with him?" Hanky described the place, and gave the best idea he could of my father's appearance. "Of course he was swarthy like the rest of us?" "I saw nothing remarkable about him, except that his eyes were blue and his eyelashes nearly white, which, as you know, is rare in Erewhon. Indeed, I do not remember ever before to have seen a man with dark hair and complexion but light eyelashes. Nature is always doing something unusual." "I have no doubt," said Yram, "that he was the man they call Blacksheep, but I never noticed this peculiarity in him. If he was Blacksheep, I am afraid you must have found him none too civil; he is a rough diamond, and you would hardly be able to understand his uncouth Sunch'ston dialect." "On the contrary, he was most kind and thoughtful--even so far as to take our permit from us, and thus save us the trouble of giving it up at your son's office. As for his dialect, his grammar was often at fault, but we could quite understand him." "I am glad to hear he behaved better than I could have expected. Did he say in what part of the preserves he had been?" "He had been catching quails between the place where we saw him and the statues; he was to deliver three dozen to your son this afternoon for the Mayor's banquet on Sunday." This was worse and worse. She had urged her son to provide her with a supply of quails for Sunday's banquet, but he had begged her not to insist on having them. There was no close time for them in Erewhon, but he set his face against their being seen at table in spring and summer. During the winter, when any great occasion arose, he had allowed a few brace to be provided. "I asked my son to let me have some," said Yram, who was now on full scent. She laughed genially as she added, "Can you throw any light upon the question whether I am likely to get my three dozen? I have had no news as yet." "The man had taken a good many; we saw them but did not count them. He started about midnight for the ranger's shelter, where he said he should sleep till daybreak, so as to make up his full tale betimes." Yram had heard her son complain that there were no shelters on the preserves, and state his intention of having some built before the winter. Here too, then, the man's story must be false. She changed the conversation for the moment, but quietly told a servant to send high and low in search of her son, and if he could be found, to bid him come to her at once. She then returned to her previous subject. "And did not this heartless wretch, knowing how hungry you must both be, let you have a quail or two as an act of pardonable charity?" "My dear Mayoress, how can you ask such a question? We knew you would want all you could get; moreover, our permit threatened us with all sorts of horrors if we so much as ate a single quail. I assure you we never even allowed a thought of eating one of them to cross our minds." "Then," said Yram to herself, "they gorged upon them." What could she think? A man who wore the old dress, and therefore who had almost certainly been in Erewhon, but had been many years away from it; who spoke the language well, but whose grammar was defective--hence, again, one who had spent some time in Erewhon; who knew nothing of the afforesting law now long since enacted, for how else would he have dared to light a fire and be seen with quails in his possession; an adroit liar, who on gleaning information from the Professors had hazarded an excuse for immediately retracing his steps; a man, too, with blue eyes and light eyelashes. What did it matter about his hair being dark and his complexion swarthy--Higgs was far too clever to attempt a second visit to Erewhon without dyeing his hair and staining his face and hands. And he had got their permit out of the Professors before he left them; clearly, then, he meant coming back, and coming back at once before the permit had expired. How could she doubt? My father, she felt sure, must by this time be in Sunch'ston. He would go back to change his clothes, which would not be very far down on the other side the pass, for he would not put on his old Erewhonian dress till he was on the point of entering Erewhon; and he would hide his English dress rather than throw it away, for he would want it when he went back again. It would be quite possible, then, for him to get through the forest before the permit was void, and he would be sure to go on to Sunch'ston for the night. She chatted unconcernedly, now with one guest now with another, while they in their turn chatted unconcernedly with one another. Miss La Frime to Mrs. Humdrum: "You know how he got his professorship? No? I thought every one knew that. The question the candidates had to answer was, whether it was wiser during a long stay at a hotel to tip the servants pretty early, or to wait till the stay was ended. All the other candidates took one side or the other, and argued their case in full. Hanky sent in three lines to the effect that the proper thing to do would be to promise at the beginning, and go away without giving. The King, with whom the appointment rested, was so much pleased with this answer that he gave Hanky the professorship without so much as looking . . . " Professor Gabb to Mrs. Humdrum: "Oh no, I can assure you there is no truth in it. What happened was this. There was the usual crowd, and the people cheered Professor after Professor, as he stood before them in the great Bridgeford theatre and satisfied them that a lump of butter which had been put into his mouth would not melt in it. When Hanky's turn came he was taken suddenly unwell, and had to leave the theatre, on which there was a report in the house that the butter had melted; this was at once stopped by the return of the Professor. Another piece of butter was put into his mouth, and on being taken out after the usual time, was found to shew no signs of having . . . " Miss Bawl to Mr. Principal Crank: . . . "The Manager was so tall, you know, and then there was that little mite of an assistant manager--it _was_ so funny. For the assistant manager's voice was ever so much louder than the . . . " Mrs. Bawl to Professor Gabb: . . . "Live for art! If I had to choose whether I would lose either art or science, I have not the smallest hesitation in saying that I would lose . . . " The Mayor and Dr. Downie: . . . "That you are to be canonised at the close of the year along with Professors Hanky and Panky?" "I believe it is his Majesty's intention that the Professors and myself are to head the list of the Sunchild's Saints, but we have all of us got to . . . " And so on, and so on, buzz, buzz, buzz, over the whole table. Presently Yram turned to Hanky and said-- "By the way, Professor, you must have found it very cold up at the statues, did you not? But I suppose the snow is all gone by this time?" "Yes, it was cold, and though the winter's snow is melted, there had been a recent fall. Strange to say, we saw fresh footprints in it, as of some one who had come up from the other side. But thereon hangs a tale, about which I believe I should say nothing." "Then say nothing, my dear Professor," said Yram with a frank smile. "Above all," she added quietly and gravely, "say nothing to the Mayor, nor to my son, till after Sunday. Even a whisper of some one coming over from the other side disquiets them, and they have enough on hand for the moment." Panky, who had been growing more and more restive at his friend's outspokenness, but who had encouraged it more than once by vainly trying to check it, was relieved at hearing his hostess do for him what he could not do for himself. As for Yram, she had got enough out of the Professor to be now fully dissatisfied, and mentally informed them that they might leave the witness-box. During the rest of dinner she let the subject of their adventure severely alone. It seemed to her as though dinner was never going to end; but in the course of time it did so, and presently the ladies withdrew. As they were entering the drawing-room a servant told her that her son had been found more easily than was expected, and was now in his own room dressing. "Tell him," she said, "to stay there till I come, which I will do directly." She remained for a few minutes with her guests, and then, excusing herself quietly to Mrs. Humdrum, she stepped out and hastened to her son's room. She told him that Professors Hanky and Panky were staying in the house, and that during dinner they had told her something he ought to know, but which there was no time to tell him until her guests were gone. "I had rather," she said, "tell you about it before you see the Professors, for if you see them the whole thing will be reopened, and you are sure to let them see how much more there is in it than they suspect. I want everything hushed up for the moment; do not, therefore, join us. Have dinner sent to you in your father's study. I will come to you about midnight." "But, my dear mother," said George, "I have seen Panky already. I walked down with him a good long way this afternoon." Yram had not expected this, but she kept her countenance. "How did you know," said she, "that he was Professor Panky? Did he tell you so?" "Certainly he did. He showed me his permit, which was made out in favour of Professors Hanky and Panky, or either of them. He said Hanky had been unable to come with him, and that he was himself Professor Panky." Yram again smiled very sweetly. "Then, my dear boy," she said, "I am all the more anxious that you should not see him now. See nobody but the servants and your brothers, and wait till I can enlighten you. I must not stay another moment; but tell me this much, have you seen any signs of poachers lately?" "Yes; there were three last night." "In what part of the preserves?" Her son described the place. "You are sure they had been killing quails?" "Yes, and eating them--two on one side of a fire they had lit, and one on the other; this last man had done all the plucking." "Good!" She kissed him with more than even her usual tenderness, and returned to the drawing-room. During the rest of the evening she was engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Humdrum, leaving her other guests to her daughters and to themselves. Mrs. Humdrum had been her closest friend for many years, and carried more weight than any one else in Sunch'ston, except, perhaps, Yram herself. "Tell him everything," she said to Yram at the close of their conversation; "we all dote upon him; trust him frankly, as you trusted your husband before you let him marry you. No lies, no reserve, no tears, and all will come right. As for me, command me," and the good old lady rose to take her leave with as kind a look on her face as ever irradiated saint or angel. "I go early," she added, "for the others will go when they see me do so, and the sooner you are alone the better." By half an hour before midnight her guests had gone. Hanky and Panky were given to understand that they must still be tired, and had better go to bed. So was the Mayor; so were her sons and daughters, except of course George, who was waiting for her with some anxiety, for he had seen that she had something serious to tell him. Then she went down into the study. Her son embraced her as she entered, and moved an easy chair for her, but she would not have it. "No; I will have an upright one." Then, sitting composedly down on the one her son placed for her, she said-- "And now to business. But let me first tell you that the Mayor was told, twenty years ago, all the more important part of what you will now hear. He does not yet know what has happened within the last few hours, but either you or I will tell him to-morrow." CHAPTER IX: INTERVIEW BETWEEN YRAM AND HER SON "What did you think of Panky?" "I could not make him out. If he had not been a Bridgeford Professor I might have liked him; but you know how we all of us distrust those people." "Where did you meet him?" "About two hours lower down than the statues." "At what o'clock?" "It might be between two and half-past." "I suppose he did not say that at that hour he was in bed at his hotel in Sunch'ston. Hardly! Tell me what passed between you." "He had his permit open before we were within speaking distance. I think he feared I should attack him without making sure whether he was a foreign devil or no. I have told you he said he was Professor Panky." "I suppose he had a dark complexion and black hair like the rest of us?" "Dark complexion and hair purplish rather than black. I was surprised to see that his eyelashes were as light as my own, and his eyes were blue like mine--but you will have noticed this at dinner." "No, my dear, I did not, and I think I should have done so if it had been there to notice." "Oh, but it was so indeed." "Perhaps. Was there anything strange about his way of talking?" "A little about his grammar, but these Bridgeford Professors have often risen from the ranks. His pronunciation was nearly like yours and mine." "Was his manner friendly?" "Very; more so than I could understand at first. I had not, however, been with him long before I saw tears in his eyes, and when I asked him whether he was in distress, he said I reminded him of a son whom he had lost and had found after many years, only to lose him almost immediately for ever. Hence his cordiality towards me." "Then," said Yram half hysterically to herself, "he knew who you were. Now, how, I wonder, did he find that out?" All vestige of doubt as to who the man might be had now left her. "Certainly he knew who I was. He spoke about you more than once, and wished us every kind of prosperity, baring his head reverently as he spoke." "Poor fellow! Did he say anything about Higgs?" "A good deal, and I was surprised to find he thought about it all much as we do. But when I said that if I could go down into the hell of which Higgs used to talk to you while he was in prison, I should expect to find him in its hottest fires, he did not like it." "Possibly not, my dear. Did you tell him how the other boys, when you were at school, used sometimes to say you were son to this man Higgs, and that the people of Sunch'ston used to say so also, till the Mayor trounced two or three people so roundly that they held their tongues for the future?" "Not all that, but I said that silly people had believed me to be the Sunchild's son, and what a disgrace I should hold it to be son to such an impostor." "What did he say to this?" "He asked whether I should feel the disgrace less if Higgs were to undo the mischief he had caused by coming back and shewing himself to the people for what he was. But he said it would be no use for him to do so, inasmuch as people would kill him but would not believe him." "And you said?" "Let him come back, speak out, and chance what might befall him. In that case, I should honour him, father or no father." "And he?" "He asked if that would be a bargain; and when I said it would, he grasped me warmly by the hand on Higgs's behalf--though what it could matter to him passes my comprehension." "But he saw that even though Higgs were to shew himself and say who he was, it would mean death to himself and no good to any one else?" "Perfectly." "Then he can have meant nothing by shaking hands with you. It was an idle jest. And now for your poachers. You do not know who they were? I will tell you. The two who sat on the one side the fire were Professors Hanky and Panky from the City of the People who are above Suspicion." "No," said George vehemently. "Impossible." "Yes, my dear boy, quite possible, and whether possible or impossible, assuredly true." "And the third man?" "The third man was dressed in the old costume. He was in possession of several brace of birds. The Professors vowed they had not eaten any--" "Oh yes, but they had," blurted out George. "Of course they had, my dear; and a good thing too. Let us return to the man in the old costume." "That is puzzling. Who did he say he was?" "He said he was one of your men; that you had instructed him to provide you with three dozen quails for Sunday; and that you let your men wear the old costume if they had any of it left, provided--" This was too much for George; he started to his feet. "What, my dearest mother, does all this mean? You have been playing with me all through. What is coming?" "A very little more, and you shall hear. This man staid with the Professors till nearly midnight, and then left them on the plea that he would finish the night in the Ranger's shelter--" "Ranger's shelter, indeed! Why--" "Hush, my darling boy, be patient with me. He said he must be up betimes, to run down the rest of the quails you had ordered him to bring you. But before leaving the Professors he beguiled them into giving him up their permit." "Then," said George, striding about the room with his face flushed and his eyes flashing, "he was the man with whom I walked down this afternoon." "Exactly so." "And he must have changed his dress?" "Exactly so." "But where and how?" "At some place not very far down on the other side the range, where he had hidden his old clothes." "And who, in the name of all that we hold most sacred, do you take him to have been--for I see you know more than you have yet told me?" "My son, he was Higgs the Sunchild, father to that boy whom I love next to my husband more dearly than any one in the whole world." She folded her arms about him for a second, without kissing him, and left him. "And now," she said, the moment she had closed the door--"and now I may cry." * * * * * She did not cry for long, and having removed all trace of tears as far as might be, she returned to her son outwardly composed and cheerful. "Shall I say more now," she said, seeing how grave he looked, "or shall I leave you, and talk further with you to-morrow?" "Now--now--now!" "Good! A little before Higgs came here, the Mayor, as he now is, poor, handsome, generous to a fault so far as he had the wherewithal, was adored by all the women of his own rank in Sunch'ston. Report said that he had adored many of them in return, but after having known me for a very few days, he asked me to marry him, protesting that he was a changed man. I liked him, as every one else did, but I was not in love with him, and said so; he said he would give me as much time as I chose, if I would not point-blank refuse him; and so the matter was left. "Within a week or so Higgs was brought to the prison, and he had not been there long before I found, or thought I found, that I liked him better than I liked Strong. I was a fool--but there! As for Higgs, he liked, but did not love me. If I had let him alone he would have done the like by me; and let each other alone we did, till the day before he was taken down to the capital. On that day, whether through his fault or mine I know not--we neither of us meant it--it was as though Nature, my dear, was determined that you should not slip through her fingers--well, on that day we took it into our heads that we were broken-hearted lovers--the rest followed. And how, my dearest boy, as I look upon you, can I feign repentance? "My husband, who never saw Higgs, and knew nothing about him except the too little that I told him, pressed his suit, and about a month after Higgs had gone, having recovered my passing infatuation for him, I took kindly to the Mayor and accepted him, without telling him what I ought to have told him--but the words stuck in my throat. I had not been engaged to him many days before I found that there was something which I should not be able to hide much longer. "You know, my dear, that my mother had been long dead, and I never had a sister or any near kinswoman. At my wits' end who I should consult, instinct drew me to Mrs. Humdrum, then a woman of about five-and-forty. She was a grand lady, while I was about the rank of one of my own housemaids. I had no claim on her; I went to her as a lost dog looks into the faces of people on a road, and singles out the one who will most surely help him. I had had a good look at her once as she was putting on her gloves, and I liked the way she did it. I marvel at my own boldness. At any rate, I asked to see her, and told her my story exactly as I have now told it to you. "'You have no mother?' she said, when she had heard all. "'No.' "'Then, my dear, I will mother you myself. Higgs is out of the question, so Strong must marry you at once. We will tell him everything, and I, on your behalf, will insist upon it that the engagement is at an end. I hear good reports of him, and if we are fair towards him he will be generous towards us. Besides, I believe he is so much in love with you that he would sell his soul to get you. Send him to me. I can deal with him better than you can.'" "And what," said George, "did my father, as I shall always call him, say to all this? "Truth bred chivalry in him at once. 'I will marry her,' he said, with hardly a moment's hesitation, 'but it will be better that I should not be put on any lower footing than Higgs was. I ought not to be denied anything that has been allowed to him. If I am trusted, I can trust myself to trust and think no evil either of Higgs or her. They were pestered beyond endurance, as I have been ere now. If I am held at arm's length till I am fast bound, I shall marry Yram just the same, but I doubt whether she and I shall ever be quite happy.' "'Come to my house this evening,' said Mrs. Humdrum, 'and you will find Yram there.' He came, he found me, and within a fortnight we were man and wife." "How much does not all this explain," said George, smiling but very gravely. "And you are going to ask me to forgive you for robbing me of such a father." "He has forgiven me, my dear, for robbing him of such a son. He never reproached me. From that day to this he has never given me a harsh word or even syllable. When you were born he took to you at once, as, indeed, who could help doing? for you were the sweetest child both in looks and temper that it is possible to conceive. Your having light hair and eyes made things more difficult; for this, and your being born, almost to the day, nine months after Higgs had left us, made people talk--but your father kept their tongues within bounds. They talk still, but they liked what little they saw of Higgs, they like the Mayor and me, and they like you the best of all; so they please themselves by having the thing both ways. Though, therefore, you are son to the Mayor, Higgs cast some miraculous spell upon me before he left, whereby my son should be in some measure his as well as the Mayor's. It was this miraculous spell that caused you to be born two months too soon, and we called you by Higgs's first name as though to show that we took that view of the matter ourselves. "Mrs. Humdrum, however, was very positive that there was no spell at all. She had repeatedly heard her father say that the Mayor's grandfather was light-haired and blue-eyed, and that every third generation in that family a light-haired son was born. The people believe this too. Nobody disbelieves Mrs. Humdrum, but they like the miracle best, so that is how it has been settled. "I never knew whether Mrs. Humdrum told her husband, but I think she must; for a place was found almost immediately for my husband in Mr. Humdrum's business. He made himself useful; after a few years he was taken into partnership, and on Mr. Humdrum's death became head of the firm. Between ourselves, he says laughingly that all his success in life was due to Higgs and me." "I shall give Mrs. Humdrum a double dose of kissing," said George thoughtfully, "next time I see her." "Oh, do, do; she will so like it. And now, my darling boy, tell your poor mother whether or no you can forgive her." He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her again and again, but for a time he could find no utterance. Presently he smiled, and said, "Of course I do, but it is you who should forgive me, for was it not all my fault?" When Yram, too, had become more calm, she said, "It is late, and we have no time to lose. Higgs's coming at this time is mere accident; if he had had news from Erewhon he would have known much that he did not know. I cannot guess why he has come--probably through mere curiosity, but he will hear or have heard--yes, you and he talked about it--of the temple; being here, he will want to see the dedication. From what you have told me I feel sure that he will not make a fool of himself by saying who he is, but in spite of his disguise he may be recognised. I do not doubt that he is now in Sunch'ston; therefore, to-morrow morning scour the town to find him. Tell him he is discovered, tell him you know from me that he is your father, and that I wish to see him with all good-will towards him. He will come. We will then talk to him, and show him that he must go back at once. You can escort him to the statues; after passing them he will be safe. He will give you no trouble, but if he does, arrest him on a charge of poaching, and take him to the gaol, where we must do the best we can with him--but he will give you none. We need say nothing to the Professors. No one but ourselves will know of his having been here." On this she again embraced her son and left him. If two photographs could have been taken of her, one as she opened the door and looked fondly back on George, and the other as she closed it behind her, the second portrait would have seemed taken ten years later than the first. As for George, he went gravely but not unhappily to his own room. "So that ready, plausible fellow," he muttered to himself, "was my own father. At any rate, I am not son to a fool--and he liked me." CHAPTER X: MY FATHER, FEARING RECOGNITION AT SUNCH'-STON, BETAKES HIMSELF TO THE NEIGHBOURING TOWN OF FAIRMEAD I will now return to my father. Whether from fatigue or over-excitement, he slept only by fits and starts, and when awake he could not rid himself of the idea that, in spite of his disguise, he might be recognised, either at his inn or in the town, by some one of the many who had seen him when he was in prison. In this case there was no knowing what might happen, but at best, discovery would probably prevent his seeing the temple dedicated to himself, and hearing Professor Hanky's sermon, which he was particularly anxious to do. So strongly did he feel the real or fancied danger he should incur by spending Saturday in Sunch'ston, that he rose as soon as he heard any one stirring, and having paid his bill, walked quietly out of the house, without saying where he was going. There was a town about ten miles off, not so important as Sunch'ston, but having some 10,000 inhabitants; he resolved to find accommodation there for the day and night, and to walk over to Sunch'ston in time for the dedication ceremony, which he had found on inquiry, would begin at eleven o'clock. The country between Sunch'ston and Fairmead, as the town just referred to was named, was still mountainous, and being well wooded as well as well watered, abounded in views of singular beauty; but I have no time to dwell on the enthusiasm with which my father described them to me. The road took him at right angles to the main road down the valley from Sunch'ston to the capital, and this was one reason why he had chosen Fairmead rather than Clearwater, which was the next town lower down on the main road. He did not, indeed, anticipate that any one would want to find him, but whoever might so want would be more likely to go straight down the valley than to turn aside towards Fairmead. On reaching this place, he found it pretty full of people, for Saturday was market-day. There was a considerable open space in the middle of the town, with an arcade running round three sides of it, while the fourth was completely taken up by the venerable Musical Bank of the city, a building which had weathered the storms of more than five centuries. On the outside of the wall, abutting on the market-place, were three wooden _sedilia_, in which the Mayor and two coadjutors sate weekly on market- days to give advice, redress grievances, and, if necessary (which it very seldom was) to administer correction. My father was much interested in watching the proceedings in a case which he found on inquiry to be not infrequent. A man was complaining to the Mayor that his daughter, a lovely child of eight years old, had none of the faults common to children of her age, and, in fact, seemed absolutely deficient in immoral sense. She never told lies, had never stolen so much as a lollipop, never showed any recalcitrancy about saying her prayers, and by her incessant obedience had filled her poor father and mother with the gravest anxiety as regards her future well-being. He feared it would be necessary to send her to a deformatory. "I have generally found," said the Mayor, gravely but kindly, "that the fault in these distressing cases lies rather with the parent than the children. Does the child never break anything by accident?" "Yes," said the father. "And you have duly punished her for it?" "Alas! sir, I fear I only told her she was a naughty girl, and must not do it again." "Then how can you expect your child to learn those petty arts of deception without which she must fall an easy prey to any one who wishes to deceive her? How can she detect lying in other people unless she has had some experience of it in her own practice? How, again, can she learn when it will be well for her to lie, and when to refrain from doing so, unless she has made many a mistake on a small scale while at an age when mistakes do not greatly matter? The Sunchild (and here he reverently raised his hat), as you may read in chapter thirty-one of his Sayings, has left us a touching tale of a little boy, who, having cut down an apple tree in his father's garden, lamented his inability to tell a lie. Some commentators, indeed, have held that the evidence was so strongly against the boy that no lie would have been of any use to him, and that his perception of this fact was all that he intended to convey; but the best authorities take his simple words, 'I cannot tell a lie,' in their most natural sense, as being his expression of regret at the way in which his education had been neglected. If that case had come before me, I should have punished the boy's father, unless he could show that the best authorities are mistaken (as indeed they too generally are), and that under more favourable circumstances the boy would have been able to lie, and would have lied accordingly. "There is no occasion for you to send your child to a deformatory. I am always averse to extreme measures when I can avoid them. Moreover, in a deformatory she would be almost certain to fall in with characters as intractable as her own. Take her home and whip her next time she so much as pulls about the salt. If you will do this whenever you get a chance, I have every hope that you will have no occasion to come to me again." "Very well, sir," said the father, "I will do my best, but the child is so instinctively truthful that I am afraid whipping will be of little use." There were other cases, none of them serious, which in the old days would have been treated by a straightener. My father had already surmised that the straightener had become extinct as a class, having been superseded by the Managers and Cashiers of the Musical Banks, but this became more apparent as he listened to the cases that next came on. These were dealt with quite reasonably, except that the magistrate always ordered an emetic and a strong purge in addition to the rest of his sentence, as holding that all diseases of the moral sense spring from impurities within the body, which must be cleansed before there could be any hope of spiritual improvement. If any devils were found in what passed from the prisoner's body, he was to be brought up again; for in this case the rest of the sentence might very possibly be remitted. When the Mayor and his coadjutors had done sitting, my father strolled round the Musical Bank and entered it by the main entrance, which was on the top of a flight of steps that went down on to the principal street of the town. How strange it is that, no matter how gross a superstition may have polluted it, a holy place, if hallowed by long veneration, remains always holy. Look at Delphi. What a fraud it was, and yet how hallowed it must ever remain. But letting this pass, Musical Banks, especially when of great age, always fascinated my father, and being now tired with his walk, he sat down on one of the many rush-bottomed seats, and (for there was no service at this hour) gave free rein to meditation. How peaceful it all was with its droning old-world smell of ancestor, dry rot, and stale incense. As the clouds came and went, the grey-green, cobweb-chastened, light ebbed and flowed over the walls and ceiling; to watch the fitfulness of its streams was a sufficient occupation. A hen laid an egg outside and began to cackle--it was an event of magnitude; a peasant sharpening his scythe, a blacksmith hammering at his anvil, the clack of a wooden shoe upon the pavement, the boom of a bumble-bee, the dripping of the fountain, all these things, with such concert as they kept, invited the dewy-feathered sleep that visited him, and held him for the best part of an hour. My father has said that the Erewhonians never put up monuments or write epitaphs for their dead, and this he believed to be still true; but it was not so always, and on waking his eye was caught by a monument of great beauty, which bore a date of about 1550 of our era. It was to an old lady, who must have been very loveable if the sweet smiling face of her recumbent figure was as faithful to the original as its strongly marked individuality suggested. I need not give the earlier part of her epitaph, which was conventional enough, but my father was so struck with the concluding lines, that he copied them into the note-book which he always carried in his pocket. They ran:- I fall asleep in the full and certain hope That my slumber shall not be broken; And that though I be all-forgetting, Yet shall I not be all-forgotten, But continue that life in the thoughts and deeds Of those I loved, Into which, while the power to strive was yet vouchsafed me, I fondly strove to enter. My father deplored his inability to do justice to the subtle tenderness of the original, but the above was the nearest he could get to it. How different this from the opinions concerning a future state which he had tried to set before the Erewhonians some twenty years earlier. It all came back to him, as the storks had done, now that he was again in an Erewhonian environment, and he particularly remembered how one youth had inveighed against our European notions of heaven and hell with a contemptuous flippancy that nothing but youth and ignorance could even palliate. "Sir," he had said to my father, "your heaven will not attract me unless I can take my clothes and my luggage. Yes; and I must lose my luggage and find it again. On arriving, I must be told that it has unfortunately been taken to a wrong circle, and that there may be some difficulty in recovering it--or it shall have been sent up to mansion number five hundred thousand millions nine hundred thousand forty six thousand eight hundred and eleven, whereas it should have gone to four hundred thousand millions, &c., &c.; and am I sure that I addressed it rightly? Then, when I am just getting cross enough to run some risk of being turned out, the luggage shall make its appearance, hat-box, umbrella, rug, golf-sticks, bicycle, and everything else all quite correct, and in my delight I shall tip the angel double and realise that I am enjoying myself. "Or I must have asked what I could have for breakfast, and be told I could have boiled eggs, or eggs and bacon, or filleted plaice. 'Filleted plaice,' I shall exclaim, 'no! not that. Have you any red mullets?' And the angel will say, 'Why no, sir, the gulf has been so rough that there has hardly any fish come in this three days, and there has been such a run on it that we have nothing left but plaice.' "'Well, well,' I shall say, 'have you any kidneys?' "'You can have one kidney, sir', will be the answer. "'One kidney, indeed, and you call this heaven! At any rate you will have sausages?' "'Then the angel will say, 'We shall have some after Sunday, sir, but we are quite out of them at present.' "And I shall say, somewhat sulkily, 'Then I suppose I must have eggs and bacon.' "But in the morning there will come up a red mullet, beautifully cooked, a couple of kidneys and three sausages browned to a turn, and seasoned with just so much sage and thyme as will savour without overwhelming them; and I shall eat everything. It shall then transpire that the angel knew about the luggage, and what I was to have for breakfast, all the time, but wanted to give me the pleasure of finding things turn out better than I had expected. Heaven would be a dull place without such occasional petty false alarms as these." I have no business to leave my father's story, but the mouth of the ox that treadeth out the corn should not be so closely muzzled that he cannot sometimes filch a mouthful for himself; and when I had copied out the foregoing somewhat irreverent paragraphs, which I took down (with no important addition or alteration) from my father's lips, I could not refrain from making a few reflections of my own, which I will ask the reader's forbearance if I lay before him. Let heaven and hell alone, but think of Hades, with Tantalus, Sisyphus, Tityus, and all the rest of them. How futile were the attempts of the old Greeks and Romans to lay before us any plausible conception of eternal torture. What were the Danaids doing but that which each one of us has to do during his or her whole life? What are our bodies if not sieves that we are for ever trying to fill, but which we must refill continually without hope of being able to keep them full for long together? Do we mind this? Not so long as we can get the wherewithal to fill them; and the Danaids never seem to have run short of water. They would probably ere long take to clearing out any obstruction in their sieves if they found them getting choked. What could it matter to them whether the sieves got full or no? They were not paid for filling them. Sisyphus, again! Can any one believe that he would go on rolling that stone year after year and seeing it roll down again unless he liked seeing it? We are not told that there was a dragon which attacked him whenever he tried to shirk. If he had greatly cared about getting his load over the last pinch, experience would have shown him some way of doing so. The probability is that he got to enjoy the downward rush of his stone, and very likely amused himself by so timing it as to cause the greatest scare to the greatest number of the shades that were below. What though Tantalus found the water shun him and the fruits fly from him when he tried to seize them? The writer of the "Odyssey" gives us no hint that he was dying of thirst or hunger. The pores of his skin would absorb enough water to prevent the first, and we may be sure that he got fruit enough, one way or another, to keep him going. Tityus, as an effort after the conception of an eternity of torture, is not successful. What could an eagle matter on the liver of a man whose body covered nine acres? Before long he would find it an agreeable stimulant. If, then, the greatest minds of antiquity could invent nothing that should carry better conviction of eternal torture, is it likely that the conviction can be carried at all? Methought I saw Jove sitting on the topmost ridges of Olympus and confessing failure to Minerva. "I see, my dear," he said, "that there is no use in trying to make people very happy or very miserable for long together. Pain, if it does not soon kill, consists not so much in present suffering as in the still recent memory of a time when there was less, and in the fear that there will soon be more; and so happiness lies less in immediate pleasure than in lively recollection of a worse time and lively hope of better." As for the young gentleman above referred to, my father met him with the assurance that there had been several cases in which living people had been caught up into heaven or carried down into hell, and been allowed to return to earth and report what they had seen; while to others visions had been vouchsafed so clearly that thousands of authentic pictures had been painted of both states. All incentive to good conduct, he had then alleged, was found to be at once removed from those who doubted the fidelity of these pictures. This at least was what he had then said, but I hardly think he would have said it at the time of which I am now writing. As he continued to sit in the Musical Bank, he took from his valise the pamphlet on "The Physics of Vicarious Existence," by Dr. Gurgoyle, which he had bought on the preceding evening, doubtless being led to choose this particular work by the tenor of the old lady's epitaph. The second title he found to run, "Being Strictures on Certain Heresies concerning a Future State that have been Engrafted on the Sunchild's Teaching." My father shuddered as he read this title. "How long," he said to himself, "will it be before they are at one another's throats?" On reading the pamphlet, he found it added little to what the epitaph had already conveyed; but it interested him, as showing that, however cataclysmic a change of national opinions may appear to be, people will find means of bringing the new into more or less conformity with the old. Here it is a mere truism to say that many continue to live a vicarious life long after they have ceased to be aware of living. This view is as old as the _non omnis moriar_ of Horace, and we may be sure some thousands of years older. It is only, therefore, with much diffidence that I have decided to give a _resume_ of opinions many of which those whom I alone wish to please will have laid to heart from their youth upwards. In brief, Dr. Gurgoyle's contention comes to little more than saying that the quick are more dead, and the dead more quick, than we commonly think. To be alive, according to him, is only to be unable to understand how dead one is, and to be dead is only to be invincibly ignorant concerning our own livingness--for the dead would be as living as the living if we could only get them to believe it. CHAPTER XI: PRESIDENT GURGOYLE'S PAMPHLET "ON THE PHYSICS OF VICARIOUS EXISTENCE" Belief, like any other moving body, follows the path of least resistance, and this path had led Dr. Gurgoyle to the conviction, real or feigned, that my father was son to the sun, probably by the moon, and that his ascent into the sky with an earthly bride was due to the sun's interference with the laws of nature. Nevertheless he was looked upon as more or less of a survival, and was deemed lukewarm, if not heretical, by those who seemed to be the pillars of the new system. My father soon found that not even Panky could manipulate his teaching more freely than the Doctor had done. My father had taught that when a man was dead there was an end of him, until he should rise again in the flesh at the last day, to enter into eternity either of happiness or misery. He had, indeed, often talked of the immortality which some achieve even in this world; but he had cheapened this, declaring it to be an unsubstantial mockery, that could give no such comfort in the hour of death as was unquestionably given by belief in heaven and hell. Dr. Gurgoyle, however, had an equal horror, on the one hand, of anything involving resumption of life by the body when it was once dead, and on the other, of the view that life ended with the change which we call death. He did not, indeed, pretend that he could do much to take away the sting from death, nor would he do this if he could, for if men did not fear death unduly, they would often court it unduly. Death can only be belauded at the cost of belittling life; but he held that a reasonable assurance of fair fame after death is a truer consolation to the dying, a truer comfort to surviving friends, and a more real incentive to good conduct in this life, than any of the consolations or incentives falsely fathered upon the Sunchild. He began by setting aside every saying ascribed, however truly, to my father, if it made against his views, and by putting his own glosses on all that he could gloze into an appearance of being in his favour. I will pass over his attempt to combat the rapidly spreading belief in a heaven and hell such as we accept, and will only summarise his contention that, of our two lives--namely, the one we live in our own persons, and that other life which we live in other people both before our reputed death and after it--the second is as essential a factor of our complete life as the first is, and sometimes more so. Life, he urged, lies not in bodily organs, but in the power to use them, and in the use that is made of them--that is to say, in the work they do. As the essence of a factory is not in the building wherein the work is done, nor yet in the implements used in turning it out, but in the will- power of the master and in the goods he makes; so the true life of a man is in his will and work, not in his body. "Those," he argued, "who make the life of a man reside within his body, are like one who should mistake the carpenter's tool-box for the carpenter." He maintained that this had been my father's teaching, for which my father heartily trusts that he may be forgiven. He went on to say that our will-power is not wholly limited to the working of its own special system of organs, but under certain conditions can work and be worked upon by other will-powers like itself: so that if, for example, A's will-power has got such hold on B's as to be able, through B, to work B's mechanism, what seems to have been B's action will in reality have been more A's than B's, and this in the same real sense as though the physical action had been effected through A's own mechanical system--A, in fact, will have been living in B. The universally admitted maxim that he who does this or that by the hand of an agent does it himself, shews that the foregoing view is only a roundabout way of stating what common sense treats as a matter of course. Hence, though A's individual will-power must be held to cease when the tools it works with are destroyed or out of gear, yet, so long as any survivors were so possessed by it while it was still efficient, or, again, become so impressed by its operation on them through work that he has left, as to act in obedience to his will-power rather than their own, A has a certain amount of _bona fide_ life still remaining. His vicarious life is not affected by the dissolution of his body; and in many cases the sum total of a man's vicarious action and of its outcome exceeds to an almost infinite extent the sum total of those actions and works that were effected through the mechanism of his own physical organs. In these cases his vicarious life is more truly his life than any that he lived in his own person. "True," continued the Doctor, "while living in his own person, a man knows, or thinks he knows, what he is doing, whereas we have no reason to suppose such knowledge on the part of one whose body is already dust; but the consciousness of the doer has less to do with the livingness of the deed than people generally admit. We know nothing of the power that sets our heart beating, nor yet of the beating itself so long as it is normal. We know nothing of our breathing or of our digestion, of the all-important work we achieved as embryos, nor of our growth from infancy to manhood. No one will say that these were not actions of a living agent, but the more normal, the healthier, and thus the more truly living, the agent is, the less he will know or have known of his own action. The part of our bodily life that enters into our consciousness is very small as compared with that of which we have no consciousness. What completer proof can we have that livingness consists in deed rather than in consciousness of deed? "The foregoing remarks are not intended to apply so much to vicarious action in virtue, we will say, of a settlement, or testamentary disposition that cannot be set aside. Such action is apt to be too unintelligent, too far from variation and quick change to rank as true vicarious action; indeed it is not rarely found to effect the very opposite of what the person who made the settlement or will desired. They are meant to apply to that more intelligent and versatile action engendered by affectionate remembrance. Nevertheless, even the compulsory vicarious action taken in consequence of a will, and indeed the very name "will" itself, shews that though we cannot take either flesh or money with us, we can leave our will-power behind us in very efficient operation. "This vicarious life (on which I have insisted, I fear at unnecessary length, for it is so obvious that none can have failed to realise it) is lived by every one of us before death as well as after it, and is little less important to us than that of which we are to some extent conscious in our own persons. A man, we will say, has written a book which delights or displeases thousands of whom he knows nothing, and who know nothing of him. The book, we will suppose, has considerable, or at any rate some influence on the action of these people. Let us suppose the writer fast asleep while others are enjoying his work, and acting in consequence of it, perhaps at long distances from him. Which is his truest life--the one he is leading in them, or that equally unconscious life residing in his own sleeping body? Can there be a doubt that the vicarious life is the more efficient? "Or when we are waking, how powerfully does not the life we are living in others pain or delight us, according as others think ill or well of us? How truly do we not recognise it as part of our own existence, and how great an influence does not the fear of a present hell in men's bad thoughts, and the hope of a present heaven in their good ones, influence our own conduct? Have we not here a true heaven and a true hell, as compared with the efficiency of which these gross material ones so falsely engrafted on to the Sunchild's teaching are but as the flint implements of a prehistoric race? 'If a man,' said the Sunchild, 'fear not man, whom he hath seen, neither will he fear God, whom he hath not seen.'" My father again assures me that he never said this. Returning to Dr. Gurgoyle, he continued:--"It may be urged that on a man's death one of the great factors of his life is so annihilated that no kind of true life can be any further conceded to him. For to live is to be influenced, as well as to influence; and when a man is dead how can he be influenced? He can haunt, but he cannot any more be haunted. He can come to us, but we cannot go to him. On ceasing, therefore, to be impressionable, so great a part of that wherein his life consisted is removed, that no true life can be conceded to him. "I do not pretend that a man is as fully alive after his so-called death as before it. He is not. All I contend for is, that a considerable amount of efficient life still remains to some of us, and that a little life remains to all of us, after what we commonly regard as the complete cessation of life. In answer, then, to those who have just urged that the destruction of one of the two great factors of life destroys life altogether, I reply that the same must hold good as regards death. "If to live is to be influenced and to influence, and if a man cannot be held as living when he can no longer be influenced, surely to die is to be no longer able either to influence or be influenced, and a man cannot be held dead until both these two factors of death are present. If failure of the power to be influenced vitiates life, presence of the power to influence vitiates death. And no one will deny that a man can influence for many a long year after he is vulgarly reputed as dead. "It seems, then, that there is no such thing as either absolute life without any alloy of death, nor absolute death without any alloy of life, until, that is to say, all posthumous power to influence has faded away. And this, perhaps, is what the Sunchild meant by saying that in the midst of life we are in death, and so also that in the midst of death we are in life. "And there is this, too. No man can influence fully until he can no more be influenced--that is to say, till after his so-called death. Till then, his 'he' is still unsettled. We know not what other influences may not be brought to bear upon him that may change the character of the influence he will exert on ourselves. Therefore, he is not fully living till he is no longer living. He is an incomplete work, which cannot have full effect till finished. And as for his vicarious life--which we have seen to be very real--this can be, and is, influenced by just appreciation, undue praise or calumny, and is subject, it may be, to secular vicissitudes of good and evil fortune. "If this is not true, let us have no more talk about the immortality of great men and women. The Sunchild was never weary of talking to us (as we then sometimes thought, a little tediously) about a great poet of that nation to which it pleased him to feign that he belonged. How plainly can we not now see that his words were spoken for our learning--for the enforcement of that true view of heaven and hell on which I am feebly trying to insist? The poet's name, he said, was Shakespeare. Whilst he was alive, very few people understood his greatness; whereas now, after some three hundred years, he is deemed the greatest poet that the world has ever known. 'Can this man,' he asked, 'be said to have been truly born till many a long year after he had been reputed as truly dead? While he was in the flesh, was he more than a mere embryo growing towards birth into that life of the world to come in which he now shines so gloriously? What a small thing was that flesh and blood life, of which he was alone conscious, as compared with that fleshless life which he lives but knows not in the lives of millions, and which, had it ever been fully revealed even to his imagination, we may be sure that he could not have reached?' "These were the Sunchild's words, as repeated to me by one of his chosen friends while he was yet amongst us. Which, then, of this man's two lives should we deem best worth having, if we could choose one or other, but not both? The felt or the unfelt? Who would not go cheerfully to block or stake if he knew that by doing so he could win such life as this poet lives, though he also knew that on having won it he could know no more about it? Does not this prove that in our heart of hearts we deem an unfelt life, in the heaven of men's loving thoughts, to be better worth having than any we can reasonably hope for and still feel? "And the converse of this is true; many a man has unhesitatingly laid down his felt life to escape unfelt infamy in the hell of men's hatred and contempt. As body is the sacrament, or outward and visible sign, of mind; so is posterity the sacrament of those who live after death. Each is the mechanism through which the other becomes effective. "I grant that many live but a short time when the breath is out of them. Few seeds germinate as compared with those that rot or are eaten, and most of this world's denizens are little more than still-born as regards the larger life, while none are immortal to the end of time. But the end of time is not worth considering; not a few live as many centuries as either they or we need think about, and surely the world, so far as we can guess its object, was made rather to be enjoyed than to last. 'Come and go' pervades all things of which we have knowledge, and if there was any provision made, it seems to have been for a short life and a merry one, with enough chance of extension beyond the grave to be worth trying for, rather than for the perpetuity even of the best and noblest. "Granted, again, that few live after death as long or as fully as they had hoped to do, while many, when quick, can have had none but the faintest idea of the immortality that awaited them; it is nevertheless true that none are so still-born on death as not to enter into a life of some sort, however short and humble. A short life or a long one can no more be bargained for in the unseen world than in the seen; as, however, care on the part of parents can do much for the longer life and greater well-being of their offspring in this world, so the conduct of that offspring in this world does much both to secure for itself longer tenure of life in the next, and to determine whether that life shall be one of reward or punishment. "'Reward or punishment,' some reader will perhaps exclaim; 'what mockery, when the essence of reward and punishment lies in their being felt by those who have earned them.' I can do nothing with those who either cry for the moon, or deny that it has two sides, on the ground that we can see but one. Here comes in faith, of which the Sunchild said, that though we can do little with it, we can do nothing without it. Faith does not consist, as some have falsely urged, in believing things on insufficient evidence; this is not faith, but faithlessness to all that we should hold most faithfully. Faith consists in holding that the instincts of the best men and women are in themselves an evidence which may not be set aside lightly; and the best men and women have ever held that death is better than dishonour, and desirable if honour is to be won thereby. "It follows, then, that though our conscious flesh and blood life is the only one that we can fully apprehend, yet we do also indeed move, even here, in an unseen world, wherein, when our palpable life is ended, we shall continue to live for a shorter or longer time--reaping roughly, though not infallibly, much as we have sown. Of this unseen world the best men and women will be almost as heedless while in the flesh as they will be when their life in flesh is over; for, as the Sunchild often said, 'The Kingdom of Heaven cometh not by observation.' It will be all in all to them, and at the same time nothing, for the better people they are, the less they will think of anything but this present life. "What an ineffable contradiction in terms have we not here. What a reversal, is it not, of all this world's canons, that we should hold even the best of all that we can know or feel in this life to be a poor thing as compared with hopes the fulfilment of which we can never either feel or know. Yet we all hold this, however little we may admit it to ourselves. For the world at heart despises its own canons." I cannot quote further from Dr. Gurgoyle's pamphlet; suffice it that he presently dealt with those who say that it is not right of any man to aim at thrusting himself in among the living when he has had his day. "Let him die," say they, "and let die as his fathers before him." He argued that as we had a right to pester people till we got ourselves born, so also we have a right to pester them for extension of life beyond the grave. Life, whether before the grave or afterwards, is like love--all reason is against it, and all healthy instinct for it. Instinct on such matters is the older and safer guide; no one, therefore, should seek to efface himself as regards the next world more than as regards this. If he is to be effaced, let others efface him; do not let him commit suicide. Freely we have received; freely, therefore, let us take as much more as we can get, and let it be a stand-up fight between ourselves and posterity to see whether it can get rid of us or no. If it can, let it; if it cannot, it must put up with us. It can better care for itself than we can for ourselves when the breath is out of us. Not the least important duty, he continued, of posterity towards itself lies in passing righteous judgement on the forbears who stand up before it. They should be allowed the benefit of a doubt, and peccadilloes should be ignored; but when no doubt exists that a man was engrainedly mean and cowardly, his reputation must remain in the Purgatory of Time for a term varying from, say, a hundred to two thousand years. After a hundred years it may generally come down, though it will still be under a cloud. After two thousand years it may be mentioned in any society without holding up of hands in horror. Our sense of moral guilt varies inversely as the squares of its distance in time and space from ourselves. Not so with heroism; this loses no lustre through time and distance. Good is gold; it is rare, but it will not tarnish. Evil is like dirty water--plentiful and foul, but it will run itself clear of taint. The Doctor having thus expatiated on his own opinions concerning heaven and hell, concluded by tilting at those which all right-minded people hold among ourselves. I shall adhere to my determination not to reproduce his arguments; suffice it that though less flippant than those of the young student whom I have already referred to, they were more plausible; and though I could easily demolish them, the reader will probably prefer that I should not set them up for the mere pleasure of knocking them down. Here, then, I take my leave of good Dr. Gurgoyle and his pamphlet; neither can I interrupt my story further by saying anything about the other two pamphlets purchased by my father. CHAPTER XII: GEORGE FAILS TO FIND MY FATHER, WHEREON YRAM CAUTIONS THE PROFESSORS On the morning after the interview with her son described in a foregoing chapter, Yram told her husband what she had gathered from the Professors, and said that she was expecting Higgs every moment, inasmuch as she was confident that George would soon find him. "Do what you like, my dear," said the Mayor. "I shall keep out of the way, for you will manage him better without me. You know what I think of you." He then went unconcernedly to his breakfast, at which the Professors found him somewhat taciturn. Indeed they set him down as one of the dullest and most uninteresting people they had ever met. When George returned and told his mother that though he had at last found the inn at which my father had slept, my father had left and could not be traced, she was disconcerted, but after a few minutes she said-- "He will come back here for the dedication, but there will be such crowds that we may not see him till he is inside the temple, and it will save trouble if we can lay hold on him sooner. Therefore, ride either to Clearwater or Fairmead, and see if you can find him. Try Fairmead first; it is more out of the way. If you cannot hear of him there, come back, get another horse, and try Clearwater. If you fail here too, we must give him up, and look out for him in the temple to-morrow morning." "Are you going to say anything to the Professors?" "Not if you can bring Higgs here before night-fall. If you cannot do this I must talk it over with my husband; I shall have some hours in which to make up my mind. Now go--the sooner the better." It was nearly eleven, and in a few minutes George was on his way. By noon he was at Fairmead, where he tried all the inns in vain for news of a person answering the description of my father--for not knowing what name my father might choose to give, he could trust only to description. He concluded that since my father could not be heard of in Fairmead by one o'clock (as it nearly was by the time he had been round all the inns) he must have gone somewhere else; he therefore rode back to Sunch'ston, made a hasty lunch, got a fresh horse, and rode to Clearwater, where he met with no better success. At all the inns both at Fairmead and Clearwater he left word that if the person he had described came later in the day, he was to be told that the Mayoress particularly begged him to return at once to Sunch'ston, and come to the Mayor's house. Now all the time that George was at Fairmead my father was inside the Musical Bank, which he had entered before going to any inn. Here he had been sitting for nearly a couple of hours, resting, dreaming, and reading Bishop Gurgoyle's pamphlet. If he had left the Bank five minutes earlier, he would probably have been seen by George in the main street of Fairmead--as he found out on reaching the inn which he selected and ordering dinner. He had hardly got inside the house before the waiter told him that young Mr. Strong, the Ranger from Sunch'ston, had been enquiring for him and had left a message for him, which was duly delivered. My father, though in reality somewhat disquieted, showed no uneasiness, and said how sorry he was to have missed seeing Mr. Strong. "But," he added, "it does not much matter; I need not go back this afternoon, for I shall be at Sunch'ston to-morrow morning and will go straight to the Mayor's." He had no suspicion that he was discovered, but he was a good deal puzzled. Presently he inclined to the opinion that George, still believing him to be Professor Panky, had wanted to invite him to the banquet on the following day--for he had no idea that Hanky and Panky were staying with the Mayor and Mayoress. Or perhaps the Mayor and his wife did not like so distinguished a man's having been unable to find a lodging in Sunch'ston, and wanted him to stay with them. Ill satisfied as he was with any theory he could form, he nevertheless reflected that he could not do better than stay where he was for the night, inasmuch as no one would be likely to look for him a second time at Fairmead. He therefore ordered his room at once. It was nearly seven before George got back to Sunch'ston. In the meantime Yram and the Mayor had considered the question whether anything was to be said to the Professors or no. They were confident that my father would not commit himself--why, indeed, should he have dyed his hair and otherwise disguised himself, if he had not intended to remain undiscovered? Oh no; the probability was that if nothing was said to the Professors now, nothing need ever be said, for my father might be escorted back to the statues by George on the Sunday evening and be told that he was not to return. Moreover, even though something untoward were to happen after all, the Professors would have no reason for thinking that their hostess had known of the Sunchild's being in Sunch'ston. On the other hand, they were her guests, and it would not be handsome to keep Hanky, at any rate, in the dark, when the knowledge that the Sunchild was listening to every word he said might make him modify his sermon not a little. It might or it might not, but that was a matter for him, not her. The only question for her was whether or no it would be sharp practice to know what she knew and say nothing about it. Her husband hated _finesse_ as much as she did, and they settled it that though the question was a nice one, the more proper thing to do would be to tell the Professors what it might so possibly concern one or both of them to know. On George's return without news of my father, they found he thought just as they did; so it was arranged that they should let the Professors dine in peace, but tell them about the Sunchild's being again in Erewhon as soon as dinner was over. "Happily," said George, "they will do no harm. They will wish Higgs's presence to remain unknown as much as we do, and they will be glad that he should be got out of the country immediately." "Not so, my dear," said Yram. "'Out of the country' will not do for those people. Nothing short of 'out of the world' will satisfy them." "That," said George promptly, "must not be." "Certainly not, my dear, but that is what they will want. I do not like having to tell them, but I am afraid we must." "Never mind," said the Mayor, laughing. "Tell them, and let us see what happens." They then dressed for dinner, where Hanky and Panky were the only guests. When dinner was over Yram sent away her other children, George alone remaining. He sat opposite the Professors, while the Mayor and Yram were at the two ends of the table. "I am afraid, dear Professor Hanky," said Yram, "that I was not quite open with you last night, but I wanted time to think things over, and I know you will forgive me when you remember what a number of guests I had to attend to." She then referred to what Hanky had told her about the supposed ranger, and shewed him how obvious it was that this man was a foreigner, who had been for some time in Erewhon more than seventeen years ago, but had had no communication with it since then. Having pointed sufficiently, as she thought, to the Sunchild, she said, "You see who I believe this man to have been. Have I said enough, or shall I say more?" "I understand you," said Hanky, "and I agree with you that the Sunchild will be in the temple to-morrow. It is a serious business, but I shall not alter my sermon. He must listen to what I may choose to say, and I wish I could tell him what a fool he was for coming here. If he behaves himself, well and good: your son will arrest him quietly after service, and by night he will be in the Blue Pool. Your son is bound to throw him there as a foreign devil, without the formality of a trial. It would be a most painful duty to me, but unless I am satisfied that that man has been thrown into the Blue Pool, I shall have no option but to report the matter at headquarters. If, on the other hand, the poor wretch makes a disturbance, I can set the crowd on to tear him in pieces." George was furious, but he remained quite calm, and left everything to his mother. "I have nothing to do with the Blue Pool," said Yram drily. "My son, I doubt not, will know how to do his duty; but if you let the people kill this man, his body will remain, and an inquest must be held, for the matter will have been too notorious to be hushed up. All Higgs's measurements and all marks on his body were recorded, and these alone would identify him. My father, too, who is still master of the gaol, and many another, could swear to him. Should the body prove, as no doubt it would, to be that of the Sunchild, what is to become of Sunchildism?" Hanky smiled. "It would not be proved. The measurements of a man of twenty or thereabouts would not correspond with this man's. All we Professors should attend the inquest, and half Bridgeford is now in Sunch'ston. No matter though nine-tenths of the marks and measurements corresponded, so long as there is a tenth that does not do so, we should not be flesh and blood if we did not ignore the nine points and insist only on the tenth. After twenty years we shall find enough to serve our turn. Think of what all the learning of the country is committed to; think of the change in all our ideas and institutions; think of the King and of Court influence. I need not enlarge. We shall not permit the body to be the Sunchild's. No matter what evidence you may produce, we shall sneer it down, and say we must have more before you can expect us to take you seriously; if you bring more, we shall pay no attention; and the more you bring the more we shall laugh at you. No doubt those among us who are by way of being candid will admit that your arguments ought to be considered, but you must not expect that it will be any part of their duty to consider them. "And even though we admitted that the body had been proved up to the hilt to be the Sunchild's, do you think that such a trifle as that could affect Sunchildism? Hardly. Sunch'ston is no match for Bridgeford and the King; our only difficulty would lie in settling which was the most plausible way of the many plausible ways in which the death could be explained. We should hatch up twenty theories in less than twenty hours, and the last state of Sunchildism would be stronger than the first. For the people want it, and so long as they want it they will have it. At the same time the supposed identification of the body, even by some few ignorant people here, might lead to a local heresy that is as well avoided, and it will be better that your son should arrest the man before the dedication, if he can be found, and throw him into the Blue Pool without any one but ourselves knowing that he has been here at all." I need not dwell on the deep disgust with which this speech was listened to, but the Mayor, and Yram, and George said not a word. "But, Mayoress," said Panky, who had not opened his lips so far, "are you sure that you are not too hasty in believing this stranger to be the Sunchild? People are continually thinking that such and such another is the Sunchild come down again from the sun's palace and going to and fro among us. How many such stories, sometimes very plausibly told, have we not had during the last twenty years? They never take root, and die out of themselves as suddenly as they spring up. That the man is a poacher can hardly be doubted; I thought so the moment I saw him; but I think I can also prove to you that he is not a foreigner, and, therefore, that he is not the Sunchild. He quoted the Sunchild's prayer with a corruption that can have only reached him from an Erewhonian source--" Here Hanky interrupted him somewhat brusquely. "The man, Panky," said he, "was the Sunchild; and he was not a poacher, for he had no idea that he was breaking the law; nevertheless, as you say, Sunchildism on the brain has been a common form of mania for several years. Several persons have even believed themselves to be the Sunchild. We must not forget this, if it should get about that Higgs has been here." Then, turning to Yram, he said sternly, "But come what may, your son must take him to the Blue Pool at nightfall." "Sir," said George, with perfect suavity, "you have spoken as though you doubted my readiness to do my duty. Let me assure you very solemnly that when the time comes for me to act, I shall act as duty may direct." "I will answer for him," said Yram, with even more than her usual quick, frank smile, "that he will fulfil his instructions to the letter, unless," she added, "some black and white horses come down from heaven and snatch poor Higgs out of his grasp. Such things have happened before now." "I should advise your son to shoot them if they do," said Hanky drily and sub-defiantly. Here the conversation closed; but it was useless trying to talk of anything else, so the Professors asked Yram to excuse them if they retired early, in view of the fact that they had a fatiguing day before them. This excuse their hostess readily accepted. "Do not let us talk any more now," said Yram as soon as they had left the room. "It will be quite time enough when the dedication is over. But I rather think the black and white horses will come." "I think so too, my dear," said the Mayor laughing. "They shall come," said George gravely; "but we have not yet got enough to make sure of bringing them. Higgs will perhaps be able to help me to- morrow." * * * * * "Now what," said Panky as they went upstairs, "does that woman mean--for she means something? Black and white horses indeed!" "I do not know what she means to do," said the other, "but I know that she thinks she can best us." "I wish we had not eaten those quails." "Nonsense, Panky; no one saw us but Higgs, and the evidence of a foreign devil, in such straits as his, could not stand for a moment. We did not eat them. No, no; she has something that she thinks better than that. Besides, it is absolutely impossible that she should have heard what happened. What I do not understand is, why she should have told us about the Sunchild's being here at all. Why not have left us to find it out or to know nothing about it? I do not understand it." So true is it, as Euclid long since observed, that the less cannot comprehend that which is the greater. True, however, as this is, it is also sometimes true that the greater cannot comprehend the less. Hanky went musing to his own room and threw himself into an easy chair to think the position over. After a few minutes he went to a table on which he saw pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a short letter; then he rang the bell. When the servant came he said, "I want to send this note to the manager of the new temple, and it is important that he should have it to-night. Be pleased, therefore, to take it to him and deliver it into his own hands; but I had rather you said nothing about it to the Mayor or Mayoress, nor to any of your fellow-servants. Slip out unperceived if you can. When you have delivered the note, ask for an answer at once, and bring it to me." So saying, he slipped a sum equal to about five shillings into the man's hand. The servant returned in about twenty minutes, for the temple was quite near, and gave a note to Hanky, which ran, "Your wishes shall be attended to without fail." "Good!" said Hanky to the man. "No one in the house knows of your having run this errand for me?" "No one, sir." "Thank you! I wish you a very good night." CHAPTER XIII: A VISIT TO THE PROVINCIAL DEFORMATORY AT FAIRMEAD Having finished his early dinner, and not fearing that he should be either recognised at Fairmead or again enquired after from Sunch'ston, my father went out for a stroll round the town, to see what else he could find that should be new and strange to him. He had not gone far before he saw a large building with an inscription saying that it was the Provincial Deformatory for Boys. Underneath the larger inscription there was a smaller one--one of those corrupt versions of my father's sayings, which, on dipping into the Sayings of the Sunchild, he had found to be so vexatiously common. The inscription ran:- "When the righteous man turneth away from the righteousness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is a little naughty and wrong, he will generally be found to have gained in amiability what he has lost in righteousness." Sunchild Sayings, chap. xxii. v. 15. The case of the little girl that he had watched earlier in the day had filled him with a great desire to see the working of one of these curious institutions; he therefore resolved to call on the headmaster (whose name he found to be Turvey), and enquire about terms, alleging that he had a boy whose incorrigible rectitude was giving him much anxiety. The information he had gained in the forenoon would be enough to save him from appearing to know nothing of the system. On having rung the bell, he announced himself to the servant as a Mr. Senoj, and asked if he could see the Principal. Almost immediately he was ushered into the presence of a beaming, dapper- looking, little old gentleman, quick of speech and movement, in spite of some little portliness. "Ts, ts, ts," he said, when my father had enquired about terms and asked whether he might see the system at work. "How unfortunate that you should have called on a Saturday afternoon. We always have a half-holiday. But stay--yes--that will do very nicely; I will send for them into school as a means of stimulating their refractory system." He called his servant and told him to ring the boys into school. Then, turning to my father he said, "Stand here, sir, by the window; you will see them all come trooping in. H'm, h'm, I am sorry to see them still come back as soon as they hear the bell. I suppose I shall ding some recalcitrancy into them some day, but it is uphill work. Do you see the head-boy--the third of those that are coming up the path? I shall have to get rid of him. Do you see him? he is going back to whip up the laggers--and now he has boxed a boy's ears: that boy is one of the most hopeful under my care. I feel sure he has been using improper language, and my head-boy has checked him instead of encouraging him." And so on till the boys were all in school. "You see, my dear sir," he said to my father, "we are in an impossible position. We have to obey instructions from the Grand Council of Education at Bridgeford, and they have established these institutions in consequence of the Sunchild's having said that we should aim at promoting the greatest happiness of the greatest number. This, no doubt, is a sound principle, and the greatest number are by nature somewhat dull, conceited, and unscrupulous. They do not like those who are quick, unassuming, and sincere; how, then, consistently with the first principles either of morality or political economy as revealed to us by the Sunchild, can we encourage such people if we can bring sincerity and modesty fairly home to them? We cannot do so. And we must correct the young as far as possible from forming habits which, unless indulged in with the greatest moderation, are sure to ruin them. "I cannot pretend to consider myself very successful. I do my best, but I can only aim at making my school a reflection of the outside world. In the outside world we have to tolerate much that is prejudicial to the greatest happiness of the greatest number, partly because we cannot always discover in time who may be let alone as being genuinely insincere, and who are in reality masking sincerity under a garb of flippancy, and partly also because we wish to err on the side of letting the guilty escape, rather than of punishing the innocent. Thus many people who are perfectly well known to belong to the straightforward classes are allowed to remain at large, and may be even seen hobnobbing with the guardians of public immorality. Indeed it is not in the public interest that straightforwardness should be extirpated root and branch, for the presence of a small modicum of sincerity acts as a wholesome irritant to the academicism of the greatest number, stimulating it to consciousness of its own happy state, and giving it something to look down upon. Moreover, we hold it useful to have a certain number of melancholy examples, whose notorious failure shall serve as a warning to those who neglect cultivating that power of immoral self-control which shall prevent them from saying, or even thinking, anything that shall not immediately and palpably minister to the happiness, and hence meet the approval, of the greatest number." By this time the boys were all in school. "There is not one prig in the whole lot," said the headmaster sadly. "I wish there was, but only those boys come here who are notoriously too good to become current coin in the world unless they are hardened with an alloy of vice. I should have liked to show you our gambling, book-making, and speculation class, but the assistant-master who attends to this branch of our curriculum is gone to Sunch'ston this afternoon. He has friends who have asked him to see the dedication of the new temple, and he will not be back till Monday. I really do not know what I can do better for you than examine the boys in Counsels of Imperfection." So saying, he went into the schoolroom, over the fireplace of which my father's eye caught an inscription, "Resist good, and it will fly from you. Sunchild's Sayings, xvii. 2." Then, taking down a copy of the work just named from a shelf above his desk, he ran his eye over a few of its pages. He called up a class of about twenty boys. "Now, my boys," he said, "Why is it so necessary to avoid extremes of truthfulness?" "It is not necessary, sir," said one youngster, "and the man who says that it is so is a scoundrel." "Come here, my boy, and hold out your hand." When he had done so, Mr. Turvey gave him two sharp cuts with a cane. "There now, go down to the bottom of the class and try not to be so extremely truthful in future." Then, turning to my father, he said, "I hate caning them, but it is the only way to teach them. I really do believe that boy will know better than to say what he thinks another time." He repeated his question to the class, and the head-boy answered, "Because, sir, extremes meet, and extreme truth will be mixed with extreme falsehood." "Quite right, my boy. Truth is like religion; it has only two enemies--the too much and the too little. Your answer is more satisfactory than some of your recent conduct had led me to expect." "But, sir, you punished me only three weeks ago for telling you a lie." "Oh yes; why, so I did; I had forgotten. But then you overdid it. Still it was a step in the right direction." "And now, my boy," he said to a very frank and ingenuous youth about half way up the class, "and how is truth best reached?" "Through the falling out of thieves, sir." "Quite so. Then it will be necessary that the more earnest, careful, patient, self-sacrificing, enquirers after truth should have a good deal of the thief about them, though they are very honest people at the same time. Now what does the man" (who on enquiry my father found to be none other than Mr. Turvey himself) "say about honesty?" "He says, sir, that honesty does not consist in never stealing, but in knowing how and where it will be safe to do so." "Remember," said Mr. Turvey to my father, "how necessary it is that we should have a plentiful supply of thieves, if honest men are ever to come by their own." He spoke with the utmost gravity, evidently quite easy in his mind that his scheme was the only one by which truth could be successfully attained. "But pray let me have any criticism you may feel inclined to make." "I have none," said my father. "Your system commends itself to common sense; it is the one adopted in the law courts, and it lies at the very foundation of party government. If your academic bodies can supply the country with a sufficient number of thieves--which I have no doubt they can--there seems no limit to the amount of truth that may be attained. If, however, I may suggest the only difficulty that occurs to me, it is that academic thieves shew no great alacrity in falling out, but incline rather to back each other up through thick and thin." "Ah, yes," said Mr. Turvey, "there is that difficulty; nevertheless circumstances from time to time arise to get them by the ears in spite of themselves. But from whatever point of view you may look at the question, it is obviously better to aim at imperfection than perfection; for if we aim steadily at imperfection, we shall probably get it within a reasonable time, whereas to the end of our days we should never reach perfection. Moreover, from a worldly point of view, there is no mistake so great as that of being always right." He then turned to his class and said-- "And now tell me what did the Sunchild tell us about God and Mammon?" The head-boy answered: "He said that we must serve both, for no man can serve God well and truly who does not serve Mammon a little also; and no man can serve Mammon effectually unless he serve God largely at the same time." "What were his words?" "He said, 'Cursed be they that say, "Thou shalt not serve God and Mammon, for it is the whole duty of man to know how to adjust the conflicting claims of these two deities."'" Here my father interposed. "I knew the Sunchild; and I more than once heard him speak of God and Mammon. He never varied the form of the words he used, which were to the effect that a man must serve either God or Mammon, but that he could not serve both." "Ah!" said Mr. Turvey, "that no doubt was his exoteric teaching, but Professors Hanky and Panky have assured me most solemnly that his esoteric teaching was as I have given it. By the way, these gentlemen are both, I understand, at Sunch'ston, and I think it quite likely that I shall have a visit from them this afternoon. If you do not know them I should have great pleasure in introducing you to them; I was at Bridgeford with both of them." "I have had the pleasure of meeting them already," said my father, "and as you are by no means certain that they will come, I will ask you to let me thank you for all that you have been good enough to shew me, and bid you good-afternoon. I have a rather pressing engagement--" "My dear sir, you must please give me five minutes more. I shall examine the boys in the Musical Bank Catechism." He pointed to one of them and said, "Repeat your duty towards your neighbour." "My duty towards my neighbour," said the boy, "is to be quite sure that he is not likely to borrow money of me before I let him speak to me at all, and then to have as little to do with him as--" At this point there was a loud ring at the door bell. "Hanky and Panky come to see me, no doubt," said Mr. Turvey. "I do hope it is so. You must stay and see them." "My dear sir," said my father, putting his handkerchief up to his face, "I am taken suddenly unwell and must positively leave you." He said this in so peremptory a tone that Mr. Turvey had to yield. My father held his handkerchief to his face as he went through the passage and hall, but when the servant opened the door he took it down, for there was no Hanky or Panky--no one, in fact, but a poor, wizened old man who had come, as he did every other Saturday afternoon, to wind up the Deformatory clocks. Nevertheless, he had been scared, and was in a very wicked-fleeth-when-no- man-pursueth frame of mind. He went to his inn, and shut himself up in his room for some time, taking notes of all that had happened to him in the last three days. But even at his inn he no longer felt safe. How did he know but that Hanky and Panky might have driven over from Sunch'ston to see Mr. Turvey, and might put up at this very house? or they might even be going to spend the night here. He did not venture out of his room till after seven by which time he had made rough notes of as much of the foregoing chapters as had come to his knowledge so far. Much of what I have told as nearly as I could in the order in which it happened, he did not learn till later. After giving the merest outline of his interview with Mr. Turvey, he wrote a note as follows:--"I suppose I must have held forth about the greatest happiness of the greatest number, but I had quite forgotten it, though I remember repeatedly quoting my favourite proverb, 'Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.' To this they have paid no attention." By seven his panic about Hanky and Panky ended, for if they had not come by this time, they were not likely to do so. Not knowing that they were staying at the Mayor's, he had rather settled it that they would now stroll up to the place where they had left their hoard and bring it down as soon as night had fallen. And it is quite possible that they might have found some excuse for doing this, when dinner was over, if their hostess had not undesignedly hindered them by telling them about the Sunchild. When the conversation recorded in the preceding chapter was over, it was too late for them to make any plausible excuse for leaving the house; we may be sure, therefore, that much more had been said than Yram and George were able to remember and report to my father. After another stroll about Fairmead, during which he saw nothing but what on a larger scale he had already seen at Sunch'ston, he returned to his inn at about half-past eight, and ordered supper in a public room that corresponded with the coffee-room of an English hotel. CHAPTER XIV: MY FATHER MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MR BALMY, AND WALKS WITH HIM NEXT DAY TO SUNCH'STON Up to this point, though he had seen enough to shew him the main drift of the great changes that had taken place in Erewhonian opinions, my father had not been able to glean much about the history of the transformation. He could see that it had all grown out of the supposed miracle of his balloon ascent, and he could understand that the ignorant masses had been so astounded by an event so contrary to all their experience, that their faith in experience was utterly routed and demoralised. It a man and a woman might rise from the earth and disappear into the sky, what else might not happen? If they had been wrong in thinking such a thing impossible, in how much else might they not be mistaken also? The ground was shaken under their very feet. It was not as though the thing had been done in a corner. Hundreds of people had seen the ascent; and even if only a small number had been present, the disappearance of the balloon, of my mother, and of my father himself, would have confirmed their story. My father, then, could understand that a single incontrovertible miracle of the first magnitude should uproot the hedges of caution in the minds of the common people, but he could not understand how such men as Hanky and Panky, who evidently did not believe that there had been any miracle at all, had been led to throw themselves so energetically into a movement so subversive of all their traditions, when, as it seemed to him, if they had held out they might have pricked the balloon bubble easily enough, and maintained everything _in statu quo_. How, again, had they converted the King--if they had converted him? The Queen had had full knowledge of all the preparations for the ascent. The King had had everything explained to him. The workmen and workwomen who had made the balloon and the gas could testify that none but natural means had been made use of--means which, if again employed any number of times, would effect a like result. How could it be that when the means of resistance were so ample and so easy, the movement should nevertheless have been irresistible? For had it not been irresistible, was it to be believed that astute men like Hanky and Panky would have let themselves be drawn into it? What then had been its inner history? My father had so fully determined to make his way back on the following evening, that he saw no chance of getting to know the facts--unless, indeed, he should be able to learn something from Hanky's sermon; he was therefore not sorry to find an elderly gentleman of grave but kindly aspect seated opposite to him when he sat down to supper. The expression on this man's face was much like that of the early Christians as shewn in the S. Giovanni Laterano bas-reliefs at Rome, and again, though less aggressively self-confident, like that on the faces of those who have joined the Salvation Army. If he had been in England, my father would have set him down as a Swedenborgian; this being impossible, he could only note that the stranger bowed his head, evidently saying a short grace before he began to eat, as my father had always done when he was in Erewhon before. I will not say that my father had never omitted to say grace during the whole of the last twenty years, but he said it now, and unfortunately forgetting himself, he said it in the English language, not loud, but nevertheless audibly. My father was alarmed at what he had done, but there was no need, for the stranger immediately said, "I hear, sir, that you have the gift of tongues. The Sunchild often mentioned it to us, as having been vouchsafed long since to certain of the people, to whom, for our learning, he saw fit to feign that he belonged. He thus foreshadowed prophetically its manifestation also among ourselves. All which, however, you must know as well as I do. Can you interpret?" My father was much shocked, but he remembered having frequently spoken of the power of speaking in unknown tongues which was possessed by many of the early Christians, and he also remembered that in times of high religious enthusiasm this power had repeatedly been imparted, or supposed to be imparted, to devout believers in the middle ages. It grated upon him to deceive one who was so obviously sincere, but to avoid immediate discomfiture he fell in with what the stranger had said. "Alas! sir," said he, "that rarer and more precious gift has been withheld from me; nor can I speak in an unknown tongue, unless as it is borne in upon me at the moment. I could not even repeat the words that have just fallen from me." "That," replied the stranger, "is almost invariably the case. These illuminations of the spirit are beyond human control. You spoke in so low a tone that I cannot interpret what you have just said, but should you receive a second inspiration later, I shall doubtless be able to interpret it for you. I have been singularly gifted in this respect--more so, perhaps, than any other interpreter in Erewhon." My father mentally vowed that no second inspiration should be vouchsafed to him, but presently remembering how anxious he was for information on the points touched upon at the beginning of this chapter, and seeing that fortune had sent him the kind of man who would be able to enlighten him, he changed his mind; nothing, he reflected, would be more likely to make the stranger talk freely with him, than the affording him an opportunity for showing off his skill as an interpreter. Something, therefore, he would say, but what? No one could talk more freely when the train of his thoughts, or the conversation of others, gave him his cue, but when told to say an unattached "something," he could not even think of "How do you do this morning? it is a very fine day;" and the more he cudgelled his brains for "something," the more they gave no response. He could not even converse further with the stranger beyond plain "yes" and "no"; so he went on with his supper, and in thinking of what he was eating and drinking for the moment forgot to ransack his brain. No sooner had he left off ransacking it, than it suggested something--not, indeed, a very brilliant something, but still something. On having grasped it, he laid down his knife and fork, and with the air of one distraught he said-- "My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills My father feeds his flock--a frugal swain." "I heard you," exclaimed the stranger, "and I can interpret every word of what you have said, but it would not become me to do so, for you have conveyed to me a message more comforting than I can bring myself to repeat even to him who has conveyed it." Having said this he bowed his head, and remained for some time wrapped in meditation. My father kept a respectful silence, but after a little time he ventured to say in a low tone, how glad he was to have been the medium through whom a comforting assurance had been conveyed. Presently, on finding himself encouraged to renew the conversation, he threw out a deferential feeler as to the causes that might have induced Mr. Balmy to come to Fairmead. "Perhaps," he said, "you, like myself, have come to these parts in order to see the dedication of the new temple; I could not get a lodging in Sunch'ston, so I walked down here this morning." This, it seemed, had been Mr. Balmy's own case, except that he had not yet been to Sunch'ston. Having heard that it was full to overflowing, he had determined to pass the night at Fairmead, and walk over in the morning--starting soon after seven, so as to arrive in good time for the dedication ceremony. When my father heard this, he proposed that they should walk together, to which Mr. Balmy gladly consented; it was therefore arranged that they should go to bed early, breakfast soon after six, and then walk to Sunch'ston. My father then went to his own room, where he again smoked a surreptitious pipe up the chimney. Next morning the two men breakfasted together, and set out as the clock was striking seven. The day was lovely beyond the power of words, and still fresh--for Fairmead was some 2500 feet above the sea, and the sun did not get above the mountains that overhung it on the east side, till after eight o'clock. Many persons were also starting for Sunch'ston, and there was a procession got up by the Musical Bank Managers of the town, who walked in it, robed in rich dresses of scarlet and white embroidered with much gold thread. There was a banner displaying an open chariot in which the Sunchild and his bride were seated, beaming with smiles, and in attitudes suggesting that they were bowing to people who were below them. The chariot was, of course, drawn by the four black and white horses of which the reader has already heard, and the balloon had been ignored. Readers of my father's book will perhaps remember that my mother was not seen at all--she was smuggled into the car of the balloon along with sundry rugs, under which she lay concealed till the balloon had left the earth. All this went for nothing. It has been said that though God cannot alter the past, historians can; it is perhaps because they can be useful to Him in this respect that He tolerates their existence. Painters, my father now realised, can do all that historians can, with even greater effect. Women headed the procession--the younger ones dressed in white, with veils and chaplets of roses, blue cornflower, and pheasant's eye Narcissus, while the older women were more soberly attired. The Bank Managers and the banner headed the men, who were mostly peasants, but among them were a few who seemed to be of higher rank, and these, for the most part, though by no means all of them, wore their clothes reversed--as I have forgotten to say was done also by Mr. Balmy. Both men and women joined in singing a litany the words of which my father could not catch; the tune was one he had been used to play on his apology for a flute when he was in prison, being, in fact, none other than "Home, Sweet Home." There was no harmony; they never got beyond the first four bars, but these they must have repeated, my father thought, at least a hundred times between Fairmead and Sunch'ston. "Well," said he to himself, "however little else I may have taught them, I at any rate gave them the diatonic scale." He now set himself to exploit his fellow-traveller, for they soon got past the procession. "The greatest miracle," said he, "in connection with this whole matter, has been--so at least it seems to me--not the ascent of the Sunchild with his bride, but the readiness with which the people generally acknowledged its miraculous character. I was one of those that witnessed the ascent, but I saw no signs that the crowd appreciated its significance. They were astounded, but they did not fall down and worship." "Ah," said the other, "but you forget the long drought and the rain that the Sunchild immediately prevailed on the air-god to send us. He had announced himself as about to procure it for us; it was on this ground that the King assented to the preparation of those material means that were necessary before the horses of the sun could attach themselves to the chariot into which the balloon was immediately transformed. Those horses might not be defiled by contact with this gross earth. I too witnessed the ascent; at the moment, I grant you, I saw neither chariot nor horses, and almost all those present shared my own temporary blindness; the whole action from the moment when the balloon left the earth, moved so rapidly, that we were flustered, and hardly knew what it was that we were really seeing. It was not till two or three years later that I found the scene presenting itself to my soul's imaginary sight in the full splendour which was no doubt witnessed, but not apprehended, by my bodily vision." "There," said my father, "you confirm an opinion that I have long held.--Nothing is so misleading as the testimony of eye-witnesses." "A spiritual enlightenment from within," returned Mr. Balmy, "is more to be relied on than any merely physical affluence from external objects. Now, when I shut my eyes, I see the balloon ascend a little way, but almost immediately the heavens open, the horses descend, the balloon is transformed, and the glorious pageant careers onward till it vanishes into the heaven of heavens. Hundreds with whom I have conversed assure me that their experience has been the same as mine. Has yours been different?" "Oh no, not at all; but I always see some storks circling round the balloon before I see any horses." "How strange! I have heard others also say that they saw the storks you mention; but let me do my utmost I cannot force them into my mental image of the scene. This shows, as you were saying just now, how incomplete the testimony of an eye-witness often is. It is quite possible that the storks were there, but the horses and the chariot have impressed themselves more vividly on my mind than anything else has." "Quite so; and I am not without hope that even at this late hour some further details may yet be revealed to us." "It is possible, but we should be as cautious in accepting any fresh details as in rejecting them. Should some heresy obtain wide acceptance, visions will perhaps be granted to us that may be useful in refuting it, but otherwise I expect nothing more." "Neither do I, but I have heard people say that inasmuch as the Sunchild said he was going to interview the air-god in order to send us rain, he was more probably son to the air-god than to the sun. Now here is a heresy which--" "But, my dear sir," said Mr. Balmy, interrupting him with great warmth, "he spoke of his father in heaven as endowed with attributes far exceeding any that can be conceivably ascribed to the air-god. The power of the air-god does not extend beyond our own atmosphere." "Pray believe me," said my father, who saw by the ecstatic gleam in his companion's eye that there was nothing to be done but to agree with him, "that I accept--" "Hear me to the end," replied Mr. Balmy. "Who ever heard the Sunchild claim relationship with the air-god? He could command the air-god, and evidently did so, halting no doubt for this beneficent purpose on his journey towards his ultimate destination. Can we suppose that the air- god, who had evidently intended withholding the rain from us for an indefinite period, should have so immediately relinquished his designs against us at the intervention of any less exalted personage than the sun's own offspring? Impossible!" "I quite agree with you," exclaimed my father, "it is out of the--" "Let me finish what I have to say. When the rain came so copiously for days, even those who had not seen the miraculous ascent found its consequences come so directly home to them, that they had no difficulty in accepting the report of others. There was not a farmer or cottager in the land but heaved a sigh of relief at rescue from impending ruin, and they all knew it was the Sunchild who had promised the King that he would make the air-god send it. So abundantly, you will remember, did it come, that we had to pray to him to stop it, which in his own good time he was pleased to do." "I remember," said my father, who was at last able to edge in a word, "that it nearly flooded me out of house and home. And yet, in spite of all this, I hear that there are many at Bridgeford who are still hardened unbelievers." "Alas! you speak too truly. Bridgeford and the Musical Banks for the first three years fought tooth and nail to blind those whom it was their first duty to enlighten. I was a Professor of the hypothetical language, and you may perhaps remember how I was driven from my chair on account of the fearlessness with which I expounded the deeper mysteries of Sunchildism." "Yes, I remember well how cruelly--" but my father was not allowed to get beyond "cruelly." "It was I who explained why the Sunchild had represented himself as belonging to a people in many respects analogous to our own, when no such people can have existed. It was I who detected that the supposed nation spoken of by the Sunchild was an invention designed in order to give us instruction by the light of which we might more easily remodel our institutions. I have sometimes thought that my gift of interpretation was vouchsafed to me in recognition of the humble services that I was hereby allowed to render. By the way, you have received no illumination this morning, have you?" "I never do, sir, when I am in the company of one whose conversation I find supremely interesting. But you were telling me about Bridgeford: I live hundreds of miles from Bridgeford, and have never understood the suddenness, and completeness, with which men like Professors Hanky and Panky and Dr. Downie changed front. Do they believe as you and I do, or did they merely go with the times? I spent a couple of hours with Hanky and Panky only two evenings ago, and was not so much impressed as I could have wished with the depth of their religious fervour." "They are sincere now--more especially Hanky--but I cannot think I am judging them harshly, if I say that they were not so at first. Even now, I fear, that they are more carnally than spiritually minded. See how they have fought for the aggrandisement of their own order. It is mainly their doing that the Musical Banks have usurped the spiritual authority formerly exercised by the straighteners." "But the straighteners," said my father, "could not co-exist with Sunchildism, and it is hard to see how the claims of the Banks can be reasonably gainsaid." "Perhaps; and after all the Banks are our main bulwark against the evils that I fear will follow from the repeal of the laws against machinery. This has already led to the development of a materialism which minimizes the miraculous element in the Sunchild's ascent, as our own people minimize the material means that were the necessary prologue to the miraculous." Thus did they converse; but I will not pursue their conversation further. It will be enough to say that in further floods of talk Mr. Balmy confirmed what George had said about the Banks having lost their hold upon the masses. That hold was weak even in the time of my father's first visit; but when the people saw the hostility of the Banks to a movement which far the greater number of them accepted, it seemed as though both Bridgeford and the Banks were doomed, for Bridgeford was heart and soul with the Banks. Hanky, it appeared, though under thirty, and not yet a Professor, grasped the situation, and saw that Bridgeford must either move with the times, or go. He consulted some of the most sagacious Heads of Houses and Professors, with the result that a committee of enquiry was appointed, which in due course reported that the evidence for the Sunchild's having been the only child of the sun was conclusive. It was about this time--that is to say some three years after his ascent--that "Higgsism," as it had been hitherto called, became "Sunchildism," and "Higgs" the "Sunchild." My father also learned the King's fury at his escape (for he would call it nothing else) with my mother. This was so great that though he had hitherto been, and had ever since proved himself to be, a humane ruler, he ordered the instant execution of all who had been concerned in making either the gas or the balloon; and his cruel orders were carried out within a couple of hours. At the same time he ordered the destruction by fire of the Queen's workshops, and of all remnants of any materials used in making the balloon. It is said the Queen was so much grieved and outraged (for it was her doing that the material ground-work, so to speak, had been provided for the miracle) that she wept night and day without ceasing three whole months, and never again allowed her husband to embrace her, till he had also embraced Sunchildism. When the rain came, public indignation at the King's action was raised almost to revolution pitch, and the King was frightened at once by the arrival of the promised downfall and the displeasure of his subjects. But he still held out, and it was only after concessions on the part of the Bridgeford committee, that he at last consented to the absorption of Sunchildism into the Musical Bank system, and to its establishment as the religion of the country. The far-reaching changes in Erewhonian institutions with which the reader is already acquainted followed as a matter of course. "I know the difficulty," said my father presently, "with which the King was persuaded to allow the way in which the Sunchild's dress should be worn to be a matter of opinion, not dogma. I see we have adopted different fashions. Have you any decided opinions upon the subject?" "I have; but I will ask you not to press me for them. Let this matter remain as the King has left it." My father thought that he might now venture on a shot. So he said, "I have always understood, too, that the King forced the repeal of the laws against machinery on the Bridgeford committee, as another condition of his assent?" "Certainly. He insisted on this, partly to gratify the Queen, who had not yet forgiven him, and who had set her heart on having a watch, and partly because he expected that a development of the country's resources, in consequence of a freer use of machinery, would bring more money into his exchequer. Bridgeford fought hard and wisely here, but they had gained so much by the Musical Bank Managers being recognised as the authorised exponents of Sunchildism, that they thought it wise to yield--apparently with a good grace--and thus gild the pill which his Majesty was about to swallow. But even then they feared the consequences that are already beginning to appear, all which, if I mistake not, will assume far more serious proportions in the future." "See," said my father suddenly, "we are coming to another procession, and they have got some banners, let us walk a little quicker and overtake it." "Horrible!" replied Mr. Balmy fiercely. "You must be short-sighted, or you could never have called my attention to it. Let us get it behind us as fast as possible, and not so much as look at it." "Oh yes, yes," said my father, "it is indeed horrible, I had not seen what it was." He had not the faintest idea what the matter was, but he let Mr. Balmy walk a little ahead of him, so that he could see the banners, the most important of which he found to display a balloon pure and simple, with one figure in the car. True, at the top of the banner there was a smudge which might be taken for a little chariot, and some very little horses, but the balloon was the only thing insisted on. As for the procession, it consisted entirely of men, whom a smaller banner announced to be workmen from the Fairmead iron and steel works. There was a third banner, which said, "Science as well as Sunchildism." CHAPTER XV: THE TEMPLE IS DEDICATED TO MY FATHER, AND CERTAIN EXTRACTS ARE READ FROM HIS SUPPOSED SAYINGS "It is enough to break one's heart," said Mr. Balmy when he had outstripped the procession, and my father was again beside him. "'As well as,' indeed! We know what that means. Wherever there is a factory there is a hot-bed of unbelief. 'As well as'! Why it is a defiance." "What, I wonder," said my father innocently, "must the Sunchild's feelings be, as he looks down on this procession. For there can be little doubt that he is doing so." "There can be no doubt at all," replied Mr. Balmy, "that he is taking note of it, and of all else that is happening this day in Erewhon. Heaven grant that he be not so angered as to chastise the innocent as well as the guilty." "I doubt," said my father, "his being so angry even with this procession, as you think he is." Here, fearing an outburst of indignation, he found an excuse for rapidly changing the conversation. Moreover he was angry with himself for playing upon this poor good creature. He had not done so of malice prepense; he had begun to deceive him, because he believed himself to be in danger if he spoke the truth; and though he knew the part to be an unworthy one, he could not escape from continuing to play it, if he was to discover things that he was not likely to discover otherwise. Often, however, he had checked himself. It had been on the tip of his tongue to be illuminated with the words, Sukoh and Sukop were two pretty men, They lay in bed till the clock struck ten, and to follow it up with, Now with the drops of this most Yknarc time My love looks fresh, in order to see how Mr. Balmy would interpret the assertion here made about the Professors, and what statement he would connect with his own Erewhonian name; but he had restrained himself. The more he saw, and the more he heard, the more shocked he was at the mischief he had done. See how he had unsettled the little mind this poor, dear, good gentleman had ever had, till he was now a mere slave to preconception. And how many more had he not in like manner brought to the verge of idiocy? How many again had he not made more corrupt than they were before, even though he had not deceived them--as for example, Hanky and Panky. And the young? how could such a lie as that a chariot and four horses came down out of the clouds enter seriously into the life of any one, without distorting his mental vision, if not ruining it? And yet, the more he reflected, the more he also saw that he could do no good by saying who he was. Matters had gone so far that though he spoke with the tongues of men and angels he would not be listened to; and even if he were, it might easily prove that he had added harm to that which he had done already. No. As soon as he had heard Hanky's sermon, he would begin to work his way back, and if the Professors had not yet removed their purchase, he would recover it; but he would pin a bag containing about five pounds worth of nuggets on to the tree in which they had hidden it, and, if possible, he would find some way of sending the rest to George. He let Mr. Balmy continue talking, glad that this gentleman required little more than monosyllabic answers, and still more glad, in spite of some agitation, to see that they were now nearing Sunch'ston, towards which a great concourse of people was hurrying from Clearwater, and more distant towns on the main road. Many whole families were coming,--the fathers and mothers carrying the smaller children, and also their own shoes and stockings, which they would put on when nearing the town. Most of the pilgrims brought provisions with them. All wore European costumes, but only a few of them wore it reversed, and these were almost invariably of higher social status than the great body of the people, who were mainly peasants. When they reached the town, my father was relieved at finding that Mr. Balmy had friends on whom he wished to call before going to the temple. He asked my father to come with him, but my father said that he too had friends, and would leave him for the present, while hoping to meet him again later in the day. The two, therefore, shook hands with great effusion, and went their several ways. My father's way took him first into a confectioner's shop, where he bought a couple of Sunchild buns, which he put into his pocket, and refreshed himself with a bottle of Sunchild cordial and water. All shops except those dealing in refreshments were closed, and the town was gaily decorated with flags and flowers, often festooned into words or emblems proper for the occasion. My father, it being now a quarter to eleven, made his way towards the temple, and his heart was clouded with care as he walked along. Not only was his heart clouded, but his brain also was oppressed, and he reeled so much on leaving the confectioner's shop, that he had to catch hold of some railings till the faintness and giddiness left him. He knew the feeling to be the same as what he had felt on the Friday evening, but he had no idea of the cause, and as soon as the giddiness left him he thought there was nothing the matter with him. Turning down a side street that led into the main square of the town, he found himself opposite the south end of the temple, with its two lofty towers that flanked the richly decorated main entrance. I will not attempt to describe the architecture, for my father could give me little information on this point. He only saw the south front for two or three minutes, and was not impressed by it, save in so far as it was richly ornamented--evidently at great expense--and very large. Even if he had had a longer look, I doubt whether I should have got more out of him, for he knew nothing of architecture, and I fear his test whether a building was good or bad, was whether it looked old and weather-beaten or no. No matter what a building was, if it was three or four hundred years old he liked it, whereas, if it was new, he would look to nothing but whether it kept the rain out. Indeed I have heard him say that the mediaeval sculpture on some of our great cathedrals often only pleases us because time and weather have set their seals upon it, and that if we could see it as it was when it left the mason's hands, we should find it no better than much that is now turned out in the Euston Road. The ground plan here given will help the reader to understand the few following pages more easily. +--------------------+ N / a \ W+E / b \------------+ S / G H \ | | C | N | +-----------+---------------------------+-----------+------+ | ------------------- I | | ------------------- | | ------------------- | | o' o' | | | | E ||||||||||||||| ||||||||||||||||| F | | ||||||||||||||| ||||||||||||||||| | | | | e A o' B C o' D | f | --- --- --- --- | | --- --- --- --- | | --- --- --- --- | | --- o' --- --- o' --- | | --- --- --- --- | | --- --- --- --- | | --- --- --- --- | | --- o' --- --- o' --- | | | | | | | | o' o' | | | | | | g | h | o' o' | +-----------+--------------------------------+-------------+ | |--------------------------------| | | |-------------M------------------| | | K |--------------------------------| L | | |--------------------------------| | | |--------------------------------| | | | | | +-----------+ +-------------+ a. Table with cashier's seat on either side, and alms-box in front. The picture is exhibited on a scaffolding behind it. b. The reliquary. c. The President's chair. d. Pulpit and lectern. e. } f. } Side doors. g. } h. } i. Yram's seat. k. Seats of George and the Sunchild. o' Pillars. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, blocks of seats. I. Steps leading from the apse to the nave. K and L. Towers. M. Steps and main entrance. N. Robing-room. The building was led up to by a flight of steps (M), and on entering it my father found it to consist of a spacious nave, with two aisles and an apse which was raised some three feet above the nave and aisles. There were no transepts. In the apse there was the table (a), with the two bowls of Musical Bank money mentioned on an earlier page, as also the alms-box in front of it. At some little distance in front of the table stood the President's chair (c), or I might almost call it throne. It was so placed that his back would be turned towards the table, which fact again shews that the table was not regarded as having any greater sanctity than the rest of the temple. Behind the table, the picture already spoken of was raised aloft. There was no balloon; some clouds that hung about the lower part of the chariot served to conceal the fact that the painter was uncertain whether it ought to have wheels or no. The horses were without driver, and my father thought that some one ought to have had them in hand, for they were in far too excited a state to be left safely to themselves. They had hardly any harness, but what little there was was enriched with gold bosses. My mother was in Erewhonian costume, my father in European, but he wore his clothes reversed. Both he and my mother seemed to be bowing graciously to an unseen crowd beneath them, and in the distance, near the bottom of the picture, was a fairly accurate representation of the Sunch'ston new temple. High up, on the right hand, was a disc, raised and gilt, to represent the sun; on it, in low relief, there was an indication of a gorgeous palace, in which, no doubt, the sun was supposed to live; though how they made it all out my father could not conceive. On the right of the table there was a reliquary (b) of glass, much adorned with gold, or more probably gilding, for gold was so scarce in Erewhon that gilding would be as expensive as a thin plate of gold would be in Europe: but there is no knowing. The reliquary was attached to a portable stand some five feet high, and inside it was the relic already referred to. The crowd was so great that my father could not get near enough to see what it contained, but I may say here, that when, two days later, circumstances compelled him to have a close look at it, he saw that it consisted of about a dozen fine coprolites, deposited by some antediluvian creature or creatures, which, whatever else they may have been, were certainly not horses. In the apse there were a few cross benches (G and H) on either side, with an open space between them, which was partly occupied by the President's seat already mentioned. Those on the right, as one looked towards the apse, were for the Managers and Cashiers of the Bank, while those on the left were for their wives and daughters. In the centre of the nave, only a few feet in front of the steps leading to the apse, was a handsome pulpit and lectern (d). The pulpit was raised some feet above the ground, and was so roomy that the preacher could walk about in it. On either side of it there were cross benches with backs (E and F); those on the right were reserved for the Mayor, civic functionaries, and distinguished visitors, while those on the left were for their wives and daughters. Benches with backs (A, B, C, D) were placed about half-way down both nave and aisles--those in the nave being divided so as to allow a free passage between them. The rest of the temple was open space, about which people might walk at their will. There were side doors (_e_, _j_, and _f_, _h_) at the upper and lower end of each aisle. Over the main entrance was a gallery in which singers were placed. As my father was worming his way among the crowd, which was now very dense, he was startled at finding himself tapped lightly on the shoulder, and turning round in alarm was confronted by the beaming face of George. "How do you do, Professor Panky?" said the youth--who had decided thus to address him. "What are you doing here among the common people? Why have you not taken your place in one of the seats reserved for our distinguished visitors? I am afraid they must be all full by this time, but I will see what I can do for you. Come with me." "Thank you," said my father. His heart beat so fast that this was all he could say, and he followed meek as a lamb. With some difficulty the two made their way to the right-hand corner seats of block C, for every seat in the reserved block was taken. The places which George wanted for my father and for himself were already occupied by two young men of about eighteen and nineteen, both of them well-grown, and of prepossessing appearance. My father saw by the truncheons they carried that they were special constables, but he took no notice of this, for there were many others scattered about the crowd. George whispered a few words to one of them, and to my father's surprise they both gave up their seats, which appear on the plan as (_k_). It afterwards transpired that these two young men were George's brothers, who by his desire had taken the seats some hours ago, for it was here that George had determined to place himself and my father if he could find him. He chose these places because they would be near enough to let his mother (who was at i, in the middle of the front row of block E, to the left of the pulpit) see my father without being so near as to embarrass him; he could also see and be seen by Hanky, and hear every word of his sermon; but perhaps his chief reason had been the fact that they were not far from the side-door at the upper end of the right-hand aisle, while there was no barrier to interrupt rapid egress should this prove necessary. It was now high time that they should sit down, which they accordingly did. George sat at the end of the bench, and thus had my father on his left. My father was rather uncomfortable at seeing the young men whom they had turned out, standing against a column close by, but George said that this was how it was to be, and there was nothing to be done but to submit. The young men seemed quite happy, which puzzled my father, who of course had no idea that their action was preconcerted. Panky was in the first row of block F, so that my father could not see his face except sometimes when he turned round. He was sitting on the Mayor's right hand, while Dr. Downie was on his left; he looked at my father once or twice in a puzzled way, as though he ought to have known him, but my father did not think he recognised him. Hanky was still with President Gurgoyle and others in the robing-room, N; Yram had already taken her seat: my father knew her in a moment, though he pretended not to do so when George pointed her out to him. Their eyes met for a second; Yram turned hers quickly away, and my father could not see a trace of recognition in her face. At no time during the whole ceremony did he catch her looking at him again. "Why, you stupid man," she said to him later on in the day with a quick, kindly smile, "I was looking at you all the time. As soon as the President or Hanky began to talk about you I knew you would stare at him, and then I could look. As soon as they left off talking about you I knew you would be looking at me, unless you went to sleep--and as I did not know which you might be doing, I waited till they began to talk about you again." My father had hardly taken note of his surroundings when the choir began singing, accompanied by a few feeble flutes and lutes, or whatever the name of the instrument should be, but with no violins, for he knew nothing of the violin, and had not been able to teach the Erewhonians anything about it. The voices were all in unison, and the tune they sang was one which my father had taught Yram to sing; but he could not catch the words. As soon as the singing began, a procession, headed by the venerable Dr. Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks of the province, began to issue from the robing-room, and move towards the middle of the apse. The President was sumptuously dressed, but he wore no mitre, nor anything to suggest an English or European Bishop. The Vice-President, Head Manager, Vice-Manager, and some Cashiers of the Bank, now ranged themselves on either side of him, and formed an impressive group as they stood, gorgeously arrayed, at the top of the steps leading from the apse to the nave. Here they waited till the singers left off singing. When the litany, or hymn, or whatever it should be called, was over, the Head Manager left the President's side and came down to the lectern in the nave, where he announced himself as about to read some passages from the Sunchild's Sayings. Perhaps because it was the first day of the year according to their new calendar, the reading began with the first chapter, the whole of which was read. My father told me that he quite well remembered having said the last verse, which he still held as true; hardly a word of the rest was ever spoken by him, though he recognised his own influence in almost all of it. The reader paused, with good effect, for about five seconds between each paragraph, and read slowly and very clearly. The chapter was as follows:- These are the words of the Sunchild about God and man. He said-- 1. God is the baseless basis of all thoughts, things, and deeds. 2. So that those who say that there is a God, lie, unless they also mean that there is no God; and those who say that there is no God, lie, unless they also mean that there is a God. 3. It is very true to say that man is made after the likeness of God; and yet it is very untrue to say this. 4. God lives and moves in every atom throughout the universe. Therefore it is wrong to think of Him as 'Him' and 'He,' save as by the clutching of a drowning man at a straw. 5. God is God to us only so long as we cannot see Him. When we are near to seeing Him He vanishes, and we behold Nature in His stead. 6. We approach Him most nearly when we think of Him as our expression for Man's highest conception, of goodness, wisdom, and power. But we cannot rise to Him above the level of our own highest selves. 7. We remove ourselves most far from Him when we invest Him with human form and attributes. 8. My father the sun, the earth, the moon, and all planets that roll round my father, are to God but as a single cell in our bodies to ourselves. 9. He is as much above my father, as my father is above men and women. 10. The universe is instinct with the mind of God. The mind of God is in all that has mind throughout all worlds. There is no God but the Universe, and man, in this world is His prophet. 11. God's conscious life, nascent, so far as this world is concerned, in the infusoria, adolescent in the higher mammals, approaches maturity on this earth in man. All these living beings are members one of another, and of God. 12. Therefore, as man cannot live without God in the world, so neither can God live in this world without mankind. 13. If we speak ill of God in our ignorance it may be forgiven us; but if we speak ill of His Holy Spirit indwelling in good men and women it may not be forgiven us. The Head Manager now resumed his place by President Gurgoyle's side, and the President in the name of his Majesty the King declared the temple to be hereby dedicated to the contemplation of the Sunchild and the better exposition of his teaching. This was all that was said. The reliquary was then brought forward and placed at the top of the steps leading from the apse to the nave; but the original intention of carrying it round the temple was abandoned for fear of accidents through the pressure round it of the enormous multitudes who were assembled. More singing followed of a simple but impressive kind; during this I am afraid I must own that my father, tired with his walk, dropped off into a refreshing slumber, from which he did not wake till George nudged him and told him not to snore, just as the Vice-Manager was going towards the lectern to read another chapter of the Sunchild's Sayings--which was as follows:- The Sunchild also spoke to us a parable about the unwisdom of the children yet unborn, who though they know so much, yet do not know as much as they think they do. He said:- "The unborn have knowledge of one another so long as they are unborn, and this without impediment from walls or material obstacles. The unborn children in any city form a population apart, who talk with one another and tell each other about their developmental progress. "They have no knowledge, and cannot even conceive the existence of anything that is not such as they are themselves. Those who have been born are to them what the dead are to us. They can see no life in them, and know no more about them than they do of any stage in their own past development other than the one through which they are passing at the moment. They do not even know that their mothers are alive--much less that their mothers were once as they now are. To an embryo, its mother is simply the environment, and is looked upon much as our inorganic surroundings are by ourselves. "The great terror of their lives is the fear of birth,--that they shall have to leave the only thing that they can think of as life, and enter upon a dark unknown which is to them tantamount to annihilation. "Some, indeed, among them have maintained that birth is not the death which they commonly deem it, but that there is a life beyond the womb of which they as yet know nothing, and which is a million fold more truly life than anything they have yet been able even to imagine. But the greater number shake their yet unfashioned heads and say they have no evidence for this that will stand a moment's examination. "'Nay,' answer the others, 'so much work, so elaborate, so wondrous as that whereon we are now so busily engaged must have a purpose, though the purpose is beyond our grasp.' "'Never,' reply the first speakers; 'our pleasure in the work is sufficient justification for it. Who has ever partaken of this life you speak of, and re-entered into the womb to tell us of it? Granted that some few have pretended to have done this, but how completely have their stories broken down when subjected to the tests of sober criticism. No. When we are born we are born, and there is an end of us.' "But in the hour of birth, when they can no longer re-enter the womb and tell the others, Behold! they find that it is not so." Here the reader again closed his book and resumed his place in the apse. CHAPTER XVI: PROFESSOR HANKY PREACHES A SERMON, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH MY FATHER DECLARES HIMSELF TO BE THE SUNCHILD Professor Hanky then went up into the pulpit, richly but soberly robed in vestments the exact nature of which I cannot determine. His carriage was dignified, and the harsh lines on his face gave it a strong individuality, which, though it did not attract, conveyed an impression of power that could not fail to interest. As soon as he had given attention time to fix itself upon him, he began his sermon without text or preliminary matter of any kind, and apparently without notes. He spoke clearly and very quietly, especially at the beginning; he used action whenever it could point his meaning, or give it life and colour, but there was no approach to staginess or even oratorical display. In fact, he spoke as one who meant what he was saying, and desired that his hearers should accept his meaning, fully confident in his good faith. His use of pause was effective. After the word "mistake," at the end of the opening sentence, he held up his half-bent hand and paused for full three seconds, looking intently at his audience as he did so. Every one felt the idea to be here enounced that was to dominate the sermon. The sermon--so much of it as I can find room for--was as follows:- "My friends, let there be no mistake. At such a time, as this, it is well we should look back upon the path by which we have travelled, and forward to the goal towards which we are tending. As it was necessary that the material foundations of this building should be so sure that there shall be no subsidence in the superstructure, so is it not less necessary to ensure that there shall be no subsidence in the immaterial structure that we have raised in consequence of the Sunchild's sojourn among us. Therefore, my friends, I again say, 'Let there be no mistake.' Each stone that goes towards the uprearing of this visible fane, each human soul that does its part in building the invisible temple of our national faith, is bearing witness to, and lending its support to, that which is either the truth of truths, or the baseless fabric of a dream. "My friends, this is the only possible alternative. He in whose name we are here assembled, is either worthy of more reverential honour than we can ever pay him, or he is worthy of no more honour than any other honourable man among ourselves. There can be no halting between these two opinions. The question of questions is, was he the child of the tutelary god of this world--the sun, and is it to the palace of the sun that he returned when he left us, or was he, as some amongst us still do not hesitate to maintain, a mere man, escaping by unusual but strictly natural means to some part of this earth with which we are unacquainted. My friends, either we are on a right path or on a very wrong one, and in a matter of such supreme importance--there must be no mistake. "I need not remind those of you whose privilege it is to live in Sunch'ston, of the charm attendant on the Sunchild's personal presence and conversation, nor of his quick sympathy, his keen intellect, his readiness to adapt himself to the capacities of all those who came to see him while he was in prison. He adored children, and it was on them that some of his most conspicuous miracles were performed. Many a time when a child had fallen and hurt itself, was he known to make the place well by simply kissing it. Nor need I recall to your minds the spotless purity of his life--so spotless that not one breath of slander has ever dared to visit it. I was one of the not very many who had the privilege of being admitted to the inner circle of his friends during the later weeks that he was amongst us. I loved him dearly, and it will ever be the proudest recollection of my life that he deigned to return me no small measure of affection." My father, furious as he was at finding himself dragged into complicity with this man's imposture, could not resist a smile at the effrontery with which he lowered his tone here, and appeared unwilling to dwell on an incident which he could not recall without being affected almost to tears, and mere allusion to which, had involved an apparent self-display that was above all things repugnant to him. What a difference between the Hanky of Thursday evening with its "never set eyes on him and hope I never shall," and the Hanky of Sunday morning, who now looked as modest as Cleopatra might have done had she been standing godmother to a little blue-eyed girl--Bellerophon's first-born baby. Having recovered from his natural, but promptly repressed, emotion, the Professor continued:- "I need not remind you of the purpose for which so many of us, from so many parts of our kingdom, are here assembled. We know what we have come hither to do: we are come each one of us to sign and seal by his presence the bond of his assent to those momentous changes, which have found their first great material expression in the temple that you see around you. "You all know how, in accordance with the expressed will of the Sunchild, the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks began as soon as he had left us to examine, patiently, carefully, earnestly, and without bias of any kind, firstly the evidences in support of the Sunchild's claim to be the son of the tutelar deity of this world, and secondly the precise nature of his instructions as regards the future position and authority of the Musical Banks. "My friends, it is easy to understand why the Sunchild should have given us these instructions. With that foresight which is the special characteristic of divine, as compared with human, wisdom, he desired that the evidences in support of his superhuman character should be collected, sifted, and placed on record, before anything was either lost through the death of those who could alone substantiate it, or unduly supplied through the enthusiasm of over-zealous visionaries. The greater any true miracle has been, the more certainly will false ones accrete round it; here, then, we find the explanation of the command the Sunchild gave to us to gather, verify, and record, the facts of his sojourn here in Erewhon. For above all things he held it necessary to ensure that there should be neither mistake, nor even possibility of mistake. "Consider for a moment what differences of opinion would infallibly have arisen, if the evidences for the miraculous character of the Sunchild's mission had been conflicting--if they had rested on versions each claiming to be equally authoritative, but each hopelessly irreconcilable on vital points with every single other. What would future generations have said in answer to those who bade them fling all human experience to the winds, on the strength of records written they knew not certainly by whom, nor how long after the marvels that they recorded, and of which all that could be certainly said was that no two of them told the same story? "Who that believes either in God or man--who with any self-respect, or respect for the gift of reason with which God had endowed him, either would, or could, believe that a chariot and four horses had come down from heaven, and gone back again with human or quasi-human occupants, unless the evidences for the fact left no loophole for escape? If a single loophole were left him, he would be unpardonable, not for disbelieving the story, but for believing it. The sin against God would lie not in want of faith, but in faith. "My friends, there are two sins in matters of belief. There is that of believing on too little evidence, and that of requiring too much before we are convinced. The guilt of the latter is incurred, alas! by not a few amongst us at the present day, but if the testimony to the truth of the wondrous event so faithfully depicted on the picture that confronts you had been less contemporaneous, less authoritative, less unanimous, future generations--and it is for them that we should now provide--would be guilty of the first-named, and not less heinous sin if they believed at all. "Small wonder, then, that the Sunchild, having come amongst us for our advantage, not his own, would not permit his beneficent designs to be endangered by the discrepancies, mythical developments, idiosyncracies, and a hundred other defects inevitably attendant on amateur and irresponsible recording. Small wonder, then, that he should have chosen the officials of the Musical Banks, from the Presidents and Vice-Presidents downwards to be the authoritative exponents of his teaching, the depositaries of his traditions, and his representatives here on earth till he shall again see fit to visit us. For he will come. Nay it is even possible that he may be here amongst us at this very moment, disguised so that none may know him, and intent only on watching our devotion towards him. If this be so, let me implore him, in the name of the sun his father, to reveal himself." Now Hanky had already given my father more than one look that had made him uneasy. He had evidently recognised him as the supposed ranger of last Thursday evening. Twice he had run his eye like a searchlight over the front benches opposite to him, and when the beam had reached my father there had been no more searching. It was beginning to dawn upon my father that George might have discovered that he was not Professor Panky; was it for this reason that these two young special constables, though they gave up their places, still kept so close to him? Was George only waiting his opportunity to arrest him--not of course even suspecting who he was--but as a foreign devil who had tried to pass himself off as Professor Panky? Had this been the meaning of his having followed him to Fairmead? And should he have to be thrown into the Blue Pool by George after all? "It would serve me," said he to himself, "richly right." These fears which had been taking shape for some few minutes were turned almost to certainties by the half-contemptuous glance Hanky threw towards him as he uttered what was obviously intended as a challenge. He saw that all was over, and was starting to his feet to declare himself, and thus fall into the trap that Hanky was laying for him, when George gripped him tightly by the knee and whispered, "Don't--you are in great danger." And he smiled kindly as he spoke. My father sank back dumbfounded. "You know me?" he whispered in reply. "Perfectly. So does Hanky, so does my mother; say no more," and he again smiled. George, as my father afterwards learned, had hoped that he would reveal himself, and had determined in spite of his mother's instructions, to give him an opportunity of doing so. It was for this reason that he had not arrested him quietly, as he could very well have done, before the service began. He wished to discover what manner of man his father was, and was quite happy as soon as he saw that he would have spoken out if he had not been checked. He had not yet caught Hanky's motive in trying to goad my father, but on seeing that he was trying to do this, he knew that a trap was being laid, and that my father must not be allowed to speak. Almost immediately, however, he perceived that while his eyes had been turned on Hanky, two burly vergers had wormed their way through the crowd and taken their stand close to his two brothers. Then he understood, and understood also how to frustrate. As for my father, George's ascendancy over him--quite felt by George--was so absolute that he could think of nothing now but the exceeding great joy of finding his fears groundless, and of delivering himself up to his son's guidance in the assurance that the void in his heart was filled, and that his wager not only would be held as won, but was being already paid. How they had found out, why he was not to speak as he would assuredly have done--for he was in a white heat of fury--what did it all matter now that he had found that which he had feared he should fail to find? He gave George a puzzled smile, and composed himself as best he could to hear the continuation of Hanky's sermon, which was as follows:- "Who could the Sunchild have chosen, even though he had been gifted with no more than human sagacity, but the body of men whom he selected? It becomes me but ill to speak so warmly in favour of that body of whom I am the least worthy member, but what other is there in Erewhon so above all suspicion of slovenliness, self-seeking, preconceived bias, or bad faith? If there was one set of qualities more essential than another for the conduct of the investigations entrusted to us by the Sunchild, it was those that turn on meekness and freedom from all spiritual pride. I believe I can say quite truly that these are the qualities for which Bridgeford is more especially renowned. The readiness of her Professors to learn even from those who at first sight may seem least able to instruct them--the gentleness with which they correct an opponent if they feel it incumbent upon them to do so, the promptitude with which they acknowledge error when it is pointed out to them and quit a position no matter how deeply they have been committed to it, at the first moment in which they see that they cannot hold it righteously, their delicate sense of honour, their utter immunity from what the Sunchild used to call log- rolling or intrigue, the scorn with which they regard anything like hitting below the belt--these I believe I may truly say are the virtues for which Bridgeford is pre-eminently renowned." The Professor went on to say a great deal more about the fitness of Bridgeford and the Musical Bank managers for the task imposed on them by the Sunchild, but here my father's attention flagged--nor, on looking at the verbatim report of the sermon that appeared next morning in the leading Sunch'ston journal, do I see reason to reproduce Hanky's words on this head. It was all to shew that there had been no possibility of mistake. Meanwhile George was writing on a scrap of paper as though he was taking notes of the sermon. Presently he slipped this into my father's hand. It ran:- "You see those vergers standing near my brothers, who gave up their seats to us. Hanky tried to goad you into speaking that they might arrest you, and get you into the Bank prisons. If you fall into their hands you are lost. I must arrest you instantly on a charge of poaching on the King's preserves, and make you my prisoner. Let those vergers catch sight of the warrant which I shall now give you. Read it and return it to me. Come with me quietly after service. I think you had better not reveal yourself at all." As soon as he had given my father time to read the foregoing, George took a warrant out of his pocket. My father pretended to read it and returned it. George then laid his hand on his shoulder, and in an undertone arrested him. He then wrote on another scrap of paper and passed it on to the elder of his two brothers. It was to the effect that he had now arrested my father, and that if the vergers attempted in any way to interfere between him and his prisoner, his brothers were to arrest both of them, which, as special constables, they had power to do. Yram had noted Hanky's attempt to goad my father, and had not been prepared for his stealing a march upon her by trying to get my father arrested by Musical Bank officials, rather than by her son. On the preceding evening this last plan had been arranged on; and she knew nothing of the note that Hanky had sent an hour or two later to the Manager of the temple--the substance of which the reader can sufficiently guess. When she had heard Hanky's words and saw the vergers, she was for a few minutes seriously alarmed, but she was reassured when she saw George give my father the warrant, and her two sons evidently explaining the position to the vergers. Hanky had by this time changed his theme, and was warning his hearers of the dangers that would follow on the legalization of the medical profession, and the repeal of the edicts against machines. Space forbids me to give his picture of the horrible tortures that future generations would be put to by medical men, if these were not duly kept in check by the influence of the Musical Banks; the horrors of the inquisition in the middle ages are nothing to what he depicted as certain to ensue if medical men were ever to have much money at their command. The only people in whose hands money might be trusted safely were those who presided over the Musical Banks. This tirade was followed by one not less alarming about the growth of materialistic tendencies among the artisans employed in the production of mechanical inventions. My father, though his eyes had been somewhat opened by the second of the two processions he had seen on his way to Sunch'ston, was not prepared to find that in spite of the superficially almost universal acceptance of the new faith, there was a powerful, and it would seem growing, undercurrent of scepticism, with a desire to reduce his escape with my mother to a purely natural occurence. "It is not enough," said Hanky, "that the Sunchild should have ensured the preparation of authoritative evidence of his supernatural character. The evidences happily exist in overwhelming strength, but they must be brought home to minds that as yet have stubbornly refused to receive them. During the last five years there has been an enormous increase in the number of those whose occupation in the manufacture of machines inclines them to a materialistic explanation even of the most obviously miraculous events, and the growth of this class in our midst constituted, and still constitutes, a grave danger to the state. "It was to meet this that the society was formed on behalf of which I appeal fearlessly to your generosity. It is called, as most of you doubtless know, the Sunchild Evidence Society; and his Majesty the King graciously consented to become its Patron. This society not only collects additional evidences--indeed it is entirely due to its labours that the precious relic now in this temple was discovered--but it is its beneficent purpose to lay those that have been authoritatively investigated before men who, if left to themselves, would either neglect them altogether, or worse still reject them. "For the first year or two the efforts of the society met with but little success among those for whose benefit they were more particularly intended, but during the present year the working classes in some cities and towns (stimulated very much by the lectures of my illustrious friend Professor Panky) have shewn a most remarkable and zealous interest in Sunchild evidences, and have formed themselves into local branches for the study and defence of Sunchild truth. "Yet in spite of all this need--of all this patient labour and really very gratifying success--the subscriptions to the society no longer furnish it with its former very modest income--an income which is deplorably insufficient if the organization is to be kept effective, and the work adequately performed. In spite of the most rigid economy, the committee have been compelled to part with a considerable portion of their small reserve fund (provided by a legacy) to tide over difficulties. But this method of balancing expenditure and income is very unsatisfactory, and cannot be long continued. "I am led to plead for the society with especial insistence at the present time, inasmuch as more than one of those whose unblemished life has made them fitting recipients of such a signal favour, have recently had visions informing them that the Sunchild will again shortly visit us. We know not when he will come, but when he comes, my friends, let him not find us unmindful of, nor ungrateful for, the inestimable services he has rendered us. For come he surely will. Either in winter, what time icicles hang by the wall and milk comes frozen home in the pail--or in summer when days are at their longest and the mowing grass is about--there will be an hour, either at morn, or eve, or in the middle day, when he will again surely come. May it be mine to be among those who are then present to receive him." Here he again glared at my father, whose blood was boiling. George had not positively forbidden him to speak out; he therefore sprang to his feet, "You lying hound," he cried, "I am the Sunchild, and you know it." George, who knew that he had my father in his own hands, made no attempt to stop him, and was delighted that he should have declared himself though he had felt it his duty to tell him not to do so. Yram turned pale. Hanky roared out, "Tear him in pieces--leave not a single limb on his body. Take him out and burn him alive." The vergers made a dash for him--but George's brothers seized them. The crowd seemed for a moment inclined to do as Hanky bade them, but Yram rose from her place, and held up her hand as one who claimed attention. She advanced towards George and my father as unconcernedly as though she were merely walking out of church, but she still held her hand uplifted. All eyes were turned on her, as well as on George and my father, and the icy calm of her self- possession chilled those who were inclined for the moment to take Hanky's words literally. There was not a trace of fluster in her gait, action, or words, as she said-- "My friends, this temple, and this day, must not be profaned with blood. My son will take this poor madman to the prison. Let him be judged and punished according to law. Make room, that he and my son may pass." Then, turning to my father, she said, "Go quietly with the Ranger." Having so spoken, she returned to her seat as unconcernedly as she had left it. Hanky for a time continued to foam at the mouth and roar out, "Tear him to pieces! burn him alive!" but when he saw that there was no further hope of getting the people to obey him, he collapsed on to a seat in his pulpit, mopped his bald head, and consoled himself with a great pinch of a powder which corresponds very closely to our own snuff. George led my father out by the side door at the north end of the western aisle; the people eyed him intently, but made way for him without demonstration. One voice alone was heard to cry out, "Yes, he is the Sunchild!" My father glanced at the speaker, and saw that he was the interpreter who had taught him the Erewhonian language when he was in prison. George, seeing a special constable close by, told him to bid his brothers release the vergers, and let them arrest the interpreter--this the vergers, foiled as they had been in the matter of my father's arrest, were very glad to do. So the poor interpreter, to his dismay, was lodged at once in one of the Bank prison-cells, where he could do no further harm. CHAPTER XVII: GEORGE TAKES HIS FATHER TO PRISON, AND THERE OBTAINS SOME USEFUL INFORMATION By this time George had got my father into the open square, where he was surprised to find that a large bonfire had been made and lighted. There had been nothing of the kind an hour before; the wood, therefore, must have been piled and lighted while people had been in church. He had no time at the moment to enquire why this had been done, but later on he discovered that on the Sunday morning the Manager of the new temple had obtained leave from the Mayor to have the wood piled in the square, representing that this was Professor Hanky's contribution to the festivities of the day. There had, it seemed, been no intention of lighting it until nightfall; but it had accidentally caught fire through the carelessness of a workman, much about the time when Hanky began to preach. No one for a moment believed that there had been any sinister intention, or that Professor Hanky when he urged the crowd to burn my father alive, even knew that there was a pile of wood in the square at all--much less that it had been lighted--for he could hardly have supposed that the wood had been got together so soon. Nevertheless both George and my father, when they knew all that had passed, congratulated themselves on the fact that my father had not fallen into the hands of the vergers, who would probably have tried to utilise the accidental fire, though in no case is it likely they would have succeeded. As soon as they were inside the gaol, the old Master recognised my father. "Bless my heart--what? You here, again, Mr. Higgs? Why, I thought you were in the palace of the sun your father." "I wish I was," answered my father, shaking hands with him, but he could say no more. "You are as safe here as if you were," said George laughing, "and safer." Then turning to his grandfather, he said, "You have the record of Mr. Higgs's marks and measurements? I know you have: take him to his old cell; it is the best in the prison; and then please bring me the record." The old man took George and my father to the cell which he had occupied twenty years earlier--but I cannot stay to describe his feelings on finding himself again within it. The moment his grandfather's back was turned, George said to my father, "And now shake hands also with your son." As he spoke he took my father's hand and pressed it warmly between both his own. "Then you know you are my son," said my father as steadily as the strong emotion that mastered him would permit. "Certainly." "But you did not know this when I was walking with you on Friday?" "Of course not. I thought you were Professor Panky; if I had not taken you for one of the two persons named in your permit, I should have questioned you closely, and probably ended by throwing you into the Blue Pool." He shuddered as he said this. "But you knew who I was when you called me Panky in the temple?" "Quite so. My mother told me everything on Friday evening." "And that is why you tried to find me at Fairmead?" "Yes, but where in the world were you?" "I was inside the Musical Bank of the town, resting and reading." George laughed, and said, "On purpose to hide?" "Oh no; pure chance. But on Friday evening? How could your mother have found out by that time that I was in Erewhon? Am I on my head or my heels?" "On your heels, my father, which shall take you back to your own country as soon as we can get you out of this." "What have I done to deserve so much goodwill? I have done you nothing but harm?" Again he was quite overcome. George patted him gently on the hand, and said, "You made a bet and you won it. During the very short time that we can be together, you shall be paid in full, and may heaven protect us both." As soon as my father could speak he said, "But how did your mother find out that I was in Erewhon?" "Hanky and Panky were dining with her, and they told her some things that she thought strange. She cross-questioned them, put two and two together, learned that you had got their permit out of them, saw that you intended to return on Friday, and concluded that you would be sleeping in Sunch'ston. She sent for me, told me all, bade me scour Sunch'ston to find you, intending that you should be at once escorted safely over the preserves by me. I found your inn, but you had given us the slip. I tried first Fairmead and then Clearwater, but did not find you till this morning. For reasons too long to repeat, my mother warned Hanky and Panky that you would be in the temple; whereon Hanky tried to get you into his clutches. Happily he failed, but if I had known what he was doing I should have arrested you before the service. I ought to have done this, but I wanted you to win your wager, and I shall get you safely away in spite of them. My mother will not like my having let you hear Hanky's sermon and declare yourself." "You half told me not to say who I was." "Yes, but I was delighted when you disobeyed me." "I did it very badly. I never rise to great occasions, I always fall to them, but these things must come as they come." "You did it as well as it could be done, and good will come of it." "And now," he continued, "describe exactly all that passed between you and the Professors. On which side of Panky did Hanky sit, and did they sit north and south or east and west? How did you get--oh yes, I know that--you told them it would be of no further use to them. Tell me all else you can." My father said that the Professors were sitting pretty well east and west, so that Hanky, who was on the east side, nearest the mountains, had Panky, who was on the Sunch'ston side, on his right hand. George made a note of this. My father then told what the reader already knows, but when he came to the measurement of the boots, George said, "Take your boots off," and began taking off his own. "Foot for foot," said he, "we are not father and son, but brothers. Yours will fit me; they are less worn than mine, but I daresay you will not mind that." On this George _ex abundanti cautela_ knocked a nail out of the right boot that he had been wearing and changed boots with my father; but he thought it more plausible not to knock out exactly the same nail that was missing on my father's boot. When the change was made, each found--or said he found--the other's boots quite comfortable. My father all the time felt as though he were a basket given to a dog. The dog had got him, was proud of him, and no one must try to take him away. The promptitude with which George took to him, the obvious pleasure he had in "running" him, his quick judgement, verging as it should towards rashness, his confidence that my father trusted him without reserve, the conviction of perfect openness that was conveyed by the way in which his eyes never budged from my father's when he spoke to him, his genial, kindly, manner, perfect physical health, and the air he had of being on the best possible terms with himself and every one else--the combination of all this so overmastered my poor father (who indeed had been sufficiently mastered before he had been five minutes in George's company) that he resigned himself as gratefully to being a basket, as George had cheerfully undertaken the task of carrying him. In passing I may say that George could never get his own boots back again, though he tried more than once to do so. My father always made some excuse. They were the only memento of George that he brought home with him; I wonder that he did not ask for a lock of his hair, but he did not. He had the boots put against a wall in his bedroom, where he could see them from his bed, and during his illness, while consciousness yet remained with him, I saw his eyes continually turn towards them. George, in fact, dominated him as long as anything in this world could do so. Nor do I wonder; on the contrary, I love his memory the better; for I too, as will appear later, have seen George, and whatever little jealousy I may have felt, vanished on my finding him almost instantaneously gain the same ascendancy over me his brother, that he had gained over his and my father. But of this no more at present. Let me return to the gaol in Sunch'ston. "Tell me more," said George, "about the Professors." My father told him about the nuggets, the sale of his kit, the receipt he had given for the money, and how he had got the nuggets back from a tree, the position of which he described. "I know the tree; have you got the nuggets here?" "Here they are, with the receipt, and the pocket handkerchief marked with Hanky's name. The pocket handkerchief was found wrapped round some dried leaves that we call tea, but I have not got these with me." As he spoke he gave everything to George, who showed the utmost delight in getting possession of them. "I suppose the blanket and the rest of the kit are still in the tree?" "Unless Hanky and Panky have got them away, or some one has found them." "This is not likely. I will now go to my office, but I will come back very shortly. My grandfather shall bring you something to eat at once. I will tell him to send enough for two"--which he accordingly did. On reaching the office, he told his next brother (whom he had made an under-ranger) to go to the tree he described, and bring back the bundle he should find concealed therein. "You can go there and back," he said, "in an hour and a half, and I shall want the bundle by that time." The brother, whose name I never rightly caught, set out at once. As soon as he was gone, George took from a drawer the feathers and bones of quails, that he had shown my father on the morning when he met him. He divided them in half, and made them into two bundles, one of which he docketed, "Bones of quails eaten, XIX. xii. 29, by Professor Hanky, P.O.W.W., &c." And he labelled Panky's quail bones in like fashion. Having done this, he returned to the gaol, but on his way he looked in at the Mayor's, and left a note saying that he should be at the gaol, where any message would reach him, but that he did not wish to meet Professors Hanky and Panky for another couple of hours. It was now about half-past twelve, and he caught sight of a crowd coming quietly out of the temple, whereby he knew that Hanky would soon be at the Mayor's house. Dinner was brought in almost at the moment when George returned to the gaol. As soon as it was over George said:- "Are you quite sure you have made no mistake about the way in which you got the permit out of the Professors?" "Quite sure. I told them they would not want it, and said I could save them trouble if they gave it me. They never suspected why I wanted it. Where do you think I may be mistaken?" "You sold your nuggets for rather less than a twentieth part of their value, and you threw in some curiosities, that would have fetched about half as much as you got for the nuggets. You say you did this because you wanted money to keep you going till you could sell some of your nuggets. This sounds well at first, but the sacrifice is too great to be plausible when considered. It looks more like a case of good honest manly straightforward corruption." "But surely you believe me?" "Of course I do. I believe every syllable that comes from your mouth, but I shall not be able to make out that the story was as it was not, unless I am quite certain what it really was." "It was exactly as I have told you." "That is enough. And now, may I tell my mother that you will put yourself in her, and the Mayor's, and my, hands, and will do whatever we tell you?" "I will be obedience itself--but you will not ask me to do anything that will make your mother or you think less well of me?" "If we tell you what you are to do, we shall not think any the worse of you for doing it. Then I may say to my mother that you will be good and give no trouble--not even though we bid you shake hands with Hanky and Panky?" "I will embrace them and kiss them on both cheeks, if you and she tell me to do so. But what about the Mayor?" "He has known everything, and condoned everything, these last twenty years. He will leave everything to my mother and me." "Shall I have to see him?" "Certainly. You must be brought up before him to-morrow morning." "How can I look him in the face?" "As you would me, or any one else. It is understood among us that nothing happened. Things may have looked as though they had happened, but they did not happen." "And you are not yet quite twenty?" "No, but I am son to my mother--and," he added, "to one who can stretch a point or two in the way of honesty as well as other people." Having said this with a laugh, he again took my father's hand between both his, and went back to his office--where he set himself to think out the course he intended to take when dealing with the Professors. CHAPTER XVIII: YRAM INVITES DR. DOWNIE AND MRS. HUMDRUM TO LUNCHEON--A PASSAGE AT ARMS BETWEEN HER AND HANKY IS AMICABLY ARRANGED The disturbance caused by my father's outbreak was quickly suppressed, for George got him out of the temple almost immediately; it was bruited about, however, that the Sunchild had come down from the palace of the sun, but had disappeared as soon as any one had tried to touch him. In vain did Hanky try to put fresh life into his sermon; its back had been broken, and large numbers left the church to see what they could hear outside, or failing information, to discourse more freely with one another. Hanky did his best to quiet his hearers when he found that he could not infuriate them,-- "This poor man," he said, "is already known to me, as one of those who have deluded themselves into believing that they are the Sunchild. I have known of his so declaring himself, more than once, in the neighbourhood of Bridgeford, and others have not infrequently done the same; I did not at first recognize him, and regret that the shock of horror his words occasioned me should have prompted me to suggest violence against him. Let this unfortunate affair pass from your minds, and let me again urge upon you the claims of the Sunchild Evidence Society." The audience on hearing that they were to be told more about the Sunchild Evidence Society melted away even more rapidly than before, and the sermon fizzled out to an ignominious end quite unworthy of its occasion. About half-past twelve, the service ended, and Hanky went to the robing- room to take off his vestments. Yram, the Mayor, and Panky, waited for him at the door opposite to that through which my father had been taken; while waiting, Yram scribbled off two notes in pencil, one to Dr. Downie, and another to Mrs. Humdrum, begging them to come to lunch at once--for it would be one o'clock before they could reach the Mayor's. She gave these notes to the Mayor, and bade him bring both the invited guests along with him. The Mayor left just as Hanky was coming towards her. "This, Mayoress," he said with some asperity, "is a very serious business. It has ruined my collection. Half the people left the temple without giving anything at all. You seem," he added in a tone the significance of which could not be mistaken, "to be very fond, Mayoress, of this Mr. Higgs." "Yes," said Yram, "I am; I always liked him, and I am sorry for him; but he is not the person I am most sorry for at this moment--he, poor man, is not going to be horsewhipped within the next twenty minutes." And she spoke the "he" in italics. "I do not understand you, Mayoress." "My husband will explain, as soon as I have seen him." "Hanky," said Panky, "you must withdraw, and apologise at once." Hanky was not slow to do this, and when he had disavowed everything, withdrawn everything, apologised for everything, and eaten humble pie to Yram's satisfaction, she smiled graciously, and held out her hand, which Hanky was obliged to take. "And now, Professor," she said, "let me return to your remark that this is a very serious business, and let me also claim a woman's privilege of being listened to whenever she chooses to speak. I propose, then, that we say nothing further about this matter till after luncheon. I have asked Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum to join us--" "Why Mrs. Humdrum?" interrupted Hanky none too pleasantly, for he was still furious about the duel that had just taken place between himself and his hostess. "My dear Professor," said Yram good-humouredly, "pray say all you have to say and I will continue." Hanky was silent. "I have asked," resumed Yram, "Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum to join, us, and after luncheon we can discuss the situation or no as you may think proper. Till then let us say no more. Luncheon will be over by two o'clock or soon after, and the banquet will not begin till seven, so we shall have plenty of time." Hanky looked black and said nothing. As for Panky he was morally in a state of collapse, and did not count. Hardly had they reached the Mayor's house when the Mayor also arrived with Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum, both of whom had seen and recognised my father in spite of his having dyed his hair. Dr. Downie had met him at supper in Mr. Thims's rooms when he had visited Bridgeford, and naturally enough had observed him closely. Mrs. Humdrum, as I have already said, had seen him more than once when he was in prison. She and Dr. Downie were talking earnestly over the strange reappearance of one whom they had believed long since dead, but Yram imposed on them the same silence that she had already imposed on the Professors. "Professor Hanky," said she to Mrs. Humdrum, in Hanky's hearing, "is a little alarmed at my having asked you to join our secret conclave. He is not married, and does not know how well a woman can hold her tongue when she chooses. I should have told you all that passed, for I mean to follow your advice, so I thought you had better hear everything yourself." Hanky still looked black, but he said nothing. Luncheon was promptly served, and done justice to in spite of much preoccupation; for if there is one thing that gives a better appetite than another, it is a Sunday morning's service with a charity sermon to follow. As the guests might not talk on the subject they wanted to talk about, and were in no humour to speak of anything else, they gave their whole attention to the good things that were before them, without so much as a thought about reserving themselves for the evening's banquet. Nevertheless, when luncheon was over, the Professors were in no more genial, manageable, state of mind than they had been when it began. When the servants had left the room, Yram said to Hanky, "You saw the prisoner, and he was the man you met on Thursday night?" "Certainly, he was wearing the forbidden dress and he had many quails in his possession. There is no doubt also that he was a foreign devil." At this point, it being now nearly half-past two, George came in, and took a seat next to Mrs. Humdrum--between her and his mother--who of course sat at the head of the table with the Mayor opposite to her. On one side of the table sat the Professors, and on the other Dr. Downie, Mrs. Humdrum, and George, who had heard the last few words that Hanky had spoken. CHAPTER XIX: A COUNCIL IS HELD AT THE MAYOR'S, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH GEORGE TURNS THE TABLES ON THE PROFESSORS "Now who," said Yram, "is this unfortunate creature to be, when he is brought up to-morrow morning, on the charge of poaching?" "It is not necessary," said Hanky severely, "that he should be brought up for poaching. He is a foreign devil, and as such your son is bound to fling him without trial into the Blue Pool. Why bring a smaller charge when you must inflict the death penalty on a more serious one? I have already told you that I shall feel it my duty to report the matter at headquarters, unless I am satisfied that the death penalty has been inflicted." "Of course," said George, "we must all of us do our duty, and I shall not shrink from mine--but I have arrested this man on a charge of poaching, and must give my reasons; the case cannot be dropped, and it must be heard in public. Am I, or am I not, to have the sworn depositions of both you gentlemen to the fact that the prisoner is the man you saw with quails in his possession? If you can depose to this he will be convicted, for there can be no doubt he killed the birds himself. The least penalty my father can inflict is twelve months' imprisonment with hard labour; and he must undergo this sentence before I can Blue-Pool him. "Then comes the question whether or no he is a foreign devil. I may decide this in private, but I must have depositions on oath before I do so, and at present I have nothing but hearsay. Perhaps you gentlemen can give me the evidence I shall require, but the case is one of such importance that were the prisoner proved never so clearly to be a foreign devil, I should not Blue-Pool him till I had taken the King's pleasure concerning him. I shall rejoice, therefore, if you gentlemen can help me to sustain the charge of poaching, and thus give me legal standing-ground for deferring action which the King might regret, and which once taken cannot be recalled." Here Yram interposed. "These points," she said, "are details. Should we not first settle, not what, but who, we shall allow the prisoner to be, when he is brought up to-morrow morning? Settle this, and the rest will settle itself. He has declared himself to be the Sunchild, and will probably do so again. I am prepared to identify him, so is Dr. Downie, so is Mrs. Humdrum, the interpreter, and doubtless my father. Others of known respectability will also do so, and his marks and measurements are sure to correspond quite sufficiently. The question is, whether all this is to be allowed to appear on evidence, or whether it is to be established, as it easily may, if we give our minds to it, that he is not the Sunchild." "Whatever else he is," said Hanky, "he must not be the Sunchild. He must, if the charge of poaching cannot be dropped, be a poacher and a foreign devil. I was doubtless too hasty when I said that I believed I recognized the man as one who had more than once declared himself to be the Sunchild--" "But, Hanky," interrupted Panky, "are you sure that you can swear to this man's being the man we met on Thursday night? We only saw him by firelight, and I doubt whether I should feel justified in swearing to him." "Well, well: on second thoughts I am not sure, Panky, but what you may be right after all; it is possible that he may be what I said he was in my sermon." "I rejoice to hear you say so," said George, "for in this case the charge of poaching will fall through. There will be no evidence against the prisoner. And I rejoice also to think that I shall have nothing to warrant me in believing him to be a foreign devil. For if he is not to be the Sunchild, and not to be your poacher, he becomes a mere monomaniac. If he apologises for having made a disturbance in the temple, and promises not to offend again, a fine, and a few days' imprisonment, will meet the case, and he may be discharged." "I see, I see," said Hanky very angrily. "You are determined to get this man off if you can." "I shall act," said George, "in accordance with sworn evidence, and not otherwise. Choose whether you will have the prisoner to be your poacher or no: give me your sworn depositions one way or the other, and I shall know how to act. If you depose on oath to the identity of the prisoner and your poacher, he will be convicted and imprisoned. As to his being a foreign devil, if he is the Sunchild, of course he is one; but otherwise I cannot Blue-Pool him even when his sentence is expired, without testimony deposed to me on oath in private, though no open trial is required. A case for suspicion was made out in my hearing last night, but I must have depositions on oath to all the leading facts before I can decide what my duty is. What will you swear to?" "All this," said Hanky, in a voice husky with passion, "shall be reported to the King." "I intend to report every word of it; but that is not the point: the question is what you gentlemen will swear to?" "Very well. I will settle it thus. We will swear that the prisoner is the poacher we met on Thursday night, and that he is also a foreign devil: his wearing the forbidden dress; his foreign accent; the foot-tracks we found in the snow, as of one coming over from the other side; his obvious ignorance of the Afforesting Act, as shown by his having lit a fire and making no effort to conceal his quails till our permit shewed him his blunder; the cock-and-bull story he told us about your orders, and that other story about his having killed a foreign devil--if these facts do not satisfy you, they will satisfy the King that the prisoner is a foreign devil as well as a poacher." "Some of these facts," answered George, "are new to me. How do you know that the foot-tracks were made by the prisoner?" Panky brought out his note-book and read the details he had noted. "Did you examine the man's boots?" "One of them, the right foot; this, with the measurements, was quite enough." "Hardly. Please to look at both soles of my own boots; you will find that those tracks were mine. I will have the prisoner's boots examined; in the meantime let me tell you that I was up at the statues on Thursday morning, walked three or four hundred yards beyond them, over ground where there was less snow, returned over the snow, and went two or three times round them, as it is the Ranger's duty to do once a year in order to see that none of them are beginning to lean." He showed the soles of his boots, and the Professors were obliged to admit that the tracks were his. He cautioned them as to the rest of the points on which they relied. Might they not be as mistaken, as they had just proved to be about the tracks? He could not, however, stir them from sticking to it that there was enough evidence to prove my father to be a foreign devil, and declaring their readiness to depose to the facts on oath. In the end Hanky again fiercely accused him of trying to shield the prisoner. "You are quite right," said George, "and you will see my reasons shortly." "I have no doubt," said Hanky significantly, "that they are such as would weigh with any man of ordinary feeling." "I understand, then," said George, appearing to take no notice of Hanky's innuendo, "that you will swear to the facts as you have above stated them?" "Certainly." "Then kindly wait while I write them on the form that I have brought with me; the Mayor can administer the oath and sign your depositions. I shall then be able to leave you, and proceed with getting up the case against the prisoner." So saying, he went to a writing-table in another part of the room, and made out the depositions. Meanwhile the Mayor, Mrs. Humdrum, and Dr. Downie (who had each of them more than once vainly tried to take part in the above discussion) conversed eagerly in an undertone among themselves. Hanky was blind with rage, for he had a sense that he was going to be outwitted; the Mayor, Yram, and Mrs. Humdrum had already seen that George thought he had all the trumps in his own hand, but they did not know more. Dr. Downie was frightened, and Panky so muddled as to be _hors de combat_. George now rejoined the Professors, and read the depositions: the Mayor administered the oath according to Erewhonian custom; the Professors signed without a word, and George then handed the document to his father to countersign. The Mayor examined it, and almost immediately said, "My dear George, you have made a mistake; these depositions are on a form reserved for deponents who are on the point of death." "Alas!" answered George, "there is no help for it. I did my utmost to prevent their signing. I knew that those depositions were their own death warrant,--and that is why, though I was satisfied that the prisoner is a foreign devil, I had hoped to be able to shut my eyes. I can now no longer do so, and as the inevitable consequence, I must Blue-Pool both the Professors before midnight. What man of ordinary feeling would not under these circumstances have tried to dissuade them from deposing as they have done?" By this time the Professors had started to their feet, and there was a look of horrified astonishment on the faces of all present, save that of George, who seemed quite happy. "What monstrous absurdity is this?" shouted Hanky; "do you mean to murder us?" "Certainly not. But you have insisted that I should do my duty, and I mean to do it. You gentlemen have now been proved to my satisfaction to have had traffic with a foreign devil; and under section 37 of the Afforesting Act, I must at once Blue-Pool any such persons without public trial." "Nonsense, nonsense, there was nothing of the kind on our permit, and as for trafficking with this foreign devil, we spoke to him, but we neither bought nor sold. Where is the Act?" "Here. On your permit you were referred to certain other clauses not set out therein, which might be seen at the Mayor's office. Clause 37 is as follows:- "It is furthermore enacted that should any of his Majesty's subjects be found, after examination by the Head Ranger, to have had traffic of any kind by way of sale or barter with any foreign devil, the said Ranger, on being satisfied that such traffic has taken place, shall forthwith, with or without the assistance of his under-rangers, convey such subjects of his Majesty to the Blue Pool, bind them, weight them, and fling them into it, without the formality of a trial, and shall report the circumstances of the case to his Majesty." "But we never bought anything from the prisoner. What evidence can you have of this but the word of a foreign devil in such straits that he would swear to anything?" "The prisoner has nothing to do with it. I am convinced by this receipt in Professor Panky's handwriting which states that he and you jointly purchased his kit from the prisoner, and also this bag of gold nuggets worth about 100 pounds in silver, for the absurdly small sum of 4 pounds, 10s. in silver. I am further convinced by this handkerchief marked with Professor Hanky's name, in which was found a broken packet of dried leaves that are now at my office with the rest of the prisoner's kit." "Then we were watched and dogged," said Hanky, "on Thursday evening." "That, sir," replied George, "is my business, not yours." Here Panky laid his arms on the table, buried his head in them, and burst into tears. Every one seemed aghast, but the Mayor, Yram, and Mrs. Humdrum saw that George was enjoying it all far too keenly to be serious. Dr. Downie was still frightened (for George's surface manner was Rhadamanthine) and did his utmost to console Panky. George pounded away ruthlessly at his case. "I say nothing about your having bought quails from the prisoner and eaten them. As you justly remarked just now, there is no object in preferring a smaller charge when one must inflict the death penalty on a more serious one. Still, Professor Hanky, these are bones of the quails you ate as you sate opposite the prisoner on the side of the fire nearest Sunch'ston; these are Professor Panky's bones, with which I need not disturb him. This is your permit, which was found upon the prisoner, and which there can be no doubt you sold him, having been bribed by the offer of the nuggets for--" "Monstrous, monstrous! Infamous falsehood! Who will believe such a childish trumped up story!" "Who, sir, will believe anything else? You will hardly contend that you did not know the nuggets were gold, and no one will believe you mean enough to have tried to get this poor man's property out of him for a song--you knowing its value, and he not knowing the same. No one will believe that you did not know the man to be a foreign devil, or that he could hoodwink two such learned Professors so cleverly as to get their permit out of them. Obviously he seduced you into selling him your permit, and--I presume because he wanted a little of our money--he made you pay him for his kit. I am satisfied that you have not only had traffic with a foreign devil, but traffic of a singularly atrocious kind, and this being so, I shall Blue-Pool both of you as soon as I can get you up to the Pool itself. The sooner we start the better. I shall gag you, and drive you up in a close carriage as far as the road goes; from that point you can walk up, or be dragged up as you may prefer, but you will probably find walking more comfortable." "But," said Hanky, "come what may, I must be at the banquet. I am set down to speak." "The Mayor will explain that you have been taken somewhat suddenly unwell." Here Yram, who had been talking quietly with her husband, Dr. Downie, and Mrs. Humdrum, motioned her son to silence. "I feared," she said, "that difficulties might arise, though I did not foresee how seriously they would affect my guests. Let Mrs. Humdrum on our side, and Dr. Downie on that of the Professors, go into the next room and talk the matter quietly over; let us then see whether we cannot agree to be bound by their decision. I do not doubt but they will find some means of averting any catastrophe more serious--No, Professor Hanky, the doors are locked--than a little perjury in which we shall all share and share alike." "Do what you like," said Hanky, looking for all the world like a rat caught in a trap. As he spoke he seized a knife from the table, whereon George pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and slipped them on to his wrists before he well knew what was being done to him. "George," said the Mayor, "this is going too far. Do you mean to Blue- Pool the Professors or no?" "Not if they will compromise. If they will be reasonable, they will not be Blue-Pooled; if they think they can have everything their own way, the eels will be at them before morning." A voice was heard from the head of Panky which he had buried in his arms upon the table. "Co-co-co-compromise," it said; and the effect was so comic that every one except Hanky smiled. Meanwhile Yram had conducted Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum into an adjoining room. CHAPTER XX: MRS. HUMDRUM AND DR. DOWNIE PROPOSE A COMPROMISE, WHICH, AFTER AN AMENDMENT BY GEORGE, IS CARRIED NEM. CON. They returned in about ten minutes, and Dr. Downie asked Mrs. Humdrum to say what they had agreed to recommend. "We think," said she very demurely, "that the strict course would be to drop the charge of poaching, and Blue-Pool both the Professors and the prisoner without delay. "We also think that the proper thing would be to place on record that the prisoner is the Sunchild--about which neither Dr. Downie nor I have a shadow of doubt. "These measures we hold to be the only legal ones, but at the same time we do not recommend them. We think it would offend the public conscience if it came to be known, as it certainly would, that the Sunchild was violently killed, on the very day that had seen us dedicate a temple in his honour, and perhaps at the very hour when laudatory speeches were being made about him at the Mayor's banquet; we think also that we should strain a good many points rather than Blue-Pool the Professors. "Nothing is perfect, and Truth makes her mistakes like other people; when she goes wrong and reduces herself to such an absurdity as she has here done, those who love her must save her from herself, correct her, and rehabilitate her. "Our conclusion, therefore, is this:- "The prisoner must recant on oath his statement that he is the Sunchild. The interpreter must be squared, or convinced of his mistake. The Mayoress, Dr. Downie, I, and the gaoler (with the interpreter if we can manage him), must depose on oath that the prisoner is not Higgs. This must be our contribution to the rehabilitation of Truth. "The Professors must contribute as follows: They must swear that the prisoner is not the man they met with quails in his possession on Thursday night. They must further swear that they have one or both of them known him, off and on, for many years past, as a monomaniac with Sunchildism on the brain but otherwise harmless. If they will do this, no proceedings are to be taken against them. "The Mayor's contribution shall be to reprimand the prisoner, and order him to repeat his recantation in the new temple before the Manager and Head Cashier, and to confirm his statement on oath by kissing the reliquary containing the newly found relic. "The Ranger and the Master of the Gaol must contribute that the prisoner's measurements, and the marks found on his body, negative all possibility of his identity with the Sunchild, and that all the hair on the covered as well as the uncovered parts of his body was found to be jet black. "We advise further that the prisoner should have his nuggets and his kit returned to him, and that the receipt given by the Professors together with Professor Hanky's handkerchief be given back to the Professors. "Furthermore, seeing that we should all of us like to have a quiet evening with the prisoner, we should petition the Mayor and Mayoress to ask him to meet all here present at dinner to-morrow evening, after his discharge, on the plea that Professors Hanky and Panky and Dr. Downie may give him counsel, convince him of his folly, and if possible free him henceforth from the monomania under which he now suffers. "The prisoner shall give his word of honour, never to return to Erewhon, nor to encourage any of his countrymen to do so. After the dinner to which we hope the Mayoress Will invite us, the Ranger, if the night is fair, shall escort the prisoner as far as the statues, whence he will find his own way home. "Those who are in favour of this compromise hold up their hands." The Mayor and Yram held up theirs. "Will you hold up yours, Professor Hanky," said George, "if I release you?" "Yes," said Hanky with a gruff laugh, whereon George released him and he held up both his hands. Panky did not hold up his, whereon Hanky said, "Hold up your hands, Panky, can't you? We are really very well out of it." Panky, hardly lifting his head, sobbed out, "I think we ought to have our f-f-fo-fo-four pounds ten returned to us." "I am afraid, sir," said George, "that the prisoner must have spent the greater part of this money." Every one smiled, indeed it was all George could do to prevent himself from laughing outright. The Mayor brought out his purse, counted the money, and handed it good-humouredly to Panky, who gratefully received it, and said he would divide it with Hanky. He then held up his hands, "But," he added, turning to his brother Professor, "so long as I live, Hanky, I will never go out anywhere again with you." George then turned to Hanky and said, "I am afraid I must now trouble you and Professor Panky to depose on oath to the facts which Mrs. Humdrum and Dr. Downie propose you should swear to in open court to-morrow. I knew you would do so, and have brought an ordinary form, duly filled up, which declares that the prisoner is not the poacher you met on Thursday; and also, that he has been long known to both of you as a harmless monomaniac." As he spoke he brought out depositions to the above effect which he had just written in his office; he shewed the Professors that the form was this time an innocent one, whereon they made no demur to signing and swearing in the presence of the Mayor, who attested. "The former depositions," said Hanky, "had better be destroyed at once." "That," said George, "may hardly be, but so long as you stick to what you have just sworn to, they will not be used against you." Hanky scowled, but knew that he was powerless and said no more. * * * * * The knowledge of what ensued did not reach me from my father. George and his mother, seeing how ill he looked, and what a shock the events of the last few days had given him, resolved that he should not know of the risk that George was about to run; they therefore said nothing to him about it. What I shall now tell, I learned on the occasion already referred to when I had the happiness to meet George. I am in some doubt whether it is more fitly told here, or when I come to the interview between him and me; on the whole, however, I suppose chronological order is least outraged by dealing with it here. As soon as the Professors had signed the second depositions, George said, "I have not yet held up my hands, but I will hold them up if Mrs. Humdrum and Dr. Downie will approve of what I propose. Their compromise does not go far enough, for swear as we may, it is sure to get noised abroad, with the usual exaggerations, that the Sunchild has been here, and that he has been spirited away either by us, or by the sun his father. For one person whom we know of as having identified him, there will be five, of whom we know nothing, and whom we cannot square. Reports will reach the King sooner or later, and I shall be sent for. Meanwhile the Professors will be living in fear of intrigue on my part, and I, however unreasonably, shall fear the like on theirs. This should not be. I mean, therefore, on the day following my return from escorting the prisoner, to set out for the capital, see the King, and make a clean breast of the whole matter. To this end I must have the nuggets, the prisoner's kit, his receipt, Professor Hanky's handkerchief, and, of course, the two depositions just sworn to by the Professors. I hope and think that the King will pardon us all round; but whatever he may do I shall tell him everything." Hanky was up in arms at once. "Sheer madness," he exclaimed. Yram and the Mayor looked anxious; Dr. Downie eyed George as though he were some curious creature, which he heard of but had never seen, and was rather disposed to like. Mrs. Humdrum nodded her head approvingly. "Quite right, George," said she, "tell his Majesty everything." Dr. Downie then said, "Your son, Mayoress, is a very sensible fellow. I will go with him, and with the Professors--for they had better come too: each will hear what the other says, and we will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I am, as you know, a _persona grata_ at Court; I will say that I advised your son's action. The King has liked him ever since he was a boy, and I am not much afraid about what he will do. In public, no doubt we had better hush things up, but in private the King must be told." Hanky fought hard for some time, but George told him that it did not matter whether he agreed or no. "You can come," he said, "or stop away, just as you please. If you come, you can hear and speak; if you do not, you will not hear, but these two depositions will speak for you. Please yourself." "Very well," he said at last, "I suppose we had better go." Every one having now understood what his or her part was to be, Yram said they had better shake hands all round and take a couple of hours' rest before getting ready for the banquet. George said that the Professors did not shake hands with him very cordially, but the farce was gone through. When the hand-shaking was over, Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum left the house, and the Professors retired grumpily to their own room. I will say here that no harm happened either to George or the Professors in consequence of his having told the King, but will reserve particulars for my concluding chapter. CHAPTER XXI: YRAM, ON GETTING RID OF HER GUESTS, GOES TO THE PRISON TO SEE MY FATHER Yram did not take the advice she had given her guests, but set about preparing a basket of the best cold dainties she could find, including a bottle of choice wine that she knew my father would like; thus loaded she went to the gaol, which she entered by her father's private entrance. It was now about half-past four, so that much more must have been said and done after luncheon at the Mayor's than ever reached my father. The wonder is that he was able to collect so much. He, poor man, as soon as George left him, flung himself on to the bed that was in his cell and lay there wakeful, but not unquiet, till near the time when Yram reached the gaol. The old gaoler came to tell him that she had come and would be glad to see him; much as he dreaded the meeting there was no avoiding it, and in a few minutes Yram stood before him. Both were agitated, but Yram betrayed less of what she felt than my father. He could only bow his head and cover his face with his hands. Yram said, "We are old friends; take your hands from your face and let me see you. There! That is well." She took his right hand between both hers, looked at him with eyes full of kindness, and said softly-- "You are not much changed, but you look haggard, worn, and ill; I am uneasy about you. Remember, you are among friends, who will see that no harm befalls you. There is a look in your eyes that frightens me." As she spoke she took the wine out of her basket, and poured him out a glass, but rather to give him some little thing to distract his attention, than because she expected him to drink it--which he could not do. She never asked him whether he found her altered, or turned the conversation ever such a little on to herself; all was for him; to soothe and comfort him, not in words alone, but in look, manner, and voice. My father knew that he could thank her best by controlling himself, and letting himself be soothed and comforted--at any rate so far as he could seem to be. Up to this time they had been standing, but now Yram, seeing my father calmer, said, "Enough, let us sit down." So saying she seated herself at one end of the small table that was in the cell, and motioned my father to sit opposite to her. "The light hurts you?" she said, for the sun was coming into the room. "Change places with me, I am a sun worshipper. No, we can move the table, and we can then see each other better." This done, she said, still very softly, "And now tell me what it is all about. Why have you come here?" "Tell me first," said my father, "what befell you after I had been taken away. Why did you not send me word when you found what had happened? or come after me? You know I should have married you at once, unless they bound me in fetters." "I know you would; but you remember Mrs. Humdrum? Yes, I see you do. I told her everything; it was she who saved me. We thought of you, but she saw that it would not do. As I was to marry Mr. Strong, the more you were lost sight of the better, but with George ever with me I have not been able to forget you. I might have been very happy with you, but I could not have been happier than I have been ever since that short dreadful time was over. George must tell you the rest. I cannot do so. All is well. I love my husband with my whole heart and soul, and he loves me with his. As between him and me, he knows everything; George is his son, not yours; we have settled it so, though we both know otherwise; as between you and me, for this one hour, here, there is no use in pretending that you are not George's father. I have said all I need say. Now, tell me what I asked you--Why are you here?" "I fear," said my father, set at rest by the sweetness of Yram's voice and manner--he told me he had never seen any one to compare with her except my mother--"I fear, to do as much harm now as I did before, and with as little wish to do any harm at all." He then told her all that the reader knows, and explained how he had thought he could have gone about the country as a peasant, and seen how she herself had fared, without her, or any one, even suspecting that he was in the country. "You say your wife is dead, and that she left you with a son--is he like George?" "In mind and disposition, wonderfully; in appearance, no; he is dark and takes after his mother, and though he is handsome, he is not so good-looking as George." "No one," said George's mother, "ever was, or ever will be, and he is as good as he looks." "I should not have believed you if you had said he was not." "That is right. I am glad you are proud of him. He irradiates the lives of every one of us." "And the mere knowledge that he exists will irradiate the rest of mine." "Long may it do so. Let us now talk about this morning--did you mean to declare yourself?" "I do not know what I meant; what I most cared about was the doing what I thought George would wish to see his father do." "You did that; but he says he told you not to say who you were." "So he did, but I knew what he would think right. He was uppermost in my thoughts all the time." Yram smiled, and said, "George is a dangerous person; you were both of you very foolish; one as bad as the other." "I do not know. I do not know anything. It is beyond me; but I am at peace about it, and hope I shall do the like again to-morrow before the Mayor." "I heartily hope you will do nothing of the kind. George tells me you have promised him to be good and to do as we bid you." "So I will; but he will not tell me to say that I am not what I am." "Yes, he will, and I will tell you why. If we permit you to be Higgs the Sunchild, he must either throw his own father into the Blue Pool--which he will not do--or run great risk of being thrown into it himself, for not having Blue-Pooled a foreigner. I am afraid we shall have to make you do a good deal that neither you nor we shall like." She then told him briefly of what had passed after luncheon at her house, and what it had been settled to do, leaving George to tell the details while escorting him towards the statues on the following evening. She said that every one would be so completely in every one else's power that there was no fear of any one's turning traitor. But she said nothing about George's intention of setting out for the capital on Wednesday morning to tell the whole story to the King. "Now," she said, when she had told him as much as was necessary, "be good, and do as you said you would." "I will. I will deny myself, not once, nor twice, but as often as is necessary. I will kiss the reliquary, and when I meet Hanky and Panky at your table, I will be sworn brother to them--so long, that is, as George is out of hearing; for I cannot lie well to them when he is listening." "Oh yes, you can. He will understand all about it; he enjoys falsehood as well as we all do, and has the nicest sense of when to lie and when not to do so." "What gift can be more invaluable?" My father, knowing that he might not have another chance of seeing Yram alone, now changed the conversation. "I have something," he said, "for George, but he must know nothing about it till after I am gone." As he spoke, he took from his pockets the nine small bags of nuggets that remained to him. "But this," said Yram, "being gold, is a large sum: can you indeed spare it, and do you really wish George to have it all?" "I shall be very unhappy if he does not, but he must know nothing about it till I am out of Erewhon." My father then explained to her that he was now very rich, and would have brought ten times as much, if he had known of George's existence. "Then," said Yram, musing, "if you are rich, I accept and thank you heartily on his behalf. I can see a reason for his not knowing what you are giving him at present, but it is too long to tell." The reason was, that if George knew of this gold before he saw the King, he would be sure to tell him of it, and the King might claim it, for George would never explain that it was a gift from father to son; whereas if the King had once pardoned him, he would not be so squeamish as to open up the whole thing again with a postscript to his confession. But of this she said not a word. My father then told her of the box of sovereigns that he had left in his saddle-bags. "They are coined," he said, "and George will have to melt them down, but he will find some way of doing this. They will be worth rather more than these nine bags of nuggets." "The difficulty will be to get him to go down and fetch them, for it is against his oath to go far beyond the statues. If you could be taken faint and say you wanted help, he would see you to your camping ground without a word, but he would be angry if he found he had been tricked into breaking his oath in order that money might be given him. It would never do. Besides, there would not be time, for he must be back here on Tuesday night. No; if he breaks his oath he must do it with his eyes open--and he will do it later on--or I will go and fetch the money for him myself. He is in love with a grand-daughter of Mrs. Humdrum's, and this sum, together with what you are now leaving with me, will make him a well-to-do man. I have always been unhappy about his having any of the Mayor's money, and his salary was not quite enough for him to marry on. What can I say to thank you?" "Tell me, please, about Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter. You like her as a wife for George?" "Absolutely. She is just such another as her grandmother must have been. She and George have been sworn lovers ever since he was ten, and she eight. The only drawback is that her mother, Mrs. Humdrum's second daughter, married for love, and there are many children, so that there will be no money with her; but what you are leaving will make everything quite easy, for he will sell the gold at once. I am so glad about it." "Can you ask Mrs. Humdrum to bring her grand-daughter with her to-morrow evening?" "I am afraid not, for we shall want to talk freely at dinner, and she must not know that you are the Sunchild; she shall come to my house in the afternoon and you can see her then. You will be quite happy about her, but of course she must not know that you are her father-in-law that is to be." "One thing more. As George must know nothing about the sovereigns, I must tell you how I will hide them. They are in a silver box, which I will bind to the bough of some tree close to my camp; or if I can find a tree with a hole in it I will drop the box into the hole. He cannot miss my camp; he has only to follow the stream that runs down from the pass till it gets near a large river, and on a small triangular patch of flat ground, he will see the ashes of my camp fire, a few yards away from the stream on his right hand as he descends. In whatever tree I may hide the box, I will strew wood ashes for some yards in a straight line towards it. I will then light another fire underneath, and blaze the tree with a knife that I have left at my camping ground. He is sure to find it." Yram again thanked him, and then my father, to change the conversation, asked whether she thought that George really would have Blue-Pooled the Professors. "There is no knowing," said Yram. "He is the gentlest creature living till some great provocation rouses him, and I never saw him hate and despise any one as he does the Professors. Much of what he said was merely put on, for he knew the Professors must yield. I do not like his ever having to throw any one into that horrid place, no more does he, but the Rangership is exactly the sort of thing to suit him, and the opening was too good to lose. I must now leave you, and get ready for the Mayor's banquet. We shall meet again to-morrow evening. Try and eat what I have brought you in this basket. I hope you will like the wine." She put out her hand, which my father took, and in another moment she was gone, for she saw a look in his face as though he would fain have asked her to let him once more press his lips to hers. Had he done this, without thinking about it, it is likely enough she would not have been ill pleased. But who can say? For the rest of the evening my father was left very much to his own not too comfortable reflections. He spent part of it in posting up the notes from which, as well as from his own mouth, my story is in great part taken. The good things that Yram had left with him, and his pipe, which she had told him he might smoke quite freely, occupied another part, and by ten o'clock he went to bed. CHAPTER XXII: MAINLY OCCUPIED WITH A VERACIOUS EXTRACT FROM A SUNCH'STONIAN JOURNAL While my father was thus wiling away the hours in his cell, the whole town was being illuminated in his honour, and not more than a couple of hundred yards off, at the Mayor's banquet, he was being extolled as a superhuman being. The banquet, which was at the town hall, was indeed a very brilliant affair, but the little space that is left me forbids my saying more than that Hanky made what was considered the speech of the evening, and betrayed no sign of ill effects from the bad quarter of an hour which he had spent so recently. Not a trace was to be seen of any desire on his part to change his tone as regards Sunchildism--as, for example, to minimize the importance of the relic, or to remind his hearers that though the chariot and horses had undoubtedly come down from the sky and carried away my father and mother, yet that the earlier stage of the ascent had been made in a balloon. It almost seemed, so George told my father, as though he had resolved that he would speak lies, all lies, and nothing but lies. Panky, who was also to have spoken, was excused by the Mayor on the ground that the great heat and the excitement of the day's proceedings had quite robbed him of his voice. Dr. Downie had a jumping cat before his mental vision. He spoke quietly and sensibly, dwelling chiefly on the benefits that had already accrued to the kingdom through the abolition of the edicts against machinery, and the great developments which he foresaw as probable in the near future. He held up the Sunchild's example, and his ethical teaching, to the imitation and admiration of his hearers, but he said nothing about the miraculous element in my father's career, on which he declared that his friend Professor Hanky had already so eloquently enlarged as to make further allusion to it superfluous. The reader knows what was to happen on the following morning. The programme concerted at the Mayor's was strictly adhered to. The following account, however, which appeared in the Sunch'ston bi-weekly newspaper two days after my father had left, was given me by George a year later, on the occasion of that interview to which I have already more than once referred. There were other accounts in other papers, but the one I am giving departs the least widely from the facts. It ran:- "_The close of a disagreeable incident_.--Our readers will remember that on Sunday last during the solemn inauguration of the temple now dedicated to the Sunchild, an individual on the front bench of those set apart for the public suddenly interrupted Professor Hanky's eloquent sermon by declaring himself to be the Sunchild, and saying that he had come down from the sun to sanctify by his presence the glorious fane which the piety of our fellow-citizens and others has erected in his honour. "Wild rumours obtained credence throughout the congregation to the effect that this person was none other than the Sunchild himself, and in spite of the fact that his complexion and the colour of his hair showed this to be impossible, more than one person was carried away by the excitement of the moment, and by some few points of resemblance between the stranger and the Sunchild. Under the influence of this belief, they were preparing to give him the honour which they supposed justly due to him, when to the surprise of every one he was taken into custody by the deservedly popular Ranger of the King's preserves, and in the course of the afternoon it became generally known that he had been arrested on the charge of being one of a gang of poachers who have been known for some time past to be making much havoc among the quails on the preserves. "This offence, at all times deplored by those who desire that his Majesty should enjoy good sport when he honours us with a visit, is doubly deplorable during the season when, on the higher parts of the preserves, the young birds are not yet able to shift for themselves; the Ranger, therefore, is indefatigable in his efforts to break up the gang, and with this end in view, for the last fortnight has been out night and day on the remoter sections of the forest--little suspecting that the marauders would venture so near Sunch'ston as it now seems they have done. It is to his extreme anxiety to detect and punish these miscreants that we must ascribe the arrest of a man, who, however foolish, and indeed guilty, he is in other respects, is innocent of the particular crime imputed to him. The circumstances that led to his arrest have reached us from an exceptionally well-informed source, and are as follows:- "Our distinguished guests, Professors Hanky and Panky, both of them justly celebrated archaeologists, had availed themselves of the opportunity afforded them by their visit to Sunch'ston, to inspect the mysterious statues at the head of the stream that comes down near this city, and which have hitherto baffled all those who have tried to ascertain their date and purpose. "On their descent after a fatiguing day the Professors were benighted, and lost their way. Seeing the light of a small fire among some trees near them, they made towards it, hoping to be directed rightly, and found a man, respectably dressed, sitting by the fire with several brace of quails beside him, some of them plucked. Believing that in spite of his appearance, which would not have led them to suppose that he was a poacher, he must unquestionably be one, they hurriedly enquired their way, intending to leave him as soon as they had got their answer; he, however, attacked them, or made as though he would do so, and said he would show them a way which they should be in no fear of losing, whereon Professor Hanky, with a well-directed blow, felled him to the ground. The two Professors, fearing that other poachers might come to his assistance, made off as nearly as they could guess in the direction of Sunch'ston. When they had gone a mile or two onward at haphazard, they sat down under a large tree, and waited till day began to break; they then resumed their journey, and before long struck a path which led them to a spot from which they could see the towers of the new temple. "Fatigued though they were, they waited before taking the rest of which they stood much in need, till they had reported their adventure at the Ranger's office. The Ranger was still out on the preserves, but immediately on his return on Saturday morning he read the description of the poacher's appearance and dress, about which last, however, the only remarkable feature was that it was better than a poacher might be expected to possess, and gave an air of respectability to the wearer that might easily disarm suspicion. "The Ranger made enquiries at all the inns in Sunch'ston, and at length succeeded in hearing of a stranger who appeared to correspond with the poacher whom the Professors had seen; but the man had already left, and though the Ranger did his best to trace him he did not succeed. On Sunday morning, however, he observed the prisoner, and found that he answered the description given by the Professors; he therefore arrested him quietly in the temple, but told him that he should not take him to prison till the service was over. The man said he would come quietly inasmuch as he should easily be able to prove his innocence. In the meantime, however, he professed the utmost anxiety to hear Professor Hanky's sermon, which he said he believed would concern him nearly. The Ranger paid no attention to this, and was as much astounded as the rest of the congregation were, when immediately after one of Professor Hanky's most eloquent passages, the man started up and declared himself to be the Sunchild. On this the Ranger took him away at once, and for the man's own protection hurried him off to prison. "Professor Hanky was so much shocked at such outrageous conduct, that for the moment he failed to recognise the offender; after a few seconds, however, he grasped the situation, and knew him to be one who on previous occasions, near Bridgeford, had done what he was now doing. It seems that he is notorious in the neighbourhood of Bridgeford, as a monomaniac who is so deeply impressed with the beauty of the Sunchild's character--and we presume also of his own--as to believe that he is himself the Sunchild. "Recovering almost instantly from the shock the interruption had given him, the learned Professor calmed his hearers by acquainting them with the facts of the case, and continued his sermon to the delight of all who heard it. We should say, however, that the gentleman who twenty years ago instructed the Sunchild in the Erewhonian language, was so struck with some few points of resemblance between the stranger, and his former pupil, that he acclaimed him, and was removed forcibly by the vergers. "On Monday morning the prisoner was brought up before the Mayor. We cannot say whether it was the sobering effect of prison walls, or whether he had been drinking before he entered the temple, and had now had time enough to recover himself--at any rate for some reason or other he was abjectly penitent when his case came on for hearing. The charge of poaching was first gone into, but was immediately disposed of by the evidence of the two Professors, who stated that the prisoner bore no resemblance to the poacher they had seen, save that he was about the same height and age, and was respectably dressed. "The charge of disturbing the congregation by declaring himself the Sunchild was then proceeded with, and unnecessary as it may appear to be, it was thought advisable to prevent all possibility of the man's assertion being accepted by the ignorant as true, at some later date, when those who could prove its falsehood were no longer living. The prisoner, therefore, was removed to his cell, and there measured by the Master of the Gaol, and the Ranger in the presence of the Mayor, who attested the accuracy of the measurements. Not one single one of them corresponded with those recorded of the Sunchild himself, and a few marks such as moles, and permanent scars on the Sunchild's body were not found on the prisoner's. Furthermore the prisoner was shaggy-breasted, with much coarse jet black hair on the fore-arms and from the knees downwards, whereas the Sunchild had little hair save on his head, and what little there was, was fine, and very light in colour. "Confronted with these discrepancies, the gentleman who had taught the Sunchild our language was convinced of his mistake, though he still maintained that there was some superficial likeness between his former pupil and the prisoner. Here he was confirmed by the Master of the Gaol, the Mayoress, Mrs. Humdrum, and Professors Hanky and Panky, who all of them could see what the interpreter meant, but denied that the prisoner could be mistaken for the Sunchild for more than a few seconds. No doubt the prisoner's unhappy delusion has been fostered, if not entirely caused, by his having been repeatedly told that he was like the Sunchild. The celebrated Dr. Downie, who well remembers the Sunchild, was also examined, and gave his evidence with so much convincing detail as to make it unnecessary to call further witnesses. "It having been thus once for all officially and authoritatively placed on record that the prisoner was not the Sunchild, Professors Hanky and Panky then identified him as a well known monomaniac on the subject of Sunchildism, who in other respects was harmless. We withhold his name and place of abode, out of consideration for the well known and highly respectable family to which he belongs. The prisoner admitted with much contrition that he had made a disturbance in the temple, but pleaded that he had been carried away by the eloquence of Professor Hanky; he promised to avoid all like offence in future, and threw himself on the mercy of the court. "The Mayor, unwilling that Sunday's memorable ceremony should be the occasion of a serious punishment to any of those who took part in it, reprimanded the prisoner in a few severe but not unkindly words, inflicted a fine of forty shillings, and ordered that the prisoner should be taken directly to the temple, where he should confess his folly to the Manager and Head Cashier, and confirm his words by kissing the reliquary in which the newly found relic has been placed. The prisoner being unable to pay the fine, some of the ladies and gentlemen in court kindly raised the amount amongst them, in pity for the poor creature's obvious contrition, rather than see him sent to prison for a month in default of payment. "The prisoner was then conducted to the temple, followed by a considerable number of people. Strange to say, in spite of the overwhelming evidence that they had just heard, some few among the followers, whose love of the marvellous overpowered their reason, still maintained that the prisoner was the Sunchild. Nothing could be more decorous than the prisoner's behaviour when, after hearing the recantation that was read out to him by the Manager, he signed the document with his name and address, which we again withhold, and kissed the reliquary in confirmation of his words. "The Mayor then declared the prisoner to be at liberty. When he had done so he said, 'I strongly urge you to place yourself under my protection for the present, that you may be freed from the impertinent folly and curiosity of some whose infatuation might lead you from that better mind to which I believe you are now happily restored. I wish you to remain for some few hours secluded in the privacy of my own study, where Dr. Downie and the two excellent Professors will administer that ghostly counsel to you, which will be likely to protect you from any return of your unhappy delusion.' "The man humbly bowed assent, and was taken by the Mayor's younger sons to the Mayor's own house, where he was duly cared for. About midnight, when all was quiet, he was conducted to the outskirts of the town towards Clearwater, and furnished with enough money to provide for his more pressing necessities till he could reach some relatives who reside three or four days' walk down on the road towards the capital. He desired the man who accompanied him to repeat to the Mayor his heartfelt thanks for the forbearance and generosity with which he had been treated. The remembrance of this, he said, should be ever present with him, and he was confident would protect him if his unhappy monomania shewed any signs of returning. "Let us now, however, remind our readers that the poacher who threatened Professors Hanky and Panky's life on Thursday evening last is still at large. He is evidently a man of desperate character, and it is to be hoped that our fellow-citizens will give immediate information at the Ranger's office if they see any stranger in the neighbourhood of the preserves whom they may have reasonable grounds for suspecting. "P.S.--As we are on the point of going to press we learn that a dangerous lunatic, who has been for some years confined in the Clearwater asylum, succeeded in escaping on the night of Wednesday last, and it is surmised with much probability, that this was the man who threatened the two Professors on Thursday evening. His being alone, his having dared to light a fire, probably to cook quails which he had been driven to kill from stress of hunger, the respectability of his dress, and the fury with which he would have attacked the two Professors single-handed, but for Professor Hanky's presence of mind in giving him a knock-down blow, all point in the direction of thinking that he was no true poacher, but, what is even more dangerous--a madman at large. We have not received any particulars as to the man's appearance, nor the clothes he was wearing, but we have little doubt that these will confirm the surmise to which we now give publicity. If it is correct it becomes doubly incumbent on all our fellow-citizens to be both on the watch, and on their guard. "We may add that the man was fully believed to have taken the direction towards the capital; hence no attempts were made to look for him in the neighbourhood of Sunch'ston, until news of the threatened attack on the Professors led the keeper of the asylum to feel confident that he had hitherto been on a wrong scent." CHAPTER XXIII: MY FATHER IS ESCORTED TO THE MAYOR'S HOUSE, AND IS INTRODUCED TO A FUTURE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW My father said he was followed to the Mayor's house by a good many people, whom the Mayor's sons in vain tried to get rid of. One or two of these still persisted in saying he was the Sunchild--whereon another said, "But his hair is black." "Yes," was the answer, "but a man can dye his hair, can he not? look at his blue eyes and his eyelashes?" My father was doubting whether he ought not to again deny his identity out of loyalty to the Mayor and Yram, when George's next brother said, "Pay no attention to them, but step out as fast as you can." This settled the matter, and in a few minutes they were at the Mayor's, where the young men took him into the study; the elder said with a smile, "We should like to stay and talk to you, but my mother said we were not to do so." Whereon they left him much to his regret, but he gathered rightly that they had not been officially told who he was, and were to be left to think what they liked, at any rate for the present. In a few minutes the Mayor entered, and going straight up to my father shook him cordially by the hand. "I have brought you this morning's paper," said he. "You will find a full report of Professor Hanky's sermon, and of the speeches at last night's banquet. You see they pass over your little interruption with hardly a word, but I dare say they will have made up their minds about it all by Thursday's issue." He laughed as he produced the paper--which my father brought home with him, and without which I should not have been able to report Hanky's sermon as fully as I have done. But my father could not let things pass over thus lightly. "I thank you," he said, "but I have much more to thank you for, and know not how to do it." "Can you not trust me to take everything as said?" "Yes, but I cannot trust myself not to be haunted if I do not say--or at any rate try to say--some part of what I ought to say." "Very well; then I will say something myself. I have a small joke, the only one I ever made, which I inflict periodically upon my wife. You, and I suppose George, are the only two other people in the world to whom it can ever be told; let me see, then, if I cannot break the ice with it. It is this. Some men have twin sons; George in this topsy turvey world of ours has twin fathers--you by luck, and me by cunning. I see you smile; give me your hand." My father took the Mayor's hand between both his own. "Had I been in your place," he said, "I should be glad to hope that I might have done as you did." "And I," said the Mayor, more readily than might have been expected of him, "fear that if I had been in yours--I should have made it the proper thing for you to do. There! The ice is well broken, and now for business. You will lunch with us, and dine in the evening. I have given it out that you are of good family, so there is nothing odd in this. At lunch you will not be the Sunchild, for my younger children will be there; at dinner all present will know who you are, so we shall be free as soon as the servants are out of the room. "I am sorry, but I must send you away with George as soon as the streets are empty--say at midnight--for the excitement is too great to allow of your staying longer. We must keep your rug and the things you cook with, but my wife will find you what will serve your turn. There is no moon, so you and George will camp out as soon as you get well on to the preserves; the weather is hot, and you will neither of you take any harm. To-morrow by mid-day you will be at the statues, where George must bid you good-bye, for he must be at Sunch'ston to-morrow night. You will doubtless get safely home; I wish with all my heart that I could hear of your having done so, but this, I fear, may not be." "So be it," replied my father, "but there is something I should yet say. The Mayoress has no doubt told you of some gold, coined and uncoined, that I am leaving for George. She will also have told you that I am rich; this being so, I should have brought him much more, if I had known that there was any such person. You have other children; if you leave him anything, you will be taking it away from your own flesh and blood; if you leave him nothing, it will be a slur upon him. I must therefore send you enough gold, to provide for George as your other children will be provided for; you can settle it upon him at once, and make it clear that the settlement is instead of provision for him by will. The difficulty is in the getting the gold into Erewhon, and until it is actually here, he must know nothing about it." I have no space for the discussion that followed. In the end it was settled that George was to have 2000 pounds in gold, which the Mayor declared to be too much, and my father too little. Both, however, were agreed that Erewhon would before long be compelled to enter into relations with foreign countries, in which case the value of gold would decline so much as to make 2000 pounds worth little more than it would be in England. The Mayor proposed to buy land with it, which he would hand over to George as a gift from himself, and this my father at once acceded to. All sorts of questions such as will occur to the reader were raised and settled, but I must beg him to be content with knowing that everything was arranged with the good sense that two such men were sure to bring to bear upon it. The getting the gold into Erewhon was to be managed thus. George was to know nothing, but a promise was to be got from him that at noon on the following New Year's day, or whatever day might be agreed upon, he would be at the statues, where either my father or myself would meet him, spend a couple of hours with him, and then return. Whoever met George was to bring the gold as though it were for the Mayor, and George could be trusted to be human enough to bring it down, when he saw that it would be left where it was if he did not do so. "He will kick a good deal," said the Mayor, "at first, but he will come round in the end." Luncheon was now announced. My father was feeling faint and ill; more than once during the forenoon he had had a return of the strange giddiness and momentary loss of memory which had already twice attacked him, but he had recovered in each case so quickly that no one had seen he was unwell. He, poor man, did not yet know what serious brain exhaustion these attacks betokened, and finding himself in his usual health as soon as they passed away, set them down as simply effects of fatigue and undue excitement. George did not lunch with the others. Yram explained that he had to draw up a report which would occupy him till dinner time. Her three other sons, and her three lovely daughters, were there. My father was delighted with all of them, for they made friends with him at once. He had feared that he would have been disgraced in their eyes, by his having just come from prison, but whatever they may have thought, no trace of anything but a little engaging timidity on the girls' part was to be seen. The two elder boys--or rather young men, for they seemed fully grown, though, like George, not yet bearded--treated him as already an old acquaintance, while the youngest, a lad of fourteen, walked straight up to him, put out his hand, and said, "How do you do, sir?" with a pretty blush that went straight to my father's heart. "These boys," he said to Yram aside, "who have nothing to blush for--see how the blood mantles into their young cheeks, while I, who should blush at being spoken to by them, cannot do so." "Do not talk nonsense," said Yram, with mock severity. But it was no nonsense to my poor father. He was awed at the goodness and beauty with which he found himself surrounded. His thoughts were too full of what had been, what was, and what was yet to be, to let him devote himself to these young people as he would dearly have liked to do. He could only look at them, wonder at them, fall in love with them, and thank heaven that George had been brought up in such a household. When luncheon was over, Yram said, "I will now send you to a room where you can lie down and go to sleep for a few hours. You will be out late to-night, and had better rest while you can. Do you remember the drink you taught us to make of corn parched and ground? You used to say you liked it. A cup shall be brought to your room at about five, for you must try and sleep till then. If you notice a little box on the dressing- table of your room, you will open it or no as you like. About half-past five there will be a visitor, whose name you can guess, but I shall not let her stay long with you. Here comes the servant to take you to your room." On this she smiled, and turned somewhat hurriedly away. My father on reaching his room went to the dressing-table, where he saw a small unpretending box, which he immediately opened. On the top was a paper with the words, "Look--say nothing--forget." Beneath this was some cotton wool, and then--the two buttons and the lock of his own hair, that he had given Yram when he said good-bye to her. The ghost of the lock that Yram had then given him, rose from the dead, and smote him as with a whip across the face. On what dust-heap had it not been thrown how many long years ago? Then she had never forgotten him? to have been remembered all these years by such a woman as that, and never to have heeded it--never to have found out what she was though he had seen her day after day for months. Ah! but she was then still budding. That was no excuse. If a loveable woman--aye, or any woman--has loved a man, even though he cannot marry her, or even wish to do so, at any rate let him not forget her--and he had forgotten Yram as completely until the last few days, as though he had never seen her. He took her little missive, and under "Look," he wrote, "I have;" under "Say nothing," "I will;" under "forget," "never." "And I never shall," he said to himself, as he replaced the box upon the table. He then lay down to rest upon the bed, but he could get no sleep. When the servant brought him his imitation coffee--an imitation so successful that Yram made him a packet of it to replace the tea that he must leave behind him--he rose and presently came downstairs into the drawing-room, where he found Yram and Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter, of whom I will say nothing, for I have never seen her, and know nothing about her, except that my father found her a sweet-looking girl, of graceful figure and very attractive expression. He was quite happy about her, but she was too young and shy to make it possible for him to do more than admire her appearance, and take Yram's word for it that she was as good as she looked. CHAPTER XXIV: AFTER DINNER, DR. DOWNIE AND THE PROFESSORS WOULD BE GLAD TO KNOW WHAT IS TO BE DONE ABOUT SUNCHILDISM It was about six when George's _fiancee_ left the house, and as soon as she had done so, Yram began to see about the rug and the best substitutes she could find for the billy and pannikin. She had a basket packed with all that my father and George would want to eat and drink while on the preserves, and enough of everything, except meat, to keep my father going till he could reach the shepherd's hut of which I have already spoken. Meat would not keep, and my father could get plenty of flappers--i.e. ducks that cannot yet fly--when he was on the river-bed down below. The above preparations had not been made very long, before Mrs. Humdrum arrived, followed presently by Dr. Downie and in due course by the Professors, who were still staying in the house. My father remembered Mrs. Humdrum's good honest face, but could not bring Dr. Downie to his recollection till the Doctor told him when and where they had met, and then he could only very uncertainly recall him, though he vowed that he could now do so perfectly well. "At any rate," said Hanky, advancing towards him with his best Bridgeford manner, "you will not have forgotten meeting my brother Professor and myself." "It has been rather a forgetting sort of a morning," said my father demurely, "but I can remember that much, and am delighted to renew my acquaintance with both of you." As he spoke he shook hands with both Professors. George was a little late, but when he came, dinner was announced. My father sat on Yram's right-hand, Dr. Downie on her left. George was next my father, with Mrs. Humdrum opposite to him. The Professors sat one on either side of the Mayor. During dinner the conversation turned almost entirely on my father's flight, his narrow escape from drowning, and his adventures on his return to England; about these last my father was very reticent, for he said nothing about his book, and antedated his accession of wealth by some fifteen years, but as he walked up towards the statues with George he told him everything. My father repeatedly tried to turn the conversation from himself, but Mrs. Humdrum and Yram wanted to know about Nna Haras, as they persisted in calling my mother--how she endured her terrible experiences in the balloon, when she and my father were married, all about my unworthy self, and England generally. No matter how often he began to ask questions about the Nosnibors and other old acquaintances, both the ladies soon went back to his own adventures. He succeeded, however, in learning that Mr. Nosnibor was dead, and Zulora, an old maid of the most unattractive kind, who had persistently refused to accept Sunchildism, while Mrs. Nosnibor was the recipient of honours hardly inferior to those conferred by the people at large on my father and mother, with whom, indeed, she believed herself to have frequent interviews by way of visionary revelations. So intolerable were these revelations to Zulora, that a separate establishment had been provided for her. George said to my father quietly--"Do you know I begin to think that Zulora must be rather a nice person." "Perhaps," said my father grimly, "but my wife and I did not find it out." When the ladies left the room, Dr. Downie took Yram's seat, and Hanky Dr. Downie's; the Mayor took Mrs. Humdrum's, leaving my father, George, and Panky, in their old places. Almost immediately, Dr. Downie said, "And now, Mr, Higgs, tell us, as a man of the world, what we are to do about Sunchildism?" My father smiled at this. "You know, my dear sir, as well as I do, that the proper thing would be to put me back in prison, and keep me there till you can send me down to the capital. You should eat your oaths of this morning, as I would eat mine; tell every one here who I am; let them see that my hair has been dyed; get all who knew me when I was here before to come and see me; appoint an unimpeachable committee to examine the record of my marks and measurements, and compare it with those of my own body. You should let me be seen in every town at which I lodged on my way down, and tell people that you had made a mistake. When you get to the capital, hand me over to the King's tender mercies and say that our oaths were only taken this morning to prevent a ferment in the town. I will play my part very willingly. The King can only kill me, and I should die like a gentleman." "They will not do it," said George quietly to my father, "and I am glad of it." He was right. "This," said Dr. Downie, "is a counsel of perfection. Things have gone too far, and we are flesh and blood. What would those who in your country come nearest to us Musical Bank Managers do, if they found they had made such a mistake as we have, and dared not own it?" "Do not ask me," said my father; "the story is too long, and too terrible." "At any rate, then, tell us what you would have us do that is within our reach." "I have done you harm enough, and if I preach, as likely as not I shall do more." Seeing, however, that Dr. Downie was anxious to hear what he thought, my father said-- "Then I must tell you. Our religion sets before us an ideal which we all cordially accept, but it also tells us of marvels like your chariot and horses, which we most of us reject. Our best teachers insist on the ideal, and keep the marvels in the background. If they could say outright that our age has outgrown them, they would say so, but this they may not do; nevertheless they contrive to let their opinions be sufficiently well known, and their hearers are content with this. "We have others who take a very different course, but of these I will not speak. Roughly, then, if you cannot abolish me altogether, make me a peg on which to hang all your own best ethical and spiritual conceptions. If you will do this, and wriggle out of that wretched relic, with that not less wretched picture--if you will make me out to be much better and abler than I was, or ever shall be, Sunchildism may serve your turn for many a long year to come. Otherwise it will tumble about your heads before you think it will. "Am I to go on or stop?" "Go on," said George softly. That was enough for my father, so on he went. "You are already doing part of what I wish. I was delighted with the two passages I heard on Sunday, from what you call the Sunchild's Sayings. I never said a word of either passage; I wish I had; I wish I could say anything half so good. And I have read a pamphlet by President Gurgoyle, which I liked extremely; but I never said what he says I did. Again, I wish I had. Keep to this sort of thing, and I will be as good a Sunchildist as any of you. But you must bribe some thief to steal that relic, and break it up to mend the roads with; and--for I believe that here as elsewhere fires sometimes get lighted through the carelessness of a workman--set the most careless workman you can find to do a plumbing job near that picture." Hanky looked black at this, and George trod lightly on my father's toe, but he told me that my father's face was innocence itself. "These are hard sayings," said Dr. Downie. "I know they are," replied my father, "and I do not like saying them, but there is no royal road to unlearning, and you have much to unlearn. Still, you Musical Bank people bear witness to the fact that beyond the kingdoms of this world there is another, within which the writs of this world's kingdoms do not run. This is the great service which our church does for us in England, and hence many of us uphold it, though we have no sympathy with the party now dominant within it. 'Better,' we think, 'a corrupt church than none at all.' Moreover, those who in my country would step into the church's shoes are as corrupt as the church, and more exacting. They are also more dangerous, for the masses distrust the church, and are on their guard against aggression, whereas they do not suspect the doctrinaires and faddists, who, if they could, would interfere in every concern of our lives. "Let me return to yourselves. You Musical Bank Managers are very much such a body of men as your country needs--but when I was here before you had no figurehead; I have unwittingly supplied you with one, and it is perhaps because you saw this, that you good people of Bridgeford took up with me. Sunchildism is still young and plastic; if you will let the cock-and-bull stories about me tacitly drop, and invent no new ones, beyond saying what a delightful person I was, I really cannot see why I should not do for you as well as any one else. "There. What I have said is nine-tenths of it rotten and wrong, but it is the most practicable rotten and wrong that I can suggest, seeing into what a rotten and wrong state of things you have drifted. And now, Mr. Mayor, do you not think we may join the Mayoress and Mrs. Humdrum?" "As you please, Mr. Higgs," answered the Mayor. "Then let us go, for I have said too much already, and your son George tells me that we must be starting shortly." As they were leaving the room Panky sidled up to my father and said, "There is a point, Mr. Higgs, which you can settle for me, though I feel pretty certain how you will settle it. I think that a corruption has crept into the text of the very beautiful--" At this moment, as my father, who saw what was coming, was wondering what in the world he could say, George came up to him and said, "Mr. Higgs, my mother wishes me to take you down into the store-room, to make sure that she has put everything for you as you would like it." On this my father said he would return directly and answer what he knew would be Panky's question. When Yram had shewn what she had prepared--all of it, of course, faultless--she said, "And now, Mr. Higgs, about our leave-taking. Of course we shall both of us feel much. I shall; I know you will; George will have a few more hours with you than the rest of us, but his time to say good-bye will come, and it will be painful to both of you. I am glad you came--I am glad you have seen George, and George you, and that you took to one another. I am glad my husband has seen you; he has spoken to me about you very warmly, for he has taken to you much as George did. I am very, very glad to have seen you myself, and to have learned what became of you--and of your wife. I know you wish well to all of us; be sure that we all of us wish most heartily well to you and yours. I sent for you and George, because I could not say all this unless we were alone; it is all I can do," she said, with a smile, "to say it now." Indeed it was, for the tears were in her eyes all the time, as they were also in my father's. "Let this," continued Yram, "be our leave-taking--for we must have nothing like a scene upstairs. Just shake hands with us all, say the usual conventional things, and make it as short as you can; but I could not bear to send you away without a few warmer words than I could have said when others were in the room." "May heaven bless you and yours," said my father, "for ever and ever." "That will do," said George gently. "Now, both of you shake hands, and come upstairs with me." * * * * * When all three of them had got calm, for George had been moved almost as much as his father and mother, they went upstairs, and Panky came for his answer. "You are very possibly right," said my father--"the version you hold to be corrupt is the one in common use amongst ourselves, but it is only a translation, and very possibly only a translation of a translation, so that it may perhaps have been corrupted before it reached us." "That," said Panky, "will explain everything," and he went contentedly away. My father talked a little aside with Mrs. Humdrum about her grand-daughter and George, for Yram had told him that she knew all about the attachment, and then George, who saw that my father found the greatest difficulty in maintaining an outward calm, said, "Mr. Higgs, the streets are empty; we had better go." My father did as Yram had told him; shook hands with every one, said all that was usual and proper as briefly as he could, and followed George out of the room. The Mayor saw them to the door, and saved my father from embarrassment by saying, "Mr. Higgs, you and I understand one another too well to make it necessary for us to say so. Good-bye to you, and may no ill befall you ere you get home." My father grasped his hand in both his own. "Again," he said, "I can say no more than that I thank you from the bottom of my heart." As he spoke he bowed his head, and went out with George into the night. CHAPTER XXV: GEORGE ESCORTS MY FATHER TO THE STATUES; THE TWO THEN PART The streets were quite deserted as George had said they would be, and very dark, save for an occasional oil lamp. "As soon as we can get within the preserves," said George, "we had better wait till morning. I have a rug for myself as well as for you." "I saw you had two," answered my father; "you must let me carry them both; the provisions are much the heavier load. George fought as hard as a dog would do, till my father said that they must not quarrel during the very short time they had to be together. On this George gave up one rug meekly enough, and my father yielded about the basket, and the other rug. It was about half-past eleven when they started, and it was after one before they reached the preserves. For the first mile from the town they were not much hindered by the darkness, and my father told George about his book and many another matter; he also promised George to say nothing about this second visit. Then the road became more rough, and when it dwindled away to be a mere lane--becoming presently only a foot track--they had to mind their footsteps, and got on but slowly. The night was starlit, and warm, considering that they were more than three thousand feet above the sea, but it was very dark, so that my father was well enough pleased when George showed him the white stones that marked the boundary, and said they had better soon make themselves as comfortable as they could till morning. "We can stay here," he said, "till half-past three, there will be a little daylight then; we will rest half an hour for breakfast at about five, and by noon we shall be at the statues, where we will dine." This being settled, George rolled himself up in his rug, and in a few minutes went comfortably off to sleep. Not so my poor father. He wound up his watch, wrapped his rug round him, and lay down; but he could get no sleep. After such a day, and such an evening, how could any one have slept? About three the first signs of dawn began to show, and half an hour later my father could see the sleeping face of his son--whom it went to his heart to wake. Nevertheless he woke him, and in a few minutes the two were on their way--George as fresh as a lark--my poor father intent on nothing so much as on hiding from George how ill and unsound in body and mind he was feeling. They walked on, saying but little, till at five by my father's watch George proposed a halt for breakfast. The spot he chose was a grassy oasis among the trees, carpeted with subalpine flowers, now in their fullest beauty, and close to a small stream that here came down from a side valley. The freshness of the morning air, the extreme beauty of the place, the lovely birds that flitted from tree to tree, the exquisite shapes and colours of the flowers, still dew-bespangled, and above all, the tenderness with which George treated him, soothed my father, and when he and George had lit a fire and made some hot corn-coffee--with a view to which Yram had put up a bottle of milk--he felt so much restored as to look forward to the rest of his journey without alarm. Moreover he had nothing to carry, for George had left his own rug at the place where they had slept, knowing that he should find it on his return; he had therefore insisted on carrying my father's. My father fought as long as he could, but he had to give in. "Now tell me," said George, glad to change the subject, "what will those three men do about what you said to them last night? Will they pay any attention to it?" My father laughed. "My dear George, what a question--I do not know them well enough." "Oh yes, you do. At any rate say what you think most likely." "Very well. I think Dr. Downie will do much as I said. He will not throw the whole thing over, through fear of schism, loyalty to a party from which he cannot well detach himself, and because he does not think that the public is quite tired enough of its toy. He will neither preach nor write against it, but he will live lukewarmly against it, and this is what the Hankys hate. They can stand either hot or cold, but they are afraid of lukewarm. In England Dr. Downie would be a Broad Churchman." "Do you think we shall ever get rid of Sunchildism altogether?" "If they stick to the cock-and-bull stories they are telling now, and rub them in, as Hanky did on Sunday, it may go, and go soon. It has taken root too quickly and easily; and its top is too heavy for its roots; still there are so many chances in its favour that it may last a long time." "And how about Hanky?" "He will brazen it out, relic, chariot, and all: and he will welcome more relics and more cock-and-bull stories; his single eye will be upon his own aggrandisement and that of his order. Plausible, unscrupulous, heartless scoundrel that he is, he will play for the queen and the women of the court, as Dr. Downie will play for the king and the men. He and his party will sleep neither night nor day, but they will have one redeeming feature--whoever they may deceive, they will not deceive themselves. They believe every one else to be as bad as they are, and see no reason why they should not push their own wares in the way of business. Hanky is everything that we in England rightly or wrongly believe a typical Jesuit to be." "And Panky--what about him?" "Panky must persuade himself of his own lies, before he is quite comfortable about telling them to other people. Hanky keeps Hanky well out of it; Panky must have a base of operations in Panky. Hanky will lead him by the nose, bit by bit, for his is the master spirit. In England Panky would be what we call an extreme ritualist." "Then the real battle will be between Hanky and Dr. Downie. Which will carry the day?" "For the present, probably Hanky. He is the more vigilant, and energetic; in this case Sunchildism will have to go, and I am afraid your whole Musical Bank system will be swept away along with it." "And why not?" "Because, my dear boy, though false in the letter, if good counsels prevail, it may be made true enough in spirit. If it were to go, its place would be soon filled by men who would be as false in letter as the others were, and much more false in spirit. You want a heart to check your head, and a head to check your heart. As in our English body politic there are two parties opposed to one another, neither of which can thrive if the other is unduly weakened, so in our spiritual and intellectual world two parties more or less antagonistic are equally necessary. Those who are at the head of science provide us with the one party; those whom we call our churchmen are the other. Both are corrupt, but we can spare neither, for each checks as far as it can the corruptions of the other." "Then you would have us uphold Sunchildism, knowing it to be untrue?" "Do what you will, you will not get perfect truth. And if you can follow the lead which I believe Dr. Downie will give you, that is to say, get rid of cock-and-bull stories, idealise my unworthy self, and, as I said last night, make me a peg on which to hang your own best thoughts--Sunchildism will be as near truth as anything you are likely to get. But if Hankyism triumphs, come what may you must get rid of it, for he and his school will tamper with the one sure and everlasting word of God revealed to us by human experience. He who plays fast and loose with this is as one who would forge God's signature to a cheque drawn on God's own bank." "Are we to foster the belief that it was indeed the Sunchild who interrupted Hanky's sermon?" "Yes, where you safely can, but not otherwise; and commit the facts to writing as soon as you can find time. Do nothing to jeopardise your own safety; you can do more by perfunctory acquiescence than by open dissent. And tell those friends whom you can trust, what these my parting words to you have been. But above all I charge you solemnly, do nothing to jeopardise your own safety; you cannot play into Hanky's hands more certainly than by risking this. Think how he and Panky would rejoice, and how Dr. Downie would grieve. Be wise and wary; bide your time; do what you prudently can, and you will find you can do much; try to do more, and you will do nothing. Be guided by the Mayor, by your mother--and by that dear old lady whose grandson you will--" "Then they have told you," interrupted the youth blushing scarlet. "My dearest boy, of course they have, and I have seen her, and am head over ears in love with her myself." He was all smiles and blushes, and vowed for a few minutes that it was a shame of them to tell me, but presently he said-- "Then you like her." "Rather!" said my father vehemently, and shaking George by the hand. But he said nothing about the nuggets and the sovereigns, knowing that Yram did not wish him to do so. Neither did George say anything about his determination to start for the capital in the morning, and make a clean breast of everything to the King. So soon does it become necessary even for those who are most cordially attached to hide things from one another. My father, however, was made comfortable by receiving a promise from the youth that he would take no step of which the persons he had named would disapprove. When once Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter had been introduced there was no more talking about Hanky and Panky; for George began to bubble over with the subject that was nearest his heart, and how much he feared that it would be some time yet before he could be married. Many a story did he tell of his early attachment and of its course for the last ten years, but my space will not allow me to inflict one of them on the reader. My father saw that the more he listened and sympathised and encouraged, the fonder George became of him, and this was all he cared about. Thus did they converse hour after hour. They passed the Blue Pool, without seeing it or even talking about it for more than a minute. George kept an eye on the quails and declared them fairly plentiful and strong on the wing, but nothing now could keep him from pouring out his whole heart about Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter, until towards noon they caught sight of the statues, and a halt was made which gave my father the first pang he had felt that morning, for he knew that the statues would be the beginning of the end. There was no need to light a fire, for Yram had packed for them two bottles of a delicious white wine, something like White Capri, which went admirably with the many more solid good things that she had provided for them. As soon as they had finished a hearty meal my father said to George, "You must have my watch for a keepsake; I see you are not wearing my boots. I fear you did not find them comfortable, but I am glad you have not got them on, for I have set my heart on keeping yours." "Let us settle about the boots first. I rather fancied that that was why you put me off when I wanted to get my own back again; and then I thought I should like yours for a keepsake, so I put on another pair last night, and they are nothing like so comfortable as yours were." "Now I wonder," said my father to me, "whether this was true, or whether it was only that dear fellow's pretty invention; but true or false I was as delighted as he meant me to be." I asked George about this when I saw him, and he confessed with an ingenuous blush that my father's boots had hurt him, and that he had never thought of making a keepsake of them, till my father's words stimulated his invention. As for the watch, which was only a silver one, but of the best make, George protested for a time, but when he had yielded, my father could see that he was overjoyed at getting it; for watches, though now permitted, were expensive and not in common use. Having thus bribed him, my father broached the possibility of his meeting him at the statues on that day twelvemonth, but of course saying nothing about why he was so anxious that he should come. "I will come," said my father, "not a yard farther than the statues, and if I cannot come I will send your brother. And I will come at noon; but it is possible that the river down below may be in fresh, and I may not be able to hit off the day, though I will move heaven and earth to do so. Therefore if I do not meet you on the day appointed, do your best to come also at noon on the following day. I know how inconvenient this will be for you, and will come true to the day if it is possible." To my father's surprise, George did not raise so many difficulties as he had expected. He said it might be done, if neither he nor my father were to go beyond the statues. "And difficult as it will be for you," said George, "you had better come a second day if necessary, as I will, for who can tell what might happen to make the first day impossible?" "Then," said my father, "we shall be spared that horrible feeling that we are parting without hope of seeing each other again. I find it hard enough to say good-bye even now, but I do not know how I could have faced it if you had not agreed to our meeting again." "The day fixed upon will be our XXI. i. 3, and the hour noon as near as may be?" "So. Let me write it down: 'XXI. i. 3, _i.e_. our December 9, 1891, I am to meet George at the statues, at twelve o'clock, and if he does not come, I am to be there again on the following day.' In like manner, George wrote down what he was to do: "XXI. i. 3, or failing this XXI. i. 4. Statues. Noon." "This," he said, "is a solemn covenant, is it not?" "Yes," said my father, "and may all good omens attend it!" The words were not out of his mouth before a mountain bird, something like our jackdaw, but smaller and of a bluer black, flew out of the hollow mouth of one of the statues, and with a hearty chuckle perched on the ground at his feet, attracted doubtless by the scraps of food that were lying about. With the fearlessness of birds in that country, it looked up at him and George, gave another hearty chuckle, and flew back to its statue with the largest fragment it could find. They settled that this was an omen so propitious that they could part in good hope. "Let us finish the wine," said my father, "and then, do what must be done!" They finished the wine to each other's good health; George drank also to mine, and said he hoped my father would bring me with him, while my father drank to Yram, the Mayor, their children, Mrs. Humdrum, and above all to Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter. They then re-packed all that could be taken away; my father rolled his rug to his liking, slung it over his shoulder, gripped George's hand, and said, "My dearest boy, when we have each turned our backs upon one another, let us walk our several ways as fast as we can, and try not to look behind us." So saying he loosed his grip of George's hand, bared his head, lowered it, and turned away. George burst into tears, and followed him after he had gone two paces; he threw his arms round him, hugged him, kissed him on his lips, cheeks, and forehead, and then turning round, strode full speed towards Sunch'ston. My father never took his eyes off him till he was out of sight, but the boy did not look round. When he could see him no more, my father with faltering gait, and feeling as though a prop had suddenly been taken from under him, began to follow the stream down towards his old camp. CHAPTER XXVI: MY FATHER REACHES HOME, AND DIES NOT LONG AFTERWARDS My father could walk but slowly, for George's boots had blistered his feet, and it seemed to him that the river-bed, of which he caught glimpses now and again, never got any nearer; but all things come to an end, and by seven o'clock on the night of Tuesday, he was on the spot which he had left on the preceding Friday morning. Three entire days had intervened, but he felt that something, he knew not what, had seized him, and that whereas before these three days life had been one thing, what little might follow them, would be another--and a very different one. He soon caught sight of his horse which had strayed a mile lower down the river-bed, and in spite of his hobbles had crossed one ugly stream that my father dared not ford on foot. Tired though he was, he went after him, bridle in hand, and when the friendly creature saw him, it recrossed the stream, and came to him of its own accord--either tired of his own company, or tempted by some bread my father held out towards him. My father took off the hobbles, and rode him bare-backed to the camping ground, where he rewarded him with more bread and biscuit, and then hobbled him again for the night. "It was here," he said to me on one of the first days after his return, "that I first knew myself to be a broken man. As for meeting George again, I felt sure that it would be all I could do to meet his brother; and though George was always in my thoughts, it was for you and not him that I was now yearning. When I gave George my watch, how glad I was that I had left my gold one at home, for that is yours, and I could not have brought myself to give it him." "Never mind that, my dear father," said I, "but tell me how you got down the river, and thence home again." "My very dear boy," he said, "I can hardly remember, and I had no energy to make any more notes. I remember putting a scrap of paper into the box of sovereigns, merely sending George my love along with the money; I remember also dropping the box into a hole in a tree, which I blazed, and towards which I drew a line of wood-ashes. I seem to see a poor unhinged creature gazing moodily for hours into a fire which he heaps up now and again with wood. There is not a breath of air; Nature sleeps so calmly that she dares not even breathe for fear of waking; the very river has hushed his flow. Without, the starlit calm of a summer's night in a great wilderness; within, a hurricane of wild and incoherent thoughts battling with one another in their fury to fall upon him and rend him--and on the other side the great wall of mountain, thousands of children praying at their mother's knee to this poor dazed thing. I suppose this half delirious wretch must have been myself. But I must have been more ill when I left England than I thought I was, or Erewhon would not have broken me down as it did." No doubt he was right. Indeed it was because Mr. Cathie and his doctor saw that he was out of health and in urgent need of change, that they left off opposing his wish to travel. There is no use, however, in talking about this now. I never got from him how he managed to reach the shepherd's hut, but I learned some little from the shepherd, when I stayed with him both on going towards Erewhon, and on returning. "He did not seem to have drink in him," said the shepherd, "when he first came here; but he must have been pretty full of it, or he must have had some bottles in his saddle-bags; for he was awful when he came back. He had got them worse than any man I ever saw, only that he was not awkward. He said there was a bird flying out of a giant's mouth and laughing at him, and he kept muttering about a blue pool, and hanky-panky of all sorts, and he said he knew it was all hanky-panky, at least I thought he said so, but it was no use trying to follow him, for it was all nothing but horrors. He said I was to stop the people from trying to worship him. Then he said the sky opened and he could see the angels going about and singing 'Hallelujah.'" "How long did he stay with you?" I asked. "About ten days, but the last three he was himself again, only too weak to move. He thought he was cured except for weakness." "Do you know how he had been spending the last two days or so before he got down to your hut?" I said two days, because this was the time I supposed he would take to descend the river. "I should say drinking all the time. He said he had fallen off his horse two or three times, till he took to leading him. If he had had any other horse than old Doctor he would have been a dead man. Bless you, I have known that horse ever since he was foaled, and I never saw one like him for sense. He would pick fords better than that gentleman could, I know, and if the gentleman fell off him he would just stay stock still. He was badly bruised, poor man, when he got here. I saw him through the gorge when he left me, and he gave me a sovereign; he said he had only one other left to take him down to the port, or he would have made it more." "He was my father," said I, "and he is dead, but before he died he told me to give you five pounds which I have brought you. I think you are wrong in saying that he had been drinking." "That is what they all say; but I take it very kind of him to have thought of me." My father's illness for the first three weeks after his return played with him as a cat plays with a mouse; now and again it would let him have a day or two's run, during which he was so cheerful and unclouded that his doctor was quite hopeful about him. At various times on these occasions I got from him that when he left the shepherd's hut, he thought his illness had run itself out, and that he should now reach the port from which he was to sail for S. Francisco without misadventure. This he did, and he was able to do all he had to do at the port, though frequently attacked with passing fits of giddiness. I need not dwell upon his voyage to S. Francisco, and thence home; it is enough to say that he was able to travel by himself in spite of gradually, but continually, increasing failure. "When," he said, "I reached the port, I telegraphed as you know, for more money. How puzzled you must have been. I sold my horse to the man from whom I bought it, at a loss of only about 10 pounds, and I left with him my saddle, saddle-bags, small hatchet, my hobbles, and in fact everything that I had taken with me, except what they had impounded in Erewhon. Yram's rug I dropped into the river when I knew that I should no longer need it--as also her substitutes for my billy and pannikin; and I burned her basket. The shepherd would have asked me questions. You will find an order to deliver everything up to bearer. You need therefore take nothing from England." At another time he said, "When you go, for it is plain I cannot, and go one or other of us must, try and get the horse I had: he will be nine years old, and he knows all about the rivers: if you leave everything to him, you may shut your eyes, but do not interfere with him. Give the shepherd what I said and he will attend to you, but go a day or two too soon, for the margin of one day was not enough to allow in case of a fresh in the river; if the water is discoloured you must not cross it--not even with Doctor. I could not ask George to come up three days running from Sunch'ston to the statues and back." Here he became exhausted. Almost the last coherent string of sentences I got from him was as follows:- "About George's money if I send him 2000 pounds you will still have nearly 150,000 pounds left, and Mr. Cathie will not let you try to make it more. I know you would give him four or five thousand, but the Mayor and I talked it over, and settled that 2000 pounds in gold would make him a rich man. Consult our good friend Alfred" (meaning, of course, Mr. Cathie) "about the best way of taking the money. I am afraid there is nothing for it but gold, and this will be a great weight for you to carry--about, I believe 36 lbs. Can you do this? I really think that if you lead your horse you . . . no--there will be the getting him down again--" "Don't worry about it, my dear father," said I, "I can do it easily if I stow the load rightly, and I will see to this. I shall have nothing else to carry, for I shall camp down below both morning and evening. But would you not like to send some present to the Mayor, Yram, their other children, and Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter?" "Do what you can," said my father. And these were the last instructions he gave me about those adventures with which alone this work is concerned. The day before he died, he had a little flicker of intelligence, but all of a sudden his face became clouded as with great anxiety; he seemed to see some horrible chasm in front of him which he had to cross, or which he feared that I must cross, for he gasped out words, which, as near as I could catch them, were, "Look out! John! Leap! Leap! Le . . . " but he could not say all that he was trying to say and closed his eyes, having, as I then deemed, seen that he was on the brink of that gulf which lies between life and death; I took it that in reality he died at that moment; for there was neither struggle, nor hardly movement of any kind afterwards--nothing but a pulse which for the next several hours grew fainter and fainter so gradually, that it was not till some time after it had ceased to beat that we were certain of its having done so. CHAPTER XXVII: I MEET MY BROTHER GEORGE AT THE STATUES, ON THE TOP OF THE PASS INTO EREWHON This book has already become longer than I intended, but I will ask the reader to have patience while I tell him briefly of my own visit to the threshold of that strange country of which I fear that he may be already beginning to tire. The winding-up of my father's estate was a very simple matter, and by the beginning of September 1891 I should have been free to start; but about that time I became engaged, and naturally enough I did not want to be longer away than was necessary. I should not have gone at all if I could have helped it. I left, however, a fortnight later than my father had done. Before starting I bought a handsome gold repeater for the Mayor, and a brooch for Yram, of pearls and diamonds set in gold, for which I paid 200 pounds. For Yram's three daughters and for Mrs. Humdrum's grand-daughter I took four brooches each of which cost about 15 pounds, 15s., and for the boys I got three ten-guinea silver watches. For George I only took a strong English knife of the best make, and the two thousand pounds worth of uncoined gold, which for convenience' sake I had had made into small bars. I also had a knapsack made that would hold these and nothing else--each bar being strongly sewn into its place, so that none of them could shift. Whenever I went on board ship, or went on shore, I put this on my back, so that no one handled it except myself--and I can assure the reader that I did not find it a light weight to handle. I ought to have taken something for old Mrs. Humdrum, but I am ashamed to say that I forgot her. I went as directly as I could to the port of which my father had told me, and reached it on November 27, one day later than he had done in the preceding year. On the following day, which was a Saturday, I went to the livery stables from which my father had bought his horse, and found to my great delight that Doctor could be at my disposal, for, as it seemed to me, the very reasonable price of fifteen shillings a day. I shewed the owner of the stables my father's order, and all the articles he had left were immediately delivered to me. I was still wearing crape round one arm, and the horse-dealer, whose name was Baker, said he was afraid the other gentleman might be dead. "Indeed, he is so," said I, "and a great grief it is to me; he was my father." "Dear, dear," answered Mr. Baker, "that is a very serious thing for the poor gentleman. He seemed quite unfit to travel alone, and I feared he was not long for this world, but he was bent on going." I had nothing now to do but to buy a blanket, pannikin, and billy, with some tea, tobacco, two bottles of brandy, some ship's biscuits, and whatever other few items were down on the list of requisites which my father had dictated to me. Mr. Baker, seeing that I was what he called a new chum, shewed me how to pack my horse, but I kept my knapsack full of gold on my back, and though I could see that it puzzled him, he asked no questions. There was no reason why I should not set out at once for the principal town of the colony, which was some ten miles inland; I, therefore, arranged at my hotel that the greater part of my luggage should await my return, and set out to climb the high hills that back the port. From the top of these I had a magnificent view of the plains that I should have to cross, and of the long range of distant mountains which bounded them north and south as far as the eye could reach. On some of the mountains I could still see streaks of snow, but my father had explained to me that the ranges I should here see, were not those dividing the English colony from Erewhon. I also saw, some nine miles or so out upon the plains, the more prominent buildings of a large town which seemed to be embosomed in trees, and this I reached in about an hour and a half; for I had to descend at a foot's pace, and Doctor's many virtues did not comprise a willingness to go beyond an amble. At the town above referred to I spent the night, and began to strike across the plains on the following morning. I might have crossed these in three days at twenty-five miles a day, but I had too much time on my hands, and my load of gold was so uncomfortable that I was glad to stay at one accommodation house after another, averaging about eighteen miles a day. I have no doubt that if I had taken advice, I could have stowed my load more conveniently, but I could not unpack it, and made the best of it as it was. On the evening of Wednesday, December 2, I reached the river which I should have to follow up; it was here nearing the gorge through which it had to pass before the country opened out again at the back of the front range. I came upon it quite suddenly on reaching the brink of a great terrace, the bank of which sloped almost precipitously down towards it, but was covered with grass. The terrace was some three hundred feet above the river, and faced another similar one, which was from a mile and a half to two miles distant. At the bottom of this huge yawning chasm, rolled the mighty river, and I shuddered at the thought of having to cross and recross it. For it was angry, muddy, evidently in heavy fresh, and filled bank and bank for nearly a mile with a flood of seething waters. I followed along the northern edge of the terrace, till I reached the last accommodation house that could be said to be on the plains--which, by the way, were here some eight or nine hundred feet above sea level. When I reached this house, I was glad to learn that the river was not likely to remain high for more than a day or two, and that if what was called a Southerly Burster came up, as it might be expected to do at any moment, it would be quite low again before three days were over. At this house I stayed the night, and in the course of the evening a stray dog--a retriever, hardly full grown, and evidently very much down on his luck--took up with me; when I inquired about him, and asked if I might take him with me, the landlord said he wished I would, for he knew nothing about him and was trying to drive him from the house. Knowing what a boon the companionship of this poor beast would be to me when I was camping out alone, I encouraged him, and next morning he followed me as a matter of course. In the night the Southerly Burster which my host anticipated had come up, cold and blustering, but invigorating after the hot, dry, wind that had been blowing hard during the daytime as I had crossed the plains. A mile or two higher up I passed a large sheep-station, but did not stay there. One or two men looked at me with surprise, and asked me where I was going, whereon I said I was in search of rare plants and birds for the Museum of the town at which I had slept the night after my arrival. This satisfied their curiosity, and I ambled on accompanied by the dog. In passing I may say that I found Doctor not to excel at any pace except an amble, but for a long journey, especially for one who is carrying a heavy, awkward load, there is no pace so comfortable; and he ambled fairly fast. I followed the horse track which had been cut through the gorge, and in many places I disliked it extremely, for the river, still in fresh, was raging furiously; twice, for some few yards, where the gorge was wider and the stream less rapid, it covered the track, and I had no confidence that it might not have washed it away; on these occasions Doctor pricked his ears towards the water, and was evidently thinking exactly what his rider was. He decided, however, that all would be sound, and took to the water without any urging on my part. Seeing his opinion, I remembered my father's advice, and let him do what he liked, but in one place for three or four yards the water came nearly up to his belly, and I was in great fear for the watches that were in my saddle-bags. As for the dog, I feared I had lost him, but after a time he rejoined me, though how he contrived to do so I cannot say. Nothing could be grander than the sight of this great river pent into a narrow compass, and occasionally becoming more like an immense waterfall than a river, but I was in continual fear of coming to more places where the water would be over the track, and perhaps of finding myself unable to get any farther. I therefore failed to enjoy what was really far the most impressive sight in its way that I had ever seen. "Give me," I said to myself, "the Thames at Richmond," and right thankful was I, when at about two o'clock I found that I was through the gorge and in a wide valley, the greater part of which, however, was still covered by the river. It was here that I heard for the first time the curious sound of boulders knocking against each other underneath the great body of water that kept rolling them round and round. I now halted, and lit a fire, for there was much dead scrub standing that had remained after the ground had been burned for the first time some years previously. I made myself some tea, and turned Doctor out for a couple of hours to feed. I did not hobble him, for my father had told me that he would always come for bread. When I had dined, and smoked, and slept for a couple of hours or so, I reloaded Doctor and resumed my journey towards the shepherd's hut, which I caught sight of about a mile before I reached it. When nearly half a mile off it, I dismounted, and made a written note of the exact spot at which I did so. I then turned for a couple of hundred yards to my right, at right angles to the track, where some huge rocks were lying--fallen ages since from the mountain that flanked this side of the valley. Here I deposited my knapsack in a hollow underneath some of the rocks, and put a good sized stone in front of it, for I meant spending a couple of days with the shepherd to let the river go down. Moreover, as it was now only December 3, I had too much time on my hands, but I had not dared to cut things finer. I reached the hut at about six o'clock, and introduced myself to the shepherd, who was a nice, kind old man, commonly called Harris, but his real name he told me was Horace--Horace Taylor. I had the conversation with him of which I have already told the reader, adding that my father had been unable to give a coherent account of what he had seen, and that I had been sent to get the information he had failed to furnish. The old man said that I must certainly wait a couple of days before I went higher up the river. He had made himself a nice garden, in which he took the greatest pride, and which supplied him with plenty of vegetables. He was very glad to have company, and to receive the newspapers which I had taken care to bring him. He had a real genius for simple cookery, and fed me excellently. My father's 5 pounds, and the ration of brandy which I nightly gave him, made me a welcome guest, and though I was longing to be at any rate as far as the foot of the pass into Erewhon, I amused myself very well in an abundance of ways with which I need not trouble the reader. One of the first things that Harris said to me was, "I wish I knew what your father did with the nice red blanket he had with him when he went up the river. He had none when he came down again; I have no horse here, but I borrowed one from a man who came up one day from down below, and rode to a place where I found what I am sure were the ashes of the last fire he made, but I could find neither the blanket nor the billy and pannikin he took away with him. He said he supposed he must have left the things there, but he could remember nothing about it." "I am afraid," said I, "that I cannot help you." "At any rate," continued the shepherd, "I did not have my ride for nothing, for as I was coming back I found this rug half covered with sand on the river-bed." As he spoke he pointed to an excellent warm rug, on the spare bunk in his hut. "It is none of our make," said he; "I suppose some foreign digger has come over from the next river down south and got drowned, for it had not been very long where I found it, at least I think not, for it was not much fly-blown, and no one had passed here to go up the river since your father." I knew what it was, but I held my tongue beyond saying that the rug was a very good one. The next day, December 4, was lovely, after a night that had been clear and cold, with frost towards early morning. When the shepherd had gone for some three hours in the forenoon to see his sheep (that were now lambing), I walked down to the place where I had left my knapsack, and carried it a good mile above the hut, where I again hid it. I could see the great range from one place, and the thick new fallen snow assured me that the river would be quite normal shortly. Indeed, by evening it was hardly at all discoloured, but I waited another day, and set out on the morning of Sunday, December 6. The river was now almost as low as in winter, and Harris assured me that if I used my eyes I could not miss finding a ford over one stream or another every half mile or so. I had the greatest difficulty in preventing him from accompanying me on foot for some little distance, but I got rid of him in the end; he came with me beyond the place where I had hidden my knapsack, but when he had left me long enough, I rode back and got it. I see I am dwelling too long upon my own small adventures. Suffice it that, accompanied by my dog, I followed the north bank of the river till I found I must cross one stream before I could get any farther. This place would not do, and I had to ride half a mile back before I found one that seemed as if it might be safe. I fancy my father must have done just the same thing, for Doctor seemed to know the ground, and took to the water the moment I brought him to it. It never reached his belly, but I confess I did not like it. By and by I had to recross, and so on, off and on, till at noon I camped for dinner. Here the dog found me a nest of young ducks, nearly fledged, from which the parent birds tried with great success to decoy me. I fully thought I was going to catch them, but the dog knew better and made straight for the nest, from which he returned immediately with a fine young duck in his mouth, which he laid at my feet, wagging his tail and barking. I took another from the nest and left two for the old birds. The afternoon was much as the morning and towards seven I reached a place which suggested itself as a good camping ground. I had hardly fixed on it and halted, before I saw a few pieces of charred wood, and felt sure that my father must have camped at this very place before me. I hobbled Doctor, unloaded, plucked and singed a duck, and gave the dog some of the meat with which Harris had furnished me; I made tea, laid my duck on the embers till it was cooked, smoked, gave myself a nightcap of brandy and water, and by and by rolled myself round in my blanket, with the dog curled up beside me. I will not dwell upon the strangeness of my feelings--nor the extreme beauty of the night. But for the dog, and Doctor, I should have been frightened, but I knew that there were no savage creatures or venomous snakes in the country, and both the dog and Doctor were such good companionable creatures, that I did not feel so much oppressed by the solitude as I had feared I should be. But the night was cold, and my blanket was not enough to keep me comfortably warm. The following day was delightfully warm as soon as the sun got to the bottom of the valley, and the fresh fallen snow disappeared so fast from the snowy range that I was afraid it would raise the river--which, indeed, rose in the afternoon and became slightly discoloured, but it cannot have been more than three or four inches deeper, for it never reached the bottom of my saddle-bags. I believe Doctor knew exactly where I was going, for he wanted no guidance. I halted again at midday, got two more ducks, crossed and recrossed the river, or some of its streams, several times, and at about six, caught sight, after a bend in the valley, of the glacier descending on to the river-bed. This I knew to be close to the point at which I was to camp for the night, and from which I was to ascend the mountain. After another hour's slow progress over the increasing roughness of the river-bed, I saw the triangular delta of which my father had told me, and the stream that had formed it, bounding down the mountain side. Doctor went right up to the place where my father's fire had been, and I again found many pieces of charred wood and ashes. As soon as I had unloaded Doctor and hobbled him, I went to a tree hard by, on which I could see the mark of a blaze, and towards which I thought I could see a line of wood ashes running. There I found a hole in which some bird had evidently been wont to build, and surmised correctly that it must be the one in which my father had hidden his box of sovereigns. There was no box in the hole now, and I began to feel that I was at last within measureable distance of Erewhon and the Erewhonians. I camped for the night here, and again found my single blanket insufficient. The next day, i.e. Tuesday, December 8, I had to pass as I best could, and it occurred to me that as I should find the gold a great weight, I had better take it some three hours up the mountain side and leave it there, so as to make the following day less fatiguing, and this I did, returning to my camp for dinner; but I was panic-stricken all the rest of the day lest I should not have hidden it safely, or lest I should be unable to find it next day--conjuring up a hundred absurd fancies as to what might befall it. And after all, heavy though it was, I could have carried it all the way. In the afternoon I saddled Doctor and rode him up to the glaciers, which were indeed magnificent, and then I made the few notes of my journey from which this chapter has been taken. I made excuses for turning in early, and at daybreak rekindled my fire and got my breakfast. All the time the companionship of the dog was an unspeakable comfort to me. It was now the day my father had fixed for my meeting with George, and my excitement (with which I have not yet troubled the reader, though it had been consuming me ever since I had left Harris's hut) was beyond all bounds, so much so that I almost feared I was in a fever which would prevent my completing the little that remained of my task; in fact, I was in as great a panic as I had been about the gold that I had left. My hands trembled as I took the watches, and the brooches for Yram and her daughters from my saddle-bags, which I then hung, probably on the very bough on which my father had hung them. Needless to say, I also hung my saddle and bridle along with the saddle-bags. It was nearly seven before I started, and about ten before I reached the hiding-place of my knapsack. I found it, of course, quite easily, shouldered it, and toiled on towards the statues. At a quarter before twelve I reached them, and almost beside myself as I was, could not refrain from some disappointment at finding them a good deal smaller than I expected. My father, correcting the measurement he had given in his book, said he thought that they were about four or five times the size of life; but really I do not think they were more than twenty feet high, any one of them. In other respects my father's description of them is quite accurate. There was no wind, and as a matter of course, therefore, they were not chanting. I wiled away the quarter of an hour before the time when George became due, with wondering at them, and in a way admiring them, hideous though they were; but all the time I kept looking towards the part from which George should come. At last my watch pointed to noon, but there was no George. A quarter past twelve, but no George. Half-past, still no George. One o'clock, and all the quarters till three o'clock, but still no George. I tried to eat some of the ship's biscuits I had brought with me, but I could not. My disappointment was now as great as my excitement had been all the forenoon; at three o'clock I fairly cried, and for half an hour could only fling myself on the ground and give way to all the unreasonable spleen that extreme vexation could suggest. True, I kept telling myself that for aught I knew George might be dead, or down with a fever; but this would not do; for in this last case he should have sent one of his brothers to meet me, and it was not likely that he was dead. I am afraid I thought it most probable that he had been casual--of which unworthy suspicion I have long since been heartily ashamed. I put the brooches inside my knapsack, and hid it in a place where I was sure no one would find it; then, with a heavy heart, I trudged down again to my camp--broken in spirit, and hopeless for the morrow. I camped again, but it was some hours before I got a wink of sleep; and when sleep came it was accompanied by a strange dream. I dreamed that I was by my father's bedside, watching his last flicker of intelligence, and vainly trying to catch the words that he was not less vainly trying to utter. All of a sudden the bed seemed to be at my camping ground, and the largest of the statues appeared, quite small, high up the mountain side, but striding down like a giant in seven league boots till it stood over me and my father, and shouted out "Leap, John, leap." In the horror of this vision I woke with a loud cry that woke my dog also, and made him shew such evident signs of fear, that it seemed to me as though he too must have shared my dream. Shivering with cold I started up in a frenzy, but there was nothing, save a night of such singular beauty that I did not even try to go to sleep again. Naturally enough, on trying to keep awake I dropped asleep before many minutes were over. In the morning I again climbed up to the statues, without, to my surprise, being depressed with the idea that George would again fail to meet me. On the contrary, without rhyme or reason, I had a strong presentiment that he would come. And sure enough, as soon as I caught sight of the statues, which I did about a quarter to twelve, I saw a youth coming towards me, with a quick step, and a beaming face that had only to be seen to be fallen in love with. "You are my brother," said he to me. "Is my father with you?" I pointed to the crape on my arm, and to the ground, but said nothing. He understood me, and bared his head. Then he flung his arms about me and kissed my forehead according to Erewhonian custom. I was a little surprised at his saying nothing to me about the way in which he had disappointed me on the preceding day; I resolved, however, to wait for the explanation that I felt sure he would give me presently. CHAPTER XXVIII: GEORGE AND I SPEND A FEW HOURS TOGETHER AT THE STATUES, AND THEN PART--I REACH HOME--POSTSCRIPT I have said on an earlier page that George gained an immediate ascendancy over me, but ascendancy is not the word--he took me by storm; how, or why, I neither know nor want to know, but before I had been with him more than a few minutes I felt as though I had known and loved him all my life. And the dog fawned upon him as though he felt just as I did. "Come to the statues," said he, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from the shock of the news I had given him. "We can sit down there on the very stone on which our father and I sat a year ago. I have brought a basket, which my mother packed for--for--him and me. Did he talk to you about me?" "He talked of nothing so much, and he thought of nothing so much. He had your boots put where he could see them from his bed until he died." Then followed the explanation about these boots, of which the reader has already been told. This made us both laugh, and from that moment we were cheerful. I say nothing about our enjoyment of the luncheon with which Yram had provided us, and if I were to detail all that I told George about my father, and all the additional information that I got from him--(many a point did he clear up for me that I had not fully understood)--I should fill several chapters, whereas I have left myself only one. Luncheon being over I said-- "And are you married?" "Yes" (with a blush), "and are you?" I could not blush. Why should I? And yet young people--especially the most ingenuous among them--are apt to flush up on being asked if they are, or are going, to be married. If I could have blushed, I would. As it was I could only say that I was engaged and should marry as soon as I got back. "Then you have come all this way for me, when you were wanting to get married?" "Of course I have. My father on his death-bed told me to do so, and to bring you something that I have brought you." "What trouble I have given! How can I thank you?" "Shake hands with me." Whereon he gave my hand a stronger grip than I had quite bargained for. "And now," said I, "before I tell you what I have brought, you must promise me to accept it. Your father said I was not to leave you till you had done so, and I was to say that he sent it with his dying blessing." After due demur George gave his promise, and I took him to the place where I had hidden my knapsack. "I brought it up yesterday," said I. "Yesterday? but why?" "Because yesterday--was it not?--was the first of the two days agreed upon between you and our father?" "No--surely to-day is the first day--I was to come XXI. i. 3, which would be your December 9." "But yesterday was December 9 with us--to-day is December 10." "Strange! What day of the week do you make it?" "To-day is Thursday, December 10." "This is still stranger--we make it Wednesday; yesterday was Tuesday." Then I saw it. The year XX. had been a leap year with the Erewhonians, and 1891 in England had not. This, then, was what had crossed my father's brain in his dying hours, and what he had vainly tried to tell me. It was also what my unconscious self had been struggling to tell my conscious one, during the past night, but which my conscious self had been too stupid to understand. And yet my conscious self had caught it in an imperfect sort of a way after all, for from the moment that my dream had left me I had been composed, and easy in my mind that all would be well. I wish some one would write a book about dreams and parthenogenesis--for that the two are part and parcel of the same story--a brood of folly without father bred--I cannot doubt. I did not trouble George with any of this rubbish, but only shewed him how the mistake had arisen. When we had laughed sufficiently over my mistake--for it was I who had come up on the wrong day, not he--I fished my knapsack out of its hiding-place. "Do not unpack it," said I, "beyond taking out the brooches, or you will not be able to pack it so well; but you can see the ends of the bars of gold, and you can feel the weight; my father sent them for you. The pearl brooch is for your mother, the smaller brooches are for your sisters, and your wife." I then told him how much gold there was, and from my pockets brought out the watches and the English knife. "This last," I said, "is the only thing that I am giving you; the rest is all from our father. I have many many times as much gold myself, and this is legally your property as much as mine is mine." George was aghast, but he was powerless alike to express his feelings, or to refuse the gold. "Do you mean to say that my father left me this by his will?" "Certainly he did," said I, inventing a pious fraud. "It is all against my oath," said he, looking grave. "Your oath be hanged," said I. "You must give the gold to the Mayor, who knows that it was coming, and it will appear to the world, as though he were giving it you now instead of leaving you anything." "But it is ever so much too much!" "It is not half enough. You and the Mayor must settle all that between you. He and our father talked it all over, and this was what they settled." "And our father planned all this, without saying a word to me about it while we were on our way up here?" "Yes. There might have been some hitch in the gold's coming. Besides the Mayor told him not to tell you." "And he never said anything about the other money he left for me--which enabled me to marry at once? Why was this?" "Your mother said he was not to do so." "Bless my heart, how they have duped me all round. But why would not my mother let your father tell me? Oh yes--she was afraid I should tell the King about it, as I certainly should, when I told him all the rest." "Tell the King?" said I, "what have you been telling the King?" "Everything; except about the nuggets and the sovereigns, of which I knew nothing; and I have felt myself a blackguard ever since for not telling him about these when he came up here last autumn--but I let the Mayor and my mother talk me over, as I am afraid they will do again." "When did you tell the King?" Then followed all the details that I have told in the latter part of Chapter XXI. When I asked how the King took the confession, George said-- "He was so much flattered at being treated like a reasonable being, and Dr. Downie, who was chief spokesman, played his part so discreetly, without attempting to obscure even the most compromising issues, that though his Majesty made some show of displeasure at first, it was plain that he was heartily enjoying the whole story. "Dr. Downie shewed very well. He took on himself the onus of having advised our action, and he gave me all the credit of having proposed that we should make a clean breast of everything. "The King, too, behaved with truly royal politeness; he was on the point of asking why I had not taken our father to the Blue Pool at once, and flung him into it on the Sunday afternoon, when something seemed to strike him: he gave me a searching look, on which he said in an undertone, 'Oh yes,' and did not go on with his question. He never blamed me for anything, and when I begged him to accept my resignation of the Rangership, he said-- "'No. Stay where you are till I lose confidence in you, which will not, I think, be very soon. I will come and have a few days' shooting about the middle of March, and if I have good sport I shall order your salary to be increased. If any more foreign devils come over, do not Blue-Pool them; send them down to me, and I will see what I think of them; I am much disposed to encourage a few of them to settle here." "I am sure," continued George, "that he said this because he knew I was half a foreign devil myself. Indeed he won my heart not only by the delicacy of his consideration, but by the obvious good will he bore me. I do not know what he did with the nuggets, but he gave orders that the blanket and the rest of my father's kit should be put in the great Erewhonian Museum. As regards my father's receipt, and the Professors' two depositions, he said he would have them carefully preserved in his secret archives. 'A document,' he said somewhat enigmatically, 'is a document--but, Professor Hanky, you can have this'--and as he spoke he handed him back his pocket-handkerchief. "Hanky during the whole interview was furious, at having to play so undignified a part, but even more so, because the King while he paid marked attention to Dr. Downie, and even to myself, treated him with amused disdain. Nevertheless, angry though he was, he was impenitent, unabashed, and brazened it out at Bridgeford, that the King had received him with open arms, and had snubbed Dr. Downie and myself. But for his (Hanky's) intercession, I should have been dismissed then and there from the Rangership. And so forth. Panky never opened his mouth. "Returning to the King, his Majesty said to Dr. Downie, 'I am afraid I shall not be able to canonize any of you gentlemen just yet. We must let this affair blow over. Indeed I am in half a mind to have this Sunchild bubble pricked; I never liked it, and am getting tired of it; you Musical Bank gentlemen are overdoing it. I will talk it over with her Majesty. As for Professor Hanky, I do not see how I can keep one who has been so successfully hoodwinked, as my Professor of Worldly Wisdom; but I will consult her Majesty about this point also. Perhaps I can find another post for him. If I decide on having Sunchildism pricked, he shall apply the pin. You may go.' "And glad enough," said George, "we all of us were to do so." "But did he," I asked, "try to prick the bubble of Sunchildism?" "Oh no. As soon as he said he would talk it over with her Majesty, I knew the whole thing would end in smoke, as indeed to all outward appearance it shortly did; for Dr. Downie advised him not to be in too great a hurry, and whatever he did to do it gradually. He therefore took no further action than to show marked favour to practical engineers and mechanicians. Moreover he started an aeronautical society, which made Bridgeford furious; but so far, I am afraid it has done us no good, for the first ascent was disastrous, involving the death of the poor fellow who made it, and since then no one has ventured to ascend. I am afraid we do not get on very fast." "Did the King," I asked, "increase your salary?" "Yes. He doubled it." "And what do they say in Sunch'ston about our father's second visit?" George laughed, and shewed me the newspaper extract which I have already given. I asked who wrote it. "I did," said he, with a demure smile; "I wrote it at night after I returned home, and before starting for the capital next morning. I called myself 'the deservedly popular Ranger,' to avert suspicion. No one found me out; you can keep the extract, I brought it here on purpose." "It does you great credit. Was there ever any lunatic, and was he found?" "Oh yes. That part was true, except that he had never been up our way." "Then the poacher is still at large?" "It is to be feared so." "And were Dr. Downie and the Professors canonized after all." "Not yet; but the Professors will be next month--for Hanky is still Professor. Dr. Downie backed out of it. He said it was enough to be a Sunchildist without being a Sunchild Saint. He worships the jumping cat as much as the others, but he keeps his eye better on the cat, and sees sooner both when it will jump, and where it will jump to. Then, without disturbing any one, he insinuates himself into the place which will be best when the jump is over. Some say that the cat knows him and follows him; at all events when he makes a move the cat generally jumps towards him soon afterwards." "You give him a very high character." "Yes, but I have my doubts about his doing much in this matter; he is getting old, and Hanky burrows like a mole night and day. There is no knowing how it will all end." "And the people at Sunch'ston? Has it got well about among them, in spite of your admirable article, that it was the Sunchild himself who interrupted Hanky?" "It has, and it has not. Many of us know the truth, but a story came down from Bridgeford that it was an evil spirit who had assumed the Sunchild's form, intending to make people sceptical about Sunchildism; Hanky and Panky cowed this spirit, otherwise it would never have recanted. Many people swallow this." "But Hanky and Panky swore that they knew the man." "That does not matter." "And now please, how long have you been married?" "About ten months." "Any family?" "One boy about a fortnight old. Do come down to Sunch'ston and see him--he is your own nephew. You speak Erewhonian so perfectly that no human being would suspect you were a foreigner, and you look one of us from head to foot. I can smuggle you through quite easily, and my mother would so like to see you." I should dearly have liked to have gone, but it was out of the question. I had nothing with me but the clothes I stood in; moreover I was longing to be back in England, and when once I was in Erewhon there was no knowing when I should be able to get away again; but George fought hard before he gave in. It was now nearing the time when this strange meeting between two brothers--as strange a one as the statues can ever have looked down upon--must come to an end. I shewed George what the repeater would do, and what it would expect of its possessor. I gave him six good photographs, of my father and myself--three of each. He had never seen a photograph, and could hardly believe his eyes as he looked at those I shewed him. I also gave him three envelopes addressed to myself, care of Alfred Emery Cathie, Esq., 15 Clifford's Inn, London, and implored him to write to me if he could ever find means of getting a letter over the range as far as the shepherd's hut. At this he shook his head, but he promised to write if he could. I also told him that I had written a full account of my father's second visit to Erewhon, but that it should never be published till I heard from him--at which he again shook his head, but added, "And yet who can tell? For the King may have the country opened up to foreigners some day after all." Then he thanked me a thousand times over, shouldered the knapsack, embraced me as he had my father, and caressed the dog, embraced me again, and made no attempt to hide the tears that ran down his cheeks. "There," he said; "I shall wait here till you are out of sight." I turned away, and did not look back till I reached the place at which I knew that I should lose the statues. I then turned round, waved my hand--as also did George, and went down the mountain side, full of sad thoughts, but thankful that my task had been so happily accomplished, and aware that my life henceforward had been enriched by something that I could never lose. For I had never seen, and felt as though I never could see, George's equal. His absolute unconsciousness of self, the unhesitating way in which he took me to his heart, his fearless frankness, the happy genial expression that played on his face, and the extreme sweetness of his smile--these were the things that made me say to myself that the "blazon of beauty's best" could tell me nothing better than what I had found and lost within the last three hours. How small, too, I felt by comparison! If for no other cause, yet for this, that I, who had wept so bitterly over my own disappointment the day before, could meet this dear fellow's tears with no tear of my own. But let this pass. I got back to Harris's hut without adventure. When there, in the course of the evening, I told Harris that I had a fancy for the rug he had found on the river-bed, and that if he would let me have it, I would give him my red one and ten shillings to boot. The exchange was so obviously to his advantage that he made no demur, and next morning I strapped Yram's rug on to my horse, and took it gladly home to England, where I keep it on my own bed next to the counterpane, so that with care it may last me out my life. I wanted him to take the dog and make a home for him, but he had two collies already, and said that a retriever would be of no use to him. So I took the poor beast on with me to the port, where I was glad to find that Mr. Baker liked him and accepted him from me, though he was not mine to give. He had been such an unspeakable comfort to me when I was alone, that he would have haunted me unless I had been able to provide for him where I knew he would be well cared for. As for Doctor, I was sorry to leave him, but I knew he was in good hands. "I see you have not brought your knapsack back, sir," said Mr. Baker. "No," said I, "and very thankful was I when I had handed it over to those for whom it was intended." "I have no doubt you were, sir, for I could see it was a desperate heavy load for you." "Indeed it was." But at this point I brought the discussion to a close. Two days later I sailed, and reached home early in February 1892. I was married three weeks later, and when the honeymoon was over, set about making the necessary, and some, I fear, unnecessary additions to this book--by far the greater part of which had been written, as I have already said, many months earlier. I now leave it, at any rate for the present, April 22, 1892. * * * * * Postscript.--On the last day of November 1900, I received a letter addressed in Mr. Alfred Cathie's familiar handwriting, and on opening it found that it contained another, addressed to me in my own, and unstamped. For the moment I was puzzled, but immediately knew that it must be from George. I tore it open, and found eight closely written pages, which I devoured as I have seldom indeed devoured so long a letter. It was dated XXIX. vii. 1, and, as nearly as I can translate it was as follows;- "Twice, my dearest brother, have I written to you, and twice in successive days in successive years, have I been up to the statues on the chance that you could meet me, as I proposed in my letters. Do not think I went all the way back to Sunch'ston--there is a ranger's shelter now only an hour and a half below the statues, and here I passed the night. I knew you had got neither of my letters, for if you had got them and could not come yourself, you would have sent some one whom you could trust with a letter. I know you would, though I do not know how you would have contrived to do it. "I sent both letters through Bishop Kahabuka (or, as his inferior clergy call him, 'Chowbok'), head of the Christian Mission to Erewhemos, which, as your father has doubtless told you, is the country adjoining Erewhon, but inhabited by a coloured race having no affinity with our own. Bishop Kahabuka has penetrated at times into Erewhon, and the King, wishing to be on good terms with his neighbours, has permitted him to establish two or three mission stations in the western parts of Erewhon. Among the missionaries are some few of your own countrymen. None of us like them, but one of them is teaching me English, which I find quite easy. "As I wrote in the letters that have never reached you, I am no longer Ranger. The King, after some few years (in the course of which I told him of your visit, and what you had brought me), declared that I was the only one of his servants whom he could trust, and found high office for me, which kept me in close confidential communication with himself. "About three years ago, on the death of his Prime Minister, he appointed me to fill his place; and it was on this, that so many possibilities occurred to me concerning which I dearly longed for your opinion, that I wrote and asked you, if you could, to meet me personally or by proxy at the statues, which I could reach on the occasion of my annual visit to my mother--yes--and father--at Sunch'ston. "I sent both letters by way of Erewhemos, confiding them to Bishop Kahabuka, who is just such another as St. Hanky. He tells me that our father was a very old and dear friend of his--but of course I did not say anything about his being my own father. I only inquired about a Mr. Higgs, who was now worshipped in Erewhon as a supernatural being. The Bishop said it was, "Oh, so very dreadful," and he felt it all the more keenly, for the reason that he had himself been the means of my father's going to Erewhon, by giving him the information that enabled him to find the pass over the range that bounded the country. "I did not like the man, but I thought I could trust him with a letter, which it now seems I could not do. This third letter I have given him with a promise of a hundred pounds in silver for his new Cathedral, to be paid as soon as I get an answer from you. "We are all well at Sunch'ston; so are my wife and eight children--five sons and three daughters--but the country is at sixes and sevens. St. Panky is dead, but his son Pocus is worse. Dr. Downie has become very lethargic. I can do less against St. Hankyism than when I was a private man. A little indiscretion on my part would plunge the country in civil war. Our engineers and so-called men of science are sturdily begging for endowments, and steadily claiming to have a hand in every pie that is baked from one end of the country to the other. The missionaries are buying up all our silver, and a change in the relative values of gold and silver is in progress of which none of us foresee the end. "The King and I both think that annexation by England, or a British Protectorate, would be the saving of us, for we have no army worth the name, and if you do not take us over some one else soon will. The King has urged me to send for you. If you come (do! do! do!) you had better come by way of Erewhemos, which is now in monthly communication with Southampton. If you will write me that you are coming I will meet you at the port, and bring you with me to our own capital, where the King will be overjoyed to see you." * * * * * The rest of the letter was filled with all sorts of news which interested me, but would require chapters of explanation before they could become interesting to the reader. The letter wound up:- "You may publish now whatever you like, whenever you like. "Write to me by way of Erewhemos, care of the Right Reverend the Lord Bishop, and say which way you will come. If you prefer the old road, we are bound to be in the neighbourhood of the statues by the beginning of March. My next brother is now Ranger, and could meet you at the statues with permit and luncheon, and more of that white wine than ever you will be able to drink. Only let me know what you will do. "I should tell you that the old railway which used to run from Clearwater to the capital, and which, as you know, was allowed to go to ruin, has been reconstructed at an outlay far less than might have been expected--for the bridges had been maintained for ordinary carriage traffic. The journey, therefore, from Sunch'ston to the capital can now be done in less than forty hours. On the whole, however, I recommend you to come by way of Erewhemos. If you start, as I think possible, without writing from England, Bishop Kahabuka's palace is only eight miles from the port, and he will give you every information about your further journey--a distance of less than a couple of hundred miles. But I should prefer to meet you myself. "My dearest brother, I charge you by the memory of our common father, and even more by that of those three hours that linked you to me for ever, and which I would fain hope linked me also to yourself--come over, if by any means you can do so--come over and help us. "GEORGE STRONG." "My dear," said I to my wife who was at the other end of the breakfast table, "I shall have to translate this letter to you, and then you will have to help me to begin packing; for I have none too much time. I must see Alfred, and give him a power of attorney. He will arrange with some publisher about my book, and you can correct the press. Break the news gently to the children; and get along without me, my dear, for six months as well as you can." * * * * * I write this at Southampton, from which port I sail to-morrow--i.e. November 15, 1900--for Erewhemos. Footnotes {1} See Chapter X. 
53193	----	Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Punctuation and possible typographical errors have been changed. Archaic and variable spelling have been preserved. The Table of Contents has been added by the transcriber. CONTENTS Page CHAPTER I The tourist lost in mid-ocean is mysteriously introduced into Intermere, and meets the first citizen and other chief officials. 10 CHAPTER II Xamas, the first citizen, explains the polity and principles governing the Commonwealth and promoting the interests of all the people of Intermere. 30 CHAPTER III Maros places Anderton in communication with his mother, and dissipates his superstitious ideas and otherwise enlightens him as to the possibilities of science. 54 CHAPTER IV A trip by air and land and water through the provinces, cities, hamlets and gardens, with matchless beauty and enjoyment on every hand. 73 CHAPTER V The philosophy of life, and the faculty of its enjoyment as personified in the persons and vocations of the entertainers. 95 CHAPTER VI The secret of Intermere partially revealed to Anderton, and when he least expects it he is restored to his home and kindred, much to his regret. 119 CHAPTER VII Le envoi. 148 [Illustration] INTERMERE. _BY WILLIAM ALEXANDER TAYLOR,_ COLUMBUS, OHIO. 1901 - - - 1902 THE XX. CENTURY PUB. CO. COPYRIGHT BY WM. A. TAYLOR, 1901. THIS IS THE STRANGE AND REMARKABLE STORY, IN SUBSTANCE, AND LARGELY IN DETAIL, AS NARRATED BY GILES HENRY ANDERTON, JOURNALIST AND AMERICAN TOURIST. I. THE TOURIST LOST IN MID-OCEAN IS MYSTERIOUSLY INTRODUCED INTO INTERMERE, AND MEETS THE FIRST CITIZEN AND OTHER CHIEF OFFICIALS. I. THE MISTLETOE. The Mistletoe, staunch, trim and buoyant, steamed across the equator under the glare of a midday sun from a fleckless sky, and began to ascend toward the antarctic circle. Three days later we came in sight of a great bank of fog or mist, which stood like a gray wall of stone across the entire horizon, plunged into it and the sun disappeared--disappeared forever to all except one of the gay and careless crew and passengers. For days, as was shown by the ship's chronometers, we steamed slowly on our course, surrounded by an inky midnight, instinct with an oppressive and fearsome calm. As we approached the fortieth parallel of south latitude a remarkable change set in. The deathly calm was suddenly broken by the rush of mighty and boisterous winds, sweeping now from one point of the compass, and then suddenly veering to another, churning up the waters and spinning the Mistletoe round and round like a top. In the midst of the terror and confusion, heightened by the unheeded commands of the officers, a glittering sheeny bolt, like a coruscating column of steel, dropped straight from the zenith, striking the gyrating Mistletoe amidships. There was a deafening report, the air was filled with serpentine lines of flame, followed simultaneously by the dull explosion of the boilers, the hissing of escaping steam, the groaning of cordage and machinery, the lurching of the vessel as the water poured in apparently from a score of openings, a shuddering vibration of all its parts, and then, amid cries and prayers and imprecations, the wrecked vessel shot like a plummet to the bottom. I felt myself being dragged down to the immeasurable watery depths, confused with roaring sounds and oppressed with terrors indescribable and horrible. The descent seemed miles and miles. Then I felt myself slowly rising toward the surface, followed by legions of submarine monsters of grotesque shapes and terrifying aspects. With accelerated motion I approached the surface and, shooting like a cork above the now calm sea, fortunately fell upon a piece of floating wreckage. Looking upward as I lay upon it, I saw the blue sky and the brilliant stars far overhead. The fierce winds and inky darkness and blackness of the night were disappearing beyond the northeastern horizon. I tried to concentrate my scattered thoughts and piece out the awful catastrophe that had befallen the ship and my companions, but the effort was too great a strain and I ceased to think--perhaps I ceased to exist. * * * * * I seemed to be passing through a vague twilight of sentient existence. Thought was rudimentary with me, if, indeed, there were any thoughts. They were mere sensations, perhaps, or impressions imperfectly shaped, but I remember them now as being so delightful, that I prayed, in a feeble way, that I might never be awakened from them. And then gradually the senses of sight, hearing, and full physical and mental existence returned to me. At length I was able to determine that I lay on something like a hammock on the deck of a smoothly gliding vessel. Turning my head first to the right and then to the left, I imagined that I was indeed in Paradise, only the reality before me was so infinitely more beautiful than the most vivid poetic descriptions I had ever read of the longed for heaven of endless peace and happiness. But this could not be the Paradise of the disembodied souls, for I realized I was there in all my physical personal being. I was sailing through a smooth, shimmering sea, thickly studded with matchlessly beautiful islands. They lay in charming profusion and picturesque irregularity of contour on the right and the left, each a distinct type of beauty and perfection. I could make out houses and gardens and farms and people on each of them. Looking to the right I saw what appeared to be a mainland with majestic and softly modulated mountains and broad valleys, running from the distance down to the sands of the seashore. Above the mountains shone the unobscured sun, but not the burning orb I had known of old in the lower latitudes. It kissed me with a tenderness that was entrancing, filling my weakened frame with new life. The breezes toyed with my tangled and unkempt locks, fanned my brow and whispered such things to me as did the zephyrs when I stood upon the threshold of guileless boyhood. Finally I was able to frame a consecutive thought, in the interrogative form, and it was this: "Where am I? Is this the Heaven my mother taught me to seek?" I had as yet seen no one aboard the ship, or whatever it was, although I had heard the hum of what seemed to be conversation from some point beyond the line of vision. Again I silently repeated my mental question. As if in response to my unuttered query, a being, or a man, of striking and pleasing appearance came to my side and laying his hand softly on my forehead, addressed me in a tongue at once familiar but wholly unknown, as paradoxical as that may sound. I remained silent and he again addressed me. I did not feel disconcerted or awed by his appearance and said: "I speak French and German imperfectly; English with some fluency." His rejoinder was in English: "You speak English, but are not an Englishman except by partial descent. You are an American. Not a native of the eastern portion of the continent, but from west of the range of mountains which separate the Atlantic seaboard from the great central valley of the continent. You are from the tributary Ohio valley, and are, therefore, better fitted to comprehend what you will be permitted to see and hear, than the average habitant of the eastern seashore, especially of its great cities." You can possibly imagine, in a faint way, my unbounded surprise to be thus addressed by one who was more than a stranger to me. "You asked yourself two questions. I will answer the first: You are in Intermere." "And where is Intermere?" "It lies at your feet and expands on every hand about you. Let that suffice. "No, this is not the Heaven to which your mother taught you to aspire. It is a part of your own planet, inhabited by beings sprung from the same parent stock as yourself, but differing from all other nations and peoples; a people who are many steps nearer to the higher and better life, and is, by comparison, the Paradise or Eden that masks the gateway of the true Heaven, in a sphere beyond in the great Universe." He motioned to some one, and two persons appeared with refreshments. "Partake," he said, "and renew your exhausted physical and mental powers." The proffered refreshments and cordials seemed to be the acme of the gustatorial dreams of my former life: the suggestion of other things, yet unlike them. After I had partaken, a new life thrilled every nerve and fibre of my physical being and pulsated through every mental faculty. I arose from my recumbent position and was conducted forward upon the softly carpeted deck and presented to a score of others who received me with every token of marked respect, unkempt and bedraggled as I was. They were men of unusual physique, a composite of the highest types of the human race I had ever seen or read of. Each possessed a distinctive mien and personality, as individuals, yet presenting a harmonious whole, taken collectively. Xamas, as I afterward learned to know him, when I saw him presiding as First Citizen over this wonderful people, said to his fellows: "This is Giles Henry Anderton, a citizen of the interior of the great Republic of North America. I have fathomed him and know that he is worthy our respect and considerate treatment. He has dreamed longingly of the things whereof we know, and which he has never even recognized as a possibility. It will be our mission to show him the grand possibilities of human life before we restore him to his kindred and friends. "Not understanding that Nature had lain all treasures worth possessing in lavish profusion at his feet in his own land, and guided by merely commercial instincts, he sought for paltry gold in distant lands and seas, and, escaping the vortex of death, has been placed in our hands for some great purpose. He will be addressed in the English tongue until it is determined whether he is to be admitted to ours." This was spoken in a language absolutely unknown to me, and not a word of which I was capable of framing, and yet I understood it as fully as though spoken in English. So great was my amazement that he should know my nativity, my name, my hopes, my ambitions and my purposes, I could scarcely reply to the salutations extended to me. "Do not be surprised," said Xamas, reading my inmost thoughts, "at what I say, nor need you ask how I became possessed of your history. All that will be made plain to you hereafter." Turning to one who stood near, he said: "Conduct Mr. Anderton to my apartments and see that he has proper 'tendance and is supplied with suitable clothing." With that I was conducted below to a charming suite of apartments lying amidships, bathed, was massaged and shaven by an attendant, as lofty of mien as Xamas himself, and furnished with clothing suitable to the company with which I was to mingle, not more unlike the workmanship of my American tailor than his would be unlike the handiwork of his French, English or German fellow-craftsmen, and yet so unlike all of them as to fit perfectly into the ensemble of the habiliments of my new friends. The ship, or Merocar, as I subsequently learned was its general designation, was a marvellous affair, unlike any water craft I had ever seen. Its length was fully one hundred and fifty feet, and its greatest breadth thirty, gently sloping both to stem and stern, where it rounded in perfect curves. The upper, or proper deck, extended over all. The lower deck was a succession of suites and apartments, richly but artistically furnished, opening from either side into a wide and roomy aisle. All the work was so light, both the woods, and the metals, that it seemed fragile and unsafe, but its great strength was shown by the fact that none of its parts yielded to the weight or pressure upon it. There was not a mast, a spar nor a sail on board. The light and richly wrought hammocks swung on lithe and polished frames, apparently intended to sustain the weight of fifty pounds, yet capable of sustaining five or ten times as much. They were unprotected by awnings. Sunlight rather than shade was apparently the desideratum. In some unaccountable way the long and lithe Merocar was propelled at any desired rate of speed, and was turned, as on a pivot, at the will of the man who acted as captain, pilot and engineer. There was no steam, no furnace belching black volumes of smoke, no whirr of machinery, no strain or creaking as the craft shot, sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, through the rippling water. Even motion was not perceptible to the physical senses. The captain-pilot-engineer did not tug at a wheel in his railed-in apartment, elevated a few feet above the center of the upper deck. He placed his hand upon the table before him and it shot forward with incredible speed; he touched another point and it stood still, without jar or vibration. A movement of the hand, and the prow of the Merocar swept gracefully from north to east in less than its length, to pass between two beautiful islets or round some sharp promontory. Hundreds of other Merocars, differing in size and form, were visible. How they were propelled was so incomprehensible to me that I attributed it to supernatural agencies. I learned that it was a simpler process than the utilization of oars, or sails, or steam, which the progenitors of these mariners had abandoned before the days of Tyre and Sidon and Memphis and Thebes. Rejoining the company, I endeavored to carry on a conversation with them, but I fear I made little headway, so deeply was I absorbed in the wonderful panorama that lay before me. Raising my eyes from the shimmering, island-studded and beauty-bestrewn sea to the blue above, I uttered an ejaculation of surprise at what I beheld. There I saw "the airy navies" of which Tennyson had written under the spell of an inspiration which must have been wafted from this unknown land, but marred by the hostile environments of his own. Every quarter of the heavens disclosed graceful barques sailing hither and thither, passing and repassing each other, gathering in groups, filled with people, many of them holding mute communications with my companions, as though friend were talking with friend, without utterance, sign or gesture. "I am beyond the confines of earth," I said to Xamas. "This is a higher and spiritual sphere, and I am not Giles Henry Anderton, but his disembodied spirit." "You are at fault. You are within the mundane sphere, but with a people infinitely in advance of yours--a people who, by evolutionary processes, have unlocked a large proportion of the secrets of Nature and the Universe, and turned them to ennobling ends, not to selfish purposes. These facts will come to you in time, and you will be convinced. "See," he continued, "the city is slowly coming into view across the horizon." My glance followed to the point indicated, and I saw a city of ineffable magnificence, softly rising from the bosom of the deep, as though obedient to the wand of a master magician. Soon I could see that it swept around the broad semicircle of the bay, many miles in extent and artistically perfect in contour, the land rising gently from the strand into a grand and massive elevation, cut into great squares and circles, and crowned with noble buildings, great and small, in a style of architecture which embraced all the beauties and none of the blemishes of European and American creations. It was the full and perfect flower of the crude buds of other lands. For a time my companions remained silent as I contemplated the entrancing scene and drank in its beauties. Then Xamas interrupted me: "Yesterday the allied armies of the Western Nations entered the capital of China, and are now bivouacked in the Forbidden City, from which the Empress, Emperor and Court have fled." I shook my head incredulously: "When I sailed from New York six months ago there was no thought of war between any of the Western Nations and the Chinese Empire. Russia may have invaded one of its provinces by way of reprisal. That is a possibility." "Great events focus and transpire within six months. What I tell you is true. The hostile standards of England, Russia, Germany, France, Japan, and your own Republic, which has departed from its wise traditions, flout the Yellow Dragon in the precincts of his own citadel and temple. Is not this true, Maros?" turning to one who looked the prophet and seer. "Aye, indeed, and the best loved of this man's kindred fell in the assault. He will know if I am permitted to name him." "Shall he be permitted?" "Freely." "Albert Marshall, a sergeant of Marines, your playmate and foster brother, the next beloved of your mother, the son of her deceased sister; your mother reared him as her own son, and she knows, as yet, nothing of the disaster which has befallen you nor the loss of her foster son. He was of your own age, and like you tall, athletic and vigorous, with fair hair and complexion and blue eyes, the very counterpart of yourself--a man fit for a higher destiny than butchery." "O Albert! O unhappy, stricken mother!" I cried in agony. "Revered sir, I believe your words. They are absolutely convincing. Tell me how you came into possession of this strange information." "In time; but be patient. Lament not for the dead; sorrow not for the living. We must presently debark. Come to my garden tomorrow. It lies within the shadow of the Temple of Thought, Memory and Hope. My home is unpretentious, but you will be welcome. There is need that you should come. Tomorrow your mother will be apprised of the death of your kinsman; almost simultaneously will come rumors of your shipwreck. She must be assured of your safety within twenty-four hours, if you hope to meet her again." "But how can I com----" "Peace, patience; sufficient unto tomorrow is the labor and issue thereof." The Merocar gently ran into its slip, and we debarked, Xamas carrying me to his home in a vehicle of strange design and mysterious power of propulsion. II. XAMAS, THE FIRST CITIZEN, EXPLAINS THE POLITY AND PRINCIPLES GOVERNING THE COMMONWEALTH AND PROMOTING THE INTERESTS OF ALL THE PEOPLE OF INTERMERE. II. THE FIRST CITIZEN. I shall so far anticipate as to say that the city in which I found myself was known as the Greater City, in contradistinction of the Lesser City, lying at the opposite end of the inland sea or mere. This body of water extends in an oval shape or form north and south, its length being approximately four hundred miles, and its greatest width at the latitudinal center two hundred miles, gradually narrowing toward the opposite extremes, where it gently expands into rounded bays, forming the extended water fronts of both cities. The Greater City was clearly the original seat of the present civilization, from which it extended southward along both shores until it met at the southern apex and became the Lesser City. I was able, however, to distinguish but little, if any, difference between the two. The twelve hundred miles of shore line is studded with farms, gardens, towns, villages, hamlets, private residences and public edifices, extending over highland and plain, as far as I was permitted to see, toward the outer boundaries, the location and character of which I can not even conjecture. Many rivers, limpid and sparkling, coming through level and spreading valleys, and from almost every point, contribute their waters to the mere. The current of the mere is phenomenal--not violent, but distinctively marked. Twice within every twenty-four hours it sweeps entirely around the oval, affecting one-half of the mere as it moves. With the early hours of the morning and evening it sweeps from north to south throughout the eastern, and with noon and midnight through the western half of the sea. This current may be described as anti- or trans-tidal; that is, the general water level falls or is lowered on the side where the current runs, and rises correspondingly in the opposite half. The effect is this: From 6 a. m. to 12 noon and from 6 p. m. to midnight, throughout the eastern half, the tide runs in from those rivers falling in from the east, and correspondingly rises and moves inland in those falling in from the west, and then the current flows north on the western side from 12 noon to 6 p. m. and from midnight to 6 a. m., so that for half the time the rivers on either side ebb or flow into the sea, and for the other twelve hours rise and flow to the interior, east or west as the case may be. The effect of this is singular indeed, or it was to me. The rivers appear to run inland from the sea a part of the time, and then run from the landward into the sea for twelve hours, or an equal period, while the sea itself appears to be a subdivided river forever flowing in an elongated circle along the opposite shores. The description of the Egyptian high priest, carefully guarded by his successors for nine thousand years, then revealed to Solon, and by Solon narrated to Plato, and by Plato transmitted to the modern world, must have had its basis here. Is not this the Atlantis which enthralled the Egyptian sage, philosopher and priest more than ten cycles ago? To the Egyptian the ever-flowing rivers returned to their common source through valleys and landscapes of ravishing beauty, renewing themselves forever. They laved the feet of cities, irrigated the endless succession of farms, gardens and residential demesnes, and mirrored the mountains, clothed with perpetual verdure and crowned with the stately monuments of genius, wisdom, art, civilization, learning and human progress, a century of centuries agone. * * * * * I have spoken of the singular vehicle in which, with Xamas, I left the pier and ascended the gentle slope into the city. It might be likened, faintly however, to the best types of our automobiles. But the comparison would be much like that between the ox-cart and the landau. It more resembled a double-seated chair set upon several small elastic wheels, scarcely visible beneath the rich trappings which dropped almost to the smooth street, as scrupulously clean as a ballroom floor. Xamas pushed a tiny lever, almost hidden in the rich upholstery of the arm-rest, and it moved swiftly and noiselessly forward without jar or oscillation. A delicate and a deftly concealed spring guided it along the graceful curves of the streets, or sent it at a right angle when the streets crossed at tangents. An adjustment lowered the speed to a strolling pace; another movement gave a high speed, while the reversal of the lever brought us to a standstill that I might silently admire some stately architectural pile or revel in the contemplation of some lovely private home. As we journeyed Xamas said: "Ask with all frankness such questions as you desire. Wisdom is the child of patience, so be neither impatient, if the answer is not immediate, or if it is at first incomprehensible. It will be some time before your understanding can grasp all that you see or all that you hear. "Your people undertake the impossible feat of putting a gallon of grain into a pint vase. Result: The vase is crushed and broken and the grain is spilled and lost. The human mind is the vase; Knowledge is the grain, from which Wisdom will germinate. The vase expands by a process too subtle for your comprehension. To crowd it beyond its capacity with the idea of expanding its receptiveness is a dangerous and fatal folly. That is why mental dwarfs multiply and mental giants diminish in proportion to the increase of your people. Two things are uppermost in your mind: "First, you believe you are in a supernatural sphere and surrounded by a supernatural people. In this you are absolutely at fault. Accept this assurance without reservation. You will tarry with us long enough to fully comprehend that fact. You will see nothing during your stay that can not be accounted for on natural and scientific grounds. "Second, you are consumed with curiosity to know how I propel this Medocar and make it obey my every wish, so to speak. The full explanation of that I shall delegate to another, who will acquaint you with our mechanisms and the principle that moves them. "When you have patiently and intelligently listened to him you will know that we have achieved what your wisest and deepest and least appreciated thinkers have but vaguely dreamed of and hoped for during long and intermittent periods. But here we are at my residence. Let us enter and I will introduce you to my family and friends." The Medocar halted with the last word in front of a two-storied, many-gabled house with broad verandas, situated in the center of spacious grounds, beautified with trees and shrubs and flowers and bubbling fountains. Ushering me into a spacious reception hall, he presented me to his wife and children--grown-up sons and daughters--and then to a number of men and women who had called to greet him, some on social affairs and some on matters of public business, concluding with: "Mr. Anderton is a castaway from the other side of the world, who is entitled to our sympathy and care." If my newly made acquaintances were curious as to my being, personality and history, they had masterful control of their feelings. In all things they treated me with the most refined courtesy and gentle consideration. They did not embarrass me with expressions of pity or consolatory suggestions. They addressed me in my own language, made me feel that I was welcome to their society. Each extended an invitation to me to visit them at their homes, some of them in distant provinces, and these invitations were gratefully accepted. There could be no mistaking the deep sincerity they implied. After an hour's pleasant conversation on many and varied subjects with my host and his guests, Xamas led me to a suite of apartments intended for my use, and said: "Attendants will provide you with refreshments and ascertain your every want. Rest and fully recuperate. Later in the day I shall explain to you the polity of our Commonwealth, in which I perceive you are deeply interested." What a remarkable man! He seemed to read my inmost thoughts. * * * * * As the sun was hanging like a softly beaming lamp above a cone-like mountain beyond the western line of the Greater City, Xamas and I were alone upon an open veranda, overgrown with clambering vines of many kinds in full bloom, radiant with exquisite colors and shades. He abruptly said to me: "This Commonwealth is a pure democracy. Titles and offices confer no merely meretricious distinctions. They temporarily impose additional responsibilities, duties and burdens; the chief distinction of the citizen is conferred by labor, for labor is honorable and praiseworthy above all things else. The second is justice. When and where all men labor and all men are just, there can be no wrong, no sin, no evil. Where there is labor and not justice, the strong enjoy, the weak suffer and endure, opulence flourishes for the few, pain and poverty afflict the many. Where there is neither labor nor justice, where might makes right, barbarism in its worst form curses the land. "The ascent from the third condition to the first is a highway leading through the second, where labor is oppressed and justice is a stranger, until at last justice and labor join hands and produce a happy and a great people. I touch only on the three cardinal points. The process of ascent is slow and purely evolutionary--an evolution that constantly conforms itself to ever-changing environments. "Your own so-called Declaration of Independence, which so many of your people do not care to comprehend, was drawn from the keystone of our own national arch--Human Equality, the climax of human civilization and happiness. "Thousands of years before the feet of the more modern Europeans trode the soil of your continent we had reached this point, and discovered that we had but reached the initial period of our usefulness and higher destiny. "It required centuries to expel first the animal instincts, and then the barbarian nature from our race, not by savage repression and ruthless aggression and slaughter, but by the study and application of the laws of Nature and the Universe, which at last ultimated in the principle and entity of Brotherhood and the equality of all men--not equality of stature, mental equipment or material endowment, but the equality of common rights and common opportunities. Labor and Justice maintain and preserve this equality and Brotherhood. "Thousands of years before Magna Charta we had founded our Commonwealth on the great principles of human equality and the right of life, liberty and the pursuit of rational happiness, and my ancestors, comprehending the profound laws of Nature unknown to yours, wafted to them these precious seed, trusting that they would fall on genial and generous soil, and the inspiration thus transmitted through the agency of our progenitors was inscribed by yours upon rescript of your national autonomy. "Its growth, once so promising, has become painful and pitiable. The upas of human greed and selfishness withers it, and the prophecy of bloom and fruitage is unfulfilled. The animal instinct and the barbarous appetite which reaches after the gaud and tinsel of excessive wealth and accumulation, the two aggressive forms of selfishness combined in one, hold civilization and human progress in check, and may in your case, as in a thousand others, lead back to the fen and morass of primal barbarism. "No, this is not the Paradise of Socialism, as you call it," said he, interpreting the thread of my thought. "That is but an idle dream, the recrudescence of primal, undeveloped and undesirable conditions, which occasionally flashes through irresolute minds, unfitted to solve the great problem of human existence and happiness. "This is the land of absolute individuality as well as absolute equality. Every man who reaches maturity becomes the individual owner of property in one or more of its forms, the foundation being the soil for residence or productive purposes, or both, at his option. All lands are subject to individual ownership, within clearly defined limits, the public domain being held in reserve to meet new demands of increasing population. It is the common property of all until it passes into individual ownership, to be used for agricultural or other purposes, under fixed rules, a specific proportion of the product, or its equivalent, being turned into the common treasury, to prosecute public improvements and for other public purposes. "This stands in lieu of taxation in other countries, and it is only on rare occasions that it is necessary to supplement it with a direct tax on the people, except as to the municipal and provincial taxes for local purposes, in which case each man of mature age, or twenty-five years, pays the one hundredth part of his earnings monthly into the treasury, the sum thus paid being evenly divided between the treasuries of the province and municipal division. When a surplus equal to the previous year's expenditures accumulates this tax is remitted for the ensuing year. "A man may own a home and a separate farm or garden, or business or manufacturing site; nor may he engage in more than one business or employment, except the public service, at the same time. He may change from one line of business to another, but may not buy or sell real estate for mere speculation. He may not acquire property other than his earnings until he reaches maturity, and designs to marry and become the head of a family. If his intent fail, or remains unfulfilled for three years, the home thus acquired becomes public property, and may be sold to another who assumes the marital relation, and the proceeds divided equally between the municipal treasury or bank and the former owner. "Residences may be exchanged, as may farms, gardens, business sites and factories, including the line of business or manufacturing, but neither may be alienated by the owner, except with the approval of the Custodian of the Municipality upon a satisfactory showing of the reasons therefor. "All persons of both sexes must take up an occupation at the age of twenty, and continue therein, or in some other occupation, until sixty years of age, unless incapacitated, and deposit in the municipal bank or treasury at least one-twentieth of their monthly earnings. At sixty they may retire from active life, and their accumulations are subject to their wants and demands under salutary rules. The residue, along with their other personal property, is distributed pro rata among their direct descendants, and if there be none, in is turned into the general treasury of the Commonwealth. "Women are entitled to their earnings, but may not own real estate, the policy being that men shall be the home-makers and women the home-keepers. The wife is entitled to the prevailing wage from her husband for attending to his household affairs, in addition to the other provisions for household matters and economies which he must make. "Under our system there is neither opulence nor poverty in the land. Great wealth has no existence with us, and therefore has no allurements. Charity is not a gaunt pack-horse, overloaded with offerings which come after the eleventh hour. The equality of opportunity closes every inlet to the wolves of Hunger and Poverty which ravage other lands amid the riotous revelry of the unjustly opulent. We have had, at intervals, persons who rebelled, through recurrent heredity perhaps, against our admirable system, and to them we administer lex dernier--they are transported to some other land, by methods known only to ourselves, there to mingle with a new people, with but a faint conception of their nativity. They constitute those mysterious beings found in all other countries, whose origin is forever hidden, and as a rule they are excellent and strangely wise citizens, for they are permitted to carry with them much of the knowledge, with some of the wisdom, of their ancestry." I shall abbreviate much that Xamas gave in great detail. From him I learned that every male is entitled to participate in all public affairs, including the right of franchise. All are eligible to office. The Commonwealth is composed of twenty-four provinces, each province being composed of twelve municipal divisions. The elective officers are, in their order: 1. First Citizen of the Commonwealth. 2. Chief Citizen of the Province. 3. Custodian of the Municipality. The First Citizen is the executive head of the Commonwealth, serves but a single year, and is not eligible to re-election. The Chief Citizens, or executives of the provinces, constitute his Board of Counselors to determine all matters affecting the public welfare and to select the various Curators of the divisional interests of the entire Commonwealth. They meet to perform these duties twice each year, alternating between the Greater and Lesser Cities. The Chief Citizens are the executive heads of the Provinces, the Custodians of the Municipalities constituting their respective Boards of Counsellors. They, too, meet twice each year to consider and determine matters of provincial interest, and to decide all questions of difference which may come up from the Municipalities. Their tenure of office is two years, and they are not eligible to re-election. The Custodians are the sole heads of the Municipalities, and decide all questions arising therein, and appeal lies from their decisions to the Provincial Board of Counsellors, who determine the question finally. They hold the office three years, and may not be re-elected. The above officials appoint all the necessary clerical and other assistants necessary to carry out the duties imposed on them. None of the elective officers receive salaries, but are allowed out of their respective treasuries 20 media per day for all necessary expenses. The media is equivalent to 20 cents American currency, and is the unit of exchange. It is divided into four equal parts, the coin being designated quatro, while a third coin, equivalent to 5 media, is denominated cinque, so that the three coins are quatro, silver; media, gold; and cinque, gold and platinum in equal parts, of nearly equal size and weight, representing five, twenty, and one hundred cents of our currency, and nearly the size of an American quarter-dollar. Twenty media is the wage of the master artisan, and 15 media the wage of all other males. Females receive a wage of from 8 to 15 media. The master artisan's wage is the compensation of all official assistants in whatever capacity, as well as the expense allowance of the actual officials. In addition to the above officials of the Commonwealth there are: Curator of Revenues; Curator of Works and Polity; Curator of Learning and Progress; Curator of Scientific Research and Application, and Curator of Useful Mechanical Devices. Their duties are suggested by their titles. They receive the expense allowance, no salaries, are chosen for terms of seven years, ineligible to a second term, by the First Citizen and his Counsellors, and appoint their own subordinates and assistants. There is a Curator of Revenue appointed by the Chief Citizen of each Province to care for the provincial, and by the Municipal Custodian to care for the Municipal revenues. The marriageable age of men is from 25 to 30, and women from 20 to 25. The offspring of the marriage relation varies from two to six, seldom less than two, or more than six, the average being four, hence population increases slowly, while the great majority live from 80 to 100 years, retaining both physical and mental faculties to the last. "There is no mercenary incentive to hold office," said Xamas, "and it is absolutely open to all, and men leave it, not with regret, but with the consciousness of having performed a necessary duty and service. Three months hence I will leave the chief office of the State, and resume my occupation as mechanical engineer under one with whom I have been for a score or more of years. He is now my Secretary, but that is nothing unusual. It is a leading part of our history. "But it is time for rest. You have an important engagement with Maros, our Curator of Scientific Research and Application, tomorrow morning, and he exacts promptitude." III. MAROS PLACES ANDERTON IN COMMUNICATION WITH HIS MOTHER, AND DISSIPATES HIS SUPERSTITIOUS IDEAS AND OTHERWISE ENLIGHTENS HIM AS TO THE POSSIBILITIES OF SCIENCE. III. A DAY WITH MAROS. I called on Maros, the Curator of Scientific Research and Application, as per appointment, and found him surrounded with everything calculated to contribute to the enjoyments of earthly existence. His residence differed in many respects from that of Xamas. All its appointments and environments were in the most exquisite taste. But this may be said, once for all, of every private residence and public edifice in Intermere. The taste of architects and occupants differed, but all were on lines of beauty, comfort and convenience. There is no luxury in Intermere, as we use the term. Luxury is a merely comparative term in the rest of the world, distinguishing those who have much from those who have little or nothing. Here every rational taste is gratified in all particulars. The people have clearly discovered the hidden springs of Nature's kindly intentions toward man, and utilize them at individual and collective will. "You are prompt," said Maros, seating me in his study. "Let us proceed with the matter in which you are interested." He placed before me a perfectly drawn map of a section of the United States, embracing the place of my nativity, and asked me to point out the exact vicinity of my mother's home. I found it readily. "The point you now occupy is the lineal opposite. Turn to the point, or direction, you have designated, and direct your concentrated thought there. If a responsive impression comes to you, communicate its purport to me." I sat in silent thought a few moments, Maros closely regarding me. "I am impressed that my mother is prostrated with grief; that she has just learned of the death of my kinsman; that rumors of the loss of the Mistletoe have reached her, being first cabled from Singapore to New York, and from thence transmitted to the press, and that she is impressed with the belief that I, too, am dead. I fear that she will not survive the double shock." "Frame such a thought as you would wish impressed upon your mother's consciousness and faith, and tell me what follows." This is the thought I framed: "Mother, I am alive and well in an unknown land, surrounded by kind friends, and will ere long return to you." Later to Maros: "I am convinced. My mother has partially recovered from the shock. My death would have been the fatal blow. She smiles with pious resignation, through the tempest of her grief, and extends her arms as if to embrace me. This, however, is wholly an impression; I do not see or hear her, but we seem to stand face to face, and both realize it." "Give yourself no further concern, nor seek further communication with her until you meet her in person. She knows you are alive and will return to her. Nothing she will hear will change that belief." "Tell me by what divine or celestial power I am thus enabled to project my thoughts across unknown seas and continents, and receive responsive thoughts. Only supernatural agencies could accomplish this." "You have what you call the telephone?" "Yes." "You communicate alike with friends and strangers hundreds of miles distant in an ordinary tone of voice?" "Yes." "Is that supernatural?" "No; it is the result of scientific achievement and natural phenomena." "Would one, coming out of the depths of absolute ignorance of scientific achievement, as you call it, regard it as a supernatural agency?" "He undoubtedly would." "What would you think of his conclusion?" "That it was the result of superstition." "And yet you who have just stepped out of the dawn into the full day; you who have transmitted uttered thoughts to remote distances through a coarse steel or copper wire and received other uttered thoughts in return, regard with superstitious awe, as supernatural, what you have just experienced. Wherein do you differ from the untutored barbarian?" I sat in silence. "The telephone wire is to the thread of sentient thought which may span the universe itself, what the horseback mail-rider is to your modern methods of communication--what the earliest dawn is to the full day." Maros explained at full length how he became possessed of the knowledge of my identity, family connections and my misfortunes, summing up: "When you were found in the remote and outer ocean and brought within the precincts of Intermere, you were physically unconscious, but still possessing partially dormant mental faculties; that is, you continued to think feebly and intermittently. We traced your two intermittent lines of thought to your mother in America, and to, or rather toward, your kinsman at some unknown point. Tracing again to your parent we learned that Marshall had accompanied the American expedition to China from Manila. Following this clew, we ascertained that he had been killed, and that that fact would reach his home in due course, as well as the fact that information of the loss of your ship would reach America almost simultaneously. What your mother now regards as premonitions of impending evil or misfortunes were communications with her consciousness, far more refined and perfect than the subsequent cable communications, but quite as natural, and in no sense supernatural." "This is indeed amazing!" I exclaimed. He further said that this was an individual case and purely the result of my condition. "We do not seek, as a rule, knowledge of individualities in the outside world, but confine our inquiries to matters of general moment. We know of the steps of progress, retrogression, of savagery and butchery and wrong and oppression which dominate an embryotic civilization. Amuse yourself for a time with the pictures and tapestries, and I will give you a record of the outer world's important matters of yesterday." He opened a cabinet, and assumed the mien of expectant inquiry and meditation. Soon his hands began to move with rhythmic rapidity over the curiously inlaid center of the flat surface of the open cabinet. At the end of ten or fifteen minutes his manipulations ceased, a compartment above noiselessly opened, and eight beautifully printed pages, four by six inches, bound in the form of a booklet, fell upon the table. It was printed in characters more graceful than our own Roman letters, from which they might have been evolved, or the Roman Alphabet might have deteriorated from what appeared before me. The English language was not used, and yet I could readily read and comprehend the lines. The pages before me comprised a compendium of yesterday's doings of the entire world, and included a note of my own case. They told of all the military operations in China, in the Philippines, in South Africa, in the far East and in the remote West; of labor troubles in the mining districts of America; the strike of the textile operatives on our Atlantic border; the unrest of the Finns and Slavs; of plots and counterplots, and political assassination and revolution, attempted or accomplished, and the full catalogue of such happenings, with now and then a flash of loftier civilization. "What you read is being reproduced in every divisional municipality of the Commonwealth, with such a number of instantaneous duplications as may be required for the perusal and study of all who desire to compare tinseled and ornamented barbarism with true civilization. "Selfishness, oppression, slaughter, pride, conquest, greed, vanity, self-adulation and base passions make up ninety-nine one-hundredths of this record. What a commentary on such humanity! To it love, brotherhood and mutual helpfulness are too trivial for serious consideration. "The nations and their rulers, differing somewhat as to degree, stand for organized and dominant wrong, based primarily on selfishness--the exact reverse of the conditions that should exist." "This," said I, still contemplating the pages, "compares with our newspapers." "As two objects may compare with each other as to bulk or form, but in no other respect. This is to promote wisdom. The newspaper to feed vicious or depraved appetite, as well as to convey useful information. This is the cold, colorless, passionless record of facts and information, from which knowledge and wisdom may be deduced to some extent. Your newspaper is the opposite, taken in its entirety. It consists of the inextricable mingling together of the good and the bad, of the useful and the useless, and the elevating and the degrading, the latter always in the ascendant. "It foments discord instead of promoting profitable discussion, which is the bridle-path leading into the highway of wisdom. It is built upon the cornerstone of selfishness, the other name of commercialism, and is thoroughly imbued with the spirit of greed. "It caters to the public demand regardless of the spirit or the depravity behind it. 'Quatro! Quatro! Quatro!' is the burden of its cry, and for quatro it is willing to lead the world forward or backward, as the case may be. It has been growing in stature and retrograding in usefulness for fifty years throughout the world, in all save increasing facilities, and avidity for pandering to the worst and most uncivilized propensities of mankind, and it will probably continue to grow worse for a century to come. "Fifty years ago it was blindly controversial, but there was enough of reason in its discussions to give hope for the future. Now it is a mere mental and moral refuse car, and its so-called religious form is devoted only to a more refined class of refuse, if that expression is allowable. "As a whole, it represents classes and not the whole community; prejudices, and not principles; it advocates selfish, not general interests; it panders to petty jealousies; it indulges in tittle-tattle in mere wantonness, and has no aim save the grossly materialistic." I winced under his fierce arraignment and invective, for I am a newspaper man myself. "I know that I have touched you in a sensitive spot, but I speak of the newspaper in a general sense. There are worthy exceptions, despite all the untoward environments; but, unfortunately, their influence is limited. Your masses read and re-read accounts of how two beings beat each other out of human semblance on a wager, and pass, unread and unnoticed, the best thoughts of your greatest scientists and profoundest thinkers. It is not the canaille who do this alone, but your statesmen and rulers, men of large affairs and men of the learned professions." I turned the conversation, saying: "It is incomprehensible to me how you produced this record of events in so short a time and without apparent mechanical or physical effort." "Doubtless, but not more incomprehensible to you than your linotype machines and perfecting press would have been to Gutenberg. And your discoveries and inventions would be no more incomprehensible to him than would his types and crude multiplying press be to the papyrus writers, scriveners and hieroglyphants of the earlier world. "The transition from the work of the papyrians to the achievements of the Intermereans is the result of that evolution known as scientific research into Nature's beneficence, in which mechanical invention is a mere incident, and its application to a high, unselfish and noble purpose, instead of selfish, base and ignoble ends. "We had outstripped your present ideals ages before the Chinese began block printing, or Gutenberg fashioned his types and press. Both these, as well as your own advanced mechanism, as well as your every other great achievement in science and research, were the result of the thought-seed sown or diffused from this land, but which fell on absolutely barren soil, or only grew in puny or defective forms, far short of ripening or maturity. "Your Franklin comprehended the supreme and all-pervading power and genius of the Universe, the knowledge of and the power to utilize which makes man godlike, but the dense ignorance and gross materialism of his day prevented him from enlightening his people. "Your Morse conceived and executed the scheme of telegraphic signals cycles after we had discarded it. "Your nameless and unknown discoverers, whose weak but apprehending genius was utilized by Bell, gave you the telephone ages after it had been supplanted here by our more nearly perfect system of intelligent communication with the entire terrestrial world, and we are now exploring, with it, the adjacent systems of the Universe with promising results. "Your Edison and other electrical discoverers are more than a cycle behind us, and have as yet but touched the outer surface of the great secret. To them and to others the current of the Universe is a constant menace and a danger. To us it as gentle and as harmless as the flowers that bloom by the wayside, and responds to our every wish and use with absolute tractability. "The fault of the rest of the world is that all great discoveries, all the unlockings of Nature's treasure-house, are turned to selfish ends, to the aggrandizement of the few, and the detriment, if not the oppression, of the many; hence civil commotions, wars, tyrannies, the insolence of opulence, and the failure to carry forward the process of civilization and the elevation of the race by the unselfish application of attained wisdom. The barbarian spirit of Self is dominant. "You were about to ask if you might carry this record home. No. You will be permitted to inspect it and others similar during your sojourn, and carry their remembrance with you, and thus be enabled to compare them with your own current records of contemporaneous dates; but that is all. "The Western nations have opened their own gates and invited eventual destruction by this apparently temporary invasion of the East. This war, if it may be so called, will be of short duration, followed by the oppression inseparable from selfish greed, commercialism and the love of conquest and arbitrary power which compels the unwilling obedience of peoples. "But the 400,000,000 Chinese and affiliated races, are more insidiously dangerous than you know. They will cultivate the seed now being sown, and prepare the dragon's harvest of blood. In the remoter provinces they will soon breed soldiers and captains, who will eclipse the bloody and destructive achievements of Genghis Khan and Tamerlane, profiting by your present superior knowledge of mechanism and the arts of war, which they will appropriate and assimilate, and turn to terrible final account. "The commercial greed of the West will be the enemy of the Western peoples themselves. It will fit and arm the aroused avengers for their world-wide invasion and conflict. Selfish capitalists will do this in spite of all inhibitions, under the plea of creating prosperous conditions and extending commerce, and their people and their posterity will perish by the enginery which selfish commercial greed placed in the hands of their enemies." Maros presented me to another official, and politely dismissed me to visit the places of interest in the city. Upon my return to America I compared the contemporaneous history of the world with the daily records I had been permitted to inspect, the remembrance of which I vividly retained, and found every fact therein to be absolutely correct. IV. A TRIP BY AIR AND LAND AND WATER THROUGH THE PROVINCES, CITIES, HAMLETS AND GARDENS, WITH MATCHLESS BEAUTY AND ENJOYMENT ON EVERY HAND. IV. A TOUR OF SIGHT-SEEING. What a wonderful land is Intermere, and what a wonderful people live and enjoy life in it to the full! Twenty days of visiting ten of the interior provinces, bordering on the mere, was more like a dream of happiness, sight-seeing and indescribable enjoyment to me than a reality. For reasons not explained to me I was not carried into the fourteen remaining provinces, which evidently lay in all directions toward the exterior borders of the land. I rather suspect that this was because it might have enabled me to form some definite idea of the geographical location of Intermere. What I saw and experienced I still retain as a beautiful and ineffaceable memory, but it is a picture I can not wholly reproduce or describe in anything like complete details. I can at best only give the impressions I still retain. The delightful journey was under the direction of Karmas, the Custodian of Works and Polity, accompanied by other chief officers, and the officials of the provinces, the title and character of which had already been given me by Xamas. They have three modes of travel: by Medocar, by Aerocar, and by Merocar. By the first you travel on land; by the second through the air; by the third on the water. While these vehicles of transportation are divided into three general classes as designated, they comprise thousands of beautiful and curious designs, upon which individual names are bestowed, as we bestow names upon our horses and our ships. There is no preference as to the mode and method of journeying. Each of them seems absolutely perfect. There is no physical sense of motion in either, as we realize it. They glide over the broad, smooth and perfectly kept roadways, through the depths of the ether, or along the waters, with the same imperceptible motion, and can be put to a rate of speed that makes our limited railway trains seem like lumbering farm wagons. All resistance of the elements seems absolutely overcome. The power of propulsion was wholly incomprehensible at first, and later I was only able to learn as to its principle, and left wholly to conjecture as to its application. Roadways, or, perhaps more properly, boulevards, interlace the whole country. They are the perfection of road-building--smooth, even-crowned, and free from dust, water or other offensive substance. The surface is like a newly asphalted street, but hard and impervious, with no depressions, cracks or flaws. The engineering could hardly be improved on. Accepting the statements made to me that the most of these highways have been in use for centuries, with few if any repairs, they may be looked on as not only permanent but indestructible. The purpose of each of them is self-evident. Every rod of it is for use and to meet some requirement that presents itself. They are bordered, wherever they extend, with beautiful homes, monuments and temples, commemorative of some great achievement in civilization and progress. The residential grounds, farms and gardens are marvels of exquisite taste without an exception, so far as I was able to note, modeled after countless designs, which give the earth's surface a versatility of beauty that is enchanting. There are farms and gardens everywhere except in a limited number of the compact squares of cities, small and perfectly kept, and productive in a sense and to a degree absolutely incredible to the dwellers of any other land. As to these roadways: They are of the uniform width of two hundred feet wherever you find them, whether skirting sea, lake or river, penetrating valleys or clambering around and around the ascent of the mountains from base to apex, where some monument or temple, or both, are perched, overlooking hundreds of square miles. As already stated, they are everywhere as smooth and kept as clean as a tiled floor, with a sense or quality of elasticity, and seemingly indestructible. I would have regarded them as natural phenomena had I not seen a mountain being terraced and a roadway being graded and finished without any of the paraphernalia of our own methods of engineering and construction. Earth and rock seemed to melt and become mobile under the influence of some unseen power, and gangs of men, following with levelers of light machinery, modulated the grades and contours of the crumbled rock and soil. Others followed these, compounding, expanding and laying down a plastic and rapidly hardening envelope, thus finishing the surface like the roads over which we were gliding, some of which, I was told, had been in use for many centuries without the slightest change of condition. I expressed a doubt as to their longevity. Karmas smiled and said: "You judge by experience. In your cities you import material from some distant country or island, and by mechanical manipulation and chemical combination and processes fit it to be laid down as a pavement. When finished it looks almost as smooth and beautiful as yonder landway being newly constructed to accommodate the expanding population of the district. But the resemblance ends here. "Your chemists and engineers and constructors have only the crudest ideas of landway or terraneous works. The asphalt is a suggestion, but the builder's compound turns it in the direction of deterioration. Instead of going forward, they go backward. They know little of the character of the materials they seek to utilize, and nothing of the true principles of chemical combination. "Our material is at hand, as it is at hand everywhere, containing the elements which need only to be properly combined and assimilated to become practically indestructible. "You take a clay, and by machinery, crude perhaps, reduce it to dust, then moisten it back into pliable clay, fashion it, subject it to an intense but unrefined heat, and you have what will retain its form and consistence for centuries, and resist the elemental attacks longer even than granite. This is but the dawn of possibilities. The semi-barbarous, thousands of years ago, went further and made them flexible as well as durable. Their discoveries were long ago forgotten. "Your people never go beyond the point of discovery. They stop short of the possibilities. They lose these possibilities in material and commercial utilization. Ego stands between the discoverer and the world, and progress ends. "While the rest of the world has thus, again and again, stood still on the threshold, or moved backward or forward intermittently, for obvious and selfish reasons, we have steadily moved forward in scientific discovery and research, and the application of great principles. "The example is before you. Without any of your crude and cumbersome machinery, the mountain is being terraced and fitted for the abode of man, the elemental constituents are being disintegrated, properly disposed, rearranged and the surface recombined in a new form and proportion by natural laws, and remote generations will find yonder landway as our workmen will leave it. They could level the mountain as readily as they terrace it, distributing it over the adjacent plain, leaving it a level and fertile glebe, instead of a towering height of rock and sand overspread with soil. "All that you see or will see is the result of knowledge and wisdom turned to noble and unselfish ends for the common betterment and elevation of the race. "Your progenitors learned to dig the hard and soft ores from the earth and produce iron, then took a step forward and converted it into steel, of greater strength and durability, capable of light forms and high polish, and there you have stopped at the very beginning. You are incapable of saving your own handiwork from disintegration. The elements corrode your finest steel products, and they flake away to the original conditions of the crude ore, losing a large proportion of their original virtues and constituents. We have, on the contrary, gone forward to the ultimate. "You have denuded your lands of forests to use as a cumbersome material for building, and furniture and other purposes, the wood, which decays and is soon destroyed. You have, without understanding the process, macerated and reduced woods to a pulp and fashioned it into paper, which in several forms you utilize, but you have stopped at the beginning of the journey. "We have carried it forward, and a large proportion of the material used in the construction of our houses and furniture and bridges and cars are the product of our forests in a new and better and more enduring form--light and capable of the most graceful fashioning. This is used in combination with the metals in all departments of our economies." I had already noticed the fact that but little of the woodwork was in the natural form, and that while it was incredulously light, it was incredibly strong. The same was true of the wrought metals, all of which differed from our own forms. In my examinations of the bridges across streams, both large and small, I noted the fact that they were constructed in about equal parts of wood, or a substance I took therefor, and metal, differing greatly from the metals we use, yet not wholly unlike them. Both materials were of tubular construction, appearing almost fragile in their lightness, but strong and firm, and showing none of the ravages of time and the elements. So far as I was able to judge no paints were used, but everything was perfectly polished. The bridges were light, airy constructions, swung from lofty and graceful piers, a span of a thousand feet appearing to be as firm and strong as one of fifty. I also noticed that in their construction of cars, furniture, houses, and the like, the woods and metals were indiscriminately used, more for beauty and ornamentation, perhaps, than for strengthening purposes or utility. Lightness and gracefulness were in evidence everywhere. There were panels and inlays of wood in its natural state, highly wrought and polished, as hard and impervious as the metals. "You seem to be able to make everything indestructible," I said to Karmas. "It is your privilege to draw your own conclusions," was his reply. * * * * * The people I met and mingled with, both men and women, were superb specimens of the human race, full of life, full of hope, full of high ambitions, and capable of infinite enjoyments. Games, sports and social amenities were the order of their daily life, albeit every one of them engaged in some laborious or business occupation during a part of each day. I learned that under their system of economy less than four hours out of the twenty-four were necessary for the comfort, sustenance and requirements of each adult, so that labor did not degenerate into slavery. Every fifth day was a holiday, during which no labor was performed, except such as was necessary for the enjoyments of the day. Manufacturing and business of different kinds were diffused in proportion to the population. There were no great factories or business houses, but innumerable small ones. No manufacturer employed more than ten persons, usually but five, and two or three employes were sufficient for the business houses. The remarkable discoveries and inventions of the land revolutionized all our ideas of manual labor and mechanics. Heavy and bulky machinery is entirely unknown. There were no smoking furnaces, no clangor of machinery. The factory was as neat and practically as noiseless as the private home. Useful and necessary devices and machinery were turned out as quietly as a housewife disposes of her routine labors. Science had apparently solved the rough and knotty problem of labor and production. Nowhere did I see a furnace; in fact, fire was visible nowhere; and yet I could see its offices performed everywhere. I asked Karmas to explain the phenomena. "That," he replied, "will be explained to you by Remo, Custodian of Useful Mechanical Devices. That is his official sphere." Another incredible phenomenon presented itself during the journey. We passed through one province early in that journey, and my attention was called to the fact that the farmers were sowing their cereals, which, by the way, greatly resemble our own, but in a much higher state of cultivation and infinitely more nutritious. Ten days later we repassed the same spot, and they were harvesting the ripened grain. "In my country," I said to Karmas, "from eight to ten months, dependent upon the season, elapses between the sowing and the harvesting of wheat. Here the period is reduced to from eight to ten days. I can not understand the discrepancy." "But it is an absolute mystery to you?" "It is." "And yet your own people have approached the twilight of its solution. By selection of seeds and combination of soils, and other perfectly natural processes, they have been able to change the nature of vegetation and produce new vegetable being. The period for the growth and maturing of nearly all your grains and vegetables has been perceptibly shortened, and entirely new forms produced, within the past century, and largely within the period of your own lifetime. "Your floriculturists and horticulturists have carried the evolution the furthest, and yet they do not even faintly comprehend the real principle which produces results. We understand and intelligently apply it. Hence with us but ten days elapse between seedtime and harvest, and shorter periods in the production of our common vegetables. "We are able to produce flowers of all shapes and colors at will, and with the absolute certainty of the operation of fixed and immutable laws, while your florists, groping in the dark, occasionally stumble on a result, knowing nothing of the law that produces it, and give their fellows a nine-days' wonder. "Yesterday you asked me why all the farms were so diminutive--'merely a ten-acre field,' as you expressed it. The explanation is before you. Each of these small farms is capable of producing food for one thousand persons with their constantly duplicated crops. There is room for a million such farms in the Commonwealth, without impinging upon the residential demesnes or cities. "There is no need to put these farms to the full test of their productiveness. The twentieth part suffices. We have a population of 50,000,000, increasing at the rate of scarcely one per cent each year, and two-thirds of the Commonwealth is public domain, for the benefit of the countless generations yet unborn. Each year and each day brings their immediate needs, and they are met with plenteous fullness." * * * * * Karmas later gave me a fuller idea of the general polity of the Commonwealth. All men become voters at 25, if they are married, and participate in the choice of officers. All are eligible to office. On the day fixed for the election of public officials the voter calls up the office of the Municipal Custodian and registers his choice in the ballot-receiver, which automatically records, and at the end of the balloting announces the result. If for provincial officers, it is instantaneously transmitted to the capital of the province, and if for Commonwealth officers to the Greater City. In your land this would open the door to fraud, but in Intermere there is neither fraud nor chicane. There are no armies, no warships, no police, no peace or distress officers, and no courts and no lawyers. Sometimes citizens may differ, as they differ in other lands, as to their respective rights or obligations. In such case they repair to the Municipal Custodian and state the respective sides of their case. The Custodian decides at once, and that ends forever the controversy, unless one or the other appeals to the Chief Citizen of the Province and his Counselors, who consider the original statements submitted to the Custodian and render the final judgment. It is seldom an appeal is taken, and seldom that an original decision is revised. The educational period continues from birth to 20 years of age, in what may be called a common school, held in the temples, which all enter at the age of ten. The spheres of the two sexes are clearly marked, and both live within them, that of the female being regarded as the highest and most sacred. The men make the homes and the women care for and beautify them, and receive the homage universally accorded them. Neither sex looks upon necessary labor as a drudgery or in any manner degrading. They all receive a like education, and the superior mental equipment invariably asserts itself in some appropriate direction. Almost invariably the children of the household marry in the order of their birth, being absolutely free to choose their mates. There are no marriages for convenience and no second marriages. All are the result of affection and natural affinity. The last child to marry inherits the homestead at the death of the father. The surviving mother becomes the Preferred Guest of her child during the remainder of her life, and is treated as such. If the father survives, he retains his position as head of the household. The personal estate of a deceased parent is divided equally among the children. "In short," said Karmas, "We aim to dispose the burdens and distribute the enjoyments of life equally and justly among all. "Tomorrow we will be accompanied by Alpaz, the Curator of Learning and Progress, who will answer the other questions in your mind." V. THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE, AND THE FACULTY OF ITS ENJOYMENT AS PERSONIFIED IN THE PERSONS AND VOCATIONS OF THE ENTERTAINERS. V. SOME OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. The environments of life have much to do with its philosophy. This thought impressed itself forcibly on me in Intermere. The environments of its people contribute much, if not most, to their philosophy, or the faculty of life's enjoyments. They are pleasantly housed, handsomely habilitated, physically and intellectually employed, sans the driving spur of necessity or greed, with profound and earnest aspirations beyond their present stage of existence. This is not confined to the few, but animates and elevates all. Learning, in a loftier sense than we understand the term; art, music and all the senses of physical and mental enjoyment, and the promotion of all of them, are pitched in a high and harmonious key. Personal adornment and physical beauty in both sexes have no tinge of vanity, and awake no envy in others. Intermerean dress and its adjuncts are as closely looked after as their wonderful mechanism and its mysterious soul or motor-spirit, which enables them to travel with celerity and safety by land or air or sea, or that subtler principle by which men and women, separated by distance, talk to each other by thought instead of speech, and would render the clumsy deception of our own diplomats and other hypocrites an impossibility. The clothing of the Intermereans, wrought from native materials not wholly unlike, except an to quality, those utilized by other peoples, is of a texture and finish beyond the conception of the outer world, and of such colors and combinations of tints as to breathe, as it were, both art and aptitude. The garments of both sexes more nearly resemble those in Europe and America than any others, and yet they are very unlike in striking points. Speaking of this similitude, I may say that the polity and institutions, and mental and physical characteristics of the people who live under them, more nearly resemble those of America than of any other nation or people. But at that, how wide and deep and apparently impassable is the gulf that separates them. Ours is but the faint promise; theirs the fulfillment of the completed prophecy. Did we start on the journey? Have we halted just beyond the first milestone? Will the journey be resumed? Will our remoter generations reach the Ultima Thule? What splendid hope or what illimitable despair and misery depend upon the Sphinx's answer to these questions! While Intermere is not sown with diamonds and pearls and precious stones and metals, they were to be seen in profusion everywhere, not as matters of garish display, but of artistic taste. I doubt not that the Intermereans, through their successful study of Nature, possess the Philosopher's Stone, capable of combining and transmuting every substance into the riches for which men die and women sacrifice more than life, and nations crush nations, and peoples destroy peoples, gathering the Dead Sea fruits that turn to bitter ashes on their lips. These people place no more commercial value upon these than they do upon the tints of the rainbow, or the purple haze that hangs like a halo above the mountain tops. To them they are but artistic types of beauty that add to life's true enjoyments. In mingling socially with the men and women--they do not speak of them as ladies and gentlemen--of Intermere, I was struck with their ease and delicate frankness of entertainment. They were very human indeed in every way. There was no affectation in speech or manner. They were good listeners as well as good talkers, fond of art and the lofty literature in which they were naturally at home; anxious to learn something about the outside world from their visitor, and yet not inquisitive, never asking an embarrassing question. Their literary and social entertainments, many of which I attended, while altogether new and strange to me, were none the less thoroughly enjoyable. Their social games were unique--to me--and in all respects I was struck with their great superiority, and forcibly impressed with the belief that their lives were indeed worth living. Their conceptions of art were of the highest and most exalted character. Their tastes were not only refined but sublimated, and I felt abashed at my own inability to follow them rapidly, or fully comprehend them on the moment. The women were splendid types of physical beauty as well as mental endowment; the men were trained athletes, and the devotees of physical as well as mental culture, and I watched with keen zest their prowess in the athletic games everywhere indulged in. I did not see a physical, mental or moral derelict in the land. All were robust and perfectly formed. There were no classes. Laborers and officials met on an equal footing. There were no telltale differences in dress to indicate sets, circles, position or titles among the men. The same was true of the women. Mental superiority or maturity was discernible to me and recognized on every hand, not to be envied or decried, but to serve as the guide to other feet. And all this was easily reconcilable to me. All were coequal laborers. All were coequal sharers of the common benefits of their governmental system, and they all had a common incentive--to ennoble and dignify the race by ennobling and dignifying themselves individually, but contributing alike to the common stock of blessings. Never before did I fully realize the meaning of the Divine Master when He said: "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." Before me and around me was the literal fulfillment of the injunction in the form of the model government for mankind, founded upon the highest attribute of Divinity. But there was neither cant nor affected solemnity in the never-ending performance of this duty. It had become absolutely and essentially a part of their nature, and was at once the cornerstone and the Temple of their Religion; but their ideas of Religion were widely different from ours. They never expounded, but lived it. Delightful people accompanied us if we traveled in Aerocars; delightful people met us with Medocars when we came to terra firma, and accompanied us through the bewildering lanes and mazes of beauty by land; and delightful people met us with fairy-like Merocars when we sought to thread the enchanting islands of the strange pulsating, moving sea. Thus day by day I was carried from province to province, from city to city, from valley to valley and from mountain to mountain; relays of entertainers met us at every stopping-point to take the places of those who had accompanied us thither. Nothing could have seemed more unreal; nothing could have been more exquisitely enjoyable. Now we wound through gardens smiling with beauty and redolent with balm and fragrance; anon we were in orchards plucking the ripened fruit; then in the harvest fields of the husbandman, and next in shops, factory or store; I wondering at all I saw, and my conductors kindly wondering at me, no doubt, but of that they gave no significance or sign. Almost literally speaking there is no night in Intermere. With the twilight myriads of lights flash out everywhere along the streets, highways, lanes, and from residences, temples and monuments, more luminous than our electric lamps, diffusing a mellow and pleasing light everywhere. But one sees no wires, as with us, to feed the lamps of many sizes and shades of light, each one of which, so far as we can see and realize, is independent of all others and everything. Merry parties make moonlight and starlight trips by Aerocar. I enjoyed one of them, and there are no words adequate to the description of what I saw and enjoyed. With the moon and stars above and the millions of lights below, with music, song and laughter ringing through the ethereal depths, I was in a new world, and one beyond ordinary human conceptions, much less description. The Aerocars themselves were studded with countless lights of all the colors and shades, and shone like trailing meteors at every angle of inclination, singly here, grouped there, and in processions beyond. It may be said in this connection that while the Intermereans eat the flesh of both domestic and wild animals and fowls, resembling in general features our own, and fish, they subsist chiefly on a vegetable diet, especially between the age of infancy and twenty years, and after sixty. One of the mysteries confronting me was that of cookery. They used no fire, nor any of our ordinary cooking utensils, and yet they served hot meals and drinks, prepared in what may be called, for lack of a better name, chafing dishes and urns, and yet there was no sense of heat or fire, except when in close contact with the utensils. In a chafing dish they broiled or roasted or baked; in an adjoining urn they brewed a delightful hot drink resembling coffee, while in another near by they made the most delicious ices. The housewife maintained neither dining-room nor kitchen. Meals were prepared and served wherever most convenient, on veranda or in the house proper. The table was spread in beautiful style with exquisite furnishment, and presided over by the housewife. A woman assistant, or more than one, according to the requirements of the occasion, had charge of a suitable sideboard, where the entire meal was prepared, and from which it was served to the company as desired. There were no odors from the cooking, and nothing to suggest the kitchen or scullery. This is so unlike our methods that its appropriateness can not be realized short of the actual experience. The culinary utensils are rather ornamental than otherwise, and the preparation of the dishes occupies an incredibly short period of time. On our various journeys by land and sea and air, I found that a full stock of provisions was carried, along with the culinary paraphernalia, and were served regularly and with as much care and taste as in any residence. Ices and confections were made as readily in mid-air as on land or sea, by some mysterious and never-failing process. One day as we rested in a charming suburb of the Lesser City, Alpaz, the Curator of Learning and Progress, appeared in a splendidly appointed Aerocar, accompanied by his entire family and attended by a fleet of Aerocars carrying his assistants, provincial officials and men and women, who made up his entourage. It proved to be a most delightful company. After sailing overhead for hundreds of miles we descended to an island, along the beach of which lay a complement of Merocars, to accommodate the entire party, as well as some of the insular citizens who begged to accompany us. Then ensued a voyage the memory of which still lingers with me. Such dreamlike beauty I never expect to see this side the gates of eternity. It changed with every moment, and never palled nor paled. Through this maze of land and water and bewildering enchantment we journeyed, listening to conversation and music, till finally touching the mainland, we found the Chief Citizen of the Province, and his attendants and officials, with Medocars, in which the entire party was carried to his capital, which crowned a grand elevation some two hundred miles inland. Here we were entertained in magnificent simplicity for a day, and here Alpaz discoursed to me on the many matters in which I was interested, and which fell within the sphere of his Curatorship. I cannot recount them all, but shall endeavor to bring out the main points. "You would learn something of our educational system?" he said, as though I had plied him with a question. "It is quite simple. It involves no complexities. We follow only the path of nature. From birth to the age of ten the infant is in the exclusive control and tutorship of the mother. She alone is entirely capable of moulding the infantile mind, and setting its feet aright in the pathway of manhood and womanhood. "In your land, as in others, all too often she delegates this great duty to alien and unfit hands, and reaps the bitter harvest of sorrow in the afternoon of motherhood. "At the age of ten, when the mother has fitted the mind for stronger impressions, the child enters the broader field of learning. Our temples, which you meet everywhere, are our schoolhouses, our altars of Learning and Knowledge, the cherubim of Wisdom. "These temples are the abode of Knowledge and Wisdom, handed down in the records of the ages, showing each successive step taken and to what it led. Here they are taught by the older men and women, who having retired from the activities of life, with a competence assured them, matured in thought, filled with knowledge and possessed of wisdom, perform their final labor, a labor of love for the younger generation. "At the age of fifteen every boy and every girl develops the line of effort to which they incline in the respective spheres of the sexes, and thereafter, to the age of twenty for females and twenty-five for males, they are instructed along these lines by their tutors, in the meantime devoting a part of their time to some useful occupation. The result is men and women in every way fitted to fulfill their destiny. "No; we have no clergy, no ministers as you term them, to teach either the old or the young in what you name religion. We have no churches. Reverence for the Supreme Principle of the Universe is instilled into every mind, from infancy up, and all our people live these teachings. They do not listen to them one day in seven and neglect to follow all or the majority of them for six. "We know nothing, except as lamentable facts, of the various so-called religious divisions which convulse the rest of the world--Confucianism, Hindooism, Mohammedanism, Buddhism, Taoism, Shintoism, Judaism, Polytheism and Christianity, and the many warring or antagonistic sects into which they divided and subdivided. "We know only loving reverence for the Supreme Principle of the Universe, filial love and piety, and justice to all creatures. This is the soul and essence of your religion, Christianity, and the basic principle of all others. We prefer the last analysis to the inchoate mass of contending creeds, that have drenched the earth with blood for time out of mind, and filled it with doubt and misery; and even now, in the twilight of your Nineteenth Century, and in the name of the Child of Nazareth, promulgates Christianization and evangelization at the cannon's mouth and with the sword and torch, of peoples whose only offense is that they believe that their God requires thus and so at their hands as a prerequisite to their entrance into His heavenly kingdom. "By gentler and educatory teachings, untainted by the corroding canker of selfishness, they might be turned in the right direction and their generations be led into the light, provided that your educational system moved on a loftier plane than theirs; but blood and violence, and all the carnal lusts that follow like jackals in their wake, can only eventuate in driving them into lower depths. "The spiritual instructors of the outer world, past and present, are and have been, in the main, sincere and earnest, but with a limited idea of the spiritualism they essay to teach. Powerful prelacies have grown up in all the religious divisions, ambitious of temporal power, and untold evils have resulted, not from the system of religion, but from the love of power and authority, non-spiritual in its nature, and as a result the spirit or principle of religion has suffered undeserved obloquy. "To us the ideal God of your religious people is strangely contradictory and irreconcilable. He is portrayed not as a spiritual being, but as a common mortal in many of the essentials. Their conception of Deity is that He rules as a king in heaven, before whom the redeemed and the saints forever prostrate themselves in adoration or sing praises by voice, and adulate Him with harp and lute and other musical instruments, confessing hourly their unworthiness to come into His presence. "This is an earthly, barbarous conception of the Supreme Power of the Universe. It was probably of Chinese or Oriental origin in the days of supreme despotism, when every subject must prostrate himself in the dust in the presence of majesty. "This idea was transmitted to Christendom in the West when royalty proclaimed itself the symbol of Godhood and religion. The subject was taught that the monarch was the direct representative of God, and his court was modeled after the court of the King of kings, where homage and adoration and humiliation were the endless order of all future life. "We have an entirely different conception of the Supreme Principle, and do not regard it in the light of a ruler or king, in the mortal sense, but the embodiment of justice and love, that neither exacts nor receives adoration of those who pass to the world beyond, the returning children of the great and enduring Principle which exists everywhere, strengthened and broadened by a previous state or states of existence, wherein they were clothed about with mortal and perishable habiliments. "We look forward to the passage from this world to a better one beyond with joyous expectation, and with no sense of terror or apprehension, and there come us no pangs of dissolution. We have sought diligently to live up to the law of love in this life, and have the fullest assurance that our efforts will meet the approval of the Supreme Principle, whose beneficences invite and permit us to enter the broader fields and more perfect worlds of a higher existence. "Death, or the exchange of worlds, has neither terrors for those who go, nor the stings of affliction for those who tarry. It is but the inevitable and necessary parting of friends and relatives for a little period, and we know that the shores of reunion lie just beyond the filmy veil of the future. "The end or change is never hastened nor retarded by the violation of Nature's sacred laws. There are but few partings or deaths in the earlier periods of life. They go with joyful alacrity, as to a feast, at four or five score, and their memory, works and examples cheer and sustain those who remain. "No; we have no physicians. If, perchance, some law of Nature is violated and mortal ailment ensues, it needs no specialist to discover that fact, or recommend the proper method of rectifying it. That is a part of the education of all. Literally, we neither know nor care to know what physic is. We live simply and in accordance with Nature's laws, and disease, such as prevails in your land and others, is unknown in this, and has been for ages. Science and scientific discovery, as we utilize and employ them, have freed us from disease and made death but the exchange of lives. We know more than we care to tell of the life beyond." He ceased abruptly after saying: "Tomorrow you will be the guest of Remo, the Curator of Useful Mechanical Devices. You may learn much from him." VI. THE SECRET OF INTERMERE PARTIALLY REVEALED TO ANDERTON, AND WHEN HE LEAST EXPECTS IT HE IS RESTORED TO HIS HOME AND KINDRED, MUCH TO HIS REGRET. VI. THE SECRET OF INTERMERE. The secret of Intermere--its great mechanical secret--was revealed to me, but, alas! only in part. It was as if the sun be pointed out to a child who is told that it shines and is a prime factor in the growth of all forms of life, animal and vegetable. The child realizes that the orb of day shines, but remains wholly in the dark as to the processes of its rays; why it inspires animals and vegetation with life and growth, and produces the prismatic colors of the rainbow. So with me. I know the fountain-head or cause that gave momentum to all the mechanism of the land, shortened the period between germination and maturity in vegetation, banished fire while retaining warmth, turned the night into a season of beauty equaling the full day, kept every street and highway free from debris, prevented foul emanations, with their contaminations, and did countless other things which our own scientists demonstrate are desirable and necessary, but still unattainable. But of the details, of the why and the wherefore, of the effects and the processes by which so many different results emanated from the same apparent cause, I learned nothing. One morning, after a season of delicious, invigorating slumber, as I walked in the spacious grounds of my host, the Chief Citizen of the Province--grounds sweeter and fairer than the fabled Gardens of Gulistan--I saw a fleet of Aerocars approaching, led by one of the most magnificent, and by far the largest, that I had yet seen. It could not have been less than one hundred feet in length and twenty in breadth at the midway point, and yet it seemed to float as lightly as a feather in the aerial depths. When almost directly overhead the fleet halted, and remained stationary, as though firmly anchored to some immovable substance, and then the leading craft slowly sank to the earth at my feet, as lightly as you have seen a bird alight. It was the Aerocar of Remo, containing a score of people. I had not hitherto met Remo, the Curator of Useful Mechanical Devices. However, he needed no introduction to me or I to him. The recognition was mutual. He came forward and greeted me cordially, and later presented me to his fellow voyagers, and said: "I know you are anxious to learn something of the motive principle of our mechanisms. That I shall impart to you, at least partially. Our journey will begin to suit your convenience. We will breakfast en route." I hastened to say my adieux to the Chief Citizen, Alpaz, and the members of the household, and then entered the Aerocar, taking a seat near Remo. At a signal to the pilot, the craft rose as lightly and majestically as it had descended. I looked about me at the passengers, hampers of provisions, culinary utensils and table equipment, and estimated that the Aerocar was carrying not less than four thousand pounds of dead weight. "You are wondering how so much bulk and weight ascend without apparent cause." I assented to the proposition. "When you are at home and see an inflated balloon ascend, carrying a man weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, with seventy-five pounds of sand ballast, you can understand how it ascends?" "Readily." "By mechanical contrivance of immense comparative bulk, aided by chemical product, the power of gravitation is sufficiently overcome or neutralized that a disproportionately small amount of weight is carried into the upper air. We ascend for the same general reason, the resultant of a greater, a different and a fixed principle. "Our pilot, by means of the mechanical and other power at his command, neutralized the attraction of gravitation, and without the aid of any other appliance arose, carrying a weight of more than four thousand of your pounds avoirdupois. It has ascended in a direct or perpendicular line, despite the breeze, which would otherwise have carried us at a western angle. I will have the pilot produce an equilibrium, stopping all movement." A signal was given the pilot, and, after a slight manipulation, it stood still. "Now we will descend, first perpendicularly and then at an angle of forty-five degrees." One signal and one manipulation, and the Aerocar described the first motion. A second signal and manipulation, and it described the other. "Now we will ascend, first by the reverse angle and then by the perpendicular." Again the signals and again the manipulations, and again the exact movements through space. "If your flying machine and airship builders could do that, what would your people think?" "That the world had been revolutionized." "But the world will not be thus revolutionized until science is freed of gross materialism and human aspiration becomes something higher than selfish greed, commercialism, war, conquest, opulence, and the despotisms they engender. You must expel all the gods with whom you most closely commune, before you may commune with the true God or Supreme Principle of the Universe." In the meantime the Curator's Aerocar had rejoined its consorts, and we floated away to the northeast, where a great semicircle of mountains were dimly outlined, and then descended upon a city looking like a pearl in a semicircular valley, bisected by a broad river, spanned with bridges at short intervals as far as the vision reached. With my watch I had timed the voyage. It had lasted two hours and thirty minutes. "How far have we traveled?" I inquired of Remo. "One thousand of your miles." "That is four hundred miles to the hour; six and two-thirds miles each minute." "The speed might easily have been doubled." My amazement was unbounded, but I did not doubt Remo's statement then. Later, I recognized it as an easy possibility. Remo detained me until the rest of the company had left the Aerocar, and then said abruptly: "You would learn the secret of the motive principle that moves our mechanical devices and performs other offices which seem to you miraculous. It is this: It is the electric current which we take direct from the atmosphere at will--electricity, which is the life-giving, life-preserving and life-promoting principle, the superior and fountain of all law affecting the material Universe and intervening space. To command that is to command everything. "This is the capital of my Curatorship. Here all my predecessors have served the Commonwealth; hither all my successors will come. Here every mechanical device is tested, approved or rejected, and from hence their production is directed, as a public right, in every municipal division of the Commonwealth. "Nearly every monument you have seen, as you have doubtless noticed, is dedicated to some Chosen Son of Wisdom, and some of them date back tens of centuries. Whoever makes a great discovery, such as taking the electric current direct, or dividing its capabilities into useful and necessary directions, or perfects some great mechanism, securing the full beneficence of the current, brings it here and dedicates it to the Commonwealth and its sons and daughters. Its benefits are common to all. "His reward is that he is elected by universal acclaim as the Chosen Son of Wisdom, a monument commemorative of his achievement is erected at once, and he is installed in a home furnished out of the public revenues, receives a stipend of fifty or five cinque media daily, and is the honored guest on all public and private occasions. "I shall show you many of our devices; some of them will be self-explanatory, some will, to a degree, be explained, others left to your conjecture, and for obvious reasons." With this he led me through a large number of what we would look upon as diminutive manufacturing establishments. In the first one visited he exhibited to me two crystalline elongated globes, the size of an egg each, connected by a small tube or cylinder of the same material two or three inches in length. The globes were filled with a whitish substance, or granulation, the upper intensely white, the lower somewhat shaded. The upper one was fitted with a movable disk, and could be opened by touching a lever. A cluster of rather coarse wires, apparently an amalgam of several metals, rose above the granulated contents. A double coil of wires, of a different material or combination, running in opposite directions, filled the connecting cylinder, while a cluster of almost imperceptibly fine wires, of still a different material or combination, projected from the bottom of the lower globe. These globes resembled glass, and were, to all appearances, extremely fragile. Remo dashed it upon the hard floor, as though he would destroy it. It rebounded, and he caught it as an urchin would catch a rebounding ball. "I did this," he said, "to show you that these appliances are not amenable to accident. This is the accumulator or receiver of the current." He touched the lever and opened a small aperture directly over the cluster of wires in the upper globe. "Hold your hand below the lower portion," he said. I complied, and instantly my hand was moved away with such resistless force that I was turned completely around and sent across the room. Remo smiled at my undisguised consternation, and said: "You will not be harmed. What you experienced was the flow of the electric current, but it has not harmed you. It is physically harmless. You would call this a twenty-horse-power motor in your country, although it looks like a toy. Take it and handle it as I direct. You may handle it with perfect safety. Place it horizontally near that fly-wheel and push the lever." He pointed to a fly-wheel scarcely a foot in diameter, with seven radiating flanges set slightly at an angle. I did, and opened the aperture. In less time than it takes to tell it the wheel was revolving at a rate of speed so high that it seemed like a solid motionless and polished mirror. "Close the aperture, go to the side in which direction it is revolving, and again open it to the current." I did so, and instantly the wheel was motionless. He pointed to a huge block of granite, which rested on a metal framework a dozen inches above the floor, and said: "Banish all nervousness, invert the accumulator, and hold it under the center of the block, which weighs five of your tons." I did so, and it slowly rose toward the ceiling. "Close the aperture slowly, and finally close it entirely." This I did, and it settled back to its original place. "There," said Remo, "you have the direct current and its direct application to machinery and inert bodies. You know enough about mechanics to understand what that means. The ascent and flight and movements and descent of the Aerocar; the running of the Medocar and the sailing of the Merocar, are not such a profound mystery to you as they were yesterday." He conducted me into another factory and exhibited a number of accumulators, each filled with apparently the same granulated substance, but of different colors and admixture of colors. Remo opened the apertures of a long line of them upon a wire rack, and they flashed into brilliant lamps of every hue and color and shade--a light that was as steady as that of the stars. He closed them one by one, showing the absolute independence of each. "Our lamps, with which we beautify the night, are no longer a mystery to you--that is, not an absolute mystery." In another factory he exhibited more accumulators with varicolored materials in the globes. He opened one and directed its power toward an ingot of metal. It melted like wax. Turning its force upon a fragment of rock, it was transformed into the ordinary dust of our roadways. With another he turned a vessel of water into a solid block of ice. "Our topographical construction, our culinary economy and the absence of fire are now plainer than they were." "But how do you achieve all these different results with apparently the same means?" "The first device shown you is the primary; the others are subsequent discoveries. By the primary medium we were able to produce or secure the electric current in the form of dynamic power, eminently tractable and harmless with ordinary prudence. New combinations of the medium gave us all the other results, at intervals, subsequent to the original discovery. And the field is not exhausted." Remo explained that the crystalline substance in the upper globe of the accumulator induced or gathered the electric current, giving it controllable direction as well as defined volume, while that in the lower determined its significance or divisional use. In the minuter accumulators, for the lamps only, did the current present itself in the form of light, spark or flame. All the colors, from pure white to deep purple, with their prismatic variations, were the direct result of their differing chemical combinations in the lower globe, each of the silk-like wires throwing off countless rays of unvarying intensity and steadiness, but gave off no electric phenomena or effects. The heat accumulators gave moderate or intense heat, according to the chemical combinations through which the primary current passed, but there was neither glow nor light-flash. So, too, the cold accumulators gave off varying degrees of cold, for the same reason. In none of them was there either the electric shock or its effects, and all were tractable and free from danger in what we may term the electrical sense. The dynamic force of the primary and the intense heat or cold of the divisional currents, common prudence avoids. Still it would be easily possible, by chemical combination, to produce a current destructive of life and capable of annihilating nations, without hope or possibility of escape. "Your own scientists know," said Remo, "that with the direct current all that you have seen, and infinitely more, is but the result of a simple process, capable of infinite multiplication." "But what are the constituents of the medium in the accumulator, and what are the formulas of the various combinations?" "If you knew that you would know as much as we." This was the nearest a jest I had heard in Intermere, but I knew from the character of Remo's speech that the rest of the secret would remain hidden from me. As we sat at his table later he said: "You have been nearer to our secret than any one else in the outer world, and we shall see whether the seeds will grow into the tree of Knowledge and produce the fruits of Wisdom. Neither your people nor any other people could be trusted with this secret in their present moral condition. A few learned men dependent upon the rulers in one nation, knowing it, could and would plot the destruction and exploitation of all others. The sacrifice of human life and the accumulation of human woe and misery would be appalling. "If your leaders, with the suddenly awakened hunger for conquest and dominion, could literally command the thunderbolts and control the elements as against the rest of the world, they would sack Christendom in the name of Liberty, Humanity and the Babe of Bethlehem, but in the spirit of Mammon, Greed and selfish love of power and riches. "You will make some progress in discoveries along scientific and mechanical lines, but no real good to the race can result until these discoveries are turned to a nobler purpose than that of seizing commercial supremacy, subjugating alien and unwilling peoples, slaughtering those who resist, exploiting those who lay down their arms, gathering wealth regardless of justice and the rights of mankind and building up an artificial race in the form of a ruling class, who base their right to exclusive privileges on wealth and the perversion of every principle of justice and the Christianity they profess. "You have been wondering why, with our great knowledge and achievements, we do not go forth and dominate the world. What would it profit us? Could we find anything that would contribute to our enjoyments, our hopes, our aspirations? No. "Even we are not proof against the paralyzing touch of deterioration. We pay more heed to the world's history than do the nations and peoples who made that history, during the centuries. History is but the lighthouse which warns against the reefs and rocks where countless argosies have been lost. The mariners who sail the ships of state dash recklessly upon the rocks of destruction, despite the friendly warnings of the dead and engulfed who have gone before." Turning to lighter themes, Remo spoke of the various economies of the Commonwealth, and explained how the obstacles which confront our civilization are overcome. Garbage and all debris, for instance, are disposed of by instantaneous reduction to original conditions, and then a recombination and distribution upon the grounds, farms and gardens. The sewage question, the standing menace of all dense and even sparse populations, is solved by the same process of purification and recombination. This work is constantly performed under the eye of the municipal authorities, and under fixed rules and service. Thus the absolute cleanliness which prevailed everywhere was readily explained. In answer to my query why Intermere had so long escaped discovery from navigators, he said, interrogatively: "Would it not be possible, with our superior knowledge and wisdom, to put their reckoning at fault whenever they came within a fixed sphere of proximity?" To my question as to the equability of the seasons, the absence of storms, and the regularity of the descent of moisture in the form of gentle rains, he said: "Do not imagine that our scientific knowledge stops with the mere discovery of the direct electric current or our mechanical devices." Nothing further could I elicit from him or any other Intermerean on these or kindred subjects. The Book of Knowledge had been opened and apparently closed. After two days' stay in Remo's capital the Aerocars took up a goodly entourage, and we moved softly and swiftly to the Greater City. There Xamas and all his officials awaited us, along with every Intermerean of both sexes I had met in my journeys, as well as every Municipal Custodian of the realm, and in addition the Chief Citizens of the fourteen Provinces I had not visited. A reception fete was given me in the chief temple of the city, hoary with age and instinct with wisdom. There were songs and music by the young and happy, and apropos discourses by the older. I essayed the role of orator, thanked my entertainers for their many courtesies and the happy hours they had conferred upon a wanderer in a strange land. The afternoon and evening were a season of unalloyed happiness. As I dropped into slumber in the house of Xamas I soliloquized: "This kindness and these honors seem significant. Perhaps the Intermereans intend to adopt me into all their knowledge and wisdom. Perhaps"---- * * * * * I felt that I was tossing on the swell of the ocean. Then there was a sensation of physical pain, as if from long exposure to the elements. So keen was this sensation that I awoke fully, started up and looked around me. It was a grayish dawn, purpling in lines near the horizon. Towering above me I saw the outlines of a great ship, lying at anchor and lazily nodding as the swells swept into the harbor. I found myself in one of the individual Merocars, intended for a single passenger, but the compartments containing the accumulatory motors had been removed and the marks of removal deftly concealed. It was one of the most finished Merocars of its class with the exception of the motor, constructed entirely of prepared wood, resembling a piece of wicker work, but impervious to the sea, and floated like a cork or a feather. I was trying to determine where I was and how I came to be in my present situation. Then came to me this in the Language of Silence: "You have been safely delivered to those who will restore you to your land and home. Discretion is always commendable." I knew whence this thought came, and soon the increasing light showed me that I was in the harbor of Singapore, lashed with a silken cord to the forechains of an East Indian merchantman. To my infinite regret I found that I was clad in the same clothes I wore when the Mistletoe went to the bottom. The same trinkets and a few coins and the other accessories were still in the pockets. But the handsome and natty garments of Intermere were gone. I was back in the world just as I left it, how long ago I could not tell, for the memories of Intermere seemed to cover a decade at least, and I estimated that those who lived to one hundred enjoyed a thousand years of life. The lookout on the ship finally discovered me, and shortly after I and my curious boat were lifted to the deck and became the center of a gaping crowd. As I could not account for myself reasonably, I became merely evasive and did not account for myself at all, and left the crew and passengers equally divided as to whether I was a lunatic of a cunning knave. Among those on board was one whose presence suggested Intermere. I listened and observed, and learned that he was the Secretary of a native Rajah on board the ship. He inspected me with curious disappointment. The Merocar he seemed to worship both with eyes and soul. "Sell it to him, for you need money." That was Maros; I could not be mistaken. The Secretary motioned me to a distant part of the deck and said abruptly: "I will give you five thousand rupees for the--for the"---- "Merocar." He started as though shocked by a bolt of lightning. "I dare not talk--I cannot remember--but I dare not talk. Will you sell it me for five thousand rupees, Sahib? It is all I have, but I will give it freely." "It is yours." He went below and soon returned with the amount in bills of exchange upon the bank at Hong Kong. He carried his purchase to his stateroom, amid the laughter of passengers and sailors, who did not conceal their merriment that any man would pay such a price for a wicker basket, and my cunning and hypnotic knavery were thoroughly established. I remained a few days in Singapore, converting my bills partly into cash and partly into exchange on London and New York. Sailing later to Hong Kong, I there fell in with an American military officer whom I knew, and who gave me the full particulars of Albert Marshall's death. With him I made arrangements for the shipment of my cousin's remains to his old home, via San Francisco. Two days later I sailed for London, and within six weeks reached New York, and the home of my childhood. I shall not describe the meeting with my mother, nor speak of what was said in relation to the strange and brief communications which passed between us months before. VII. LE ENVOI. I HAVE READ THE FOREGOING. IT IS A FAITHFUL REPRODUCTION OF WHAT I WAS ABLE TO COMMUNICATE TOUCHING MY EXPERIENCES. AND YET THE PICTURE DRAWN IS FAINT, HAZY AND FAR AWAY. COMPARED WITH THE BEAUTIFUL REALITY, IT IS "AS MOONLIGHT UNTO SUNLIGHT, AS WATER UNTO WINE." G. H. A. Glenford, 1901. * * * * * 
624	----	LOOKING BACKWARD From 2000 to 1887 by Edward Bellamy AUTHOR'S PREFACE Historical Section Shawmut College, Boston, December 26, 2000 Living as we do in the closing year of the twentieth century, enjoying the blessings of a social order at once so simple and logical that it seems but the triumph of common sense, it is no doubt difficult for those whose studies have not been largely historical to realize that the present organization of society is, in its completeness, less than a century old. No historical fact is, however, better established than that till nearly the end of the nineteenth century it was the general belief that the ancient industrial system, with all its shocking social consequences, was destined to last, with possibly a little patching, to the end of time. How strange and wellnigh incredible does it seem that so prodigious a moral and material transformation as has taken place since then could have been accomplished in so brief an interval! The readiness with which men accustom themselves, as matters of course, to improvements in their condition, which, when anticipated, seemed to leave nothing more to be desired, could not be more strikingly illustrated. What reflection could be better calculated to moderate the enthusiasm of reformers who count for their reward on the lively gratitude of future ages! The object of this volume is to assist persons who, while desiring to gain a more definite idea of the social contrasts between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, are daunted by the formal aspect of the histories which treat the subject. Warned by a teacher's experience that learning is accounted a weariness to the flesh, the author has sought to alleviate the instructive quality of the book by casting it in the form of a romantic narrative, which he would be glad to fancy not wholly devoid of interest on its own account. The reader, to whom modern social institutions and their underlying principles are matters of course, may at times find Dr. Leete's explanations of them rather trite--but it must be remembered that to Dr. Leete's guest they were not matters of course, and that this book is written for the express purpose of inducing the reader to forget for the nonce that they are so to him. One word more. The almost universal theme of the writers and orators who have celebrated this bimillennial epoch has been the future rather than the past, not the advance that has been made, but the progress that shall be made, ever onward and upward, till the race shall achieve its ineffable destiny. This is well, wholly well, but it seems to me that nowhere can we find more solid ground for daring anticipations of human development during the next one thousand years, than by "Looking Backward" upon the progress of the last one hundred. That this volume may be so fortunate as to find readers whose interest in the subject shall incline them to overlook the deficiencies of the treatment is the hope in which the author steps aside and leaves Mr. Julian West to speak for himself. JTABLE 5 28 1 Chapter 1 I first saw the light in the city of Boston in the year 1857. "What!" you say, "eighteen fifty-seven? That is an odd slip. He means nineteen fifty-seven, of course." I beg pardon, but there is no mistake. It was about four in the afternoon of December the 26th, one day after Christmas, in the year 1857, not 1957, that I first breathed the east wind of Boston, which, I assure the reader, was at that remote period marked by the same penetrating quality characterizing it in the present year of grace, 2000. These statements seem so absurd on their face, especially when I add that I am a young man apparently of about thirty years of age, that no person can be blamed for refusing to read another word of what promises to be a mere imposition upon his credulity. Nevertheless I earnestly assure the reader that no imposition is intended, and will undertake, if he shall follow me a few pages, to entirely convince him of this. If I may, then, provisionally assume, with the pledge of justifying the assumption, that I know better than the reader when I was born, I will go on with my narrative. As every schoolboy knows, in the latter part of the nineteenth century the civilization of to-day, or anything like it, did not exist, although the elements which were to develop it were already in ferment. Nothing had, however, occurred to modify the immemorial division of society into the four classes, or nations, as they may be more fitly called, since the differences between them were far greater than those between any nations nowadays, of the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant. I myself was rich and also educated, and possessed, therefore, all the elements of happiness enjoyed by the most fortunate in that age. Living in luxury, and occupied only with the pursuit of the pleasures and refinements of life, I derived the means of my support from the labor of others, rendering no sort of service in return. My parents and grand-parents had lived in the same way, and I expected that my descendants, if I had any, would enjoy a like easy existence. But how could I live without service to the world? you ask. Why should the world have supported in utter idleness one who was able to render service? The answer is that my great-grandfather had accumulated a sum of money on which his descendants had ever since lived. The sum, you will naturally infer, must have been very large not to have been exhausted in supporting three generations in idleness. This, however, was not the fact. The sum had been originally by no means large. It was, in fact, much larger now that three generations had been supported upon it in idleness, than it was at first. This mystery of use without consumption, of warmth without combustion, seems like magic, but was merely an ingenious application of the art now happily lost but carried to great perfection by your ancestors, of shifting the burden of one's support on the shoulders of others. The man who had accomplished this, and it was the end all sought, was said to live on the income of his investments. To explain at this point how the ancient methods of industry made this possible would delay us too much. I shall only stop now to say that interest on investments was a species of tax in perpetuity upon the product of those engaged in industry which a person possessing or inheriting money was able to levy. It must not be supposed that an arrangement which seems so unnatural and preposterous according to modern notions was never criticized by your ancestors. It had been the effort of lawgivers and prophets from the earliest ages to abolish interest, or at least to limit it to the smallest possible rate. All these efforts had, however, failed, as they necessarily must so long as the ancient social organizations prevailed. At the time of which I write, the latter part of the nineteenth century, governments had generally given up trying to regulate the subject at all. By way of attempting to give the reader some general impression of the way people lived together in those days, and especially of the relations of the rich and poor to one another, perhaps I cannot do better than to compare society as it then was to a prodigious coach which the masses of humanity were harnessed to and dragged toilsomely along a very hilly and sandy road. The driver was hunger, and permitted no lagging, though the pace was necessarily very slow. Despite the difficulty of drawing the coach at all along so hard a road, the top was covered with passengers who never got down, even at the steepest ascents. These seats on top were very breezy and comfortable. Well up out of the dust, their occupants could enjoy the scenery at their leisure, or critically discuss the merits of the straining team. Naturally such places were in great demand and the competition for them was keen, every one seeking as the first end in life to secure a seat on the coach for himself and to leave it to his child after him. By the rule of the coach a man could leave his seat to whom he wished, but on the other hand there were many accidents by which it might at any time be wholly lost. For all that they were so easy, the seats were very insecure, and at every sudden jolt of the coach persons were slipping out of them and falling to the ground, where they were instantly compelled to take hold of the rope and help to drag the coach on which they had before ridden so pleasantly. It was naturally regarded as a terrible misfortune to lose one's seat, and the apprehension that this might happen to them or their friends was a constant cloud upon the happiness of those who rode. But did they think only of themselves? you ask. Was not their very luxury rendered intolerable to them by comparison with the lot of their brothers and sisters in the harness, and the knowledge that their own weight added to their toil? Had they no compassion for fellow beings from whom fortune only distinguished them? Oh, yes; commiseration was frequently expressed by those who rode for those who had to pull the coach, especially when the vehicle came to a bad place in the road, as it was constantly doing, or to a particularly steep hill. At such times, the desperate straining of the team, their agonized leaping and plunging under the pitiless lashing of hunger, the many who fainted at the rope and were trampled in the mire, made a very distressing spectacle, which often called forth highly creditable displays of feeling on the top of the coach. At such times the passengers would call down encouragingly to the toilers of the rope, exhorting them to patience, and holding out hopes of possible compensation in another world for the hardness of their lot, while others contributed to buy salves and liniments for the crippled and injured. It was agreed that it was a great pity that the coach should be so hard to pull, and there was a sense of general relief when the specially bad piece of road was gotten over. This relief was not, indeed, wholly on account of the team, for there was always some danger at these bad places of a general overturn in which all would lose their seats. It must in truth be admitted that the main effect of the spectacle of the misery of the toilers at the rope was to enhance the passengers' sense of the value of their seats upon the coach, and to cause them to hold on to them more desperately than before. If the passengers could only have felt assured that neither they nor their friends would ever fall from the top, it is probable that, beyond contributing to the funds for liniments and bandages, they would have troubled themselves extremely little about those who dragged the coach. I am well aware that this will appear to the men and women of the twentieth century an incredible inhumanity, but there are two facts, both very curious, which partly explain it. In the first place, it was firmly and sincerely believed that there was no other way in which Society could get along, except the many pulled at the rope and the few rode, and not only this, but that no very radical improvement even was possible, either in the harness, the coach, the roadway, or the distribution of the toil. It had always been as it was, and it always would be so. It was a pity, but it could not be helped, and philosophy forbade wasting compassion on what was beyond remedy. The other fact is yet more curious, consisting in a singular hallucination which those on the top of the coach generally shared, that they were not exactly like their brothers and sisters who pulled at the rope, but of finer clay, in some way belonging to a higher order of beings who might justly expect to be drawn. This seems unaccountable, but, as I once rode on this very coach and shared that very hallucination, I ought to be believed. The strangest thing about the hallucination was that those who had but just climbed up from the ground, before they had outgrown the marks of the rope upon their hands, began to fall under its influence. As for those whose parents and grand-parents before them had been so fortunate as to keep their seats on the top, the conviction they cherished of the essential difference between their sort of humanity and the common article was absolute. The effect of such a delusion in moderating fellow feeling for the sufferings of the mass of men into a distant and philosophical compassion is obvious. To it I refer as the only extenuation I can offer for the indifference which, at the period I write of, marked my own attitude toward the misery of my brothers. In 1887 I came to my thirtieth year. Although still unmarried, I was engaged to wed Edith Bartlett. She, like myself, rode on the top of the coach. That is to say, not to encumber ourselves further with an illustration which has, I hope, served its purpose of giving the reader some general impression of how we lived then, her family was wealthy. In that age, when money alone commanded all that was agreeable and refined in life, it was enough for a woman to be rich to have suitors; but Edith Bartlett was beautiful and graceful also. My lady readers, I am aware, will protest at this. "Handsome she might have been," I hear them saying, "but graceful never, in the costumes which were the fashion at that period, when the head covering was a dizzy structure a foot tall, and the almost incredible extension of the skirt behind by means of artificial contrivances more thoroughly dehumanized the form than any former device of dressmakers. Fancy any one graceful in such a costume!" The point is certainly well taken, and I can only reply that while the ladies of the twentieth century are lovely demonstrations of the effect of appropriate drapery in accenting feminine graces, my recollection of their great-grandmothers enables me to maintain that no deformity of costume can wholly disguise them. Our marriage only waited on the completion of the house which I was building for our occupancy in one of the most desirable parts of the city, that is to say, a part chiefly inhabited by the rich. For it must be understood that the comparative desirability of different parts of Boston for residence depended then, not on natural features, but on the character of the neighboring population. Each class or nation lived by itself, in quarters of its own. A rich man living among the poor, an educated man among the uneducated, was like one living in isolation among a jealous and alien race. When the house had been begun, its completion by the winter of 1886 had been expected. The spring of the following year found it, however, yet incomplete, and my marriage still a thing of the future. The cause of a delay calculated to be particularly exasperating to an ardent lover was a series of strikes, that is to say, concerted refusals to work on the part of the brick-layers, masons, carpenters, painters, plumbers, and other trades concerned in house building. What the specific causes of these strikes were I do not remember. Strikes had become so common at that period that people had ceased to inquire into their particular grounds. In one department of industry or another, they had been nearly incessant ever since the great business crisis of 1873. In fact it had come to be the exceptional thing to see any class of laborers pursue their avocation steadily for more than a few months at a time. The reader who observes the dates alluded to will of course recognize in these disturbances of industry the first and incoherent phase of the great movement which ended in the establishment of the modern industrial system with all its social consequences. This is all so plain in the retrospect that a child can understand it, but not being prophets, we of that day had no clear idea what was happening to us. What we did see was that industrially the country was in a very queer way. The relation between the workingman and the employer, between labor and capital, appeared in some unaccountable manner to have become dislocated. The working classes had quite suddenly and very generally become infected with a profound discontent with their condition, and an idea that it could be greatly bettered if they only knew how to go about it. On every side, with one accord, they preferred demands for higher pay, shorter hours, better dwellings, better educational advantages, and a share in the refinements and luxuries of life, demands which it was impossible to see the way to granting unless the world were to become a great deal richer than it then was. Though they knew something of what they wanted, they knew nothing of how to accomplish it, and the eager enthusiasm with which they thronged about any one who seemed likely to give them any light on the subject lent sudden reputation to many would-be leaders, some of whom had little enough light to give. However chimerical the aspirations of the laboring classes might be deemed, the devotion with which they supported one another in the strikes, which were their chief weapon, and the sacrifices which they underwent to carry them out left no doubt of their dead earnestness. As to the final outcome of the labor troubles, which was the phrase by which the movement I have described was most commonly referred to, the opinions of the people of my class differed according to individual temperament. The sanguine argued very forcibly that it was in the very nature of things impossible that the new hopes of the workingmen could be satisfied, simply because the world had not the wherewithal to satisfy them. It was only because the masses worked very hard and lived on short commons that the race did not starve outright, and no considerable improvement in their condition was possible while the world, as a whole, remained so poor. It was not the capitalists whom the laboring men were contending with, these maintained, but the iron-bound environment of humanity, and it was merely a question of the thickness of their skulls when they would discover the fact and make up their minds to endure what they could not cure. The less sanguine admitted all this. Of course the workingmen's aspirations were impossible of fulfillment for natural reasons, but there were grounds to fear that they would not discover this fact until they had made a sad mess of society. They had the votes and the power to do so if they pleased, and their leaders meant they should. Some of these desponding observers went so far as to predict an impending social cataclysm. Humanity, they argued, having climbed to the top round of the ladder of civilization, was about to take a header into chaos, after which it would doubtless pick itself up, turn round, and begin to climb again. Repeated experiences of this sort in historic and prehistoric times possibly accounted for the puzzling bumps on the human cranium. Human history, like all great movements, was cyclical, and returned to the point of beginning. The idea of indefinite progress in a right line was a chimera of the imagination, with no analogue in nature. The parabola of a comet was perhaps a yet better illustration of the career of humanity. Tending upward and sunward from the aphelion of barbarism, the race attained the perihelion of civilization only to plunge downward once more to its nether goal in the regions of chaos. This, of course, was an extreme opinion, but I remember serious men among my acquaintances who, in discussing the signs of the times, adopted a very similar tone. It was no doubt the common opinion of thoughtful men that society was approaching a critical period which might result in great changes. The labor troubles, their causes, course, and cure, took lead of all other topics in the public prints, and in serious conversation. The nervous tension of the public mind could not have been more strikingly illustrated than it was by the alarm resulting from the talk of a small band of men who called themselves anarchists, and proposed to terrify the American people into adopting their ideas by threats of violence, as if a mighty nation which had but just put down a rebellion of half its own numbers, in order to maintain its political system, were likely to adopt a new social system out of fear. As one of the wealthy, with a large stake in the existing order of things, I naturally shared the apprehensions of my class. The particular grievance I had against the working classes at the time of which I write, on account of the effect of their strikes in postponing my wedded bliss, no doubt lent a special animosity to my feeling toward them. Chapter 2 The thirtieth day of May, 1887, fell on a Monday. It was one of the annual holidays of the nation in the latter third of the nineteenth century, being set apart under the name of Decoration Day, for doing honor to the memory of the soldiers of the North who took part in the war for the preservation of the union of the States. The survivors of the war, escorted by military and civic processions and bands of music, were wont on this occasion to visit the cemeteries and lay wreaths of flowers upon the graves of their dead comrades, the ceremony being a very solemn and touching one. The eldest brother of Edith Bartlett had fallen in the war, and on Decoration Day the family was in the habit of making a visit to Mount Auburn, where he lay. I had asked permission to make one of the party, and, on our return to the city at nightfall, remained to dine with the family of my betrothed. In the drawing-room, after dinner, I picked up an evening paper and read of a fresh strike in the building trades, which would probably still further delay the completion of my unlucky house. I remember distinctly how exasperated I was at this, and the objurgations, as forcible as the presence of the ladies permitted, which I lavished upon workmen in general, and these strikers in particular. I had abundant sympathy from those about me, and the remarks made in the desultory conversation which followed, upon the unprincipled conduct of the labor agitators, were calculated to make those gentlemen's ears tingle. It was agreed that affairs were going from bad to worse very fast, and that there was no telling what we should come to soon. "The worst of it," I remember Mrs. Bartlett's saying, "is that the working classes all over the world seem to be going crazy at once. In Europe it is far worse even than here. I'm sure I should not dare to live there at all. I asked Mr. Bartlett the other day where we should emigrate to if all the terrible things took place which those socialists threaten. He said he did not know any place now where society could be called stable except Greenland, Patagonia, and the Chinese Empire." "Those Chinamen knew what they were about," somebody added, "when they refused to let in our western civilization. They knew what it would lead to better than we did. They saw it was nothing but dynamite in disguise." After this, I remember drawing Edith apart and trying to persuade her that it would be better to be married at once without waiting for the completion of the house, spending the time in travel till our home was ready for us. She was remarkably handsome that evening, the mourning costume that she wore in recognition of the day setting off to great advantage the purity of her complexion. I can see her even now with my mind's eye just as she looked that night. When I took my leave she followed me into the hall and I kissed her good-by as usual. There was no circumstance out of the common to distinguish this parting from previous occasions when we had bade each other good-by for a night or a day. There was absolutely no premonition in my mind, or I am sure in hers, that this was more than an ordinary separation. Ah, well! The hour at which I had left my betrothed was a rather early one for a lover, but the fact was no reflection on my devotion. I was a confirmed sufferer from insomnia, and although otherwise perfectly well had been completely fagged out that day, from having slept scarcely at all the two previous nights. Edith knew this and had insisted on sending me home by nine o'clock, with strict orders to go to bed at once. The house in which I lived had been occupied by three generations of the family of which I was the only living representative in the direct line. It was a large, ancient wooden mansion, very elegant in an old-fashioned way within, but situated in a quarter that had long since become undesirable for residence, from its invasion by tenement houses and manufactories. It was not a house to which I could think of bringing a bride, much less so dainty a one as Edith Bartlett. I had advertised it for sale, and meanwhile merely used it for sleeping purposes, dining at my club. One servant, a faithful colored man by the name of Sawyer, lived with me and attended to my few wants. One feature of the house I expected to miss greatly when I should leave it, and this was the sleeping chamber which I had built under the foundations. I could not have slept in the city at all, with its never ceasing nightly noises, if I had been obliged to use an upstairs chamber. But to this subterranean room no murmur from the upper world ever penetrated. When I had entered it and closed the door, I was surrounded by the silence of the tomb. In order to prevent the dampness of the subsoil from penetrating the chamber, the walls had been laid in hydraulic cement and were very thick, and the floor was likewise protected. In order that the room might serve also as a vault equally proof against violence and flames, for the storage of valuables, I had roofed it with stone slabs hermetically sealed, and the outer door was of iron with a thick coating of asbestos. A small pipe, communicating with a wind-mill on the top of the house, insured the renewal of air. It might seem that the tenant of such a chamber ought to be able to command slumber, but it was rare that I slept well, even there, two nights in succession. So accustomed was I to wakefulness that I minded little the loss of one night's rest. A second night, however, spent in my reading chair instead of my bed, tired me out, and I never allowed myself to go longer than that without slumber, from fear of nervous disorder. From this statement it will be inferred that I had at my command some artificial means for inducing sleep in the last resort, and so in fact I had. If after two sleepless nights I found myself on the approach of the third without sensations of drowsiness, I called in Dr. Pillsbury. He was a doctor by courtesy only, what was called in those days an "irregular" or "quack" doctor. He called himself a "Professor of Animal Magnetism." I had come across him in the course of some amateur investigations into the phenomena of animal magnetism. I don't think he knew anything about medicine, but he was certainly a remarkable mesmerist. It was for the purpose of being put to sleep by his manipulations that I used to send for him when I found a third night of sleeplessness impending. Let my nervous excitement or mental preoccupation be however great, Dr. Pillsbury never failed, after a short time, to leave me in a deep slumber, which continued till I was aroused by a reversal of the mesmerizing process. The process for awaking the sleeper was much simpler than that for putting him to sleep, and for convenience I had made Dr Pillsbury teach Sawyer how to do it. My faithful servant alone knew for what purpose Dr. Pillsbury visited me, or that he did so at all. Of course, when Edith became my wife I should have to tell her my secrets. I had not hitherto told her this, because there was unquestionably a slight risk in the mesmeric sleep, and I knew she would set her face against my practice. The risk, of course, was that it might become too profound and pass into a trance beyond the mesmerizer's power to break, ending in death. Repeated experiments had fully convinced me that the risk was next to nothing if reasonable precautions were exercised, and of this I hoped, though doubtingly, to convince Edith. I went directly home after leaving her, and at once sent Sawyer to fetch Dr. Pillsbury. Meanwhile I sought my subterranean sleeping chamber, and exchanging my costume for a comfortable dressing-gown, sat down to read the letters by the evening mail which Sawyer had laid on my reading table. One of them was from the builder of my new house, and confirmed what I had inferred from the newspaper item. The new strikes, he said, had postponed indefinitely the completion of the contract, as neither masters nor workmen would concede the point at issue without a long struggle. Caligula wished that the Roman people had but one neck that he might cut it off, and as I read this letter I am afraid that for a moment I was capable of wishing the same thing concerning the laboring classes of America. The return of Sawyer with the doctor interrupted my gloomy meditations. It appeared that he had with difficulty been able to secure his services, as he was preparing to leave the city that very night. The doctor explained that since he had seen me last he had learned of a fine professional opening in a distant city, and decided to take prompt advantage of it. On my asking, in some panic, what I was to do for some one to put me to sleep, he gave me the names of several mesmerizers in Boston who, he averred, had quite as great powers as he. Somewhat relieved on this point, I instructed Sawyer to rouse me at nine o'clock next morning, and, lying down on the bed in my dressing-gown, assumed a comfortable attitude, and surrendered myself to the manipulations of the mesmerizer. Owing, perhaps, to my unusually nervous state, I was slower than common in losing consciousness, but at length a delicious drowsiness stole over me. Chapter 3 "He is going to open his eyes. He had better see but one of us at first." "Promise me, then, that you will not tell him." The first voice was a man's, the second a woman's, and both spoke in whispers. "I will see how he seems," replied the man. "No, no, promise me," persisted the other. "Let her have her way," whispered a third voice, also a woman. "Well, well, I promise, then," answered the man. "Quick, go! He is coming out of it." There was a rustle of garments and I opened my eyes. A fine looking man of perhaps sixty was bending over me, an expression of much benevolence mingled with great curiosity upon his features. He was an utter stranger. I raised myself on an elbow and looked around. The room was empty. I certainly had never been in it before, or one furnished like it. I looked back at my companion. He smiled. "How do you feel?" he inquired. "Where am I?" I demanded. "You are in my house," was the reply. "How came I here?" "We will talk about that when you are stronger. Meanwhile, I beg you will feel no anxiety. You are among friends and in good hands. How do you feel?" "A bit queerly," I replied, "but I am well, I suppose. Will you tell me how I came to be indebted to your hospitality? What has happened to me? How came I here? It was in my own house that I went to sleep." "There will be time enough for explanations later," my unknown host replied, with a reassuring smile. "It will be better to avoid agitating talk until you are a little more yourself. Will you oblige me by taking a couple of swallows of this mixture? It will do you good. I am a physician." I repelled the glass with my hand and sat up on the couch, although with an effort, for my head was strangely light. "I insist upon knowing at once where I am and what you have been doing with me," I said. "My dear sir," responded my companion, "let me beg that you will not agitate yourself. I would rather you did not insist upon explanations so soon, but if you do, I will try to satisfy you, provided you will first take this draught, which will strengthen you somewhat." I thereupon drank what he offered me. Then he said, "It is not so simple a matter as you evidently suppose to tell you how you came here. You can tell me quite as much on that point as I can tell you. You have just been roused from a deep sleep, or, more properly, trance. So much I can tell you. You say you were in your own house when you fell into that sleep. May I ask you when that was?" "When?" I replied, "when? Why, last evening, of course, at about ten o'clock. I left my man Sawyer orders to call me at nine o'clock. What has become of Sawyer?" "I can't precisely tell you that," replied my companion, regarding me with a curious expression, "but I am sure that he is excusable for not being here. And now can you tell me a little more explicitly when it was that you fell into that sleep, the date, I mean?" "Why, last night, of course; I said so, didn't I? that is, unless I have overslept an entire day. Great heavens! that cannot be possible; and yet I have an odd sensation of having slept a long time. It was Decoration Day that I went to sleep." "Decoration Day?" "Yes, Monday, the 30th." "Pardon me, the 30th of what?" "Why, of this month, of course, unless I have slept into June, but that can't be." "This month is September." "September! You don't mean that I've slept since May! God in heaven! Why, it is incredible." "We shall see," replied my companion; "you say that it was May 30th when you went to sleep?" "Yes." "May I ask of what year?" I stared blankly at him, incapable of speech, for some moments. "Of what year?" I feebly echoed at last. "Yes, of what year, if you please? After you have told me that I shall be able to tell you how long you have slept." "It was the year 1887," I said. My companion insisted that I should take another draught from the glass, and felt my pulse. "My dear sir," he said, "your manner indicates that you are a man of culture, which I am aware was by no means the matter of course in your day it now is. No doubt, then, you have yourself made the observation that nothing in this world can be truly said to be more wonderful than anything else. The causes of all phenomena are equally adequate, and the results equally matters of course. That you should be startled by what I shall tell you is to be expected; but I am confident that you will not permit it to affect your equanimity unduly. Your appearance is that of a young man of barely thirty, and your bodily condition seems not greatly different from that of one just roused from a somewhat too long and profound sleep, and yet this is the tenth day of September in the year 2000, and you have slept exactly one hundred and thirteen years, three months, and eleven days." Feeling partially dazed, I drank a cup of some sort of broth at my companion's suggestion, and, immediately afterward becoming very drowsy, went off into a deep sleep. When I awoke it was broad daylight in the room, which had been lighted artificially when I was awake before. My mysterious host was sitting near. He was not looking at me when I opened my eyes, and I had a good opportunity to study him and meditate upon my extraordinary situation, before he observed that I was awake. My giddiness was all gone, and my mind perfectly clear. The story that I had been asleep one hundred and thirteen years, which, in my former weak and bewildered condition, I had accepted without question, recurred to me now only to be rejected as a preposterous attempt at an imposture, the motive of which it was impossible remotely to surmise. Something extraordinary had certainly happened to account for my waking up in this strange house with this unknown companion, but my fancy was utterly impotent to suggest more than the wildest guess as to what that something might have been. Could it be that I was the victim of some sort of conspiracy? It looked so, certainly; and yet, if human lineaments ever gave true evidence, it was certain that this man by my side, with a face so refined and ingenuous, was no party to any scheme of crime or outrage. Then it occurred to me to question if I might not be the butt of some elaborate practical joke on the part of friends who had somehow learned the secret of my underground chamber and taken this means of impressing me with the peril of mesmeric experiments. There were great difficulties in the way of this theory; Sawyer would never have betrayed me, nor had I any friends at all likely to undertake such an enterprise; nevertheless the supposition that I was the victim of a practical joke seemed on the whole the only one tenable. Half expecting to catch a glimpse of some familiar face grinning from behind a chair or curtain, I looked carefully about the room. When my eyes next rested on my companion, he was looking at me. "You have had a fine nap of twelve hours," he said briskly, "and I can see that it has done you good. You look much better. Your color is good and your eyes are bright. How do you feel?" "I never felt better," I said, sitting up. "You remember your first waking, no doubt," he pursued, "and your surprise when I told you how long you had been asleep?" "You said, I believe, that I had slept one hundred and thirteen years." "Exactly." "You will admit," I said, with an ironical smile, "that the story was rather an improbable one." "Extraordinary, I admit," he responded, "but given the proper conditions, not improbable nor inconsistent with what we know of the trance state. When complete, as in your case, the vital functions are absolutely suspended, and there is no waste of the tissues. No limit can be set to the possible duration of a trance when the external conditions protect the body from physical injury. This trance of yours is indeed the longest of which there is any positive record, but there is no known reason wherefore, had you not been discovered and had the chamber in which we found you continued intact, you might not have remained in a state of suspended animation till, at the end of indefinite ages, the gradual refrigeration of the earth had destroyed the bodily tissues and set the spirit free." I had to admit that, if I were indeed the victim of a practical joke, its authors had chosen an admirable agent for carrying out their imposition. The impressive and even eloquent manner of this man would have lent dignity to an argument that the moon was made of cheese. The smile with which I had regarded him as he advanced his trance hypothesis did not appear to confuse him in the slightest degree. "Perhaps," I said, "you will go on and favor me with some particulars as to the circumstances under which you discovered this chamber of which you speak, and its contents. I enjoy good fiction." "In this case," was the grave reply, "no fiction could be so strange as the truth. You must know that these many years I have been cherishing the idea of building a laboratory in the large garden beside this house, for the purpose of chemical experiments for which I have a taste. Last Thursday the excavation for the cellar was at last begun. It was completed by that night, and Friday the masons were to have come. Thursday night we had a tremendous deluge of rain, and Friday morning I found my cellar a frog-pond and the walls quite washed down. My daughter, who had come out to view the disaster with me, called my attention to a corner of masonry laid bare by the crumbling away of one of the walls. I cleared a little earth from it, and, finding that it seemed part of a large mass, determined to investigate it. The workmen I sent for unearthed an oblong vault some eight feet below the surface, and set in the corner of what had evidently been the foundation walls of an ancient house. A layer of ashes and charcoal on the top of the vault showed that the house above had perished by fire. The vault itself was perfectly intact, the cement being as good as when first applied. It had a door, but this we could not force, and found entrance by removing one of the flagstones which formed the roof. The air which came up was stagnant but pure, dry and not cold. Descending with a lantern, I found myself in an apartment fitted up as a bedroom in the style of the nineteenth century. On the bed lay a young man. That he was dead and must have been dead a century was of course to be taken for granted; but the extraordinary state of preservation of the body struck me and the medical colleagues whom I had summoned with amazement. That the art of such embalming as this had ever been known we should not have believed, yet here seemed conclusive testimony that our immediate ancestors had possessed it. My medical colleagues, whose curiosity was highly excited, were at once for undertaking experiments to test the nature of the process employed, but I withheld them. My motive in so doing, at least the only motive I now need speak of, was the recollection of something I once had read about the extent to which your contemporaries had cultivated the subject of animal magnetism. It had occurred to me as just conceivable that you might be in a trance, and that the secret of your bodily integrity after so long a time was not the craft of an embalmer, but life. So extremely fanciful did this idea seem, even to me, that I did not risk the ridicule of my fellow physicians by mentioning it, but gave some other reason for postponing their experiments. No sooner, however, had they left me, than I set on foot a systematic attempt at resuscitation, of which you know the result." Had its theme been yet more incredible, the circumstantiality of this narrative, as well as the impressive manner and personality of the narrator, might have staggered a listener, and I had begun to feel very strangely, when, as he closed, I chanced to catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall of the room. I rose and went up to it. The face I saw was the face to a hair and a line and not a day older than the one I had looked at as I tied my cravat before going to Edith that Decoration Day, which, as this man would have me believe, was celebrated one hundred and thirteen years before. At this, the colossal character of the fraud which was being attempted on me, came over me afresh. Indignation mastered my mind as I realized the outrageous liberty that had been taken. "You are probably surprised," said my companion, "to see that, although you are a century older than when you lay down to sleep in that underground chamber, your appearance is unchanged. That should not amaze you. It is by virtue of the total arrest of the vital functions that you have survived this great period of time. If your body could have undergone any change during your trance, it would long ago have suffered dissolution." "Sir," I replied, turning to him, "what your motive can be in reciting to me with a serious face this remarkable farrago, I am utterly unable to guess; but you are surely yourself too intelligent to suppose that anybody but an imbecile could be deceived by it. Spare me any more of this elaborate nonsense and once for all tell me whether you refuse to give me an intelligible account of where I am and how I came here. If so, I shall proceed to ascertain my whereabouts for myself, whoever may hinder." "You do not, then, believe that this is the year 2000?" "Do you really think it necessary to ask me that?" I returned. "Very well," replied my extraordinary host. "Since I cannot convince you, you shall convince yourself. Are you strong enough to follow me upstairs?" "I am as strong as I ever was," I replied angrily, "as I may have to prove if this jest is carried much farther." "I beg, sir," was my companion's response, "that you will not allow yourself to be too fully persuaded that you are the victim of a trick, lest the reaction, when you are convinced of the truth of my statements, should be too great." The tone of concern, mingled with commiseration, with which he said this, and the entire absence of any sign of resentment at my hot words, strangely daunted me, and I followed him from the room with an extraordinary mixture of emotions. He led the way up two flights of stairs and then up a shorter one, which landed us upon a belvedere on the house-top. "Be pleased to look around you," he said, as we reached the platform, "and tell me if this is the Boston of the nineteenth century." At my feet lay a great city. Miles of broad streets, shaded by trees and lined with fine buildings, for the most part not in continuous blocks but set in larger or smaller inclosures, stretched in every direction. Every quarter contained large open squares filled with trees, among which statues glistened and fountains flashed in the late afternoon sun. Public buildings of a colossal size and an architectural grandeur unparalleled in my day raised their stately piles on every side. Surely I had never seen this city nor one comparable to it before. Raising my eyes at last towards the horizon, I looked westward. That blue ribbon winding away to the sunset, was it not the sinuous Charles? I looked east; Boston harbor stretched before me within its headlands, not one of its green islets missing. I knew then that I had been told the truth concerning the prodigious thing which had befallen me. Chapter 4 I did not faint, but the effort to realize my position made me very giddy, and I remember that my companion had to give me a strong arm as he conducted me from the roof to a roomy apartment on the upper floor of the house, where he insisted on my drinking a glass or two of good wine and partaking of a light repast. "I think you are going to be all right now," he said cheerily. "I should not have taken so abrupt a means to convince you of your position if your course, while perfectly excusable under the circumstances, had not rather obliged me to do so. I confess," he added laughing, "I was a little apprehensive at one time that I should undergo what I believe you used to call a knockdown in the nineteenth century, if I did not act rather promptly. I remembered that the Bostonians of your day were famous pugilists, and thought best to lose no time. I take it you are now ready to acquit me of the charge of hoaxing you." "If you had told me," I replied, profoundly awed, "that a thousand years instead of a hundred had elapsed since I last looked on this city, I should now believe you." "Only a century has passed," he answered, "but many a millennium in the world's history has seen changes less extraordinary." "And now," he added, extending his hand with an air of irresistible cordiality, "let me give you a hearty welcome to the Boston of the twentieth century and to this house. My name is Leete, Dr. Leete they call me." "My name," I said as I shook his hand, "is Julian West." "I am most happy in making your acquaintance, Mr. West," he responded. "Seeing that this house is built on the site of your own, I hope you will find it easy to make yourself at home in it." After my refreshment Dr. Leete offered me a bath and a change of clothing, of which I gladly availed myself. It did not appear that any very startling revolution in men's attire had been among the great changes my host had spoken of, for, barring a few details, my new habiliments did not puzzle me at all. Physically, I was now myself again. But mentally, how was it with me, the reader will doubtless wonder. What were my intellectual sensations, he may wish to know, on finding myself so suddenly dropped as it were into a new world. In reply let me ask him to suppose himself suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, transported from earth, say, to Paradise or Hades. What does he fancy would be his own experience? Would his thoughts return at once to the earth he had just left, or would he, after the first shock, wellnigh forget his former life for a while, albeit to be remembered later, in the interest excited by his new surroundings? All I can say is, that if his experience were at all like mine in the transition I am describing, the latter hypothesis would prove the correct one. The impressions of amazement and curiosity which my new surroundings produced occupied my mind, after the first shock, to the exclusion of all other thoughts. For the time the memory of my former life was, as it were, in abeyance. No sooner did I find myself physically rehabilitated through the kind offices of my host, than I became eager to return to the house-top; and presently we were comfortably established there in easy-chairs, with the city beneath and around us. After Dr. Leete had responded to numerous questions on my part, as to the ancient landmarks I missed and the new ones which had replaced them, he asked me what point of the contrast between the new and the old city struck me most forcibly. "To speak of small things before great," I responded, "I really think that the complete absence of chimneys and their smoke is the detail that first impressed me." "Ah!" ejaculated my companion with an air of much interest, "I had forgotten the chimneys, it is so long since they went out of use. It is nearly a century since the crude method of combustion on which you depended for heat became obsolete." "In general," I said, "what impresses me most about the city is the material prosperity on the part of the people which its magnificence implies." "I would give a great deal for just one glimpse of the Boston of your day," replied Dr. Leete. "No doubt, as you imply, the cities of that period were rather shabby affairs. If you had the taste to make them splendid, which I would not be so rude as to question, the general poverty resulting from your extraordinary industrial system would not have given you the means. Moreover, the excessive individualism which then prevailed was inconsistent with much public spirit. What little wealth you had seems almost wholly to have been lavished in private luxury. Nowadays, on the contrary, there is no destination of the surplus wealth so popular as the adornment of the city, which all enjoy in equal degree." The sun had been setting as we returned to the house-top, and as we talked night descended upon the city. "It is growing dark," said Dr. Leete. "Let us descend into the house; I want to introduce my wife and daughter to you." His words recalled to me the feminine voices which I had heard whispering about me as I was coming back to conscious life; and, most curious to learn what the ladies of the year 2000 were like, I assented with alacrity to the proposition. The apartment in which we found the wife and daughter of my host, as well as the entire interior of the house, was filled with a mellow light, which I knew must be artificial, although I could not discover the source from which it was diffused. Mrs. Leete was an exceptionally fine looking and well preserved woman of about her husband's age, while the daughter, who was in the first blush of womanhood, was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her face was as bewitching as deep blue eyes, delicately tinted complexion, and perfect features could make it, but even had her countenance lacked special charms, the faultless luxuriance of her figure would have given her place as a beauty among the women of the nineteenth century. Feminine softness and delicacy were in this lovely creature deliciously combined with an appearance of health and abounding physical vitality too often lacking in the maidens with whom alone I could compare her. It was a coincidence trifling in comparison with the general strangeness of the situation, but still striking, that her name should be Edith. The evening that followed was certainly unique in the history of social intercourse, but to suppose that our conversation was peculiarly strained or difficult would be a great mistake. I believe indeed that it is under what may be called unnatural, in the sense of extraordinary, circumstances that people behave most naturally, for the reason, no doubt, that such circumstances banish artificiality. I know at any rate that my intercourse that evening with these representatives of another age and world was marked by an ingenuous sincerity and frankness such as but rarely crown long acquaintance. No doubt the exquisite tact of my entertainers had much to do with this. Of course there was nothing we could talk of but the strange experience by virtue of which I was there, but they talked of it with an interest so naive and direct in its expression as to relieve the subject to a great degree of the element of the weird and the uncanny which might so easily have been overpowering. One would have supposed that they were quite in the habit of entertaining waifs from another century, so perfect was their tact. For my own part, never do I remember the operations of my mind to have been more alert and acute than that evening, or my intellectual sensibilities more keen. Of course I do not mean that the consciousness of my amazing situation was for a moment out of mind, but its chief effect thus far was to produce a feverish elation, a sort of mental intoxication.[1] Edith Leete took little part in the conversation, but when several times the magnetism of her beauty drew my glance to her face, I found her eyes fixed on me with an absorbed intensity, almost like fascination. It was evident that I had excited her interest to an extraordinary degree, as was not astonishing, supposing her to be a girl of imagination. Though I supposed curiosity was the chief motive of her interest, it could but affect me as it would not have done had she been less beautiful. Dr. Leete, as well as the ladies, seemed greatly interested in my account of the circumstances under which I had gone to sleep in the underground chamber. All had suggestions to offer to account for my having been forgotten there, and the theory which we finally agreed on offers at least a plausible explanation, although whether it be in its details the true one, nobody, of course, will ever know. The layer of ashes found above the chamber indicated that the house had been burned down. Let it be supposed that the conflagration had taken place the night I fell asleep. It only remains to assume that Sawyer lost his life in the fire or by some accident connected with it, and the rest follows naturally enough. No one but he and Dr. Pillsbury either knew of the existence of the chamber or that I was in it, and Dr. Pillsbury, who had gone that night to New Orleans, had probably never heard of the fire at all. The conclusion of my friends, and of the public, must have been that I had perished in the flames. An excavation of the ruins, unless thorough, would not have disclosed the recess in the foundation walls connecting with my chamber. To be sure, if the site had been again built upon, at least immediately, such an excavation would have been necessary, but the troublous times and the undesirable character of the locality might well have prevented rebuilding. The size of the trees in the garden now occupying the site indicated, Dr. Leete said, that for more than half a century at least it had been open ground. [1] In accounting for this state of mind it must be remembered that, except for the topic of our conversations, there was in my surroundings next to nothing to suggest what had befallen me. Within a block of my home in the old Boston I could have found social circles vastly more foreign to me. The speech of the Bostonians of the twentieth century differs even less from that of their cultured ancestors of the nineteenth than did that of the latter from the language of Washington and Franklin, while the differences between the style of dress and furniture of the two epochs are not more marked than I have known fashion to make in the time of one generation. Chapter 5 When, in the course of the evening the ladies retired, leaving Dr. Leete and myself alone, he sounded me as to my disposition for sleep, saying that if I felt like it my bed was ready for me; but if I was inclined to wakefulness nothing would please him better than to bear me company. "I am a late bird, myself," he said, "and, without suspicion of flattery, I may say that a companion more interesting than yourself could scarcely be imagined. It is decidedly not often that one has a chance to converse with a man of the nineteenth century." Now I had been looking forward all the evening with some dread to the time when I should be alone, on retiring for the night. Surrounded by these most friendly strangers, stimulated and supported by their sympathetic interest, I had been able to keep my mental balance. Even then, however, in pauses of the conversation I had had glimpses, vivid as lightning flashes, of the horror of strangeness that was waiting to be faced when I could no longer command diversion. I knew I could not sleep that night, and as for lying awake and thinking, it argues no cowardice, I am sure, to confess that I was afraid of it. When, in reply to my host's question, I frankly told him this, he replied that it would be strange if I did not feel just so, but that I need have no anxiety about sleeping; whenever I wanted to go to bed, he would give me a dose which would insure me a sound night's sleep without fail. Next morning, no doubt, I would awake with the feeling of an old citizen. "Before I acquired that," I replied, "I must know a little more about the sort of Boston I have come back to. You told me when we were upon the house-top that though a century only had elapsed since I fell asleep, it had been marked by greater changes in the conditions of humanity than many a previous millennium. With the city before me I could well believe that, but I am very curious to know what some of the changes have been. To make a beginning somewhere, for the subject is doubtless a large one, what solution, if any, have you found for the labor question? It was the Sphinx's riddle of the nineteenth century, and when I dropped out the Sphinx was threatening to devour society, because the answer was not forthcoming. It is well worth sleeping a hundred years to learn what the right answer was, if, indeed, you have found it yet." "As no such thing as the labor question is known nowadays," replied Dr. Leete, "and there is no way in which it could arise, I suppose we may claim to have solved it. Society would indeed have fully deserved being devoured if it had failed to answer a riddle so entirely simple. In fact, to speak by the book, it was not necessary for society to solve the riddle at all. It may be said to have solved itself. The solution came as the result of a process of industrial evolution which could not have terminated otherwise. All that society had to do was to recognize and cooperate with that evolution, when its tendency had become unmistakable." "I can only say," I answered, "that at the time I fell asleep no such evolution had been recognized." "It was in 1887 that you fell into this sleep, I think you said." "Yes, May 30th, 1887." My companion regarded me musingly for some moments. Then he observed, "And you tell me that even then there was no general recognition of the nature of the crisis which society was nearing? Of course, I fully credit your statement. The singular blindness of your contemporaries to the signs of the times is a phenomenon commented on by many of our historians, but few facts of history are more difficult for us to realize, so obvious and unmistakable as we look back seem the indications, which must also have come under your eyes, of the transformation about to come to pass. I should be interested, Mr. West, if you would give me a little more definite idea of the view which you and men of your grade of intellect took of the state and prospects of society in 1887. You must, at least, have realized that the widespread industrial and social troubles, and the underlying dissatisfaction of all classes with the inequalities of society, and the general misery of mankind, were portents of great changes of some sort." "We did, indeed, fully realize that," I replied. "We felt that society was dragging anchor and in danger of going adrift. Whither it would drift nobody could say, but all feared the rocks." "Nevertheless," said Dr. Leete, "the set of the current was perfectly perceptible if you had but taken pains to observe it, and it was not toward the rocks, but toward a deeper channel." "We had a popular proverb," I replied, "that 'hindsight is better than foresight,' the force of which I shall now, no doubt, appreciate more fully than ever. All I can say is, that the prospect was such when I went into that long sleep that I should not have been surprised had I looked down from your house-top to-day on a heap of charred and moss-grown ruins instead of this glorious city." Dr. Leete had listened to me with close attention and nodded thoughtfully as I finished speaking. "What you have said," he observed, "will be regarded as a most valuable vindication of Storiot, whose account of your era has been generally thought exaggerated in its picture of the gloom and confusion of men's minds. That a period of transition like that should be full of excitement and agitation was indeed to be looked for; but seeing how plain was the tendency of the forces in operation, it was natural to believe that hope rather than fear would have been the prevailing temper of the popular mind." "You have not yet told me what was the answer to the riddle which you found," I said. "I am impatient to know by what contradiction of natural sequence the peace and prosperity which you now seem to enjoy could have been the outcome of an era like my own." "Excuse me," replied my host, "but do you smoke?" It was not till our cigars were lighted and drawing well that he resumed. "Since you are in the humor to talk rather than to sleep, as I certainly am, perhaps I cannot do better than to try to give you enough idea of our modern industrial system to dissipate at least the impression that there is any mystery about the process of its evolution. The Bostonians of your day had the reputation of being great askers of questions, and I am going to show my descent by asking you one to begin with. What should you name as the most prominent feature of the labor troubles of your day?" "Why, the strikes, of course," I replied. "Exactly; but what made the strikes so formidable?" "The great labor organizations." "And what was the motive of these great organizations?" "The workmen claimed they had to organize to get their rights from the big corporations," I replied. "That is just it," said Dr. Leete; "the organization of labor and the strikes were an effect, merely, of the concentration of capital in greater masses than had ever been known before. Before this concentration began, while as yet commerce and industry were conducted by innumerable petty concerns with small capital, instead of a small number of great concerns with vast capital, the individual workman was relatively important and independent in his relations to the employer. Moreover, when a little capital or a new idea was enough to start a man in business for himself, workingmen were constantly becoming employers and there was no hard and fast line between the two classes. Labor unions were needless then, and general strikes out of the question. But when the era of small concerns with small capital was succeeded by that of the great aggregations of capital, all this was changed. The individual laborer, who had been relatively important to the small employer, was reduced to insignificance and powerlessness over against the great corporation, while at the same time the way upward to the grade of employer was closed to him. Self-defense drove him to union with his fellows. "The records of the period show that the outcry against the concentration of capital was furious. Men believed that it threatened society with a form of tyranny more abhorrent than it had ever endured. They believed that the great corporations were preparing for them the yoke of a baser servitude than had ever been imposed on the race, servitude not to men but to soulless machines incapable of any motive but insatiable greed. Looking back, we cannot wonder at their desperation, for certainly humanity was never confronted with a fate more sordid and hideous than would have been the era of corporate tyranny which they anticipated. "Meanwhile, without being in the smallest degree checked by the clamor against it, the absorption of business by ever larger monopolies continued. In the United States there was not, after the beginning of the last quarter of the century, any opportunity whatever for individual enterprise in any important field of industry, unless backed by a great capital. During the last decade of the century, such small businesses as still remained were fast-failing survivals of a past epoch, or mere parasites on the great corporations, or else existed in fields too small to attract the great capitalists. Small businesses, as far as they still remained, were reduced to the condition of rats and mice, living in holes and corners, and counting on evading notice for the enjoyment of existence. The railroads had gone on combining till a few great syndicates controlled every rail in the land. In manufactories, every important staple was controlled by a syndicate. These syndicates, pools, trusts, or whatever their name, fixed prices and crushed all competition except when combinations as vast as themselves arose. Then a struggle, resulting in a still greater consolidation, ensued. The great city bazar crushed it country rivals with branch stores, and in the city itself absorbed its smaller rivals till the business of a whole quarter was concentrated under one roof, with a hundred former proprietors of shops serving as clerks. Having no business of his own to put his money in, the small capitalist, at the same time that he took service under the corporation, found no other investment for his money but its stocks and bonds, thus becoming doubly dependent upon it. "The fact that the desperate popular opposition to the consolidation of business in a few powerful hands had no effect to check it proves that there must have been a strong economical reason for it. The small capitalists, with their innumerable petty concerns, had in fact yielded the field to the great aggregations of capital, because they belonged to a day of small things and were totally incompetent to the demands of an age of steam and telegraphs and the gigantic scale of its enterprises. To restore the former order of things, even if possible, would have involved returning to the day of stagecoaches. Oppressive and intolerable as was the regime of the great consolidations of capital, even its victims, while they cursed it, were forced to admit the prodigious increase of efficiency which had been imparted to the national industries, the vast economies effected by concentration of management and unity of organization, and to confess that since the new system had taken the place of the old the wealth of the world had increased at a rate before undreamed of. To be sure this vast increase had gone chiefly to make the rich richer, increasing the gap between them and the poor; but the fact remained that, as a means merely of producing wealth, capital had been proved efficient in proportion to its consolidation. The restoration of the old system with the subdivision of capital, if it were possible, might indeed bring back a greater equality of conditions, with more individual dignity and freedom, but it would be at the price of general poverty and the arrest of material progress. "Was there, then, no way of commanding the services of the mighty wealth-producing principle of consolidated capital without bowing down to a plutocracy like that of Carthage? As soon as men began to ask themselves these questions, they found the answer ready for them. The movement toward the conduct of business by larger and larger aggregations of capital, the tendency toward monopolies, which had been so desperately and vainly resisted, was recognized at last, in its true significance, as a process which only needed to complete its logical evolution to open a golden future to humanity. "Early in the last century the evolution was completed by the final consolidation of the entire capital of the nation. The industry and commerce of the country, ceasing to be conducted by a set of irresponsible corporations and syndicates of private persons at their caprice and for their profit, were intrusted to a single syndicate representing the people, to be conducted in the common interest for the common profit. The nation, that is to say, organized as the one great business corporation in which all other corporations were absorbed; it became the one capitalist in the place of all other capitalists, the sole employer, the final monopoly in which all previous and lesser monopolies were swallowed up, a monopoly in the profits and economies of which all citizens shared. The epoch of trusts had ended in The Great Trust. In a word, the people of the United States concluded to assume the conduct of their own business, just as one hundred odd years before they had assumed the conduct of their own government, organizing now for industrial purposes on precisely the same grounds that they had then organized for political purposes. At last, strangely late in the world's history, the obvious fact was perceived that no business is so essentially the public business as the industry and commerce on which the people's livelihood depends, and that to entrust it to private persons to be managed for private profit is a folly similar in kind, though vastly greater in magnitude, to that of surrendering the functions of political government to kings and nobles to be conducted for their personal glorification." "Such a stupendous change as you describe," said I, "did not, of course, take place without great bloodshed and terrible convulsions." "On the contrary," replied Dr. Leete, "there was absolutely no violence. The change had been long foreseen. Public opinion had become fully ripe for it, and the whole mass of the people was behind it. There was no more possibility of opposing it by force than by argument. On the other hand the popular sentiment toward the great corporations and those identified with them had ceased to be one of bitterness, as they came to realize their necessity as a link, a transition phase, in the evolution of the true industrial system. The most violent foes of the great private monopolies were now forced to recognize how invaluable and indispensable had been their office in educating the people up to the point of assuming control of their own business. Fifty years before, the consolidation of the industries of the country under national control would have seemed a very daring experiment to the most sanguine. But by a series of object lessons, seen and studied by all men, the great corporations had taught the people an entirely new set of ideas on this subject. They had seen for many years syndicates handling revenues greater than those of states, and directing the labors of hundreds of thousands of men with an efficiency and economy unattainable in smaller operations. It had come to be recognized as an axiom that the larger the business the simpler the principles that can be applied to it; that, as the machine is truer than the hand, so the system, which in a great concern does the work of the master's eye in a small business, turns out more accurate results. Thus it came about that, thanks to the corporations themselves, when it was proposed that the nation should assume their functions, the suggestion implied nothing which seemed impracticable even to the timid. To be sure it was a step beyond any yet taken, a broader generalization, but the very fact that the nation would be the sole corporation in the field would, it was seen, relieve the undertaking of many difficulties with which the partial monopolies had contended." Chapter 6 Dr. Leete ceased speaking, and I remained silent, endeavoring to form some general conception of the changes in the arrangements of society implied in the tremendous revolution which he had described. Finally I said, "The idea of such an extension of the functions of government is, to say the least, rather overwhelming." "Extension!" he repeated, "where is the extension?" "In my day," I replied, "it was considered that the proper functions of government, strictly speaking, were limited to keeping the peace and defending the people against the public enemy, that is, to the military and police powers." "And, in heaven's name, who are the public enemies?" exclaimed Dr. Leete. "Are they France, England, Germany, or hunger, cold, and nakedness? In your day governments were accustomed, on the slightest international misunderstanding, to seize upon the bodies of citizens and deliver them over by hundreds of thousands to death and mutilation, wasting their treasures the while like water; and all this oftenest for no imaginable profit to the victims. We have no wars now, and our governments no war powers, but in order to protect every citizen against hunger, cold, and nakedness, and provide for all his physical and mental needs, the function is assumed of directing his industry for a term of years. No, Mr. West, I am sure on reflection you will perceive that it was in your age, not in ours, that the extension of the functions of governments was extraordinary. Not even for the best ends would men now allow their governments such powers as were then used for the most maleficent." "Leaving comparisons aside," I said, "the demagoguery and corruption of our public men would have been considered, in my day, insuperable objections to any assumption by government of the charge of the national industries. We should have thought that no arrangement could be worse than to entrust the politicians with control of the wealth-producing machinery of the country. Its material interests were quite too much the football of parties as it was." "No doubt you were right," rejoined Dr. Leete, "but all that is changed now. We have no parties or politicians, and as for demagoguery and corruption, they are words having only an historical significance." "Human nature itself must have changed very much," I said. "Not at all," was Dr. Leete's reply, "but the conditions of human life have changed, and with them the motives of human action. The organization of society with you was such that officials were under a constant temptation to misuse their power for the private profit of themselves or others. Under such circumstances it seems almost strange that you dared entrust them with any of your affairs. Nowadays, on the contrary, society is so constituted that there is absolutely no way in which an official, however ill-disposed, could possibly make any profit for himself or any one else by a misuse of his power. Let him be as bad an official as you please, he cannot be a corrupt one. There is no motive to be. The social system no longer offers a premium on dishonesty. But these are matters which you can only understand as you come, with time, to know us better." "But you have not yet told me how you have settled the labor problem. It is the problem of capital which we have been discussing," I said. "After the nation had assumed conduct of the mills, machinery, railroads, farms, mines, and capital in general of the country, the labor question still remained. In assuming the responsibilities of capital the nation had assumed the difficulties of the capitalist's position." "The moment the nation assumed the responsibilities of capital those difficulties vanished," replied Dr. Leete. "The national organization of labor under one direction was the complete solution of what was, in your day and under your system, justly regarded as the insoluble labor problem. When the nation became the sole employer, all the citizens, by virtue of their citizenship, became employees, to be distributed according to the needs of industry." "That is," I suggested, "you have simply applied the principle of universal military service, as it was understood in our day, to the labor question." "Yes," said Dr. Leete, "that was something which followed as a matter of course as soon as the nation had become the sole capitalist. The people were already accustomed to the idea that the obligation of every citizen, not physically disabled, to contribute his military services to the defense of the nation was equal and absolute. That it was equally the duty of every citizen to contribute his quota of industrial or intellectual services to the maintenance of the nation was equally evident, though it was not until the nation became the employer of labor that citizens were able to render this sort of service with any pretense either of universality or equity. No organization of labor was possible when the employing power was divided among hundreds or thousands of individuals and corporations, between which concert of any kind was neither desired, nor indeed feasible. It constantly happened then that vast numbers who desired to labor could find no opportunity, and on the other hand, those who desired to evade a part or all of their debt could easily do so." "Service, now, I suppose, is compulsory upon all," I suggested. "It is rather a matter of course than of compulsion," replied Dr. Leete. "It is regarded as so absolutely natural and reasonable that the idea of its being compulsory has ceased to be thought of. He would be thought to be an incredibly contemptible person who should need compulsion in such a case. Nevertheless, to speak of service being compulsory would be a weak way to state its absolute inevitableness. Our entire social order is so wholly based upon and deduced from it that if it were conceivable that a man could escape it, he would be left with no possible way to provide for his existence. He would have excluded himself from the world, cut himself off from his kind, in a word, committed suicide." "Is the term of service in this industrial army for life?" "Oh, no; it both begins later and ends earlier than the average working period in your day. Your workshops were filled with children and old men, but we hold the period of youth sacred to education, and the period of maturity, when the physical forces begin to flag, equally sacred to ease and agreeable relaxation. The period of industrial service is twenty-four years, beginning at the close of the course of education at twenty-one and terminating at forty-five. After forty-five, while discharged from labor, the citizen still remains liable to special calls, in case of emergencies causing a sudden great increase in the demand for labor, till he reaches the age of fifty-five, but such calls are rarely, in fact almost never, made. The fifteenth day of October of every year is what we call Muster Day, because those who have reached the age of twenty-one are then mustered into the industrial service, and at the same time those who, after twenty-four years' service, have reached the age of forty-five, are honorably mustered out. It is the great day of the year with us, whence we reckon all other events, our Olympiad, save that it is annual." Chapter 7 "It is after you have mustered your industrial army into service," I said, "that I should expect the chief difficulty to arise, for there its analogy with a military army must cease. Soldiers have all the same thing, and a very simple thing, to do, namely, to practice the manual of arms, to march and stand guard. But the industrial army must learn and follow two or three hundred diverse trades and avocations. What administrative talent can be equal to determining wisely what trade or business every individual in a great nation shall pursue?" "The administration has nothing to do with determining that point." "Who does determine it, then?" I asked. "Every man for himself in accordance with his natural aptitude, the utmost pains being taken to enable him to find out what his natural aptitude really is. The principle on which our industrial army is organized is that a man's natural endowments, mental and physical, determine what he can work at most profitably to the nation and most satisfactorily to himself. While the obligation of service in some form is not to be evaded, voluntary election, subject only to necessary regulation, is depended on to determine the particular sort of service every man is to render. As an individual's satisfaction during his term of service depends on his having an occupation to his taste, parents and teachers watch from early years for indications of special aptitudes in children. A thorough study of the National industrial system, with the history and rudiments of all the great trades, is an essential part of our educational system. While manual training is not allowed to encroach on the general intellectual culture to which our schools are devoted, it is carried far enough to give our youth, in addition to their theoretical knowledge of the national industries, mechanical and agricultural, a certain familiarity with their tools and methods. Our schools are constantly visiting our workshops, and often are taken on long excursions to inspect particular industrial enterprises. In your day a man was not ashamed to be grossly ignorant of all trades except his own, but such ignorance would not be consistent with our idea of placing every one in a position to select intelligently the occupation for which he has most taste. Usually long before he is mustered into service a young man has found out the pursuit he wants to follow, has acquired a great deal of knowledge about it, and is waiting impatiently the time when he can enlist in its ranks." "Surely," I said, "it can hardly be that the number of volunteers for any trade is exactly the number needed in that trade. It must be generally either under or over the demand." "The supply of volunteers is always expected to fully equal the demand," replied Dr. Leete. "It is the business of the administration to see that this is the case. The rate of volunteering for each trade is closely watched. If there be a noticeably greater excess of volunteers over men needed in any trade, it is inferred that the trade offers greater attractions than others. On the other hand, if the number of volunteers for a trade tends to drop below the demand, it is inferred that it is thought more arduous. It is the business of the administration to seek constantly to equalize the attractions of the trades, so far as the conditions of labor in them are concerned, so that all trades shall be equally attractive to persons having natural tastes for them. This is done by making the hours of labor in different trades to differ according to their arduousness. The lighter trades, prosecuted under the most agreeable circumstances, have in this way the longest hours, while an arduous trade, such as mining, has very short hours. There is no theory, no a priori rule, by which the respective attractiveness of industries is determined. The administration, in taking burdens off one class of workers and adding them to other classes, simply follows the fluctuations of opinion among the workers themselves as indicated by the rate of volunteering. The principle is that no man's work ought to be, on the whole, harder for him than any other man's for him, the workers themselves to be the judges. There are no limits to the application of this rule. If any particular occupation is in itself so arduous or so oppressive that, in order to induce volunteers, the day's work in it had to be reduced to ten minutes, it would be done. If, even then, no man was willing to do it, it would remain undone. But of course, in point of fact, a moderate reduction in the hours of labor, or addition of other privileges, suffices to secure all needed volunteers for any occupation necessary to men. If, indeed, the unavoidable difficulties and dangers of such a necessary pursuit were so great that no inducement of compensating advantages would overcome men's repugnance to it, the administration would only need to take it out of the common order of occupations by declaring it 'extra hazardous,' and those who pursued it especially worthy of the national gratitude, to be overrun with volunteers. Our young men are very greedy of honor, and do not let slip such opportunities. Of course you will see that dependence on the purely voluntary choice of avocations involves the abolition in all of anything like unhygienic conditions or special peril to life and limb. Health and safety are conditions common to all industries. The nation does not maim and slaughter its workmen by thousands, as did the private capitalists and corporations of your day." "When there are more who want to enter a particular trade than there is room for, how do you decide between the applicants?" I inquired. "Preference is given to those who have acquired the most knowledge of the trade they wish to follow. No man, however, who through successive years remains persistent in his desire to show what he can do at any particular trade, is in the end denied an opportunity. Meanwhile, if a man cannot at first win entrance into the business he prefers, he has usually one or more alternative preferences, pursuits for which he has some degree of aptitude, although not the highest. Every one, indeed, is expected to study his aptitudes so as to have not only a first choice as to occupation, but a second or third, so that if, either at the outset of his career or subsequently, owing to the progress of invention or changes in demand, he is unable to follow his first vocation, he can still find reasonably congenial employment. This principle of secondary choices as to occupation is quite important in our system. I should add, in reference to the counter-possibility of some sudden failure of volunteers in a particular trade, or some sudden necessity of an increased force, that the administration, while depending on the voluntary system for filling up the trades as a rule, holds always in reserve the power to call for special volunteers, or draft any force needed from any quarter. Generally, however, all needs of this sort can be met by details from the class of unskilled or common laborers." "How is this class of common laborers recruited?" I asked. "Surely nobody voluntarily enters that." "It is the grade to which all new recruits belong for the first three years of their service. It is not till after this period, during which he is assignable to any work at the discretion of his superiors, that the young man is allowed to elect a special avocation. These three years of stringent discipline none are exempt from, and very glad our young men are to pass from this severe school into the comparative liberty of the trades. If a man were so stupid as to have no choice as to occupation, he would simply remain a common laborer; but such cases, as you may suppose, are not common." "Having once elected and entered on a trade or occupation," I remarked, "I suppose he has to stick to it the rest of his life." "Not necessarily," replied Dr. Leete; "while frequent and merely capricious changes of occupation are not encouraged or even permitted, every worker is allowed, of course, under certain regulations and in accordance with the exigencies of the service, to volunteer for another industry which he thinks would suit him better than his first choice. In this case his application is received just as if he were volunteering for the first time, and on the same terms. Not only this, but a worker may likewise, under suitable regulations and not too frequently, obtain a transfer to an establishment of the same industry in another part of the country which for any reason he may prefer. Under your system a discontented man could indeed leave his work at will, but he left his means of support at the same time, and took his chances as to future livelihood. We find that the number of men who wish to abandon an accustomed occupation for a new one, and old friends and associations for strange ones, is small. It is only the poorer sort of workmen who desire to change even as frequently as our regulations permit. Of course transfers or discharges, when health demands them, are always given." "As an industrial system, I should think this might be extremely efficient," I said, "but I don't see that it makes any provision for the professional classes, the men who serve the nation with brains instead of hands. Of course you can't get along without the brain-workers. How, then, are they selected from those who are to serve as farmers and mechanics? That must require a very delicate sort of sifting process, I should say." "So it does," replied Dr. Leete; "the most delicate possible test is needed here, and so we leave the question whether a man shall be a brain or hand worker entirely to him to settle. At the end of the term of three years as a common laborer, which every man must serve, it is for him to choose, in accordance to his natural tastes, whether he will fit himself for an art or profession, or be a farmer or mechanic. If he feels that he can do better work with his brains than his muscles, he finds every facility provided for testing the reality of his supposed bent, of cultivating it, and if fit of pursuing it as his avocation. The schools of technology, of medicine, of art, of music, of histrionics, and of higher liberal learning are always open to aspirants without condition." "Are not the schools flooded with young men whose only motive is to avoid work?" Dr. Leete smiled a little grimly. "No one is at all likely to enter the professional schools for the purpose of avoiding work, I assure you," he said. "They are intended for those with special aptitude for the branches they teach, and any one without it would find it easier to do double hours at his trade than try to keep up with the classes. Of course many honestly mistake their vocation, and, finding themselves unequal to the requirements of the schools, drop out and return to the industrial service; no discredit attaches to such persons, for the public policy is to encourage all to develop suspected talents which only actual tests can prove the reality of. The professional and scientific schools of your day depended on the patronage of their pupils for support, and the practice appears to have been common of giving diplomas to unfit persons, who afterwards found their way into the professions. Our schools are national institutions, and to have passed their tests is a proof of special abilities not to be questioned. "This opportunity for a professional training," the doctor continued, "remains open to every man till the age of thirty is reached, after which students are not received, as there would remain too brief a period before the age of discharge in which to serve the nation in their professions. In your day young men had to choose their professions very young, and therefore, in a large proportion of instances, wholly mistook their vocations. It is recognized nowadays that the natural aptitudes of some are later than those of others in developing, and therefore, while the choice of profession may be made as early as twenty-four, it remains open for six years longer." A question which had a dozen times before been on my lips now found utterance, a question which touched upon what, in my time, had been regarded the most vital difficulty in the way of any final settlement of the industrial problem. "It is an extraordinary thing," I said, "that you should not yet have said a word about the method of adjusting wages. Since the nation is the sole employer, the government must fix the rate of wages and determine just how much everybody shall earn, from the doctors to the diggers. All I can say is, that this plan would never have worked with us, and I don't see how it can now unless human nature has changed. In my day, nobody was satisfied with his wages or salary. Even if he felt he received enough, he was sure his neighbor had too much, which was as bad. If the universal discontent on this subject, instead of being dissipated in curses and strikes directed against innumerable employers, could have been concentrated upon one, and that the government, the strongest ever devised would not have seen two pay days." Dr. Leete laughed heartily. "Very true, very true," he said, "a general strike would most probably have followed the first pay day, and a strike directed against a government is a revolution." "How, then, do you avoid a revolution every pay day?" if demanded. "Has some prodigious philosopher devised a new system of calculus satisfactory to all for determining the exact and comparative value of all sorts of service, whether by brawn or brain, by hand or voice, by ear or eye? Or has human nature itself changed, so that no man looks upon his own things but 'every man on the things of his neighbor'? One or the other of these events must be the explanation." "Neither one nor the other, however, is," was my host's laughing response. "And now, Mr. West," he continued, "you must remember that you are my patient as well as my guest, and permit me to prescribe sleep for you before we have any more conversation. It is after three o'clock." "The prescription is, no doubt, a wise one," I said; "I only hope it can be filled." "I will see to that," the doctor replied, and he did, for he gave me a wineglass of something or other which sent me to sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. Chapter 8 When I awoke I felt greatly refreshed, and lay a considerable time in a dozing state, enjoying the sensation of bodily comfort. The experiences of the day previous, my waking to find myself in the year 2000, the sight of the new Boston, my host and his family, and the wonderful things I had heard, were a blank in my memory. I thought I was in my bed-chamber at home, and the half-dreaming, half-waking fancies which passed before my mind related to the incidents and experiences of my former life. Dreamily I reviewed the incidents of Decoration Day, my trip in company with Edith and her parents to Mount Auburn, and my dining with them on our return to the city. I recalled how extremely well Edith had looked, and from that fell to thinking of our marriage; but scarcely had my imagination begun to develop this delightful theme than my waking dream was cut short by the recollection of the letter I had received the night before from the builder announcing that the new strikes might postpone indefinitely the completion of the new house. The chagrin which this recollection brought with it effectually roused me. I remembered that I had an appointment with the builder at eleven o'clock, to discuss the strike, and opening my eyes, looked up at the clock at the foot of my bed to see what time it was. But no clock met my glance, and what was more, I instantly perceived that I was not in my room. Starting up on my couch, I stared wildly round the strange apartment. I think it must have been many seconds that I sat up thus in bed staring about, without being able to regain the clew to my personal identity. I was no more able to distinguish myself from pure being during those moments than we may suppose a soul in the rough to be before it has received the ear-marks, the individualizing touches which make it a person. Strange that the sense of this inability should be such anguish! but so we are constituted. There are no words for the mental torture I endured during this helpless, eyeless groping for myself in a boundless void. No other experience of the mind gives probably anything like the sense of absolute intellectual arrest from the loss of a mental fulcrum, a starting point of thought, which comes during such a momentary obscuration of the sense of one's identity. I trust I may never know what it is again. I do not know how long this condition had lasted--it seemed an interminable time--when, like a flash, the recollection of everything came back to me. I remembered who and where I was, and how I had come here, and that these scenes as of the life of yesterday which had been passing before my mind concerned a generation long, long ago mouldered to dust. Leaping from bed, I stood in the middle of the room clasping my temples with all my might between my hands to keep them from bursting. Then I fell prone on the couch, and, burying my face in the pillow, lay without motion. The reaction which was inevitable, from the mental elation, the fever of the intellect that had been the first effect of my tremendous experience, had arrived. The emotional crisis which had awaited the full realization of my actual position, and all that it implied, was upon me, and with set teeth and laboring chest, gripping the bedstead with frenzied strength, I lay there and fought for my sanity. In my mind, all had broken loose, habits of feeling, associations of thought, ideas of persons and things, all had dissolved and lost coherence and were seething together in apparently irretrievable chaos. There were no rallying points, nothing was left stable. There only remained the will, and was any human will strong enough to say to such a weltering sea, "Peace, be still"? I dared not think. Every effort to reason upon what had befallen me, and realize what it implied, set up an intolerable swimming of the brain. The idea that I was two persons, that my identity was double, began to fascinate me with its simple solution of my experience. I knew that I was on the verge of losing my mental balance. If I lay there thinking, I was doomed. Diversion of some sort I must have, at least the diversion of physical exertion. I sprang up, and, hastily dressing, opened the door of my room and went down-stairs. The hour was very early, it being not yet fairly light, and I found no one in the lower part of the house. There was a hat in the hall, and, opening the front door, which was fastened with a slightness indicating that burglary was not among the perils of the modern Boston, I found myself on the street. For two hours I walked or ran through the streets of the city, visiting most quarters of the peninsular part of the town. None but an antiquarian who knows something of the contrast which the Boston of today offers to the Boston of the nineteenth century can begin to appreciate what a series of bewildering surprises I underwent during that time. Viewed from the house-top the day before, the city had indeed appeared strange to me, but that was only in its general aspect. How complete the change had been I first realized now that I walked the streets. The few old landmarks which still remained only intensified this effect, for without them I might have imagined myself in a foreign town. A man may leave his native city in childhood, and return fifty years later, perhaps, to find it transformed in many features. He is astonished, but he is not bewildered. He is aware of a great lapse of time, and of changes likewise occurring in himself meanwhile. He but dimly recalls the city as he knew it when a child. But remember that there was no sense of any lapse of time with me. So far as my consciousness was concerned, it was but yesterday, but a few hours, since I had walked these streets in which scarcely a feature had escaped a complete metamorphosis. The mental image of the old city was so fresh and strong that it did not yield to the impression of the actual city, but contended with it, so that it was first one and then the other which seemed the more unreal. There was nothing I saw which was not blurred in this way, like the faces of a composite photograph. Finally, I stood again at the door of the house from which I had come out. My feet must have instinctively brought me back to the site of my old home, for I had no clear idea of returning thither. It was no more homelike to me than any other spot in this city of a strange generation, nor were its inmates less utterly and necessarily strangers than all the other men and women now on the earth. Had the door of the house been locked, I should have been reminded by its resistance that I had no object in entering, and turned away, but it yielded to my hand, and advancing with uncertain steps through the hall, I entered one of the apartments opening from it. Throwing myself into a chair, I covered my burning eyeballs with my hands to shut out the horror of strangeness. My mental confusion was so intense as to produce actual nausea. The anguish of those moments, during which my brain seemed melting, or the abjectness of my sense of helplessness, how can I describe? In my despair I groaned aloud. I began to feel that unless some help should come I was about to lose my mind. And just then it did come. I heard the rustle of drapery, and looked up. Edith Leete was standing before me. Her beautiful face was full of the most poignant sympathy. "Oh, what is the matter, Mr. West?" she said. "I was here when you came in. I saw how dreadfully distressed you looked, and when I heard you groan, I could not keep silent. What has happened to you? Where have you been? Can't I do something for you?" Perhaps she involuntarily held out her hands in a gesture of compassion as she spoke. At any rate I had caught them in my own and was clinging to them with an impulse as instinctive as that which prompts the drowning man to seize upon and cling to the rope which is thrown him as he sinks for the last time. As I looked up into her compassionate face and her eyes moist with pity, my brain ceased to whirl. The tender human sympathy which thrilled in the soft pressure of her fingers had brought me the support I needed. Its effect to calm and soothe was like that of some wonder-working elixir. "God bless you," I said, after a few moments. "He must have sent you to me just now. I think I was in danger of going crazy if you had not come." At this the tears came into her eyes. "Oh, Mr. West!" she cried. "How heartless you must have thought us! How could we leave you to yourself so long! But it is over now, is it not? You are better, surely." "Yes," I said, "thanks to you. If you will not go away quite yet, I shall be myself soon." "Indeed I will not go away," she said, with a little quiver of her face, more expressive of her sympathy than a volume of words. "You must not think us so heartless as we seemed in leaving you so by yourself. I scarcely slept last night, for thinking how strange your waking would be this morning; but father said you would sleep till late. He said that it would be better not to show too much sympathy with you at first, but to try to divert your thoughts and make you feel that you were among friends." "You have indeed made me feel that," I answered. "But you see it is a good deal of a jolt to drop a hundred years, and although I did not seem to feel it so much last night, I have had very odd sensations this morning." While I held her hands and kept my eyes on her face, I could already even jest a little at my plight. "No one thought of such a thing as your going out in the city alone so early in the morning," she went on. "Oh, Mr. West, where have you been?" Then I told her of my morning's experience, from my first waking till the moment I had looked up to see her before me, just as I have told it here. She was overcome by distressful pity during the recital, and, though I had released one of her hands, did not try to take from me the other, seeing, no doubt, how much good it did me to hold it. "I can think a little what this feeling must have been like," she said. "It must have been terrible. And to think you were left alone to struggle with it! Can you ever forgive us?" "But it is gone now. You have driven it quite away for the present," I said. "You will not let it return again," she queried anxiously. "I can't quite say that," I replied. "It might be too early to say that, considering how strange everything will still be to me." "But you will not try to contend with it alone again, at least," she persisted. "Promise that you will come to us, and let us sympathize with you, and try to help you. Perhaps we can't do much, but it will surely be better than to try to bear such feelings alone." "I will come to you if you will let me," I said. "Oh yes, yes, I beg you will," she said eagerly. "I would do anything to help you that I could." "All you need do is to be sorry for me, as you seem to be now," I replied. "It is understood, then," she said, smiling with wet eyes, "that you are to come and tell me next time, and not run all over Boston among strangers." This assumption that we were not strangers seemed scarcely strange, so near within these few minutes had my trouble and her sympathetic tears brought us. "I will promise, when you come to me," she added, with an expression of charming archness, passing, as she continued, into one of enthusiasm, "to seem as sorry for you as you wish, but you must not for a moment suppose that I am really sorry for you at all, or that I think you will long be sorry for yourself. I know, as well as I know that the world now is heaven compared with what it was in your day, that the only feeling you will have after a little while will be one of thankfulness to God that your life in that age was so strangely cut off, to be returned to you in this." Chapter 9 Dr. and Mrs. Leete were evidently not a little startled to learn, when they presently appeared, that I had been all over the city alone that morning, and it was apparent that they were agreeably surprised to see that I seemed so little agitated after the experience. "Your stroll could scarcely have failed to be a very interesting one," said Mrs. Leete, as we sat down to table soon after. "You must have seen a good many new things." "I saw very little that was not new," I replied. "But I think what surprised me as much as anything was not to find any stores on Washington Street, or any banks on State. What have you done with the merchants and bankers? Hung them all, perhaps, as the anarchists wanted to do in my day?" "Not so bad as that," replied Dr. Leete. "We have simply dispensed with them. Their functions are obsolete in the modern world." "Who sells you things when you want to buy them?" I inquired. "There is neither selling nor buying nowadays; the distribution of goods is effected in another way. As to the bankers, having no money we have no use for those gentry." "Miss Leete," said I, turning to Edith, "I am afraid that your father is making sport of me. I don't blame him, for the temptation my innocence offers must be extraordinary. But, really, there are limits to my credulity as to possible alterations in the social system." "Father has no idea of jesting, I am sure," she replied, with a reassuring smile. The conversation took another turn then, the point of ladies' fashions in the nineteenth century being raised, if I remember rightly, by Mrs. Leete, and it was not till after breakfast, when the doctor had invited me up to the house-top, which appeared to be a favorite resort of his, that he recurred to the subject. "You were surprised," he said, "at my saying that we got along without money or trade, but a moment's reflection will show that trade existed and money was needed in your day simply because the business of production was left in private hands, and that, consequently, they are superfluous now." "I do not at once see how that follows," I replied. "It is very simple," said Dr. Leete. "When innumerable different and independent persons produced the various things needful to life and comfort, endless exchanges between individuals were requisite in order that they might supply themselves with what they desired. These exchanges constituted trade, and money was essential as their medium. But as soon as the nation became the sole producer of all sorts of commodities, there was no need of exchanges between individuals that they might get what they required. Everything was procurable from one source, and nothing could be procured anywhere else. A system of direct distribution from the national storehouses took the place of trade, and for this money was unnecessary." "How is this distribution managed?" I asked. "On the simplest possible plan," replied Dr. Leete. "A credit corresponding to his share of the annual product of the nation is given to every citizen on the public books at the beginning of each year, and a credit card issued him with which he procures at the public storehouses, found in every community, whatever he desires whenever he desires it. This arrangement, you will see, totally obviates the necessity for business transactions of any sort between individuals and consumers. Perhaps you would like to see what our credit cards are like. "You observe," he pursued as I was curiously examining the piece of pasteboard he gave me, "that this card is issued for a certain number of dollars. We have kept the old word, but not the substance. The term, as we use it, answers to no real thing, but merely serves as an algebraical symbol for comparing the values of products with one another. For this purpose they are all priced in dollars and cents, just as in your day. The value of what I procure on this card is checked off by the clerk, who pricks out of these tiers of squares the price of what I order." "If you wanted to buy something of your neighbor, could you transfer part of your credit to him as consideration?" I inquired. "In the first place," replied Dr. Leete, "our neighbors have nothing to sell us, but in any event our credit would not be transferable, being strictly personal. Before the nation could even think of honoring any such transfer as you speak of, it would be bound to inquire into all the circumstances of the transaction, so as to be able to guarantee its absolute equity. It would have been reason enough, had there been no other, for abolishing money, that its possession was no indication of rightful title to it. In the hands of the man who had stolen it or murdered for it, it was as good as in those which had earned it by industry. People nowadays interchange gifts and favors out of friendship, but buying and selling is considered absolutely inconsistent with the mutual benevolence and disinterestedness which should prevail between citizens and the sense of community of interest which supports our social system. According to our ideas, buying and selling is essentially anti-social in all its tendencies. It is an education in self-seeking at the expense of others, and no society whose citizens are trained in such a school can possibly rise above a very low grade of civilization." "What if you have to spend more than your card in any one year?" I asked. "The provision is so ample that we are more likely not to spend it all," replied Dr. Leete. "But if extraordinary expenses should exhaust it, we can obtain a limited advance on the next year's credit, though this practice is not encouraged, and a heavy discount is charged to check it. Of course if a man showed himself a reckless spendthrift he would receive his allowance monthly or weekly instead of yearly, or if necessary not be permitted to handle it all." "If you don't spend your allowance, I suppose it accumulates?" "That is also permitted to a certain extent when a special outlay is anticipated. But unless notice to the contrary is given, it is presumed that the citizen who does not fully expend his credit did not have occasion to do so, and the balance is turned into the general surplus." "Such a system does not encourage saving habits on the part of citizens," I said. "It is not intended to," was the reply. "The nation is rich, and does not wish the people to deprive themselves of any good thing. In your day, men were bound to lay up goods and money against coming failure of the means of support and for their children. This necessity made parsimony a virtue. But now it would have no such laudable object, and, having lost its utility, it has ceased to be regarded as a virtue. No man any more has any care for the morrow, either for himself or his children, for the nation guarantees the nurture, education, and comfortable maintenance of every citizen from the cradle to the grave." "That is a sweeping guarantee!" I said. "What certainty can there be that the value of a man's labor will recompense the nation for its outlay on him? On the whole, society may be able to support all its members, but some must earn less than enough for their support, and others more; and that brings us back once more to the wages question, on which you have hitherto said nothing. It was at just this point, if you remember, that our talk ended last evening; and I say again, as I did then, that here I should suppose a national industrial system like yours would find its main difficulty. How, I ask once more, can you adjust satisfactorily the comparative wages or remuneration of the multitude of avocations, so unlike and so incommensurable, which are necessary for the service of society? In our day the market rate determined the price of labor of all sorts, as well as of goods. The employer paid as little as he could, and the worker got as much. It was not a pretty system ethically, I admit; but it did, at least, furnish us a rough and ready formula for settling a question which must be settled ten thousand times a day if the world was ever going to get forward. There seemed to us no other practicable way of doing it." "Yes," replied Dr. Leete, "it was the only practicable way under a system which made the interests of every individual antagonistic to those of every other; but it would have been a pity if humanity could never have devised a better plan, for yours was simply the application to the mutual relations of men of the devil's maxim, 'Your necessity is my opportunity.' The reward of any service depended not upon its difficulty, danger, or hardship, for throughout the world it seems that the most perilous, severe, and repulsive labor was done by the worst paid classes; but solely upon the strait of those who needed the service." "All that is conceded," I said. "But, with all its defects, the plan of settling prices by the market rate was a practical plan; and I cannot conceive what satisfactory substitute you can have devised for it. The government being the only possible employer, there is of course no labor market or market rate. Wages of all sorts must be arbitrarily fixed by the government. I cannot imagine a more complex and delicate function than that must be, or one, however performed, more certain to breed universal dissatisfaction." "I beg your pardon," replied Dr. Leete, "but I think you exaggerate the difficulty. Suppose a board of fairly sensible men were charged with settling the wages for all sorts of trades under a system which, like ours, guaranteed employment to all, while permitting the choice of avocations. Don't you see that, however unsatisfactory the first adjustment might be, the mistakes would soon correct themselves? The favored trades would have too many volunteers, and those discriminated against would lack them till the errors were set right. But this is aside from the purpose, for, though this plan would, I fancy, be practicable enough, it is no part of our system." "How, then, do you regulate wages?" I once more asked. Dr. Leete did not reply till after several moments of meditative silence. "I know, of course," he finally said, "enough of the old order of things to understand just what you mean by that question; and yet the present order is so utterly different at this point that I am a little at loss how to answer you best. You ask me how we regulate wages; I can only reply that there is no idea in the modern social economy which at all corresponds with what was meant by wages in your day." "I suppose you mean that you have no money to pay wages in," said I. "But the credit given the worker at the government storehouse answers to his wages with us. How is the amount of the credit given respectively to the workers in different lines determined? By what title does the individual claim his particular share? What is the basis of allotment?" "His title," replied Dr. Leete, "is his humanity. The basis of his claim is the fact that he is a man." "The fact that he is a man!" I repeated, incredulously. "Do you possibly mean that all have the same share?" "Most assuredly." The readers of this book never having practically known any other arrangement, or perhaps very carefully considered the historical accounts of former epochs in which a very different system prevailed, cannot be expected to appreciate the stupor of amazement into which Dr. Leete's simple statement plunged me. "You see," he said, smiling, "that it is not merely that we have no money to pay wages in, but, as I said, we have nothing at all answering to your idea of wages." By this time I had pulled myself together sufficiently to voice some of the criticisms which, man of the nineteenth century as I was, came uppermost in my mind, upon this to me astounding arrangement. "Some men do twice the work of others!" I exclaimed. "Are the clever workmen content with a plan that ranks them with the indifferent?" "We leave no possible ground for any complaint of injustice," replied Dr. Leete, "by requiring precisely the same measure of service from all." "How can you do that, I should like to know, when no two men's powers are the same?" "Nothing could be simpler," was Dr. Leete's reply. "We require of each that he shall make the same effort; that is, we demand of him the best service it is in his power to give." "And supposing all do the best they can," I answered, "the amount of the product resulting is twice greater from one man than from another." "Very true," replied Dr. Leete; "but the amount of the resulting product has nothing whatever to do with the question, which is one of desert. Desert is a moral question, and the amount of the product a material quantity. It would be an extraordinary sort of logic which should try to determine a moral question by a material standard. The amount of the effort alone is pertinent to the question of desert. All men who do their best, do the same. A man's endowments, however godlike, merely fix the measure of his duty. The man of great endowments who does not do all he might, though he may do more than a man of small endowments who does his best, is deemed a less deserving worker than the latter, and dies a debtor to his fellows. The Creator sets men's tasks for them by the faculties he gives them; we simply exact their fulfillment." "No doubt that is very fine philosophy," I said; "nevertheless it seems hard that the man who produces twice as much as another, even if both do their best, should have only the same share." "Does it, indeed, seem so to you?" responded Dr. Leete. "Now, do you know, that seems very curious to me? The way it strikes people nowadays is, that a man who can produce twice as much as another with the same effort, instead of being rewarded for doing so, ought to be punished if he does not do so. In the nineteenth century, when a horse pulled a heavier load than a goat, I suppose you rewarded him. Now, we should have whipped him soundly if he had not, on the ground that, being much stronger, he ought to. It is singular how ethical standards change." The doctor said this with such a twinkle in his eye that I was obliged to laugh. "I suppose," I said, "that the real reason that we rewarded men for their endowments, while we considered those of horses and goats merely as fixing the service to be severally required of them, was that the animals, not being reasoning beings, naturally did the best they could, whereas men could only be induced to do so by rewarding them according to the amount of their product. That brings me to ask why, unless human nature has mightily changed in a hundred years, you are not under the same necessity." "We are," replied Dr. Leete. "I don't think there has been any change in human nature in that respect since your day. It is still so constituted that special incentives in the form of prizes, and advantages to be gained, are requisite to call out the best endeavors of the average man in any direction." "But what inducement," I asked, "can a man have to put forth his best endeavors when, however much or little he accomplishes, his income remains the same? High characters may be moved by devotion to the common welfare under such a system, but does not the average man tend to rest back on his oar, reasoning that it is of no use to make a special effort, since the effort will not increase his income, nor its withholding diminish it?" "Does it then really seem to you," answered my companion, "that human nature is insensible to any motives save fear of want and love of luxury, that you should expect security and equality of livelihood to leave them without possible incentives to effort? Your contemporaries did not really think so, though they might fancy they did. When it was a question of the grandest class of efforts, the most absolute self-devotion, they depended on quite other incentives. Not higher wages, but honor and the hope of men's gratitude, patriotism and the inspiration of duty, were the motives which they set before their soldiers when it was a question of dying for the nation, and never was there an age of the world when those motives did not call out what is best and noblest in men. And not only this, but when you come to analyze the love of money which was the general impulse to effort in your day, you find that the dread of want and desire of luxury was but one of several motives which the pursuit of money represented; the others, and with many the more influential, being desire of power, of social position, and reputation for ability and success. So you see that though we have abolished poverty and the fear of it, and inordinate luxury with the hope of it, we have not touched the greater part of the motives which underlay the love of money in former times, or any of those which prompted the supremer sorts of effort. The coarser motives, which no longer move us, have been replaced by higher motives wholly unknown to the mere wage earners of your age. Now that industry of whatever sort is no longer self-service, but service of the nation, patriotism, passion for humanity, impel the worker as in your day they did the soldier. The army of industry is an army, not alone by virtue of its perfect organization, but by reason also of the ardor of self-devotion which animates its members. "But as you used to supplement the motives of patriotism with the love of glory, in order to stimulate the valor of your soldiers, so do we. Based as our industrial system is on the principle of requiring the same unit of effort from every man, that is, the best he can do, you will see that the means by which we spur the workers to do their best must be a very essential part of our scheme. With us, diligence in the national service is the sole and certain way to public repute, social distinction, and official power. The value of a man's services to society fixes his rank in it. Compared with the effect of our social arrangements in impelling men to be zealous in business, we deem the object-lessons of biting poverty and wanton luxury on which you depended a device as weak and uncertain as it was barbaric. The lust of honor even in your sordid day notoriously impelled men to more desperate effort than the love of money could." "I should be extremely interested," I said, "to learn something of what these social arrangements are." "The scheme in its details," replied the doctor, "is of course very elaborate, for it underlies the entire organization of our industrial army; but a few words will give you a general idea of it." At this moment our talk was charmingly interrupted by the emergence upon the aerial platform where we sat of Edith Leete. She was dressed for the street, and had come to speak to her father about some commission she was to do for him. "By the way, Edith," he exclaimed, as she was about to leave us to ourselves, "I wonder if Mr. West would not be interested in visiting the store with you? I have been telling him something about our system of distribution, and perhaps he might like to see it in practical operation." "My daughter," he added, turning to me, "is an indefatigable shopper, and can tell you more about the stores than I can." The proposition was naturally very agreeable to me, and Edith being good enough to say that she should be glad to have my company, we left the house together. Chapter 10 "If I am going to explain our way of shopping to you," said my companion, as we walked along the street, "you must explain your way to me. I have never been able to understand it from all I have read on the subject. For example, when you had such a vast number of shops, each with its different assortment, how could a lady ever settle upon any purchase till she had visited all the shops? for, until she had, she could not know what there was to choose from." "It was as you suppose; that was the only way she could know," I replied. "Father calls me an indefatigable shopper, but I should soon be a very fatigued one if I had to do as they did," was Edith's laughing comment. "The loss of time in going from shop to shop was indeed a waste which the busy bitterly complained of," I said; "but as for the ladies of the idle class, though they complained also, I think the system was really a godsend by furnishing a device to kill time." "But say there were a thousand shops in a city, hundreds, perhaps, of the same sort, how could even the idlest find time to make their rounds?" "They really could not visit all, of course," I replied. "Those who did a great deal of buying, learned in time where they might expect to find what they wanted. This class had made a science of the specialties of the shops, and bought at advantage, always getting the most and best for the least money. It required, however, long experience to acquire this knowledge. Those who were too busy, or bought too little to gain it, took their chances and were generally unfortunate, getting the least and worst for the most money. It was the merest chance if persons not experienced in shopping received the value of their money." "But why did you put up with such a shockingly inconvenient arrangement when you saw its faults so plainly?" Edith asked me. "It was like all our social arrangements," I replied. "You can see their faults scarcely more plainly than we did, but we saw no remedy for them." "Here we are at the store of our ward," said Edith, as we turned in at the great portal of one of the magnificent public buildings I had observed in my morning walk. There was nothing in the exterior aspect of the edifice to suggest a store to a representative of the nineteenth century. There was no display of goods in the great windows, or any device to advertise wares, or attract custom. Nor was there any sort of sign or legend on the front of the building to indicate the character of the business carried on there; but instead, above the portal, standing out from the front of the building, a majestic life-size group of statuary, the central figure of which was a female ideal of Plenty, with her cornucopia. Judging from the composition of the throng passing in and out, about the same proportion of the sexes among shoppers obtained as in the nineteenth century. As we entered, Edith said that there was one of these great distributing establishments in each ward of the city, so that no residence was more than five or ten minutes' walk from one of them. It was the first interior of a twentieth-century public building that I had ever beheld, and the spectacle naturally impressed me deeply. I was in a vast hall full of light, received not alone from the windows on all sides, but from the dome, the point of which was a hundred feet above. Beneath it, in the centre of the hall, a magnificent fountain played, cooling the atmosphere to a delicious freshness with its spray. The walls and ceiling were frescoed in mellow tints, calculated to soften without absorbing the light which flooded the interior. Around the fountain was a space occupied with chairs and sofas, on which many persons were seated conversing. Legends on the walls all about the hall indicated to what classes of commodities the counters below were devoted. Edith directed her steps towards one of these, where samples of muslin of a bewildering variety were displayed, and proceeded to inspect them. "Where is the clerk?" I asked, for there was no one behind the counter, and no one seemed coming to attend to the customer. "I have no need of the clerk yet," said Edith; "I have not made my selection." "It was the principal business of clerks to help people to make their selections in my day," I replied. "What! To tell people what they wanted?" "Yes; and oftener to induce them to buy what they didn't want." "But did not ladies find that very impertinent?" Edith asked, wonderingly. "What concern could it possibly be to the clerks whether people bought or not?" "It was their sole concern," I answered. "They were hired for the purpose of getting rid of the goods, and were expected to do their utmost, short of the use of force, to compass that end." "Ah, yes! How stupid I am to forget!" said Edith. "The storekeeper and his clerks depended for their livelihood on selling the goods in your day. Of course that is all different now. The goods are the nation's. They are here for those who want them, and it is the business of the clerks to wait on people and take their orders; but it is not the interest of the clerk or the nation to dispose of a yard or a pound of anything to anybody who does not want it." She smiled as she added, "How exceedingly odd it must have seemed to have clerks trying to induce one to take what one did not want, or was doubtful about!" "But even a twentieth century clerk might make himself useful in giving you information about the goods, though he did not tease you to buy them," I suggested. "No," said Edith, "that is not the business of the clerk. These printed cards, for which the government authorities are responsible, give us all the information we can possibly need." I saw then that there was fastened to each sample a card containing in succinct form a complete statement of the make and materials of the goods and all its qualities, as well as price, leaving absolutely no point to hang a question on. "The clerk has, then, nothing to say about the goods he sells?" I said. "Nothing at all. It is not necessary that he should know or profess to know anything about them. Courtesy and accuracy in taking orders are all that are required of him." "What a prodigious amount of lying that simple arrangement saves!" I ejaculated. "Do you mean that all the clerks misrepresented their goods in your day?" Edith asked. "God forbid that I should say so!" I replied, "for there were many who did not, and they were entitled to especial credit, for when one's livelihood and that of his wife and babies depended on the amount of goods he could dispose of, the temptation to deceive the customer--or let him deceive himself--was wellnigh overwhelming. But, Miss Leete, I am distracting you from your task with my talk." "Not at all. I have made my selections." With that she touched a button, and in a moment a clerk appeared. He took down her order on a tablet with a pencil which made two copies, of which he gave one to her, and enclosing the counterpart in a small receptacle, dropped it into a transmitting tube. "The duplicate of the order," said Edith as she turned away from the counter, after the clerk had punched the value of her purchase out of the credit card she gave him, "is given to the purchaser, so that any mistakes in filling it can be easily traced and rectified." "You were very quick about your selections," I said. "May I ask how you knew that you might not have found something to suit you better in some of the other stores? But probably you are required to buy in your own district." "Oh, no," she replied. "We buy where we please, though naturally most often near home. But I should have gained nothing by visiting other stores. The assortment in all is exactly the same, representing as it does in each case samples of all the varieties produced or imported by the United States. That is why one can decide quickly, and never need visit two stores." "And is this merely a sample store? I see no clerks cutting off goods or marking bundles." "All our stores are sample stores, except as to a few classes of articles. The goods, with these exceptions, are all at the great central warehouse of the city, to which they are shipped directly from the producers. We order from the sample and the printed statement of texture, make, and qualities. The orders are sent to the warehouse, and the goods distributed from there." "That must be a tremendous saving of handling," I said. "By our system, the manufacturer sold to the wholesaler, the wholesaler to the retailer, and the retailer to the consumer, and the goods had to be handled each time. You avoid one handling of the goods, and eliminate the retailer altogether, with his big profit and the army of clerks it goes to support. Why, Miss Leete, this store is merely the order department of a wholesale house, with no more than a wholesaler's complement of clerks. Under our system of handling the goods, persuading the customer to buy them, cutting them off, and packing them, ten clerks would not do what one does here. The saving must be enormous." "I suppose so," said Edith, "but of course we have never known any other way. But, Mr. West, you must not fail to ask father to take you to the central warehouse some day, where they receive the orders from the different sample houses all over the city and parcel out and send the goods to their destinations. He took me there not long ago, and it was a wonderful sight. The system is certainly perfect; for example, over yonder in that sort of cage is the dispatching clerk. The orders, as they are taken by the different departments in the store, are sent by transmitters to him. His assistants sort them and enclose each class in a carrier-box by itself. The dispatching clerk has a dozen pneumatic transmitters before him answering to the general classes of goods, each communicating with the corresponding department at the warehouse. He drops the box of orders into the tube it calls for, and in a few moments later it drops on the proper desk in the warehouse, together with all the orders of the same sort from the other sample stores. The orders are read off, recorded, and sent to be filled, like lightning. The filling I thought the most interesting part. Bales of cloth are placed on spindles and turned by machinery, and the cutter, who also has a machine, works right through one bale after another till exhausted, when another man takes his place; and it is the same with those who fill the orders in any other staple. The packages are then delivered by larger tubes to the city districts, and thence distributed to the houses. You may understand how quickly it is all done when I tell you that my order will probably be at home sooner than I could have carried it from here." "How do you manage in the thinly settled rural districts?" I asked. "The system is the same," Edith explained; "the village sample shops are connected by transmitters with the central county warehouse, which may be twenty miles away. The transmission is so swift, though, that the time lost on the way is trifling. But, to save expense, in many counties one set of tubes connect several villages with the warehouse, and then there is time lost waiting for one another. Sometimes it is two or three hours before goods ordered are received. It was so where I was staying last summer, and I found it quite inconvenient."[1] "There must be many other respects also, no doubt, in which the country stores are inferior to the city stores," I suggested. "No," Edith answered, "they are otherwise precisely as good. The sample shop of the smallest village, just like this one, gives you your choice of all the varieties of goods the nation has, for the county warehouse draws on the same source as the city warehouse." As we walked home I commented on the great variety in the size and cost of the houses. "How is it," I asked, "that this difference is consistent with the fact that all citizens have the same income?" "Because," Edith explained, "although the income is the same, personal taste determines how the individual shall spend it. Some like fine horses; others, like myself, prefer pretty clothes; and still others want an elaborate table. The rents which the nation receives for these houses vary, according to size, elegance, and location, so that everybody can find something to suit. The larger houses are usually occupied by large families, in which there are several to contribute to the rent; while small families, like ours, find smaller houses more convenient and economical. It is a matter of taste and convenience wholly. I have read that in old times people often kept up establishments and did other things which they could not afford for ostentation, to make people think them richer than they were. Was it really so, Mr. West?" "I shall have to admit that it was," I replied. "Well, you see, it could not be so nowadays; for everybody's income is known, and it is known that what is spent one way must be saved another." [1] I am informed since the above is in type that this lack of perfection in the distributing service of some of the country districts is to be remedied, and that soon every village will have its own set of tubes. Chapter 11 When we arrived home, Dr. Leete had not yet returned, and Mrs. Leete was not visible. "Are you fond of music, Mr. West?" Edith asked. I assured her that it was half of life, according to my notion. "I ought to apologize for inquiring," she said. "It is not a question that we ask one another nowadays; but I have read that in your day, even among the cultured class, there were some who did not care for music." "You must remember, in excuse," I said, "that we had some rather absurd kinds of music." "Yes," she said, "I know that; I am afraid I should not have fancied it all myself. Would you like to hear some of ours now, Mr. West?" "Nothing would delight me so much as to listen to you," I said. "To me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Did you think I was going to play or sing to you?" "I hoped so, certainly," I replied. Seeing that I was a little abashed, she subdued her merriment and explained. "Of course, we all sing nowadays as a matter of course in the training of the voice, and some learn to play instruments for their private amusement; but the professional music is so much grander and more perfect than any performance of ours, and so easily commanded when we wish to hear it, that we don't think of calling our singing or playing music at all. All the really fine singers and players are in the musical service, and the rest of us hold our peace for the main part. But would you really like to hear some music?" I assured her once more that I would. "Come, then, into the music room," she said, and I followed her into an apartment finished, without hangings, in wood, with a floor of polished wood. I was prepared for new devices in musical instruments, but I saw nothing in the room which by any stretch of imagination could be conceived as such. It was evident that my puzzled appearance was affording intense amusement to Edith. "Please look at to-day's music," she said, handing me a card, "and tell me what you would prefer. It is now five o'clock, you will remember." The card bore the date "September 12, 2000," and contained the longest programme of music I had ever seen. It was as various as it was long, including a most extraordinary range of vocal and instrumental solos, duets, quartettes, and various orchestral combinations. I remained bewildered by the prodigious list until Edith's pink finger tip indicated a particular section of it, where several selections were bracketed, with the words "5 P.M." against them; then I observed that this prodigious programme was an all-day one, divided into twenty-four sections answering to the hours. There were but a few pieces of music in the "5 P.M." section, and I indicated an organ piece as my preference. "I am so glad you like the organ," said she. "I think there is scarcely any music that suits my mood oftener." She made me sit down comfortably, and, crossing the room, so far as I could see, merely touched one or two screws, and at once the room was filled with the music of a grand organ anthem; filled, not flooded, for, by some means, the volume of melody had been perfectly graduated to the size of the apartment. I listened, scarcely breathing, to the close. Such music, so perfectly rendered, I had never expected to hear. "Grand!" I cried, as the last great wave of sound broke and ebbed away into silence. "Bach must be at the keys of that organ; but where is the organ?" "Wait a moment, please," said Edith; "I want to have you listen to this waltz before you ask any questions. I think it is perfectly charming"; and as she spoke the sound of violins filled the room with the witchery of a summer night. When this had also ceased, she said: "There is nothing in the least mysterious about the music, as you seem to imagine. It is not made by fairies or genii, but by good, honest, and exceedingly clever human hands. We have simply carried the idea of labor saving by cooperation into our musical service as into everything else. There are a number of music rooms in the city, perfectly adapted acoustically to the different sorts of music. These halls are connected by telephone with all the houses of the city whose people care to pay the small fee, and there are none, you may be sure, who do not. The corps of musicians attached to each hall is so large that, although no individual performer, or group of performers, has more than a brief part, each day's programme lasts through the twenty-four hours. There are on that card for to-day, as you will see if you observe closely, distinct programmes of four of these concerts, each of a different order of music from the others, being now simultaneously performed, and any one of the four pieces now going on that you prefer, you can hear by merely pressing the button which will connect your house-wire with the hall where it is being rendered. The programmes are so coordinated that the pieces at any one time simultaneously proceeding in the different halls usually offer a choice, not only between instrumental and vocal, and between different sorts of instruments; but also between different motives from grave to gay, so that all tastes and moods can be suited." "It appears to me, Miss Leete," I said, "that if we could have devised an arrangement for providing everybody with music in their homes, perfect in quality, unlimited in quantity, suited to every mood, and beginning and ceasing at will, we should have considered the limit of human felicity already attained, and ceased to strive for further improvements." "I am sure I never could imagine how those among you who depended at all on music managed to endure the old-fashioned system for providing it," replied Edith. "Music really worth hearing must have been, I suppose, wholly out of the reach of the masses, and attainable by the most favored only occasionally, at great trouble, prodigious expense, and then for brief periods, arbitrarily fixed by somebody else, and in connection with all sorts of undesirable circumstances. Your concerts, for instance, and operas! How perfectly exasperating it must have been, for the sake of a piece or two of music that suited you, to have to sit for hours listening to what you did not care for! Now, at a dinner one can skip the courses one does not care for. Who would ever dine, however hungry, if required to eat everything brought on the table? and I am sure one's hearing is quite as sensitive as one's taste. I suppose it was these difficulties in the way of commanding really good music which made you endure so much playing and singing in your homes by people who had only the rudiments of the art." "Yes," I replied, "it was that sort of music or none for most of us. "Ah, well," Edith sighed, "when one really considers, it is not so strange that people in those days so often did not care for music. I dare say I should have detested it, too." "Did I understand you rightly," I inquired, "that this musical programme covers the entire twenty-four hours? It seems to on this card, certainly; but who is there to listen to music between say midnight and morning?" "Oh, many," Edith replied. "Our people keep all hours; but if the music were provided from midnight to morning for no others, it still would be for the sleepless, the sick, and the dying. All our bedchambers have a telephone attachment at the head of the bed by which any person who may be sleepless can command music at pleasure, of the sort suited to the mood." "Is there such an arrangement in the room assigned to me?" "Why, certainly; and how stupid, how very stupid, of me not to think to tell you of that last night! Father will show you about the adjustment before you go to bed to-night, however; and with the receiver at your ear, I am quite sure you will be able to snap your fingers at all sorts of uncanny feelings if they trouble you again." That evening Dr. Leete asked us about our visit to the store, and in the course of the desultory comparison of the ways of the nineteenth century and the twentieth, which followed, something raised the question of inheritance. "I suppose," I said, "the inheritance of property is not now allowed." "On the contrary," replied Dr. Leete, "there is no interference with it. In fact, you will find, Mr. West, as you come to know us, that there is far less interference of any sort with personal liberty nowadays than you were accustomed to. We require, indeed, by law that every man shall serve the nation for a fixed period, instead of leaving him his choice, as you did, between working, stealing, or starving. With the exception of this fundamental law, which is, indeed, merely a codification of the law of nature--the edict of Eden--by which it is made equal in its pressure on men, our system depends in no particular upon legislation, but is entirely voluntary, the logical outcome of the operation of human nature under rational conditions. This question of inheritance illustrates just that point. The fact that the nation is the sole capitalist and land-owner of course restricts the individual's possessions to his annual credit, and what personal and household belongings he may have procured with it. His credit, like an annuity in your day, ceases on his death, with the allowance of a fixed sum for funeral expenses. His other possessions he leaves as he pleases." "What is to prevent, in course of time, such accumulations of valuable goods and chattels in the hands of individuals as might seriously interfere with equality in the circumstances of citizens?" I asked. "That matter arranges itself very simply," was the reply. "Under the present organization of society, accumulations of personal property are merely burdensome the moment they exceed what adds to the real comfort. In your day, if a man had a house crammed full with gold and silver plate, rare china, expensive furniture, and such things, he was considered rich, for these things represented money, and could at any time be turned into it. Nowadays a man whom the legacies of a hundred relatives, simultaneously dying, should place in a similar position, would be considered very unlucky. The articles, not being salable, would be of no value to him except for their actual use or the enjoyment of their beauty. On the other hand, his income remaining the same, he would have to deplete his credit to hire houses to store the goods in, and still further to pay for the service of those who took care of them. You may be very sure that such a man would lose no time in scattering among his friends possessions which only made him the poorer, and that none of those friends would accept more of them than they could easily spare room for and time to attend to. You see, then, that to prohibit the inheritance of personal property with a view to prevent great accumulations would be a superfluous precaution for the nation. The individual citizen can be trusted to see that he is not overburdened. So careful is he in this respect, that the relatives usually waive claim to most of the effects of deceased friends, reserving only particular objects. The nation takes charge of the resigned chattels, and turns such as are of value into the common stock once more." "You spoke of paying for service to take care of your houses," said I; "that suggests a question I have several times been on the point of asking. How have you disposed of the problem of domestic service? Who are willing to be domestic servants in a community where all are social equals? Our ladies found it hard enough to find such even when there was little pretense of social equality." "It is precisely because we are all social equals whose equality nothing can compromise, and because service is honorable, in a society whose fundamental principle is that all in turn shall serve the rest, that we could easily provide a corps of domestic servants such as you never dreamed of, if we needed them," replied Dr. Leete. "But we do not need them." "Who does your house-work, then?" I asked. "There is none to do," said Mrs. Leete, to whom I had addressed this question. "Our washing is all done at public laundries at excessively cheap rates, and our cooking at public kitchens. The making and repairing of all we wear are done outside in public shops. Electricity, of course, takes the place of all fires and lighting. We choose houses no larger than we need, and furnish them so as to involve the minimum of trouble to keep them in order. We have no use for domestic servants." "The fact," said Dr. Leete, "that you had in the poorer classes a boundless supply of serfs on whom you could impose all sorts of painful and disagreeable tasks, made you indifferent to devices to avoid the necessity for them. But now that we all have to do in turn whatever work is done for society, every individual in the nation has the same interest, and a personal one, in devices for lightening the burden. This fact has given a prodigious impulse to labor-saving inventions in all sorts of industry, of which the combination of the maximum of comfort and minimum of trouble in household arrangements was one of the earliest results. "In case of special emergencies in the household," pursued Dr. Leete, "such as extensive cleaning or renovation, or sickness in the family, we can always secure assistance from the industrial force." "But how do you recompense these assistants, since you have no money?" "We do not pay them, of course, but the nation for them. Their services can be obtained by application at the proper bureau, and their value is pricked off the credit card of the applicant." "What a paradise for womankind the world must be now!" I exclaimed. "In my day, even wealth and unlimited servants did not enfranchise their possessors from household cares, while the women of the merely well-to-do and poorer classes lived and died martyrs to them." "Yes," said Mrs. Leete, "I have read something of that; enough to convince me that, badly off as the men, too, were in your day, they were more fortunate than their mothers and wives." "The broad shoulders of the nation," said Dr. Leete, "bear now like a feather the burden that broke the backs of the women of your day. Their misery came, with all your other miseries, from that incapacity for cooperation which followed from the individualism on which your social system was founded, from your inability to perceive that you could make ten times more profit out of your fellow men by uniting with them than by contending with them. The wonder is, not that you did not live more comfortably, but that you were able to live together at all, who were all confessedly bent on making one another your servants, and securing possession of one another's goods. "There, there, father, if you are so vehement, Mr. West will think you are scolding him," laughingly interposed Edith. "When you want a doctor," I asked, "do you simply apply to the proper bureau and take any one that may be sent?" "That rule would not work well in the case of physicians," replied Dr. Leete. "The good a physician can do a patient depends largely on his acquaintance with his constitutional tendencies and condition. The patient must be able, therefore, to call in a particular doctor, and he does so just as patients did in your day. The only difference is that, instead of collecting his fee for himself, the doctor collects it for the nation by pricking off the amount, according to a regular scale for medical attendance, from the patient's credit card." "I can imagine," I said, "that if the fee is always the same, and a doctor may not turn away patients, as I suppose he may not, the good doctors are called constantly and the poor doctors left in idleness." "In the first place, if you will overlook the apparent conceit of the remark from a retired physician," replied Dr. Leete, with a smile, "we have no poor doctors. Anybody who pleases to get a little smattering of medical terms is not now at liberty to practice on the bodies of citizens, as in your day. None but students who have passed the severe tests of the schools, and clearly proved their vocation, are permitted to practice. Then, too, you will observe that there is nowadays no attempt of doctors to build up their practice at the expense of other doctors. There would be no motive for that. For the rest, the doctor has to render regular reports of his work to the medical bureau, and if he is not reasonably well employed, work is found for him." Chapter 12 The questions which I needed to ask before I could acquire even an outline acquaintance with the institutions of the twentieth century being endless, and Dr. Leete's good-nature appearing equally so, we sat up talking for several hours after the ladies left us. Reminding my host of the point at which our talk had broken off that morning, I expressed my curiosity to learn how the organization of the industrial army was made to afford a sufficient stimulus to diligence in the lack of any anxiety on the worker's part as to his livelihood. "You must understand in the first place," replied the doctor, "that the supply of incentives to effort is but one of the objects sought in the organization we have adopted for the army. The other, and equally important, is to secure for the file-leaders and captains of the force, and the great officers of the nation, men of proven abilities, who are pledged by their own careers to hold their followers up to their highest standard of performance and permit no lagging. With a view to these two ends the industrial army is organized. First comes the unclassified grade of common laborers, men of all work, to which all recruits during their first three years belong. This grade is a sort of school, and a very strict one, in which the young men are taught habits of obedience, subordination, and devotion to duty. While the miscellaneous nature of the work done by this force prevents the systematic grading of the workers which is afterwards possible, yet individual records are kept, and excellence receives distinction corresponding with the penalties that negligence incurs. It is not, however, policy with us to permit youthful recklessness or indiscretion, when not deeply culpable, to handicap the future careers of young men, and all who have passed through the unclassified grade without serious disgrace have an equal opportunity to choose the life employment they have most liking for. Having selected this, they enter upon it as apprentices. The length of the apprenticeship naturally differs in different occupations. At the end of it the apprentice becomes a full workman, and a member of his trade or guild. Now not only are the individual records of the apprentices for ability and industry strictly kept, and excellence distinguished by suitable distinctions, but upon the average of his record during apprenticeship the standing given the apprentice among the full workmen depends. "While the internal organizations of different industries, mechanical and agricultural, differ according to their peculiar conditions, they agree in a general division of their workers into first, second, and third grades, according to ability, and these grades are in many cases subdivided into first and second classes. According to his standing as an apprentice a young man is assigned his place as a first, second, or third grade worker. Of course only men of unusual ability pass directly from apprenticeship into the first grade of the workers. The most fall into the lower grades, working up as they grow more experienced, at the periodical regradings. These regradings take place in each industry at intervals corresponding with the length of the apprenticeship to that industry, so that merit never need wait long to rise, nor can any rest on past achievements unless they would drop into a lower rank. One of the notable advantages of a high grading is the privilege it gives the worker in electing which of the various branches or processes of his industry he will follow as his specialty. Of course it is not intended that any of these processes shall be disproportionately arduous, but there is often much difference between them, and the privilege of election is accordingly highly prized. So far as possible, indeed, the preferences even of the poorest workmen are considered in assigning them their line of work, because not only their happiness but their usefulness is thus enhanced. While, however, the wish of the lower grade man is consulted so far as the exigencies of the service permit, he is considered only after the upper grade men have been provided for, and often he has to put up with second or third choice, or even with an arbitrary assignment when help is needed. This privilege of election attends every regrading, and when a man loses his grade he also risks having to exchange the sort of work he likes for some other less to his taste. The results of each regrading, giving the standing of every man in his industry, are gazetted in the public prints, and those who have won promotion since the last regrading receive the nation's thanks and are publicly invested with the badge of their new rank." "What may this badge be?" I asked. "Every industry has its emblematic device," replied Dr. Leete, "and this, in the shape of a metallic badge so small that you might not see it unless you knew where to look, is all the insignia which the men of the army wear, except where public convenience demands a distinctive uniform. This badge is the same in form for all grades of industry, but while the badge of the third grade is iron, that of the second grade is silver, and that of the first is gilt. "Apart from the grand incentive to endeavor afforded by the fact that the high places in the nation are open only to the highest class men, and that rank in the army constitutes the only mode of social distinction for the vast majority who are not aspirants in art, literature, and the professions, various incitements of a minor, but perhaps equally effective, sort are provided in the form of special privileges and immunities in the way of discipline, which the superior class men enjoy. These, while intended to be as little as possible invidious to the less successful, have the effect of keeping constantly before every man's mind the great desirability of attaining the grade next above his own. "It is obviously important that not only the good but also the indifferent and poor workmen should be able to cherish the ambition of rising. Indeed, the number of the latter being so much greater, it is even more essential that the ranking system should not operate to discourage them than that it should stimulate the others. It is to this end that the grades are divided into classes. The grades as well as the classes being made numerically equal at each regrading, there is not at any time, counting out the officers and the unclassified and apprentice grades, over one-ninth of the industrial army in the lowest class, and most of this number are recent apprentices, all of whom expect to rise. Those who remain during the entire term of service in the lowest class are but a trifling fraction of the industrial army, and likely to be as deficient in sensibility to their position as in ability to better it. "It is not even necessary that a worker should win promotion to a higher grade to have at least a taste of glory. While promotion requires a general excellence of record as a worker, honorable mention and various sorts of prizes are awarded for excellence less than sufficient for promotion, and also for special feats and single performances in the various industries. There are many minor distinctions of standing, not only within the grades but within the classes, each of which acts as a spur to the efforts of a group. It is intended that no form of merit shall wholly fail of recognition. "As for actual neglect of work positively bad work, or other overt remissness on the part of men incapable of generous motives, the discipline of the industrial army is far too strict to allow anything whatever of the sort. A man able to do duty, and persistently refusing, is sentenced to solitary imprisonment on bread and water till he consents. "The lowest grade of the officers of the industrial army, that of assistant foremen or lieutenants, is appointed out of men who have held their place for two years in the first class of the first grade. Where this leaves too large a range of choice, only the first group of this class are eligible. No one thus comes to the point of commanding men until he is about thirty years old. After a man becomes an officer, his rating of course no longer depends on the efficiency of his own work, but on that of his men. The foremen are appointed from among the assistant foremen, by the same exercise of discretion limited to a small eligible class. In the appointments to the still higher grades another principle is introduced, which it would take too much time to explain now. "Of course such a system of grading as I have described would have been impracticable applied to the small industrial concerns of your day, in some of which there were hardly enough employees to have left one apiece for the classes. You must remember that, under the national organization of labor, all industries are carried on by great bodies of men, many of your farms or shops being combined as one. It is also owing solely to the vast scale on which each industry is organized, with co-ordinate establishments in every part of the country, that we are able by exchanges and transfers to fit every man so nearly with the sort of work he can do best. "And now, Mr. West, I will leave it to you, on the bare outline of its features which I have given, if those who need special incentives to do their best are likely to lack them under our system. Does it not seem to you that men who found themselves obliged, whether they wished or not, to work, would under such a system be strongly impelled to do their best?" I replied that it seemed to me the incentives offered were, if any objection were to be made, too strong; that the pace set for the young men was too hot; and such, indeed, I would add with deference, still remains my opinion, now that by longer residence among you I become better acquainted with the whole subject. Dr. Leete, however, desired me to reflect, and I am ready to say that it is perhaps a sufficient reply to my objection, that the worker's livelihood is in no way dependent on his ranking, and anxiety for that never embitters his disappointments; that the working hours are short, the vacations regular, and that all emulation ceases at forty-five, with the attainment of middle life. "There are two or three other points I ought to refer to," he added, "to prevent your getting mistaken impressions. In the first place, you must understand that this system of preferment given the more efficient workers over the less so, in no way contravenes the fundamental idea of our social system, that all who do their best are equally deserving, whether that best be great or small. I have shown that the system is arranged to encourage the weaker as well as the stronger with the hope of rising, while the fact that the stronger are selected for the leaders is in no way a reflection upon the weaker, but in the interest of the common weal. "Do not imagine, either, because emulation is given free play as an incentive under our system, that we deem it a motive likely to appeal to the nobler sort of men, or worthy of them. Such as these find their motives within, not without, and measure their duty by their own endowments, not by those of others. So long as their achievement is proportioned to their powers, they would consider it preposterous to expect praise or blame because it chanced to be great or small. To such natures emulation appears philosophically absurd, and despicable in a moral aspect by its substitution of envy for admiration, and exultation for regret, in one's attitude toward the successes and the failures of others. "But all men, even in the last year of the twentieth century, are not of this high order, and the incentives to endeavor requisite for those who are not must be of a sort adapted to their inferior natures. For these, then, emulation of the keenest edge is provided as a constant spur. Those who need this motive will feel it. Those who are above its influence do not need it. "I should not fail to mention," resumed the doctor, "that for those too deficient in mental or bodily strength to be fairly graded with the main body of workers, we have a separate grade, unconnected with the others,--a sort of invalid corps, the members of which are provided with a light class of tasks fitted to their strength. All our sick in mind and body, all our deaf and dumb, and lame and blind and crippled, and even our insane, belong to this invalid corps, and bear its insignia. The strongest often do nearly a man's work, the feeblest, of course, nothing; but none who can do anything are willing quite to give up. In their lucid intervals, even our insane are eager to do what they can." "That is a pretty idea of the invalid corps," I said. "Even a barbarian from the nineteenth century can appreciate that. It is a very graceful way of disguising charity, and must be grateful to the feelings of its recipients." "Charity!" repeated Dr. Leete. "Did you suppose that we consider the incapable class we are talking of objects of charity?" "Why, naturally," I said, "inasmuch as they are incapable of self-support." But here the doctor took me up quickly. "Who is capable of self-support?" he demanded. "There is no such thing in a civilized society as self-support. In a state of society so barbarous as not even to know family cooperation, each individual may possibly support himself, though even then for a part of his life only; but from the moment that men begin to live together, and constitute even the rudest sort of society, self-support becomes impossible. As men grow more civilized, and the subdivision of occupations and services is carried out, a complex mutual dependence becomes the universal rule. Every man, however solitary may seem his occupation, is a member of a vast industrial partnership, as large as the nation, as large as humanity. The necessity of mutual dependence should imply the duty and guarantee of mutual support; and that it did not in your day constituted the essential cruelty and unreason of your system." "That may all be so," I replied, "but it does not touch the case of those who are unable to contribute anything to the product of industry." "Surely I told you this morning, at least I thought I did," replied Dr. Leete, "that the right of a man to maintenance at the nation's table depends on the fact that he is a man, and not on the amount of health and strength he may have, so long as he does his best." "You said so," I answered, "but I supposed the rule applied only to the workers of different ability. Does it also hold of those who can do nothing at all?" "Are they not also men?" "I am to understand, then, that the lame, the blind, the sick, and the impotent, are as well off as the most efficient and have the same income?" "Certainly," was the reply. "The idea of charity on such a scale," I answered, "would have made our most enthusiastic philanthropists gasp." "If you had a sick brother at home," replied Dr. Leete, "unable to work, would you feed him on less dainty food, and lodge and clothe him more poorly, than yourself? More likely far, you would give him the preference; nor would you think of calling it charity. Would not the word, in that connection, fill you with indignation?" "Of course," I replied; "but the cases are not parallel. There is a sense, no doubt, in which all men are brothers; but this general sort of brotherhood is not to be compared, except for rhetorical purposes, to the brotherhood of blood, either as to its sentiment or its obligations." "There speaks the nineteenth century!" exclaimed Dr. Leete. "Ah, Mr. West, there is no doubt as to the length of time that you slept. If I were to give you, in one sentence, a key to what may seem the mysteries of our civilization as compared with that of your age, I should say that it is the fact that the solidarity of the race and the brotherhood of man, which to you were but fine phrases, are, to our thinking and feeling, ties as real and as vital as physical fraternity. "But even setting that consideration aside, I do not see why it so surprises you that those who cannot work are conceded the full right to live on the produce of those who can. Even in your day, the duty of military service for the protection of the nation, to which our industrial service corresponds, while obligatory on those able to discharge it, did not operate to deprive of the privileges of citizenship those who were unable. They stayed at home, and were protected by those who fought, and nobody questioned their right to be, or thought less of them. So, now, the requirement of industrial service from those able to render it does not operate to deprive of the privileges of citizenship, which now implies the citizen's maintenance, him who cannot work. The worker is not a citizen because he works, but works because he is a citizen. As you recognize the duty of the strong to fight for the weak, we, now that fighting is gone by, recognize his duty to work for him. "A solution which leaves an unaccounted-for residuum is no solution at all; and our solution of the problem of human society would have been none at all had it left the lame, the sick, and the blind outside with the beasts, to fare as they might. Better far have left the strong and well unprovided for than these burdened ones, toward whom every heart must yearn, and for whom ease of mind and body should be provided, if for no others. Therefore it is, as I told you this morning, that the title of every man, woman, and child to the means of existence rests on no basis less plain, broad, and simple than the fact that they are fellows of one race-members of one human family. The only coin current is the image of God, and that is good for all we have. "I think there is no feature of the civilization of your epoch so repugnant to modern ideas as the neglect with which you treated your dependent classes. Even if you had no pity, no feeling of brotherhood, how was it that you did not see that you were robbing the incapable class of their plain right in leaving them unprovided for?" "I don't quite follow you there," I said. "I admit the claim of this class to our pity, but how could they who produced nothing claim a share of the product as a right?" "How happened it," was Dr. Leete's reply, "that your workers were able to produce more than so many savages would have done? Was it not wholly on account of the heritage of the past knowledge and achievements of the race, the machinery of society, thousands of years in contriving, found by you ready-made to your hand? How did you come to be possessors of this knowledge and this machinery, which represent nine parts to one contributed by yourself in the value of your product? You inherited it, did you not? And were not these others, these unfortunate and crippled brothers whom you cast out, joint inheritors, co-heirs with you? What did you do with their share? Did you not rob them when you put them off with crusts, who were entitled to sit with the heirs, and did you not add insult to robbery when you called the crusts charity? "Ah, Mr. West," Dr. Leete continued, as I did not respond, "what I do not understand is, setting aside all considerations either of justice or brotherly feeling toward the crippled and defective, how the workers of your day could have had any heart for their work, knowing that their children, or grand-children, if unfortunate, would be deprived of the comforts and even necessities of life. It is a mystery how men with children could favor a system under which they were rewarded beyond those less endowed with bodily strength or mental power. For, by the same discrimination by which the father profited, the son, for whom he would give his life, being perchance weaker than others, might be reduced to crusts and beggary. How men dared leave children behind them, I have never been able to understand." Note.--Although in his talk on the previous evening Dr. Leete had emphasized the pains taken to enable every man to ascertain and follow his natural bent in choosing an occupation, it was not till I learned that the worker's income is the same in all occupations that I realized how absolutely he may be counted on to do so, and thus, by selecting the harness which sets most lightly on himself, find that in which he can pull best. The failure of my age in any systematic or effective way to develop and utilize the natural aptitudes of men for the industries and intellectual avocations was one of the great wastes, as well as one of the most common causes of unhappiness in that time. The vast majority of my contemporaries, though nominally free to do so, never really chose their occupations at all, but were forced by circumstances into work for which they were relatively inefficient, because not naturally fitted for it. The rich, in this respect, had little advantage over the poor. The latter, indeed, being generally deprived of education, had no opportunity even to ascertain the natural aptitudes they might have, and on account of their poverty were unable to develop them by cultivation even when ascertained. The liberal and technical professions, except by favorable accident, were shut to them, to their own great loss and that of the nation. On the other hand, the well-to-do, although they could command education and opportunity, were scarcely less hampered by social prejudice, which forbade them to pursue manual avocations, even when adapted to them, and destined them, whether fit or unfit, to the professions, thus wasting many an excellent handicraftsman. Mercenary considerations, tempting men to pursue money-making occupations for which they were unfit, instead of less remunerative employments for which they were fit, were responsible for another vast perversion of talent. All these things now are changed. Equal education and opportunity must needs bring to light whatever aptitudes a man has, and neither social prejudices nor mercenary considerations hamper him in the choice of his life work. Chapter 13 As Edith had promised he should do, Dr. Leete accompanied me to my bedroom when I retired, to instruct me as to the adjustment of the musical telephone. He showed how, by turning a screw, the volume of the music could be made to fill the room, or die away to an echo so faint and far that one could scarcely be sure whether he heard or imagined it. If, of two persons side by side, one desired to listen to music and the other to sleep, it could be made audible to one and inaudible to another. "I should strongly advise you to sleep if you can to-night, Mr. West, in preference to listening to the finest tunes in the world," the doctor said, after explaining these points. "In the trying experience you are just now passing through, sleep is a nerve tonic for which there is no substitute." Mindful of what had happened to me that very morning, I promised to heed his counsel. "Very well," he said, "then I will set the telephone at eight o'clock." "What do you mean?" I asked. He explained that, by a clock-work combination, a person could arrange to be awakened at any hour by the music. It began to appear, as has since fully proved to be the case, that I had left my tendency to insomnia behind me with the other discomforts of existence in the nineteenth century; for though I took no sleeping draught this time, yet, as the night before, I had no sooner touched the pillow than I was asleep. I dreamed that I sat on the throne of the Abencerrages in the banqueting hall of the Alhambra, feasting my lords and generals, who next day were to follow the crescent against the Christian dogs of Spain. The air, cooled by the spray of fountains, was heavy with the scent of flowers. A band of Nautch girls, round-limbed and luscious-lipped, danced with voluptuous grace to the music of brazen and stringed instruments. Looking up to the latticed galleries, one caught a gleam now and then from the eye of some beauty of the royal harem, looking down upon the assembled flower of Moorish chivalry. Louder and louder clashed the cymbals, wilder and wilder grew the strain, till the blood of the desert race could no longer resist the martial delirium, and the swart nobles leaped to their feet; a thousand scimetars were bared, and the cry, "Allah il Allah!" shook the hall and awoke me, to find it broad daylight, and the room tingling with the electric music of the "Turkish Reveille." At the breakfast-table, when I told my host of my morning's experience, I learned that it was not a mere chance that the piece of music which awakened me was a reveille. The airs played at one of the halls during the waking hours of the morning were always of an inspiring type. "By the way," I said, "I have not thought to ask you anything about the state of Europe. Have the societies of the Old World also been remodeled?" "Yes," replied Dr. Leete, "the great nations of Europe as well as Australia, Mexico, and parts of South America, are now organized industrially like the United States, which was the pioneer of the evolution. The peaceful relations of these nations are assured by a loose form of federal union of world-wide extent. An international council regulates the mutual intercourse and commerce of the members of the union and their joint policy toward the more backward races, which are gradually being educated up to civilized institutions. Complete autonomy within its own limits is enjoyed by every nation." "How do you carry on commerce without money?" I said. "In trading with other nations, you must use some sort of money, although you dispense with it in the internal affairs of the nation." "Oh, no; money is as superfluous in our foreign as in our internal relations. When foreign commerce was conducted by private enterprise, money was necessary to adjust it on account of the multifarious complexity of the transactions; but nowadays it is a function of the nations as units. There are thus only a dozen or so merchants in the world, and their business being supervised by the international council, a simple system of book accounts serves perfectly to regulate their dealings. Customs duties of every sort are of course superfluous. A nation simply does not import what its government does not think requisite for the general interest. Each nation has a bureau of foreign exchange, which manages its trading. For example, the American bureau, estimating such and such quantities of French goods necessary to America for a given year, sends the order to the French bureau, which in turn sends its order to our bureau. The same is done mutually by all the nations." "But how are the prices of foreign goods settled, since there is no competition?" "The price at which one nation supplies another with goods," replied Dr. Leete, "must be that at which it supplies its own citizens. So you see there is no danger of misunderstanding. Of course no nation is theoretically bound to supply another with the product of its own labor, but it is for the interest of all to exchange some commodities. If a nation is regularly supplying another with certain goods, notice is required from either side of any important change in the relation." "But what if a nation, having a monopoly of some natural product, should refuse to supply it to the others, or to one of them?" "Such a case has never occurred, and could not without doing the refusing party vastly more harm than the others," replied Dr. Leete. "In the fist place, no favoritism could be legally shown. The law requires that each nation shall deal with the others, in all respects, on exactly the same footing. Such a course as you suggest would cut off the nation adopting it from the remainder of the earth for all purposes whatever. The contingency is one that need not give us much anxiety." "But," said I, "supposing a nation, having a natural monopoly in some product of which it exports more than it consumes, should put the price away up, and thus, without cutting off the supply, make a profit out of its neighbors' necessities? Its own citizens would of course have to pay the higher price on that commodity, but as a body would make more out of foreigners than they would be out of pocket themselves." "When you come to know how prices of all commodities are determined nowadays, you will perceive how impossible it is that they could be altered, except with reference to the amount or arduousness of the work required respectively to produce them," was Dr. Leete's reply. "This principle is an international as well as a national guarantee; but even without it the sense of community of interest, international as well as national, and the conviction of the folly of selfishness, are too deep nowadays to render possible such a piece of sharp practice as you apprehend. You must understand that we all look forward to an eventual unification of the world as one nation. That, no doubt, will be the ultimate form of society, and will realize certain economic advantages over the present federal system of autonomous nations. Meanwhile, however, the present system works so nearly perfectly that we are quite content to leave to posterity the completion of the scheme. There are, indeed, some who hold that it never will be completed, on the ground that the federal plan is not merely a provisional solution of the problem of human society, but the best ultimate solution." "How do you manage," I asked, "when the books of any two nations do not balance? Supposing we import more from France than we export to her." "At the end of each year," replied the doctor, "the books of every nation are examined. If France is found in our debt, probably we are in the debt of some nation which owes France, and so on with all the nations. The balances that remain after the accounts have been cleared by the international council should not be large under our system. Whatever they may be, the council requires them to be settled every few years, and may require their settlement at any time if they are getting too large; for it is not intended that any nation shall run largely in debt to another, lest feelings unfavorable to amity should be engendered. To guard further against this, the international council inspects the commodities interchanged by the nations, to see that they are of perfect quality." "But what are the balances finally settled with, seeing that you have no money?" "In national staples; a basis of agreement as to what staples shall be accepted, and in what proportions, for settlement of accounts, being a preliminary to trade relations." "Emigration is another point I want to ask you about," said I. "With every nation organized as a close industrial partnership, monopolizing all means of production in the country, the emigrant, even if he were permitted to land, would starve. I suppose there is no emigration nowadays." "On the contrary, there is constant emigration, by which I suppose you mean removal to foreign countries for permanent residence," replied Dr. Leete. "It is arranged on a simple international arrangement of indemnities. For example, if a man at twenty-one emigrates from England to America, England loses all the expense of his maintenance and education, and America gets a workman for nothing. America accordingly makes England an allowance. The same principle, varied to suit the case, applies generally. If the man is near the term of his labor when he emigrates, the country receiving him has the allowance. As to imbecile persons, it is deemed best that each nation should be responsible for its own, and the emigration of such must be under full guarantees of support by his own nation. Subject to these regulations, the right of any man to emigrate at any time is unrestricted." "But how about mere pleasure trips; tours of observation? How can a stranger travel in a country whose people do not receive money, and are themselves supplied with the means of life on a basis not extended to him? His own credit card cannot, of course, be good in other lands. How does he pay his way?" "An American credit card," replied Dr. Leete, "is just as good in Europe as American gold used to be, and on precisely the same condition, namely, that it be exchanged into the currency of the country you are traveling in. An American in Berlin takes his credit card to the local office of the international council, and receives in exchange for the whole or part of it a German credit card, the amount being charged against the United States in favor of Germany on the international account." "Perhaps Mr. West would like to dine at the Elephant to-day," said Edith, as we left the table. "That is the name we give to the general dining-house in our ward," explained her father. "Not only is our cooking done at the public kitchens, as I told you last night, but the service and quality of the meals are much more satisfactory if taken at the dining-house. The two minor meals of the day are usually taken at home, as not worth the trouble of going out; but it is general to go out to dine. We have not done so since you have been with us, from a notion that it would be better to wait till you had become a little more familiar with our ways. What do you think? Shall we take dinner at the dining-house to-day?" I said that I should be very much pleased to do so. Not long after, Edith came to me, smiling, and said: "Last night, as I was thinking what I could do to make you feel at home until you came to be a little more used to us and our ways, an idea occurred to me. What would you say if I were to introduce you to some very nice people of your own times, whom I am sure you used to be well acquainted with?" I replied, rather vaguely, that it would certainly be very agreeable, but I did not see how she was going to manage it. "Come with me," was her smiling reply, "and see if I am not as good as my word." My susceptibility to surprise had been pretty well exhausted by the numerous shocks it had received, but it was with some wonderment that I followed her into a room which I had not before entered. It was a small, cosy apartment, walled with cases filled with books. "Here are your friends," said Edith, indicating one of the cases, and as my eye glanced over the names on the backs of the volumes, Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Shelley, Tennyson, Defoe, Dickens, Thackeray, Hugo, Hawthorne, Irving, and a score of other great writers of my time and all time, I understood her meaning. She had indeed made good her promise in a sense compared with which its literal fulfillment would have been a disappointment. She had introduced me to a circle of friends whom the century that had elapsed since last I communed with them had aged as little as it had myself. Their spirit was as high, their wit as keen, their laughter and their tears as contagious, as when their speech had whiled away the hours of a former century. Lonely I was not and could not be more, with this goodly companionship, however wide the gulf of years that gaped between me and my old life. "You are glad I brought you here," exclaimed Edith, radiant, as she read in my face the success of her experiment. "It was a good idea, was it not, Mr. West? How stupid in me not to think of it before! I will leave you now with your old friends, for I know there will be no company for you like them just now; but remember you must not let old friends make you quite forget new ones!" and with that smiling caution she left me. Attracted by the most familiar of the names before me, I laid my hand on a volume of Dickens, and sat down to read. He had been my prime favorite among the bookwriters of the century,--I mean the nineteenth century,--and a week had rarely passed in my old life during which I had not taken up some volume of his works to while away an idle hour. Any volume with which I had been familiar would have produced an extraordinary impression, read under my present circumstances, but my exceptional familiarity with Dickens, and his consequent power to call up the associations of my former life, gave to his writings an effect no others could have had, to intensify, by force of contrast, my appreciation of the strangeness of my present environment. However new and astonishing one's surroundings, the tendency is to become a part of them so soon that almost from the first the power to see them objectively and fully measure their strangeness, is lost. That power, already dulled in my case, the pages of Dickens restored by carrying me back through their associations to the standpoint of my former life. With a clearness which I had not been able before to attain, I saw now the past and present, like contrasting pictures, side by side. The genius of the great novelist of the nineteenth century, like that of Homer, might indeed defy time; but the setting of his pathetic tales, the misery of the poor, the wrongs of power, the pitiless cruelty of the system of society, had passed away as utterly as Circe and the sirens, Charybdis and Cyclops. During the hour or two that I sat there with Dickens open before me, I did not actually read more than a couple of pages. Every paragraph, every phrase, brought up some new aspect of the world-transformation which had taken place, and led my thoughts on long and widely ramifying excursions. As meditating thus in Dr. Leete's library I gradually attained a more clear and coherent idea of the prodigious spectacle which I had been so strangely enabled to view, I was filled with a deepening wonder at the seeming capriciousness of the fate that had given to one who so little deserved it, or seemed in any way set apart for it, the power alone among his contemporaries to stand upon the earth in this latter day. I had neither foreseen the new world nor toiled for it, as many about me had done regardless of the scorn of fools or the misconstruction of the good. Surely it would have been more in accordance with the fitness of things had one of those prophetic and strenuous souls been enabled to see the travail of his soul and be satisfied; he, for example, a thousand times rather than I, who, having beheld in a vision the world I looked on, sang of it in words that again and again, during these last wondrous days, had rung in my mind: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled. In the Parliament of man, the federation of the world. Then the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. What though, in his old age, he momentarily lost faith in his own prediction, as prophets in their hours of depression and doubt generally do; the words had remained eternal testimony to the seership of a poet's heart, the insight that is given to faith. I was still in the library when some hours later Dr. Leete sought me there. "Edith told me of her idea," he said, "and I thought it an excellent one. I had a little curiosity what writer you would first turn to. Ah, Dickens! You admired him, then! That is where we moderns agree with you. Judged by our standards, he overtops all the writers of his age, not because his literary genius was highest, but because his great heart beat for the poor, because he made the cause of the victims of society his own, and devoted his pen to exposing its cruelties and shams. No man of his time did so much as he to turn men's minds to the wrong and wretchedness of the old order of things, and open their eyes to the necessity of the great change that was coming, although he himself did not clearly foresee it." Chapter 14 A heavy rainstorm came up during the day, and I had concluded that the condition of the streets would be such that my hosts would have to give up the idea of going out to dinner, although the dining-hall I had understood to be quite near. I was much surprised when at the dinner hour the ladies appeared prepared to go out, but without either rubbers or umbrellas. The mystery was explained when we found ourselves on the street, for a continuous waterproof covering had been let down so as to inclose the sidewalk and turn it into a well lighted and perfectly dry corridor, which was filled with a stream of ladies and gentlemen dressed for dinner. At the comers the entire open space was similarly roofed in. Edith Leete, with whom I walked, seemed much interested in learning what appeared to be entirely new to her, that in the stormy weather the streets of the Boston of my day had been impassable, except to persons protected by umbrellas, boots, and heavy clothing. "Were sidewalk coverings not used at all?" she asked. They were used, I explained, but in a scattered and utterly unsystematic way, being private enterprises. She said to me that at the present time all the streets were provided against inclement weather in the manner I saw, the apparatus being rolled out of the way when it was unnecessary. She intimated that it would be considered an extraordinary imbecility to permit the weather to have any effect on the social movements of the people. Dr. Leete, who was walking ahead, overhearing something of our talk, turned to say that the difference between the age of individualism and that of concert was well characterized by the fact that, in the nineteenth century, when it rained, the people of Boston put up three hundred thousand umbrellas over as many heads, and in the twentieth century they put up one umbrella over all the heads. As we walked on, Edith said, "The private umbrella is father's favorite figure to illustrate the old way when everybody lived for himself and his family. There is a nineteenth century painting at the Art Gallery representing a crowd of people in the rain, each one holding his umbrella over himself and his wife, and giving his neighbors the drippings, which he claims must have been meant by the artist as a satire on his times." We now entered a large building into which a stream of people was pouring. I could not see the front, owing to the awning, but, if in correspondence with the interior, which was even finer than the store I visited the day before, it would have been magnificent. My companion said that the sculptured group over the entrance was especially admired. Going up a grand staircase we walked some distance along a broad corridor with many doors opening upon it. At one of these, which bore my host's name, we turned in, and I found myself in an elegant dining-room containing a table for four. Windows opened on a courtyard where a fountain played to a great height and music made the air electric. "You seem at home here," I said, as we seated ourselves at table, and Dr. Leete touched an annunciator. "This is, in fact, a part of our house, slightly detached from the rest," he replied. "Every family in the ward has a room set apart in this great building for its permanent and exclusive use for a small annual rental. For transient guests and individuals there is accommodation on another floor. If we expect to dine here, we put in our orders the night before, selecting anything in market, according to the daily reports in the papers. The meal is as expensive or as simple as we please, though of course everything is vastly cheaper as well as better than it would be prepared at home. There is actually nothing which our people take more interest in than the perfection of the catering and cooking done for them, and I admit that we are a little vain of the success that has been attained by this branch of the service. Ah, my dear Mr. West, though other aspects of your civilization were more tragical, I can imagine that none could have been more depressing than the poor dinners you had to eat, that is, all of you who had not great wealth." "You would have found none of us disposed to disagree with you on that point," I said. The waiter, a fine-looking young fellow, wearing a slightly distinctive uniform, now made his appearance. I observed him closely, as it was the first time I had been able to study particularly the bearing of one of the enlisted members of the industrial army. This young man, I knew from what I had been told, must be highly educated, and the equal, socially and in all respects, of those he served. But it was perfectly evident that to neither side was the situation in the slightest degree embarrassing. Dr. Leete addressed the young man in a tone devoid, of course, as any gentleman's would be, of superciliousness, but at the same time not in any way deprecatory, while the manner of the young man was simply that of a person intent on discharging correctly the task he was engaged in, equally without familiarity or obsequiousness. It was, in fact, the manner of a soldier on duty, but without the military stiffness. As the youth left the room, I said, "I cannot get over my wonder at seeing a young man like that serving so contentedly in a menial position." "What is that word 'menial'? I never heard it," said Edith. "It is obsolete now," remarked her father. "If I understand it rightly, it applied to persons who performed particularly disagreeable and unpleasant tasks for others, and carried with it an implication of contempt. Was it not so, Mr. West?" "That is about it," I said. "Personal service, such as waiting on tables, was considered menial, and held in such contempt, in my day, that persons of culture and refinement would suffer hardship before condescending to it." "What a strangely artificial idea," exclaimed Mrs. Leete wonderingly. "And yet these services had to be rendered," said Edith. "Of course," I replied. "But we imposed them on the poor, and those who had no alternative but starvation." "And increased the burden you imposed on them by adding your contempt," remarked Dr. Leete. "I don't think I clearly understand," said Edith. "Do you mean that you permitted people to do things for you which you despised them for doing, or that you accepted services from them which you would have been unwilling to render them? You can't surely mean that, Mr. West?" I was obliged to tell her that the fact was just as she had stated. Dr. Leete, however, came to my relief. "To understand why Edith is surprised," he said, "you must know that nowadays it is an axiom of ethics that to accept a service from another which we would be unwilling to return in kind, if need were, is like borrowing with the intention of not repaying, while to enforce such a service by taking advantage of the poverty or necessity of a person would be an outrage like forcible robbery. It is the worst thing about any system which divides men, or allows them to be divided, into classes and castes, that it weakens the sense of a common humanity. Unequal distribution of wealth, and, still more effectually, unequal opportunities of education and culture, divided society in your day into classes which in many respects regarded each other as distinct races. There is not, after all, such a difference as might appear between our ways of looking at this question of service. Ladies and gentlemen of the cultured class in your day would no more have permitted persons of their own class to render them services they would scorn to return than we would permit anybody to do so. The poor and the uncultured, however, they looked upon as of another kind from themselves. The equal wealth and equal opportunities of culture which all persons now enjoy have simply made us all members of one class, which corresponds to the most fortunate class with you. Until this equality of condition had come to pass, the idea of the solidarity of humanity, the brotherhood of all men, could never have become the real conviction and practical principle of action it is nowadays. In your day the same phrases were indeed used, but they were phrases merely." "Do the waiters, also, volunteer?" "No," replied Dr. Leete. "The waiters are young men in the unclassified grade of the industrial army who are assignable to all sorts of miscellaneous occupations not requiring special skill. Waiting on table is one of these, and every young recruit is given a taste of it. I myself served as a waiter for several months in this very dining-house some forty years ago. Once more you must remember that there is recognized no sort of difference between the dignity of the different sorts of work required by the nation. The individual is never regarded, nor regards himself, as the servant of those he serves, nor is he in any way dependent upon them. It is always the nation which he is serving. No difference is recognized between a waiter's functions and those of any other worker. The fact that his is a personal service is indifferent from our point of view. So is a doctor's. I should as soon expect our waiter today to look down on me because I served him as a doctor, as think of looking down on him because he serves me as a waiter." After dinner my entertainers conducted me about the building, of which the extent, the magnificent architecture and richness of embellishment, astonished me. It seemed that it was not merely a dining-hall, but likewise a great pleasure-house and social rendezvous of the quarter, and no appliance of entertainment or recreation seemed lacking. "You find illustrated here," said Dr. Leete, when I had expressed my admiration, "what I said to you in our first conversation, when you were looking out over the city, as to the splendor of our public and common life as compared with the simplicity of our private and home life, and the contrast which, in this respect, the twentieth bears to the nineteenth century. To save ourselves useless burdens, we have as little gear about us at home as is consistent with comfort, but the social side of our life is ornate and luxurious beyond anything the world ever knew before. All the industrial and professional guilds have clubhouses as extensive as this, as well as country, mountain, and seaside houses for sport and rest in vacations." NOTE. In the latter part of the nineteenth century it became a practice of needy young men at some of the colleges of the country to earn a little money for their term bills by serving as waiters on tables at hotels during the long summer vacation. It was claimed, in reply to critics who expressed the prejudices of the time in asserting that persons voluntarily following such an occupation could not be gentlemen, that they were entitled to praise for vindicating, by their example, the dignity of all honest and necessary labor. The use of this argument illustrates a common confusion in thought on the part of my former contemporaries. The business of waiting on tables was in no more need of defense than most of the other ways of getting a living in that day, but to talk of dignity attaching to labor of any sort under the system then prevailing was absurd. There is no way in which selling labor for the highest price it will fetch is more dignified than selling goods for what can be got. Both were commercial transactions to be judged by the commercial standard. By setting a price in money on his service, the worker accepted the money measure for it, and renounced all clear claim to be judged by any other. The sordid taint which this necessity imparted to the noblest and the highest sorts of service was bitterly resented by generous souls, but there was no evading it. There was no exemption, however transcendent the quality of one's service, from the necessity of haggling for its price in the market-place. The physician must sell his healing and the apostle his preaching like the rest. The prophet, who had guessed the meaning of God, must dicker for the price of the revelation, and the poet hawk his visions in printers' row. If I were asked to name the most distinguishing felicity of this age, as compared to that in which I first saw the light, I should say that to me it seems to consist in the dignity you have given to labor by refusing to set a price upon it and abolishing the market-place forever. By requiring of every man his best you have made God his task-master, and by making honor the sole reward of achievement you have imparted to all service the distinction peculiar in my day to the soldier's. Chapter 15 When, in the course of our tour of inspection, we came to the library, we succumbed to the temptation of the luxurious leather chairs with which it was furnished, and sat down in one of the book-lined alcoves to rest and chat awhile.[1] "Edith tells me that you have been in the library all the morning," said Mrs. Leete. "Do you know, it seems to me, Mr. West, that you are the most enviable of mortals." "I should like to know just why," I replied. "Because the books of the last hundred years will be new to you," she answered. "You will have so much of the most absorbing literature to read as to leave you scarcely time for meals these five years to come. Ah, what would I give if I had not already read Berrian's novels." "Or Nesmyth's, mamma," added Edith. "Yes, or Oates' poems, or 'Past and Present,' or, 'In the Beginning,' or--oh, I could name a dozen books, each worth a year of one's life," declared Mrs. Leete, enthusiastically. "I judge, then, that there has been some notable literature produced in this century." "Yes," said Dr. Leete. "It has been an era of unexampled intellectual splendor. Probably humanity never before passed through a moral and material evolution, at once so vast in its scope and brief in its time of accomplishment, as that from the old order to the new in the early part of this century. When men came to realize the greatness of the felicity which had befallen them, and that the change through which they had passed was not merely an improvement in details of their condition, but the rise of the race to a new plane of existence with an illimitable vista of progress, their minds were affected in all their faculties with a stimulus, of which the outburst of the mediaeval renaissance offers a suggestion but faint indeed. There ensued an era of mechanical invention, scientific discovery, art, musical and literary productiveness to which no previous age of the world offers anything comparable." "By the way," said I, "talking of literature, how are books published now? Is that also done by the nation?" "Certainly." "But how do you manage it? Does the government publish everything that is brought it as a matter of course, at the public expense, or does it exercise a censorship and print only what it approves?" "Neither way. The printing department has no censorial powers. It is bound to print all that is offered it, but prints it only on condition that the author defray the first cost out of his credit. He must pay for the privilege of the public ear, and if he has any message worth hearing we consider that he will be glad to do it. Of course, if incomes were unequal, as in the old times, this rule would enable only the rich to be authors, but the resources of citizens being equal, it merely measures the strength of the author's motive. The cost of an edition of an average book can be saved out of a year's credit by the practice of economy and some sacrifices. The book, on being published, is placed on sale by the nation." "The author receiving a royalty on the sales as with us, I suppose," I suggested. "Not as with you, certainly," replied Dr. Leete, "but nevertheless in one way. The price of every book is made up of the cost of its publication with a royalty for the author. The author fixes this royalty at any figure he pleases. Of course if he puts it unreasonably high it is his own loss, for the book will not sell. The amount of this royalty is set to his credit and he is discharged from other service to the nation for so long a period as this credit at the rate of allowance for the support of citizens shall suffice to support him. If his book be moderately successful, he has thus a furlough for several months, a year, two or three years, and if he in the mean time produces other successful work, the remission of service is extended so far as the sale of that may justify. An author of much acceptance succeeds in supporting himself by his pen during the entire period of service, and the degree of any writer's literary ability, as determined by the popular voice, is thus the measure of the opportunity given him to devote his time to literature. In this respect the outcome of our system is not very dissimilar to that of yours, but there are two notable differences. In the first place, the universally high level of education nowadays gives the popular verdict a conclusiveness on the real merit of literary work which in your day it was as far as possible from having. In the second place, there is no such thing now as favoritism of any sort to interfere with the recognition of true merit. Every author has precisely the same facilities for bringing his work before the popular tribunal. To judge from the complaints of the writers of your day, this absolute equality of opportunity would have been greatly prized." "In the recognition of merit in other fields of original genius, such as music, art, invention, design," I said, "I suppose you follow a similar principle." "Yes," he replied, "although the details differ. In art, for example, as in literature, the people are the sole judges. They vote upon the acceptance of statues and paintings for the public buildings, and their favorable verdict carries with it the artist's remission from other tasks to devote himself to his vocation. On copies of his work disposed of, he also derives the same advantage as the author on sales of his books. In all these lines of original genius the plan pursued is the same to offer a free field to aspirants, and as soon as exceptional talent is recognized to release it from all trammels and let it have free course. The remission of other service in these cases is not intended as a gift or reward, but as the means of obtaining more and higher service. Of course there are various literary, art, and scientific institutes to which membership comes to the famous and is greatly prized. The highest of all honors in the nation, higher than the presidency, which calls merely for good sense and devotion to duty, is the red ribbon awarded by the vote of the people to the great authors, artists, engineers, physicians, and inventors of the generation. Not over a certain number wear it at any one time, though every bright young fellow in the country loses innumerable nights' sleep dreaming of it. I even did myself." "Just as if mamma and I would have thought any more of you with it," exclaimed Edith; "not that it isn't, of course, a very fine thing to have." "You had no choice, my dear, but to take your father as you found him and make the best of him," Dr. Leete replied; "but as for your mother, there, she would never have had me if I had not assured her that I was bound to get the red ribbon or at least the blue." On this extravagance Mrs. Leete's only comment was a smile. "How about periodicals and newspapers?" I said. "I won't deny that your book publishing system is a considerable improvement on ours, both as to its tendency to encourage a real literary vocation, and, quite as important, to discourage mere scribblers; but I don't see how it can be made to apply to magazines and newspapers. It is very well to make a man pay for publishing a book, because the expense will be only occasional; but no man could afford the expense of publishing a newspaper every day in the year. It took the deep pockets of our private capitalists to do that, and often exhausted even them before the returns came in. If you have newspapers at all, they must, I fancy, be published by the government at the public expense, with government editors, reflecting government opinions. Now, if your system is so perfect that there is never anything to criticize in the conduct of affairs, this arrangement may answer. Otherwise I should think the lack of an independent unofficial medium for the expression of public opinion would have most unfortunate results. Confess, Dr. Leete, that a free newspaper press, with all that it implies, was a redeeming incident of the old system when capital was in private hands, and that you have to set off the loss of that against your gains in other respects." "I am afraid I can't give you even that consolation," replied Dr. Leete, laughing. "In the first place, Mr. West, the newspaper press is by no means the only or, as we look at it, the best vehicle for serious criticism of public affairs. To us, the judgments of your newspapers on such themes seem generally to have been crude and flippant, as well as deeply tinctured with prejudice and bitterness. In so far as they may be taken as expressing public opinion, they give an unfavorable impression of the popular intelligence, while so far as they may have formed public opinion, the nation was not to be felicitated. Nowadays, when a citizen desires to make a serious impression upon the public mind as to any aspect of public affairs, he comes out with a book or pamphlet, published as other books are. But this is not because we lack newspapers and magazines, or that they lack the most absolute freedom. The newspaper press is organized so as to be a more perfect expression of public opinion than it possibly could be in your day, when private capital controlled and managed it primarily as a money-making business, and secondarily only as a mouthpiece for the people." "But," said I, "if the government prints the papers at the public expense, how can it fail to control their policy? Who appoints the editors, if not the government?" "The government does not pay the expense of the papers, nor appoint their editors, nor in any way exert the slightest influence on their policy," replied Dr. Leete. "The people who take the paper pay the expense of its publication, choose its editor, and remove him when unsatisfactory. You will scarcely say, I think, that such a newspaper press is not a free organ of popular opinion." "Decidedly I shall not," I replied, "but how is it practicable?" "Nothing could be simpler. Supposing some of my neighbors or myself think we ought to have a newspaper reflecting our opinions, and devoted especially to our locality, trade, or profession. We go about among the people till we get the names of such a number that their annual subscriptions will meet the cost of the paper, which is little or big according to the largeness of its constituency. The amount of the subscriptions marked off the credits of the citizens guarantees the nation against loss in publishing the paper, its business, you understand, being that of a publisher purely, with no option to refuse the duty required. The subscribers to the paper now elect somebody as editor, who, if he accepts the office, is discharged from other service during his incumbency. Instead of paying a salary to him, as in your day, the subscribers pay the nation an indemnity equal to the cost of his support for taking him away from the general service. He manages the paper just as one of your editors did, except that he has no counting-room to obey, or interests of private capital as against the public good to defend. At the end of the first year, the subscribers for the next either re-elect the former editor or choose any one else to his place. An able editor, of course, keeps his place indefinitely. As the subscription list enlarges, the funds of the paper increase, and it is improved by the securing of more and better contributors, just as your papers were." "How is the staff of contributors recompensed, since they cannot be paid in money?" "The editor settles with them the price of their wares. The amount is transferred to their individual credit from the guarantee credit of the paper, and a remission of service is granted the contributor for a length of time corresponding to the amount credited him, just as to other authors. As to magazines, the system is the same. Those interested in the prospectus of a new periodical pledge enough subscriptions to run it for a year; select their editor, who recompenses his contributors just as in the other case, the printing bureau furnishing the necessary force and material for publication, as a matter of course. When an editor's services are no longer desired, if he cannot earn the right to his time by other literary work, he simply resumes his place in the industrial army. I should add that, though ordinarily the editor is elected only at the end of the year, and as a rule is continued in office for a term of years, in case of any sudden change he should give to the tone of the paper, provision is made for taking the sense of the subscribers as to his removal at any time." "However earnestly a man may long for leisure for purposes of study or meditation," I remarked, "he cannot get out of the harness, if I understand you rightly, except in these two ways you have mentioned. He must either by literary, artistic, or inventive productiveness indemnify the nation for the loss of his services, or must get a sufficient number of other people to contribute to such an indemnity." "It is most certain," replied Dr. Leete, "that no able-bodied man nowadays can evade his share of work and live on the toil of others, whether he calls himself by the fine name of student or confesses to being simply lazy. At the same time our system is elastic enough to give free play to every instinct of human nature which does not aim at dominating others or living on the fruit of others' labor. There is not only the remission by indemnification but the remission by abnegation. Any man in his thirty-third year, his term of service being then half done, can obtain an honorable discharge from the army, provided he accepts for the rest of his life one half the rate of maintenance other citizens receive. It is quite possible to live on this amount, though one must forego the luxuries and elegancies of life, with some, perhaps, of its comforts." When the ladies retired that evening, Edith brought me a book and said: "If you should be wakeful to-night, Mr. West, you might be interested in looking over this story by Berrian. It is considered his masterpiece, and will at least give you an idea what the stories nowadays are like." I sat up in my room that night reading "Penthesilia" till it grew gray in the east, and did not lay it down till I had finished it. And yet let no admirer of the great romancer of the twentieth century resent my saying that at the first reading what most impressed me was not so much what was in the book as what was left out of it. The story-writers of my day would have deemed the making of bricks without straw a light task compared with the construction of a romance from which should be excluded all effects drawn from the contrasts of wealth and poverty, education and ignorance, coarseness and refinement, high and low, all motives drawn from social pride and ambition, the desire of being richer or the fear of being poorer, together with sordid anxieties of any sort for one's self or others; a romance in which there should, indeed, be love galore, but love unfretted by artificial barriers created by differences of station or possessions, owning no other law but that of the heart. The reading of "Penthesilia" was of more value than almost any amount of explanation would have been in giving me something like a general impression of the social aspect of the twentieth century. The information Dr. Leete had imparted was indeed extensive as to facts, but they had affected my mind as so many separate impressions, which I had as yet succeeded but imperfectly in making cohere. Berrian put them together for me in a picture. [1] I cannot sufficiently celebrate the glorious liberty that reigns in the public libraries of the twentieth century as compared with the intolerable management of those of the nineteenth century, in which the books were jealously railed away from the people, and obtainable only at an expenditure of time and red tape calculated to discourage any ordinary taste for literature. Chapter 16 Next morning I rose somewhat before the breakfast hour. As I descended the stairs, Edith stepped into the hall from the room which had been the scene of the morning interview between us described some chapters back. "Ah!" she exclaimed, with a charmingly arch expression, "you thought to slip out unbeknown for another of those solitary morning rambles which have such nice effects on you. But you see I am up too early for you this time. You are fairly caught." "You discredit the efficacy of your own cure," I said, "by supposing that such a ramble would now be attended with bad consequences." "I am very glad to hear that," she said. "I was in here arranging some flowers for the breakfast table when I heard you come down, and fancied I detected something surreptitious in your step on the stairs." "You did me injustice," I replied. "I had no idea of going out at all." Despite her effort to convey an impression that my interception was purely accidental, I had at the time a dim suspicion of what I afterwards learned to be the fact, namely, that this sweet creature, in pursuance of her self-assumed guardianship over me, had risen for the last two or three mornings at an unheard-of hour, to insure against the possibility of my wandering off alone in case I should be affected as on the former occasion. Receiving permission to assist her in making up the breakfast bouquet, I followed her into the room from which she had emerged. "Are you sure," she asked, "that you are quite done with those terrible sensations you had that morning?" "I can't say that I do not have times of feeling decidedly queer," I replied, "moments when my personal identity seems an open question. It would be too much to expect after my experience that I should not have such sensations occasionally, but as for being carried entirely off my feet, as I was on the point of being that morning, I think the danger is past." "I shall never forget how you looked that morning," she said. "If you had merely saved my life," I continued, "I might, perhaps, find words to express my gratitude, but it was my reason you saved, and there are no words that would not belittle my debt to you." I spoke with emotion, and her eyes grew suddenly moist. "It is too much to believe all this," she said, "but it is very delightful to hear you say it. What I did was very little. I was very much distressed for you, I know. Father never thinks anything ought to astonish us when it can be explained scientifically, as I suppose this long sleep of yours can be, but even to fancy myself in your place makes my head swim. I know that I could not have borne it at all." "That would depend," I replied, "on whether an angel came to support you with her sympathy in the crisis of your condition, as one came to me." If my face at all expressed the feelings I had a right to have toward this sweet and lovely young girl, who had played so angelic a role toward me, its expression must have been very worshipful just then. The expression or the words, or both together, caused her now to drop her eyes with a charming blush. "For the matter of that," I said, "if your experience has not been as startling as mine, it must have been rather overwhelming to see a man belonging to a strange century, and apparently a hundred years dead, raised to life." "It seemed indeed strange beyond any describing at first," she said, "but when we began to put ourselves in your place, and realize how much stranger it must seem to you, I fancy we forgot our own feelings a good deal, at least I know I did. It seemed then not so much astounding as interesting and touching beyond anything ever heard of before." "But does it not come over you as astounding to sit at table with me, seeing who I am?" "You must remember that you do not seem so strange to us as we must to you," she answered. "We belong to a future of which you could not form an idea, a generation of which you knew nothing until you saw us. But you belong to a generation of which our forefathers were a part. We know all about it; the names of many of its members are household words with us. We have made a study of your ways of living and thinking; nothing you say or do surprises us, while we say and do nothing which does not seem strange to you. So you see, Mr. West, that if you feel that you can, in time, get accustomed to us, you must not be surprised that from the first we have scarcely found you strange at all." "I had not thought of it in that way," I replied. "There is indeed much in what you say. One can look back a thousand years easier than forward fifty. A century is not so very long a retrospect. I might have known your great-grand-parents. Possibly I did. Did they live in Boston?" "I believe so." "You are not sure, then?" "Yes," she replied. "Now I think, they did." "I had a very large circle of acquaintances in the city," I said. "It is not unlikely that I knew or knew of some of them. Perhaps I may have known them well. Wouldn't it be interesting if I should chance to be able to tell you all about your great-grandfather, for instance?" "Very interesting." "Do you know your genealogy well enough to tell me who your forbears were in the Boston of my day?" "Oh, yes." "Perhaps, then, you will some time tell me what some of their names were." She was engrossed in arranging a troublesome spray of green, and did not reply at once. Steps upon the stairway indicated that the other members of the family were descending. "Perhaps, some time," she said. After breakfast, Dr. Leete suggested taking me to inspect the central warehouse and observe actually in operation the machinery of distribution, which Edith had described to me. As we walked away from the house I said, "It is now several days that I have been living in your household on a most extraordinary footing, or rather on none at all. I have not spoken of this aspect of my position before because there were so many other aspects yet more extraordinary. But now that I am beginning a little to feel my feet under me, and to realize that, however I came here, I am here, and must make the best of it, I must speak to you on this point." "As for your being a guest in my house," replied Dr. Leete, "I pray you not to begin to be uneasy on that point, for I mean to keep you a long time yet. With all your modesty, you can but realize that such a guest as yourself is an acquisition not willingly to be parted with." "Thanks, doctor," I said. "It would be absurd, certainly, for me to affect any oversensitiveness about accepting the temporary hospitality of one to whom I owe it that I am not still awaiting the end of the world in a living tomb. But if I am to be a permanent citizen of this century I must have some standing in it. Now, in my time a person more or less entering the world, however he got in, would not be noticed in the unorganized throng of men, and might make a place for himself anywhere he chose if he were strong enough. But nowadays everybody is a part of a system with a distinct place and function. I am outside the system, and don't see how I can get in; there seems no way to get in, except to be born in or to come in as an emigrant from some other system." Dr. Leete laughed heartily. "I admit," he said, "that our system is defective in lacking provision for cases like yours, but you see nobody anticipated additions to the world except by the usual process. You need, however, have no fear that we shall be unable to provide both a place and occupation for you in due time. You have as yet been brought in contact only with the members of my family, but you must not suppose that I have kept your secret. On the contrary, your case, even before your resuscitation, and vastly more since has excited the profoundest interest in the nation. In view of your precarious nervous condition, it was thought best that I should take exclusive charge of you at first, and that you should, through me and my family, receive some general idea of the sort of world you had come back to before you began to make the acquaintance generally of its inhabitants. As to finding a function for you in society, there was no hesitation as to what that would be. Few of us have it in our power to confer so great a service on the nation as you will be able to when you leave my roof, which, however, you must not think of doing for a good time yet." "What can I possibly do?" I asked. "Perhaps you imagine I have some trade, or art, or special skill. I assure you I have none whatever. I never earned a dollar in my life, or did an hour's work. I am strong, and might be a common laborer, but nothing more." "If that were the most efficient service you were able to render the nation, you would find that avocation considered quite as respectable as any other," replied Dr. Leete; "but you can do something else better. You are easily the master of all our historians on questions relating to the social condition of the latter part of the nineteenth century, to us one of the most absorbingly interesting periods of history: and whenever in due time you have sufficiently familiarized yourself with our institutions, and are willing to teach us something concerning those of your day, you will find an historical lectureship in one of our colleges awaiting you." "Very good! very good indeed," I said, much relieved by so practical a suggestion on a point which had begun to trouble me. "If your people are really so much interested in the nineteenth century, there will indeed be an occupation ready-made for me. I don't think there is anything else that I could possibly earn my salt at, but I certainly may claim without conceit to have some special qualifications for such a post as you describe." Chapter 17 I found the processes at the warehouse quite as interesting as Edith had described them, and became even enthusiastic over the truly remarkable illustration which is seen there of the prodigiously multiplied efficiency which perfect organization can give to labor. It is like a gigantic mill, into the hopper of which goods are being constantly poured by the train-load and shipload, to issue at the other end in packages of pounds and ounces, yards and inches, pints and gallons, corresponding to the infinitely complex personal needs of half a million people. Dr. Leete, with the assistance of data furnished by me as to the way goods were sold in my day, figured out some astounding results in the way of the economies effected by the modern system. As we set out homeward, I said: "After what I have seen to-day, together with what you have told me, and what I learned under Miss Leete's tutelage at the sample store, I have a tolerably clear idea of your system of distribution, and how it enables you to dispense with a circulating medium. But I should like very much to know something more about your system of production. You have told me in general how your industrial army is levied and organized, but who directs its efforts? What supreme authority determines what shall be done in every department, so that enough of everything is produced and yet no labor wasted? It seems to me that this must be a wonderfully complex and difficult function, requiring very unusual endowments." "Does it indeed seem so to you?" responded Dr. Leete. "I assure you that it is nothing of the kind, but on the other hand so simple, and depending on principles so obvious and easily applied, that the functionaries at Washington to whom it is trusted require to be nothing more than men of fair abilities to discharge it to the entire satisfaction of the nation. The machine which they direct is indeed a vast one, but so logical in its principles and direct and simple in its workings, that it all but runs itself; and nobody but a fool could derange it, as I think you will agree after a few words of explanation. Since you already have a pretty good idea of the working of the distributive system, let us begin at that end. Even in your day statisticians were able to tell you the number of yards of cotton, velvet, woolen, the number of barrels of flour, potatoes, butter, number of pairs of shoes, hats, and umbrellas annually consumed by the nation. Owing to the fact that production was in private hands, and that there was no way of getting statistics of actual distribution, these figures were not exact, but they were nearly so. Now that every pin which is given out from a national warehouse is recorded, of course the figures of consumption for any week, month, or year, in the possession of the department of distribution at the end of that period, are precise. On these figures, allowing for tendencies to increase or decrease and for any special causes likely to affect demand, the estimates, say for a year ahead, are based. These estimates, with a proper margin for security, having been accepted by the general administration, the responsibility of the distributive department ceases until the goods are delivered to it. I speak of the estimates being furnished for an entire year ahead, but in reality they cover that much time only in case of the great staples for which the demand can be calculated on as steady. In the great majority of smaller industries for the product of which popular taste fluctuates, and novelty is frequently required, production is kept barely ahead of consumption, the distributive department furnishing frequent estimates based on the weekly state of demand. "Now the entire field of productive and constructive industry is divided into ten great departments, each representing a group of allied industries, each particular industry being in turn represented by a subordinate bureau, which has a complete record of the plant and force under its control, of the present product, and means of increasing it. The estimates of the distributive department, after adoption by the administration, are sent as mandates to the ten great departments, which allot them to the subordinate bureaus representing the particular industries, and these set the men at work. Each bureau is responsible for the task given it, and this responsibility is enforced by departmental oversight and that of the administration; nor does the distributive department accept the product without its own inspection; while even if in the hands of the consumer an article turns out unfit, the system enables the fault to be traced back to the original workman. The production of the commodities for actual public consumption does not, of course, require by any means all the national force of workers. After the necessary contingents have been detailed for the various industries, the amount of labor left for other employment is expended in creating fixed capital, such as buildings, machinery, engineering works, and so forth." "One point occurs to me," I said, "on which I should think there might be dissatisfaction. Where there is no opportunity for private enterprise, how is there any assurance that the claims of small minorities of the people to have articles produced, for which there is no wide demand, will be respected? An official decree at any moment may deprive them of the means of gratifying some special taste, merely because the majority does not share it." "That would be tyranny indeed," replied Dr. Leete, "and you may be very sure that it does not happen with us, to whom liberty is as dear as equality or fraternity. As you come to know our system better, you will see that our officials are in fact, and not merely in name, the agents and servants of the people. The administration has no power to stop the production of any commodity for which there continues to be a demand. Suppose the demand for any article declines to such a point that its production becomes very costly. The price has to be raised in proportion, of course, but as long as the consumer cares to pay it, the production goes on. Again, suppose an article not before produced is demanded. If the administration doubts the reality of the demand, a popular petition guaranteeing a certain basis of consumption compels it to produce the desired article. A government, or a majority, which should undertake to tell the people, or a minority, what they were to eat, drink, or wear, as I believe governments in America did in your day, would be regarded as a curious anachronism indeed. Possibly you had reasons for tolerating these infringements of personal independence, but we should not think them endurable. I am glad you raised this point, for it has given me a chance to show you how much more direct and efficient is the control over production exercised by the individual citizen now than it was in your day, when what you called private initiative prevailed, though it should have been called capitalist initiative, for the average private citizen had little enough share in it." "You speak of raising the price of costly articles," I said. "How can prices be regulated in a country where there is no competition between buyers or sellers?" "Just as they were with you," replied Dr. Leete. "You think that needs explaining," he added, as I looked incredulous, "but the explanation need not be long; the cost of the labor which produced it was recognized as the legitimate basis of the price of an article in your day, and so it is in ours. In your day, it was the difference in wages that made the difference in the cost of labor; now it is the relative number of hours constituting a day's work in different trades, the maintenance of the worker being equal in all cases. The cost of a man's work in a trade so difficult that in order to attract volunteers the hours have to be fixed at four a day is twice as great as that in a trade where the men work eight hours. The result as to the cost of labor, you see, is just the same as if the man working four hours were paid, under your system, twice the wages the others get. This calculation applied to the labor employed in the various processes of a manufactured article gives its price relatively to other articles. Besides the cost of production and transportation, the factor of scarcity affects the prices of some commodities. As regards the great staples of life, of which an abundance can always be secured, scarcity is eliminated as a factor. There is always a large surplus kept on hand from which any fluctuations of demand or supply can be corrected, even in most cases of bad crops. The prices of the staples grow less year by year, but rarely, if ever, rise. There are, however, certain classes of articles permanently, and others temporarily, unequal to the demand, as, for example, fresh fish or dairy products in the latter category, and the products of high skill and rare materials in the other. All that can be done here is to equalize the inconvenience of the scarcity. This is done by temporarily raising the price if the scarcity be temporary, or fixing it high if it be permanent. High prices in your day meant restriction of the articles affected to the rich, but nowadays, when the means of all are the same, the effect is only that those to whom the articles seem most desirable are the ones who purchase them. Of course the nation, as any other caterer for the public needs must be, is frequently left with small lots of goods on its hands by changes in taste, unseasonable weather and various other causes. These it has to dispose of at a sacrifice just as merchants often did in your day, charging up the loss to the expenses of the business. Owing, however, to the vast body of consumers to which such lots can be simultaneously offered, there is rarely any difficulty in getting rid of them at trifling loss. I have given you now some general notion of our system of production; as well as distribution. Do you find it as complex as you expected?" I admitted that nothing could be much simpler. "I am sure," said Dr. Leete, "that it is within the truth to say that the head of one of the myriad private businesses of your day, who had to maintain sleepless vigilance against the fluctuations of the market, the machinations of his rivals, and the failure of his debtors, had a far more trying task than the group of men at Washington who nowadays direct the industries of the entire nation. All this merely shows, my dear fellow, how much easier it is to do things the right way than the wrong. It is easier for a general up in a balloon, with perfect survey of the field, to manoeuvre a million men to victory than for a sergeant to manage a platoon in a thicket." "The general of this army, including the flower of the manhood of the nation, must be the foremost man in the country, really greater even than the President of the United States," I said. "He is the President of the United States," replied Dr. Leete, "or rather the most important function of the presidency is the headship of the industrial army." "How is he chosen?" I asked. "I explained to you before," replied Dr. Leete, "when I was describing the force of the motive of emulation among all grades of the industrial army, that the line of promotion for the meritorious lies through three grades to the officer's grade, and thence up through the lieutenancies to the captaincy or foremanship, and superintendency or colonel's rank. Next, with an intervening grade in some of the larger trades, comes the general of the guild, under whose immediate control all the operations of the trade are conducted. This officer is at the head of the national bureau representing his trade, and is responsible for its work to the administration. The general of his guild holds a splendid position, and one which amply satisfies the ambition of most men, but above his rank, which may be compared--to follow the military analogies familiar to you--to that of a general of division or major-general, is that of the chiefs of the ten great departments, or groups of allied trades. The chiefs of these ten grand divisions of the industrial army may be compared to your commanders of army corps, or lieutenant-generals, each having from a dozen to a score of generals of separate guilds reporting to him. Above these ten great officers, who form his council, is the general-in-chief, who is the President of the United States. "The general-in-chief of the industrial army must have passed through all the grades below him, from the common laborers up. Let us see how he rises. As I have told you, it is simply by the excellence of his record as a worker that one rises through the grades of the privates and becomes a candidate for a lieutenancy. Through the lieutenancies he rises to the colonelcy, or superintendent's position, by appointment from above, strictly limited to the candidates of the best records. The general of the guild appoints to the ranks under him, but he himself is not appointed, but chosen by suffrage." "By suffrage!" I exclaimed. "Is not that ruinous to the discipline of the guild, by tempting the candidates to intrigue for the support of the workers under them?" "So it would be, no doubt," replied Dr. Leete, "if the workers had any suffrage to exercise, or anything to say about the choice. But they have nothing. Just here comes in a peculiarity of our system. The general of the guild is chosen from among the superintendents by vote of the honorary members of the guild, that is, of those who have served their time in the guild and received their discharge. As you know, at the age of forty-five we are mustered out of the army of industry, and have the residue of life for the pursuit of our own improvement or recreation. Of course, however, the associations of our active lifetime retain a powerful hold on us. The companionships we formed then remain our companionships till the end of life. We always continue honorary members of our former guilds, and retain the keenest and most jealous interest in their welfare and repute in the hands of the following generation. In the clubs maintained by the honorary members of the several guilds, in which we meet socially, there are no topics of conversation so common as those which relate to these matters, and the young aspirants for guild leadership who can pass the criticism of us old fellows are likely to be pretty well equipped. Recognizing this fact, the nation entrusts to the honorary members of each guild the election of its general, and I venture to claim that no previous form of society could have developed a body of electors so ideally adapted to their office, as regards absolute impartiality, knowledge of the special qualifications and record of candidates, solicitude for the best result, and complete absence of self-interest. "Each of the ten lieutenant-generals or heads of departments is himself elected from among the generals of the guilds grouped as a department, by vote of the honorary members of the guilds thus grouped. Of course there is a tendency on the part of each guild to vote for its own general, but no guild of any group has nearly enough votes to elect a man not supported by most of the others. I assure you that these elections are exceedingly lively." "The President, I suppose, is selected from among the ten heads of the great departments," I suggested. "Precisely, but the heads of departments are not eligible to the presidency till they have been a certain number of years out of office. It is rarely that a man passes through all the grades to the headship of a department much before he is forty, and at the end of a five years' term he is usually forty-five. If more, he still serves through his term, and if less, he is nevertheless discharged from the industrial army at its termination. It would not do for him to return to the ranks. The interval before he is a candidate for the presidency is intended to give time for him to recognize fully that he has returned into the general mass of the nation, and is identified with it rather than with the industrial army. Moreover, it is expected that he will employ this period in studying the general condition of the army, instead of that of the special group of guilds of which he was the head. From among the former heads of departments who may be eligible at the time, the President is elected by vote of all the men of the nation who are not connected with the industrial army." "The army is not allowed to vote for President?" "Certainly not. That would be perilous to its discipline, which it is the business of the President to maintain as the representative of the nation at large. His right hand for this purpose is the inspectorate, a highly important department of our system; to the inspectorate come all complaints or information as to defects in goods, insolence or inefficiency of officials, or dereliction of any sort in the public service. The inspectorate, however, does not wait for complaints. Not only is it on the alert to catch and sift every rumor of a fault in the service, but it is its business, by systematic and constant oversight and inspection of every branch of the army, to find out what is going wrong before anybody else does. The President is usually not far from fifty when elected, and serves five years, forming an honorable exception to the rule of retirement at forty-five. At the end of his term of office, a national Congress is called to receive his report and approve or condemn it. If it is approved, Congress usually elects him to represent the nation for five years more in the international council. Congress, I should also say, passes on the reports of the outgoing heads of departments, and a disapproval renders any one of them ineligible for President. But it is rare, indeed, that the nation has occasion for other sentiments than those of gratitude toward its high officers. As to their ability, to have risen from the ranks, by tests so various and severe, to their positions, is proof in itself of extraordinary qualities, while as to faithfulness, our social system leaves them absolutely without any other motive than that of winning the esteem of their fellow citizens. Corruption is impossible in a society where there is neither poverty to be bribed nor wealth to bribe, while as to demagoguery or intrigue for office, the conditions of promotion render them out of the question." "One point I do not quite understand," I said. "Are the members of the liberal professions eligible to the presidency? and if so, how are they ranked with those who pursue the industries proper?" "They have no ranking with them," replied Dr. Leete. "The members of the technical professions, such as engineers and architects, have a ranking with the constructive guilds; but the members of the liberal professions, the doctors and teachers, as well as the artists and men of letters who obtain remissions of industrial service, do not belong to the industrial army. On this ground they vote for the President, but are not eligible to his office. One of its main duties being the control and discipline of the industrial army, it is essential that the President should have passed through all its grades to understand his business." "That is reasonable," I said; "but if the doctors and teachers do not know enough of industry to be President, neither, I should think, can the President know enough of medicine and education to control those departments." "No more does he," was the reply. "Except in the general way that he is responsible for the enforcement of the laws as to all classes, the President has nothing to do with the faculties of medicine and education, which are controlled by boards of regents of their own, in which the President is ex-officio chairman, and has the casting vote. These regents, who, of course, are responsible to Congress, are chosen by the honorary members of the guilds of education and medicine, the retired teachers and doctors of the country." "Do you know," I said, "the method of electing officials by votes of the retired members of the guilds is nothing more than the application on a national scale of the plan of government by alumni, which we used to a slight extent occasionally in the management of our higher educational institutions." "Did you, indeed?" exclaimed Dr. Leete, with animation. "That is quite new to me, and I fancy will be to most of us, and of much interest as well. There has been great discussion as to the germ of the idea, and we fancied that there was for once something new under the sun. Well! well! In your higher educational institutions! that is interesting indeed. You must tell me more of that." "Truly, there is very little more to tell than I have told already," I replied. "If we had the germ of your idea, it was but as a germ." Chapter 18 That evening I sat up for some time after the ladies had retired, talking with Dr. Leete about the effect of the plan of exempting men from further service to the nation after the age of forty-five, a point brought up by his account of the part taken by the retired citizens in the government. "At forty-five," said I, "a man still has ten years of good manual labor in him, and twice ten years of good intellectual service. To be superannuated at that age and laid on the shelf must be regarded rather as a hardship than a favor by men of energetic dispositions." "My dear Mr. West," exclaimed Dr. Leete, beaming upon me, "you cannot have any idea of the piquancy your nineteenth century ideas have for us of this day, the rare quaintness of their effect. Know, O child of another race and yet the same, that the labor we have to render as our part in securing for the nation the means of a comfortable physical existence is by no means regarded as the most important, the most interesting, or the most dignified employment of our powers. We look upon it as a necessary duty to be discharged before we can fully devote ourselves to the higher exercise of our faculties, the intellectual and spiritual enjoyments and pursuits which alone mean life. Everything possible is indeed done by the just distribution of burdens, and by all manner of special attractions and incentives to relieve our labor of irksomeness, and, except in a comparative sense, it is not usually irksome, and is often inspiring. But it is not our labor, but the higher and larger activities which the performance of our task will leave us free to enter upon, that are considered the main business of existence. "Of course not all, nor the majority, have those scientific, artistic, literary, or scholarly interests which make leisure the one thing valuable to their possessors. Many look upon the last half of life chiefly as a period for enjoyment of other sorts; for travel, for social relaxation in the company of their life-time friends; a time for the cultivation of all manner of personal idiosyncrasies and special tastes, and the pursuit of every imaginable form of recreation; in a word, a time for the leisurely and unperturbed appreciation of the good things of the world which they have helped to create. But, whatever the differences between our individual tastes as to the use we shall put our leisure to, we all agree in looking forward to the date of our discharge as the time when we shall first enter upon the full enjoyment of our birthright, the period when we shall first really attain our majority and become enfranchised from discipline and control, with the fee of our lives vested in ourselves. As eager boys in your day anticipated twenty-one, so men nowadays look forward to forty-five. At twenty-one we become men, but at forty-five we renew youth. Middle age and what you would have called old age are considered, rather than youth, the enviable time of life. Thanks to the better conditions of existence nowadays, and above all the freedom of every one from care, old age approaches many years later and has an aspect far more benign than in past times. Persons of average constitution usually live to eighty-five or ninety, and at forty-five we are physically and mentally younger, I fancy, than you were at thirty-five. It is a strange reflection that at forty-five, when we are just entering upon the most enjoyable period of life, you already began to think of growing old and to look backward. With you it was the forenoon, with us it is the afternoon, which is the brighter half of life." After this I remember that our talk branched into the subject of popular sports and recreations at the present time as compared with those of the nineteenth century. "In one respect," said Dr. Leete, "there is a marked difference. The professional sportsmen, which were such a curious feature of your day, we have nothing answering to, nor are the prizes for which our athletes contend money prizes, as with you. Our contests are always for glory only. The generous rivalry existing between the various guilds, and the loyalty of each worker to his own, afford a constant stimulation to all sorts of games and matches by sea and land, in which the young men take scarcely more interest than the honorary guildsmen who have served their time. The guild yacht races off Marblehead take place next week, and you will be able to judge for yourself of the popular enthusiasm which such events nowadays call out as compared with your day. The demand for 'panem ef circenses' preferred by the Roman populace is recognized nowadays as a wholly reasonable one. If bread is the first necessity of life, recreation is a close second, and the nation caters for both. Americans of the nineteenth century were as unfortunate in lacking an adequate provision for the one sort of need as for the other. Even if the people of that period had enjoyed larger leisure, they would, I fancy, have often been at a loss how to pass it agreeably. We are never in that predicament." Chapter 19 In the course of an early morning constitutional I visited Charlestown. Among the changes, too numerous to attempt to indicate, which mark the lapse of a century in that quarter, I particularly noted the total disappearance of the old state prison. "That went before my day, but I remember hearing about it," said Dr. Leete, when I alluded to the fact at the breakfast table. "We have no jails nowadays. All cases of atavism are treated in the hospitals." "Of atavism!" I exclaimed, staring. "Why, yes," replied Dr. Leete. "The idea of dealing punitively with those unfortunates was given up at least fifty years ago, and I think more." "I don't quite understand you," I said. "Atavism in my day was a word applied to the cases of persons in whom some trait of a remote ancestor recurred in a noticeable manner. Am I to understand that crime is nowadays looked upon as the recurrence of an ancestral trait?" "I beg your pardon," said Dr. Leete with a smile half humorous, half deprecating, "but since you have so explicitly asked the question, I am forced to say that the fact is precisely that." After what I had already learned of the moral contrasts between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, it was doubtless absurd in me to begin to develop sensitiveness on the subject, and probably if Dr. Leete had not spoken with that apologetic air and Mrs. Leete and Edith shown a corresponding embarrassment, I should not have flushed, as I was conscious I did. "I was not in much danger of being vain of my generation before," I said; "but, really--" "This is your generation, Mr. West," interposed Edith. "It is the one in which you are living, you know, and it is only because we are alive now that we call it ours." "Thank you. I will try to think of it so," I said, and as my eyes met hers their expression quite cured my senseless sensitiveness. "After all," I said, with a laugh, "I was brought up a Calvinist, and ought not to be startled to hear crime spoken of as an ancestral trait." "In point of fact," said Dr. Leete, "our use of the word is no reflection at all on your generation, if, begging Edith's pardon, we may call it yours, so far as seeming to imply that we think ourselves, apart from our circumstances, better than you were. In your day fully nineteen twentieths of the crime, using the word broadly to include all sorts of misdemeanors, resulted from the inequality in the possessions of individuals; want tempted the poor, lust of greater gains, or the desire to preserve former gains, tempted the well-to-do. Directly or indirectly, the desire for money, which then meant every good thing, was the motive of all this crime, the taproot of a vast poison growth, which the machinery of law, courts, and police could barely prevent from choking your civilization outright. When we made the nation the sole trustee of the wealth of the people, and guaranteed to all abundant maintenance, on the one hand abolishing want, and on the other checking the accumulation of riches, we cut this root, and the poison tree that overshadowed your society withered, like Jonah's gourd, in a day. As for the comparatively small class of violent crimes against persons, unconnected with any idea of gain, they were almost wholly confined, even in your day, to the ignorant and bestial; and in these days, when education and good manners are not the monopoly of a few, but universal, such atrocities are scarcely ever heard of. You now see why the word 'atavism' is used for crime. It is because nearly all forms of crime known to you are motiveless now, and when they appear can only be explained as the outcropping of ancestral traits. You used to call persons who stole, evidently without any rational motive, kleptomaniacs, and when the case was clear deemed it absurd to punish them as thieves. Your attitude toward the genuine kleptomaniac is precisely ours toward the victim of atavism, an attitude of compassion and firm but gentle restraint." "Your courts must have an easy time of it," I observed. "With no private property to speak of, no disputes between citizens over business relations, no real estate to divide or debts to collect, there must be absolutely no civil business at all for them; and with no offenses against property, and mighty few of any sort to provide criminal cases, I should think you might almost do without judges and lawyers altogether." "We do without the lawyers, certainly," was Dr. Leete's reply. "It would not seem reasonable to us, in a case where the only interest of the nation is to find out the truth, that persons should take part in the proceedings who had an acknowledged motive to color it." "But who defends the accused?" "If he is a criminal he needs no defense, for he pleads guilty in most instances," replied Dr. Leete. "The plea of the accused is not a mere formality with us, as with you. It is usually the end of the case." "You don't mean that the man who pleads not guilty is thereupon discharged?" "No, I do not mean that. He is not accused on light grounds, and if he denies his guilt, must still be tried. But trials are few, for in most cases the guilty man pleads guilty. When he makes a false plea and is clearly proved guilty, his penalty is doubled. Falsehood is, however, so despised among us that few offenders would lie to save themselves." "That is the most astounding thing you have yet told me," I exclaimed. "If lying has gone out of fashion, this is indeed the 'new heavens and the new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness,' which the prophet foretold." "Such is, in fact, the belief of some persons nowadays," was the doctor's answer. "They hold that we have entered upon the millennium, and the theory from their point of view does not lack plausibility. But as to your astonishment at finding that the world has outgrown lying, there is really no ground for it. Falsehood, even in your day, was not common between gentlemen and ladies, social equals. The lie of fear was the refuge of cowardice, and the lie of fraud the device of the cheat. The inequalities of men and the lust of acquisition offered a constant premium on lying at that time. Yet even then, the man who neither feared another nor desired to defraud him scorned falsehood. Because we are now all social equals, and no man either has anything to fear from another or can gain anything by deceiving him, the contempt of falsehood is so universal that it is rarely, as I told you, that even a criminal in other respects will be found willing to lie. When, however, a plea of not guilty is returned, the judge appoints two colleagues to state the opposite sides of the case. How far these men are from being like your hired advocates and prosecutors, determined to acquit or convict, may appear from the fact that unless both agree that the verdict found is just, the case is tried over, while anything like bias in the tone of either of the judges stating the case would be a shocking scandal." "Do I understand," I said, "that it is a judge who states each side of the case as well as a judge who hears it?" "Certainly. The judges take turns in serving on the bench and at the bar, and are expected to maintain the judicial temper equally whether in stating or deciding a case. The system is indeed in effect that of trial by three judges occupying different points of view as to the case. When they agree upon a verdict, we believe it to be as near to absolute truth as men well can come." "You have given up the jury system, then?" "It was well enough as a corrective in the days of hired advocates, and a bench sometimes venal, and often with a tenure that made it dependent, but is needless now. No conceivable motive but justice could actuate our judges." "How are these magistrates selected?" "They are an honorable exception to the rule which discharges all men from service at the age of forty-five. The President of the nation appoints the necessary judges year by year from the class reaching that age. The number appointed is, of course, exceedingly few, and the honor so high that it is held an offset to the additional term of service which follows, and though a judge's appointment may be declined, it rarely is. The term is five years, without eligibility to reappointment. The members of the Supreme Court, which is the guardian of the constitution, are selected from among the lower judges. When a vacancy in that court occurs, those of the lower judges, whose terms expire that year, select, as their last official act, the one of their colleagues left on the bench whom they deem fittest to fill it." "There being no legal profession to serve as a school for judges," I said, "they must, of course, come directly from the law school to the bench." "We have no such things as law schools," replied the doctor smiling. "The law as a special science is obsolete. It was a system of casuistry which the elaborate artificiality of the old order of society absolutely required to interpret it, but only a few of the plainest and simplest legal maxims have any application to the existing state of the world. Everything touching the relations of men to one another is now simpler, beyond any comparison, than in your day. We should have no sort of use for the hair-splitting experts who presided and argued in your courts. You must not imagine, however, that we have any disrespect for those ancient worthies because we have no use for them. On the contrary, we entertain an unfeigned respect, amounting almost to awe, for the men who alone understood and were able to expound the interminable complexity of the rights of property, and the relations of commercial and personal dependence involved in your system. What, indeed, could possibly give a more powerful impression of the intricacy and artificiality of that system than the fact that it was necessary to set apart from other pursuits the cream of the intellect of every generation, in order to provide a body of pundits able to make it even vaguely intelligible to those whose fates it determined. The treatises of your great lawyers, the works of Blackstone and Chitty, of Story and Parsons, stand in our museums, side by side with the tomes of Duns Scotus and his fellow scholastics, as curious monuments of intellectual subtlety devoted to subjects equally remote from the interests of modern men. Our judges are simply widely informed, judicious, and discreet men of ripe years. "I should not fail to speak of one important function of the minor judges," added Dr. Leete. "This is to adjudicate all cases where a private of the industrial army makes a complaint of unfairness against an officer. All such questions are heard and settled without appeal by a single judge, three judges being required only in graver cases. The efficiency of industry requires the strictest discipline in the army of labor, but the claim of the workman to just and considerate treatment is backed by the whole power of the nation. The officer commands and the private obeys, but no officer is so high that he would dare display an overbearing manner toward a workman of the lowest class. As for churlishness or rudeness by an official of any sort, in his relations to the public, not one among minor offenses is more sure of a prompt penalty than this. Not only justice but civility is enforced by our judges in all sorts of intercourse. No value of service is accepted as a set-off to boorish or offensive manners." It occurred to me, as Dr. Leete was speaking, that in all his talk I had heard much of the nation and nothing of the state governments. Had the organization of the nation as an industrial unit done away with the states? I asked. "Necessarily," he replied. "The state governments would have interfered with the control and discipline of the industrial army, which, of course, required to be central and uniform. Even if the state governments had not become inconvenient for other reasons, they were rendered superfluous by the prodigious simplification in the task of government since your day. Almost the sole function of the administration now is that of directing the industries of the country. Most of the purposes for which governments formerly existed no longer remain to be subserved. We have no army or navy, and no military organization. We have no departments of state or treasury, no excise or revenue services, no taxes or tax collectors. The only function proper of government, as known to you, which still remains, is the judiciary and police system. I have already explained to you how simple is our judicial system as compared with your huge and complex machine. Of course the same absence of crime and temptation to it, which make the duties of judges so light, reduces the number and duties of the police to a minimum." "But with no state legislatures, and Congress meeting only once in five years, how do you get your legislation done?" "We have no legislation," replied Dr. Leete, "that is, next to none. It is rarely that Congress, even when it meets, considers any new laws of consequence, and then it only has power to commend them to the following Congress, lest anything be done hastily. If you will consider a moment, Mr. West, you will see that we have nothing to make laws about. The fundamental principles on which our society is founded settle for all time the strifes and misunderstandings which in your day called for legislation. "Fully ninety-nine hundredths of the laws of that time concerned the definition and protection of private property and the relations of buyers and sellers. There is neither private property, beyond personal belongings, now, nor buying and selling, and therefore the occasion of nearly all the legislation formerly necessary has passed away. Formerly, society was a pyramid poised on its apex. All the gravitations of human nature were constantly tending to topple it over, and it could be maintained upright, or rather upwrong (if you will pardon the feeble witticism), by an elaborate system of constantly renewed props and buttresses and guy-ropes in the form of laws. A central Congress and forty state legislatures, turning out some twenty thousand laws a year, could not make new props fast enough to take the place of those which were constantly breaking down or becoming ineffectual through some shifting of the strain. Now society rests on its base, and is in as little need of artificial supports as the everlasting hills." "But you have at least municipal governments besides the one central authority?" "Certainly, and they have important and extensive functions in looking out for the public comfort and recreation, and the improvement and embellishment of the villages and cities." "But having no control over the labor of their people, or means of hiring it, how can they do anything?" "Every town or city is conceded the right to retain, for its own public works, a certain proportion of the quota of labor its citizens contribute to the nation. This proportion, being assigned it as so much credit, can be applied in any way desired." Chapter 20 That afternoon Edith casually inquired if I had yet revisited the underground chamber in the garden in which I had been found. "Not yet," I replied. "To be frank, I have shrunk thus far from doing so, lest the visit might revive old associations rather too strongly for my mental equilibrium." "Ah, yes!" she said, "I can imagine that you have done well to stay away. I ought to have thought of that." "No," I said, "I am glad you spoke of it. The danger, if there was any, existed only during the first day or two. Thanks to you, chiefly and always, I feel my footing now so firm in this new world, that if you will go with me to keep the ghosts off, I should really like to visit the place this afternoon." Edith demurred at first, but, finding that I was in earnest, consented to accompany me. The rampart of earth thrown up from the excavation was visible among the trees from the house, and a few steps brought us to the spot. All remained as it was at the point when work was interrupted by the discovery of the tenant of the chamber, save that the door had been opened and the slab from the roof replaced. Descending the sloping sides of the excavation, we went in at the door and stood within the dimly lighted room. Everything was just as I had beheld it last on that evening one hundred and thirteen years previous, just before closing my eyes for that long sleep. I stood for some time silently looking about me. I saw that my companion was furtively regarding me with an expression of awed and sympathetic curiosity. I put out my hand to her and she placed hers in it, the soft fingers responding with a reassuring pressure to my clasp. Finally she whispered, "Had we not better go out now? You must not try yourself too far. Oh, how strange it must be to you!" "On the contrary," I replied, "it does not seem strange; that is the strangest part of it." "Not strange?" she echoed. "Even so," I replied. "The emotions with which you evidently credit me, and which I anticipated would attend this visit, I simply do not feel. I realize all that these surroundings suggest, but without the agitation I expected. You can't be nearly as much surprised at this as I am myself. Ever since that terrible morning when you came to my help, I have tried to avoid thinking of my former life, just as I have avoided coming here, for fear of the agitating effects. I am for all the world like a man who has permitted an injured limb to lie motionless under the impression that it is exquisitely sensitive, and on trying to move it finds that it is paralyzed." "Do you mean your memory is gone?" "Not at all. I remember everything connected with my former life, but with a total lack of keen sensation. I remember it for clearness as if it had been but a day since then, but my feelings about what I remember are as faint as if to my consciousness, as well as in fact, a hundred years had intervened. Perhaps it is possible to explain this, too. The effect of change in surroundings is like that of lapse of time in making the past seem remote. When I first woke from that trance, my former life appeared as yesterday, but now, since I have learned to know my new surroundings, and to realize the prodigious changes that have transformed the world, I no longer find it hard, but very easy, to realize that I have slept a century. Can you conceive of such a thing as living a hundred years in four days? It really seems to me that I have done just that, and that it is this experience which has given so remote and unreal an appearance to my former life. Can you see how such a thing might be?" "I can conceive it," replied Edith, meditatively, "and I think we ought all to be thankful that it is so, for it will save you much suffering, I am sure." "Imagine," I said, in an effort to explain, as much to myself as to her, the strangeness of my mental condition, "that a man first heard of a bereavement many, many years, half a lifetime perhaps, after the event occurred. I fancy his feeling would be perhaps something as mine is. When I think of my friends in the world of that former day, and the sorrow they must have felt for me, it is with a pensive pity, rather than keen anguish, as of a sorrow long, long ago ended." "You have told us nothing yet of your friends," said Edith. "Had you many to mourn you?" "Thank God, I had very few relatives, none nearer than cousins," I replied. "But there was one, not a relative, but dearer to me than any kin of blood. She had your name. She was to have been my wife soon. Ah me!" "Ah me!" sighed the Edith by my side. "Think of the heartache she must have had." Something in the deep feeling of this gentle girl touched a chord in my benumbed heart. My eyes, before so dry, were flooded with the tears that had till now refused to come. When I had regained my composure, I saw that she too had been weeping freely. "God bless your tender heart," I said. "Would you like to see her picture?" A small locket with Edith Bartlett's picture, secured about my neck with a gold chain, had lain upon my breast all through that long sleep, and removing this I opened and gave it to my companion. She took it with eagerness, and after poring long over the sweet face, touched the picture with her lips. "I know that she was good and lovely enough to well deserve your tears," she said; "but remember her heartache was over long ago, and she has been in heaven for nearly a century." It was indeed so. Whatever her sorrow had once been, for nearly a century she had ceased to weep, and, my sudden passion spent, my own tears dried away. I had loved her very dearly in my other life, but it was a hundred years ago! I do not know but some may find in this confession evidence of lack of feeling, but I think, perhaps, that none can have had an experience sufficiently like mine to enable them to judge me. As we were about to leave the chamber, my eye rested upon the great iron safe which stood in one corner. Calling my companion's attention to it, I said: "This was my strong room as well as my sleeping room. In the safe yonder are several thousand dollars in gold, and any amount of securities. If I had known when I went to sleep that night just how long my nap would be, I should still have thought that the gold was a safe provision for my needs in any country or any century, however distant. That a time would ever come when it would lose its purchasing power, I should have considered the wildest of fancies. Nevertheless, here I wake up to find myself among a people of whom a cartload of gold will not procure a loaf of bread." As might be expected, I did not succeed in impressing Edith that there was anything remarkable in this fact. "Why in the world should it?" she merely asked. Chapter 21 It had been suggested by Dr. Leete that we should devote the next morning to an inspection of the schools and colleges of the city, with some attempt on his own part at an explanation of the educational system of the twentieth century. "You will see," said he, as we set out after breakfast, "many very important differences between our methods of education and yours, but the main difference is that nowadays all persons equally have those opportunities of higher education which in your day only an infinitesimal portion of the population enjoyed. We should think we had gained nothing worth speaking of, in equalizing the physical comfort of men, without this educational equality." "The cost must be very great," I said. "If it took half the revenue of the nation, nobody would grudge it," replied Dr. Leete, "nor even if it took it all save a bare pittance. But in truth the expense of educating ten thousand youth is not ten nor five times that of educating one thousand. The principle which makes all operations on a large scale proportionally cheaper than on a small scale holds as to education also." "College education was terribly expensive in my day," said I. "If I have not been misinformed by our historians," Dr. Leete answered, "it was not college education but college dissipation and extravagance which cost so highly. The actual expense of your colleges appears to have been very low, and would have been far lower if their patronage had been greater. The higher education nowadays is as cheap as the lower, as all grades of teachers, like all other workers, receive the same support. We have simply added to the common school system of compulsory education, in vogue in Massachusetts a hundred years ago, a half dozen higher grades, carrying the youth to the age of twenty-one and giving him what you used to call the education of a gentleman, instead of turning him loose at fourteen or fifteen with no mental equipment beyond reading, writing, and the multiplication table." "Setting aside the actual cost of these additional years of education," I replied, "we should not have thought we could afford the loss of time from industrial pursuits. Boys of the poorer classes usually went to work at sixteen or younger, and knew their trade at twenty." "We should not concede you any gain even in material product by that plan," Dr. Leete replied. "The greater efficiency which education gives to all sorts of labor, except the rudest, makes up in a short period for the time lost in acquiring it." "We should also have been afraid," said I, "that a high education, while it adapted men to the professions, would set them against manual labor of all sorts." "That was the effect of high education in your day, I have read," replied the doctor; "and it was no wonder, for manual labor meant association with a rude, coarse, and ignorant class of people. There is no such class now. It was inevitable that such a feeling should exist then, for the further reason that all men receiving a high education were understood to be destined for the professions or for wealthy leisure, and such an education in one neither rich nor professional was a proof of disappointed aspirations, an evidence of failure, a badge of inferiority rather than superiority. Nowadays, of course, when the highest education is deemed necessary to fit a man merely to live, without any reference to the sort of work he may do, its possession conveys no such implication." "After all," I remarked, "no amount of education can cure natural dullness or make up for original mental deficiencies. Unless the average natural mental capacity of men is much above its level in my day, a high education must be pretty nearly thrown away on a large element of the population. We used to hold that a certain amount of susceptibility to educational influences is required to make a mind worth cultivating, just as a certain natural fertility in soil is required if it is to repay tilling." "Ah," said Dr. Leete, "I am glad you used that illustration, for it is just the one I would have chosen to set forth the modern view of education. You say that land so poor that the product will not repay the labor of tilling is not cultivated. Nevertheless, much land that does not begin to repay tilling by its product was cultivated in your day and is in ours. I refer to gardens, parks, lawns, and, in general, to pieces of land so situated that, were they left to grow up to weeds and briers, they would be eyesores and inconveniencies to all about. They are therefore tilled, and though their product is little, there is yet no land that, in a wider sense, better repays cultivation. So it is with the men and women with whom we mingle in the relations of society, whose voices are always in our ears, whose behavior in innumerable ways affects our enjoyment--who are, in fact, as much conditions of our lives as the air we breathe, or any of the physical elements on which we depend. If, indeed, we could not afford to educate everybody, we should choose the coarsest and dullest by nature, rather than the brightest, to receive what education we could give. The naturally refined and intellectual can better dispense with aids to culture than those less fortunate in natural endowments. "To borrow a phrase which was often used in your day, we should not consider life worth living if we had to be surrounded by a population of ignorant, boorish, coarse, wholly uncultivated men and women, as was the plight of the few educated in your day. Is a man satisfied, merely because he is perfumed himself, to mingle with a malodorous crowd? Could he take more than a very limited satisfaction, even in a palatial apartment, if the windows on all four sides opened into stable yards? And yet just that was the situation of those considered most fortunate as to culture and refinement in your day. I know that the poor and ignorant envied the rich and cultured then; but to us the latter, living as they did, surrounded by squalor and brutishness, seem little better off than the former. The cultured man in your age was like one up to the neck in a nauseous bog solacing himself with a smelling bottle. You see, perhaps, now, how we look at this question of universal high education. No single thing is so important to every man as to have for neighbors intelligent, companionable persons. There is nothing, therefore, which the nation can do for him that will enhance so much his own happiness as to educate his neighbors. When it fails to do so, the value of his own education to him is reduced by half, and many of the tastes he has cultivated are made positive sources of pain. "To educate some to the highest degree, and leave the mass wholly uncultivated, as you did, made the gap between them almost like that between different natural species, which have no means of communication. What could be more inhuman than this consequence of a partial enjoyment of education! Its universal and equal enjoyment leaves, indeed, the differences between men as to natural endowments as marked as in a state of nature, but the level of the lowest is vastly raised. Brutishness is eliminated. All have some inkling of the humanities, some appreciation of the things of the mind, and an admiration for the still higher culture they have fallen short of. They have become capable of receiving and imparting, in various degrees, but all in some measure, the pleasures and inspirations of a refined social life. The cultured society of the nineteenth century--what did it consist of but here and there a few microscopic oases in a vast, unbroken wilderness? The proportion of individuals capable of intellectual sympathies or refined intercourse, to the mass of their contemporaries, used to be so infinitesimal as to be in any broad view of humanity scarcely worth mentioning. One generation of the world to-day represents a greater volume of intellectual life than any five centuries ever did before. "There is still another point I should mention in stating the grounds on which nothing less than the universality of the best education could now be tolerated," continued Dr. Leete, "and that is, the interest of the coming generation in having educated parents. To put the matter in a nutshell, there are three main grounds on which our educational system rests: first, the right of every man to the completest education the nation can give him on his own account, as necessary to his enjoyment of himself; second, the right of his fellow-citizens to have him educated, as necessary to their enjoyment of his society; third, the right of the unborn to be guaranteed an intelligent and refined parentage." I shall not describe in detail what I saw in the schools that day. Having taken but slight interest in educational matters in my former life, I could offer few comparisons of interest. Next to the fact of the universality of the higher as well as the lower education, I was most struck with the prominence given to physical culture, and the fact that proficiency in athletic feats and games as well as in scholarship had a place in the rating of the youth. "The faculty of education," Dr. Leete explained, "is held to the same responsibility for the bodies as for the minds of its charges. The highest possible physical, as well as mental, development of every one is the double object of a curriculum which lasts from the age of six to that of twenty-one." The magnificent health of the young people in the schools impressed me strongly. My previous observations, not only of the notable personal endowments of the family of my host, but of the people I had seen in my walks abroad, had already suggested the idea that there must have been something like a general improvement in the physical standard of the race since my day, and now, as I compared these stalwart young men and fresh, vigorous maidens with the young people I had seen in the schools of the nineteenth century, I was moved to impart my thought to Dr. Leete. He listened with great interest to what I said. "Your testimony on this point," he declared, "is invaluable. We believe that there has been such an improvement as you speak of, but of course it could only be a matter of theory with us. It is an incident of your unique position that you alone in the world of to-day can speak with authority on this point. Your opinion, when you state it publicly, will, I assure you, make a profound sensation. For the rest it would be strange, certainly, if the race did not show an improvement. In your day, riches debauched one class with idleness of mind and body, while poverty sapped the vitality of the masses by overwork, bad food, and pestilent homes. The labor required of children, and the burdens laid on women, enfeebled the very springs of life. Instead of these maleficent circumstances, all now enjoy the most favorable conditions of physical life; the young are carefully nurtured and studiously cared for; the labor which is required of all is limited to the period of greatest bodily vigor, and is never excessive; care for one's self and one's family, anxiety as to livelihood, the strain of a ceaseless battle for life--all these influences, which once did so much to wreck the minds and bodies of men and women, are known no more. Certainly, an improvement of the species ought to follow such a change. In certain specific respects we know, indeed, that the improvement has taken place. Insanity, for instance, which in the nineteenth century was so terribly common a product of your insane mode of life, has almost disappeared, with its alternative, suicide." Chapter 22 We had made an appointment to meet the ladies at the dining-hall for dinner, after which, having some engagement, they left us sitting at table there, discussing our wine and cigars with a multitude of other matters. "Doctor," said I, in the course of our talk, "morally speaking, your social system is one which I should be insensate not to admire in comparison with any previously in vogue in the world, and especially with that of my own most unhappy century. If I were to fall into a mesmeric sleep tonight as lasting as that other and meanwhile the course of time were to take a turn backward instead of forward, and I were to wake up again in the nineteenth century, when I had told my friends what I had seen, they would every one admit that your world was a paradise of order, equity, and felicity. But they were a very practical people, my contemporaries, and after expressing their admiration for the moral beauty and material splendor of the system, they would presently begin to cipher and ask how you got the money to make everybody so happy; for certainly, to support the whole nation at a rate of comfort, and even luxury, such as I see around me, must involve vastly greater wealth than the nation produced in my day. Now, while I could explain to them pretty nearly everything else of the main features of your system, I should quite fail to answer this question, and failing there, they would tell me, for they were very close cipherers, that I had been dreaming; nor would they ever believe anything else. In my day, I know that the total annual product of the nation, although it might have been divided with absolute equality, would not have come to more than three or four hundred dollars per head, not very much more than enough to supply the necessities of life with few or any of its comforts. How is it that you have so much more?" "That is a very pertinent question, Mr. West," replied Dr. Leete, "and I should not blame your friends, in the case you supposed, if they declared your story all moonshine, failing a satisfactory reply to it. It is a question which I cannot answer exhaustively at any one sitting, and as for the exact statistics to bear out my general statements, I shall have to refer you for them to books in my library, but it would certainly be a pity to leave you to be put to confusion by your old acquaintances, in case of the contingency you speak of, for lack of a few suggestions. "Let us begin with a number of small items wherein we economize wealth as compared with you. We have no national, state, county, or municipal debts, or payments on their account. We have no sort of military or naval expenditures for men or materials, no army, navy, or militia. We have no revenue service, no swarm of tax assessors and collectors. As regards our judiciary, police, sheriffs, and jailers, the force which Massachusetts alone kept on foot in your day far more than suffices for the nation now. We have no criminal class preying upon the wealth of society as you had. The number of persons, more or less absolutely lost to the working force through physical disability, of the lame, sick, and debilitated, which constituted such a burden on the able-bodied in your day, now that all live under conditions of health and comfort, has shrunk to scarcely perceptible proportions, and with every generation is becoming more completely eliminated. "Another item wherein we save is the disuse of money and the thousand occupations connected with financial operations of all sorts, whereby an army of men was formerly taken away from useful employments. Also consider that the waste of the very rich in your day on inordinate personal luxury has ceased, though, indeed, this item might easily be over-estimated. Again, consider that there are no idlers now, rich or poor--no drones. "A very important cause of former poverty was the vast waste of labor and materials which resulted from domestic washing and cooking, and the performing separately of innumerable other tasks to which we apply the cooperative plan. "A larger economy than any of these--yes, of all together--is effected by the organization of our distributing system, by which the work done once by the merchants, traders, storekeepers, with their various grades of jobbers, wholesalers, retailers, agents, commercial travelers, and middlemen of all sorts, with an excessive waste of energy in needless transportation and interminable handlings, is performed by one tenth the number of hands and an unnecessary turn of not one wheel. Something of what our distributing system is like you know. Our statisticians calculate that one eightieth part of our workers suffices for all the processes of distribution which in your day required one eighth of the population, so much being withdrawn from the force engaged in productive labor." "I begin to see," I said, "where you get your greater wealth." "I beg your pardon," replied Dr. Leete, "but you scarcely do as yet. The economies I have mentioned thus far, in the aggregate, considering the labor they would save directly and indirectly through saving of material, might possibly be equivalent to the addition to your annual production of wealth of one half its former total. These items are, however, scarcely worth mentioning in comparison with other prodigious wastes, now saved, which resulted inevitably from leaving the industries of the nation to private enterprise. However great the economies your contemporaries might have devised in the consumption of products, and however marvelous the progress of mechanical invention, they could never have raised themselves out of the slough of poverty so long as they held to that system. "No mode more wasteful for utilizing human energy could be devised, and for the credit of the human intellect it should be remembered that the system never was devised, but was merely a survival from the rude ages when the lack of social organization made any sort of cooperation impossible." "I will readily admit," I said, "that our industrial system was ethically very bad, but as a mere wealth-making machine, apart from moral aspects, it seemed to us admirable." "As I said," responded the doctor, "the subject is too large to discuss at length now, but if you are really interested to know the main criticisms which we moderns make on your industrial system as compared with our own, I can touch briefly on some of them. "The wastes which resulted from leaving the conduct of industry to irresponsible individuals, wholly without mutual understanding or concert, were mainly four: first, the waste by mistaken undertakings; second, the waste from the competition and mutual hostility of those engaged in industry; third, the waste by periodical gluts and crises, with the consequent interruptions of industry; fourth, the waste from idle capital and labor, at all times. Any one of these four great leaks, were all the others stopped, would suffice to make the difference between wealth and poverty on the part of a nation. "Take the waste by mistaken undertakings, to begin with. In your day the production and distribution of commodities being without concert or organization, there was no means of knowing just what demand there was for any class of products, or what was the rate of supply. Therefore, any enterprise by a private capitalist was always a doubtful experiment. The projector having no general view of the field of industry and consumption, such as our government has, could never be sure either what the people wanted, or what arrangements other capitalists were making to supply them. In view of this, we are not surprised to learn that the chances were considered several to one in favor of the failure of any given business enterprise, and that it was common for persons who at last succeeded in making a hit to have failed repeatedly. If a shoemaker, for every pair of shoes he succeeded in completing, spoiled the leather of four or five pair, besides losing the time spent on them, he would stand about the same chance of getting rich as your contemporaries did with their system of private enterprise, and its average of four or five failures to one success. "The next of the great wastes was that from competition. The field of industry was a battlefield as wide as the world, in which the workers wasted, in assailing one another, energies which, if expended in concerted effort, as to-day, would have enriched all. As for mercy or quarter in this warfare, there was absolutely no suggestion of it. To deliberately enter a field of business and destroy the enterprises of those who had occupied it previously, in order to plant one's own enterprise on their ruins, was an achievement which never failed to command popular admiration. Nor is there any stretch of fancy in comparing this sort of struggle with actual warfare, so far as concerns the mental agony and physical suffering which attended the struggle, and the misery which overwhelmed the defeated and those dependent on them. Now nothing about your age is, at first sight, more astounding to a man of modern times than the fact that men engaged in the same industry, instead of fraternizing as comrades and co-laborers to a common end, should have regarded each other as rivals and enemies to be throttled and overthrown. This certainly seems like sheer madness, a scene from bedlam. But more closely regarded, it is seen to be no such thing. Your contemporaries, with their mutual throat-cutting, knew very well what they were at. The producers of the nineteenth century were not, like ours, working together for the maintenance of the community, but each solely for his own maintenance at the expense of the community. If, in working to this end, he at the same time increased the aggregate wealth, that was merely incidental. It was just as feasible and as common to increase one's private hoard by practices injurious to the general welfare. One's worst enemies were necessarily those of his own trade, for, under your plan of making private profit the motive of production, a scarcity of the article he produced was what each particular producer desired. It was for his interest that no more of it should be produced than he himself could produce. To secure this consummation as far as circumstances permitted, by killing off and discouraging those engaged in his line of industry, was his constant effort. When he had killed off all he could, his policy was to combine with those he could not kill, and convert their mutual warfare into a warfare upon the public at large by cornering the market, as I believe you used to call it, and putting up prices to the highest point people would stand before going without the goods. The day dream of the nineteenth century producer was to gain absolute control of the supply of some necessity of life, so that he might keep the public at the verge of starvation, and always command famine prices for what he supplied. This, Mr. West, is what was called in the nineteenth century a system of production. I will leave it to you if it does not seem, in some of its aspects, a great deal more like a system for preventing production. Some time when we have plenty of leisure I am going to ask you to sit down with me and try to make me comprehend, as I never yet could, though I have studied the matter a great deal how such shrewd fellows as your contemporaries appear to have been in many respects ever came to entrust the business of providing for the community to a class whose interest it was to starve it. I assure you that the wonder with us is, not that the world did not get rich under such a system, but that it did not perish outright from want. This wonder increases as we go on to consider some of the other prodigious wastes that characterized it. "Apart from the waste of labor and capital by misdirected industry, and that from the constant bloodletting of your industrial warfare, your system was liable to periodical convulsions, overwhelming alike the wise and unwise, the successful cut-throat as well as his victim. I refer to the business crises at intervals of five to ten years, which wrecked the industries of the nation, prostrating all weak enterprises and crippling the strongest, and were followed by long periods, often of many years, of so-called dull times, during which the capitalists slowly regathered their dissipated strength while the laboring classes starved and rioted. Then would ensue another brief season of prosperity, followed in turn by another crisis and the ensuing years of exhaustion. As commerce developed, making the nations mutually dependent, these crises became world-wide, while the obstinacy of the ensuing state of collapse increased with the area affected by the convulsions, and the consequent lack of rallying centres. In proportion as the industries of the world multiplied and became complex, and the volume of capital involved was increased, these business cataclysms became more frequent, till, in the latter part of the nineteenth century, there were two years of bad times to one of good, and the system of industry, never before so extended or so imposing, seemed in danger of collapsing by its own weight. After endless discussions, your economists appear by that time to have settled down to the despairing conclusion that there was no more possibility of preventing or controlling these crises than if they had been drouths or hurricanes. It only remained to endure them as necessary evils, and when they had passed over to build up again the shattered structure of industry, as dwellers in an earthquake country keep on rebuilding their cities on the same site. "So far as considering the causes of the trouble inherent in their industrial system, your contemporaries were certainly correct. They were in its very basis, and must needs become more and more maleficent as the business fabric grew in size and complexity. One of these causes was the lack of any common control of the different industries, and the consequent impossibility of their orderly and coordinate development. It inevitably resulted from this lack that they were continually getting out of step with one another and out of relation with the demand. "Of the latter there was no criterion such as organized distribution gives us, and the first notice that it had been exceeded in any group of industries was a crash of prices, bankruptcy of producers, stoppage of production, reduction of wages, or discharge of workmen. This process was constantly going on in many industries, even in what were called good times, but a crisis took place only when the industries affected were extensive. The markets then were glutted with goods, of which nobody wanted beyond a sufficiency at any price. The wages and profits of those making the glutted classes of goods being reduced or wholly stopped, their purchasing power as consumers of other classes of goods, of which there were no natural glut, was taken away, and, as a consequence, goods of which there was no natural glut became artificially glutted, till their prices also were broken down, and their makers thrown out of work and deprived of income. The crisis was by this time fairly under way, and nothing could check it till a nation's ransom had been wasted. "A cause, also inherent in your system, which often produced and always terribly aggravated crises, was the machinery of money and credit. Money was essential when production was in many private hands, and buying and selling was necessary to secure what one wanted. It was, however, open to the obvious objection of substituting for food, clothing, and other things a merely conventional representative of them. The confusion of mind which this favored, between goods and their representative, led the way to the credit system and its prodigious illusions. Already accustomed to accept money for commodities, the people next accepted promises for money, and ceased to look at all behind the representative for the thing represented. Money was a sign of real commodities, but credit was but the sign of a sign. There was a natural limit to gold and silver, that is, money proper, but none to credit, and the result was that the volume of credit, that is, the promises of money, ceased to bear any ascertainable proportion to the money, still less to the commodities, actually in existence. Under such a system, frequent and periodical crises were necessitated by a law as absolute as that which brings to the ground a structure overhanging its centre of gravity. It was one of your fictions that the government and the banks authorized by it alone issued money; but everybody who gave a dollar's credit issued money to that extent, which was as good as any to swell the circulation till the next crises. The great extension of the credit system was a characteristic of the latter part of the nineteenth century, and accounts largely for the almost incessant business crises which marked that period. Perilous as credit was, you could not dispense with its use, for, lacking any national or other public organization of the capital of the country, it was the only means you had for concentrating and directing it upon industrial enterprises. It was in this way a most potent means for exaggerating the chief peril of the private enterprise system of industry by enabling particular industries to absorb disproportionate amounts of the disposable capital of the country, and thus prepare disaster. Business enterprises were always vastly in debt for advances of credit, both to one another and to the banks and capitalists, and the prompt withdrawal of this credit at the first sign of a crisis was generally the precipitating cause of it. "It was the misfortune of your contemporaries that they had to cement their business fabric with a material which an accident might at any moment turn into an explosive. They were in the plight of a man building a house with dynamite for mortar, for credit can be compared with nothing else. "If you would see how needless were these convulsions of business which I have been speaking of, and how entirely they resulted from leaving industry to private and unorganized management, just consider the working of our system. Overproduction in special lines, which was the great hobgoblin of your day, is impossible now, for by the connection between distribution and production supply is geared to demand like an engine to the governor which regulates its speed. Even suppose by an error of judgment an excessive production of some commodity. The consequent slackening or cessation of production in that line throws nobody out of employment. The suspended workers are at once found occupation in some other department of the vast workshop and lose only the time spent in changing, while, as for the glut, the business of the nation is large enough to carry any amount of product manufactured in excess of demand till the latter overtakes it. In such a case of over-production, as I have supposed, there is not with us, as with you, any complex machinery to get out of order and magnify a thousand times the original mistake. Of course, having not even money, we still less have credit. All estimates deal directly with the real things, the flour, iron, wood, wool, and labor, of which money and credit were for you the very misleading representatives. In our calculation of cost there can be no mistakes. Out of the annual product the amount necessary for the support of the people is taken, and the requisite labor to produce the next year's consumption provided for. The residue of the material and labor represents what can be safely expended in improvements. If the crops are bad, the surplus for that year is less than usual, that is all. Except for slight occasional effects of such natural causes, there are no fluctuations of business; the material prosperity of the nation flows on uninterruptedly from generation to generation, like an ever broadening and deepening river. "Your business crises, Mr. West," continued the doctor, "like either of the great wastes I mentioned before, were enough, alone, to have kept your noses to the grindstone forever; but I have still to speak of one other great cause of your poverty, and that was the idleness of a great part of your capital and labor. With us it is the business of the administration to keep in constant employment every ounce of available capital and labor in the country. In your day there was no general control of either capital or labor, and a large part of both failed to find employment. 'Capital,' you used to say, 'is naturally timid,' and it would certainly have been reckless if it had not been timid in an epoch when there was a large preponderance of probability that any particular business venture would end in failure. There was no time when, if security could have been guaranteed it, the amount of capital devoted to productive industry could not have been greatly increased. The proportion of it so employed underwent constant extraordinary fluctuations, according to the greater or less feeling of uncertainty as to the stability of the industrial situation, so that the output of the national industries greatly varied in different years. But for the same reason that the amount of capital employed at times of special insecurity was far less than at times of somewhat greater security, a very large proportion was never employed at all, because the hazard of business was always very great in the best of times. "It should be also noted that the great amount of capital always seeking employment where tolerable safety could be insured terribly embittered the competition between capitalists when a promising opening presented itself. The idleness of capital, the result of its timidity, of course meant the idleness of labor in corresponding degree. Moreover, every change in the adjustments of business, every slightest alteration in the condition of commerce or manufactures, not to speak of the innumerable business failures that took place yearly, even in the best of times, were constantly throwing a multitude of men out of employment for periods of weeks or months, or even years. A great number of these seekers after employment were constantly traversing the country, becoming in time professional vagabonds, then criminals. 'Give us work!' was the cry of an army of the unemployed at nearly all seasons, and in seasons of dullness in business this army swelled to a host so vast and desperate as to threaten the stability of the government. Could there conceivably be a more conclusive demonstration of the imbecility of the system of private enterprise as a method for enriching a nation than the fact that, in an age of such general poverty and want of everything, capitalists had to throttle one another to find a safe chance to invest their capital and workmen rioted and burned because they could find no work to do? "Now, Mr. West," continued Dr. Leete, "I want you to bear in mind that these points of which I have been speaking indicate only negatively the advantages of the national organization of industry by showing certain fatal defects and prodigious imbecilities of the systems of private enterprise which are not found in it. These alone, you must admit, would pretty well explain why the nation is so much richer than in your day. But the larger half of our advantage over you, the positive side of it, I have yet barely spoken of. Supposing the system of private enterprise in industry were without any of the great leaks I have mentioned; that there were no waste on account of misdirected effort growing out of mistakes as to the demand, and inability to command a general view of the industrial field. Suppose, also, there were no neutralizing and duplicating of effort from competition. Suppose, also, there were no waste from business panics and crises through bankruptcy and long interruptions of industry, and also none from the idleness of capital and labor. Supposing these evils, which are essential to the conduct of industry by capital in private hands, could all be miraculously prevented, and the system yet retained; even then the superiority of the results attained by the modern industrial system of national control would remain overwhelming. "You used to have some pretty large textile manufacturing establishments, even in your day, although not comparable with ours. No doubt you have visited these great mills in your time, covering acres of ground, employing thousands of hands, and combining under one roof, under one control, the hundred distinct processes between, say, the cotton bale and the bale of glossy calicoes. You have admired the vast economy of labor as of mechanical force resulting from the perfect interworking with the rest of every wheel and every hand. No doubt you have reflected how much less the same force of workers employed in that factory would accomplish if they were scattered, each man working independently. Would you think it an exaggeration to say that the utmost product of those workers, working thus apart, however amicable their relations might be, was increased not merely by a percentage, but many fold, when their efforts were organized under one control? Well now, Mr. West, the organization of the industry of the nation under a single control, so that all its processes interlock, has multiplied the total product over the utmost that could be done under the former system, even leaving out of account the four great wastes mentioned, in the same proportion that the product of those millworkers was increased by cooperation. The effectiveness of the working force of a nation, under the myriad-headed leadership of private capital, even if the leaders were not mutual enemies, as compared with that which it attains under a single head, may be likened to the military efficiency of a mob, or a horde of barbarians with a thousand petty chiefs, as compared with that of a disciplined army under one general--such a fighting machine, for example, as the German army in the time of Von Moltke." "After what you have told me," I said, "I do not so much wonder that the nation is richer now than then, but that you are not all Croesuses." "Well," replied Dr. Leete, "we are pretty well off. The rate at which we live is as luxurious as we could wish. The rivalry of ostentation, which in your day led to extravagance in no way conducive to comfort, finds no place, of course, in a society of people absolutely equal in resources, and our ambition stops at the surroundings which minister to the enjoyment of life. We might, indeed, have much larger incomes, individually, if we chose so to use the surplus of our product, but we prefer to expend it upon public works and pleasures in which all share, upon public halls and buildings, art galleries, bridges, statuary, means of transit, and the conveniences of our cities, great musical and theatrical exhibitions, and in providing on a vast scale for the recreations of the people. You have not begun to see how we live yet, Mr. West. At home we have comfort, but the splendor of our life is, on its social side, that which we share with our fellows. When you know more of it you will see where the money goes, as you used to say, and I think you will agree that we do well so to expend it." "I suppose," observed Dr. Leete, as we strolled homeward from the dining hall, "that no reflection would have cut the men of your wealth-worshiping century more keenly than the suggestion that they did not know how to make money. Nevertheless that is just the verdict history has passed on them. Their system of unorganized and antagonistic industries was as absurd economically as it was morally abominable. Selfishness was their only science, and in industrial production selfishness is suicide. Competition, which is the instinct of selfishness, is another word for dissipation of energy, while combination is the secret of efficient production; and not till the idea of increasing the individual hoard gives place to the idea of increasing the common stock can industrial combination be realized, and the acquisition of wealth really begin. Even if the principle of share and share alike for all men were not the only humane and rational basis for a society, we should still enforce it as economically expedient, seeing that until the disintegrating influence of self-seeking is suppressed no true concert of industry is possible." Chapter 23 That evening, as I sat with Edith in the music room, listening to some pieces in the programme of that day which had attracted my notice, I took advantage of an interval in the music to say, "I have a question to ask you which I fear is rather indiscreet." "I am quite sure it is not that," she replied, encouragingly. "I am in the position of an eavesdropper," I continued, "who, having overheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming to concern him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest." "An eavesdropper!" she repeated, looking puzzled. "Yes," I said, "but an excusable one, as I think you will admit." "This is very mysterious," she replied. "Yes," said I, "so mysterious that often I have doubted whether I really overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or only dreamed it. I want you to tell me. The matter is this: When I was coming out of that sleep of a century, the first impression of which I was conscious was of voices talking around me, voices that afterwards I recognized as your father's, your mother's, and your own. First, I remember your father's voice saying, "He is going to open his eyes. He had better see but one person at first." Then you said, if I did not dream it all, "Promise me, then, that you will not tell him." Your father seemed to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and your mother interposing, he finally promised, and when I opened my eyes I saw only him." I had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I had not dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so incomprehensible was it that these people should know anything of me, a contemporary of their great-grandparents, which I did not know myself. But when I saw the effect of my words upon Edith, I knew that it was no dream, but another mystery, and a more puzzling one than any I had before encountered. For from the moment that the drift of my question became apparent, she showed indications of the most acute embarrassment. Her eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had dropped in a panic before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to forehead. "Pardon me," I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment at the extraordinary effect of my words. "It seems, then, that I was not dreaming. There is some secret, something about me, which you are withholding from me. Really, doesn't it seem a little hard that a person in my position should not be given all the information possible concerning himself?" "It does not concern you--that is, not directly. It is not about you exactly," she replied, scarcely audibly. "But it concerns me in some way," I persisted. "It must be something that would interest me." "I don't know even that," she replied, venturing a momentary glance at my face, furiously blushing, and yet with a quaint smile flickering about her lips which betrayed a certain perception of humor in the situation despite its embarrassment,--"I am not sure that it would even interest you." "Your father would have told me," I insisted, with an accent of reproach. "It was you who forbade him. He thought I ought to know." She did not reply. She was so entirely charming in her confusion that I was now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation as by my original curiosity, to importune her further. "Am I never to know? Will you never tell me?" I said. "It depends," she answered, after a long pause. "On what?" I persisted. "Ah, you ask too much," she replied. Then, raising to mine a face which inscrutable eyes, flushed cheeks, and smiling lips combined to render perfectly bewitching, she added, "What should you think if I said that it depended on--yourself?" "On myself?" I echoed. "How can that possibly be?" "Mr. West, we are losing some charming music," was her only reply to this, and turning to the telephone, at a touch of her finger she set the air to swaying to the rhythm of an adagio. After that she took good care that the music should leave no opportunity for conversation. She kept her face averted from me, and pretended to be absorbed in the airs, but that it was a mere pretense the crimson tide standing at flood in her cheeks sufficiently betrayed. When at length she suggested that I might have heard all I cared to, for that time, and we rose to leave the room, she came straight up to me and said, without raising her eyes, "Mr. West, you say I have been good to you. I have not been particularly so, but if you think I have, I want you to promise me that you will not try again to make me tell you this thing you have asked to-night, and that you will not try to find it out from any one else,--my father or mother, for instance." To such an appeal there was but one reply possible. "Forgive me for distressing you. Of course I will promise," I said. "I would never have asked you if I had fancied it could distress you. But do you blame me for being curious?" "I do not blame you at all." "And some time," I added, "if I do not tease you, you may tell me of your own accord. May I not hope so?" "Perhaps," she murmured. "Only perhaps?" Looking up, she read my face with a quick, deep glance. "Yes," she said, "I think I may tell you--some time": and so our conversation ended, for she gave me no chance to say anything more. That night I don't think even Dr. Pillsbury could have put me to sleep, till toward morning at least. Mysteries had been my accustomed food for days now, but none had before confronted me at once so mysterious and so fascinating as this, the solution of which Edith Leete had forbidden me even to seek. It was a double mystery. How, in the first place, was it conceivable that she should know any secret about me, a stranger from a strange age? In the second place, even if she should know such a secret, how account for the agitating effect which the knowledge of it seemed to have upon her? There are puzzles so difficult that one cannot even get so far as a conjecture as to the solution, and this seemed one of them. I am usually of too practical a turn to waste time on such conundrums; but the difficulty of a riddle embodied in a beautiful young girl does not detract from its fascination. In general, no doubt, maidens' blushes may be safely assumed to tell the same tale to young men in all ages and races, but to give that interpretation to Edith's crimson cheeks would, considering my position and the length of time I had known her, and still more the fact that this mystery dated from before I had known her at all, be a piece of utter fatuity. And yet she was an angel, and I should not have been a young man if reason and common sense had been able quite to banish a roseate tinge from my dreams that night. Chapter 24 In the morning I went down stairs early in the hope of seeing Edith alone. In this, however, I was disappointed. Not finding her in the house, I sought her in the garden, but she was not there. In the course of my wanderings I visited the underground chamber, and sat down there to rest. Upon the reading table in the chamber several periodicals and newspapers lay, and thinking that Dr. Leete might be interested in glancing over a Boston daily of 1887, I brought one of the papers with me into the house when I came. At breakfast I met Edith. She blushed as she greeted me, but was perfectly self-possessed. As we sat at table, Dr. Leete amused himself with looking over the paper I had brought in. There was in it, as in all the newspapers of that date, a great deal about the labor troubles, strikes, lockouts, boycotts, the programmes of labor parties, and the wild threats of the anarchists. "By the way," said I, as the doctor read aloud to us some of these items, "what part did the followers of the red flag take in the establishment of the new order of things? They were making considerable noise the last thing that I knew." "They had nothing to do with it except to hinder it, of course," replied Dr. Leete. "They did that very effectually while they lasted, for their talk so disgusted people as to deprive the best considered projects for social reform of a hearing. The subsidizing of those fellows was one of the shrewdest moves of the opponents of reform." "Subsidizing them!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "Certainly," replied Dr. Leete. "No historical authority nowadays doubts that they were paid by the great monopolies to wave the red flag and talk about burning, sacking, and blowing people up, in order, by alarming the timid, to head off any real reforms. What astonishes me most is that you should have fallen into the trap so unsuspectingly." "What are your grounds for believing that the red flag party was subsidized?" I inquired. "Why simply because they must have seen that their course made a thousand enemies of their professed cause to one friend. Not to suppose that they were hired for the work is to credit them with an inconceivable folly.[1] In the United States, of all countries, no party could intelligently expect to carry its point without first winning over to its ideas a majority of the nation, as the national party eventually did." "The national party!" I exclaimed. "That must have arisen after my day. I suppose it was one of the labor parties." "Oh no!" replied the doctor. "The labor parties, as such, never could have accomplished anything on a large or permanent scale. For purposes of national scope, their basis as merely class organizations was too narrow. It was not till a rearrangement of the industrial and social system on a higher ethical basis, and for the more efficient production of wealth, was recognized as the interest, not of one class, but equally of all classes, of rich and poor, cultured and ignorant, old and young, weak and strong, men and women, that there was any prospect that it would be achieved. Then the national party arose to carry it out by political methods. It probably took that name because its aim was to nationalize the functions of production and distribution. Indeed, it could not well have had any other name, for its purpose was to realize the idea of the nation with a grandeur and completeness never before conceived, not as an association of men for certain merely political functions affecting their happiness only remotely and superficially, but as a family, a vital union, a common life, a mighty heaven-touching tree whose leaves are its people, fed from its veins, and feeding it in turn. The most patriotic of all possible parties, it sought to justify patriotism and raise it from an instinct to a rational devotion, by making the native land truly a father land, a father who kept the people alive and was not merely an idol for which they were expected to die." [1] I fully admit the difficulty of accounting for the course of the anarchists on any other theory than that they were subsidized by the capitalists, but at the same time, there is no doubt that the theory is wholly erroneous. It certainly was not held at the time by any one, though it may seem so obvious in the retrospect. Chapter 25 The personality of Edith Leete had naturally impressed me strongly ever since I had come, in so strange a manner, to be an inmate of her father's house, and it was to be expected that after what had happened the night previous, I should be more than ever preoccupied with thoughts of her. From the first I had been struck with the air of serene frankness and ingenuous directness, more like that of a noble and innocent boy than any girl I had ever known, which characterized her. I was curious to know how far this charming quality might be peculiar to herself, and how far possibly a result of alterations in the social position of women which might have taken place since my time. Finding an opportunity that day, when alone with Dr. Leete, I turned the conversation in that direction. "I suppose," I said, "that women nowadays, having been relieved of the burden of housework, have no employment but the cultivation of their charms and graces." "So far as we men are concerned," replied Dr. Leete, "we should consider that they amply paid their way, to use one of your forms of expression, if they confined themselves to that occupation, but you may be very sure that they have quite too much spirit to consent to be mere beneficiaries of society, even as a return for ornamenting it. They did, indeed, welcome their riddance from housework, because that was not only exceptionally wearing in itself, but also wasteful, in the extreme, of energy, as compared with the cooperative plan; but they accepted relief from that sort of work only that they might contribute in other and more effectual, as well as more agreeable, ways to the common weal. Our women, as well as our men, are members of the industrial army, and leave it only when maternal duties claim them. The result is that most women, at one time or another of their lives, serve industrially some five or ten or fifteen years, while those who have no children fill out the full term." "A woman does not, then, necessarily leave the industrial service on marriage?" I queried. "No more than a man," replied the doctor. "Why on earth should she? Married women have no housekeeping responsibilities now, you know, and a husband is not a baby that he should be cared for." "It was thought one of the most grievous features of our civilization that we required so much toil from women," I said; "but it seems to me you get more out of them than we did." Dr. Leete laughed. "Indeed we do, just as we do out of our men. Yet the women of this age are very happy, and those of the nineteenth century, unless contemporary references greatly mislead us, were very miserable. The reason that women nowadays are so much more efficient colaborers with the men, and at the same time are so happy, is that, in regard to their work as well as men's, we follow the principle of providing every one the kind of occupation he or she is best adapted to. Women being inferior in strength to men, and further disqualified industrially in special ways, the kinds of occupation reserved for them, and the conditions under which they pursue them, have reference to these facts. The heavier sorts of work are everywhere reserved for men, the lighter occupations for women. Under no circumstances is a woman permitted to follow any employment not perfectly adapted, both as to kind and degree of labor, to her sex. Moreover, the hours of women's work are considerably shorter than those of men's, more frequent vacations are granted, and the most careful provision is made for rest when needed. The men of this day so well appreciate that they owe to the beauty and grace of women the chief zest of their lives and their main incentive to effort, that they permit them to work at all only because it is fully understood that a certain regular requirement of labor, of a sort adapted to their powers, is well for body and mind, during the period of maximum physical vigor. We believe that the magnificent health which distinguishes our women from those of your day, who seem to have been so generally sickly, is owing largely to the fact that all alike are furnished with healthful and inspiriting occupation." "I understood you," I said, "that the women-workers belong to the army of industry, but how can they be under the same system of ranking and discipline with the men, when the conditions of their labor are so different?" "They are under an entirely different discipline," replied Dr. Leete, "and constitute rather an allied force than an integral part of the army of the men. They have a woman general-in-chief and are under exclusively feminine regime. This general, as also the higher officers, is chosen by the body of women who have passed the time of service, in correspondence with the manner in which the chiefs of the masculine army and the President of the nation are elected. The general of the women's army sits in the cabinet of the President and has a veto on measures respecting women's work, pending appeals to Congress. I should have said, in speaking of the judiciary, that we have women on the bench, appointed by the general of the women, as well as men. Causes in which both parties are women are determined by women judges, and where a man and a woman are parties to a case, a judge of either sex must consent to the verdict." "Womanhood seems to be organized as a sort of imperium in imperio in your system," I said. "To some extent," Dr. Leete replied; "but the inner imperium is one from which you will admit there is not likely to be much danger to the nation. The lack of some such recognition of the distinct individuality of the sexes was one of the innumerable defects of your society. The passional attraction between men and women has too often prevented a perception of the profound differences which make the members of each sex in many things strange to the other, and capable of sympathy only with their own. It is in giving full play to the differences of sex rather than in seeking to obliterate them, as was apparently the effort of some reformers in your day, that the enjoyment of each by itself and the piquancy which each has for the other, are alike enhanced. In your day there was no career for women except in an unnatural rivalry with men. We have given them a world of their own, with its emulations, ambitions, and careers, and I assure you they are very happy in it. It seems to us that women were more than any other class the victims of your civilization. There is something which, even at this distance of time, penetrates one with pathos in the spectacle of their ennuied, undeveloped lives, stunted at marriage, their narrow horizon, bounded so often, physically, by the four walls of home, and morally by a petty circle of personal interests. I speak now, not of the poorer classes, who were generally worked to death, but also of the well-to-do and rich. From the great sorrows, as well as the petty frets of life, they had no refuge in the breezy outdoor world of human affairs, nor any interests save those of the family. Such an existence would have softened men's brains or driven them mad. All that is changed to-day. No woman is heard nowadays wishing she were a man, nor parents desiring boy rather than girl children. Our girls are as full of ambition for their careers as our boys. Marriage, when it comes, does not mean incarceration for them, nor does it separate them in any way from the larger interests of society, the bustling life of the world. Only when maternity fills a woman's mind with new interests does she withdraw from the world for a time. Afterward, and at any time, she may return to her place among her comrades, nor need she ever lose touch with them. Women are a very happy race nowadays, as compared with what they ever were before in the world's history, and their power of giving happiness to men has been of course increased in proportion." "I should imagine it possible," I said, "that the interest which girls take in their careers as members of the industrial army and candidates for its distinctions might have an effect to deter them from marriage." Dr. Leete smiled. "Have no anxiety on that score, Mr. West," he replied. "The Creator took very good care that whatever other modifications the dispositions of men and women might with time take on, their attraction for each other should remain constant. The mere fact that in an age like yours, when the struggle for existence must have left people little time for other thoughts, and the future was so uncertain that to assume parental responsibilities must have often seemed like a criminal risk, there was even then marrying and giving in marriage, should be conclusive on this point. As for love nowadays, one of our authors says that the vacuum left in the minds of men and women by the absence of care for one's livelihood has been entirely taken up by the tender passion. That, however, I beg you to believe, is something of an exaggestion. For the rest, so far is marriage from being an interference with a woman's career, that the higher positions in the feminine army of industry are intrusted only to women who have been both wives and mothers, as they alone fully represent their sex." "Are credit cards issued to the women just as to the men?" "Certainly." "The credits of the women, I suppose, are for smaller sums, owing to the frequent suspension of their labor on account of family responsibilities." "Smaller!" exclaimed Dr. Leete, "oh, no! The maintenance of all our people is the same. There are no exceptions to that rule, but if any difference were made on account of the interruptions you speak of, it would be by making the woman's credit larger, not smaller. Can you think of any service constituting a stronger claim on the nation's gratitude than bearing and nursing the nation's children? According to our view, none deserve so well of the world as good parents. There is no task so unselfish, so necessarily without return, though the heart is well rewarded, as the nurture of the children who are to make the world for one another when we are gone." "It would seem to follow, from what you have said, that wives are in no way dependent on their husbands for maintenance." "Of course they are not," replied Dr. Leete, "nor children on their parents either, that is, for means of support, though of course they are for the offices of affection. The child's labor, when he grows up, will go to increase the common stock, not his parents', who will be dead, and therefore he is properly nurtured out of the common stock. The account of every person, man, woman, and child, you must understand, is always with the nation directly, and never through any intermediary, except, of course, that parents, to a certain extent, act for children as their guardians. You see that it is by virtue of the relation of individuals to the nation, of their membership in it, that they are entitled to support; and this title is in no way connected with or affected by their relations to other individuals who are fellow members of the nation with them. That any person should be dependent for the means of support upon another would be shocking to the moral sense as well as indefensible on any rational social theory. What would become of personal liberty and dignity under such an arrangement? I am aware that you called yourselves free in the nineteenth century. The meaning of the word could not then, however, have been at all what it is at present, or you certainly would not have applied it to a society of which nearly every member was in a position of galling personal dependence upon others as to the very means of life, the poor upon the rich, or employed upon employer, women upon men, children upon parents. Instead of distributing the product of the nation directly to its members, which would seem the most natural and obvious method, it would actually appear that you had given your minds to devising a plan of hand to hand distribution, involving the maximum of personal humiliation to all classes of recipients. "As regards the dependence of women upon men for support, which then was usual, of course, natural attraction in case of marriages of love may often have made it endurable, though for spirited women I should fancy it must always have remained humiliating. What, then, must it have been in the innumerable cases where women, with or without the form of marriage, had to sell themselves to men to get their living? Even your contemporaries, callous as they were to most of the revolting aspects of their society, seem to have had an idea that this was not quite as it should be; but, it was still only for pity's sake that they deplored the lot of the women. It did not occur to them that it was robbery as well as cruelty when men seized for themselves the whole product of the world and left women to beg and wheedle for their share. Why--but bless me, Mr. West, I am really running on at a remarkable rate, just as if the robbery, the sorrow, and the shame which those poor women endured were not over a century since, or as if you were responsible for what you no doubt deplored as much as I do." "I must bear my share of responsibility for the world as it then was," I replied. "All I can say in extenuation is that until the nation was ripe for the present system of organized production and distribution, no radical improvement in the position of woman was possible. The root of her disability, as you say, was her personal dependence upon man for her livelihood, and I can imagine no other mode of social organization than that you have adopted, which would have set woman free of man at the same time that it set men free of one another. I suppose, by the way, that so entire a change in the position of women cannot have taken place without affecting in marked ways the social relations of the sexes. That will be a very interesting study for me." "The change you will observe," said Dr. Leete, "will chiefly be, I think, the entire frankness and unconstraint which now characterizes those relations, as compared with the artificiality which seems to have marked them in your time. The sexes now meet with the ease of perfect equals, suitors to each other for nothing but love. In your time the fact that women were dependent for support on men made the woman in reality the one chiefly benefited by marriage. This fact, so far as we can judge from contemporary records, appears to have been coarsely enough recognized among the lower classes, while among the more polished it was glossed over by a system of elaborate conventionalities which aimed to carry the precisely opposite meaning, namely, that the man was the party chiefly benefited. To keep up this convention it was essential that he should always seem the suitor. Nothing was therefore considered more shocking to the proprieties than that a woman should betray a fondness for a man before he had indicated a desire to marry her. Why, we actually have in our libraries books, by authors of your day, written for no other purpose than to discuss the question whether, under any conceivable circumstances, a woman might, without discredit to her sex, reveal an unsolicited love. All this seems exquisitely absurd to us, and yet we know that, given your circumstances, the problem might have a serious side. When for a woman to proffer her love to a man was in effect to invite him to assume the burden of her support, it is easy to see that pride and delicacy might well have checked the promptings of the heart. When you go out into our society, Mr. West, you must be prepared to be often cross-questioned on this point by our young people, who are naturally much interested in this aspect of old-fashioned manners."[1] "And so the girls of the twentieth century tell their love." "If they choose," replied Dr. Leete. "There is no more pretense of a concealment of feeling on their part than on the part of their lovers. Coquetry would be as much despised in a girl as in a man. Affected coldness, which in your day rarely deceived a lover, would deceive him wholly now, for no one thinks of practicing it." "One result which must follow from the independence of women I can see for myself," I said. "There can be no marriages now except those of inclination." "That is a matter of course," replied Dr. Leete. "Think of a world in which there are nothing but matches of pure love! Ah me, Dr. Leete, how far you are from being able to understand what an astonishing phenomenon such a world seems to a man of the nineteenth century!" "I can, however, to some extent, imagine it," replied the doctor. "But the fact you celebrate, that there are nothing but love matches, means even more, perhaps, than you probably at first realize. It means that for the first time in human history the principle of sexual selection, with its tendency to preserve and transmit the better types of the race, and let the inferior types drop out, has unhindered operation. The necessities of poverty, the need of having a home, no longer tempt women to accept as the fathers of their children men whom they neither can love nor respect. Wealth and rank no longer divert attention from personal qualities. Gold no longer 'gilds the straitened forehead of the fool.' The gifts of person, mind, and disposition; beauty, wit, eloquence, kindness, generosity, geniality, courage, are sure of transmission to posterity. Every generation is sifted through a little finer mesh than the last. The attributes that human nature admires are preserved, those that repel it are left behind. There are, of course, a great many women who with love must mingle admiration, and seek to wed greatly, but these not the less obey the same law, for to wed greatly now is not to marry men of fortune or title, but those who have risen above their fellows by the solidity or brilliance of their services to humanity. These form nowadays the only aristocracy with which alliance is distinction. "You were speaking, a day or two ago, of the physical superiority of our people to your contemporaries. Perhaps more important than any of the causes I mentioned then as tending to race purification has been the effect of untrammeled sexual selection upon the quality of two or three successive generations. I believe that when you have made a fuller study of our people you will find in them not only a physical, but a mental and moral improvement. It would be strange if it were not so, for not only is one of the great laws of nature now freely working out the salvation of the race, but a profound moral sentiment has come to its support. Individualism, which in your day was the animating idea of society, not only was fatal to any vital sentiment of brotherhood and common interest among living men, but equally to any realization of the responsibility of the living for the generation to follow. To-day this sense of responsibility, practically unrecognized in all previous ages, has become one of the great ethical ideas of the race, reinforcing, with an intense conviction of duty, the natural impulse to seek in marriage the best and noblest of the other sex. The result is, that not all the encouragements and incentives of every sort which we have provided to develop industry, talent, genius, excellence of whatever kind, are comparable in their effect on our young men with the fact that our women sit aloft as judges of the race and reserve themselves to reward the winners. Of all the whips, and spurs, and baits, and prizes, there is none like the thought of the radiant faces which the laggards will find averted. "Celibates nowadays are almost invariably men who have failed to acquit themselves creditably in the work of life. The woman must be a courageous one, with a very evil sort of courage, too, whom pity for one of these unfortunates should lead to defy the opinion of her generation--for otherwise she is free--so far as to accept him for a husband. I should add that, more exacting and difficult to resist than any other element in that opinion, she would find the sentiment of her own sex. Our women have risen to the full height of their responsibility as the wardens of the world to come, to whose keeping the keys of the future are confided. Their feeling of duty in this respect amounts to a sense of religious consecration. It is a cult in which they educate their daughters from childhood." After going to my room that night, I sat up late to read a romance of Berrian, handed me by Dr. Leete, the plot of which turned on a situation suggested by his last words, concerning the modern view of parental responsibility. A similar situation would almost certainly have been treated by a nineteenth century romancist so as to excite the morbid sympathy of the reader with the sentimental selfishness of the lovers, and his resentment toward the unwritten law which they outraged. I need not describe--for who has not read "Ruth Elton"?--how different is the course which Berrian takes, and with what tremendous effect he enforces the principle which he states: "Over the unborn our power is that of God, and our responsibility like His toward us. As we acquit ourselves toward them, so let Him deal with us." [1] I may say that Dr. Leete's warning has been fully justified by my experience. The amount and intensity of amusement which the young people of this day, and the young women especially, are able to extract from what they are pleased to call the oddities of courtship in the nineteenth century, appear unlimited. Chapter 26 I think if a person were ever excusable for losing track of the days of the week, the circumstances excused me. Indeed, if I had been told that the method of reckoning time had been wholly changed and the days were now counted in lots of five, ten, or fifteen instead of seven, I should have been in no way surprised after what I had already heard and seen of the twentieth century. The first time that any inquiry as to the days of the week occurred to me was the morning following the conversation related in the last chapter. At the breakfast table Dr. Leete asked me if I would care to hear a sermon. "Is it Sunday, then?" I exclaimed. "Yes," he replied. "It was on Friday, you see, when we made the lucky discovery of the buried chamber to which we owe your society this morning. It was on Saturday morning, soon after midnight, that you first awoke, and Sunday afternoon when you awoke the second time with faculties fully regained." "So you still have Sundays and sermons," I said. "We had prophets who foretold that long before this time the world would have dispensed with both. I am very curious to know how the ecclesiastical systems fit in with the rest of your social arrangements. I suppose you have a sort of national church with official clergymen." Dr. Leete laughed, and Mrs. Leete and Edith seemed greatly amused. "Why, Mr. West," Edith said, "what odd people you must think us. You were quite done with national religious establishments in the nineteenth century, and did you fancy we had gone back to them?" "But how can voluntary churches and an unofficial clerical profession be reconciled with national ownership of all buildings, and the industrial service required of all men?" I answered. "The religious practices of the people have naturally changed considerably in a century," replied Dr. Leete; "but supposing them to have remained unchanged, our social system would accommodate them perfectly. The nation supplies any person or number of persons with buildings on guarantee of the rent, and they remain tenants while they pay it. As for the clergymen, if a number of persons wish the services of an individual for any particular end of their own, apart from the general service of the nation, they can always secure it, with that individual's own consent, of course, just as we secure the service of our editors, by contributing from their credit cards an indemnity to the nation for the loss of his services in general industry. This indemnity paid the nation for the individual answers to the salary in your day paid to the individual himself; and the various applications of this principle leave private initiative full play in all details to which national control is not applicable. Now, as to hearing a sermon to-day, if you wish to do so, you can either go to a church to hear it or stay at home." "How am I to hear it if I stay at home?" "Simply by accompanying us to the music room at the proper hour and selecting an easy chair. There are some who still prefer to hear sermons in church, but most of our preaching, like our musical performances, is not in public, but delivered in acoustically prepared chambers, connected by wire with subscribers' houses. If you prefer to go to a church I shall be glad to accompany you, but I really don't believe you are likely to hear anywhere a better discourse than you will at home. I see by the paper that Mr. Barton is to preach this morning, and he preaches only by telephone, and to audiences often reaching 150,000." "The novelty of the experience of hearing a sermon under such circumstances would incline me to be one of Mr. Barton's hearers, if for no other reason," I said. An hour or two later, as I sat reading in the library, Edith came for me, and I followed her to the music room, where Dr. and Mrs. Leete were waiting. We had not more than seated ourselves comfortably when the tinkle of a bell was heard, and a few moments after the voice of a man, at the pitch of ordinary conversation, addressed us, with an effect of proceeding from an invisible person in the room. This was what the voice said: MR. BARTON'S SERMON "We have had among us, during the past week, a critic from the nineteenth century, a living representative of the epoch of our great-grandparents. It would be strange if a fact so extraordinary had not somewhat strongly affected our imaginations. Perhaps most of us have been stimulated to some effort to realize the society of a century ago, and figure to ourselves what it must have been like to live then. In inviting you now to consider certain reflections upon this subject which have occurred to me, I presume that I shall rather follow than divert the course of your own thoughts." Edith whispered something to her father at this point, to which he nodded assent and turned to me. "Mr. West," he said, "Edith suggests that you may find it slightly embarrassing to listen to a discourse on the lines Mr. Barton is laying down, and if so, you need not be cheated out of a sermon. She will connect us with Mr. Sweetser's speaking room if you say so, and I can still promise you a very good discourse." "No, no," I said. "Believe me, I would much rather hear what Mr. Barton has to say." "As you please," replied my host. When her father spoke to me Edith had touched a screw, and the voice of Mr. Barton had ceased abruptly. Now at another touch the room was once more filled with the earnest sympathetic tones which had already impressed me most favorably. "I venture to assume that one effect has been common with us as a result of this effort at retrospection, and that it has been to leave us more than ever amazed at the stupendous change which one brief century has made in the material and moral conditions of humanity. "Still, as regards the contrast between the poverty of the nation and the world in the nineteenth century and their wealth now, it is not greater, possibly, than had been before seen in human history, perhaps not greater, for example, than that between the poverty of this country during the earliest colonial period of the seventeenth century and the relatively great wealth it had attained at the close of the nineteenth, or between the England of William the Conqueror and that of Victoria. Although the aggregate riches of a nation did not then, as now, afford any accurate criterion of the masses of its people, yet instances like these afford partial parallels for the merely material side of the contrast between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries. It is when we contemplate the moral aspect of that contrast that we find ourselves in the presence of a phenomenon for which history offers no precedent, however far back we may cast our eye. One might almost be excused who should exclaim, 'Here, surely, is something like a miracle!' Nevertheless, when we give over idle wonder, and begin to examine the seeming prodigy critically, we find it no prodigy at all, much less a miracle. It is not necessary to suppose a moral new birth of humanity, or a wholesale destruction of the wicked and survival of the good, to account for the fact before us. It finds its simple and obvious explanation in the reaction of a changed environment upon human nature. It means merely that a form of society which was founded on the pseudo self-interest of selfishness, and appealed solely to the anti-social and brutal side of human nature, has been replaced by institutions based on the true self-interest of a rational unselfishness, and appealing to the social and generous instincts of men. "My friends, if you would see men again the beasts of prey they seemed in the nineteenth century, all you have to do is to restore the old social and industrial system, which taught them to view their natural prey in their fellow-men, and find their gain in the loss of others. No doubt it seems to you that no necessity, however dire, would have tempted you to subsist on what superior skill or strength enabled you to wrest from others equally needy. But suppose it were not merely your own life that you were responsible for. I know well that there must have been many a man among our ancestors who, if it had been merely a question of his own life, would sooner have given it up than nourished it by bread snatched from others. But this he was not permitted to do. He had dear lives dependent on him. Men loved women in those days, as now. God knows how they dared be fathers, but they had babies as sweet, no doubt, to them as ours to us, whom they must feed, clothe, educate. The gentlest creatures are fierce when they have young to provide for, and in that wolfish society the struggle for bread borrowed a peculiar desperation from the tenderest sentiments. For the sake of those dependent on him, a man might not choose, but must plunge into the foul fight--cheat, overreach, supplant, defraud, buy below worth and sell above, break down the business by which his neighbor fed his young ones, tempt men to buy what they ought not and to sell what they should not, grind his laborers, sweat his debtors, cozen his creditors. Though a man sought it carefully with tears, it was hard to find a way in which he could earn a living and provide for his family except by pressing in before some weaker rival and taking the food from his mouth. Even the ministers of religion were not exempt from this cruel necessity. While they warned their flocks against the love of money, regard for their families compelled them to keep an outlook for the pecuniary prizes of their calling. Poor fellows, theirs was indeed a trying business, preaching to men a generosity and unselfishness which they and everybody knew would, in the existing state of the world, reduce to poverty those who should practice them, laying down laws of conduct which the law of self-preservation compelled men to break. Looking on the inhuman spectacle of society, these worthy men bitterly bemoaned the depravity of human nature; as if angelic nature would not have been debauched in such a devil's school! Ah, my friends, believe me, it is not now in this happy age that humanity is proving the divinity within it. It was rather in those evil days when not even the fight for life with one another, the struggle for mere existence, in which mercy was folly, could wholly banish generosity and kindness from the earth. "It is not hard to understand the desperation with which men and women, who under other conditions would have been full of gentleness and truth, fought and tore each other in the scramble for gold, when we realize what it meant to miss it, what poverty was in that day. For the body it was hunger and thirst, torment by heat and frost, in sickness neglect, in health unremitting toil; for the moral nature it meant oppression, contempt, and the patient endurance of indignity, brutish associations from infancy, the loss of all the innocence of childhood, the grace of womanhood, the dignity of manhood; for the mind it meant the death of ignorance, the torpor of all those faculties which distinguish us from brutes, the reduction of life to a round of bodily functions. "Ah, my friends, if such a fate as this were offered you and your children as the only alternative of success in the accumulation of wealth, how long do you fancy would you be in sinking to the moral level of your ancestors? "Some two or three centuries ago an act of barbarity was committed in India, which, though the number of lives destroyed was but a few score, was attended by such peculiar horrors that its memory is likely to be perpetual. A number of English prisoners were shut up in a room containing not enough air to supply one-tenth their number. The unfortunates were gallant men, devoted comrades in service, but, as the agonies of suffocation began to take hold on them, they forgot all else, and became involved in a hideous struggle, each one for himself, and against all others, to force a way to one of the small apertures of the prison at which alone it was possible to get a breath of air. It was a struggle in which men became beasts, and the recital of its horrors by the few survivors so shocked our forefathers that for a century later we find it a stock reference in their literature as a typical illustration of the extreme possibilities of human misery, as shocking in its moral as its physical aspect. They could scarcely have anticipated that to us the Black Hole of Calcutta, with its press of maddened men tearing and trampling one another in the struggle to win a place at the breathing holes, would seem a striking type of the society of their age. It lacked something of being a complete type, however, for in the Calcutta Black Hole there were no tender women, no little children and old men and women, no cripples. They were at least all men, strong to bear, who suffered. "When we reflect that the ancient order of which I have been speaking was prevalent up to the end of the nineteenth century, while to us the new order which succeeded it already seems antique, even our parents having known no other, we cannot fail to be astounded at the suddenness with which a transition so profound beyond all previous experience of the race must have been effected. Some observation of the state of men's minds during the last quarter of the nineteenth century will, however, in great measure, dissipate this astonishment. Though general intelligence in the modern sense could not be said to exist in any community at that time, yet, as compared with previous generations, the one then on the stage was intelligent. The inevitable consequence of even this comparative degree of intelligence had been a perception of the evils of society, such as had never before been general. It is quite true that these evils had been even worse, much worse, in previous ages. It was the increased intelligence of the masses which made the difference, as the dawn reveals the squalor of surroundings which in the darkness may have seemed tolerable. The key-note of the literature of the period was one of compassion for the poor and unfortunate, and indignant outcry against the failure of the social machinery to ameliorate the miseries of men. It is plain from these outbursts that the moral hideousness of the spectacle about them was, at least by flashes, fully realized by the best of the men of that time, and that the lives of some of the more sensitive and generous hearted of them were rendered well nigh unendurable by the intensity of their sympathies. "Although the idea of the vital unity of the family of mankind, the reality of human brotherhood, was very far from being apprehended by them as the moral axiom it seems to us, yet it is a mistake to suppose that there was no feeling at all corresponding to it. I could read you passages of great beauty from some of their writers which show that the conception was clearly attained by a few, and no doubt vaguely by many more. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that the nineteenth century was in name Christian, and the fact that the entire commercial and industrial frame of society was the embodiment of the anti-Christian spirit must have had some weight, though I admit it was strangely little, with the nominal followers of Jesus Christ. "When we inquire why it did not have more, why, in general, long after a vast majority of men had agreed as to the crying abuses of the existing social arrangement, they still tolerated it, or contented themselves with talking of petty reforms in it, we come upon an extraordinary fact. It was the sincere belief of even the best of men at that epoch that the only stable elements in human nature, on which a social system could be safely founded, were its worst propensities. They had been taught and believed that greed and self-seeking were all that held mankind together, and that all human associations would fall to pieces if anything were done to blunt the edge of these motives or curb their operation. In a word, they believed--even those who longed to believe otherwise--the exact reverse of what seems to us self-evident; they believed, that is, that the anti-social qualities of men, and not their social qualities, were what furnished the cohesive force of society. It seemed reasonable to them that men lived together solely for the purpose of overreaching and oppressing one another, and of being overreached and oppressed, and that while a society that gave full scope to these propensities could stand, there would be little chance for one based on the idea of cooperation for the benefit of all. It seems absurd to expect any one to believe that convictions like these were ever seriously entertained by men; but that they were not only entertained by our great-grandfathers, but were responsible for the long delay in doing away with the ancient order, after a conviction of its intolerable abuses had become general, is as well established as any fact in history can be. Just here you will find the explanation of the profound pessimism of the literature of the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the note of melancholy in its poetry, and the cynicism of its humor. "Feeling that the condition of the race was unendurable, they had no clear hope of anything better. They believed that the evolution of humanity had resulted in leading it into a cul de sac, and that there was no way of getting forward. The frame of men's minds at this time is strikingly illustrated by treatises which have come down to us, and may even now be consulted in our libraries by the curious, in which laborious arguments are pursued to prove that despite the evil plight of men, life was still, by some slight preponderance of considerations, probably better worth living than leaving. Despising themselves, they despised their Creator. There was a general decay of religious belief. Pale and watery gleams, from skies thickly veiled by doubt and dread, alone lighted up the chaos of earth. That men should doubt Him whose breath is in their nostrils, or dread the hands that moulded them, seems to us indeed a pitiable insanity; but we must remember that children who are brave by day have sometimes foolish fears at night. The dawn has come since then. It is very easy to believe in the fatherhood of God in the twentieth century. "Briefly, as must needs be in a discourse of this character, I have adverted to some of the causes which had prepared men's minds for the change from the old to the new order, as well as some causes of the conservatism of despair which for a while held it back after the time was ripe. To wonder at the rapidity with which the change was completed after its possibility was first entertained is to forget the intoxicating effect of hope upon minds long accustomed to despair. The sunburst, after so long and dark a night, must needs have had a dazzling effect. From the moment men allowed themselves to believe that humanity after all had not been meant for a dwarf, that its squat stature was not the measure of its possible growth, but that it stood upon the verge of an avatar of limitless development, the reaction must needs have been overwhelming. It is evident that nothing was able to stand against the enthusiasm which the new faith inspired. "Here, at last, men must have felt, was a cause compared with which the grandest of historic causes had been trivial. It was doubtless because it could have commanded millions of martyrs, that none were needed. The change of a dynasty in a petty kingdom of the old world often cost more lives than did the revolution which set the feet of the human race at last in the right way. "Doubtless it ill beseems one to whom the boon of life in our resplendent age has been vouchsafed to wish his destiny other, and yet I have often thought that I would fain exchange my share in this serene and golden day for a place in that stormy epoch of transition, when heroes burst the barred gate of the future and revealed to the kindling gaze of a hopeless race, in place of the blank wall that had closed its path, a vista of progress whose end, for very excess of light, still dazzles us. Ah, my friends! who will say that to have lived then, when the weakest influence was a lever to whose touch the centuries trembled, was not worth a share even in this era of fruition? "You know the story of that last, greatest, and most bloodless of revolutions. In the time of one generation men laid aside the social traditions and practices of barbarians, and assumed a social order worthy of rational and human beings. Ceasing to be predatory in their habits, they became co-workers, and found in fraternity, at once, the science of wealth and happiness. 'What shall I eat and drink, and wherewithal shall I be clothed?' stated as a problem beginning and ending in self, had been an anxious and an endless one. But when once it was conceived, not from the individual, but the fraternal standpoint, 'What shall we eat and drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed?'--its difficulties vanished. "Poverty with servitude had been the result, for the mass of humanity, of attempting to solve the problem of maintenance from the individual standpoint, but no sooner had the nation become the sole capitalist and employer than not alone did plenty replace poverty, but the last vestige of the serfdom of man to man disappeared from earth. Human slavery, so often vainly scotched, at last was killed. The means of subsistence no longer doled out by men to women, by employer to employed, by rich to poor, was distributed from a common stock as among children at the father's table. It was impossible for a man any longer to use his fellow-men as tools for his own profit. His esteem was the only sort of gain he could thenceforth make out of him. There was no more either arrogance or servility in the relations of human beings to one another. For the first time since the creation every man stood up straight before God. The fear of want and the lust of gain became extinct motives when abundance was assured to all and immoderate possessions made impossible of attainment. There were no more beggars nor almoners. Equity left charity without an occupation. The ten commandments became well nigh obsolete in a world where there was no temptation to theft, no occasion to lie either for fear or favor, no room for envy where all were equal, and little provocation to violence where men were disarmed of power to injure one another. Humanity's ancient dream of liberty, equality, fraternity, mocked by so many ages, at last was realized. "As in the old society the generous, the just, the tender-hearted had been placed at a disadvantage by the possession of those qualities; so in the new society the cold-hearted, the greedy, and self-seeking found themselves out of joint with the world. Now that the conditions of life for the first time ceased to operate as a forcing process to develop the brutal qualities of human nature, and the premium which had heretofore encouraged selfishness was not only removed, but placed upon unselfishness, it was for the first time possible to see what unperverted human nature really was like. The depraved tendencies, which had previously overgrown and obscured the better to so large an extent, now withered like cellar fungi in the open air, and the nobler qualities showed a sudden luxuriance which turned cynics into panegyrists and for the first time in human history tempted mankind to fall in love with itself. Soon was fully revealed, what the divines and philosophers of the old world never would have believed, that human nature in its essential qualities is good, not bad, that men by their natural intention and structure are generous, not selfish, pitiful, not cruel, sympathetic, not arrogant, godlike in aspirations, instinct with divinest impulses of tenderness and self-sacrifice, images of God indeed, not the travesties upon Him they had seemed. The constant pressure, through numberless generations, of conditions of life which might have perverted angels, had not been able to essentially alter the natural nobility of the stock, and these conditions once removed, like a bent tree, it had sprung back to its normal uprightness. "To put the whole matter in the nutshell of a parable, let me compare humanity in the olden time to a rosebush planted in a swamp, watered with black bog-water, breathing miasmatic fogs by day, and chilled with poison dews at night. Innumerable generations of gardeners had done their best to make it bloom, but beyond an occasional half-opened bud with a worm at the heart, their efforts had been unsuccessful. Many, indeed, claimed that the bush was no rosebush at all, but a noxious shrub, fit only to be uprooted and burned. The gardeners, for the most part, however, held that the bush belonged to the rose family, but had some ineradicable taint about it, which prevented the buds from coming out, and accounted for its generally sickly condition. There were a few, indeed, who maintained that the stock was good enough, that the trouble was in the bog, and that under more favorable conditions the plant might be expected to do better. But these persons were not regular gardeners, and being condemned by the latter as mere theorists and day dreamers, were, for the most part, so regarded by the people. Moreover, urged some eminent moral philosophers, even conceding for the sake of the argument that the bush might possibly do better elsewhere, it was a more valuable discipline for the buds to try to bloom in a bog than it would be under more favorable conditions. The buds that succeeded in opening might indeed be very rare, and the flowers pale and scentless, but they represented far more moral effort than if they had bloomed spontaneously in a garden. "The regular gardeners and the moral philosophers had their way. The bush remained rooted in the bog, and the old course of treatment went on. Continually new varieties of forcing mixtures were applied to the roots, and more recipes than could be numbered, each declared by its advocates the best and only suitable preparation, were used to kill the vermin and remove the mildew. This went on a very long time. Occasionally some one claimed to observe a slight improvement in the appearance of the bush, but there were quite as many who declared that it did not look so well as it used to. On the whole there could not be said to be any marked change. Finally, during a period of general despondency as to the prospects of the bush where it was, the idea of transplanting it was again mooted, and this time found favor. 'Let us try it,' was the general voice. 'Perhaps it may thrive better elsewhere, and here it is certainly doubtful if it be worth cultivating longer.' So it came about that the rosebush of humanity was transplanted, and set in sweet, warm, dry earth, where the sun bathed it, the stars wooed it, and the south wind caressed it. Then it appeared that it was indeed a rosebush. The vermin and the mildew disappeared, and the bush was covered with most beautiful red roses, whose fragrance filled the world. "It is a pledge of the destiny appointed for us that the Creator has set in our hearts an infinite standard of achievement, judged by which our past attainments seem always insignificant, and the goal never nearer. Had our forefathers conceived a state of society in which men should live together like brethren dwelling in unity, without strifes or envying, violence or overreaching, and where, at the price of a degree of labor not greater than health demands, in their chosen occupations, they should be wholly freed from care for the morrow and left with no more concern for their livelihood than trees which are watered by unfailing streams,--had they conceived such a condition, I say, it would have seemed to them nothing less than paradise. They would have confounded it with their idea of heaven, nor dreamed that there could possibly lie further beyond anything to be desired or striven for. "But how is it with us who stand on this height which they gazed up to? Already we have well nigh forgotten, except when it is especially called to our minds by some occasion like the present, that it was not always with men as it is now. It is a strain on our imaginations to conceive the social arrangements of our immediate ancestors. We find them grotesque. The solution of the problem of physical maintenance so as to banish care and crime, so far from seeming to us an ultimate attainment, appears but as a preliminary to anything like real human progress. We have but relieved ourselves of an impertinent and needless harassment which hindered our ancestor from undertaking the real ends of existence. We are merely stripped for the race; no more. We are like a child which has just learned to stand upright and to walk. It is a great event, from the child's point of view, when he first walks. Perhaps he fancies that there can be little beyond that achievement, but a year later he has forgotten that he could not always walk. His horizon did but widen when he rose, and enlarge as he moved. A great event indeed, in one sense, was his first step, but only as a beginning, not as the end. His true career was but then first entered on. The enfranchisement of humanity in the last century, from mental and physical absorption in working and scheming for the mere bodily necessities, may be regarded as a species of second birth of the race, without which its first birth to an existence that was but a burden would forever have remained unjustified, but whereby it is now abundantly vindicated. Since then, humanity has entered on a new phase of spiritual development, an evolution of higher faculties, the very existence of which in human nature our ancestors scarcely suspected. In place of the dreary hopelessness of the nineteenth century, its profound pessimism as to the future of humanity, the animating idea of the present age is an enthusiastic conception of the opportunities of our earthly existence, and the unbounded possibilities of human nature. The betterment of mankind from generation to generation, physically, mentally, morally, is recognized as the one great object supremely worthy of effort and of sacrifice. We believe the race for the first time to have entered on the realization of God's ideal of it, and each generation must now be a step upward. "Do you ask what we look for when unnumbered generations shall have passed away? I answer, the way stretches far before us, but the end is lost in light. For twofold is the return of man to God 'who is our home,' the return of the individual by the way of death, and the return of the race by the fulfillment of the evolution, when the divine secret hidden in the germ shall be perfectly unfolded. With a tear for the dark past, turn we then to the dazzling future, and, veiling our eyes, press forward. The long and weary winter of the race is ended. Its summer has begun. Humanity has burst the chrysalis. The heavens are before it." Chapter 27 I never could tell just why, but Sunday afternoon during my old life had been a time when I was peculiarly subject to melancholy, when the color unaccountably faded out of all the aspects of life, and everything appeared pathetically uninteresting. The hours, which in general were wont to bear me easily on their wings, lost the power of flight, and toward the close of the day, drooping quite to earth, had fairly to be dragged along by main strength. Perhaps it was partly owing to the established association of ideas that, despite the utter change in my circumstances, I fell into a state of profound depression on the afternoon of this my first Sunday in the twentieth century. It was not, however, on the present occasion a depression without specific cause, the mere vague melancholy I have spoken of, but a sentiment suggested and certainly quite justified by my position. The sermon of Mr. Barton, with its constant implication of the vast moral gap between the century to which I belonged and that in which I found myself, had had an effect strongly to accentuate my sense of loneliness in it. Considerately and philosophically as he had spoken, his words could scarcely have failed to leave upon my mind a strong impression of the mingled pity, curiosity, and aversion which I, as a representative of an abhorred epoch, must excite in all around me. The extraordinary kindness with which I had been treated by Dr. Leete and his family, and especially the goodness of Edith, had hitherto prevented my fully realizing that their real sentiment toward me must necessarily be that of the whole generation to which they belonged. The recognition of this, as regarded Dr. Leete and his amiable wife, however painful, I might have endured, but the conviction that Edith must share their feeling was more than I could bear. The crushing effect with which this belated perception of a fact so obvious came to me opened my eyes fully to something which perhaps the reader has already suspected,--I loved Edith. Was it strange that I did? The affecting occasion on which our intimacy had begun, when her hands had drawn me out of the whirlpool of madness; the fact that her sympathy was the vital breath which had set me up in this new life and enabled me to support it; my habit of looking to her as the mediator between me and the world around in a sense that even her father was not,--these were circumstances that had predetermined a result which her remarkable loveliness of person and disposition would alone have accounted for. It was quite inevitable that she should have come to seem to me, in a sense quite different from the usual experience of lovers, the only woman in this world. Now that I had become suddenly sensible of the fatuity of the hopes I had begun to cherish, I suffered not merely what another lover might, but in addition a desolate loneliness, an utter forlornness, such as no other lover, however unhappy, could have felt. My hosts evidently saw that I was depressed in spirits, and did their best to divert me. Edith especially, I could see, was distressed for me, but according to the usual perversity of lovers, having once been so mad as to dream of receiving something more from her, there was no longer any virtue for me in a kindness that I knew was only sympathy. Toward nightfall, after secluding myself in my room most of the afternoon, I went into the garden to walk about. The day was overcast, with an autumnal flavor in the warm, still air. Finding myself near the excavation, I entered the subterranean chamber and sat down there. "This," I muttered to myself, "is the only home I have. Let me stay here, and not go forth any more." Seeking aid from the familiar surroundings, I endeavored to find a sad sort of consolation in reviving the past and summoning up the forms and faces that were about me in my former life. It was in vain. There was no longer any life in them. For nearly one hundred years the stars had been looking down on Edith Bartlett's grave, and the graves of all my generation. The past was dead, crushed beneath a century's weight, and from the present I was shut out. There was no place for me anywhere. I was neither dead nor properly alive. "Forgive me for following you." I looked up. Edith stood in the door of the subterranean room, regarding me smilingly, but with eyes full of sympathetic distress. "Send me away if I am intruding on you," she said; "but we saw that you were out of spirits, and you know you promised to let me know if that were so. You have not kept your word." I rose and came to the door, trying to smile, but making, I fancy, rather sorry work of it, for the sight of her loveliness brought home to me the more poignantly the cause of my wretchedness. "I was feeling a little lonely, that is all," I said. "Has it never occurred to you that my position is so much more utterly alone than any human being's ever was before that a new word is really needed to describe it?" "Oh, you must not talk that way--you must not let yourself feel that way--you must not!" she exclaimed, with moistened eyes. "Are we not your friends? It is your own fault if you will not let us be. You need not be lonely." "You are good to me beyond my power of understanding," I said, "but don't you suppose that I know it is pity merely, sweet pity, but pity only. I should be a fool not to know that I cannot seem to you as other men of your own generation do, but as some strange uncanny being, a stranded creature of an unknown sea, whose forlornness touches your compassion despite its grotesqueness. I have been so foolish, you were so kind, as to almost forget that this must needs be so, and to fancy I might in time become naturalized, as we used to say, in this age, so as to feel like one of you and to seem to you like the other men about you. But Mr. Barton's sermon taught me how vain such a fancy is, how great the gulf between us must seem to you." "Oh that miserable sermon!" she exclaimed, fairly crying now in her sympathy, "I wanted you not to hear it. What does he know of you? He has read in old musty books about your times, that is all. What do you care about him, to let yourself be vexed by anything he said? Isn't it anything to you, that we who know you feel differently? Don't you care more about what we think of you than what he does who never saw you? Oh, Mr. West! you don't know, you can't think, how it makes me feel to see you so forlorn. I can't have it so. What can I say to you? How can I convince you how different our feeling for you is from what you think?" As before, in that other crisis of my fate when she had come to me, she extended her hands toward me in a gesture of helpfulness, and, as then, I caught and held them in my own; her bosom heaved with strong emotion, and little tremors in the fingers which I clasped emphasized the depth of her feeling. In her face, pity contended in a sort of divine spite against the obstacles which reduced it to impotence. Womanly compassion surely never wore a guise more lovely. Such beauty and such goodness quite melted me, and it seemed that the only fitting response I could make was to tell her just the truth. Of course I had not a spark of hope, but on the other hand I had no fear that she would be angry. She was too pitiful for that. So I said presently, "It is very ungrateful in me not to be satisfied with such kindness as you have shown me, and are showing me now. But are you so blind as not to see why they are not enough to make me happy? Don't you see that it is because I have been mad enough to love you?" At my last words she blushed deeply and her eyes fell before mine, but she made no effort to withdraw her hands from my clasp. For some moments she stood so, panting a little. Then blushing deeper than ever, but with a dazzling smile, she looked up. "Are you sure it is not you who are blind?" she said. That was all, but it was enough, for it told me that, unaccountable, incredible as it was, this radiant daughter of a golden age had bestowed upon me not alone her pity, but her love. Still, I half believed I must be under some blissful hallucination even as I clasped her in my arms. "If I am beside myself," I cried, "let me remain so." "It is I whom you must think beside myself," she panted, escaping from my arms when I had barely tasted the sweetness of her lips. "Oh! oh! what must you think of me almost to throw myself in the arms of one I have known but a week? I did not mean that you should find it out so soon, but I was so sorry for you I forgot what I was saying. No, no; you must not touch me again till you know who I am. After that, sir, you shall apologize to me very humbly for thinking, as I know you do, that I have been over quick to fall in love with you. After you know who I am, you will be bound to confess that it was nothing less than my duty to fall in love with you at first sight, and that no girl of proper feeling in my place could do otherwise." As may be supposed, I would have been quite content to waive explanations, but Edith was resolute that there should be no more kisses until she had been vindicated from all suspicion of precipitancy in the bestowal of her affections, and I was fain to follow the lovely enigma into the house. Having come where her mother was, she blushingly whispered something in her ear and ran away, leaving us together. It then appeared that, strange as my experience had been, I was now first to know what was perhaps its strangest feature. From Mrs. Leete I learned that Edith was the great-granddaughter of no other than my lost love, Edith Bartlett. After mourning me for fourteen years, she had made a marriage of esteem, and left a son who had been Mrs. Leete's father. Mrs. Leete had never seen her grandmother, but had heard much of her, and, when her daughter was born, gave her the name of Edith. This fact might have tended to increase the interest which the girl took, as she grew up, in all that concerned her ancestress, and especially the tragic story of the supposed death of the lover, whose wife she expected to be, in the conflagration of his house. It was a tale well calculated to touch the sympathy of a romantic girl, and the fact that the blood of the unfortunate heroine was in her own veins naturally heightened Edith's interest in it. A portrait of Edith Bartlett and some of her papers, including a packet of my own letters, were among the family heirlooms. The picture represented a very beautiful young woman about whom it was easy to imagine all manner of tender and romantic things. My letters gave Edith some material for forming a distinct idea of my personality, and both together sufficed to make the sad old story very real to her. She used to tell her parents, half jestingly, that she would never marry till she found a lover like Julian West, and there were none such nowadays. Now all this, of course, was merely the daydreaming of a girl whose mind had never been taken up by a love affair of her own, and would have had no serious consequence but for the discovery that morning of the buried vault in her father's garden and the revelation of the identity of its inmate. For when the apparently lifeless form had been borne into the house, the face in the locket found upon the breast was instantly recognized as that of Edith Bartlett, and by that fact, taken in connection with the other circumstances, they knew that I was no other than Julian West. Even had there been no thought, as at first there was not, of my resuscitation, Mrs. Leete said she believed that this event would have affected her daughter in a critical and life-long manner. The presumption of some subtle ordering of destiny, involving her fate with mine, would under all circumstances have possessed an irresistible fascination for almost any woman. Whether when I came back to life a few hours afterward, and from the first seemed to turn to her with a peculiar dependence and to find a special solace in her company, she had been too quick in giving her love at the first sign of mine, I could now, her mother said, judge for myself. If I thought so, I must remember that this, after all, was the twentieth and not the nineteenth century, and love was, no doubt, now quicker in growth, as well as franker in utterance than then. From Mrs. Leete I went to Edith. When I found her, it was first of all to take her by both hands and stand a long time in rapt contemplation of her face. As I gazed, the memory of that other Edith, which had been affected as with a benumbing shock by the tremendous experience that had parted us, revived, and my heart was dissolved with tender and pitiful emotions, but also very blissful ones. For she who brought to me so poignantly the sense of my loss was to make that loss good. It was as if from her eyes Edith Bartlett looked into mine, and smiled consolation to me. My fate was not alone the strangest, but the most fortunate that ever befell a man. A double miracle had been wrought for me. I had not been stranded upon the shore of this strange world to find myself alone and companionless. My love, whom I had dreamed lost, had been reembodied for my consolation. When at last, in an ecstasy of gratitude and tenderness, I folded the lovely girl in my arms, the two Ediths were blended in my thought, nor have they ever since been clearly distinguished. I was not long in finding that on Edith's part there was a corresponding confusion of identities. Never, surely, was there between freshly united lovers a stranger talk than ours that afternoon. She seemed more anxious to have me speak of Edith Bartlett than of herself, of how I had loved her than how I loved herself, rewarding my fond words concerning another woman with tears and tender smiles and pressures of the hand. "You must not love me too much for myself," she said. "I shall be very jealous for her. I shall not let you forget her. I am going to tell you something which you may think strange. Do you not believe that spirits sometimes come back to the world to fulfill some work that lay near their hearts? What if I were to tell you that I have sometimes thought that her spirit lives in me--that Edith Bartlett, not Edith Leete, is my real name. I cannot know it; of course none of us can know who we really are; but I can feel it. Can you wonder that I have such a feeling, seeing how my life was affected by her and by you, even before you came. So you see you need not trouble to love me at all, if only you are true to her. I shall not be likely to be jealous." Dr. Leete had gone out that afternoon, and I did not have an interview with him till later. He was not, apparently, wholly unprepared for the intelligence I conveyed, and shook my hand heartily. "Under any ordinary circumstances, Mr. West, I should say that this step had been taken on rather short acquaintance; but these are decidedly not ordinary circumstances. In fairness, perhaps I ought to tell you," he added smilingly, "that while I cheerfully consent to the proposed arrangement, you must not feel too much indebted to me, as I judge my consent is a mere formality. From the moment the secret of the locket was out, it had to be, I fancy. Why, bless me, if Edith had not been there to redeem her great-grandmother's pledge, I really apprehend that Mrs. Leete's loyalty to me would have suffered a severe strain." That evening the garden was bathed in moonlight, and till midnight Edith and I wandered to and fro there, trying to grow accustomed to our happiness. "What should I have done if you had not cared for me?" she exclaimed. "I was afraid you were not going to. What should I have done then, when I felt I was consecrated to you! As soon as you came back to life, I was as sure as if she had told me that I was to be to you what she could not be, but that could only be if you would let me. Oh, how I wanted to tell you that morning, when you felt so terribly strange among us, who I was, but dared not open my lips about that, or let father or mother----" "That must have been what you would not let your father tell me!" I exclaimed, referring to the conversation I had overheard as I came out of my trance. "Of course it was," Edith laughed. "Did you only just guess that? Father being only a man, thought that it would make you feel among friends to tell you who we were. He did not think of me at all. But mother knew what I meant, and so I had my way. I could never have looked you in the face if you had known who I was. It would have been forcing myself on you quite too boldly. I am afraid you think I did that to-day, as it was. I am sure I did not mean to, for I know girls were expected to hide their feelings in your day, and I was dreadfully afraid of shocking you. Ah me, how hard it must have been for them to have always had to conceal their love like a fault. Why did they think it such a shame to love any one till they had been given permission? It is so odd to think of waiting for permission to fall in love. Was it because men in those days were angry when girls loved them? That is not the way women would feel, I am sure, or men either, I think, now. I don't understand it at all. That will be one of the curious things about the women of those days that you will have to explain to me. I don't believe Edith Bartlett was so foolish as the others." After sundry ineffectual attempts at parting, she finally insisted that we must say good night. I was about to imprint upon her lips the positively last kiss, when she said, with an indescribable archness: "One thing troubles me. Are you sure that you quite forgive Edith Bartlett for marrying any one else? The books that have come down to us make out lovers of your time more jealous than fond, and that is what makes me ask. It would be a great relief to me if I could feel sure that you were not in the least jealous of my great-grandfather for marrying your sweetheart. May I tell my great-grandmother's picture when I go to my room that you quite forgive her for proving false to you?" Will the reader believe it, this coquettish quip, whether the speaker herself had any idea of it or not, actually touched and with the touching cured a preposterous ache of something like jealousy which I had been vaguely conscious of ever since Mrs. Leete had told me of Edith Bartlett's marriage. Even while I had been holding Edith Bartlett's great-granddaughter in my arms, I had not, till this moment, so illogical are some of our feelings, distinctly realized that but for that marriage I could not have done so. The absurdity of this frame of mind could only be equalled by the abruptness with which it dissolved as Edith's roguish query cleared the fog from my perceptions. I laughed as I kissed her. "You may assure her of my entire forgiveness," I said, "although if it had been any man but your great-grandfather whom she married, it would have been a very different matter." On reaching my chamber that night I did not open the musical telephone that I might be lulled to sleep with soothing tunes, as had become my habit. For once my thoughts made better music than even twentieth century orchestras discourse, and it held me enchanted till well toward morning, when I fell asleep. Chapter 28 "It's a little after the time you told me to wake you, sir. You did not come out of it as quick as common, sir." The voice was the voice of my man Sawyer. I started bolt upright in bed and stared around. I was in my underground chamber. The mellow light of the lamp which always burned in the room when I occupied it illumined the familiar walls and furnishings. By my bedside, with the glass of sherry in his hand which Dr. Pillsbury prescribed on first rousing from a mesmeric sleep, by way of awakening the torpid physical functions, stood Sawyer. "Better take this right off, sir," he said, as I stared blankly at him. "You look kind of flushed like, sir, and you need it." I tossed off the liquor and began to realize what had happened to me. It was, of course, very plain. All that about the twentieth century had been a dream. I had but dreamed of that enlightened and care-free race of men and their ingeniously simple institutions, of the glorious new Boston with its domes and pinnacles, its gardens and fountains, and its universal reign of comfort. The amiable family which I had learned to know so well, my genial host and Mentor, Dr. Leete, his wife, and their daughter, the second and more beauteous Edith, my betrothed--these, too, had been but figments of a vision. For a considerable time I remained in the attitude in which this conviction had come over me, sitting up in bed gazing at vacancy, absorbed in recalling the scenes and incidents of my fantastic experience. Sawyer, alarmed at my looks, was meanwhile anxiously inquiring what was the matter with me. Roused at length by his importunities to a recognition of my surroundings, I pulled myself together with an effort and assured the faithful fellow that I was all right. "I have had an extraordinary dream, that's all, Sawyer," I said, "a most-ex-traor-dinary dream." I dressed in a mechanical way, feeling light-headed and oddly uncertain of myself, and sat down to the coffee and rolls which Sawyer was in the habit of providing for my refreshment before I left the house. The morning newspaper lay by the plate. I took it up, and my eye fell on the date, May 31, 1887. I had known, of course, from the moment I opened my eyes that my long and detailed experience in another century had been a dream, and yet it was startling to have it so conclusively demonstrated that the world was but a few hours older than when I had lain down to sleep. Glancing at the table of contents at the head of the paper, which reviewed the news of the morning, I read the following summary: FOREIGN AFFAIRS.--The impending war between France and Germany. The French Chambers asked for new military credits to meet Germany's increase of her army. Probability that all Europe will be involved in case of war.--Great suffering among the unemployed in London. They demand work. Monster demonstration to be made. The authorities uneasy.--Great strikes in Belgium. The government preparing to repress outbreaks. Shocking facts in regard to the employment of girls in Belgium coal mines.--Wholesale evictions in Ireland. "HOME AFFAIRS.--The epidemic of fraud unchecked. Embezzlement of half a million in New York.--Misappropriation of a trust fund by executors. Orphans left penniless.--Clever system of thefts by a bank teller; $50,000 gone.--The coal barons decide to advance the price of coal and reduce production.--Speculators engineering a great wheat corner at Chicago.--A clique forcing up the price of coffee.--Enormous land-grabs of Western syndicates.--Revelations of shocking corruption among Chicago officials. Systematic bribery.--The trials of the Boodle aldermen to go on at New York.--Large failures of business houses. Fears of a business crisis.--A large grist of burglaries and larcenies.--A woman murdered in cold blood for her money at New Haven.--A householder shot by a burglar in this city last night.--A man shoots himself in Worcester because he could not get work. A large family left destitute.--An aged couple in New Jersey commit suicide rather than go to the poor-house.--Pitiable destitution among the women wage-workers in the great cities.--Startling growth of illiteracy in Massachusetts.--More insane asylums wanted.--Decoration Day addresses. Professor Brown's oration on the moral grandeur of nineteenth century civilization." It was indeed the nineteenth century to which I had awaked; there could be no kind of doubt about that. Its complete microcosm this summary of the day's news had presented, even to that last unmistakable touch of fatuous self-complacency. Coming after such a damning indictment of the age as that one day's chronicle of world-wide bloodshed, greed, and tyranny, was a bit of cynicism worthy of Mephistopheles, and yet of all whose eyes it had met this morning I was, perhaps, the only one who perceived the cynicism, and but yesterday I should have perceived it no more than the others. That strange dream it was which had made all the difference. For I know not how long, I forgot my surroundings after this, and was again in fancy moving in that vivid dream-world, in that glorious city, with its homes of simple comfort and its gorgeous public palaces. Around me were again faces unmarred by arrogance or servility, by envy or greed, by anxious care or feverish ambition, and stately forms of men and women who had never known fear of a fellow man or depended on his favor, but always, in the words of that sermon which still rang in my ears, had "stood up straight before God." With a profound sigh and a sense of irreparable loss, not the less poignant that it was a loss of what had never really been, I roused at last from my reverie, and soon after left the house. A dozen times between my door and Washington Street I had to stop and pull myself together, such power had been in that vision of the Boston of the future to make the real Boston strange. The squalor and malodorousness of the town struck me, from the moment I stood upon the street, as facts I had never before observed. But yesterday, moreover, it had seemed quite a matter of course that some of my fellow-citizens should wear silks, and others rags, that some should look well fed, and others hungry. Now on the contrary the glaring disparities in the dress and condition of the men and women who brushed each other on the sidewalks shocked me at every step, and yet more the entire indifference which the prosperous showed to the plight of the unfortunate. Were these human beings, who could behold the wretchedness of their fellows without so much as a change of countenance? And yet, all the while, I knew well that it was I who had changed, and not my contemporaries. I had dreamed of a city whose people fared all alike as children of one family and were one another's keepers in all things. Another feature of the real Boston, which assumed the extraordinary effect of strangeness that marks familiar things seen in a new light, was the prevalence of advertising. There had been no personal advertising in the Boston of the twentieth century, because there was no need of any, but here the walls of the buildings, the windows, the broadsides of the newspapers in every hand, the very pavements, everything in fact in sight, save the sky, were covered with the appeals of individuals who sought, under innumerable pretexts, to attract the contributions of others to their support. However the wording might vary, the tenor of all these appeals was the same: "Help John Jones. Never mind the rest. They are frauds. I, John Jones, am the right one. Buy of me. Employ me. Visit me. Hear me, John Jones. Look at me. Make no mistake, John Jones is the man and nobody else. Let the rest starve, but for God's sake remember John Jones!" Whether the pathos or the moral repulsiveness of the spectacle most impressed me, so suddenly become a stranger in my own city, I know not. Wretched men, I was moved to cry, who, because they will not learn to be helpers of one another, are doomed to be beggars of one another from the least to the greatest! This horrible babel of shameless self-assertion and mutual depreciation, this stunning clamor of conflicting boasts, appeals, and adjurations, this stupendous system of brazen beggary, what was it all but the necessity of a society in which the opportunity to serve the world according to his gifts, instead of being secured to every man as the first object of social organization, had to be fought for! I reached Washington Street at the busiest point, and there I stood and laughed aloud, to the scandal of the passers-by. For my life I could not have helped it, with such a mad humor was I moved at sight of the interminable rows of stores on either side, up and down the street so far as I could see--scores of them, to make the spectacle more utterly preposterous, within a stone's throw devoted to selling the same sort of goods. Stores! stores! stores! miles of stores! ten thousand stores to distribute the goods needed by this one city, which in my dream had been supplied with all things from a single warehouse, as they were ordered through one great store in every quarter, where the buyer, without waste of time or labor, found under one roof the world's assortment in whatever line he desired. There the labor of distribution had been so slight as to add but a scarcely perceptible fraction to the cost of commodities to the user. The cost of production was virtually all he paid. But here the mere distribution of the goods, their handling alone, added a fourth, a third, a half and more, to the cost. All these ten thousand plants must be paid for, their rent, their staffs of superintendence, their platoons of salesmen, their ten thousand sets of accountants, jobbers, and business dependents, with all they spent in advertising themselves and fighting one another, and the consumers must do the paying. What a famous process for beggaring a nation! Were these serious men I saw about me, or children, who did their business on such a plan? Could they be reasoning beings, who did not see the folly which, when the product is made and ready for use, wastes so much of it in getting it to the user? If people eat with a spoon that leaks half its contents between bowl and lip, are they not likely to go hungry? I had passed through Washington Street thousands of times before and viewed the ways of those who sold merchandise, but my curiosity concerning them was as if I had never gone by their way before. I took wondering note of the show windows of the stores, filled with goods arranged with a wealth of pains and artistic device to attract the eye. I saw the throngs of ladies looking in, and the proprietors eagerly watching the effect of the bait. I went within and noted the hawk-eyed floor-walker watching for business, overlooking the clerks, keeping them up to their task of inducing the customers to buy, buy, buy, for money if they had it, for credit if they had it not, to buy what they wanted not, more than they wanted, what they could not afford. At times I momentarily lost the clue and was confused by the sight. Why this effort to induce people to buy? Surely that had nothing to do with the legitimate business of distributing products to those who needed them. Surely it was the sheerest waste to force upon people what they did not want, but what might be useful to another. The nation was so much the poorer for every such achievement. What were these clerks thinking of? Then I would remember that they were not acting as distributors like those in the store I had visited in the dream Boston. They were not serving the public interest, but their immediate personal interest, and it was nothing to them what the ultimate effect of their course on the general prosperity might be, if but they increased their own hoard, for these goods were their own, and the more they sold and the more they got for them, the greater their gain. The more wasteful the people were, the more articles they did not want which they could be induced to buy, the better for these sellers. To encourage prodigality was the express aim of the ten thousand stores of Boston. Nor were these storekeepers and clerks a whit worse men than any others in Boston. They must earn a living and support their families, and how were they to find a trade to do it by which did not necessitate placing their individual interests before those of others and that of all? They could not be asked to starve while they waited for an order of things such as I had seen in my dream, in which the interest of each and that of all were identical. But, God in heaven! what wonder, under such a system as this about me--what wonder that the city was so shabby, and the people so meanly dressed, and so many of them ragged and hungry! Some time after this it was that I drifted over into South Boston and found myself among the manufacturing establishments. I had been in this quarter of the city a hundred times before, just as I had been on Washington Street, but here, as well as there, I now first perceived the true significance of what I witnessed. Formerly I had taken pride in the fact that, by actual count, Boston had some four thousand independent manufacturing establishments; but in this very multiplicity and independence I recognized now the secret of the insignificant total product of their industry. If Washington Street had been like a lane in Bedlam, this was a spectacle as much more melancholy as production is a more vital function than distribution. For not only were these four thousand establishments not working in concert, and for that reason alone operating at prodigious disadvantage, but, as if this did not involve a sufficiently disastrous loss of power, they were using their utmost skill to frustrate one another's effort, praying by night and working by day for the destruction of one another's enterprises. The roar and rattle of wheels and hammers resounding from every side was not the hum of a peaceful industry, but the clangor of swords wielded by foemen. These mills and shops were so many forts, each under its own flag, its guns trained on the mills and shops about it, and its sappers busy below, undermining them. Within each one of these forts the strictest organization of industry was insisted on; the separate gangs worked under a single central authority. No interference and no duplicating of work were permitted. Each had his allotted task, and none were idle. By what hiatus in the logical faculty, by what lost link of reasoning, account, then, for the failure to recognize the necessity of applying the same principle to the organization of the national industries as a whole, to see that if lack of organization could impair the efficiency of a shop, it must have effects as much more disastrous in disabling the industries of the nation at large as the latter are vaster in volume and more complex in the relationship of their parts. People would be prompt enough to ridicule an army in which there were neither companies, battalions, regiments, brigades, divisions, or army corps--no unit of organization, in fact, larger than the corporal's squad, with no officer higher than a corporal, and all the corporals equal in authority. And yet just such an army were the manufacturing industries of nineteenth century Boston, an army of four thousand independent squads led by four thousand independent corporals, each with a separate plan of campaign. Knots of idle men were to be seen here and there on every side, some idle because they could find no work at any price, others because they could not get what they thought a fair price. I accosted some of the latter, and they told me their grievances. It was very little comfort I could give them. "I am sorry for you," I said. "You get little enough, certainly, and yet the wonder to me is, not that industries conducted as these are do not pay you living wages, but that they are able to pay you any wages at all." Making my way back again after this to the peninsular city, toward three o'clock I stood on State Street, staring, as if I had never seen them before, at the banks and brokers' offices, and other financial institutions, of which there had been in the State Street of my vision no vestige. Business men, confidential clerks, and errand boys were thronging in and out of the banks, for it wanted but a few minutes of the closing hour. Opposite me was the bank where I did business, and presently I crossed the street, and, going in with the crowd, stood in a recess of the wall looking on at the army of clerks handling money, and the cues of depositors at the tellers' windows. An old gentleman whom I knew, a director of the bank, passing me and observing my contemplative attitude, stopped a moment. "Interesting sight, isn't it, Mr. West," he said. "Wonderful piece of mechanism; I find it so myself. I like sometimes to stand and look on at it just as you are doing. It's a poem, sir, a poem, that's what I call it. Did you ever think, Mr. West, that the bank is the heart of the business system? From it and to it, in endless flux and reflux, the life blood goes. It is flowing in now. It will flow out again in the morning"; and pleased with his little conceit, the old man passed on smiling. Yesterday I should have considered the simile apt enough, but since then I had visited a world incomparably more affluent than this, in which money was unknown and without conceivable use. I had learned that it had a use in the world around me only because the work of producing the nation's livelihood, instead of being regarded as the most strictly public and common of all concerns, and as such conducted by the nation, was abandoned to the hap-hazard efforts of individuals. This original mistake necessitated endless exchanges to bring about any sort of general distribution of products. These exchanges money effected--how equitably, might be seen in a walk from the tenement house districts to the Back Bay--at the cost of an army of men taken from productive labor to manage it, with constant ruinous breakdowns of its machinery, and a generally debauching influence on mankind which had justified its description, from ancient time, as the "root of all evil." Alas for the poor old bank director with his poem! He had mistaken the throbbing of an abscess for the beating of the heart. What he called "a wonderful piece of mechanism" was an imperfect device to remedy an unnecessary defect, the clumsy crutch of a self-made cripple. After the banks had closed I wandered aimlessly about the business quarter for an hour or two, and later sat a while on one of the benches of the Common, finding an interest merely in watching the throngs that passed, such as one has in studying the populace of a foreign city, so strange since yesterday had my fellow citizens and their ways become to me. For thirty years I had lived among them, and yet I seemed to have never noted before how drawn and anxious were their faces, of the rich as of the poor, the refined, acute faces of the educated as well as the dull masks of the ignorant. And well it might be so, for I saw now, as never before I had seen so plainly, that each as he walked constantly turned to catch the whispers of a spectre at his ear, the spectre of Uncertainty. "Do your work never so well," the spectre was whispering--"rise early and toil till late, rob cunningly or serve faithfully, you shall never know security. Rich you may be now and still come to poverty at last. Leave never so much wealth to your children, you cannot buy the assurance that your son may not be the servant of your servant, or that your daughter will not have to sell herself for bread." A man passing by thrust an advertising card in my hand, which set forth the merits of some new scheme of life insurance. The incident reminded me of the only device, pathetic in its admission of the universal need it so poorly supplied, which offered these tired and hunted men and women even a partial protection from uncertainty. By this means, those already well-to-do, I remembered, might purchase a precarious confidence that after their death their loved ones would not, for a while at least, be trampled under the feet of men. But this was all, and this was only for those who could pay well for it. What idea was possible to these wretched dwellers in the land of Ishmael, where every man's hand was against each and the hand of each against every other, of true life insurance as I had seen it among the people of that dream land, each of whom, by virtue merely of his membership in the national family, was guaranteed against need of any sort, by a policy underwritten by one hundred million fellow countrymen. Some time after this it was that I recall a glimpse of myself standing on the steps of a building on Tremont Street, looking at a military parade. A regiment was passing. It was the first sight in that dreary day which had inspired me with any other emotions than wondering pity and amazement. Here at last were order and reason, an exhibition of what intelligent cooperation can accomplish. The people who stood looking on with kindling faces,--could it be that the sight had for them no more than but a spectacular interest? Could they fail to see that it was their perfect concert of action, their organization under one control, which made these men the tremendous engine they were, able to vanquish a mob ten times as numerous? Seeing this so plainly, could they fail to compare the scientific manner in which the nation went to war with the unscientific manner in which it went to work? Would they not query since what time the killing of men had been a task so much more important than feeding and clothing them, that a trained army should be deemed alone adequate to the former, while the latter was left to a mob? It was now toward nightfall, and the streets were thronged with the workers from the stores, the shops, and mills. Carried along with the stronger part of the current, I found myself, as it began to grow dark, in the midst of a scene of squalor and human degradation such as only the South Cove tenement district could present. I had seen the mad wasting of human labor; here I saw in direst shape the want that waste had bred. From the black doorways and windows of the rookeries on every side came gusts of fetid air. The streets and alleys reeked with the effluvia of a slave ship's between-decks. As I passed I had glimpses within of pale babies gasping out their lives amid sultry stenches, of hopeless-faced women deformed by hardship, retaining of womanhood no trait save weakness, while from the windows leered girls with brows of brass. Like the starving bands of mongrel curs that infest the streets of Moslem towns, swarms of half-clad brutalized children filled the air with shrieks and curses as they fought and tumbled among the garbage that littered the court-yards. There was nothing in all this that was new to me. Often had I passed through this part of the city and witnessed its sights with feelings of disgust mingled with a certain philosophical wonder at the extremities mortals will endure and still cling to life. But not alone as regarded the economical follies of this age, but equally as touched its moral abominations, scales had fallen from my eyes since that vision of another century. No more did I look upon the woful dwellers in this Inferno with a callous curiosity as creatures scarcely human. I saw in them my brothers and sisters, my parents, my children, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. The festering mass of human wretchedness about me offended not now my senses merely, but pierced my heart like a knife, so that I could not repress sighs and groans. I not only saw but felt in my body all that I saw. Presently, too, as I observed the wretched beings about me more closely, I perceived that they were all quite dead. Their bodies were so many living sepulchres. On each brutal brow was plainly written the hic jacet of a soul dead within. As I looked, horror struck, from one death's head to another, I was affected by a singular hallucination. Like a wavering translucent spirit face superimposed upon each of these brutish masks I saw the ideal, the possible face that would have been the actual if mind and soul had lived. It was not till I was aware of these ghostly faces, and of the reproach that could not be gainsaid which was in their eyes, that the full piteousness of the ruin that had been wrought was revealed to me. I was moved with contrition as with a strong agony, for I had been one of those who had endured that these things should be. I had been one of those who, well knowing that they were, had not desired to hear or be compelled to think much of them, but had gone on as if they were not, seeking my own pleasure and profit. Therefore now I found upon my garments the blood of this great multitude of strangled souls of my brothers. The voice of their blood cried out against me from the ground. Every stone of the reeking pavements, every brick of the pestilential rookeries, found a tongue and called after me as I fled: What hast thou done with thy brother Abel? I have no clear recollection of anything after this till I found myself standing on the carved stone steps of the magnificent home of my betrothed in Commonwealth Avenue. Amid the tumult of my thoughts that day, I had scarcely once thought of her, but now obeying some unconscious impulse my feet had found the familiar way to her door. I was told that the family were at dinner, but word was sent out that I should join them at table. Besides the family, I found several guests present, all known to me. The table glittered with plate and costly china. The ladies were sumptuously dressed and wore the jewels of queens. The scene was one of costly elegance and lavish luxury. The company was in excellent spirits, and there was plentiful laughter and a running fire of jests. To me it was as if, in wandering through the place of doom, my blood turned to tears by its sights, and my spirit attuned to sorrow, pity, and despair, I had happened in some glade upon a merry party of roisterers. I sat in silence until Edith began to rally me upon my sombre looks, What ailed me? The others presently joined in the playful assault, and I became a target for quips and jests. Where had I been, and what had I seen to make such a dull fellow of me? "I have been in Golgotha," at last I answered. "I have seen Humanity hanging on a cross! Do none of you know what sights the sun and stars look down on in this city, that you can think and talk of anything else? Do you not know that close to your doors a great multitude of men and women, flesh of your flesh, live lives that are one agony from birth to death? Listen! their dwellings are so near that if you hush your laughter you will hear their grievous voices, the piteous crying of the little ones that suckle poverty, the hoarse curses of men sodden in misery turned half-way back to brutes, the chaffering of an army of women selling themselves for bread. With what have you stopped your ears that you do not hear these doleful sounds? For me, I can hear nothing else." Silence followed my words. A passion of pity had shaken me as I spoke, but when I looked around upon the company, I saw that, far from being stirred as I was, their faces expressed a cold and hard astonishment, mingled in Edith's with extreme mortification, in her father's with anger. The ladies were exchanging scandalized looks, while one of the gentlemen had put up his eyeglass and was studying me with an air of scientific curiosity. When I saw that things which were to me so intolerable moved them not at all, that words that melted my heart to speak had only offended them with the speaker, I was at first stunned and then overcome with a desperate sickness and faintness at the heart. What hope was there for the wretched, for the world, if thoughtful men and tender women were not moved by things like these! Then I bethought myself that it must be because I had not spoken aright. No doubt I had put the case badly. They were angry because they thought I was berating them, when God knew I was merely thinking of the horror of the fact without any attempt to assign the responsibility for it. I restrained my passion, and tried to speak calmly and logically that I might correct this impression. I told them that I had not meant to accuse them, as if they, or the rich in general, were responsible for the misery of the world. True indeed it was, that the superfluity which they wasted would, otherwise bestowed, relieve much bitter suffering. These costly viands, these rich wines, these gorgeous fabrics and glistening jewels represented the ransom of many lives. They were verily not without the guiltiness of those who waste in a land stricken with famine. Nevertheless, all the waste of all the rich, were it saved, would go but a little way to cure the poverty of the world. There was so little to divide that even if the rich went share and share with the poor, there would be but a common fare of crusts, albeit made very sweet then by brotherly love. The folly of men, not their hard-heartedness, was the great cause of the world's poverty. It was not the crime of man, nor of any class of men, that made the race so miserable, but a hideous, ghastly mistake, a colossal world-darkening blunder. And then I showed them how four fifths of the labor of men was utterly wasted by the mutual warfare, the lack of organization and concert among the workers. Seeking to make the matter very plain, I instanced the case of arid lands where the soil yielded the means of life only by careful use of the watercourses for irrigation. I showed how in such countries it was counted the most important function of the government to see that the water was not wasted by the selfishness or ignorance of individuals, since otherwise there would be famine. To this end its use was strictly regulated and systematized, and individuals of their mere caprice were not permitted to dam it or divert it, or in any way to tamper with it. The labor of men, I explained, was the fertilizing stream which alone rendered earth habitable. It was but a scanty stream at best, and its use required to be regulated by a system which expended every drop to the best advantage, if the world were to be supported in abundance. But how far from any system was the actual practice! Every man wasted the precious fluid as he wished, animated only by the equal motives of saving his own crop and spoiling his neighbor's, that his might sell the better. What with greed and what with spite some fields were flooded while others were parched, and half the water ran wholly to waste. In such a land, though a few by strength or cunning might win the means of luxury, the lot of the great mass must be poverty, and of the weak and ignorant bitter want and perennial famine. Let but the famine-stricken nation assume the function it had neglected, and regulate for the common good the course of the life-giving stream, and the earth would bloom like one garden, and none of its children lack any good thing. I described the physical felicity, mental enlightenment, and moral elevation which would then attend the lives of all men. With fervency I spoke of that new world, blessed with plenty, purified by justice and sweetened by brotherly kindness, the world of which I had indeed but dreamed, but which might so easily be made real. But when I had expected now surely the faces around me to light up with emotions akin to mine, they grew ever more dark, angry, and scornful. Instead of enthusiasm, the ladies showed only aversion and dread, while the men interrupted me with shouts of reprobation and contempt. "Madman!" "Pestilent fellow!" "Fanatic!" "Enemy of society!" were some of their cries, and the one who had before taken his eyeglass to me exclaimed, "He says we are to have no more poor. Ha! ha!" "Put the fellow out!" exclaimed the father of my betrothed, and at the signal the men sprang from their chairs and advanced upon me. It seemed to me that my heart would burst with the anguish of finding that what was to me so plain and so all important was to them meaningless, and that I was powerless to make it other. So hot had been my heart that I had thought to melt an iceberg with its glow, only to find at last the overmastering chill seizing my own vitals. It was not enmity that I felt toward them as they thronged me, but pity only, for them and for the world. Although despairing, I could not give over. Still I strove with them. Tears poured from my eyes. In my vehemence I became inarticulate. I panted, I sobbed, I groaned, and immediately afterward found myself sitting upright in bed in my room in Dr. Leete's house, and the morning sun shining through the open window into my eyes. I was gasping. The tears were streaming down my face, and I quivered in every nerve. As with an escaped convict who dreams that he has been recaptured and brought back to his dark and reeking dungeon, and opens his eyes to see the heaven's vault spread above him, so it was with me, as I realized that my return to the nineteenth century had been the dream, and my presence in the twentieth was the reality. The cruel sights which I had witnessed in my vision, and could so well confirm from the experience of my former life, though they had, alas! once been, and must in the retrospect to the end of time move the compassionate to tears, were, God be thanked, forever gone by. Long ago oppressor and oppressed, prophet and scorner, had been dust. For generations, rich and poor had been forgotten words. But in that moment, while yet I mused with unspeakable thankfulness upon the greatness of the world's salvation and my privilege in beholding it, there suddenly pierced me like a knife a pang of shame, remorse, and wondering self-reproach, that bowed my head upon my breast and made me wish the grave had hid me with my fellows from the sun. For I had been a man of that former time. What had I done to help on the deliverance whereat I now presumed to rejoice? I who had lived in those cruel, insensate days, what had I done to bring them to an end? I had been every whit as indifferent to the wretchedness of my brothers, as cynically incredulous of better things, as besotted a worshiper of Chaos and Old Night, as any of my fellows. So far as my personal influence went, it had been exerted rather to hinder than to help forward the enfranchisement of the race which was even then preparing. What right had I to hail a salvation which reproached me, to rejoice in a day whose dawning I had mocked? "Better for you, better for you," a voice within me rang, "had this evil dream been the reality, and this fair reality the dream; better your part pleading for crucified humanity with a scoffing generation, than here, drinking of wells you digged not, and eating of trees whose husbandmen you stoned"; and my spirit answered, "Better, truly." When at length I raised my bowed head and looked forth from the window, Edith, fresh as the morning, had come into the garden and was gathering flowers. I hastened to descend to her. Kneeling before her, with my face in the dust, I confessed with tears how little was my worth to breathe the air of this golden century, and how infinitely less to wear upon my breast its consummate flower. Fortunate is he who, with a case so desperate as mine, finds a judge so merciful. 
7401	----	A CRYSTAL AGE BY W. H. HUDSON PREFACE _Romances of the future, however fantastic they may be, have for most of us a perennial if mild interest, since they are born of a very common feeling--a sense of dissatisfaction with the existing order of things, combined with a vague faith in or hope of a better one to come. The picture put before us is false; we knew it would be false before looking at it, since we cannot imagine what is unknown any more than we can build without materials. Our mental atmosphere surrounds and shuts us in like our own skins; no one can boast that he has broken out of that prison. The vast, unbounded prospect lies before us, but, as the poet mournfully adds, "clouds and darkness rest upon it." Nevertheless we cannot suppress all curiosity, or help asking one another, What is your dream--your ideal? What is your News from Nowhere, or, rather, what is the result of the little shake your hand has given to the old pasteboard toy with a dozen bits of colored glass for contents? And, most important of all, can you present it in a narrative or romance which will enable me to pass an idle hour not disagreeably? How, for instance, does it compare in this respect with other prophetic books on the shelf?_ _I am not referring to living authors; least of all to that flamingo of letters who for the last decade or so has been a wonder to our island birds. For what could I say of him that is not known to every one--that he is the tallest of fowls, land or water, of a most singular shape, and has black-tipped crimson wings folded under his delicate rose-colored plumage? These other books referred to, written, let us say, from thirty or forty years to a century or two ago, amuse us in a way their poor dead authors never intended. Most amusing are the dead ones who take themselves seriously, whose books are pulpits quaintly carved and decorated with precious stones and silken canopies in which they stand and preach to or at their contemporaries._ _In like manner, in going through this book of mine after so many years I am amused at the way it is colored by the little cults and crazes, and modes of thought of the 'eighties of the last century. They were so important then, and now, if remembered at all, they appear so trivial! It pleases me to be diverted in this way at "A Crystal Age"--to find, in fact, that I have not stood still while the world has been moving._ _This criticism refers to the case, the habit, of the book rather than to its spirit, since when we write we do, as the red man thought, impart something of our souls to the paper, and it is probable that if I were to write a new dream of the future it would, though in some respects very different from this, still be a dream and picture of the human race in its forest period._ _Alas that in this case the wish cannot induce belief! For now I remember another thing which Nature said--that earthly excellence can come in no way but one, and the ending of passion and strife is the beginning of decay. It is indeed a hard saying, and the hardest lesson we can learn of her without losing love and bidding good-by forever to hope._ W. H. H. A CRYSTAL AGE Chapter 1 I do not quite know how it happened, my recollection of the whole matter ebbing in a somewhat clouded condition. I fancy I had gone somewhere on a botanizing expedition, but whether at home or abroad I don't know. At all events, I remember that I had taken up the study of plants with a good deal of enthusiasm, and that while hunting for some variety in the mountains I sat down to rest on the edge of a ravine. Perhaps it was on the ledge of an overhanging rock; anyhow, if I remember rightly, the ground gave way all about me, precipitating me below. The fall was a very considerable one--probably thirty or forty feet, or more, and I was rendered unconscious. How long I lay there under the heap of earth and stones carried down in my fall it is impossible to say: perhaps a long time; but at last I came to myself and struggled up from the _debris_, like a mole coming to the surface of the earth to feel the genial sunshine on his dim eyeballs. I found myself standing (oddly enough, on all fours) in an immense pit created by the overthrow of a gigantic dead tree with a girth of about thirty or forty feet. The tree itself had rolled down to the bottom of the ravine; but the pit in which it had left the huge stumps of severed roots was, I found, situated in a gentle slope at the top of the bank! How, then, I could have fallen seemingly so far from no height at all, puzzled me greatly: it looked as if the solid earth had been indulging in some curious transformation pranks during those moments or minutes of insensibility. Another singular circumstance was that I had a great mass of small fibrous rootlets tightly woven about my whole person, so that I was like a colossal basket-worm in its case, or a big man-shaped bottle covered with wicker-work. It appeared as if the roots had _grown_ round me! Luckily they were quite sapless and brittle, and without bothering my brains too much about the matter, I set to work to rid myself of them. After stripping the woody covering off, I found that my tourist suit of rough Scotch homespun had not suffered much harm, although the cloth exuded a damp, moldy smell; also that my thick-soled climbing boots had assumed a cracked rusty appearance as if I had been engaged in some brick-field operations; while my felt hat was in such a discolored and battered condition that I felt almost ashamed to put it on my head. My watch was gone; perhaps I had not been wearing it, but my pocket-book in which I had my money was safe in my breast pocket. Glad and grateful at having escaped with unbroken bones from such a dangerous accident, I set out walking along the edge of the ravine, which soon broadened to a valley running between two steep hills; and then, seeing water at the bottom and feeling very dry, I ran down the slope to get a drink. Lying flat on my chest to slake my thirst animal fashion, I was amazed at the reflection the water gave back of my face: it was, skin and hair, thickly encrusted with clay and rootlets! Having taken a long drink, I threw off my clothes to have a bath; and after splashing about for half an hour managed to rid my skin of its accumulations of dirt. While drying in the wind I shook the loose sand and clay from my garments, then dressed, and, feeling greatly refreshed, proceeded on my walk. For an hour or so I followed the valley in its many windings, but, failing to see any dwelling-place, I ascended a hill to get a view of the surrounding country. The prospect which disclosed itself when I had got a couple of hundred feet above the surrounding level, appeared unfamiliar. The hills among which I had been wandering were now behind me; before me spread a wide rolling country, beyond which rose a mountain range resembling in the distance blue banked-up clouds with summits and peaks of pearly whiteness. Looking on this scene I could hardly refrain from shouting with joy, so glad did the sunlit expanse of earth, and the pure exhilarating mountain breeze, make me feel. The season was late summer--that was plain to see; the ground was moist, as if from recent showers, and the earth everywhere had that intense living greenness with which it reclothes itself when the greater heats are over; but the foliage of the woods was already beginning to be touched here and there with the yellow and russet hues of decay. A more tranquil and soul-satisfying scene could not be imagined: the dear old mother earth was looking her very best; while the shifting golden sunlight, the mysterious haze in the distance, and the glint of a wide stream not very far off, seemed to spiritualize her "happy autumn fields," and bring them into a closer kinship with the blue over-arching sky. There was one large house or mansion in sight, but no town, nor even a hamlet, and not one solitary spire. In vain I scanned the horizon, waiting impatiently to see the distant puff of white steam from some passing engine. This troubled me not a little, for I had no idea that I had drifted so far from civilization in my search for specimens, or whatever it was that brought me to this pretty, primitive wilderness. Not quite a wilderness, however, for there, within a short hour's walk of the hill, stood the one great stone mansion, close to the river I had mentioned. There were also horses and cows in sight, and a number of scattered sheep were grazing on the hillside beneath me. Strange to relate, I met with a little misadventure on account of the sheep--an animal which one is accustomed to regard as of a timid and inoffensive nature. When I set out at a brisk pace to walk to the house I have spoken of, in order to make some inquiries there, a few of the sheep that happened to be near began to bleat loudly, as if alarmed, and by and by they came hurrying after me, apparently in a great state of excitement. I did not mind them much, but presently a pair of horses, attracted by their bleatings, also seemed struck at my appearance, and came at a swift gallop to within twenty yards of me. They were magnificent-looking brutes, evidently a pair of well-groomed carriage horses, for their coats, which were of a fine bronze color, sparkled wonderfully in the sunshine. In other respects they were very unlike carriage animals, for they had tails reaching to the ground, like funeral horses, and immense black leonine manes, which gave them a strikingly bold and somewhat formidable appearance. For some moments they stood with heads erect, gazing fixedly at me, and then simultaneously delivered a snort of defiance or astonishment, so loud and sudden that it startled me like the report of a gun. This tremendous equine blast brought yet another enemy on the field in the shape of a huge milk-white bull with long horns: a very noble kind of animal, but one which I always prefer to admire from behind a hedge, or at a distance through a field-glass. Fortunately his wrathful mutterings gave me timely notice of his approach, and without waiting to discover his intentions, I incontinently fled down the slope to the refuge of a grove or belt of trees clothing the lower portion of the hillside. Spent and panting from my run, I embraced a big tree, and turning to face the foe, found that I had not been followed: sheep, horses, and bull were all grouped together just where I had left them, apparently holding a consultation, or comparing notes. The trees where I had sought shelter were old, and grew here and there, singly or in scattered groups: it was a pretty wilderness of mingled tree, shrub and flower. I was surprised to find here some very large and ancient-looking fig-trees, and numbers of wasps and flies were busy feeding on a few over-ripe figs on the higher branches. Honey-bees also roamed about everywhere, extracting sweets from the autumn bloom, and filling the sunny glades with a soft, monotonous murmur of sound. Walking on full of happy thoughts and a keen sense of the sweetness of life pervading me, I presently noticed that a multitude of small birds were gathering about me, flitting through the trees overhead and the bushes on either hand, but always keeping near me, apparently as much excited at my presence as if I had been a gigantic owl, or some such unnatural monster. Their increasing numbers and incessant excited chirping and chattering at first served to amuse, but in the end began to irritate me. I observed, too, that the alarm was spreading, and that larger birds, usually shy of men--pigeons, jays, and magpies, I fancied they were--now began to make their appearance. Could it be, thought I with some concern, that I had wandered into some uninhabited wilderness, to cause so great a commotion among the little feathered people? I very soon dismissed this as an idle thought, for one does not find houses, domestic animals, and fruit-trees in desert places. No, it was simply the inherent cantankerousness of little birds which caused them to annoy me. Looking about on the ground for something to throw at them, I found in the grass a freshly-fallen walnut, and, breaking the shell, I quickly ate the contents. Never had anything tasted so pleasant to me before! But it had a curious effect on me, for, whereas before eating it I had not felt hungry, I now seemed to be famishing, and began excitedly searching about for more nuts. They were lying everywhere in the greatest abundance; for, without knowing it, I had been walking through a grove composed in large part of old walnut-trees. Nut after nut was picked up and eagerly devoured, and I must have eaten four or five dozen before my ravenous appetite was thoroughly appeased. During this feast I had paid no attention to the birds, but when my hunger was over I began again to feel annoyed at their trivial persecutions, and so continued to gather the fallen nuts to throw at them. It amused and piqued me at the same time to see how wide of the mark my missiles went. I could hardly have hit a haystack at a distance of ten yards. After half an hour's vigorous practice my right hand began to recover its lost cunning, and I was at last greatly delighted when of my nuts went hissing like a bullet through the leaves, not further than a yard from the wren, or whatever the little beggar was, I had aimed at. Their Impertinences did not like this at all; they began to find out that I was a rather dangerous person to meddle with: their ranks were broken, they became demoralized and scattered, in all directions, and I was finally left master of the field. "Dolt that I am," I suddenly exclaimed, "to be fooling away my time when the nearest railway station or hotel is perhaps twenty miles away." I hurried on, but when I got to the end of the grove, on the green sward near some laurel and juniper bushes, I came on an excavation apparently just made, the loose earth which had been dug out looking quite fresh and moist. The hole or foss was narrow, about five feet deep and seven feet long, and looked, I imagined, curiously like a grave. A few yards away was a pile of dry brushwood, and some faggots bound together with ropes of straw, all apparently freshly cut from the neighboring bushes. As I stood there, wondering what these things meant, I happened to glance away in the direction of the house where I intended to call, which was not now visible owing to an intervening grove of tall trees, and was surprised to discover a troop of about fifteen persons advancing along the valley in my direction. Before them marched a tall white-bearded old man; next came eight men, bearing a platform on their shoulders with some heavy burden resting upon it; and behind these followed the others. I began to think that they were actually carrying a corpse, with the intention of giving it burial in that very pit beside which I was standing; and, although it looked most unlike a funeral, for no person in the procession wore black, the thought strengthened to a conviction when I became able to distinguish a recumbent, human-like form in a shroud-like covering on the platform. It seemed altogether a very unusual proceeding, and made me feel extremely uncomfortable; so much so that I considered it prudent to step back behind the bushes, where I could watch the doings of the processionists without being observed. Led by the old man--who carried, suspended by thin chains, a large bronze censer, or brazier rather, which sent out a thin continuous wreath of smoke--they came straight on to the pit; and after depositing their burden on the grass, remained standing for some minutes, apparently to rest after their walk, all conversing together, but in subdued tones, so that I could not catch their words, although standing within fifteen yards of the grave. The uncoffined corpse, which seemed that of a full-grown man, was covered with a white cloth, and rested on a thick straw mat, provided with handles along the sides. On these things, however, I bestowed but a hasty glance, so profoundly absorbed had I become in watching the group of living human beings before me; for they were certainly utterly unlike any fellow-creatures I had ever encountered before. The old man was tall and spare, and from his snowy-white majestic beard I took him to be about seventy years old; but he was straight as an arrow, and his free movements and elastic tread were those of a much younger man. His head was adorned with a dark red skull-cap, and he wore a robe covering the whole body and reaching to the ankles, of a deep yellow or rhubarb color; but his long wide sleeves under his robe were dark red, embroidered with yellow flowers. The other men had no covering on their heads, and their luxuriant hair, worn to the shoulders, was, in most cases, very dark. Their garments were also made in a different fashion, and consisted of a kilt-like dress, which came half-way to the knees, a pale yellow shirt fitting tight to the skin, and over it a loose sleeveless vest. The entire legs were cased in stockings, curious in pattern and color. The women wore garments resembling those of the men, but the tight-fitting sleeves reached only half-way to the elbow, the rest of the arm being bare; and the outergarment was all in one piece, resembling a long sleeveless jacket, reaching below the hips. The color of their dresses varied, but in most cases different shades of blue and subdued yellow predominated. In all, the stockings showed deeper and richer shades of color than the other garments; and in their curiously segmented appearance, and in the harmonious arrangement of the tints, they seemed to represent the skins of pythons and other beautifully variegated serpents. All wore low shoes of an orange-brown color, fitting closely so as to display the shape of the foot. From the moment of first seeing them I had had no doubt about the sex of the tall old leader of the procession, his shining white beard being as conspicuous at a distance as a shield or a banner; but looking at the others I was at first puzzled to know whether the party was composed of men or women, or of both, so much did they resemble each other in height, in their smooth faces, and in the length of their hair. On a closer inspection I noticed the difference of dress of the sexes; also that the men, if not sterner, had faces at all events less mild and soft in expression than the women, and also a slight perceptible down on the cheeks and upper lip. After a first hasty survey of the group in general, I had eyes for only one person in it--a fine graceful girl about fourteen years old, and the youngest by far of the party. A description of this girl will give some idea, albeit a very poor one, of the faces and general appearance of this strange people I had stumbled on. Her dress, if a garment so brief can be called a dress, showed a slaty-blue pattern on a straw-colored ground, while her stockings were darker shades of the same colors. Her eyes, at the distance I stood from her, appeared black, or nearly black, but when seen closely they proved to be green--a wonderfully pure, tender sea-green; and the others, I found, had eyes of the same hue. Her hair fell to her shoulders; but it was very wavy or curly, and strayed in small tendril-like tresses over her neck, forehead and cheeks; in color it was golden black--that is, black in shade, but when touched with sunlight every hair became a thread of shining red-gold; and in some lights it looked like raven-black hair powdered with gold-dust. As to her features, the forehead was broader and lower, the nose larger, and the lips more slender, than in our most beautiful female types. The color was also different, the delicately molded mouth being purple-red instead of the approved cherry or coral hue; while the complexion was a clear dark, and the color, which mantled the cheeks in moments of excitement, was a dim or dusky rather than a rosy red. The exquisite form and face of this young girl, from the first moment of seeing her, produced a very deep impression; and I continued watching her every movement and gesture with an intense, even a passionate interest. She had a quantity of flowers in her hand; but these sweet emblems, I observed, were all gayly colored, which seemed strange, for in most places white flowers are used in funeral ceremonies. Some of the men who had followed the body carried in their hands broad, three-cornered bronze shovels, with short black handles, and these they had dropped upon the grass on arriving at the grave. Presently the old man stooped and drew the covering back from the dead one's face--a rigid, marble-white face set in a loose mass of black hair. The others gathered round, and some standing, others kneeling, bent on the still countenance before them a long earnest gaze, as if taking an eternal farewell of one they had deeply loved. At this moment the the beautiful girl I have described all at once threw herself with a sobbing cry on her knees before the corpse, and, stooping, kissed the face with passionate grief. "Oh, my beloved, must we now leave you alone forever!" she cried between the sobs that shook her whole frame. "Oh, my love--my love--my love, will you come back to us no more!" The others all appeared deeply affected at her grief, and presently a young man standing by raised her from the ground and drew her gently against his side, where for some minutes she continued convulsively weeping. Some of the other men now passed ropes through the handles of the straw mat on which the corpse rested, and raising it from the platform lowered it into the foss. Each person in turn then advanced and dropped some flowers into the grave, uttering the one word "Farewell" as they did so; after which the loose earth was shoveled in with the bronze implements. Over the mound the hurdle on which the straw mat had rested was then placed, the dry brushwood and faggots heaped over it and ignited with a coal from the brazier. White smoke and crackling flames issued anon from the pile, and in a few moments the whole was in a fierce blaze. Standing around they all waited in silence until the fire had burnt itself out; then the old man advancing stretched his arms above the white and still smoking ashes and cried in a loud voice: "Farewell forever, O well beloved son! With deep sorrow and tears we have given you back to Earth; but not until she has made the sweet grass and flowers grow again on this spot, scorched and made desolate with fire, shall our hearts be healed of their wound and forget their grief." Chapter 2 The thrilling, pathetic tone in which these words were uttered affected me not a little; and when the ceremony was over I continued staring vacantly at the speaker, ignorant of the fact that the beautiful young girl had her wide-open, startled eyes fixed on the bush which, I vainly imagined, concealed me from view. All at once she cried out: "Oh, father, look there! Who is that strange-looking man watching us from behind the bushes?" They all turned, and then I felt that fourteen or fifteen pairs of very keen eyes were on me, seeing me very plainly indeed, for in my curiosity and excitement I had come out from the thicker bushes to place myself behind a ragged, almost leafless shrub, which afforded the merest apology for a shelter. Putting a bold face on the matter, although I did not feel very easy, I came out and advanced to them, removing my battered old hat on the way, and bowing repeatedly to the assembled company. My courteous salutation was not returned; but all, with increasing astonishment pictured on their faces, continued staring at me as if they were looking on some grotesque apparition. Thinking it best to give an account of myself at once, and to apologize for intruding on their mysteries, I addressed myself to the old man: "I really beg your pardon," I said, "for having disturbed you at such an inconvenient time, and while you are engaged in these--these solemn rites; but I assure you, sir, it has been quite accidental. I happened to be walking here when I saw you coming, and thought it best to step out of the way until--well, until the funeral was over. The fact is, I met with a serious accident in the mountains over there. I fell down into a ravine, and a great heap of earth and stones fell on and stunned me, and I do not know how long I lay there before I recovered my senses. I daresay I am trespassing, but I am a perfect stranger here, and quite lost, and--and perhaps a little confused after my fall, and perhaps you will kindly tell me where to go to get some refreshment, and find out where I am." "Your story is a very strange one," said the old man in reply, after a pause of considerable duration. "That you are a perfect stranger in this place is evident from your appearance, your uncouth dress, and your thick speech." His words made me blush hotly, although I should not have minded his very personal remarks much if that beautiful girl had not been standing there listening to everything. My _uncouth_ garments, by the way, were made by a fashionable West End tailor, and fitted me perfectly, although just now they were, of course, very dirty. It was also a surprise to hear that I had a _thick speech_, since I had always been considered a remarkably clear speaker and good singer, and had frequently both sung and recited in public, at amateur entertainments. After a distressing interval of silence, during which they all continued regarding me with unabated curiosity, the old gentleman condescended to address me again and asked me my name and country. "My country," said I, with the natural pride of a Briton, "is England, and my name is Smith." "No such country is known to me," he returned; "nor have I ever heard such a name as yours." I was rather taken aback at his words, and yet did not just then by any means realize their full import. I was thinking only about my name; for without having penetrated into any perfectly savage country, I had been about the world a great deal for a young man, visiting the Colonies, India, Yokohama, and other distant places, and I had never yet been told that the name of Smith was an unfamiliar one. "I hardly know what to say," I returned, for he was evidently waiting for me to add something more to what I had stated. "It rather staggers me to hear that my name-well, you have not heard of _me_, of course, but there have been a great many distinguished men of the same name: Sydney Smith, for instance, and--and several others." It mortified me just then to find that I had forgotten all the other distinguished Smiths. He shook his head, and continued watching my face. "Not heard of them!" I exclaimed. "Well, I suppose you have heard of some of my great countrymen: Beaconsfield, Gladstone, Darwin, Burne-Jones, Ruskin, Queen Victoria, Tennyson, George Eliot, Herbert Spencer, General Gordon, Lord Randolph Churchill--" As he continued to shake his head after each name I at length paused. "Who are all these people you have named?" he asked. "They are all great and illustrious men and women who have a world-wide reputation," I answered. "And are there no more of them--have you told me the names of _all_ the great people you have ever known or heard of?" he said, with a curious smile. "No, indeed," I answered, nettled at his words and manner. "It would take me until to-morrow to name _all_ the great men I have ever heard of. I suppose you have heard the names of Napoleon, Wellington, Nelson, Dante, Luther, Calvin, Bismarck, Voltaire?" He still shook his head. "Well, then," I continued, "Homer, Socrates, Alexander the Great, Confucius, Zoroaster, Plato, Shakespeare." Then, growing thoroughly desperate, I added in a burst: "Noah, Moses, Columbus, Hannibal, Adam and Eve!" "I am quite sure that I have never heard of any of these names," he answered, still with that curious smile. "Nevertheless I can understand your surprise. It sometimes happens that the mind, owing an an imperfect adjustment of its faculties, resembles the uneducated vision in its method of judgment, regarding the things which are near as great and important, and those further away as less important, according to their distance. In such a case the individuals one hears about or associates with, come to be looked upon as the great and illustrious beings of the world, and all men in all places are expected to be familiar with their names. But come, my children, our sorrowful task is over, let us now return to the house. Come with us, Smith, and you shall have the refreshment you require." I was, of course, pleased with the invitation, but did not relish being addressed as "Smith," like some mere laborer or other common person tramping about the country. The long disconcerting scrutiny I had been subjected to had naturally made me very uncomfortable, and caused me to drop a little behind the others as we walked towards the house. The old man, however, still kept at my side; but whether from motives of courtesy, or because he wished to badger me a little more about my uncouth appearance and defective intellect, I was not sure. I was not anxious to continue the conversation, which had not proved very satisfactory; moreover, the beautiful girl I have already mentioned so frequently, was now walking just before me, hand in hand with the young man who had raised her from the ground. I was absorbed in admiration of her graceful figure, and--shall I be forgiven for mentioning such a detail?--her exquisitely rounded legs under her brief and beautiful garments. To my mind the garment was quite long enough. Every time I spoke, for my companion still maintained the conversation and I was obliged to reply, she hung back a little to catch my words. At such times she would also turn her pretty head partially round so as to see me: then her glances, beginning at my face, would wander down to my legs, and her lips would twitch and curl a little, seeming to express disgust and amusement at the same time. I was beginning to hate my legs, or rather my trousers, for I considered that under them I had as good a pair of calves as any man in the company. Presently I thought of something to say, something very simple, which my dignified old friend would be able to answer without intimating that he considered me a wild man of the woods or an escaped lunatic. "Can you tell me," I said pleasantly, "what is the name of your nearest town or city? how far it is from this place, and how I can get there?" At this question, or series of questions, the young girl turned quite round, and, waiting until I was even with her, she continued her walk at my side, although still holding her companion's hand. The old man looked at me with a grave smile--that smile was fast becoming intolerable--and said: "Are you so fond of honey, Smith? You shall have as much as you require without disturbing the bees. They are now taking advantage of this second spring to lay by a sufficient provision before winter sets in." After pondering some time over these enigmatical words, I said: "I daresay we are at cross purposes again. I mean," I added hurriedly, seeing the inquiring look on his face, "that we do not exactly understand each other, for the subject of honey was not in my thoughts." "What, then, do you mean by a city?" he asked. "What do I mean? Why, a city, I take it, is nothing more than a collection or congeries of houses--hundreds and thousands, or hundreds _of_ thousands of houses, all built close together, where one can live very comfortably for years without seeing a blade of grass." "I am afraid," he returned, "that the accident you met with in the mountains must have caused some injury to your brain; for I cannot in any other way account for these strange fantasies." "Do you mean seriously to tell me, sir, that you have never even heard of the existence of a city, where millions of human beings live crowded together in a small space? Of course I mean a small space comparatively; for in some cities you might walk all day without getting into the fields; and a city like that might be compared to a beehive so large that a bee might fly in a straight line all day without getting out of it." It struck me the moment I finished speaking that this comparison was not quite right somehow; but he did not ask me to explain: he had evidently ceased to pay any attention to what I said. The girl looked at me with an expression of pity, not to say contempt, and I felt at the same time ashamed and vexed. This served to rouse a kind of dogged spirit in me, and I returned to the subject once more. "Surely," I said, "you have heard of such cities as Paris, Vienna, Rome, Athens, Babylon, Jerusalem?" He only shook his head, and walked on in silence. "And London! London is the capital of England. Why," I exclaimed, beginning to see light, and wondering at myself for not having seen it sooner, "you are at present talking to me in the English language." "I fail to understand your meaning, and am even inclined to doubt that you have any," said he, a little ruffled. "I am addressing you in the language of human beings--that is all." "Well, it seems awfully puzzling," said I; "but I hope you don't think I have been indulging in--well, tarradiddles." Then, seeing that I was making matters no clearer, I added: "I mean that I have not been telling untruths." "I could not think that," he answered sternly. "It would indeed be a clouded mind which could mistake mere disordered fancies for willful offenses against the truth. I have no doubt that when you have recovered from the effects of your late accident these vain thoughts and imaginations will cease to trouble you." "And in the meantime, perhaps, I had better say as little as possible," said I, with considerable temper. "At present we do not seem able to understand each other at all." "You are right, we do not," he said; and then added with a grave smile, "although I must allow that this last remark of yours is quite intelligible." "I'm glad of that," I returned. "It is distressing to talk and not to be understood; it is like men calling to each other in a high wind, hearing voices but not able to distinguish words." "Again I understand you," said he approvingly; while the beautiful girl bestowed on me the coveted reward of a smile, which had no pity or contempt in it. "I think," I continued, determined to follow up this new train of ideas on which I had so luckily stumbled, "that we are not so far apart in mind after all. About some things we stand quite away from each other, like the widely diverging branches of a tree; but, like the branches, we have a meeting-place, and this is, I fancy, in that part of our nature where our feelings are. My accident in the hills has not disarranged that part of me, I am sure, and I can give you an instance. A little while ago when I was standing behind the bushes watching you all, I saw this young lady----" Here a look of surprise and inquiry from the girl warned me that I was once more plunging into obscurity. "When I saw _you_," I continued, somewhat amused at her manner, "cast yourself on the earth to kiss the cold face of one you had loved in life, I felt the tears of sympathy come to my own eyes." "Oh, how strange!" she exclaimed, flashing on me a glance from her green, mysterious eyes; and then, to increase my wonder and delight, she deliberately placed her hand in mine. "And yet not strange," said the old man, by way of comment on her words. "It seemed strange to Yoletta that one so unlike us outwardly should be so like us in heart," remarked the young man at her side. There was something about this speech which I did not altogether like, though I could not detect anything like sarcasm in the tone of the speaker. "And yet," continued the lovely girl, "you never saw him living--never heard his sweet voice, which still seems to come back to me like a melody from the distance." "Was he your father?" I asked. The question seemed to surprise her very much. "_He_ is our father," she returned, with a glance at the old gentleman, which seemed strange, for he certainly looked aged enough to be her great-grandfather. He smiled and said: "You forget, my daughter, that I am as little known to this stranger to our country as all the great and illustrious personages he has mentioned are to us." At this point I began to lose interest in the conversation. It was enough for me to feel that I held that precious hand in mine, and presently I felt tempted to administer a gentle squeeze. She looked at me and smiled, then glanced over my whole person, the survey finishing at my boots, which seemed to have a disagreeable fascination for her. She shivered slightly, and withdrew her hand from mine, and in my heart I cursed those rusty, thick-soled monstrosities in which my feet were cased. However, we were all on a better footing now; and I resolved for the future to avoid all dangerous topics, historical and geographical, and confine myself to subjects relating to the emotional side of our natures. At the end our way to the house was over a green turf, among great trees as in a park; and as there was no road or path, the first sight of the building seen near, when we emerged from the trees, came as a surprise. There were no gardens, lawns, inclosures or hedges near it, nor cultivation of any kind. It was like a wilderness, and the house produced the effect of a noble ruin. It was a hilly stone country where masses of stone cropped out here and there among the woods and on the green slopes, and it appeared that the house had been raised on the natural foundation of one of these rocks standing a little above the river that flowed behind it. The stone was gray, tinged with red, and the whole rock, covering an acre or so of ground, had been worn or hewn down to form a vast platform which stood about a dozen feet above the surrounding green level. The sloping and buttressed sides of the platform were clothed with ivy, wild shrubs, and various flowering plants. Broad, shallow steps led up to the house, which was all of the same material--reddish-gray stone; and the main entrance was beneath a lofty portico, the sculptured entablature of which was supported by sixteen huge caryatides, standing on round massive pedestals. The building was not high as a castle or cathedral; it was a dwelling-place, and had but one floor, and resembled a ruin to my eyes because of the extreme antiquity of its appearance, the weather-worn condition and massiveness of the sculptured surfaces, and the masses of ancient ivy covering it in places. On the central portion of the building rested a great dome-shaped roof, resembling ground glass of a pale reddish tint, producing the effect of a cloud resting on the stony summit of a hill. I remained standing on the grass about thirty yards from the first steps after the others had gone in, all but the old gentleman, who still kept with me. By-and-by, withdrawing to a stone bench under an oak-tree, he motioned to me to take a seat by his side. He said nothing, but appeared to be quietly enjoying my undisguised surprise and admiration. "A noble mansion!" I remarked at length to my venerable host, feeling, Englishman-like, a sudden great access of respect towards the owner of a big house. Men in such a position can afford to be as eccentric as they like, even to the wearing of Carnivalesque garments, burying their friends or relations in a park, and shaking their heads over such names as Smith or Shakespeare. "A glorious place! It must have cost a pot of money, and taken a long time to build." "What you mean by _a pot of money_ I do not know," said he. "When you add _a long time to build_, I am also puzzled to understand you. For are not all houses, like the forest of trees, the human race, the world we live in, eternal?" "If they stand forever they are so in one sense, I suppose," I answered, beginning to fear that I had already unfortunately broken the rule I had so recently laid down for my own guidance. "But the trees of the forest, to which you compare a house, spring from seed, do they not? and so have a beginning. Their end also, like the end of man, is to die and return to the dust." "That is true," he returned; "it is, moreover, a truth which I do not now hear for the first time; but it has no connection with the subject we are discussing. Men pass away, and others take their places. Trees also decay, but the forest does not die, or suffer for the loss of individual trees; is it not the same with the house and the family inhabiting it, which is one with the house, and endures forever, albeit the members composing it must all in time return to the dust?" "Is there no decay, then, of the materials composing a house?" "Assuredly there is! Even the hardest stone is worn in time by the elements, or by the footsteps of many generations of men; but the stone that decays is removed, and the house does not suffer." "I have never looked at it quite in this light before," said I. "But surely we can build a house whenever we wish!" "Build a house whenever we wish!" he repeated, with that astonished look which threatened to become the permanent expression of his face--so long as he had me to talk with, at any rate. "Yes, or pull one down if we find it unsuitable--" But his look of horror here made me pause, and to finish the sentence I added: "Of course, you must admit that a house had a beginning?" "Yes; and so had the forest, the mountain, the human race, the world itself. But the origin of all these things is covered with the mists of time." "Does it never happen, then, that a house, however substantially built--" "However what! But never mind; you continue to speak in riddles. Pray, finish what you were saying." "Does it never happen that a house is overthrown by some natural force--by floods, or subsidence of the earth, or is destroyed by lightning or fire?" "No!" he answered, with such tremendous emphasis that he almost made me jump from my seat. "Are you alone so ignorant of these things that you speak of building and of pulling down a house?" "Well, I fancied I knew a lot of things once," I answered, with a sigh. "But perhaps I was mistaken--people often are. I should like to hear you say something more about all these things--I mean about the house and the family, and the rest of it." "Are you not, then, able to read--have you been taught absolutely nothing?" "Oh yes, certainly I can read," I answered, joyfully seizing at once on the suggestion, which seemed to open a simple, pleasant way of escape from the difficulty. "I am by no means a studious person; perhaps I am never so happy as when I have nothing to read. Nevertheless, I do occasionally look into books, and greatly appreciate their gentle, kindly ways. They never shut themselves up with a sound like a slap, or throw themselves at your head for a duffer, but seem silently grateful for being read, even by a stupid person, and teach you very patiently, like a pretty, meek-spirited young girl." "I am very pleased to hear it," said he. "You shall read and learn all these things for yourself, which is the best method. Or perhaps I ought rather to say, you shall by reading recall them to your mind, for it is impossible to believe that it has always been in its present pitiable condition. I can only attribute such a mental state, with its disordered fancies about cities, or immense hives of human beings, and other things equally frightful to contemplate, and its absolute vacancy concerning ordinary matters of knowledge, to the grave accident you met with in the hills. Doubtless in falling your head was struck and injured by a stone. Let us hope that you will soon recover possession of your memory and other faculties. And now let us repair to the eating-room, for it is best to refresh the body first, and the mind afterwards." Chapter 3 We ascended the steps, and passing through the portico went into the hall by what seemed to me a doorless way. It was not really so, as I discovered later; the doors, of which there were several, some of colored glass, others of some other material, were simply thrust back into receptacles within the wall itself, which was five or six feet thick. The hall was the noblest I had ever seen; it had a stone and bronze fireplace some twenty or thirty feet long on one side, and several tall arched doorways on the other. The spaces between the doors were covered with sculpture, its material being a blue-gray stone combined or inlaid with a yellow metal, the effect being indescribably rich. The floor was mosaic of many dark colors, but with no definite pattern, and the concave roof was deep red in color. Though beautiful, it was somewhat somber, as the light was not strong. At all events, that is how it struck me at first on coming in from the bright sunlight. Nor, it appeared, was I alone in experiencing such a feeling. As soon as we were inside, the old gentleman, removing his cap and passing his thin fingers through his white hair, looked around him, and addressing some of the others, who were bringing in small round tables and placing them about the hall, said: "No, no; let us sup this evening where we can look at the sky." The tables were immediately taken away. Now some of those who were in the hall or who came in with the tables had not attended the funeral, and these were all astonished on seeing me. They did not stare at me, but I, of course, saw the expression on their faces, and noticed that the others who had made my acquaintance at the grave-side whispered in their ears to explain my presence. This made me extremely uncomfortable, and it was a relief when they began to go out again. One of the men was seated near me; he was of those who had assisted in carrying the corpse, and he now turned to me and remarked: "You have been a long time in the open air, and probably feel the change as much as we do." I assented, and he rose and walked away to the far end of the hall, where a great door stood facing the one by which we had entered. From the spot where I was--a distance of forty or fifty feet, perhaps--this door appeared to be of polished slate of a very dark gray, its surface ornamented with very large horse-chestnut leaves of brass or copper, or both, for they varied in shade from bright yellow to deepest copper-red. It was a double door with agate handles, and, first pressing on one handle, then on the other, he thrust it back into the walls on either side, revealing a new thing of beauty to my eyes, for behind the vanished door was a window, the sight of which came suddenly before me like a celestial vision. Sunshine, wind, cloud and rain had evidently inspired the artist who designed it, but I did not at the time understand the meaning of the symbolic figures appearing in the picture. Below, with loosened dark golden-red hair and amber-colored garments fluttering in the wind, stood a graceful female figure on the summit of a gray rock; over the rock, and as high as her knees, slanted the thin branches of some mountain shrub, the strong wind even now stripping them of their remaining yellow and russet leaves, whirling them aloft and away. Round the woman's head was a garland of ivy leaves, and she was gazing aloft with expectant face, stretching up her arms, as if to implore or receive some precious gift from the sky. Above, against the slaty-gray cloud-wrack, four exquisite slender girl-forms appeared, with loose hair, silver-gray drapery and gauzy wings as of ephemerae, flying in pursuit of the cloud. Each carried a quantity of flowers, shaped like lilies, in her dress, held up with the left hand; one carried red lilies, another yellow, the third violet, and the last blue; and the gauzy wings and drapery of each was also touched in places with the same hue as the flowers she carried. Looking back in their flight they were all with the disengaged hand throwing down lilies to the standing figure. This lovely window gave a fresh charm to the whole apartment, while the sunlight falling through it served also to reveal other beauties which I had not observed. One that quickly drew and absorbed my attention was a piece of statuary on the floor at some distance from me, and going to it I stood for some time gazing on it in the greatest delight. It was a statue about one-third the size of life, of a young woman seated on a white bull with golden horns. She had a graceful figure and beautiful countenance; the face, arms and feet were alabaster, the flesh tinted, but with colors more delicate than in nature. On her arms were broad golden armlets, and the drapery, a long flowing robe, was blue, embroidered with yellow flowers. A stringed instrument rested on her knee, and she was represented playing and singing. The bull, with lowered horns, appeared walking; about his chest hung a garland of flowers mingled with ears of yellow corn, oak, ivy, and various other leaves, green and russet, and acorns and crimson berries. The garland and blue dress were made of malachite, _lapis lazuli_, and various precious stones. "Aha, my fair Phoenician, I know you well!" thought I exultingly, "though I never saw you before with a harp in your hand. But were you not gathering flowers, O lovely daughter of Agenor, when that celestial animal, that masquerading god, put himself so cunningly in your way to be admired and caressed, until you unsuspiciously placed yourself on his back? That explains the garland. I shall have a word to say about this pretty thing to my learned and very superior host." The statue stood on an octagonal pedestal of a highly polished slaty-gray stone, and on each of its eight faces was a picture in which one human figure appeared. Now, from gazing on the statue itself I fell to contemplating one of these pictures with a very keen interest, for the figure, I recognized, was a portrait of the beautiful girl Yoletta. The picture was a winter landscape. The earth was white, not with snow, but with hoar frost; the distant trees, clothed by the frozen moisture as if with a feathery foliage, looked misty against the whitey-blue wintry sky. In the foreground, on the pale frosted grass, stood the girl, in a dark maroon dress, with silver embroidery on the bosom, and a dark red cap on her head. Close to her drooped the slender terminal twigs of a tree, sparkling with rime and icicle, and on the twigs were several small snow-white birds, hopping and fluttering down towards her outstretched hand; while she gazed up at them with flushed cheeks, and lips parting with a bright, joyous smile. Presently, while I stood admiring this most lovely work, the young man I have mentioned as having raised Yoletta from the ground at the grave came to my side and remarked, smiling: "You have noticed the resemblance." "Yes, indeed," I returned; "she is painted to the life." "This is not Yoletta's portrait," he replied, "though it is very like her;" and then, when I looked at him incredulously, he pointed to some letters under the picture, saying: "Do you not see the name and date?" Finding that I could not read the words, I hazarded the remark that it was Yoletta's mother, perhaps. "This portrait was painted four centuries ago," he said, with surprise in his accent; and then he turned aside, thinking me, perhaps, a rather dull and ignorant person. I did not want him to go away with that impression, and remarked, pointing to the statue I have spoken of: "I fancy I know very well who that is--that is Europa." "Europa? That is a name I never heard; I doubt that any one in the house ever bore it." Then, with a half-puzzled smile, he added: "How could you possibly know unless you were told? No, that is Mistrelde. It was formerly the custom of the house for the Mother to ride on a white bull at the harvest festival. Mistrelde was the last to observe it." "Oh, I see," I returned lamely, though I didn't see at all. The indifferent way in which he spoke of _centuries_ in connection with this brilliant and apparently fresh-painted picture rather took me aback. Presently he condescended to say something more. Pointing to the marks or characters which I could not read, he said: "You have seen the name of Yoletta here, and that and the resemblance misled you. You must know that there has always been a Yoletta in this house. This was the daughter of Mistrelde, the Mother, who died young and left but eight children; and when this work was made their portraits were placed on the eight faces of the pedestal." "Thanks for telling me," I said, wondering if it was all true, or only a fantastic romance. He then motioned me to follow him, and we quitted that room where it had been decided that we were not to sup. Chapter 4 We came to a large portico-like place open on three sides to the air, the roof being supported by slender columns. We were now on the opposite side of the house and looked upon the river, which was not more than a couple of hundred yards from the terrace or platform on which it stood. The ground here sloped rapidly to the banks, and, like that in the front, was a wilderness with rock and patches of tall fern and thickets of thorn and bramble, with a few trees of great size. Nor was wild life wanting in this natural park; some deer were feeding near the bank, while on the water numbers of wild duck and other water-fowl were disporting themselves, splashing and flapping over the surface and uttering shrill cries. The people of the house were already assembled, standing and sitting by the small tables. There was a lively hum of conversation, which ceased on my entrance; then those who were sitting stood up and the whole company fixed its eyes on me, which was rather disconcerting. The old gentleman, standing in the midst of the people, now bent on me a long, scrutinizing gaze; he appeared to be waiting for me to speak, and, finding that I remained silent, he finally addressed me with solemnity. "Smith," he said--and I did not like it--"the meeting with you today was to me and to all of us a very strange experience: I little thought that an even stranger one awaited me, that before you break bread in this house in which you have found shelter, I should have to remind you that you are now in a house." "Yes, I know I am," I said, and then added: "I'm sure, sir, I appreciate your kindness in bringing me here." He had perhaps expected something more or something entirely different from me, as he continued standing with his eyes fixed on me. Then with a sigh, and looking round him, he said in a dissatisfied tone: "My children, let us begin, and for the present put out of our minds this matter which has been troubling us." He then motioned me to a seat at his own table, where I was pleased to have a place since the lovely Yoletta was also there. I am not particular about what I eat, as with me good digestion waits on appetite, and so long as I get a bellyful--to use a good old English word--I am satisfied. On this particular occasion, with or without a pretty girl at the table, I could have consumed a haggis--that greatest abomination ever invented by flesh-eating barbarians--I was so desperately hungry. It was therefore a disappointment when nothing more substantial than a plate of whitey-green, crisp-looking stuff resembling endive, was placed before me by one of the picturesque handmaidens. It was cold and somewhat bitter to the taste, but hunger compelled me to eat it even to the last green leaf; then, when I began to wonder if it would be right to ask for more, to my great relief other more succulent dishes followed, composed of various vegetables. We also had some pleasant drinks, made, I suppose, from the juices of fruits, but the delicious alcoholic sting was not in them. We had fruits, too, of unfamiliar flavors, and a confection of crushed nuts and honey. We sat at table--or tables--a long time, and the meal was enlivened with conversation; for all now appeared in a cheerful frame of mind, notwithstanding the melancholy event which had occupied them during the day. It was, in fact, a kind of supper, and the one great meal of the day: the only other meals being a breakfast, and at noon a crust of brown bread, a handful of dried fruit, and drink of milk. At the conclusion of the repast, during which I had been too much occupied to take notice of everything that passed, I observed that a number of small birds had flown in, and were briskly hopping over the floor and tables, also perching quite fearlessly on the heads or shoulders of the company, and that they were being fed with the fragments. I took them to be sparrows and things of that kind, but they did not look altogether familiar to me. One little fellow, most lively in his motions, was remarkably like my old friend the robin, only the bosom was more vivid, running almost into orange, and the wings and tail were tipped with the same hue, giving it quite a distinguished appearance. Another small olive-green bird, which I at first took for a green linnet, was even prettier, the throat and bosom being of a most delicate buff, crossed with a belt of velvet black. The bird that really seemed most like a common sparrow was chestnut, with a white throat and mouse-colored wings and tail. These pretty little pensioners systematically avoided my neighborhood, although I tempted them with crumbs and fruit; only one flew onto my table, but had no sooner done so than it darted away again, and out of the room, as if greatly alarmed. I caught the pretty girl's eye just then, and having finished eating, and being anxious to join the conversation, for I hate to sit silent when others are talking. I remarked that it was strange the little birds so persistently avoided me. "Oh no, not at all strange," she replied, with surprising readiness, showing that she too had noticed it. "They are frightened at your appearance." "I must indeed appear strange to them," said I, with some bitterness, and recalling the adventures of the morning. "It is to me a new and very painful experience to walk about the world frightening men, cattle, and birds; yet I suppose it is entirely due to the clothes I am wearing--and the boots. I wish some kind person would suggest a remedy for this state of things; for just now my greatest desire is to be dressed in accordance with the fashion." "Allow me to interrupt you for one moment, Smith," said the old gentleman, who had been listening attentively to my words. "We understood what you said so well on this occasion that it seems a pity you should suddenly again render yourself unintelligible. Can you explain to us what you mean by dressing in accordance with the fashion?" "My meaning is, that I simply desire to dress like one of yourselves, to see the last of these _uncouth_ garments." I could not help putting a little vicious emphasis on that hateful word. He inclined his head and said, "Yes?" Thus encouraged, I dashed boldly into the middle of matter; for now, having dined, albeit without wine, I was inflamed with an intense craving to see myself arrayed in their rich, mysterious dress. "This being so," I continued, "may I ask you if it is in your power to provide me with the necessary garments, so that I may cease to be an object of aversion and offense to every living thing and person, myself included?" A long and uncomfortable silence ensued, which was perhaps not strange, considering the nature of the request. That I had blundered once more seemed likely enough, from the general suspense and the somewhat alarmed expression of the old gentleman's countenance; nevertheless, my motives had been good: I had expressed my wish in that way for the sake of peace and quietness, and fearing that if I had asked to be directed to the nearest clothing establishment, a new fit of amazement would have been the result. Finding the silence intolerable, I at length ventured to remark that I feared he had not understood me to the end. "Perhaps not," he answered gravely. "Or, rather let me say, I hope not." "May I explain my meaning?" said I, greatly distressed. "Assuredly you may," he replied with dignity. "Only before you speak, let me put this plain question to you: Do you ask us to provide you with garments--that is to say, to bestow them as a gift on you?" "Certainly not!" I exclaimed, turning crimson with shame to think that they were all taking me for a beggar. "My wish is to obtain them somehow from somebody, since I cannot make them for myself, and to give in return their full value." I had no sooner spoken than I greatly feared that I had made matters worse; for here was I, a guest in the house, actually offering to purchase clothing--ready-made or to to order--from my host, who, for all I knew, might be one of the aristocracy of the country. My fears, however, proved quite groundless. "I am glad to hear your explanation," he answered, "for it has completely removed the unpleasant impression caused by your former words. What can you do in return for the garments you are anxious to possess? And here, let me remark, I approve highly of your wish to escape, with the least possible delay, from your present covering. Do you wish to confine yourself to the finishing of some work in a particular line--as wood-carving, or stone, metal, clay or glass work; or in making or using colors? or have you only that general knowledge of the various arts which would enable you to assist the more skilled in preparing materials?" "No, I am not an artist," I replied, surprised at his question. "All I can do is to buy the clothes--to pay for them in money." "What do you mean by that? What is money?" "Surely----" I began, but fortunately checked myself in time, for I had meant to suggest that he was pulling my leg. But it was really hard to believe that a person of his years did not know what money was. Besides, I could not answer the question, having always abhorred the study of political economy, which tells you all about it; so that I had never learned to define money, but only how to spend it. Presently I thought the best way out of the muddle was to show him some, and I accordingly pulled out my big leather book-purse from my breast pocket. It had an ancient, musty smell, like everything else about me, but seemed pretty heavy and well-filled, and I proceeded to open it and turn the contents on the table. Eleven bright sovereigns and three half-crowns or florins, I forget which, rolled out; then, unfolding the papers, I discovered three five-pound Bank of England notes. "Surely this is very little for me to have about me!" said I, feeling greatly disappointed. "I fancy I must have been making ducks and drakes of a lot of cash before--before--well, before I was--I don't know what, or when, or where." Little notice was taken of this somewhat incoherent speech, for all were now gathering round the table, examining the gold and notes with eager curiosity. At length the old gentleman, pointing to the gold pieces, said: "What are these?" "Sovereigns," I answered, not a little amused. "Have you never seen any like them before?" "Never. Let me examine them again. Yes, these eleven are of gold. They are all marked alike, on one side with a roughly-executed figure of a woman's head, with the hair gathered on its summit in a kind of ball. There are also other things on them which I do not understand." "Can you not read the letters?" I asked. "No. The letters--if these marks are letters--are incomprehensible to me. But what have these small pieces of metal to do with the question of your garments? You puzzle me." "Why, everything. These pieces of metal, as you call them, are money, and represent, of course, so much buying power. I don't know yet what your currency is, and whether you have the dollar or the rupee"--here I paused, seeing that he did not follow me. "My idea is this," I resumed, and coming down to very plain speaking: "I can give one of these five-pound notes, or its equivalent in gold, if you prefer that--five of these sovereigns, I mean--for a suit of clothes such as you all wear." So great was my desire to possess the clothes that I was about to double the offer, which struck me as poor, and add that I would give ten sovereigns; but when I had spoken he dropped the piece he held in his hand upon the table, and stared fixedly at me, assisted by all the others. Presently, in the profound silence which ensued, a low, silvery gurgling became audible, as of some merry mountain burn--a sweet, warbling sound, swelling louder by degrees until it ended in a long ringing peal of laughter. This was from the girl Yoletta. I stared at her, surprised at her unseasonable levity; but the only effect of my doing so was a general explosion, men and women joining in such a tempest of merriment that one might have imagined they had just heard the most wonderful joke ever invented since man acquired the sense of the ludicrous. The old gentleman was the first to recover a decent gravity, although it was plain to see that he struggled severely at intervals to prevent a relapse. "Smith," said he, "of all the extraordinary delusions you appear to be suffering from, this, that you can have garments to wear in return for a small piece of paper, or for a few bits of this metal, is the most astounding! You cannot exchange these trifles for clothes, because clothes are the fruit of much labor of many hands." "And yet, sir, you said you understood me when I proposed to pay for the things I require," said I, in an aggrieved tone. "You seemed even to approve of the offer I made. How, then, am I to pay for them if all I possess is not considered of any value?" "_All_ you possess!" he replied. "Surely I did not say that! Surely you possess the strength and skill common to all men, and can acquire anything you wish by the labor of your hands." I began once more to see light, although my skill, I knew, would not count for much. "Ah yes," I answered: "to go back to that subject, I do not know anything about wood-carving or using colors, but I might be able to do something--some work of a simpler kind." "There are trees to be felled, land to be plowed, and many other things to be done. If you will do these things some one else will be released to perform works of skill; and as these are the most agreeable to the worker, it would please us more to have you labor in the fields than in the workhouse." "I am strong," I answered, "and will gladly undertake labor of the kind you speak of. There is, however, one difficulty. My desire is to change these clothes for others which will be more pleasing to the eye, at once; but the work I shall have to do in return will not be finished in a day. Perhaps not in--well, several days." "No, of course not," said he. "A year's labor will be necessary to pay for the garments you require." This staggered me; for if the clothes were given to me at the beginning, then before the end of the year they would be worn to rags, and I should make myself a slave for life. I was sorely perplexed in mind, and pulled about this way and that by the fear of incurring a debt, and the desire to see myself (and to be seen by Yoletta) in those strangely fascinating garments. That I had a decent figure, and was not a bad-looking young fellow, I was pretty sure; and the hope that I should be able to create an impression (favorable, I mean) on the heart of that supremely beautiful girl was very strong in me. At all events, by closing with the offer I should have a year of happiness in her society, and a year of healthy work in the fields could not hurt me, or interfere much with my prospects. Besides, I was not quite sure that my prospects were really worth thinking about just now. Certainly, I had always lived comfortably, spending money, eating and drinking of the best, and dressing well--that is, according to the London standard. And there was my dear old bachelor Uncle Jack--John Smith, Member of Parliament for Wormwood Scrubbs. That is to say, ex-Member; for, being a Liberal when the great change came at the last general election, he was ignominiously ousted from his seat, the Scrubbs proving at the finish a bitter place to him. He was put out in more ways than one, and tried to comfort himself by saying that there would soon be another dissolution--thinking of his own, possibly, being an old man. I remembered that I had rather looked forward to such a contingency, thinking how pleasant it would be to have all that money, and cruise about the world in my own yacht, enjoying myself as I knew how. And really I had some reason to hope. I remember he used to wind up the talk of an evening when I dined with him (and got a check) by saying: "My boy, you have talents, if you'd only use 'em." Where were those talents now? Certainly they had not made me shine much during the last few hours. Now, all this seemed unsubstantial, and I remembered these things dimly, like a dream or a story told to me in childhood; and sometimes, when recalling the past, I seemed to be thinking about ancient history--Sesostris, and the Babylonians and Assyrians, and that sort of thing. And, besides, it would be very hard to get back from a place where even the name of London was unknown. And perhaps, if I ever should succeed in getting back, it would only be to encounter a second Roger Tichborne case, or to be confronted with the statute of limitations. Anyhow, a year could not make much difference, and I should also keep my money, which seemed an advantage, though it wasn't much. I looked up: they were all once more studying the coins and notes, and exchanging remarks about them. "If I bind myself to work one year," said I, "shall I have to wait until the end of that time before I get the clothes?" The reply to this question, I thought, would settle the matter one way or the other. "No," said he. "It is your wish, and also ours, that you should be differently clothed at once, and the garments you require would be made for you immediately." "Then," said I, taking the desperate plunge, "I should like to have them as soon as possible, and I am ready to commence work at once." "You shall commence to-morrow morning," he answered, smiling at my impetuosity. "The daughters of the house, whose province it is to make these things, shall also suspend other work until your garments are finished. And now, my son, from this evening you are one of the house and one of us, and the things which we possess you also possess in common with us." I rose and thanked him. He too rose, and, after looking round on us with a fatherly smile, went away to the interior of the house. Chapter 5 When he was gone, and Yoletta had followed, leaving some of the others still studying those wretched sovereigns, I sat down again and rested my chin on my hand; for I was now thinking--deeply: thinking on the terms of the agreement. "I daresay I have succeeded in making a precious ass of myself," was the mental reflection that occurred to me--one I had not infrequently made, and, what is more, been justified in making on former occasions. Then, remembering that I had come to supper with an extravagant appetite, it struck me that my host, quietly observant, had, when proposing terms, taken into account the quantity of food necessary for my sustenance. I regretted too late that I had not exercised more restraint; but the hungry man does not and cannot consider consequences, else a certain hairy gentleman who figures in ancient history had never lent himself to that nefarious compact, which gave so great an advantage to a younger but sleek and well-nourished brother. In spite of all this, I felt a secret satisfaction in the thought of the clothes, and it was also good to know that the nature of the work I had undertaken would not lower my status in the house. Occupied with these reflections, I had failed to observe that the company had gradually been drifting away until but one person was left with me--the young man who had talked with me before. On his invitation I now rose, put by my money, and followed him. Returning by the hall we went through a passage and entered a room of vast extent, which in its form and great length and high arched roof was like the nave of a cathedral. And yet how unlike in that something ethereal in its aspect, as of a nave in a cloud cathedral, its far-stretching shining floors and walls and columns, pure white and pearl-gray, faintly touched with colors of exquisite delicacy. And over it all was the roof of white or pale gray glass tinged with golden-red--the roof which I had seen from the outside when it seemed to me like a cloud resting on the stony summit of a hill. On coming in I had the impression of an empty, silent place; yet the inmates of the house were all there; they were sitting and reclining on low couches, some lying at their ease on straw mats on the floor; some were reading, others were occupied with some work in their hands, and some were conversing, the sound coming to me like a faint murmur from a distance. At one side, somewhere about the center of the room, there was a broad raised place, or dais, with a couch on it, on which the father was reclining at his ease. Beside the couch stood a lectern on which a large volume rested, and before him there was a brass box or cabinet, and behind the couch seven polished brass globes were ranged, suspended on axles resting on bronze frames. These globes varied in size, the largest being not less than about twelve feet in circumference. I noticed that there were books on a low stand near me. They were all folios, very much alike in form and thickness; and seeing presently that the others were all following their own inclinations, and considering that I had been left to my own resources and that it is a good plan when at Rome to do as the Romans do, I by-and-by ventured to help myself to a volume, which I carried to one of the reading-stands. Books are grand things--sometimes, thought I, prepared to follow the advice I had received, and find out by reading all about the customs of this people, especially their ideas concerning _The House_, which appeared to be an object of almost religious regard with them. This would make me quite independent, and teach me how to avoid blundering in the future, or giving expression to any more "extraordinary delusions." On opening the volume I was greatly surprised to find that it was richly illuminated on every leaf, the middle only of each page being occupied with a rather narrow strip of writing; but the minute letters, resembling Hebrew characters, were incomprehensible to me. I bore the disappointment very cheerfully, I must say, for I am not over-fond of study; and, besides, I could not have paid proper attention to the text, surrounded with all that distracting beauty of graceful design and brilliant coloring. After a while Yoletta came slowly across the room, her fingers engaged with some kind of wool-work as she walked, and my heart beat fast when she paused by my side. "You are not reading," she said, looking curiously at me. "I have been watching you for some time." "Have you indeed?" said I, not knowing whether to feel flattered or not. "No, unfortunately, I can't read this book, as I do not understand the letters. But what a wonderfully beautiful book it is! I was just thinking what some of the great London book-buyers--Quaritch, for instance--would be tempted to give for it. Oh, I am forgetting--you have never heard his name, of course; but--but what a beautiful book it is!" She said nothing in reply, and only looked a little surprised--disgusted, I feared--at my ignorance, then walked away. I had hoped that she was going to talk to me, and with keen disappointment watched her moving across the floor. All the glory seemed now to have gone out of the leaves of the volume, and I continued turning them over listlessly, glancing at intervals at the beautiful girl, who was also like one of the pages before me, wonderful to look at and hard to understand. In a distant part of the room I saw her place some cushions on the floor, and settle herself on them to do her work. The sun had set by this time, and the interior was growing darker by degrees; the fading light, however, seemed to make no difference to those who worked or read. They appeared to be gifted with an owlish vision, able to see with very little light. The father alone did nothing, but still rested on his couch, perhaps indulging in a postprandial nap. At length he roused himself and looked around him. "There is no melody in our hearts this evening, my children," he said. "When another day has passed over us it will perhaps be different. To-night the voice so recently stilled in death forever would be too painfully missed by all of us." Some one then rose and brought a tall wax taper and placed it near him. The flame threw a little brightness on the volume, which he now proceeded to open; and here and there, further away, it flashed and trembled in points of rainbow-colored light on a tall column; but the greater part of the room still remained in twilight obscurity. He began to read aloud, and, although he did not seem to raise his voice above its usual pitch, the words he uttered fell on my ears with a distinctness and purity of sound which made them seem like a melody "sweetly played in tune." The words he read related to life and death, and such solemn matters; but to my mind his theology seemed somewhat fantastical, although it is right to confess that I am no judge of such matters. There was also a great deal about the _house_, which did not enlighten me much, being too rhapsodical, and when he spoke about our conduct and aims in life, and things of that kind, I understood him little better. Here is a part of his discourse:-- "It is natural to grieve for those that die, because light and knowledge and love and joy are no longer theirs; but they grieve not any more, being now asleep on the lap of the Universal Mother, the bride of the Father, who is with us, sharing our sorrow, which was his first; but it dims not his everlasting brightness; and his desire and our glory is that we should always and in all things resemble him. "The end of every day is darkness, but the Father of life through our reason has taught us to mitigate the exceeding bitterness of our end; otherwise, we that are above all other creatures in the earth should have been at the last more miserable than they. For in the irrational world, between the different kinds, there reigns perpetual strife and bloodshed, the strong devouring the weak and the incapable; and when failure of life clouds the brightness of that lower soul, which is theirs, the end is not long delayed. Thus the life that has lasted many days goes out with a brief pang, and in its going gives new vigor to the strong that have yet many days to live. Thus also does the ever-living earth from the dust of dead generations of leaves re-make a fresh foliage, and for herself a new garment. "We only, of all things having life, being like the Father, slay not nor are slain, and are without enemies in the earth; for even the lower kinds, which have not reason, know without reason that we are highest on the earth, and see in us, alone of all his works, the majesty of the Father, and lose all their rage in our presence. Therefore, when the night is near, when life is a burden and we remember our mortality, we hasten the end, that those we love may cease to sorrow at the sight of our decline; and we know that this is his will who called us into being, and gave us life and joy on the earth for a season, but not forever. "It is better to lay down the life that is ours, to leave all things--the love of our kindred; the beauty of the world and of the house; the labor in which we take delight, to go forth and be no more; but the bitterness endures not, and is scarcely tasted when in our last moments we remember that our labor has borne fruit; that the letters we have written perish not with us, but remain as a testimony and a joy to succeeding generations, and live in the house forever. "For the house is the image of the world, and we that live and labor in it are the image of our Father who made the world; and, like him, we labor to make for ourselves a worthy habitation, which shall not shame our teacher. This is his desire; for in all his works, and that knowledge which is like pure water to one that thirsts, and satisfies and leaves no taste of bitterness on the palate, we learn the will of him that called us into life. All the knowledge we seek, the invention and skill we possess, and the labor of our hands, has this purpose only: for all knowledge and invention and labor having any other purpose whatsoever is empty and vain in comparison, and unworthy of those that are made in the image of the Father of life. For just as the bodily senses may become perverted, and the taste lose its discrimination, so that the hungry man will devour acrid fruits and poisonous herbs for aliment, so is the mind capable of seeking out new paths, and a knowledge which leads only to misery and destruction. "Thus we know that in the past men sought after knowledge of various kinds, asking not whether it was for good or for evil: but every offense of the mind and the body has its appropriate reward; and while their knowledge grew apace, that better knowledge and discrimination which the Father gives to every living soul, both in man and in beast, was taken from them. Thus by increasing their riches they were made poorer; and, like one who, forgetting the limits that are set to his faculties, gazes steadfastly on the sun, by seeing much they become afflicted with blindness. But they know not their poverty and blindness, and were not satisfied; but were like shipwrecked men on a lonely and barren rock in the midst of the sea, who are consumed with thirst, and drink of no sweet spring, but of the bitter wave, and thirst, and drink again, until madness possesses their brains, and death releases them from their misery. Thus did they thirst, and drink again, and were crazed; being inflamed with the desire to learn the secrets of nature, hesitating not to dip their hands in blood, seeking in the living tissues of animals for the hidden springs of life. For in their madness they hoped by knowledge to gain absolute dominion over nature, thereby taking from the Father of the world his prerogative. "But their vain ambition lasted not, and the end of it was death. The madness of their minds preyed on their bodies, and worms were bred in their corrupted flesh: and these, after feeding on their tissues, changed their forms; and becoming winged, flew out in the breath of their nostrils, like clouds of winged ants that issue in the springtime from their breeding-places; and, flying from body to body, filled the race of men in all places with corruption and decay; and the Mother of men was thus avenged of her children for their pride and folly, for they perished miserably, devoured of worms. "Of the human race only a small remnant survived, these being men of an humble mind, who had lived apart and unknown to their fellows; and after long centuries they went forth into the wilderness of earth and repeopled it; but nowhere did they find any trace or record of those that had passed away; for earth had covered all their ruined works with her dark mold and green forests, even as a man hides unsightly scars on his body with a new and beautiful garment. Nor is it known to us when this destruction fell upon the race of men; we only know that the history thereof was graven an hundred centuries ago on the granite pillars of the House of Evor, on the plains between the sea and the snow-covered mountains of Elf. Thither in past ages some of our pilgrims journeyed, and have brought a record of these things; nor in our house only are they known, but in many houses throughout the world have they been written for the instruction of all men and a warning for all time. "But to mankind there shall come no second darkness of error, nor seeking after vain knowledge; and in the Father's House there shall be no second desolation, but the sounds of joy and melody, which were silent, shall be heard everlastingly; since we had now continued long in this even mind, seeking only to inform ourselves of his will; until as in a clear crystal without flaw shining with colored light, or as a glassy lake reflecting within itself the heavens and every cloud and star, so is he reflected in our minds; and in the house we are his viceregents, and in the world his co-workers; and for the glory which he has in his work we have a like glory in ours. "He is our teacher. Morning and evening throughout the various world, in the procession of the seasons, and in the blue heavens powdered with stars; in mountain and plain and many-toned forest; in the sounding walls of the ocean, and in the billowy seas through which we pass in peril from land to land, we read his thoughts and listen to his voice. Here do we learn with what far-seeing intelligence he has laid the foundations of his everlasting mansion, how skillfully he has builded its walls, and with what prodigal richness he has decorated all his works. For the sunlight and moonlight and the blueness of heaven are his; the sea with its tides; the blackness and the lightnings of the tempest, and snow, and changeful winds, and green and yellow leaf; his are also the silver rain and the rainbow, the shadows and the many-colored mists, which he flings like a mantle over all the world. Herein do we learn that he loves a stable building, and that the foundations and walls shall endure for ever: yet loves not sameness; thus, from day to day and from season to season do all things change their aspect, and the walls and floor and roof of his dwelling are covered with a new glory. But to us it is not given to rise to this supreme majesty in our works; therefore do we, like him yet unable to reach so great a height, borrow nothing one from the other, but in each house learn separately from him alone who has infinite riches; so that every habitation, changeless and eternal in itself, shall yet differ from all others, having its own special beauty and splendor: for we inhabit one house only, but the Father of men inhabits all. "These things are written for the refreshment and delight of those who may no longer journey into distant lands; and they are in the library of the house in the seven thousand volumes of the Houses of the World which our pilgrims have visited in past ages. For once in a lifetime is it ordained that a man shall leave his own place and travel for the space of ten years, visiting the most famous houses in every land he enters, and also seeking out those of which no report has reached us. "When the time for this chief adventure comes, and we go forth for a long period, there is compensation for every weariness, with absence of kindred and the sweet shelter of our own home: for now do we learn the infinite riches of the Father; for just as the day changes every hour, from the morning to the evening twilight, so does the aspect of the world alter as we progress from day to day; and in all places our fellow-men, learning as we do from him only, and seeing that which is nearest, give a special color of nature to their lives and their houses; and every house, with the family which inhabits it, in their conversation and the arts in which they excel, is like a round lake set about with hills, wherein may be seen that visible world. And in all the earth there is no land without inhabitants, whether on wide continents or islands of the sea; and in all nature there is no grandeur or beauty or grace which men have not copied; knowing that this is pleasing to the Father: for we, that are made like him, delight not to work without witnesses; and we are his witnesses in the earth, taking pleasure in his works, even as he also does in ours. "Thus, at the beginning of our journey to the far south, where we go to look first on those bright lands, which have hotter suns and a greater variety than ours, we come to the wilderness of Coradine, which seems barren and desolate to our sight, accustomed to the deep verdure of woods and valleys, and the blue mists of an abundant moisture. There a stony soil brings forth only thorns, and thistles, and sere tufts of grass; and blustering winds rush over the unsheltered reaches, where the rough-haired goats huddle for warmth; and there is no melody save the many-toned voices of the wind and the plover's wild cry. There dwell the children of Coradine, on the threshold of the wind-vexed wilderness, where the stupendous columns of green glass uphold the roof of the House of Coradine; the ocean's voice is in their rooms, and the inland-blowing wind brings to them the salt spray and yellow sand swept at low tide from the desolate floors of the sea, and the white-winged bird flying from the black tempest screams aloud in their shadowy halls. There, from the high terraces, when the moon is at its full, we see the children of Coradine gathered together, arrayed like no others, in shining garments of gossamer threads, when, like thistle-down chased by eddying winds, now whirling in a cloud, now scattering far apart, they dance their moonlight dances on the wide alabaster floors; and coming and going they pass away, and seem to melt into the moonlight, yet ever to return again with changeful melody and new measures. And, seeing this, all those things in which we ourselves excel seem poor in comparison, becoming pale in our memories. For the winds and waves, and the whiteness and grace, has been ever with them; and the winged seed of the thistle, and the flight of the gull, and the storm-vexed sea, flowering in foam, and the light of the moon on sea and barren land, have taught them this art, and a swiftness and grace which they alone possess. "Yet does this moonlight dance, which is the chief glory of the House of Coradine, grow pale in the mind, and is speedily forgotten, when another is seen; and, going on our way from house to house, we learn how everywhere the various riches of the world have been taken into his soul by man, and made part of his life. Nor are we inferior to others, having also an art and chief excellence which is ours only, and the fame of which has long gone forth into the world; so that from many distant lands pilgrims gather yearly to our fields to listen to our harvest melody, when the sun-ripened fruits have been garnered, and our lips and hands make undying music, to gladden the hearts of those that hear it all their lives long. For then do we rejoice beyond others, rising like bright-winged insects from our lowly state to a higher life of glory and joy, which is ours for the space of three whole days. Then the august Mother, in a brazen chariot, is drawn from field to field by milk-white bulls with golden horns; then her children are gathered about her in shining yellow garments, with armlets of gold upon their arms; and with voice and instruments of forms unknown to the stranger, they make glad the listening fields with the great harvest melody. "In ancient days the children of our house conceived it in their hearts, hearing it in all nature's voices; and it was with them day and night, and they whispered it to one another when it was no louder than the whisper of the wind in the forest leaves; and as the Builder of the world brings from an hundred far places the mist, and the dew, and the sunshine, and the light west wind, to give to the morning hour its freshness and glory; and as we, his humbler followers, seek far off in caverns of the hills and in the dark bowels of the earth for minerals and dyes that outshine the flowers and the sun, to beautify the walls of our house, so everywhere by night and day for long centuries did we listen to all sounds, and made their mystery and melody ours, until this great song was perfected in our hearts, and the fame of it in all lands has caused our house to be called the House of the Harvest Melody; and when the yearly pilgrims behold our procession in the fields, and listen to our song, all the glory of the world seems to pass before them, overcoming their hearts, until, bursting into tears and loud cries, they cast themselves upon the earth and worship the Father of the whole world. "This shall be the chief glory of our house for ever; when a thousand years have gone by, and we that are now living, like those that have been, are mingled with the nature we come from, and speak to our children only in the wind's voice, and the cry of the passage-bird, pilgrims shall still come to these sun-bright fields, to rejoice, and worship the Father of the world, and bless the august Mother of the house, from whose sacred womb ever comes to it life and love and joy, and the harvest melody that shall endure for ever." Chapter 6 The reading went on, not of course "for ever," like that harvest melody he spoke of, but for a considerable time. The words, I concluded, were for the initiated, and not for me, and after a while I gave up trying to make out what it was all about. Those last expressions I have quoted about the "august Mother of the house" were unintelligible, and appeared to me meaningless. I had already come to the conclusion that however many of the ladies of the establishment might have experienced the pleasures and pains of maternity, there was really no mother of the house in the sense that there was a father of the house: that is to say, one possessing authority over the others and calling them all her children indiscriminately. Yet this mysterious non-existent mother of the house was continually being spoken of, as I found now and afterwards when I listened to the talk around me. After thinking the matter over, I came to the conclusion that "mother of the house" was merely a convenient fiction, and simply stood for the general sense of the women-folk, or something of the sort. It was perhaps stupid of me, but the story of Mistrelde, who died young, leaving only eight children, I had regarded as a mere legend or fable of antiquity. To return to the reading. Just as I had been absorbed before in that beautiful book without being able to read it, so now I listened to that melodious and majestic voice, experiencing a singular pleasure without properly understanding the sense. I remembered now with a painful feeling of inferiority that my _thick_ speech had been remarked On earlier in the day; and I could not but think that, compared with the speech of this people, it was thick. In their rare physical beauty, the color of their eyes and hair, and in their fascinating dress, they had struck me as being utterly unlike any people ever seen by me. But it was perhaps in their clear, sweet, penetrative voice, which sometimes reminded me of a tender-toned wind instrument, that they most differed from others. The reading, I have said, had struck me as almost of the nature of a religious service; nevertheless, everything went on as before--reading, working, and occasional conversation; but the subdued talking and moving about did not interfere with one's pleasure in the old man's musical speech any more than the soft murmur and flying about of honey bees would prevent one from enjoying the singing of a skylark. Emboldened by what I saw the others doing, I left my seat and made my way across the floor to Yoletta's side, stealing through the gloom with great caution to avoid making a clatter with those abominable boots. "May I sit down near you?" said I with some hesitation; but she encouraged me with a smile and placed a cushion for me. I settled myself down in the most graceful position I could assume, which was not at all graceful, doubling my objectionable legs out of her sight; and then began my trouble, for I was greatly perplexed to know what to say to her. I thought of lawn-tennis and archery. Ellen Terry's acting, the Royal Academy Exhibition, private theatricals, and twenty things besides, but they all seemed unsuitable subjects to start conversation with in this case. There was, I began to fear, no common ground on which we could meet and exchange thoughts, or, at any rate, words. Then I remembered that ground, common and broad enough, of our human feelings, especially the sweet and important feeling of love. But how was I to lead up to it? The work she was engaged with at length suggested an opening, and the opportunity to make a pretty little speech. "Your sight must be as good as your eyes are pretty," said I, "to enable you to work in such a dim light." "Oh, the light is good enough," she answered, taking no notice of the compliment. "Besides, this is such easy work I could do it in the dark." "It is very pretty work--may I look at it?" She handed the stuff to me, but instead of taking it in the ordinary way, I placed my hand under hers, and, holding up cloth and hand together, proceeded to give a minute and prolonged scrutiny to her work. "Do you know that I am enjoying two distinct pleasures at one and the same time?" said I. "One is in seeing your work, the other in holding your hand; and I think the last pleasure even greater than the first." As she made no reply, I added somewhat lamely: "May I--keep on holding it?" "That would prevent me from working," she answered, with the utmost gravity. "But you may hold it for a little while." "Oh, thank you," I exclaimed, delighted with the privilege; and then, to make the most of my precious "little while," I pressed it warmly, whereupon she cried out aloud: "Oh, Smith, you are squeezing too hard--you hurt my hand!" I dropped it instantly in the greatest confusion. "Oh, for goodness sake," I stammered, "please, do not make such an outcry! You don't know what a hobble you'll get me into." Fortunately, no notice was taken of the exclamation, though it was hard to believe that her words had not been overheard; and presently, recovering from my fright, I apologized for hurting her, and hoped she would forgive me. "There is nothing to forgive," she returned gently. "You did not really squeeze hard, only my hand hurts, because to-day when I pressed it on the ground beside the grave I ran a small thorn into it." Then the remembrance of that scene at the burial brought a sudden mist of tears into her lovely eyes. "I am so sorry I hurt you, Yoletta--may I call you Yoletta?" said I, all at once remembering that she had called me Smith, without the customary prefix. "Why, that is my name--what else should you call me?" she returned, evidently with surprise. "It is a pretty name, and so sweet on the lips that I should like to be repeating it continually," I answered. "But it is only right that you should have a pretty name, because--well, if I may tell you, because you are so very beautiful." "Yes; but is that strange--are not all people beautiful?" I thought of certain London types, especially among the "criminal classes," and of the old women with withered, simian faces and wearing shawls, slinking in or out of public-houses at the street corners; and also of some people of a better class I had known personally--some even in the House of Commons; and I felt that I could not agree with her, much as I wished to do so, without straining my conscience. "At all events, you will allow," said I, evading the question, "that there are _degrees_ of beauty, just as there are degrees of light. You may be able to see to work in this light, but it is very faint compared with the noonday light when the sun is shining." "Oh, there is not so great a difference between people as _that_," she replied, with the air of a philosopher. "There are different kinds of beauty, I allow, and some people seem more beautiful to us than others, but that is only because we love them more. The best loved are always the most beautiful." This seemed to reverse the usual idea, that the more beautiful the person is the more he or she gets loved. However, I was not going to disagree with her any more, and only said: "How sweetly you talk, Yoletta; you are as wise as you are beautiful. I could wish for no greater pleasure than to sit here listening to you the whole evening." "Ah, then, I am sorry I must leave you now," she answered, with a bright smile which made me think that perhaps my little speech had pleased her. "Do you wonder why I smile?" she added, as if able to read my thoughts. "It is because I have often heard words like yours from one who is waiting for me now." This speech caused me a jealous pang. But for a few moments after speaking, she continued regarding me with that bright, spiritual smile on her lips; then it faded, and her face clouded and her glance fell. I did not ask her to tell me, nor did I ask myself, the reason of that change; and afterwards how often I noticed that same change in her, and in the others too--that sudden silence and clouding of the face, such as may be seen in one who freely expresses himself to a person who cannot hear, and then, all at once but too late, remembers the other's infirmity. "Must you go?" I only said. "What shall I do alone?". "Oh, you shall not be alone," she replied, and going away returned presently with another lady. "This is Edra," she said simply. "She will take my place by your side and talk with you." I could not tell her that she had taken my words too literally, that being alone simply meant being separated from her; but there was no help for it, and some one, alas! some one I greatly hated was waiting for her. I could only thank her and her friend for their kind intentions. But what in the name of goodness was I to say to this beautiful woman who was sitting by me? She was certainly very beautiful, with a far more mature and perhaps a nobler beauty than Yoletta's, her age being about twenty-seven or twenty-eight; but the divine charm in the young girl's face could, for me, exist in no other. Presently she opened the conversation by asking me if I disliked being alone. "Well, no, perhaps not exactly that," I said; "but I think it much jollier--much more pleasant, I mean--to have some very nice person to talk to." She assented, and, pleased at her ready intelligence, I added: "And it is particularly pleasant when you are understood. But I have no fear that you, at any rate, will fail to understand anything I may say." "You have had some trouble to-day," she returned, with a charming smile. "I sometimes think that women can understand even more readily than men." "There's not a doubt of it!" I returned warmly, glad to find that with Edra it was all plain sailing. "It must be patent to every one that women have far quicker, finer intellects than men, although their brains are smaller; but then quality is more important than mere quantity. And yet," I continued, "some people hold that women ought not to have the franchise, or suffrage, or whatever it is! Not that I care two straws about the question myself, and I only hope they'll never get it; but then I think it is so illogical--don't you?" "I am afraid I do not understand you, Smith," she returned, looking much distressed. "Well, no, I suppose not, but what I said was of no consequence," I replied; then, wishing to make a fresh start, I added: "But I am so glad to hear you call me Smith. It makes it so much more pleasant and homelike to be treated without formality. It is very kind of you, I'm sure." "But surely your name is Smith?" said she, looking very much surprised. "Oh yes, my name is Smith: only of course--well, the tact is, I was just wondering what to call you." "My name is Edra," she replied, looking more bewildered than ever; and from that moment the conversation, which had begun so favorably, was nothing but a series of entanglements, from which I could only escape in each case by breaking the threads of the subject under discussion, and introducing a new one. Chapter 7 The moment of retiring, to which I had been looking forward with considerable interest as one likely to bring fresh surprises, arrived at last: it brought only extreme discomfort. I was conducted (without a flat candlestick) along an obscure passage; then, at right angles with the first, a second broader, lighter passage, leading past a great many doors placed near together. These, I ascertained later, were the dormitories, or sleeping-cells, and were placed side by side in a row opening on the terrace at the back of the house. Having reached the door of my box, my conductor pushed back the sliding-panel, and when I had groped my way to the dark interior, closed it again behind me. There was no light for me except the light of the stars; for directly opposite the door by which I had entered stood another, open wide to the night, which was apparently not intended ever to be closed. The prospect was the one I had already seen--the wilderness sloping to the river, and the glassy surface of the broad water, reflecting the stars, and the black masses of large trees. There was no sound save the hooting of an owl in the distance, and the wailing note of some mournful-minded water-fowl. The night air blew in cold and moist, which made my bones ache, though they were not broken; and feeling very sleepy and miserable, I groped about until I Was rewarded by discovering a narrow bed, or cot of trellis-work, on which was a hard straw pallet and a small straw pillow; also, folded small, a kind of woolen sleeping garment. Too tired to keep out of even such an uninviting bed, I flung off my clothes, and with my moldy tweeds for only covering I laid me down, but not to sleep. The misery of it! for although my body was warm--too warm, in fact--the wind blew on my face and bare feet and legs, and made it impossible to sleep. About midnight, I was just falling into a doze when a sound as of a person coming with a series of jumps into the room disturbed me; and starting up I was horrified to see, sitting on the floor, a great beast much too big for a dog, with large, erect ears. He was intently watching me, his round eyes shining like a pair of green phosphorescent globes. Having no weapon, I was at the brute's mercy, and was about to utter a loud shout to summon assistance, but as he sat so still I refrained, and began even to hope that he would go quietly away. Then he stood up, went back to the door and sniffed audibly at it; and thinking that he was about to relieve me of his unwelcome presence, I dropped my head on the pillow and lay perfectly still. Then he turned and glared at me again, and finally, advancing deliberately to my side, sniffed at my face. It was all over with me now, I thought, and closing my eyes, and feeling my forehead growing remarkably moist in spite of the cold, I murmured a little prayer. When I looked again the brute had vanished, to my inexpressible relief. It seemed very astonishing that an animal like a wolf should come into the house; but I soon remembered that I had seen no dogs about, so that all kinds of savage, prowling beasts could come in with impunity. It was getting beyond a joke: but then all this seemed only a fit ending to the perfectly absurd arrangement into which I had been induced to enter. "Goodness gracious!" I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright on my straw bed, "am I a rational being or an inebriated donkey, or what, to have consented to such a proposal? It is clear that I was not quite in my right mind when I made the agreement, and I am therefore not morally bound to observe it. What! be a field laborer, a hewer of wood and drawer of water, and sleep on a miserable straw mat in an open porch, with wolves for visitors at all hours of the night, and all for a few barbarous rags! I don't know much about plowing and that sort of thing, but I suppose any able-bodied man can earn a pound a week, and that would be fifty-two pounds for a suit of clothes. Who ever heard of such a thing! Wolves and all thrown in for nothing! I daresay I shall have a tiger dropping in presently just to have a look round. No, no, my venerable friend, that was all excellent acting about my extraordinary delusions, and the rest of it, but I am not going to be carried so far by them as to adhere to such an outrageously one-sided bargain." Presently I remembered two things--divine Yoletta was the first; and the second was that thought of the rare pleasure it would be to array myself in those same "barbarous rags," as I had blasphemously called them. These things had entered into my soul, and had become a part of me--especially--well, both. Those strange garments had looked so refreshingly picturesque, and I had conceived such an intense longing to wear them! Was it a very contemptible ambition on my part? Is it sinful to wish for any adornments other than wisdom and sobriety, a meek and loving spirit, good works, and other things of the kind? Straight into my brain flashed the words of a sentence I had recently read--that is to say, just before my accident--in a biological work, and it comforted me as much as if an angel with shining face and rainbow-colored wings had paid me a visit in my dusky cell: "Unto Adam also, and his wife, did the Lord God make coats of skin and clothed them. This has become, as every one knows, a custom among the race of men, and shows at present no sign of becoming obsolete. Moreover, that first correlation, namely, milk-glands and a hairy covering, appears to have entered the very soul of creatures of this class, and to have become psychical as well as physical, for in that type, which is only _for a while_ inferior to the angels, the fondness for this kind of outer covering is a strong, ineradicable passion!" Most true and noble words, O biologist of the fiery soul! It was a delight to remember them. A "strong and ineradicable passion," not merely to clothe the body, but to clothe it appropriately, that is to say, beautifully, and by so doing please God and ourselves. This being so, must we go on for ever scraping our faces with a sharp iron, until they are blue and spotty with manifold scrapings; and cropping our hair short to give ourselves an artificial resemblance to old dogs and monkeys--creatures lower than us in the scale of being--and array our bodies, like mutes at a funeral, in repulsive black--we, "Eutheria of the Eutheria, the noble of the noble?" And all for what, since it pleases not heaven nor accords with our own desires? For the sake of respectability, perhaps, whatever that may mean. Oh, then, a million curses take it--respectability, I mean; may it sink into the bottomless pit, and the smoke of its torment ascend for ever and ever! And having thus, by taking thought, brought my mind into this temper, I once more finally determined to have the clothes, and religiously to observe the compact. It made me quite happy to end it in this way. The hard bed, the cold night wind blowing on me, my wolfish visitor, were all forgotten. Once more I gave loose to my imagination, and saw myself (clothed and in my right mind) sitting at Yoletta's feet, learning the mystery of that sweet, tranquil life from her precious lips. A whole year was mine in which to love her and win her gentle heart. But her hand--ah, that was another matter. What had I to give in return for such a boon as that? Only that strength concerning which my venerable host had spoken somewhat encouragingly. He had also been so good as to mention my skill; but I could scarcely trade on that. And if a whole year's labor was only sufficient to pay for a suit of clothing, how many years of toil would be required to win Yoletta's hand? Naturally, at this juncture, I began to draw a parallel between my case and that of an ancient historical personage, whose name is familiar to most. History repeats itself--with variations. Jacob--namely, Smith--cometh to the well of Haran. He taketh acquaintance of Rachel, here called Yoletta. And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice and wept. That is a touch of nature I can thoroughly appreciate--the kissing, I mean; but why he wept I cannot tell, unless it be because he was not an Englishman. And Jacob told Rachel that he was her father's brother. I am glad to have no such startling piece of information to give to the object of my affections: we are not even distant relations, and her age being, say, fifteen, and mine twenty-one, we are so far well suited to each other, according to my notions. Smith covenanted! for Yoletta, and said: "I will serve thee seven years for Yoletta, thy younger daughter"; and the old gentleman answered: "Abide with me, for I would rather you should have her than some other person." Now I wonder whether the matter will be complicated with Leah--that is, Edra? Leah was considerably older than Rachel, and, like Edra, tender-eyed. I do not aspire or desire to marry both, especially if I should, like Jacob, have to begin with the wrong one, however tender-eyed: but for divine Yoletta I could serve seven years; yea, and fourteen, if it comes to it. Thus I mused, and thus I questioned, tossing and turning on my inhospitable hard bed, until merciful sleep laid her quieting hands on the strings of my brain, and hushed their weary jangling. Chapter 8 Fortunately I woke early next morning, for I was now a member of an early-rising family, and anxious to conform to rules. On going to the door I found, to my inexpressible disgust, that I might easily have closed it in the way I had seen the other door closed, by simply pulling a sliding panel. There was ventilation enough without having the place open to prowling beasts of prey. I also found that if I had turned up the little stray bed I should have had warm woolen sheets to sleep in. I resolved to say nothing about my nocturnal visitor, not wishing to begin the day by furnishing fresh instances of what might seem like crass stupidity on my part. While occupied with these matters I began to hear people moving about and talking on the terrace, and peeping out, I beheld a curious and interesting spectacle. Down the broad steps leading to the water the people of the house were hurrying, and flinging themselves like agile, startled frogs on the bosom of the stream. There, in the midst of his family, my venerable host was already disporting himself, his long, silvery beard and hair floating like a foam on the waves of his own creating. And presently from other sleeping-rooms on a line with mine shot forth new bewitching forms, each sparsely clothed in a slender clinging garment, which concealed no beauteous curve beneath; and nimbly running and leaping down the slope, they quickly joined the masculine bathers. Looking about I soon found a pretty thing in which to array myself, and quickly started after the others, risking my neck in my desire to imitate the new mode of motion I had just witnessed. The water was delightfully cool and refreshing, and the company very agreeable, ladies and gentlemen all swimming and diving about together with the unconventional freedom and grace of a company of grebes. After dressing, we assembled in the eating-room or portico where we had supped, just when the red disk of the sun was showing itself above the horizon, kindling the clouds with yellow flame, and filling the green world with new light. I felt happy and strong that morning, very able and willing to work in the fields, and, better than all, very hopeful about that affair of the heart. Happiness, however, is seldom perfect, and in the clear, tender morning light I could not help contrasting my own repulsively ugly garments with the bright and beautiful costumes worn by the others, which seemed to harmonize so well with their fresh, happy morning mood. I also missed the fragrant cup of coffee, the streaky rasher from the dear familiar pig, and, after breakfast, the well-flavored cigar; but these lesser drawbacks were soon forgotten. After the meal a small closed basket was handed to me, and one of the young men led me out to a little distance from the house, then, pointing to a belt of wood about a mile away, told me to walk towards it until I came to a plowed field on the slope of a valley, where I could do some plowing. Before leaving me he took from his own person a metal dog-whistle, with a string attached, and hung it round my neck, but without explaining its use. Basket in hand I went away, over the dewy grass, whistling light-heartedly, and after half an hour's walk found the spot indicated, where about an acre and a half of land had been recently turned; there also, lying in the furrow, I found the plow, an implement I knew very little about. This particular plow, however, appeared to be a simple, primitive thing, consisting of a long beam of wood, with an upright pole to guide it; a metal share in the center, going off to one side, balanced on the other by a couple of small wheels; and there were also some long ropes attached to a cross-stick at the end of the beam. There being no horses or bullocks to do the work, and being unable to draw the plow myself as well as guide it, I sat down leisurely to examine the contents of my basket, which, I found, consisted of brown bread, dried fruit, and a stone bottle of milk. Then, not knowing what else to do, I began to amuse myself by blowing on the whistle, and emitted a most shrill and piercing sound, which very soon produced an unexpected effect. Two noble-looking horses, resembling those I had seen the day before, came galloping towards me as if in response to the sound I had made. Approaching swiftly to within fifty yards they stood still, staring and snorting as if alarmed or astonished, after which they swept round me three or four times, neighing in a sharp, ringing manner, and finally, after having exhausted their superfluous energy, they walked to the plow and placed themselves deliberately before it. It looked as if these animals had come at my call to do the work; I therefore approached them, with more than needful caution, using many soothing, conciliatory sounds and words the while, and after a little further study I discovered how to adjust the ropes to them. There were no blinkers or reins, nor did these superb animals seem to think any were wanted; but after I had taken the pole in my hand, and said "Gee up, Dobbin," in a tone of command, followed by some inarticulate clicks with the tongue, they rewarded me with a disconcerting stare, and then began dragging the plow. As long as I held the pole straight the share cut its way evenly through the mold, but occasionally, owing to my inadvertence, it would go off at a tangent or curve quite out of the ground; and whenever this happened the horses would stop, turn round and stare at me, then, touching their noses together seem to exchange ideas on the subject. When the first furrow was finished, they did not double back, as I expected, but went straight away to a distance of thirty yards, and then, turning, marched back, cutting a fresh furrow parallel with the first, and as straight as a line. Then they returned to the original starting-point and cut another, then again to the new furrow, and so on progressively. All this seemed very wonderful to me, giving the impression that I had been a skillful plowman all my life without knowing it. It was interesting work; and I was also amused to see the little birds that came in numbers from the wood to devour the worms in the fresh-turned mold; for between their fear of me and their desire to get the worms, they were in a highly perplexed state, and generally confined their operations to one end of the furrow while I was away at the other. The space the horses had marked out for themselves was plowed up in due time, whereupon they marched off and made a fresh furrow as before, where there was nothing to guide them; and so the work went on agreeably for some hours, until I felt myself growing desperately hungry. Sitting down on the beam of the plow, I opened my basket and discussed the homely fare with a keen appetite. After finishing the food I resumed work again, but not as cheerfully as at first: I began to feel a little stiff and tired, and the immense quantity of mold adhering to my boots made it heavy walking; moreover, the novelty had now worn off. The horses also did not work as smoothly as at the commencement: they seemed to have something on their minds, for at the end of every furrow they would turn and stare at me in the most exasperating manner. "Phew!" I ejaculated, as I stood wiping the honest sweat from my face with my moldy, ancient, and extremely dirty pocket-handkerchief. "Three hundred and sixty-four days of this sort of thing is a rather long price to pay for a suit of clothes." While standing there, I saw an animal coming swiftly towards me from the direction of the forest, bounding along over the earth with a speed like that of a greyhound--a huge, fierce-looking brute; and when close to me, I felt convinced that it was an animal of the same kind as the one I had seen during the night. Before I had made up my mind what to do, he was within a few yards of me, and then, coming to a sudden halt, he sat down on his haunches, and gravely watched me. Calling to mind some things I had heard about the terrifying effect of the human eye on royal tigers and other savage beasts, I gazed steadily at him, and then almost lost my fear in admiration of his beauty. He was taller than a boarhound, but slender in figure, with keen, fox-like features, and very large, erect ears; his coat was silvery-gray, and long; there were two black spots above his eyes; and the feet, muzzle, ear-tips, and end of the bushy tail were also velvet-black. After watching me quietly for two or three minutes, he started up, and, much to my relief, trotted away towards the wood; but after going about fifty yards he looked back, and seeing me still gazing after him, wheeled round and rushed at me, and when quite close uttered a sound like a ringing, metallic yelp, after which he once more bounded away, and disappeared from sight. The horses now turned round, and, deliberately walking up to me, stood still, in spite of all I could do to make them continue the work. After waiting a while they proceeded to wriggle themselves out of the ropes, and galloped off, loudly neighing to each other, and flinging up their disdainful heels so as to send a shower of dirt over me. Left alone in this unceremonious fashion, I presently began to think that they knew more about the work than I did, and that, finding me indisposed to release them at the proper moment, they had taken the matter into their own hands, or hoofs rather. A little more pondering, and I also came to the conclusion that the singular wolf-like animal was only one of the house-dogs; that he had visited me in the night to remind me that I was sleeping with the door open, and had come now to insist on a suspension of work. Glad at having discovered all these things without displaying my ignorance by asking questions, I took up my basket and started home. Chapter 9 When I arrived at the house I was met by the young man who had set me the morning's task; but he was taciturn now, and wore a cold, estranged look, which seemed to portend trouble. He at once led me to a part of the house at a distance from the hall, and into a large apartment I now saw for the first time. In a few moments the master of the house, followed by most of the other inmates, also entered, and on the faces of all of them I noticed the same cold, offended look. "The dickens take my luck!" said I to myself, beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. "I suppose I have offended against the laws and customs by working the horses too long." "Smith," said the old man, advancing to the table, and depositing thereon a large volume he had brought with him, "come here, and read to me in this book." Advancing to the table, I saw that it was written in the same minute, Hebrew-like characters of the folio I had examined on the previous evening. "I cannot read it; I do not understand the letters," I said, feeling some shame at having thus publicly to confess my ignorance. "Then," said he, bending on me a look of the utmost severity, "there is indeed little more to be said. Nevertheless, we take into account the confused state of your intellect yesterday, and judge you leniently; and let us hope that the pangs of an outraged conscience will be more painful to you than the light punishment I am about to inflict for so destestable a crime." I now concluded that I had offended by squeezing Yoletta's hand, and had been told to read from the book merely to make myself acquainted with the pains and penalties attendant on such an indiscretion, for to call it a "detestable crime" seemed to me a very great abuse of language. "If I have offended," was my answer, delivered with little humility, "I can only plead my ignorance of the customs of the house." "No man," he returned, with increased severity, "is so ignorant as not to know right from wrong. Had the matter come to my knowledge sooner, I should have said: Depart from us, for your continued presence in the house offends us; but we have made a compact with you, and, until the year expires, we must suffer you. For the space of sixty days you must dwell apart from us, never leaving the room, where each day a task will be assigned to you, and subsisting on bread and water only. Let us hope that in this period of solitude and silence you will sufficiently repent your crime, and rejoin us afterwards with a changed heart; for all offenses may be forgiven a man, but it is impossible to forgive a lie." "A lie!" I exclaimed in amazement. "I have told no lie!" "This," said he, with an access of wrath, "is an aggravation of your former offense. It is even a worse offense than the first, and must be dealt with separately--when the sixty days have expired." "Are you, then, going to condemn me without hearing me speak, or telling me anything about it? What lie have I told?" After a pause, during which he closely scrutinized my face, he said, pointing to the open page before him: "Yesterday, in answer to my question, you told me that you could read. Last evening you made a contrary statement to Yoletta; and now here is the book, and you confess that you cannot read it." "But that is easily explained," said I, immensely relieved, for I certainly had felt a little guilty about the hand-squeezing performance, although it was not a very serious matter. "I can read the books of my own country, and naturally concluded that your books were written in the same kind of letters; but last evening I discovered that it was not so. You have already seen the letters of my country on the coins I showed you last evening." And here I again pulled out my pocket-book, and emptied the contents on the table. He began to pick up the sovereigns one by one to examine them. Meanwhile, finding my beautiful black and gold stylograph pen inserted in the book, I thought I could not do better than to show him how I wrote. Fortunately, the fluid in it had not become dry. Tearing a blank page from my book I hastily scribbled a few lines, and handed the paper to him, saying: "This is how I write." He began studying the paper, but his eyes, I perceived, wandered often to the stylograph pen in my hand. Presently he remarked: "This writing, or these marks you have made on the paper, are not the same as the letters on the gold." I took the paper and proceeded to copy the sentence I had written, but in printing letters, beneath it, then returned it to him. He examined it again, and, after comparing my letters with those on the sovereigns, said: "Pray tell me, now, what you have written here, and explain why you write in two different ways?" I told him, as well as I could, why letters of one form were used to stamp on gold and other substances, and of a different form for writing. Then, with a modest blush, I read the words of the sentence: "In different parts of the world men have different customs, and write different letters; but alike to all men in all places, a lie is hateful." "Smith," he said, addressing me in an impressive manner, but happily not to charge me with a third and bigger lie, "I have lived long in the world, and the knowledge others possess concerning it is mine also. It is common knowledge that in the hotter and colder regions men are compelled to live differently, owing to the conditions they are placed in; but we know that everywhere they have the same law of right and wrong inscribed on the heart, and, as you have said, hate a lie; also that they all speak the same language; and until this moment I also believed that they wrote in similar characters. You, however, have now succeeded in convincing me that this is not the case; that in some obscure valley, cut off from all intercourse by inaccessible mountains, or in some small, unknown island of the sea, a people may exist--ah, did you not tell me that you came from an island?" "Yes, my home was on an island," I answered. "So I imagined. An island of which no report has ever reached us, where the people, isolated from their fellows, have in the course of many centuries changed their customs--even their manner of writing. Although I had seen these gold pieces I did not understand, or did not realize, that such a human family existed: now I am persuaded of it, and as I alone am to blame for having brought this charge against you, I must now ask your forgiveness. We rejoice at your innocence, and hope with increased love to atone for our injustice. My son," he concluded, placing a hand on my shoulder, "I am now deeply in your debt." "I am glad it has ended so happily," I replied, wondering whether his being in my debt would increase my chances with Yoletta or not. Seeing him again directing curious glances at the stylograph, which I was turning about in my fingers, I offered it to him. He examined it with interest. "I have only been waiting for an opportunity," he said, "to look closely at this wonderful contrivance, for I had perceived that your writing was not made with a pencil, but with a fluid. It is black polished stone, beautifully fashioned and encircled with gold bands, and contains the writing-fluid within itself. This surprises me as much as anything you have told me." "Allow me to make you a present of it," said I, seeing him so taken with it. "No, not so," he returned. "But I should greatly like to possess it, and will keep it if I may bestow in return something you desire." Yoletta's hand was really the only thing in life I desired, but it was too early to speak yet, as I knew nothing about their matrimonial usages--not even whether or not the lady's consent was necessary to a compact of the kind. I therefore made a more modest request. "There is one thing I greatly desire," I said. "I am very anxious to be able to read in your books, and shall consider myself more than compensated if you will permit Yoletta to teach me." "She shall teach you in any case, my son," he returned. "That, and much more, is already owning to you." "There is nothing else I desire," said I. "Pray keep the pen and make me happy." And thus ended a disagreeable matter. The cloud having blown over, we all repaired to the supper-room, and nothing could exceed our happiness as we sat at meat--or vegetables. Not feeling so ravenously hungry as on the previous evening, and, moreover, seeing them all in so lively a mood, I did not hesitate to join in the conversation: nor did I succeed so very badly, considering the strangeness of it all; for like the bee that has been much hindered at his flowery work by geometric webs, I began to acquire some skill in pushing my way gracefully through the tangling meshes of thought and phrases that were new to me. The afternoon's experiences had certainly been remarkable--a strange mixture of pain and pleasure, not blending into homogeneous gray, but resembling rather a bright embroidery on a dark, somber ground; and of these surprising contrasts I was destined to have more that same evening. We were again assembled in the great room, the venerable father reclining at his ease on his throne-like couch near the brass globes, while the others pursued their various occupations as on the former evening. Not being able to get near Yoletta, and having nothing to do, I settled myself comfortably in one of the spacious seats, and gave up my mind to pleasant dreams. At length, to my surprise, the father, who had been regarding me for some time, said: "Will you lead, my son?" I started up, turning very red in the face, for I did not wish to trouble him with questions, yet was at a loss to know what he meant by leading. I thought of several things--whist, evening prayers, dancing, etc.; but being still in doubt, I was compelled to ask him to explain. "Will you lead the singing?" he returned, looking a little surprised. "Oh yes, with pleasure," said I. There being no music about, and no piano, I concluded naturally that my friends amused themselves with solo songs without accompaniment of an evening, and having a good tenor voice I was not unwilling to lead off with a song. Clearing my rusty throat with a _ghrr-ghrr-hram_ which made them all jump, I launched forth with the "Vicar of Bray"--a grand old song and a great favorite of mine. They all started when I commenced, exchanging glances, and casting astonished looks towards me; but it was getting so dusky in the room that I could not feel sure that my eyes were not deceiving me. Presently some that were near me began retiring to distant seats, and this distressed me so that it made me hoarse, and my singing became very bad indeed; but still I thought it best to go bravely on to the end. Suddenly the old gentleman, who had been staring wildly at me for some time, drew up his long yellow robe and wrapped it round his face and head. I glanced at Yoletta, sitting at some distance, and saw that she was holding her hands pressed to her ears. I thought it about time to leave off then, and stopping abruptly in the middle of the fourth stanza I sat down, feeling extremely hot and uncomfortable. I was almost choking, and unable to utter a word. But there was no word for me to utter: it was, of course, for them to thank me for singing, or to say something; but not a word was spoken. Yoletta dropped her hands and resumed her work, while the old man slowly emerged with a somewhat frightened look from the wrappings; and then the long dead silence becoming unendurable, I remarked that I feared my singing was not to their taste. No reply was made; only the father, putting out one of his hands, touched a handle or key near him, whereupon one of the brass globes began slowly revolving. A low murmur of sound arose, and seemed to pass like a wave through the room, dying away in the distance, soon to be succeeded by another, and then another, each marked by an increase of power; and often as this solemn sound died away, faint flute-like notes were heard as if approaching, but still at a great distance, and in the ensuing wave of sound from the great globes they would cease to be distinguishable. Still the mysterious coming sounds continued at intervals to grow louder and clearer, joined by other tones as they progressed, now altogether bursting out in joyous chorus, then one purest liquid note soaring bird-like alone, but whether from voices or wind-instruments I was unable to tell, until the whole air about me was filled and palpitating with the strange, exquisite harmony, which passed onwards, the tones growing fewer and fainter by degrees until they almost died out of hearing in the opposite direction. That all were now taking part in the performance I became convinced by watching in turn different individuals, some of them having small, curiously-shaped instruments in their hands, but there was a blending of voices and a something like ventriloquism in the tones which made it impossible to distinguish the notes of any one person. Deeper, more sonorous tones now issued from the revolving globes, sometimes resembling in character the vox humana of an organ, and every time they rose to a certain pitch there were responsive sounds--not certainly from any of the performers--low, tremulous, and Aeolian in character, wandering over the entire room, as if walls and ceiling were honey-combed with sensitive musical cells, answering to the deeper vibrations. These floating aerial sounds also answered to the higher notes of some of the female singers, resembling soprano voices, brightened and spiritualized in a wonderful degree; and then the wide room would be filled with a mist, as it were, of this floating, formless melody, which seemed to come from invisible harpers hovering in the shadows above. Lying back on my couch, listening with closed eyes to this mysterious, soul-stirring concert, I was affected to tears, and almost feared that I had been snatched away into some supra-mundane region inhabited by beings of an angelic or half-angelic order--feared, I say, for, with this new love in my heart, no elysium or starry abode could compare with this green earth for a dwellingplace. But when I remembered my own brutal bull of Bashan performance, my face, there in the dark, was on fire with shame; and I cursed the ignorant, presumptuous folly I had been guilty of in roaring out that abominable "Vicar of Bray" ballad, which had now become as hateful to me as my trousers or boots. The composer of that song, the writer of the words, and its subject, the double-faced Vicar himself, presented themselves to my mind as the three most damnable beings that had ever existed. "The devil take my luck!" I muttered, grinding my teeth with impotent anger; for it seemed such hard lines, just when I had succeeded in getting into favor, to go and spoil it all in that unhappy way. Now that I had become acquainted with their style of singing, the supposed fib, about which there had been such a pother, seemed a very venial offense compared with my attempt to lead the singing. Nevertheless, when the concert was over, not a word was said on the subject by any one, though I had quite expected to be taken at once to the magisterial chamber to hear some dreadful sentence passed on me; and when, before retiring, anxious to propitiate my host, I began to express regret for having inflicted pain on them by attempting to sing, the venerable gentleman raised his hands deprecatingly, and begged me to say no more about it, for painful subjects were best forgotten. "No doubt," he kindly added, "when you were lying there buried among the hills, you swallowed a large amount of earth and gravel in your efforts to breathe, and have not yet freed your lungs from it." This was the most charitable view he could take of the matter, and I was thankful that no worse result followed. Chapter 10 At length the joyful day arrived when I was to cease, in outward appearance at all events, to be an alien; for returning at noon from the fields, on entering my cell I beheld my beautiful new garments--two complete suits, besides underwear: one, the most soberly colored, intended only for working hours; but the second, which was for the house, claimed my first attention. Trembling with eagerness, I flung off the old tweeds, the cracked boots, and other vestiges of a civilization which they had perhaps survived, and soon found that I had been measured with faultless accuracy; for everything, down to the shoes, fitted to perfection. Green was the prevailing or ground tint--a soft sap green; the pattern on it, which was very beautiful, being a somewhat obscure red, inclining to purple. My delight culminated when I drew on the hose, which had, like those worn by the others, a curious design, evidently borrowed from the skin of some kind of snake. The ground color was light green, almost citron yellow, in fact, and the pattern a bright maroon red, with bronze reflections. I had no sooner arrayed myself than, with a flushed face and palpitating heart, I flew to exhibit myself to my friends, and found them assembled and waiting to see and admire the result of their work. The pleasure I saw reflected in their transparent faces increased my happiness a hundredfold, and I quite astonished them with the torrent of eloquence in which I expressed my overflowing gratitude. "Now, tell me one secret," I exclaimed, when the excitement began to abate a little. "Why is green the principal color in my clothes, when no other person in the house wears more than a very little of it?" I had no sooner spoken than I heartily wished that I had held my peace; for it all at once occurred to me that green was perhaps the color for an alien or mere hireling, in which light they perhaps regarded me. "Oh, Smith, can you not guess so simple a thing?" said Edra, placing her white hands on my shoulders and smiling straight into my face. How beautiful she looked, standing there with her eyes so near to mine! "Tell me why, Edra?" I said, still with a lingering apprehension. "Why, look at the color of my eyes and skin--would this green tint be suitable for me to wear?" "Oh, is that the reason!" cried I, immensely relieved. "I think, Edra, you would look very beautiful in any color that is on the earth, or in the rainbow above the earth. But am I so different from you all?" "Oh yes, quite different--have you never looked at yourself? Your skin is whiter and redder, and your hair has a very different color. It will look better when it grows long, I think. And your eyes--do you know that they never change! for when we look at you closely they are still blue-gray, and not green." "No; I wish they were," said I. "Now I shall value my clothes a hundred times more, since you have taken so much pains to make them--well, what shall I say?--harmonize, I suppose, with the peculiar color of my mug. Dash it all, I'm blundering again! I mean--I mean--don't you know----" Edra laughed and gave it up. Then we all laughed; for now evidently my blundering did not so much matter, since I had shed my outer integument, and come forth like a snake (with a divided tail) in a brand new skin. Presently I missed Yoletta from the room, and desiring above all things to have some word of congratulation from her lips, I went off to seek her. She was standing under the portico waiting for me. "Come," she said, and proceeded to lead me into the music-room, where we sat down on one of the couches close to the dais; there she produced some large white tablets, and red chalk pencils or crayons. "Now, Smith, I am going to begin teaching you," said she, with the grave air of a young schoolmistress; "and every afternoon, when your work is done, you must come to me here." "I hope I am very stupid, and that it will take me a long time to learn," said I. "Oh"--she laughed--"do you think it will be so pleasant sitting by me here? I am glad you think that; but if you prefer me for a teacher you must not try to be stupid, because if you do I shall ask some one else to take my place." "Would you really do that, Yoletta?" "Yes. Shall I tell you why? Because I have a quick, impatient temper. Everything wrong I have ever done, for which I have been punished, has been through my hasty temper." "And have you ever undergone that sad punishment of being shut up by yourself for many days, Yoletta?" "Yes, often; for what other punishment is there? But oh, I hope it will never happen again, because I think--I know that I suffer more than any one can imagine. To tread on the grass, to feel the sun and wind on my face, to see the earth and sky and animals--this is like life to me; and when I am shut up alone, every day seems--oh, a year at least!" She did not know how much dearer this confession of one little human weakness made her seem to me. "Come, let us begin," she said. "I waited for your new clothes to be finished, and we must make up for lost time." "But do you know, Yoletta, that you have not said anything about them? Do I look nice; and will you like me any better now?" "Yes, much better. You were a poor caterpillar before; I liked you a little because I knew what a pretty butterfly you would be in time. I helped to make your wings. Now, listen." For two hours she taught me, making her red letters or marks, which I copied on my tablet, and explaining them to me; and at the conclusion of the lesson, I had got a general idea that the writing was to a great extent phonographic, and that I was in for rather a tough job. "Do you think that you will be able to teach me to sing also?" I asked, when she had put the tablets aside. The memory of that miserable failure, when I "had led the singing," was a constant sore in my mind. I had begun to think that I had not done myself justice on that memorable occasion, and the desire to make another trial under more favorable circumstances was very strong in me. She looked a little startled at my question, but said nothing. "I know now," I continued pleadingly, "that you all sing softly. If you will only consent to try me once I promise to stick like cobbler's wax--I beg your pardon, I mean I will endeavor to adhere to the morendo and perdendosi style--don't you know? What am I saying! But I promise you, Yoletta, I shan't frighten you, if you will only let me try and sing to you once." She turned from me with a somewhat clouded expression of face, and walked with slow steps to the dais, and placing her hands on the keys, caused two of the small globes to revolve, sending soft waves of sound through the room. I advanced towards her, but she raised her hand apprehensively. "No, no, no; stand there," she said, "and sing low." It was hard to see her troubled face and obey, but I was not going to bellow at her like a bull, and I had set my heart on this trial. For the last three days, while working in the fields, I had been incessantly practicing my dear old master Campana's exquisite _M'appar sulla tomba_, the only melody I happened to know which had any resemblance to their divine music. To my surprise she seemed to play as I sang a suitable accompaniment on the globes, which aided and encouraged me, and, although singing in a subdued tone, I felt that I had never sung so well before. When I finished, I quite expected some word of praise, or to be asked why I had not sung this melody on that unhappy evening when I was asked to lead; but she spoke no word. "Will you sing something now?" I said. "Not now--this evening," she replied absently, slowly walking across the floor with eyes cast down. "What are you thinking of, Yoletta, that you look so serious?" I asked. "Nothing," she returned, a little impatiently. "You look very solemn about nothing, then. But you have not said one word about my singing--did you not like it?" "Your singing? Oh no! It was a pleasant-tasting little kernel in a very rough rind--I should like one without the other." "You talk in riddles, Yoletta; but I'm afraid the answers to them would not sound very flattering to me. But if you would like to know the song I shall be only too glad to teach it to you. The words are in Italian, but I can translate them." "The words?" she said absently. "The words of the song," I said. "I do not know what you mean by the words of a song. Do not speak to me now, Smith." "Oh, very well," said I, thinking it all very strange, and sitting down I divided my attention between my beautiful hose and Yoletta, still slowly pacing the floor with that absent look on her face. At length the curious mood changed, but I did not venture to talk any more about music, and before very long we repaired to the eating-room, where, for the next two or three hours, we occupied ourselves very agreeably with those processes which, some new theorist informs us, constitute our chief pleasure in life. That evening I overheard a curious little dialogue. The father of the house, as I had now grown accustomed to call our head, after rising from his seat, stood for a few minutes talking near me, while Yoletta, with her hand on his arm, waited for him to finish. When he had done speaking, and turned to her, she said in a low voice, which I, however, overheard: "Father, I shall lead to-night." He put his hand on her head, and, looking down, studied her upturned face. "Ah, my daughter," he said with a smile, "shall I guess what has inspired you to-day? You have been listening to the passage birds. I also heard them this morning passing in flocks. And you have been following them in thought far away into those sun-bright lands where winter never comes." "No, father," she returned, "I have only been a little way from home in thought--only to that spot where the grass has not yet grown to hide the ashes and loose mold." He stooped and kissed her forehead, and then left the room; and she, never noticing the hungry look with which I witnessed the tender caress, also went away. That some person was supposed to lead the singing every evening I knew, but it was impossible for me ever to discover who the leader was; now, however, after overhearing this conversation, I knew that on this particular occasion it would be Yoletta, and in spite of the very poor opinion she had expressed of my musical abilities, I was prepared to admire the performance more than I had ever done before. It commenced in the usual mysterious and indefinable manner; but after a time, when it began to shape itself into melodies, the idea possessed me that I was listening to strains once familiar, but long unheard and forgotten. At length I discovered that this was Campana's music, only not as I had ever heard it sung; for the melody of _M'appar sulla tomba_ had been so transmuted and etherealized, as it were, that the composer himself would have listened in wondering ecstasy to the mournful strains, which had passed through the alembic of their more delicately organized minds. Listening, I remembered with an unaccountable feeling of sadness, that poor Campana had recently died in London; and almost at the same moment there came to me a remembrance of my beloved mother, whose early death was my first great grief in boyhood. All the songs I had ever heard her sing came back to me, ringing in my mind with a wonderful joy, but ever ending in a strange, funereal sadness. And not only my mother, but many a dear one besides returned "in beauty from the dust" appeared to be present--white-haired old men who had spoken treasured words to me in bygone years; schoolfellows and other boyish friends and companions; and men, too, in the prime of life, of whose premature death in this or that far-off region of the world-wide English empire I had heard from time to time. They came back to me, until the whole room seemed filled with a pale, shadowy procession, moving past me to the sound of that mysterious melody. Through all the evening it came back, in a hundred bewildering disguises, filling me with a melancholy infinitely precious, which was yet almost more than my heart could bear. Again and yet again that despairing _Ah-i-me_ fell like a long shuddering sob from the revolving globes, and from voices far and near, to be taken up and borne yet further away by far-off, dying sounds, yet again responded to by nearer, clearer voices, in tones which seemed wrung "from the depths of some divine despair"; then to pass away, but not wholly pass, for all the hidden cells were stirred, and the vibrating air, like mysterious, invisible hands, swept the suspended strings, until the exquisite bliss and pain of it made me tremble and shed tears, as I sat there in the dark, wondering, as men will wonder at such moments, what this tempest of the soul which music wakes in us can mean: whether it is merely a growth of this our earth-life, or a something added, a divine hunger of the heart which is part of our immortality. Chapter 11 It seemed to me now that I had never really lived before so sweet was this new life--so healthy, and free from care and regret. The old life, which I had lived in cities, was less in my thoughts on each succeeding day; it came to me now like the memory of a repulsive dream, which I was only too glad to forget. How I had ever found that listless, worn-out, luxurious, do-nothing existence endurable, seemed a greater mystery every morning, when I went forth to my appointed task in the fields or the workhouse, so natural and so pleasant did it now seem to labor with my own hands, and to eat my bread in the sweat of my face. If there was one kind of work I preferred above all others, it was wood-cutting, and as a great deal of timber was required at this season, I was allowed to follow my own inclination. In the forest, a couple of miles from the house, several tough old giants--chiefly oak, chestnut, elm, and beech--had been marked out for destruction: in some cases because they had been scorched and riven by lightnings, and were an eyesore; in others, because time had robbed them of their glory, withering their long, desolate arms, and bestowing on their crowns that lusterless, scanty foliage which has a mournful meaning, like the thin white hairs on the bowed head of a very old man. At this distance from the house I could freely indulge my propensity for singing, albeit in that coarser tone which had failed to win favor with my new friends. Among the grand trees, out of earshot of them all, I could shout aloud to my heart's content, rejoicing in the boisterous old English ballads, which, like John Peele's view-hallo, _"Might awaken the dead Or the fox from his lair in the morning."_ Meanwhile, with the frantic energy of a Gladstone out of office, I plied my ax, its echoing strokes making fit accompaniment to my strains, until for many yards about me the ground was littered with white and yellow chips; then, exhausted with my efforts, I would sit down to rest and eat my simple midday fare, to admire myself in my deep-green and chocolate working-dress, and, above everything, to think and dream of Yoletta. * * * * * In my walks to and from the forest I cast many a wistful look at a solitary flat-topped hill, almost a mountain in height, which stood two or three miles from the house, north of it, on the other side of the river. From its summit I felt sure that a very extensive view of the surrounding country might be had, and I often wished to pay this hill a visit. One afternoon, while taking my lesson in reading, I mentioned this desire to Yoletta. "Come, then, let us go there now," said she, laying the tablets aside. I joyfully agreed: I had never walked alone with her, nor, in fact, with her at all, since that first day when she had placed her hand in mine; and now we were so much nearer in heart to each other. She led me to a point, half a mile from the house, where the stream rushed noisily over its stony bed and formed numerous deep channels between the rocks, and one could cross over by jumping from rock to rock. Yoletta led the way, leaping airily from stone to stone, while I, anxious to escape a wetting, followed her with caution; but when I was safe over, and thought our delightful walk was about to begin, she suddenly started off towards the hill at a swift pace, which quickly left me far behind. Finding that I could not overtake her, I shouted to her to wait for me; then she stood still until I was within three or four yards Of her, when off she fled like the wind once more. At length she reached the foot of the hill, and sat down there until I joined her. "For goodness sake, Yoletta, let us behave like rational beings and walk quietly," I was beginning, when away she went again, dancing up the mountain-side with a tireless energy that amazed as well as exasperated me. "Wait for me just once more," I screamed after her; then, half-way up the side, she stopped and sat down on a stone. "Now my chance has come," thought I, ready to make up for insufficient speed and wind by superior cunning, which would make us equal. "I will go quietly up and catch her napping, and hold her fast by the arm until the walk is finished. So far it has been nothing but a mad chase." Slowly I toiled on, and then, when I got near her and was just about to execute my plan, she started nimbly away, with a merry laugh, and never paused again until the summit was reached. Thoroughly tired and beaten, I sat down to rest; but presently looking up I saw her at the top, standing motionless on a stone, looking like a statue outlined against the clear blue sky. Once more I got up and pressed on until I reached her, and then sank down on the grass, overcome with fatigue. "When you ask me to walk again, Yoletta," I panted, "I shall not move unless I have a rope round your waist to pull you back when you try to rush off in that mad fashion. You have knocked all the wind out of me; and yet I was in pretty good trim." She laughed, and jumping to the ground, sat down at my side on the grass. I caught her hand and held it tight. "Now you shall not escape and run away again," said I. "You may keep my hand," she replied; "it has nothing to do up here." "May I put it to some useful purpose--may I do what I like with it?" "Yes, you may," then she added with a smile: "There is no thorn in it now." I kissed it many times on the back, the palm, the wrist then bestowed a separate caress on each finger-tip. "Why do you kiss my hand?" she asked. "Do you not know--can you not guess? Because it is the sweetest thing I can kiss, except one other thing. Shall I tell you----" "My face? And why do you not kiss that?" "Oh, may I?" said I, and drawing her to me I kissed her soft cheek. "May I kiss the other cheek now?" I asked. She turned it to me, and when I had kissed it rapturously, I gazed into her eyes, which looked back, bright and unabashed, into mine. "I think--I think I made a slight mistake, Yoletta," I said. "What I meant to ask was, will you let me kiss you where I like--on your chin, for instance, or just where I like?" "Yes; but you are keeping me too long. Kiss me as many times as you like, and then let us admire the prospect." I drew her closer and kissed her mouth, not once nor twice, but clinging to it with all the ardor of passion, as if my lips had become glued to hers. Suddenly she disengaged herself from me. "Why do you kiss my mouth in that violent way?" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. "You seem like some hungry animal that wanted to devour me." That was, oddly enough, just how I felt. "Do you not not know, sweetest, why I kiss you in that way? Because I love you." "I know you do, Smith. I can understand and appreciate your love without having my lips bruised." "And do you love me, Yoletta?" "Yes, certainly--did you not know that?" "And is it not sweet to kiss when you love? Do you know what love is, darling? Do you love me a thousand times more than any one else in the world?" "How extravagantly you talk!" she replied. "What strange things you say!" "Yes, dear, because love is strange--the strangest, sweetest thing in life. It comes once only to the heart, and the one person loved is infinitely more than all others. Do you not understand that?" "Oh no; what do you mean, Smith?" "Is there any other person dearer to your heart than I am?" "I love every one in the house, some more than others. Those that are closely related to me I love most." "Oh, please say no more! You love your people with one kind of love, but me with a different love--is it not so?" "There is only one kind of love," said she. "Ah, you say that because you are a child yet, and do not know. You are even younger than I thought, perhaps. How old are you, dear?" "Thirty-one years old," she replied, with the utmost gravity. "Oh, Yoletta, what an awful cram! I mean--oh, I beg your pardon for being so rude! But--but don't you think you can draw it mild? Thirty-one--what a joke! Why, I'm an old fellow compared with you, and I'm not twenty-two yet. Do tell me what you mean, Yoletta?" She was not listening to me, I saw: she had risen from the grass and seated herself again on the stone. For only answer to my question she pointed to the west with her hand, saying: "Look there, Smith." I stood up and looked. The sun was near the horizon now, and partially concealed by low clouds, which were beginning to form--gray, and tinged with purple and red; but their misty edges burned with an intense yellow flame. Above, the sky was clear as blue glass, barred with pale-yellow rays, shot forth by the sinking sun, and resembling the spokes of an immense celestial wheel reaching to the zenith. The billowy earth, with its forests in deep green and many-colored, autumnal foliage, stretched far before us, here in shadow, and there flushed with rich light; while the mountain range, looming near and stupendous on our right, had changed its color from dark blue to violet. The doubts and fears agitating my heart made me indifferent to the surpassing beauty of the scene: I turned impatiently from it to gaze again on her graceful figure, girlish still in its slim proportions; but her face, flushed with sunlight, and crowned with its dark, shining hair, seemed to me like the face of one of the immortals. The expression of rapt devotion on it made me silent, for it seemed as if she too had been touched by nature's magic, like earth and sky, and been transfigured; and waiting for the mood to pass, I stood by her side, resting my hand on her knee. By-and-by she looked down and smiled, and then I returned to the subject of her age. "Surely, Yoletta," said I, "you were only poking fun at me--I mean, amusing yourself at my expense. You can't possibly be more than about fifteen, or sixteen at the very outside." She smiled again and shook her head. "Oh, I know, I can solve the riddle now. Your years are different, of course, like everything else in this latitude. A month is called a year with you, and that would make you, let me see--how much is twelve times thirty-one? Oh, hang it, nearly five hundred, I should think. Why am I such a duffer at mental arithmetic! It is just the contrary--how many twelves in thirty-one? About two and a half in round numbers, and that's absurd, as you are not a baby. Oh, I have it: your seasons are called years, of course--why didn't I see it before! No, that would make you only seven and a half. Ah, yes, I see it now: a year means two years, or two of your years--summer and winter--mean a year; and that just makes you sixteen, exactly what I had imagined. Is it not so, Yoletta?" "I do not know what you are talking about, Smith; and I am not listening." "Well, listen for one moment, and tell me how long does a year last?" "It lasts from the time the leaves fall in the autumn until they fall again; and it lasts from the time the swallows come in spring until they come again." "And seriously, honestly, you are thirty-one years old?" "Did I not tell you so? Yes, I am thirty-one years old." "Well, I never heard anything to equal this! Good heavens, what does it mean? I know it is awfully rude to inquire a lady's age, but what am I to do? Will you kindly tell me Edra's age?" "Edra? I forget. Oh yes; she is sixty-three." "Sixty-three! I'll be shot if she's a day more than twenty-eight! Idiot that I am, why can't I keep calm! But, Yoletta, how you distress me! It almost frightens me to ask another question, but do tell me how old your father is?" "He is nearly two hundred years old--a hundred and ninety-eight, I think," she replied. "Heavens on earth--I shall go stark, staring mad!" But I could say no more; leaving her side I sat down on a low stone at some distance, with a stunned feeling in my brain, and something like despair in my heart. That she had told me the truth I could no longer doubt for one moment: it was impossible for her crystal nature to be anything but truthful. The number of her years mattered nothing to me; the virgin sweetness of girlhood was on her lips, the freshness and glory of early youth on her forehead; the misery was that she had lived thirty-one years in the world and did not understand the words I had spoken to her--did not know what love, or passion, was! Would it always be so--would my heart consume itself to ashes, and kindle no fire in hers? Then, as I sat there, filled with these despairing thoughts, she came down from her perch, and, dropping on her knees before me, put her arms about my neck and gazed steadily into my face. "Why are you troubled, Smith-have I said anything to hurt you?" said she. "And do you not know that you have offended me?" "Have I? Tell me how, dearest Yoletta." "By asking questions, and saying wild, meaningless things while I sat there watching the setting sun. It troubled me and spoiled my pleasure; but I will forgive you, Smith, because I love you. Do you not think I love you enough? You are very dear to me--dearer every day." And drawing down my face she kissed my lips. "Darling, you make me happy again," I returned, "for if your love increases every day, the time will perhaps come when you will understand me, and be all I wish to me." "What is it that you wish?" she questioned. "That you should be mine--mine alone, wholly mine--and give yourself to me, body and soul." She continued gazing up into my eyes. "In a sense we do, I suppose, give ourselves, body and soul, to those we love," she said. "And if you are not yet satisfied that I have given myself to you in that way, you must wait patiently, saying and doing nothing willfully to alienate my heart, until the time arrives when my love will be equal to your desire. Come," she added, and, rising, pulled me up by the hand. Silently, and somewhat pensively, we started hand in hand on our walk down the hill. Presently she dropped on her knees, and opening the grass with her hands, displayed a small, slender bud, on a round, smooth stem, springing without leaves from the soil. "Do you see!" she said, looking up at me with a bright smile. "Yes, dear, I see a bud; but I do not know anything more about it." "Oh, Smith, do you not know that it is a rainbow lily!" And rising, she took my hand and walked on again. "What is the rainbow lily?" "By-and-by, in a few days, it will be in fullest bloom, and the earth will be covered with its glory." "It is so late in the season, Yoletta! Spring is the time to see the earth covered with the glory of flowers." "There is nothing to equal the rainbow lily, which comes when most flowers are dead, or have their bright colors tarnished. Have you lived in the moon, Smith, that I have to tell you these things?" "No, dear, but in that island where all things, including flowers, were different." "Ah, yes; tell me about the island." Now "that island" was an unfortunate subject, and I was not prepared to break the resolution I had made of prudently holding my tongue about its peculiar institutions. "How can I tell you?--how could you imagine it if I were to tell you?" I said, evading the question. "You have seen the heavens black with tempests, and have felt the lightnings blinding your eyes, and have heard the crash of the thunder: could you imagine all that if you had never witnessed it, and I described it to you?" "No." "Then it would be useless to tell you. And now tell me about the rainbow lilies, for I am a great lover of flowers." "Are you? Is it strange you should have a taste common to all human beings?" she returned with a pretty smile. "But it is easier to ask questions than to answer them. If you had never seen the sun setting in glory, or the midnight sky shining with myriads of stars, could you imagine these things if I described them to you?" "No." "That word is an echo, Smith. You must wait for the earth to bring forth her rainbow lilies, and the heart its love." "With or without flowers, the world is a paradise to me, with you at my side, Yoletta. Ah, if you will be my Eve! How sweet it is to walk hand in hand with you in the twilight; but it was not so nice when you were scuttling from me like a wild rabbit. I'm glad to find that you do walk sometimes." "Yes, sometimes--on solemn occasions." "Yes? Tell me about these solemn occasions." "This is not one of them," she replied, suddenly withdrawing her hand from mine; then with a ringing laugh, she sped from me, bounding down the hill-side with the speed and grace of a gazelle. I instantly gave chase; but it was a very vain chase, although I put forth all my powers. Occasionally she would drop on her knees to admire some wild flower, or search for a lily bud; and whenever she came to a large stone, she would spring on to it, and stand for some time motionless, gazing at the rich hues of the afterglow; but always at my approach she would spring lightly away, escaping from me as easily as a wild bird. Tired with running, I at last gave up the hunt, and walked soberly home by myself, wondering whether that conversation on the summit of the hill, and all the curious information I had gathered from it, should make me the most miserable or the most happy being upon earth. Chapter 12 The question whether I had reason to feel happy or the reverse still occupied me after going to bed, and kept me awake far into the night. I put it to myself in a variety of ways, concentrating my faculties on it; but the result still remained doubtful. Mine was a curious position for a man to be in; for here was I, very much in love with Yoletta, who said that her age was thirty-one, and yet who knew of only one kind of love--that sisterly affection which she gave me so unstintingly. Of course I was surrounded with mysteries, being in the house but not of it, to the manner born; and I had already arrived at the conclusion that these mysteries could only be known to me through reading, once that accomplishment was mine. For it seemed rather a dangerous thing to ask questions, since the most innocent interrogatory might be taken as an offense, only to be expiated by solitary confinement and a bread-and-water diet; or, if not punishable in that way, it would probably be regarded as a result of the supposed collision of my head with a stone. To be reticent, observant, and studious was a safe plan; this had served to make me diligent and attentive with my lessons, and my gentle teacher had been much pleased with the progress I had made, even in a few days. Her words on the hill had now, however, filled me with anxiety, and I wanted to go a little below the surface of this strange system of life. Why was this large family--twenty-two members present, besides some absent pilgrims, as they are called--composed only of adults? Again, more curious still, why was the father of the house adorned with a majestic beard, while the other men, of various ages, had smooth faces, or, at any rate, nothing more than a slight down on the upper lip and cheeks? It was plain that they never shaved. And were these people all really brothers and sisters? So far, I had been unable, even with the most jealous watching, to detect anything like love-making or flirting; they all treated each other, as Yoletta treated me, with kindness and affection, and nothing more. And if the head of the house was in fact the father of them all--since in two centuries a man might have an indefinite number of children--who was the mother or mothers? I was never good at guessing, but the result of my cogitations was one happy idea--to ask Yoletta whether she had a living mother or not? She was my teacher, my friend and guardian in the house, and if it should turn out that the question was an unfortunate one, an offense, she would be readier to forgive than another. Accordingly, next day, as soon as we were alone together I put the question to her, although not without a nervous qualm. She looked at me with the greatest surprise. "Do you mean to say," she answered, "that you do not know I have a mother--that there is a mother of the house?" "How should I know, Yoletta?" I returned. "I have not heard you address any one as mother; besides, how is one to know anything in a strange place unless he is told?" "How strange, then, that you never asked till now! There is a mother of the house--the mother of us all, of you since you were made one of us; and it happens, too, that I am her daughter--her only child. You have not seen her because you have never asked to be taken to her; and she is not among us because of her illness. For very long she has been afflicted with a malady from which she cannot recover, and for a whole year she has not left the Mother's Room." She spoke with eyes cast down, in a low and very sad voice. It was only too plain now that in my ignorance I had been guilty of a grave breach of the etiquette or laws of the house; and anxious to repair my fault, also to know more of the one female in this mysterious community who had loved, or at all events had known marriage, I asked if I might see her. "Yes," she answered, after some hesitation, still standing with eyes cast down. Then suddenly, bursting into tears, she exclaimed: "Oh, Smith, how could you be in the world and not know that there is a mother in every house! How could you travel and not know that when you enter a house, after greeting the father, you first of all ask to be taken to the mother to worship her and feel her hand on your head? Did you not see that we were astonished and grieved at your silence when you came, and we waited in vain for you to speak?" I was dumb with shame at her words. How well I remembered that first evening in the house, when I could not but see that something was expected of me, yet never ventured to ask for enlightment! Presently, recovering from her tears, she went from the room, and, left alone, I was more than ever filled with wonder at what she had told me. I had not imagined that she had come into the world without a mother; nevertheless, the fact that this passionless girl, who had told me that there was only one kind of love, was the daughter of a woman actually living in the house, of whose existence I had never before heard, except in an indirect way which I failed to understand, seemed like a dream to me. Now I was about to see this hidden woman, and the interview would reveal something to me, for I would discover in her face and conversation whether she was in the same mystic state of mind as the others, which made them seem like the dwellers in some better place than this poor old sinful, sorrowful world. My wishes, however, were not to be gratified, for presently Yoletta returned and said that her mother did not desire to see me then. She looked so distressed when she told me this, putting her white arms about my neck as if to console me for my disappointment, that I refrained from pressing her with questions, and for several days nothing more was spoken between us on the subject. At length, one day when our lesson was over, with an expression of mingled pleasure and anxiety on her face, she rose and took my hand, saying, "Come." I knew she was going to take me to her mother, and rose to obey her gladly, for since the conversation I had had with her the desire to know the lady of the house had given me no peace. Leaving the music room, we entered another apartment, of the same nave-like form, but vaster, or, at all events, considerably longer. There I started and stood still, amazed at the scene before me. The light, which found entrance through tall, narrow windows, was dim, but sufficient to show the whole room with everything in it, ending at the further extremity at a flight of broad stone steps. The middle part of the floor, running the entire length of the apartment, was about twenty feet wide, but on either side of this passage, which was covered with mosaic, the floor was raised; and on this higher level I saw, as I imagined, a great company of men and women, singly and in groups, standing or seated on great stone chairs in various positions and attitudes. Presently I perceived that these were not living beings, but life-like effigies of stone, the drapery they were represented as wearing being of many different richly-colored stones, having the appearance of real garments. So natural did the hair look, that only when I ascended the steps and touched the head of one of the statues was I convinced that it was also of stone. Even more wonderful in their resemblance to life were the eyes, which seemed to return my half-fearful glances with a calm, questioning scrutiny I found it hard to endure. I hurried on after my guide without speaking, but when I got to the middle of the room I paused involuntarily once more, so profoundly did one of the statues impress me. It was of a woman of a majestic figure and proud, beautiful face, with an abundance of silvery-white hair. She sat bending forward with her eyes fixed on mine as I advanced, one hand pressed to her bosom, while with the other she seemed in the act of throwing back her white unbound tresses from her forehead. There was, I thought, a look of calm, unbending pride on the face, but on coming closer this expression disappeared, giving place to one so wistful and pleading, so charged with subtle pain, that I stood gazing like one fascinated, until Yoletta took my hand and gently drew me away. Still, in spite of the absorbing nature of the matter on which I was bound, that strange face continued to haunt me, and glancing up and down through that long array of calm-browed, beautiful women, I could see no one that was like it. Arrived at the end of the gallery, we ascended the broad stone steps, and came to a landing twenty or thirty feet above the level of the floor we had traversed. Here Yoletta pushed a glass door aside and ushered me into another apartment--the Mother's Room. It was spacious, and, unlike the gallery, well-lighted; the air in it was also warm and balmy, and seemed charged with a subtle aroma. But now my whole attention was concentrated on a group of persons before me, and chiefly on its central figure--the woman I had so much desired to see. She was seated, leaning back in a somewhat listless attitude, on a very large, low, couch-like seat, covered with a soft, violet-colored material. My very first glance at her face revealed to me that she differed in appearance and expression from other inmates of the house: one reason was that she was extremely pale, and bore on her worn countenance the impress of long-continued suffering; but that was not all. She wore her hair, which fell unbound on her shoulders, longer than the others, and her eyes looked larger, and of a deeper green. There was something wonderfully fascinating to me in that pale, suffering face, for, in spite of suffering, it was beautiful and loving; but dearer than all these things to my mind were the marks of passion it exhibited, the petulant, almost scornful mouth, and the half-eager, half-weary expression of the eyes, for these seemed rather to belong to that imperfect world from which I had been severed, and which was still dear to my unregenerate heart. In other respects also she differed from the rest of the women, her dress being a long, pale-blue robe, embroidered with saffron-colored flowers and foliage down the middle, and also on the neck and the wide sleeves. On the couch at her side sat the father of the house, holding her hand and talking in low tones to her; two of the young women sat at her feet on cushions, engaged on embroidery work, while another stood behind her; one of the young men was also there, and was just now showing her a sketch, and apparently explaining something in it. I had expected to find a sick, feeble lady, in a dimly-lighted chamber, with perhaps one attendant at her side; now, coming so unexpectedly before this proud-looking, beautiful woman, with so many about her, I was completely abashed, and, feeling too confused to say anything, stood silent and awkward in her presence. "This is our stranger, Chastel," said the old man to her, at the same time bestowing an encouraging look on me. She turned from the sketch she had been studying, and raising herself slightly from her half-recumbent attitude, fixed her dark eyes on me with some interest. "I do not see why you were so much impressed," she remarked after a while. "There is nothing very strange in him after all." I felt my face grow hot with shame and anger, for she seemed to look on me and speak of me--not to me--as if I had been some strange, semi-human creature, discovered in the woods, and brought in as a great curiosity. "No; it was not his countenance, only his curious garments and his words that astonished us," said the father in reply. She made no answer to this, but presently, addressing me directly, said: "You were a long time in the house before you expressed a wish to see me." I found my speech then--a wretched, hesitating speech, for which I hated myself--and replied, that I had asked to be allowed to see her as soon as I had been informed of her existence. She turned on the father a look of surprise and inquiry. "You must remember, Chastel," said he, "that he comes to us from some strange, distant island, having customs different from ours--a thing I had never heard of before. I can give you no other explanation." Her lip curled, and then, turning to me, she continued: "If there are houses in your island without mothers in them, it is not so elsewhere in the world. That you went out to travel so poorly provided with knowledge is a marvel to us; and as I have had the pain of telling you this, I must regret that you ever left your own home." I could make no reply to these words, which fell on me like whip-strokes; and looking at the other faces, I could see no sympathy in them for me; as they looked at her--their mother--and listened to her words, the expression they wore was love and devotion to her only, reminding me a little of the angel faces on Guide's canvas of the "Coronation of the Virgin." "Go now," she presently added in a petulant tone; "I am tired, and wish to rest"; and Yoletta, who had been standing silently by me all the time, took my hand and led me from the room. With eyes cast down I passed through the gallery, paying no attention to its strange, stony occupants; and leaving my gentle conductress without a word at the door of the music-room, I hurried away from the house. For I could feel love and compassion in the touch of the dear girl's hand, and it seemed to me that if she had spoken one word, my overcharged heart would have found vent in tears. I only wished to be alone, to brood in secret on my pain and the bitterness of defeat; for it was plain that the woman I had so wished to see, and, since seeing her, so wished to be allowed to love, felt towards me nothing but contempt and aversion, and that from no fault of my own, she, whose friendship I most needed, was become my enemy in the house. My steps took me to the river. Following its banks for about a mile, I came at last to a grove of stately old trees, and there I seated myself on a large twisted root projecting over the water. To this sequestered spot I had come to indulge my resentful feelings; for here I could speak out my bitterness aloud, if I felt so minded, where there were no witnesses to hear me. I had restrained those unmanly tears, so nearly shed in Yoletta's presence, and kept back by dark thoughts on the way; now I was sitting quietly by myself, safe from observation, safe even from that sympathy my bruised spirit could not suffer. Scarcely had I seated myself before a great brown animal, with black eyes, round and fierce, rose to the surface of the stream half a dozen yards from my feet; then quickly catching sight of me, it plunged noisily again under water, breaking the clear image reflected there with a hundred ripples. I waited for the last wavelet to fade away, but when the surface was once more still and smooth as dark glass, I began to be affected by the profounded silence and melancholy of nature, and by a something proceeding from nature--phantom, emanation, essence, I know not what. My soul, not my sense, perceived it, standing with finger on lips, there, close to me; its feet resting on the motionless water, which gave no reflection of its image, the clear amber sunlight passing undimmed through its substance. To my soul its spoken "Hush!" was audible, and again, and yet again, it said "Hush!" until the tumult in me was still, and I could not think my own thoughts. I could thereafter only listen, breathless, straining my senses to catch some natural sound, however faint. Far away in the dim distance, in some blue pasture, a cow was lowing, and the recurring sound passed me like the humming flight of an insect, then fainter still, like an imagined sound, until it ceased. A withered leaf fell from the tree-top; I heard it fluttering downwards, touching other leaves in its fall until the silent grass received it. Then, as I listened for another leaf, suddenly from overhead came the brief gushing melody of some late singer, a robin-like sound, ringing out clear and distinct as a flourish on a clarionet: brilliant, joyous, and unexpected, yet in keeping with that melancholy quiet, affecting the mind like a spray of gold and scarlet embroidery on a pale, neutral ground. The sun went down, and in setting, kindled the boles of the old trees here and there into pillars of red fire, while others in deeper shade looked by contrast like pillars of ebony; and wherever the foliage was thinnest, the level rays shining through imparted to the sere leaves a translucence and splendor that was like the stained glass in the windows of some darkening cathedral. All along the river a white mist began to rise, a slight wind sprang up and the vapor drifted, drowning the reeds and bushes, and wreathing its ghostly arms about the old trees: and watching the mist, and listening to the "hallowed airs and symphonies" whispered by the low wind, I felt that there was no longer any anger in my heart. Nature, and something in and yet more than nature, had imparted her "soft influences" and healed her "wandering and distempered child" until he could no more be a "jarring and discordant thing" in her sweet and sacred presence. When I looked up a change had come over the scene: the round, full moon had risen, silvering the mist, and filling the wide, dim earth with a new mysterious glory. I rose from my seat and returned to the house, and with that new insight and comprehension which had come to me--that _message_, as I could not but regard it--I now felt nothing but love and sympathy for the suffering woman who had wounded me with her unmerited displeasure, and my only desire was to show my devotion to her. Chapter 13 As I approached the building, soft strains floating far out into the night-air became audible, and I knew that the sweet spirit of music, to which they were all so devoted, was present with them. After listening for awhile in the shadow of the portico I went in, and, anxious to avoid disturbing the singers, stole away into a dusky corner, where I sat down by myself. Yoletta had, however, seen me enter, for presently she came to me. "Why did you not come in to supper, Smith?" she said. "And why do you look so sad?" "Do you need to ask, Yoletta? Ah, it would have made me so happy if I could have won your mother's affection! If she only knew how much I wish for it, and how much I sympathize with her! But she will never like me, and all I wished to say to her must be left unsaid." "No, not so," she said. "Come with me to her now: if you feel like that, she will be kind to you--how should it be otherwise?" I greatly feared that she advised me to take an imprudent step; but she was my guide, my teacher and friend in the house, and I resolved to do as she wished. There were no lights in the long gallery when we entered it again, only the white moonbeams coming through the tall windows here and there lit up a column or a group of statues, which threw long, black shadows on floor and Wall, giving the chamber a weird appearance. Once more, when I reached the middle of the room, I paused, for there before me, ever bending forward, sat that wonderful woman of stone, the moonlight streaming full on her pale, wistful face and silvery hair. "Tell me, Yoletta, who is this?" I whispered. "Is it a statue of some one who lived in this house?" "Yes; you can read about her in the history of the house, and in this inscription on the stone. She was a mother, and her name was Isarte." "But why has she that strange, haunting expression on her face? Was she unhappy?" "Oh, can you not see that she was unhappy! She endured many sorrows, and the crowning calamity of her life was the loss of seven loved sons. They were away in the mountains together, and did not return when expected: for many years she waited for tidings of them. It was conjectured that a great rock had fallen on and crushed them beneath it. Grief for her lost children made her hair white, and gave that expression to her face." "And when did this happen?" "Over two thousand years ago." "Oh, then it is a very old family tradition. But the statue--when was that made and placed here?" "She had it made and placed here herself. It was her wish that the grief she endured should be remembered in the house for all time, for no one had ever suffered like her; and the inscription, which she caused to be put on the stone, says that if there shall ever come to a mother in the house a sorrow exceeding hers, the statue shall be removed from its place and destroyed, and the fragments buried in the earth with all forgotten things, and the name of Isarte forgotten in the house." It oppressed my mind to think of so long a period of time during which that unutterably sad face had gazed down on so many generations of the living. "It is most strange!" I murmured. "But do you think it right, Yoletta, that the grief of one person should be perpetuated like that in the house; for who can look on this face without pain, even when it is remembered that the sorrow it expresses ended so many centuries ago?" "But she was a mother, Smith, do you not understand? It would not be right for us to wish to have our griefs remembered for ever, to cause sorrow to those who succeed us; but a mother is different: her wishes are sacred, and what she wills is right." Her words surprised me not a little, for I had heard of infallible men, but never of women; moreover, the woman I was now going to see was also a "mother in the house," a successor to this very Isarte. Fearing that I had touched on a dangerous topic, I said no more, and proceeding on our way, we soon reached the mother's room, the large glass door of which now stood wide open. In the pale light of the moon--for there was no other in the room--we found Chastel on the couch where I had seen her before, but she was lying extended at full length now, and had only one attendant with her. Yoletta approached her, and, stooping, touched her lips to the pale, still face. "Mother," she said, "I have brought Smith again; he is anxious to say something to you, if you will hear him." "Yes, I will hear him," she replied. "Let him sit near me; and now go back, for your voice is needed. And you may also leave me now," she added, addressing the other lady. The two then departed together, and I proceeded to seat myself on a cushion beside the couch. "What is it you wish to say to me?" she asked. The words were not very encouraging, but her voice sounded gentler now, and I at once began. "Hush," she said, before I had spoken two words. "Wait until this ends--I am listening to Yoletta's voice." Through the long, dusky gallery and the open doors soft strains of music were floating to us, and now, mingling with the others, a clearer, bell-like voice was heard, which soared to greater heights; but soon this ceased to be distinguishable, and then she sighed and addressed me again. "Where have you been all the evening, for you were not at supper?" "Did you know that?" I asked in surprise. "Yes, I know everything that passes in the house. Reading and work of all kinds are a pain and weariness. The only thing left to me is to listen to what others do or say, and to know all their comings and goings. My life is nothing now but a shadow of other people's lives." "Then," I said, "I must tell you how I spent the time after seeing you to-day; for I was alone, and no other person can say what I did. I went away along the river until I came to the grove of great trees on the bank, and there I sat until the moon rose, with my heart full of unspeakable pain and bitterness." "What made you have those feelings?" "When I heard of you, and saw you, my heart was drawn to you, and I wished above all things in the world to be allowed to love and serve you, and to have a share in your affection; but your looks and words expressed only contempt and dislike towards me. Would it not have been strange if I had not felt extremely unhappy?" "Oh," she replied, "now I can understand the reason of the surprise your words have often caused in the house! Your very feelings seem unlike ours. No other person would have experienced the feelings you speak of for such a cause. It is right to repent your faults, and to bear the burden of them quietly; but it is a sign of an undisciplined spirit to feel bitterness, and to wish to cast the blame of your suffering on another. You forget that I had reason to be deeply offended with you. You also forget my continual suffering, which sometimes makes me seem harsh and unkind against my will." "Your words seem only sweet and gracious now," I returned. "They have lifted a great weight from my heart, and I wish I could repay you for them by taking some portion of your suffering on myself." "It is right that you should have that feeling, but idle to express it," she answered gravely. "If such wishes could be fulfilled my sufferings would have long ceased, since any one of my children would gladly lay down his life to procure me ease." To this speech, which sounded like another rebuke, I made no reply. "Oh, this is bitterness indeed--a bitterness you cannot know," she resumed after a while. "For you and for others there is always the refuge of death from continued sufferings: the brief pang of dissolution, bravely met, is nothing in comparison with a lingering agony like mine, with its long days and longer nights, extending to years, and that great blackness of the end ever before the mind. This only a mother can know, since the horror of utter darkness, and vain clinging to life, even when it has ceased to have any hope or joy in it, is the penalty she must pay for her higher state." I could not understand all her words, and only murmured in reply: "You are young to speak of death." "Yes, young; that is why it is so bitter to think of. In old age the feelings are not so keen." Then suddenly she put out her hands towards me, and, when I offered mine, caught my fingers with a nervous grasp and drew herself to a sitting position. "Ah, why must I be afflicted with a misery others have not known!" she exclaimed excitedly. "To be lifted above the others, when so young; to have one child only; then after so brief a period of happiness, to be smitten with barrenness, and this lingering malady ever gnawing like a canker at the roots of life! Who has suffered like me in the house? You only, Isarte, among the dead. I will go to you, for my grief is more than I can bear; and it may be that I shall find comfort even in speaking to the dead, and to a stone. Can you bear me in your arms?" she said, clasping me round the neck. "Take me up in your arms and carry me to Isarte." I knew what she meant, having so recently heard the story of Isarte, and in obedience to her command I raised her from the couch. She was tall, and heavier than I had expected, though so greatly emaciated; but the thought that she was Yoletta's mother, and the mother of the house, nerved me to my task, and cautiously moving step by step through the gloom, I carried her safely to that white-haired, moonlit woman of stone in the long gallery. When I had ascended the steps and brought her sufficiently near, she put her arms about the statue, and pressed its stony lips with hers. "Isarte, Isarte, how cold your lips are!" she murmured, in low, desponding tones. "Now, when I look into these eyes, which are yours, and yet not yours, and kiss these stony lips, how sorely does the hunger in my heart tempt me to sin! But suffering has not darkened my reason; I know it is an offense to ask anything of Him who gives us life and all good things freely, and has no pleasure in seeing us miserable. This thought restrains me; else I would cry to Him to turn this stone to flesh, and for one brief hour to bring back to it the vanished spirit of Isarte. For there is no one living that can understand my pain; but you would understand it, and put my tired head against your breast, and cover me with your grief-whitened hair as with a mantle. For your pain was like mine, and exceeded mine, and no soul could measure it, therefore in the hunger of your heart you looked far off into the future, where some one would perhaps have a like affliction, and suffer without hope, as you suffered, and measure your pain, and love your memory, and feel united with you, even over the gulf of long centuries of time. You would speak to me of it all, and tell me that the greatest grief was to go away into darkness, leaving no one with your blood and your spirit to inherit the house. This also is my grief, Isarte, for I am barren and eaten up by death, and must soon go away to be where you are. When I am gone, the father of the house will take no other one to his bosom, for he is old, and his life is nearly complete; and in a little while he will follow me, but with no pain and anguish like mine to cloud his serene spirit. And who will then inherit our place? Ah, my sister, how bitter to think of it! for then a stranger will be the mother of the house, and my one only child will sit at her feet, calling her mother, serving her with her hands, and loving and worshiping her with her heart!" The excitement had now burned itself out: she had dropped her head wearily on my shoulder, and bade me take her back. When I had safely deposited her on the couch again, she remained for some minutes with her face covered, silently weeping. The scene in the gallery had deeply affected me; now, however, while I sat by her, pondering over it, my mind reverted to that vanished world of sorrow and different social conditions in which I had lived, and where the lot of so many poor suffering souls seemed to me so much more desolate than that of this unhappy lady, who had, I imagined, much to console her. It even seemed to me that the grief I had witnessed was somewhat morbid and overstrained; and, thinking that it would perhaps divert her mind from brooding too much over her own troubles, I ventured, when she had grown calm again, to tell her some of my memories. I asked her to imagine a state of the world and the human family, in which all women were, in one sense, on an equality--all possessing the same capacity for suffering; and where all were, or would be, wives and mothers, and without any such mysterious remedy against lingering pain as she had spoken of. But I had not proceeded far with my picture before she interrupted me. "Do not say more," she said, with an accent of displeasure. "This, I suppose, is another of those grotesque fancies you sometimes give expression to, about which I heard a great deal when you first came to us. That all people should be equal, and all women wives and mothers seems to me a very disordered and a very repulsive idea The one consolation in my pain, the one glory of my life could not exist in such a state as that, and my condition would be pitiable indeed. All others would be equally miserable. The human race would multiply, until the fruits of the soil would be insufficient for its support; and earth would be filled with degenerate beings, starved in body and debased in mind--all clinging to an existence utterly without joy. Life is dark to me, but not to others: these are matters beyond you, and it is presumptuous in one of your condition to attempt to comfort me with idle fancies." After some moments of silence, she resumed: "The father has said to-day that you came to us from an island where even the customs of the people are different from ours; and perhaps one of their unhappy methods is to seek to medicine a real misery by imagining some impossible and immeasurably greater one. In no other way can I account for your strange words to me; for I cannot believe that any race exists so debased as actually to practice the things you speak of. Remember that I do not ask or desire to be informed. We have a different way; for although it is conceivable that present misery might be mitigated, or forgotten for a season, by giving up the soul to delusions, even by summoning before the mind repulsive and horrible images, that would be to put to an unlawful use, and to pervert, the brightest faculties our Father has given us: therefore we seek no other support in all sufferings and calamities but that of reason only. If you wish for my affection, you will not speak of such things again, but will endeavor to purify yourself from a mental vice, which may sometimes, in periods of suffering, give you a false comfort for a brief season, only to degrade you, and sink you later in a deeper misery. You must now leave me." This unexpected and sharp rebuke did not anger me, but it made me very sad; for I now perceived plainly enough that no great advantage would come to me from Chastel's acquaintance, since it was necessary to be so very circumspect with her. Deeply troubled, and in a somewhat confused state of mind, I rose to depart. Then she placed her thin, feverish white hand on mine. "You need not go away again," she said, "to indulge in bitter feelings by yourself because I have said this to you. You may come with the others to see me and talk to me whenever I am able to sit here and bear it. I shall not remember your offense, but shall be glad to know that there is another soul in the house to love and honor me." With such comfort as these words afforded I returned to the music-room, and, finding it empty, went out to the terrace, where the others were now strolling about in knots and couples, conversing and enjoying the lovely moonlight. Wandering a little distance away by myself, I sat down on a bench under a tree, and presently Yoletta came to me there, and closely scrutinized my face. "Have you nothing to tell me?" she asked. "Are you happier now?" "Yes, dearest, for I have been spoke to very kindly; and I should have been happier if only--" But I checked myself in time, and said no more to her about my conversation with the mother. To myself I said: "Oh, that island, that island! Why can't I forget its miserable customs, or, at any rate, stick to my own resolution to hold my tongue about them?" Chapter 14 From that day I was frequently allowed to enter the Mother's Room, but, as I had feared, these visits failed to bring me into any closer relationship with the lady of the house. She had indeed forgotten my offense: I was one of her children, sharing equally with the others in her impartial affection, and privileged to sit at her feet to relate to her the incidents of the day, or describe all I had seen, and sometimes to touch her thin white hand with my lips. But the distance separating us was not forgotten. At the two first interviews she had taught me, once for all, that it was for me to love, honor, and serve her, and that anything beyond that--any attempt to win her confidence, to enter into her thoughts, or make her understand my feelings and aspirations--was regarded as pure presumption on my part. The result was that I was less happy than I had been before knowing her: my naturally buoyant and hopeful temper became tinged with melancholy, and that vision of exquisite bliss in the future, which had floated before me, luring me on, now began to look pale, and to seem further and further away. After my walk with Yoletta--if it can be called a walk--I began to look out for the rainbow lilies, and soon discovered that everywhere under the grass they were beginning to sprout from the soil. At first I found them in the moist valley of the river, but very soon they were equally abundant on the higher lands, and even on barren, stony places, where they appeared latest. I felt very curious about these flowers, of which Yoletta had spoken so enthusiastically, and watched the slow growth of the long, slender buds from day to day with considerable impatience. At length, in a moist hollow of the forest, I was delighted to find the full-blown flower. In shape it resembled a tulip, but was more open, and the color a most vivid orange yellow; it had a slight delicate perfume, and was very pretty, with a peculiar waxy gloss on the thick petals, still, I was rather disappointed, since the name of "rainbow lily," and Yoletta's words, had led me to expect a many-colored flower of surpassing beauty. I plucked the lily carefully, and was taking it home to present it to her, when all at once I remembered that only on one occasion had I seen flowers in her hand, and in the hands of the others, and that was when they were burying their dead. They never wore a flower, nor had I ever seen one in the house, not even in that room where Chastel was kept a prisoner by her malady, and where her greatest delight was to have nature in all its beauty and fragrance brought to her in the conversation of her children. The only flowers in the house were in their illuminations, and those wrought in metal and carved in wood, and the immortal, stony flowers of many brilliant hues in their mosaics. I began to fear that there was some superstition which made it seem wrong to them to gather flowers, except for funeral ceremonies, and afraid of offending from want of thought, I dropped the lily on the ground, and said nothing about it to any one. Then, before any more open lilies were found, an unexpected sorrow came to me. After changing my dress on returning from the fields one afternoon, I was taken to the hall of judgment, and at once jumped to the conclusion that I had again unwittingly fallen into disgrace; but on arriving at that uncomfortable apartment I perceived that this was not the case. Looking round at the assembled company I missed Yoletta, and my heart sank in me, and I even wished that my first impression had proved correct. On the great stone table, before which the father was seated, lay an open folio, the leaf displayed being only illuminated at the top and inner margin; the colored part at the top I noticed was torn, the rent extending down to about the middle of the page. Presently the dear girl appeared, with tearful eyes and flushed face, and advancing hurriedly to the father, she stood before him with downcast eyes. "My daughter, tell me how and why you did this?" he demanded, pointing to the open volume. "Oh, father, look at this," she returned, half-sobbing, and touching the lower end of the colored margin with her finger. "Do you see how badly it is colored? And I had spent three days in altering and retouching it, and still it displeased me. Then, in sudden anger, I pushed the book from me, and seeing it slipping from the stand I caught the leaf to prevent it from falling, and it was torn by the weight of the book. Oh, dear father, will you forgive me?" "Forgive you, my daughter? Do you not know how it grieves my heart to punish you; but how can this offense to the house be forgiven, which must stand in evidence against us from generation to generation? For we cease to be, but the house remains; and the writing we leave on it, whether it be good or evil, that too remains for ever. An unkind word is an evil thing, an unkind deed a worse, but when these are repented they may be forgiven and forgotten. But an injury done to the house cannot be forgotten, for it is the flaw in the stone that keeps its place, the crude, inharmonious color which cannot be washed out with water. Consider, my daughter, in the long life of the house, how many unborn men will turn the leaves of this book, and coming to this leaf will be offended at so grievous a disfigurement! If we of this generation were destined to live for ever, then it might be written on this page for a punishment and warning:" Yoletta tore it in her anger. "But we must pass away and be nothing to succeeding generations, and it would not be right that Yoletta's name should be remembered for the wrong she did to the house, and all she did for its good forgotten." A painful silence ensued, then, lifting her tear-stained face, she said: "Oh father, what must my punishment be?" "Dear child, it will be a light one, for we consider your youth and impulsive nature, and also that the wrong you did was partly the result of accident. For thirty days you must live apart from us, subsisting on bread and water, and holding intercourse with one person only, who will assist you with your work and provide you with all things necessary." This seemed to me a harsh, even a cruel punishment for so trivial an offense, or accident, rather; but she was not perhaps of the same mind, for she kissed his hand, as if in gratitude for his leniency. "Tell me, child," he said, putting his hand on her head, and regarding her with misty eyes, "who shall attend you in your seclusion?" "Edra," she murmured; and the other, coming forward, took her by the hand and led her away. I gazed eagerly after her as she retired, hungering for one look from her dear eyes before that long separation; but they were filled with tears and bent on the floor, and in a moment she was gone from sight. The succeeding days were to me dreary beyond description. For the first time I became fully conscious of the strength of a passion which had now become a consuming fire in my breast, and could only end in utter misery--perhaps in destruction--or else in a degree of happiness no mortal had ever tasted before. I went about listlessly, like one on whom some heavy calamity has fallen: all interest in my work was lost; my food seemed tasteless; study and conversation had become a weariness; even in those divine concerts, which fitly brought each tranquil day to its close, there was no charm now, since Yoletta's voice, which love had taught my dull ear to distinguish no longer had any part in it. I was not allowed to enter the Mother's Room of an evening now, and the exclusion extended also to the others, Edra only excepted; for at this hour, when it was customary for the family to gather in the music-room, Yoletta was taken from her lonely chamber to be with her mother. This was told me, and I also elicited, by means of some roundabout questioning, that it was always in the mother's power to have any per-son undergoing punishment taken to her, she being, as it were, above the law. She could even pardon a delinquent and set him free if she felt so minded, although in this case she had not chosen to exercise her prerogative, probably because her "sufferings had not clouded her understanding." They were treating her very hardly--father and mother both--I thought in my bitterness. The gradual opening of the rainbow lilies served only to remind me every hour and every minute of that bright young spirit thus harshly deprived of the pleasure she had so eagerly anticipated. She, above them all, rejoiced in the beauty of this visible world, regarding nature in some of its moods and aspects with a feeling almost bordering on adoration; but, alas! she alone was shut out from this glory which God had spread over the earth for the delight of all his children. Now I knew why these autumnal flowers were called rainbow lilies, and remembered how Yoletta had told me that they gave a beauty to the earth which could not be described or imagined. The flowers were all undoubtedly of one species, having the same shape and perfume, although varying greatly in size, according to the nature of the soil on which they grew. But in different situations they varied in color, one color blending with, or passing by degrees into another, wherever the soil altered its character. Along the valleys, where they first began to bloom, and in all moist situations, the hue was yellow, varying, according to the amount of moisture in different places, from pale primrose to deep orange, this passing again into vivid scarlet and reds of many shades. On the plains the reds prevailed, changing into various purples on hills and mountain slopes; but high on the mountains the color was blue; and this also had many gradations, from the lower deep cornflower blue to a delicate azure on the summits, resembling that of the forget-me-not and hairbell. The weather proved singularly favorable to those who spent their time in admiring the lilies, and this now seemed to be almost the only occupation of the inmates, excepting, of course, sick Chastel, imprisoned Yoletta, and myself--I being too forlorn to admire anything. Calm, bright days without a cloud succeeded each other, as if the very elements held the lilies sacred and ventured not to cast any shadow over their mystic splendor. Each morning one of the men would go out some distance from the house and blow on a horn, which could be heard distinctly two miles away; and presently a number of horses, in couples and troops, would come galloping in, after which they would remain all the morning grazing and gamboling about the house. These horses were now in constant requisition, all the members of the family, male and female, spending several hours every day in careering over the surrounding country, seemingly without any particular object. The contagion did not affect me, however, for, although I had always been a bold rider (in my own country), and excessively fond of horseback exercise, their fashion of riding without bridles, and on diminutive straw saddles, seemed to me neither safe nor pleasant. One morning after breakfasting, I took my ax, and was proceeding slowly, immersed in thought, to the forest, when hearing a slight swishing sound of hoofs on the grass, I turned and beheld the venerable father, mounted on his charger, and rushing away towards the hills at an insanely break-neck pace. His long garment was gathered tightly round his spare form, his feet drawn up and his head bent far forward, while the wind of his speed divided his beard, which flew out in two long streamers behind. All at once he caught sight of me, and, touching the animal's neck, swept gracefully round in narrowing circles, each circle bringing him nearer, until he came to a stand at my side; then his horse began rubbing his nose on my hand, its breath feeling like fire on my skin. "Smith," said he, with a grave smile, "if you cannot be happy unless you are laboring in the forest with your ax you must proceed with your wood-cutting; but I confess it surprises me as much to see you going to work on a day like this, as it would to see you walking inverted on your hands, and dangling your heels in the air." "Why?" said I, surprised at this speech. "If you do not know I must tell you. At night we sleep; in the morning we bathe; we eat when we are hungry, converse when we feel inclined, and on most days labor a certain number of hours. But more than these things, which have a certain amount of pleasure in them, are the precious moments when nature reveals herself to us in all her beauty. We give ourselves wholly to her then, and she refreshes us; the splendor fades, but the wealth it brings to the soul remains to gladden us. That must be a dull spirit that cannot suspend its toil when the sun is setting in glory, or the violet rainbow appears on the cloud. Every day brings us special moments to gladden us, just as we have in the house every day our time of melody and recreation. But this supreme and more enduring glory of nature comes only once every year; and while it lasts, all labor, except that which is pressing and necessary, is unseemly, and an offense to the Father of the world." He paused, but I did not know what to say in reply, and presently he resumed: "My son, there are horses waiting for you, and unless you are more unlike us in mind than I ever imagined, you will now take one and ride to the hills, where, owing to the absence of forests, the earth can now be seen at its best." I was about to thank him and turn back, but the thought of Yoletta, to whom each heavy day now seemed a year, oppressed by heart, and I continued standing motionless, with downcast eyes, wishing, yet fearing, to speak. "Why is your mind troubled, my son?" he said kindly. "Father," I answered, that word which I now ventured to use for the first time trembling from my lips, "the beauty of the earth is very much to me, but I cannot help remembering that to Yoletta it is even more, and the thought takes away all my pleasure. The flowers will fade, and she will not see them." "My son, I am glad to hear these words," he answered, somewhat to my surprise, for I had greatly feared that I had adopted too bold a course. "For I see now," he continued, "that this seeming indifference, which gave me some pain, does not proceed from an incapacity on your part to feel as we do, but from a tender love and compassion--that most precious of all our emotions, which will serve to draw you closer to us. I have also thought much of Yoletta during these beautiful days, grieving for her, and this morning I have allowed her to go out into the hills, so that during this day, at least, she will be able to share in our pleasure." Scarcely waiting for another word to be spoken, I flew back to the house, anxious enough for a ride now. The little straw saddle seemed now as comfortable as a couch, nor was the bridle missed; for, nerved with that intense desire to find and speak to my love, I could have ridden securely on the slippery back of a giraffe, charging over rough ground with a pack of lions at its heels. Away I went at a speed never perhaps attained by any winner of the Derby, which made the shining hairs of my horse's mane whistle in the still air; down valleys, up hills, flying like a bird over roaring burns, rocks, and thorny bushes, never pausing until I was far away among those hills where that strange accident had befallen me, and from which I had recovered to find the earth so changed. I then ascended a great green hill, the top of which must have been over a thousand feet above the surrounding country. When I had at length reached this elevation, which I did walking and climbing, my steed docilely scrambling up after me, the richness and novelty of the unimaginable and indescribable scene which opened before me affected me in a strange way, smiting my heart with a pain intense and unfamiliar. For the first time I experienced within myself that miraculous power the mind possesses of reproducing instantaneously, and without perspective, the events, feelings, and thoughts of long years--an experience which sometimes comes to a person suddenly confronted with death, and in other moments of supreme agitation. A thousand memories and a thousand thoughts were stirring in me: I was conscious now, as I had not been before, of the past and the present, and these two existed in my mind, yet separated by a great gulf of time--a blank and a nothingness which yet oppressed me with its horrible vastness. How aimless and solitary, how awful my position seemed! It was like that of one beneath whose feet the world suddenly crumbles into ashes and dust, and is scattered throughout the illimitable void, while he survives, blown to some far planet whose strange aspect, however beautiful, fills him with an undefinable terror. And I knew, and the knowledge only intensified my pain, that my agitation, the strugglings of my soul to recover that lost life, were like the vain wing-beats of some woodland bird, blown away a thousand miles over the sea, into which it must at last sink down and perish. Such a mental state cannot endure for more than a few moments, and passing away, it left me weary and despondent. With dull, joyless eyes I continued gazing for upwards of an hour on the prospect beneath me; for I had now given up all hopes of seeing Yoletta, not yet having encountered a single person since starting for my ride. All about me the summit was dotted with small lilies of a delicate blue, but at a little distance the sober green of the grass became absorbed, as it were, in the brighter flower-tints, and the neighboring summits all appeared of a pure cerulean hue. Lower down this passed into the purples of the slopes and the reds of the plains, while the valleys, fringed with scarlet, were like rivers of crocus-colored fire. Distance, and the light, autumnal haze, had a subduing and harmonizing effect on the sea of brilliant color, and further away on the immense horizon it all faded into the soft universal blue. Over this flowery paradise my eyes wandered restlessly, for my heart was restless in me, and had lost the power of pleasure. With a slight bitterness I recalled some of the words the father had spoken to me that morning. It was all very well, I thought, for this venerable graybeard to talk about refreshing the soul with the sight of all this beauty; but he seemed to lose sight of the important fact that there was a considerable difference in our respective ages, that the raging hunger of the heart, which he had doubtless experienced at one time of his life, was, like bodily hunger, not to be appeased with splendid sunsets, rainbows and rainbow lilies, however beautiful they might seem to the eye. Presently, on a second and lower summit of the long mountain I had ascended, I caught sight of a person on horseback, standing motionless as a figure of stone. At that distance the horse looked no bigger than a greyhound, yet so marvelously transparent was the mountain air, that I distinctly recognized Yoletta in the rider. I started up, and sprang joyfully onto my own horse, and waving my hand to attract her attention, galloped recklessly down the slope; but when I reached the opposing summit she was no longer there, nor anywhere in sight, and it was as if the earth had opened and swallowed her. Chapter 15 During Yoletta's seclusion, my education was not allowed to suffer, her place as instructress having been taken by Edra. I was pleased with this arrangement, thinking to derive some benefit from it, beyond what she might teach me; but very soon I was forced to abandon all hope of communicating with the imprisoned girl through her friend and jailer. Edra was much disturbed at the suggestion; for I did venture to suggest it, though in a tentative, roundabout form, not feeling sure of my ground: previous mistakes had made me cautious. Her manner was a sufficient warning; and I did not broach the subject a second time. One afternoon, however, I met with a great and unexpected consolation, though even this was mixed with some perplexing matters. One day, after looking long and earnestly into my face, said my gentle teacher to me; "Do you know that you are changed? All your gay spirits have left you, and you are pale and thin and sad. Why is this?" My face crimsoned at this very direct question, for I knew of that change in me, and went about in continual fear that others would presently notice it, and draw their own conclusions. She continued looking at me, until for very shame I turned my face aside; for if I had confessed that separation from Yoletta caused my dejection, she would know what that feeling meant, and I feared that any such premature declaration would be the ruin of my prospects. "I know the reason, though I ask you," she continued, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You are grieving for Yoletta--I saw it from the first. I shall tell her how pale and sad you have grown--how different from what you were. But why do you turn your face from me?" I was perplexed, but her sympathy gave me courage, and made me determined to give her my confidence. "If you know," said I, "that I am grieving for Yoletta, can you not also guess why I hesitate and hide my face from you?" "No; why is it? You love me also, though not with so great a love; but we _do_ love each other, Smith, and you can confide in me?" I looked into her face now, straight into her transparent eyes, and it was plain to see that she had not yet guessed my meaning. "Dearest Edra," I said, taking her hand, "I love you as much as if one mother had given us birth. But I love Yoletta with a different love--not as one loves a sister. She is more to me than any one else in the world; so much is she that life without her would be a burden. Do you not know what that means?" And then, remembering Yoletta's words on the hills, I added: "Do you not know of more than one kind of love?" "No," she answered, still gazing inquiringly into my face. "But I know that your love for her so greatly exceeds all others, that it is like a different feeling. I shall tell her, since it is sweet to be loved, and she will be glad to know it." "And after you have told her, Edra, shall you make known her reply to me?" "No, Smith; it is an offense to suggest, or even to think, such a thing, however much you may love her, for she is not allowed to converse with any one directly or through me. She told me that she saw you on the hills, and that you tried to go to her, and it distressed her very much. But she will forgive you when I have told her how great your love is, that the desire to look on her face made you forget how wrong it was to approach her." How strange and incomprehensible it seemed that Edra had so misinterpreted my feeling! It seemed also to me that they all, from the father of the house downwards, were very blind indeed to set down so strong an emotion to mere brotherly affection. I had wished, yet feared, to remove the scales from their eyes; and now, in an unguarded moment, I had made the attempt, and my gentle confessor had failed to understand me. Nevertheless, I extracted some comfort from this conversation; for Yoletta would know how greatly my love exceeded that of her own kindred, and I hoped against hope that a responsive emotion would at last awaken in her breast. When the last of those leaden-footed thirty days arrived--the day on which, according to my computation, Yoletta would recover liberty before the sun set--I rose early from the straw pallet where I had tossed all night, prevented from sleeping by the prospect of reunion, and the fever of impatience I was in. The cold river revived me, and when we were assembled in the breakfast-room I observed Edra watching me, with a curious, questioning smile on her lips. I asked her the reason. "You are like a person suddenly recovered from sickness," she replied. "Your eyes sparkle like sunshine on the water, and your cheeks that were so pallid yesterday burn redder than an autumn leaf." Then, smiling, she added these precious words: "Yoletta will be glad to return to us, more on your account than her own." After we had broken our fast, I determined to go to the forest and spend the day there. For many days past I had shirked woodcutting; but now it seemed impossible for me to settle down to any quiet, sedentary kind of work, the consuming impatience and boundless energy I felt making me wish for some unusually violent task, such as would exhaust the body and give, perhaps, a rest to the mind. Taking my ax, and the usual small basket of provisions for my noonday meal, I left the house; and on this morning I did not walk, but ran as if for a wager, taking long, flying leaps over bushes and streams that had never tempted me before. Arrived at the scene of action, I selected a large tree which had been marked out for felling, and for hours I hacked at it with an energy almost superhuman; and at last, before I had felt any disposition to rest, the towering old giant, bowing its head and rustling its sere foliage as if in eternal farewell to the skies, came with a mighty crash to the earth. Scarcely was it fallen before I felt that I had labored too long and violently: the dry, fresh breeze stung my burning cheeks like needles of ice, my knees trembled under me, and the whole world seemed to spin round; then, casting myself upon a bed of chips and withered leaves, I lay gasping for breath, with only life enough left in me to wonder whether I had fainted or not. Recovered at length from this exhausted condition, I sat up, and rejoiced to observe that half the day--that last miserable day--had already flown. Then the thoughts of the approaching evening, and all the happiness it would bring, inspired me with fresh zeal and strength, and, starting to my feet, and taking no thought of my food, I picked up the ax and made a fresh onslaught on the fallen tree. I had already accomplished more than a day's work, but the fever in my blood and brain urged me on to the arduous task of lopping off the huge branches; and my exertions did not cease until once more the world, with everything on it, began revolving like a whirligig, compelling me to desist and take a still longer rest. And sitting there I thought only of Yoletta. How would she look after that long seclusion? Pale, and sad too perhaps; and her sweet, soulful eyes--oh, would I now see in them that new light for which I had watched and waited so long? Then, while I thus mused, I heard, not far off, a slight rustling sound, as of a hare startled at seeing me, and bounding away over the withered leaves; and lifting up my eyes from the ground, I beheld Yoletta herself hastening towards me, her face shining with joy. I sprang forward to meet her, and in another moment she was locked in my arms. That one moment of unspeakable happiness seemed to out-weigh a hundred times all the misery I had endured. "Oh, my sweet darling--at last, at last, my pain is ended!" I murmured, while pressing her again and again to my heart, and kissing that dear face, which looked now so much thinner than when I had last seen it. She bent back her head, like Genevieve in the ballad, to look me in the face, her eyes filled with tears--crystal, happy drops, which dimmed not their brightness. But her face was pale, with a pensive pallor like that of the _Gloire de Dijon_ rose; only now excitement had suffused her cheeks with the tints of that same rose--that red so unlike the bloom on other faces in vanished days; so tender and delicate and precious above all tints in nature! "I know," she spoke, "how you were grieving for me, that you were pale and dejected. Oh, how strange you should love me so much!" "Strange, darling--that word again! It is the one sweetness and joy of life. And are you not glad to be loved?" "Oh, I cannot tell you how glad; but am I not here in your arms to show it? When I heard that you had gone to the wood I did not wait, but ran here as fast as I could. Do you remember that evening on the hill, when you vexed me with questions, and I could not understand your words? Now, when I love you so much more, I can understand them better. Tell me, have I not done as you wished, and given myself to you, body and soul? How thirty days have changed you! Oh, Smith, do you love me so much?" "I love you so much, dear, that if you were to die, there would be no more pleasure in life for me, and I should prefer to lie near you underground. All day long I am thinking of you, and when I sleep you are in all ray dreams." She still continued gazing into my face, those happy tears still shining in her eyes, listening to my words; but alas! on that sweet, beautiful face, so full of changeful expression, there was not the expression I sought, and no sign of that maidenly shame which gave to Genevieve in the ballad such an exquisite grace in her lover's eyes. "I also had dreams of you," she answered. "They came to me after Edra had told me how pale and sad you had grown." "Tell me one of your dreams, darling." "I dreamed that I was lying awake on my bed, with the moon shining on me; I was cold, and crying bitterly because I had been left so long alone. All at once I saw you standing at my side in the moonlight. 'Poor Yoletta,' you said, 'your tears have chilled you like winter rain.' Then you kissed them dry, and when you had put your arms about me, I drew your face against my bosom, and rested warm and happy in your love." Oh, how her delicious words maddened me! Even my tongue and lips suddenly became dry as ashes with the fever in me, and could only whisper huskily when I strove to answer. I released her from my arms and sat down on the fallen tree, all my blissful raptures turned to a great despondence. Would it always be thus--would she continue to embrace me, and speak words that simulated passion while no such feeling touched her heart? Such a state of things could not endure, and my passion, mocked and baffled again and again, would rend me to pieces, and hurl me on to madness and self-destruction. For how many men had been driven by love to such an end, and the women they had worshiped, and miserably died for, compared with Yoletta, were like creatures of clay compared with one of the immortals. And was she not a being of a higher order than myself? It was folly to think otherwise. But how had mortals always fared when they aspired to mate with celestials? I tried then to remember something bearing on this important point, but my mind was becoming strangely confused. I closed my eyes to think, and presently opening them again, saw Yoletta kneeling before me, gazing up into my face with an alarmed expression. "What is the matter, Smith, you seem ill?" she said; and then, laying her fresh palm on my forehead, added: "Your head burns like fire." "No wonder," I returned. "I'm worrying my brains trying to remember all about them. What were their names, and what did they do to those who loved them--can't you tell me?" "Oh, you are ill--you have a fever and may die!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms about my neck and pressing her cheek to mine. I felt a strange imbecility of mind, yet it seemed to anger me to be told that I was ill. "I am not ill," I protested feebly. "I never felt better in my life! But can't you answer me--who were they, and what did they do? Tell me, or I shall go mad." She started up, and taking the small metal whistle hanging at her side, blew a shrill note that seemed to pierce my brain like a steel weapon. I tried to get up from my seat on the trunk, but only slipped down to the ground. A dull mist and gloom seemed to be settling down on everything; daylight, and hope with it, was fast forsaking the world. But something was coming to us--out of that universal mist and darkness closing around us it came bounding swiftly through the wood--a huge gray wolf! No, not a wolf--a wolf was nothing to it! A mighty, roaring lion crashing through the forest; a monster ever increasing in size, vast and of horrible aspect, surpassing all monsters of the imagination--all beasts, gigantic and deformed, that had ever existed in past geologic ages; a lion with teeth like elephants' tusks, its head clothed as with a black thunder-cloud, through which its eyes glared like twin, blood-red suns! And she--my love--with a cry on her lips, was springing forth to meet it--lost, lost for ever! I struggled frantically to rise and fly to her assistance, and rose, after many efforts, to my knees, only to fall again to the earth, insensible. Chapter 16 The violent fever into which I had fallen did not abate until the third day, when I fell into a profound slumber, from which I woke refreshed and saved. I did not, on awakening, find myself in my own familiar cell, but in a spacious apartment new to me, on a comfortable bed, beside which Edra was seated. Almost my first feeling was one of disappointment at not seeing Yoletta there, and presently I began to fear that in the ravings of delirium I had spoken things which had plucked the scales from the eyes of my kind friends in a very rough way indeed, and that the being I loved best had been permanently withdrawn from my sight. It was a blessed relief when Edra, in answer to the questions I put with some heart-quakings to her, informed me that I had talked a great deal in my fever, but unintelligibly, continually asking questions about Venus, Diana, Juno, and many other persons whose names had never before been heard in the house. How fortunate that my crazy brain had thus continued vexing itself with this idle question! She also told me that Yoletta had watched day and night at my side, that at last, when the fever left me, and I had fallen into that cooling slumber, she too, with her hand on mine, had dropped her head on the pillow and fallen asleep. Then, without waking her, they had carried her away to her own room, and Edra had taken her place by my side. "Have you nothing more to ask?" she said at length, with an accent of surprise. "No; nothing more. What you have told me has made me very happy--what more can I wish to know?" "But there is more to tell you, Smith. We know now that your illness is the result of your own imprudence; and as soon as you are well enough to leave your room and bear it, you must suffer the punishment." "What! Punished for being ill!" I exclaimed, sitting bolt upright in my bed. "What do you mean, Edra? I never heard such outrageous nonsense in my life!" She was disturbed at this outburst, but quietly and gravely repeated that I must certainly be punished for my illness. Remembering what their punishments were, I had the prospect of a second long separation from Yoletta, and the thought of such excessive severity, or rather of such cruel injustice, made me wild. "By Heaven, I shall not submit to it!" I exclaimed. "Punished for being ill--who ever heard of such a thing! I suppose that by-and-by it will be discovered that the bridge of my nose is not quite straight, or that I can't see round the corner, and that also will be set down as a crime, to be expiated in solitary confinement, on a bread-and-water diet! No, you shall not punish me; rather than give in to such tyranny I'll walk off and leave the house for ever!" She regarded me with an expression almost approaching to horror on her gentle face, and for some moments made no reply. Then I remembered that if I carried out that insane threat I should indeed lose Yoletta, and the very thought of such a loss was more than I could endure; and for a moment I almost hated the love which made me so helpless and miserable--so powerless to oppose their stupid and barbarous practices. It would have been sweet then to have felt free--free to fling them a curse, and go away, shaking the dust of their house from my shoes, supposing that any dust had adhered to them. Then Edra began to speak again, and gravely and sorrowfully, but without a touch of austerity in her tone or manner, censured me for making use of such irrational language, and for allowing bitter, resentful thoughts to enter my heart. But the despondence and sullen rage into which I had been thrown made me proof even against the medicine of an admonition imparted so gently, and, turning my face away, I stubbornly refused to make any reply. For a while she was silent, but I misjudged her when I imagined that she would now leave me, offended, to my own reflections. "Do you not know that you are giving me pain?" she said at last, drawing a little closer to me. "A little while ago you told me that you loved me: has that feeling faded so soon, or do you take any pleasure in wounding those you love?" Her words, and, more than her words, her tender, pleading tone, pierced me with compunction, and I could not resist. "Edra, my sweet sister, do not imagine such a thing!" I said. "I would rather endure many punishments than give you pain. My love for you cannot fade while I have life and understanding. It is in me like greenness in the leaf--that beautiful color which can only be changed by sere decay." She smiled forgiveness, and with a humid brightness in her eyes, which somehow made me think of that joy of the angels over one sinner that repenteth, bent down and touched her lips to mine. "How can you love any one more than that, Smith?" she said. "Yet you say that your love for Yoletta exceeds all others." "Yes, dear, exceeds all others, as the light of the sun exceeds that of the moon and the stars. Can you not understand that--has no man ever loved you with a love like that, my sister?" She shook her head and sighed. Did she not understand my meaning now--had not my words brought back some sweet and sorrowful memory? With her hands folded idly on her lap, and her face half averted, she sat gazing at nothing. It seemed impossible that this woman, so tender and so beautiful, should never have experienced in herself or witnessed in another, the feeling I had questioned her about. But she made no further reply to my words; and as I lay there watching her, the drowsy spirit the fever had left in me overcame my brain, and I slept once more. For several days, which brought me so little strength that I was not permitted to leave the sick-room, I heard nothing further about my punishment, for I purposely refrained from asking any questions, and no person appeared inclined to bring forward so disagreeable a subject. At length I was pronounced well enough to go about the house, although still very feeble, and I was conducted, not to the judgment-room, where I had expected to be taken, but to the Mother's Room; and there I found the father of the house, seated with Chastel, and with them seven or eight of the others. They all welcomed me, and seemed glad to see me out again; but I could not help remarking a certain subdued, almost solemn air about them, which seemed to remind me that I was regarded as an offender already found guilty, who had now been brought up to receive judgment. "My son," said the father, addressing me in a calm, judicial tone which at once put my last remaining hopes to flight, "it is a consolation to us to know that your offense is of such a nature that it cannot diminish our esteem for you, or loosen the bonds of affection which unite you to us. You are still feeble, and perhaps a little confused in mind concerning the events of the last few days: I do not therefore press you to give an account of them, but shall simply state your offense, and if I am mistaken in any particular you shall correct me. The great love you have for Yoletta," he continued--and at this I started and blushed painfully, but the succeeding words served to show that I had only too little cause for alarm--"the great love you have for Yoletta caused you much suffering during her thirty days' seclusion from us, so that you lost all enjoyment of life, and eating little, and being in continual dejection, your strength was much diminished. On the last day you were so much excited at the prospect of reunion with her, that you went to your task in the woods almost fasting, and probably after spending a restless night. Tell me if this is not so?" "I did not sleep that night," I replied, somewhat huskily. "Unrefreshed by sleep and with lessened strength," he continued, "you went to the woods, and in order to allay that excitement in your mind, you labored with such energy that by noon you had accomplished a task which, in another and calmer condition of mind and body, would have occupied you more than one day. In thus acting you had already been guilty of a serious offense against yourself; but even then you might have escaped the consequences if, after finishing your work, you had rested and refreshed yourself with food and drink. This, however, you neglected to do; for when you had fallen insensible to the earth, and Yoletta had called the dog and sent it to the house to summon assistance, the food you had taken with you was found untasted in the basket. Your life was thus placed in great peril; and although it is good to lay life down when it has become a burden to ourselves and others, being darkened by that failure of power from which there is no recovery, wantonly or carelessly to endanger it in the flower of its strength and beauty is a great folly and a great offense. Consider how deep our grief would have been, especially the grief of Yoletta, if this culpable disregard of your own safety and well-being had ended fatally, as it came so near ending! It is therefore just and righteous that an offense of such a nature should be recompensed; but it is a light offense, not like one committed against the house, or even against another person, and we also remember the occasion of it, since it was no unworthy motive, but exceeding love, which clouded your judgment, and therefore, taking all these things into account, it was my intention to put you away from us for the space of thirteen days." Here he paused, as if expecting me to make some reply. He had reproved me so gently, even approving of the emotion, although still entirely in the dark as to its meaning, which had caused my illness, that I was made to feel very submissive, and even grateful to him. "It is only just," I replied, "that I should suffer for my fault, and you have tempered justice with more mercy than I deserve." "You speak with the wisdom of a chastened spirit, my son," he said, rising and placing his hand on my head; "and your words gladden me all the more for knowing that you were filled with surprise and resentment when told that your offense was one deserving punishment. And now, my son, I have to tell you that you will not be separated from us, for the mother of the house has willed that your offense shall be pardoned." I looked in surprise at Chastel, for this was very unexpected: she was gazing at my face with the light of a strange tenderness in her eyes, never seen there before. She extended her hand, and, kneeling before her, I took it in mine and raised it to my lips, and tried, with poor success, to speak my thanks for this rare and beautiful act of mercy. Then the others surrounded me to express their congratulations, the men pressing my hands, but not so the women, for they all freely kissed me; but when Yoletta, coming last, put her white arms about my neck and pressed her lips to mine, the ecstasy I felt was so greatly overbalanced by the pain of my position, and the thought, now almost a conviction, that I was powerless to enlighten them with regard to the nature of the love I felt for her, that I almost shrank from her dear embrace. Chapter 17 My attack of illness, although sharp, had passed off so quickly that I confidently looked to complete restoration to my former vigorous state of health in a very short time. Nevertheless, many days went by, and I failed to recover strength, but remained pretty much in that condition of body in which I had quitted the sick-room. This surprised and distressed me at first, but in a little time I began to get reconciled to such a state, and even to discover that it had certain advantages, the chief of which was that the tumult of my mind was over for a season, so that I craved for nothing very eagerly. My friends advised me to do no work; but not wishing to eat the bread of idleness--although the bread was little now, as I had little appetite--I made it a rule to go every morning to the workhouse, and occupy myself for two or three hours with some light, mechanical task which put no strain on me, physical or mental. Even this playing at work fatigued me. Then, after changing my dress, I would repair to the music-room to resume my search after hidden knowledge in any books that happened to be there; for I could read now, a result which my sweet schoolmistress had been the first to see, and at once she had abandoned the lessons I had loved so much, leaving me to wander at will, but without a guide, in that wilderness of a strange literature. I had never been to the library, and did not even know in what part of the house it was situated; nor had I ever expressed a wish to see it. And that for two reasons: one was, that I had already half-resolved--my resolutions were usually of that complexion--never to run the risk of appearing desirous of knowing too much; the other and weightier reason was, that I had never loved libraries. They oppress me with a painful sense of my mental inferiority; for all those tens of thousands of volumes, containing so much important but unappreciated matter, seem to have a kind of collective existence, and to look down on me, like a man with great, staring, owlish eyes, as an intruder on sacred ground--a barbarian, whose proper place is in the woods. It is a mere fancy, I know, but it distresses me, and I prefer not to put myself in the way of it. Once in a book I met with a scornful passage about people with "bodily constitutions like those of horses, and small brains," which made me blush painfully; but in the very next passage the writer makes amends, saying that a man ought to think himself well off if, in the lottery of life, he draws the prize of a healthy stomach without a mind, that it is better than a fine intellect with a crazy stomach. I had drawn the healthy stomach--liver, lungs, and heart to match--and had never felt dissatisfied with my prize. Now, however, it seemed expedient that I should give some hours each day to reading; for so far my conversations and close intimacy with the people of the house had not dissipated the cloud of mystery in which their customs were hid; and by customs I here refer to those relating to courtship and matrimony only, for that was to me the main thing. The books I read, or dipped into, were all highly interesting, especially the odd volumes I looked at belonging to that long series on the _Houses of the World_, for these abounded in marvelous and entertaining matter. There were also histories of the house, and works on arts, agriculture, and various other subjects, but they were not what I wanted. After three or four hours spent in these fruitless researches, I would proceed to the Mother's Room, where I was now permitted to enter freely every afternoon, and when there, to remain as long as I wished. It was so pleasant that I soon dropped into the custom of remaining until supper-time compelled me to leave it, Chastel invariably treating me now with a loving tenderness of manner which seemed strange when I recalled the extremely unfavorable impression I had made at our first interview. It was never my nature to be indolent, or to love a quiet, dreamy existence: on the contrary, my fault had lain in the opposite direction, unlimited muscular exercise being as necessary to my well-being as fresh air and good food, and the rougher the exercise the better I liked it. But now, in this novel condition of languor, I experienced a wonderful restfulness both of body and mind, and in the Mother's Room, resting as if some weariness of labor still clung to me, breathing and steeped in that fragrant, summer-like atmosphere, I had long intervals of perfect inactivity and silence, while I sat or reclined, not thinking but in a reverie, while many dreams of pleasures to come drifted in a vague, vaporous manner through my brain. The very character of the room--its delicate richness, the exquisitely harmonious disposition of colors and objects, and the illusions of nature produced on the mind--seemed to lend itself to this unaccustomed mood, and to confirm me in it. The first impression produced was one of brightness: coming to it by way of the long, dim sculpture gallery was like passing out into the open air, and this effect was partly due to the white and crystal surfaces and the brilliancy of the colors where any color appeared. It was spacious and lofty, and the central arched or domed portion of the roof, which was of a light turquoise blue, rested on graceful columns of polished crystal. The doors were of amber-colored glass set in agate frames; but the windows, eight in number, formed the principal attraction. On the glass, hill and mountain scenery was depicted, the summits in some of them appearing beyond wide, barren plains, whitened with the noonday splendor and heat of midsummer, untempered by a cloud, the soaring peaks showing a pearly luster which seemed to remove them to an infinite distance. To look out, as it were, from the imitation shade of such an arbor, or pavilion, over those far-off, sun-lit expanses where the light appeared to dance and quiver as one gazed, was a never-failing delight. Such was its effect on me, combined with that of the mother's new tender graciousness, resulting I knew not whether from compassion or affection, that I could have wished to remain a permanent invalid in her room. Another cause of the mild kind of happiness I now experienced was the consciousness of a change in my own mental disposition, which made me less of an alien in the house; for I was now able, I imagined, to appreciate the beautiful character of my friends, their crystal purity of heart and the religion they professed. Far back in the old days I had heard, first and last, a great deal about sweetness and light and Philistines, and not quite knowing what this grand question was all about, and hearing from some of my friends that I was without the qualities they valued most, I thereafter proclaimed myself a Philistine, and was satisfied to have the controversy ended in that way, so far as it concerned me personally. Now, however, I was like one to whom some important thing has been told, who, scarcely hearing and straightway forgetting, goes about his affairs; but, lying awake at night in the silence of his chamber, recalls the unheeded words and perceives their full significance. My sojourn with this people--angelic women and mild-eyed men with downy, unrazored lips, so mild in manner yet in their arts "laying broad bases for eternity"--above all the invalid hours spent daily in the Mother's Room, had taught me how unlovely a creature I had been. It would have been strange indeed if, in such an atmosphere, I had not absorbed a little sweetness and light into my system. In this sweet refuge--this slumberous valley where I had been cast up by that swift black current that had borne me to an immeasurable distance on its bosom, and with such a change going on within me--I sometimes thought that a little more and I would touch that serene, enduring bliss which seemed to be the normal condition of my fellow-inmates. My passion for Yoletta now burned with a gentle flame, which did not consume, but only imparted an agreeable sense of warmth to the system. When she was there, sitting with me at her mother's feet, sometimes so near that her dark, shining hair brushed against my cheek, and her fragrant breath came on my face; and when she caressed my hand, and gazed full at me with those dear eyes that had no shadow of regret or anxiety in them, but only unfathomable love, I could imagine that our union was already complete, that she was altogether and eternally mine. I knew that this could not continue. Sometimes I could not prevent my thoughts from flying away from the present; then suddenly the complexion of my dream would change, darkening like a fair landscape when a cloud obscures the sun. Not forever would the demon of passion slumber and dream in my breast; with recovered strength it would wake again, and, ever increasing in power and ever baffled of its desire, would raise once more that black tempest of that past to overwhelm me. Other darker visions followed: I would see myself as in a magic glass, lying with upturned, ghastly face, with many people about me, hurrying to and fro, wringing their hands and weeping aloud with grief, shuddering at the abhorred sight of blood on their sacred, shining floors; or, worse still, I saw myself shivering in sordid rags and gaunt with long-lasting famine, a fugitive in some wintry, desolate land, far from all human companionship, the very image of Yoletta scorched by madness to formless ashes in my brain; and for all sensations, feelings, memories, thoughts, nothing left to me but a distorted likeness of the visible world, and a terrible unrest urging me, as with a whip of scorpions, ever on and on, to ford yet other black, icy torrents, and tear myself bleeding through yet other thorny thickets, and climb the ramparts of yet other gigantic, barren hills. But these moments of terrible depression, new to my life, were infrequent, and seldom lasted long. Chastel was my good angel; a word, a touch from her hand, and the ugly spirits would vanish. She appeared to possess a mysterious faculty--perhaps only the keen insight and sympathy of a highly spiritualized nature--which informed her of much that was passing in my heart: if a shadow came there when she had no wish or strength to converse, she would make me draw close to her seat, and rest her hand on mine, and the shadow would pass from me. I could not help reflecting often and wonderingly at this great change in her manner towards me. Her eyes dwelt lovingly on me, and her keenest suffering, and the unfortunate blundering expressions I frequently let fall, seemed equally powerless to wring one harsh or impatient word from her. I was not now only one among her children, privileged to come and sit at her feet, to have with them a share in her impartial affection; and remembering that I was a stranger in the house, and compared but poorly with the others, the undisguised preference she showed for me, and the wish to have me almost constantly with her, seemed a great mystery. One afternoon, as I sat alone with her, she made the remark that my reading lessons had ceased. "Oh yes, I can read perfectly well now," I answered. "May I read to you from this book?" Saying which, I put my hand towards a volume lying on the couch at her side. It differed from the other books I had seen, in its smaller size and blue binding. "No, not in this book," she said, with a shade of annoyance in her voice, putting out her hand to prevent my taking it. "Have I made another mistake?" I asked, withdrawing my hand. "I am very ignorant." "Yes, poor boy, you are very ignorant," she returned, placing her hand on my forehead. "You must know that this is a mother's book, and only a mother may read in it." "I am afraid," I said, with a sigh, "that it will be a long time before I cease to offend you with such mistakes." "There is no occasion to say that, for you have not offended me, only you make me feel sorry. Every day when you are with me I try to teach you something, to smooth the path for you; but you must remember, my son, that others cannot feel towards you as I do, and it may come to pass that they will sometimes be offended with you, because their love is less than mine." "But why do you care so much for me?" I asked, emboldened by her words. "Once I thought that you only of all in the house would never love me: what has changed your feelings towards me, for I know that they have changed?" She looked at me, smiling a little sadly, but did not reply. "I think I should be happier for knowing," I resumed, caressing her hand. "Will you not tell me?" There was a strange trouble on her face as her eyes glanced away and then returned to mine again, while her lips quivered, as if with unspoken words. Then she answered: "No, I cannot tell you now. It would make you happy, perhaps, but the proper time has not yet arrived. You must be patient, and learn, for you have much to learn. It is my desire that you should know all those things concerning the family of which you are ignorant, and when I say all, I mean not only those suitable to one in your present condition, as a son of the house, but also those higher matters which belong to the heads of the house--to the father and mother." Then, casting away all caution, I answered: "It is precisely a knowledge of those greater matters concerning the family which I have been hungering after ever since I came into the house." "I know it," she returned. "This hunger you speak of was partly the cause of your fever, and it is in you, keeping you feverish and feeble still; but for this, instead of being a prisoner here, you would now be abroad, feeling the sun and wind on your face." "And if you know that," I pleaded, "why do you not now impart the knowledge that can make me whole? For surely, all those lesser matters--those things suitable for one in my condition to know--can be learned afterwards, in due time. For they are not of pressing importance, but the other is to me a matter of life and death, if you only knew it." "I know everything," she returned quickly. But a cloud had come over her face at my concluding words, and a startled look into her eyes. "Life and death! do you know what you are saying?" she exclaimed, fixing her eyes on me with such intense earnestness in them that mine fell abashed before their gaze. Then, after a while, she drew my head down against her knees, and spoke with a strange tenderness. "Do you then find it so hard to exercise a little patience, my son, that you do not acquiesce in what I say to you, and fear to trust your future in my hands? My time is short for all that I have to do, yet I also must be patient and wait, although for me it is hardest. For now your coming, which I did not regard at first, seeing in you only a pilgrim like others--one who through accidents of travel had been cast away and left homeless in the world, until we found and gave you shelter--now, it has brought something new into my life: and if this fresh hope, which is only an old, perished hope born again, ever finds fulfillment, then death will lose much of its bitterness. But there are difficulties in the way which only time, and the energy of a soul that centers all its faculties in one desire, one enterprise, can overcome. And the chief difficulty I find is in yourself--in that strange, untoward disposition so often revealed in your conversation, which you have shown even now; for to be thus questioned and pressed, and to have my judgment doubted, would have greatly offended me in another. Remember this, and do not abuse the privilege you enjoy: remember that you must greatly change before I can share with you the secrets of my heart that concern you. And bear in mind, my son, that I am not rebuking you for a want of knowledge; for I know that for many deficiencies you are not blameworthy. I know, for instance, that nature has denied to you that melodious and flexible voice in which it is our custom every day to render homage to the Father, to express all the sacred feelings of our hearts, all our love for each other, the joy we have in life, and even our griefs and sorrows. For grief is like a dark, oppressive cloud, until from lip and hand it breaks in the rain of melody, and we are lightened, so that even the things that are painful give to life a new and chastened glory. And as with music, so with all other arts. There is a twofold pleasure in contemplating our Father's works: in the first and lower kind you share with us; but the second and more noble, springing from the first, is ours through that faculty by means of which the beauty and harmony of the visible world become transmuted in the soul, which is like a pencil of glass receiving the white sunbeam into itself, and changing it to red, green, and violet-colored light: thus nature transmutes itself in our minds, and is expressed in art. But in you this second faculty is wanting, else you would not willingly forego so great a pleasure as its exercise affords, and love nature like one that loves his fellow-man, but has no words to express so sweet a feeling. For the happiness of love with sympathy, when made known and returned, is increased an hundredfold; and in all artistic work we commune not with blind, irrational nature, but with the unseen spirit which is in nature, inspiring our hearts, returning love for love, and rewarding our labor with enduring bliss. Therefore it is your misfortune, not your fault, that you are deprived of this supreme solace and happiness." To this speech, which had a depressing effect on me, I answered sadly: "Every day I feel my deficiencies more keenly, and wish more ardently to lessen the great distance between us; but now--sweet mother, forgive me for saying it!--your words almost make me despond." "And yet, my son, I have spoken only to encourage you. I know your limitations, and expect nothing beyond your powers; nor do your errors greatly trouble me, believing as I do that in time you will be able to dismiss them from your mind. But the temper of your mind must be changed to be worthy of the happiness I have designed for you. Patience must chasten that reckless spirit in you; for feverish diligence, alternating with indifference or despondence, there must be unremitting effort; and for that unsteady flame of hope, which burns so brightly in the morning and in the evening sings so low, there must be a bright, unwavering, and rational hope. It would be strange indeed if after this you were cast down; and, lest you forget anything, I will say again that only by giving you enduring happiness and the desire of your heart can my one hope be fulfilled. Consider how much I say to you in these words; it saddens me to think that so much was necessary. And do not think hardly of me, my son, for wishing to keep you a little longer in this prison with me: for in a little while your weakness will pass away like a morning cloud. But for me there shall come no change, since I must remain day and night here with the shadow of death; and when I am taken forth, and the sunshine falls once more on my face, I shall not feel it, and shall not see it, and I shall lie forgotten when you are in the midst of your happy years." Her words smote on my heart with a keen pain of compassion. "Do not say that you will be forgotten!" I exclaimed passionately; "for should you be taken away, I shall still love and worship your memory, as I worship you now when you are alive." She caressed my hand, but did not speak; and when I looked up, her worn face had dropped on the pillow, and her eyes were closed. "I am tired--tired," she murmured. "Stay with me a little longer, but leave me if I sleep." And in a little while she slept. The light was on her face, resting on the purple pillow, and with the soulful eyes closed, and the lips that had no red color of life in them also closed and motionless, it was like a face carved in ivory of one who had suffered like Isarte in the house and perished long generations ago; and the abundant dark, lusterless hair that framed it, looked dead too, and of the color of wrought iron. Chapter 18 Chastel's words sank deep in my heart--deeper than words had ever sunk before into that somewhat unpromising soil; and although she had purposely left me in the dark with regard to many important matters, I now resolved to win her esteem, and bind her yet more closely to me by correcting those faults in my character she had pointed out with so much tenderness. Alas! the very next day was destined to bring me a sore trouble. On entering the breakfast-room I became aware that a shadow had fallen on the house. Among his silent people the father sat with gray, haggard face and troubled eyes; then Yoletta entered, her sweet face looking paler than when I had first seen it after her long punishment, while under her heavy, drooping eyelids her skin was stained with that mournful purple which tells of a long vigil and a heart oppressed with anxiety. I heard with profound concern that Chastel's malady had suddenly become aggravated; that she had passed the night in the greatest suffering. What would become of me, and of all those bright dreams of happiness, if she were to die? was my first idea. But at the same time I had the grace to feel ashamed of that selfish thought. Nevertheless, I could not shake off the gloom it had produced in me, and, too distressed in mind to work or read, I repaired to the Mother's Room, to be as near as possible to the sufferer on whose recovery so much now depended. How lonely and desolate it seemed there, now that she was absent! Those mountain landscapes, glowing with the white radiance of mimic sunshine, still made perpetual summer; yet there seemed to be a wintry chill and death-like atmosphere which struck to the heart, and made me shiver with cold. The day dragged slowly to its close, and no rest came to the sufferer, nor sign of improvement to relieve our anxiety. Until past midnight I remained at my post, then retired for three or four miserable, anxious hours, only to return once more when it was scarcely light. Chastel's condition was still unchanged, or, if there had been any change, it was for the worse, for she had not slept. Again I remained, a prey to desponding thoughts, all day in the room; but towards evening Yoletta came to take me to her mother. The summons so terrified me that for some moments I sat trembling and unable to articulate a word; for I could not but think that Chastel's end was approaching. Yoletta, however, divining the cause of my agitation, explained that her mother could not sleep for torturing pains in her head, and wished me to place my hand on her forehead, to try whether that would cause any relief. This seemed to me a not very promising remedy; but she told me that on former occasions they had often succeeded in procuring her ease by placing a hand on her forehead, and that having failed now, Chastel had desired them to call me to her to try my hand. I rose, and for the first time entered that sacred chamber, where Chastel was lying on a low bed placed on a slightly raised platform in the center of the floor. In the dim light her face looked white as the pillow on which it rested, her forehead contracted with sharp pain, while low moans came at short intervals from her twitching lips; but her wide-open eyes were fixed on my face from the moment I entered the room, and to me they seemed to express mental anguish rather than physical suffering. At the head of the bed sat the father, holding her hand in his; but when I entered he rose and made way for me, retiring to the foot of the bed, where two of the women were seated. I knelt beside the bed, and Yoletta raised and tenderly placed my right hand on the mother's forehead, and, after whispering to me to let it rest very gently there, she also withdrew a few paces. Chastel did not speak, but for some minutes continued her low, piteous moanings, only her eyes remained fixed on my face; and at last, becoming uneasy at her scrutiny, I said in a whisper: "Dearest mother, do you wish to say anything to me?" "Yes, come nearer," she replied; and when I had bent my cheek close to her face, she continued: "Do not fear, my son; I shall not die. I cannot die until that of which I have spoken to you has been accomplished." I rejoiced at her words, yet, at the same time, they gave me pain; for it seemed as though she knew how much my heart had been troubled by that ignoble fear. "Dear mother, may I say something?" I asked, wishing to tell her of my resolutions. "Not now; I know what you wish to say," she returned. "Be patient and hopeful always, and fear nothing, even though we should be long divided; for it will be many days before I can leave this room to speak with you again." So softly had she whispered, that the others who stood so near were not aware that she had spoken at all. After this brief colloquy she closed her eyes, but for some time the low moans of pain continued. Gradually they sank lower, and became less and less frequent, while the lines of pain faded out of her white, death-like face. And at length Yoletta, stealing softly to my side, whispered, "She is sleeping," and withdrawing my hand, led me away. When we were again in the Mother's Room she threw her arms about my neck and burst into a tempest of tears. "Dearest Yoletta, be comforted," I said, pressing her to my breast; "she will not die." "Oh, Smith, how do you know?" she returned quickly, looking up with her eyes still shining with large drops. Then, of Chastel's whispered words to me, I repeated those four, "I shall not die," but nothing more; they were however, a great relief to her, and her sweet, sorrowful face brightened like a drooping flower after rain. "Ah, she knew, then, that the touch of your hand would cause sleep, that sleep would save her," she said, smiling up at me. "And you, my darling, how long is it since you closed those sweet eyelids that seem so heavy?" "Not since I slept three nights ago." "Will you sit by me here, resting your head on me, and sleep a little now?" "Not there!" she cried quickly. "Not on the mother's couch. But if you will sit here, it will be pleasant if I can sleep for a little while, resting on you." I placed myself on the low seat she led me to, and then, when she had coiled herself up on the cushions, with her arms still round my neck, and her head resting on my bosom, she breathed a long happy sigh, and dropped like a tired child to sleep. How perfect my happiness would have been then, with Yoletta in my arms, clasping her weary little ministering hands in mine, and tenderly kissing her dark, shining hair, but for the fear that some person might come there to notice and disturb me. And pretty soon I was startled to see the father himself coming from Chastel's chamber to us. Catching sight of me he paused, smiling, then advanced, and deliberately sat down by my side. "This one is sleeping also," he said cheerfully, touching the girl's hair with his hand. "But you need not fear, Smith; I think we shall be able to talk very well without waking her." I had feared something quite different, if he had only known it, and felt considerably relieved by his words; nevertheless, I was not over-pleased at the prospect of a conversation just then, and should have preferred being left alone with my precious burden. "My son," he continued, placing a hand on my shoulder, "I sometimes recall, not without a smile, the effect your first appearance produced on us, when we were startled at your somewhat grotesque pilgrim costume. Your attempts at singing, and ignorance of art generally, also impressed me unfavorably, and gave me some concern when I thought about the future--that is, _your_ future; for it seemed to me that you had but slender foundations whereon to build a happy life. These doubts, however, no longer trouble me; for on several occasions you have shown us that you possess abundantly that richest of all gifts and safest guide to happiness--the capacity for deep affection. To this spirit of love in you--this summer of the heart which causes it to blossom with beautiful thoughts and deeds--I attribute your success just now, when the contact of your hand produced the long-desired, refreshing slumber so necessary to the mother at this stage of her malady. I know that this is a mysterious thing; and it is commonly said that in such cases relief is caused by an emanation from the brain through the fingers. Doubtless this is so; and I also choose to believe that only a powerful spirit of love in the heart can rightly direct this subtle energy, that where such a spirit is absent the desired effect cannot be produced." "I do not know," I replied. "Great as my love and devotion is, I cannot suppose it to equal, much less to surpass, that of others who yet failed on this occasion to give relief." "Yes, yes; only that is looking merely at the surface of the matter, and leaving out of sight the unfathomable mysteries of a being compounded of flesh and spirit. There are among our best instruments peculiar to this house, especially those used chiefly in our harvest music, some of such finely-tempered materials, and of so delicate a construction, that the person wishing to perform on them must not only be inspired with the melodious passion, but the entire system--body and soul--must be in the proper mood, the flesh itself elevated into harmony with the exalted spirit, else he will fail to elicit the tones or to give the expression desired. This is a rough and a poor simile, when we consider how wonderful an instrument a human being is, with the body that burns with thought, and the spirit that quivers and cries with pain, and when we think how its innumerable, complex chords may be injured and untuned by suffering. The will may be ours, but something, we know not what, interposes to defeat our best efforts. That you have succeeded in producing so blessed a result, after we had failed, has served to deepen and widen in our hearts the love we already felt for you; for how much more precious is this melody of repose, this sweet interval of relief from cruel pain the mother now experiences, than many melodies from clear voices and trained hands." In my secret heart I believed that he was taking much too lofty a view of the matter; but I had no desire to argue against so flattering a delusion, if it were one, and only wished that I could share it with him. "She is sleeping still," he said presently, "perhaps without pain, like Yoletta here, and her sleep will now probably last for some hours." "I pray Heaven that she may wake refreshed and free from pain," I remarked. He seemed surprised at my words, and looked searchingly into my face. "My son," he said, "it grieves me, at a moment like the present, to have to point out a great error to you; but it is an error hurtful to yourself and painful to those who see it, and if I were to pass it over in silence, or put off speaking of it to another time, I should not be fulfilling the part of a loving father towards you." Surprised at this speech, I begged him to tell me what I had said that was wrong. "Do you not then know that it is unlawful to entertain such a thought as you have expressed?" he said. "In moments of supreme pain or bitterness or peril we sometimes so far forget ourselves as to cry out to Heaven to save us or to give us ease; but to make any such petition when we are in the full possession of our faculties is unworthy of a reasonable being, and an offense to the Father: for we pray to each other, and are moved by such prayers, remembering that we are fallible, and often err through haste and forgetfulness and imperfect knowledge. But he who freely gave us life and reason and all good gifts, needs not that we should remind him of anything; therefore to ask him to give us the thing we desire is to make him like ourselves, and charge him with an oversight; or worse, we attribute weakness and irresolution to him, since the petitioner thinks my importunity to incline the balance in his favor." I was about to reply that I had always considered prayer to be an essential part of religion, and not of my form of religion only, but of all religions all over the world. Luckily I remembered in time that he probably knew more about matters "all over the world" than I did, and so held my tongue. "Have you any doubts on the subject?" he asked, after a while. "I must confess that I still have some doubts," I replied. "I believe that our Creator and Father desires the happiness of all his creatures and takes no pleasure in seeing us miserable; for it would be impossible not to believe it, seeing how greatly happiness overbalances misery in the world. But he does not come to us in visible form to tell us in an audible voice that to cry out to him in sore pain and distress is unlawful. How, then, do we know this thing? For a child cries to its mother, and a fledgling in the nest to its parent bird; and he is infinitely more to us than parent to child--infinitely stronger to help, and knows our griefs as no fellow-mortal can know them. May we not, then, believe, without hurt to our souls, that the cry of one of his children in affliction may reach him; that in his compassion, and by means of his sovereign power over nature, he may give ease to the racked body, and peace and joy to the desolate mind?" "You ask me, How, then, do we know this thing? and you answer the question yourself, yet fail to perceive that you answer it, when you say that although he does not come in a visible form to teach us this thing and that thing, yet we know that he desires our happiness; and to this you might have added a thousand or ten thousand other things which we know. If the reason he gave us to start with makes it unnecessary that he should come to tell us in an audible voice that he desires our happiness, it must also surely suffice to tell us which are lawful and which unlawful of all the thoughts continually rising in our hearts. That any one should question so evident and universally accepted a truth, the foundation of all religion, seems very surprising to me. If it had consisted with his plan to make these delicate mortal bodies capable of every agreeable sensation in the highest degree, yet not liable to accident, and not subject to misery and pain, he would surely have done this for all of us. But reason and nature show us that such an end did not consist with his plan; therefore to ask him to suspend the operations of nature for the benefit of any individual sufferer, however poignant and unmerited the sufferings may be, is to shut our eyes to the only light he has given us. All our highest and sweetest feelings unite with reason to tell us with one voice that he loves us; and our knowledge of nature shows us plainly enough that he also loves all the creatures inferior to man. To us he has given reason for a guide, and for the guidance and protection of the lower kinds he has given instinct: and though they do not know him, it would make us doubt his impartial love for all his creatures, if we, by making use of our reason, higher knowledge, and articulate speech, were able to call down benefits on ourselves, and avert pain and disaster, while the dumb, irrational brutes suffered in silence--the languishing deer that leaves the herd with a festering thorn in its foot; the passage bird blown from its course to perish miserably far out at sea." His conclusions were perhaps more logical than mine; nevertheless, although I could not argue the matter any more with him, I was not yet prepared to abandon this last cherished shred of old beliefs, although perhaps not cherished for its intrinsic worth, but rather because it had been given to me by a sweet woman whose memory was sacred to my heart--my mother before Chastel. Fortunately, it was not necessary to continue the discussion any longer, for at this juncture one of the watchers from the sick-room came to report that the mother was still sleeping peacefully, hearing which, the father rose to seek a little needful rest in an adjoining room. Before going, however, he proposed, with mistaken kindness, to relieve me of my burden, and place the girl without waking her on a couch. But I would not consent to have her disturbed; and finally, to my great delight, they left her still in my arms, the father warmly pressing my hand, and advising me to reflect well on his words concerning prayer. It was growing dark now, and how welcome that obscurity seemed, while with no one nigh to see or hear I kissed her soft tresses a hundred times, and murmured a hundred endearing words in her sleeping ears. Her waking, which gave me a pang at first, afforded me in the end a still greater bliss. "Oh, how dark it is--where am I?" she exclaimed, starting suddenly from repose. "With me, sweetest," I said. "Do you not remember going to sleep on my breast?" "Yes; but oh, why did you not wake me sooner? My mother--my mother--" "She is still quietly sleeping, dearest. Ah, I wish you also had continued sleeping! It was such a delight to have you in my arms." "My love!" she said, laying her soft cheek against mine. "How sweet it was to fall asleep in your arms! When we came in here I could scarcely say a word, for my heart was too full for speech; and now I have a hundred things to say. After all, I should only finish by giving you a kiss, which is more eloquent than speech; so I shall kiss you at once, and save myself the trouble of talking so much." "Say one of the hundred things, Yoletta." "Oh, Smith, before this evening I did not think that I could love you more; and sometimes, when I recalled what I once said to you--on the hill, do you remember?--it seemed to me that I already loved you a little too much. But now I am convinced that I was mistaken, for a thousand offenses could not alienate my heart, which is all yours forever." "Mine for ever, without a doubt, darling?" I murmured, holding her against my breast; and in my rapture almost forgetting that this angelic affection she lavished on me would not long satisfy my heart. "Yes, for ever, for you shall never, never leave the house. Your pilgrimage, from which you derived so little benefit, is over now. And if you ever attempt to go forth again to find out new wonders in the world, I shall clasp you round with my arms, as I do now, and keep you prisoner against your will; and if you say 'Farewell' a hundred times to me, I shall blot out that sad word every time with my lips, and put a better one in its place, until my word conquers yours." Chapter 19 Although deprived for the present of all intercourse with Chastel and Yoletta, now in constant attendance on her mother, I ought to have been happy, for all things seemed conspiring to make my life precious to me. Nevertheless, I was far from happy; and, having heard so much said about reason in my late conversations with the father and mother of the house, I began to pay an unusual amount of attention to this faculty in me, in order to discover by its aid the secret of the sadness which continued at all times during this period to oppress my heart. I only discovered, what others have discovered before me, that the practice of introspection has a corrosive effect on the mind, which only serves to aggravate the malady it is intended to cure. During those restful days in the Mother's Room, when I had sat with Chastel, this spirit of melancholy had been with me; but the mother's hallowing presence had given something of a divine color to it, my passions had slumbered, and, except at rare intervals, I had thought of sorrow as of something at an immeasurable distance from me. Then to my spirit "_The gushing of the wave Far, far away, did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores_"; and so sweet had seemed that pause, that I had hoped and prayed for its continuance. No sooner was I separated from her than the charm dissolved, and all my thoughts, like evening clouds that appear luminous and rich in color until the sun has set, began to be darkened with a mysterious gloom. Strive how I might, I was unable to compose my mind to that serene, trustful temper she had desired to see in me, and without which there could be no blissful futurity. After all the admonitions and the comforting assurances I had received, and in spite of reason and all it could say to me, each night I went to my bed with a heavy heart; and each morning when I woke, there, by my pillow, waited that sad phantom, to go with me where I went, to remind me at every pause of an implacable Fate, who held my future in its hands, who was mightier than Chastel, and would shatter all her schemes for my happiness like vessels of brittle glass. Several days--probably about fifteen, for I did not count them--had passed since I had been admitted into the mother's sleeping-room, when there came an exceedingly lovely day, which seemed to bring to me a pleasant sensation of returning health, and made me long to escape from morbid dreams and vain cravings. Why should I sit at home and mope, I thought; it was better to be active: sun and wind were full of healing. Such a day was in truth one of those captain jewels "that seldom placed are" among the blusterous days of late autumn, with winter already present to speed its parting. For a long time the sky had been overcast with multitudes and endless hurrying processions of wild-looking clouds--torn, wind-chased fugitives, of every mournful shade of color, from palest gray to slatey-black; and storms of rain had been frequent, impetuous, and suddenly intermitted, or passing away phantom-like towards the misty hills, there to lose themselves among other phantoms, ever wandering sorrowfully in that vast, shadowy borderland where earth and heaven mingled; and gusts of wind which, as they roared by over a thousand straining trees and passed off with hoarse, volleying sounds, seemed to mimic the echoing thunder. And the leaves--the millions and myriads of sere, cast-off leaves, heaped ankle-deep under the desolate giants of the wood, and everywhere, in the hollows of the earth, lying silent and motionless, as became dead, fallen things--suddenly catching a mock fantastic life from the wind, how they would all be up and stirring, every leaf with a hiss like a viper, racing, many thousands at a time, over the barren spaces, all hurriedly talking together in their dead-leaf language! until, smitten with a mightier gust, they would rise in flight on flight, in storms and stupendous, eddying columns, whirled up to the clouds, to fall to the earth again in showers, and freckle the grass for roods around. Then for a moment, far off in heavens, there would be a rift, or a thinning of the clouds, and the sunbeams, striking like lightning through their ranks, would illumine the pale blue mist, the slanting rain, the gaunt black boles and branches, glittering with wet, casting a momentary glory over the ocean-like tumult of nature. In the condition I was in, with a relaxed body and dejected mind, this tempestuous period, which would have only afforded fresh delight to a person in perfect health, had no charm for my spirit; but, on the contrary, it only served to intensify my gloom. And yet day after day it drew me forth, although in my weakness I shivered in the rough gale, and shrank from the touch of the big cold drops the clouds flung down on me. It fascinated me, like the sight of armies contending in battle, or of some tragic action from which the spectator cannot withdraw his gaze. For I had become infected with strange fancies, so persistent and somber that they were like superstitions. It seemed to me that not I but nature had changed, that the familiar light had passed like a kindly expression from her countenance, which was now charged with an awful menacing gloom that frightened my soul. Sometimes, when straying alone, like an unquiet ghost among the leafless trees, when a deeper shadow swept over the earth, I would pause, pale with apprehension, listening to the many dirge-like sounds of the forest, ever prophesying evil, until in my trepidation I would start and tremble, and look to this side and to that, as if considering which way to fly from some unimaginable calamity coming, I knew not from where, to wreck my life for ever. This bright day was better suited to my complaint. The sun shone as in spring; not a stain appeared on the crystal vault of heaven; everywhere the unfailing grass gave rest to the eye with its verdure; and a light wind blew fresh and bracing in my face, making my pulses beat faster, although feebly still. Remembering my happy wood-cutting days, before my trouble had come to me, I got my ax and started to walk to the wood; then seeing Yoletta watching my departure from the terrace, I waved my hand to her. Before I had gone far, however, she came running to me, full of anxiety, to warn me that I was not yet strong enough for such work. I assured her that I had no intention of working hard and tiring myself, then continued my walk, while she returned to attend on her mother. The day was so bright with sunshine that it inspired me with a kind of passing gladness, and I began to hum snatches of old half-remembered songs. They were songs of departing summer, tinged with melancholy, and suggested other verses not meant for singing, which I began repeating. "Rich flowers have perished on the silent earth-- Blossoms of valley and of wood that gave A fragrance to the winds." And again: "The blithesome birds have sought a sunnier shore; They lingered till the cold cold winds went in And withered their green homes." And these also were fragments, breathing only of sadness, which made me resolve to dismiss poetry from my mind and think of nothing at all. I tried to interest myself in a flight of buzzard-like hawks, soaring in wide circles at an immense height above me. Gazing up into that far blue vault, under which they moved so serenely, and which seemed so infinite, I remembered how often in former days, when gazing up into such a sky, I had breathed a prayer to the Unseen Spirit; but now I recalled the words the father of the house had spoken to me, and the prayer died unformed in my heart, and a strange feeling of orphanhood saddened me, and brought my eyes to earth again. Half-way to the wood, on an open reach where there were no trees or bushes, I came on a great company of storks, half a thousand of them at least, apparently resting on their travels, for they were all standing motionless, with necks drawn in, as if dozing. They were very stately, handsome birds, clear gray in color, with a black collar on the neck, and red beak and legs. My approach did not disturb them until I was within twenty yards of the nearest--for they were scattered over an acre of ground; then they rose with a loud, rustling noise of wings, only to settle again at a short distance off. Incredible numbers of birds, chiefly waterfowl, had appeared in the neighborhood since the beginning of the wet, boisterous weather; the river too was filled with these new visitors, and I was told that most of them were passengers driven from distant northern regions, which they made their summer home, and were now flying south in search of a warmer climate. All this movement in the feathered world had, during my troubled days, brought me as little pleasure as the other changes going on about me: those winged armies ever hurrying by in broken detachments, wailing and clanging by day and by night in the clouds, white with their own terror, or black-plumed like messengers of doom, to my distempered fancy only added a fresh element of fear to a nature racked with disorders, and full of tremendous signs and omens. The interest with which I now remarked these pilgrim storks seemed to me a pleasant symptom of a return to a saner state of mind, and before continuing my walk I wished that Yoletta had been there with me to see them and tell me their history; for she was curious about such matters, and had a most wonderful affection for the whole feathered race. She had her favorites among the birds at different seasons, and the kind she most esteemed now had been arriving for over a month, their numbers increasing day by day until the woods and fields were alive with their flocks. This kind was named the cloud-bird, on account of its starling-like habit of wheeling about over its feeding-ground, the birds throwing themselves into masses, then scattering and gathering again many times, so that when viewed at a distance a large flock had the appearance of a cloud, growing dark and thin alternately, and continually changing its form. It was somewhat larger than a starling, with a freer flight, and had a richer plumage, its color being deep glossy blue, or blue-black, and underneath bright chestnut. When close at hand and in the bright sunshine, the aerial gambols of a flock were beautiful to witness, as the birds wheeled about and displayed in turn, as if moved by one impulse, first the rich blue, then the bright chestnut surfaces to the eye. The charming effect was increased by the bell-like, chirping notes they all uttered together, and as they swept round or doubled in the air at intervals came these tempests of melodious sound--a most perfect expression of wild jubilant bird-life. Yoletta, discoursing in the most delightful way about her loved cloud-birds, had told me that they spent the summer season in great solitary marshes, where they built their nests in the rushes; but with cold weather they flew abroad, and at such times seemed always to prefer the neighborhood of man, remaining in great flocks near the house until the next spring. On this bright sunny morning I was amazed at the multitudes I saw during my walk: yet it was not strange that birds were so abundant, considering that there were no longer any savages on the earth, with nothing to amuse their vacant minds except killing the feathered creatures with their bows and arrows, and no innumerable company of squaws clamorous for trophies--unchristian women of the woods with painted faces, insolence in their eyes, and for ornaments the feathered skins torn from slain birds on their heads. When I at length arrived at the wood, I went to that spot where I had felled the large tree on the occasion of my last and disastrous visit, and where Yoletta, newly released from confinement, had found me. There lay the rough-barked giant exactly as I had left it, and once more I began to hack at the large branches; but my feeble strokes seemed to make little impression, and becoming tired in a very short time, I concluded that I was not yet equal to such work, and sat myself down to rest. I remembered how, when sitting on that very spot, I had heard a slight rustling of the withered leaves, and looking up beheld Yoletta coming swiftly towards me with outstretched arms, and her face shining with joy. Perhaps she would come again to me to-day: yes, she would surely come when I wished for her so much; for she had followed me out to try to dissuade me from going to the woods, and would be anxiously thinking about me; and she could spare an hour from the sick-room now. The trees and bushes would prevent me from seeing her approach, but I should hear her, as I had heard her before. I sat motionless, scarcely breathing, straining my sense to catch the first faint sound of her light, swift step; and every time a small bird, hopping along the ground, rustled a withered leaf, I started up to greet and embrace her. But she did not come; and at last, sick at heart with hope deferred, I covered my face with my hands, and, weak with misery, cried like a disappointed child. Presently something touched me, and, removing my hands from my face, I saw that great silver-gray dog which had come to Yoletta's call when I fainted, sitting before me with his chin resting on my knees. No doubt he remembered that last wood-cutting day very well, and had come to take care of me now. "Welcome, dear old friend!" said I; and in my craving for sympathy of some kind I put my arms over him, and pressed my face against his. Then I sat up again, and gazed into the pair of clear brown eyes watching my face so gravely. "Look here, old fellow," said I, talking audibly to him for want of something in human shape to address, "you didn't lick my face just now when you might have done so with impunity; and when I speak to you, you don't wag that beautiful bushy tail which serves you for ornament. This reminds me that you are not like the dogs I used to know--the dogs that talked with their tails, caressed with their tongues, and were never over-clean or well-behaved. Where are they now--collies, rat-worrying terriers, hounds, spaniels, pointers, retrievers--dogs rough and dogs smooth; big brute boarhounds, St. Bernard's, mastiffs, nearly or quite as big as you are, but not so slender, silky-haired, and sharp-nosed, and without your refined expression of keenness without cunning. And after these canine noblemen of the old _regime_, whither has vanished the countless rabble of mongrels, curs, and pariah dogs; and last of all--being more degenerate--the corpulent, blear-eyed, wheezy pet dogs of a hundred breeds? They are all dead, no doubt: they have been dead so long that I daresay nature extracted all the valuable salts that were contained in their flesh and bones thousands of years ago, and used it for better things--raindrops, froth of the sea, flowers and fruit, and blades of grass. Yet there was not a beast in all that crew of which its master or mistress was not ready to affirm that it could do everything but talk! No one says that of you, my gentle guardian; for dog-worship, with all the ten thousand fungoid cults that sprang up and flourished exceedingly in the muddy marsh of man's intellect, has withered quite away, and left no seed. Yet in intelligence you are, I fancy, somewhat ahead of your far-off progenitors: long use has also given you something like a conscience. You are a good, sensible beast, that's all. You love and serve your master, according to your lights; night and day, you, with your fellows, guard his flocks and herds, his house and fields. Into his sacred house, however, you do not intrude your comely countenance, knowing your place." "What, then, happened to earth, and how long did that undreaming slumber last from which I woke to find things so altered? I do not know, nor does it matter very much. I only know that there has been a sort of mighty Savonarola bonfire, in which most of the things once valued have been consumed to ashes--politics, religions, systems of philosophy, isms and ologies of all descriptions; schools, churches, prisons, poorhouses; stimulants and tobacco; kings and parliaments; cannon with its hostile roar, and pianos that thundered peacefully; history, the press, vice, political economy, money, and a million things more--all consumed like so much worthless hay and stubble. This being so, why am I not overwhelmed at the thought of it? In that feverish, full age--so full, and yet, my God, how empty!--in the wilderness of every man's soul, was not a voice heard crying out, prophesying the end? I know that a thought sometimes came to me, passing through my brain like lightning through the foliage of a tree; and in the quick, blighting fire of that intolerable thought, all hopes, beliefs, dreams, and schemes seemed instantaneously to shrivel up and turn to ashes, and drop from me, and leave me naked and desolate. Sometimes it came when I read a book of philosophy; or listened on a still, hot Sunday to a dull preacher--they were mostly dull--prosing away to a sleepy, fashionable congregation about Daniel in the lions' den, or some other equally remote matter; or when I walked in crowded thoroughfares; or when I heard some great politician out of office--out in the cold, like a miserable working-man with no work to do--hurling anathemas at an iniquitous government; and sometimes also when I lay awake in the silent watches of the night. A little while, the thought said, and all this will be no more; for we have not found out the secret of happiness, and all our toil and effort is misdirected; and those who are seeking for a mechanical equivalent of consciousness, and those who are going about doing good, are alike wasting their lives; and on all our hopes, beliefs, dreams, theories, and enthusiasms, 'Passing away' is written plainly as the _Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin_ seen by Belshazzar on the wall of his palace in Babylon." "That withering thought never comes to me now. 'Passing away' is not written on the earth, which is still God's green footstool; the grass was not greener nor the flowers sweeter when man was first made out of clay, and the breath of life breathed into his nostrils. And the human family and race--outcome of all that dead, unimaginable past--this also appears to have the stamp of everlastingness on it; and in its tranquil power and majesty resembles some vast mountain that lifts its head above the clouds, and has its granite roots deep down in the world's center. A feeling of awe is in me when I gaze on it; but it is vain to ask myself now whether the vanished past, with its manifold troubles and transitory delights, was preferable to this unchanging peaceful present. I care for nothing but Yoletta; and if the old world was consumed to ashes that she might be created, I am pleased that it was so consumed; for nobler than all perished hopes and ambitions is the hope that I may one day wear that bright, consummate flower on my bosom." "I have only one trouble now--a wolf that follows me everywhere, always threatening to rend me to pieces with its black jaws. Not you, old friend--a great, gaunt, man-eating, metaphorical wolf, far more terrible than that beast of the ancients which came to the poor man's door. In the darkness its eyes, glowing like coals, are ever watching me, and even in the bright daylight its shadowy form is ever near me, stealing from bush to bush, or from room to room, always dogging my footsteps. Will it ever vanish, like a mere phantom--a wolf of the brain--or will it come nearer and more near, to spring upon and rend me at the last? If they could only clothe my mind as they have my body, to make me like themselves with no canker at my heart, ever contented and calmly glad! But nothing comes from taking thought. I am sick of thought--I hate it! Away with it! I shall go and look for Yoletta, since she does not come to me. Good-by, old friend, you have been well-behaved and listened with considerable patience to a long discourse. It will benefit you about as much as I have been benefited by many a lecture and many a sermon I was compelled to listen to in the old vanished days." Bestowing another caress on him I got up and went back to the house, thinking sadly as I walked that the bright weather had not yet greatly improved my spirits. Chapter 20 Arrived at the house I was again disappointed at not seeing Yoletta; yet without reasonable cause, since it was scarcely past midday, and she came out from attending on her mother only at long intervals--in the morning, and again just before evening--to taste the freshness of nature for a few minutes. The music-room was deserted when I went there; but it was made warm and pleasant by the sun shining brightly in at the doors opening to the south. I went on to the extreme end of the room, remembering now that I had seen some volumes there when I had no time or inclination to look at them, and I wanted something to read; for although I found reading very irksome at this period, there was really little else I could do. I found the books--three volumes--in the lower part of an alcove in the wall; above them, within a niche in the alcove, on a level with my face as I stood there, I observed a bulb-shaped bottle, with a long thin neck, very beautifully colored. I had seen it before, but without paying particular attention to it, there being so many treasures of its kind in the house; now, seeing it so closely, I could not help admiring its exquisite beauty, and feeling puzzled at the scene depicted on it. In the widest part it was encircled with a band, and on it appeared slim youths and maidens, in delicate, rose-colored garments, with butterfly wings on their shoulders, running or hurriedly walking, playing on instruments of various forms, their faces shining with gladness, their golden hair tossed by the wind--a gay procession, without beginning or end. Behind these joyful ones, in pale gray, and half-obscured by the mists that formed the background, appeared a second procession, hurrying in an opposite direction--men and women of all ages, but mostly old, with haggard, woebegone faces; some bowed down, their eyes fixed on the ground; others wringing their hands, or beating their breasts; and all apparently suffering the utmost affliction of mind. Above the bottle there was a deep circular cell in the alcove, about fifteen inches in diameter; fitted in it was a metal ring, to which were attached golden strings, fine as gossamer threads: behind the first ring was a second, and further in still others, all stringed like the first, so that looking into the cell it appeared filled with a mist of golden cobweb. Drawing a cushioned seat to this secluded nook, where no person passing casually through the room would be able to see me, I sat down, and feeling too indolent to get myself a reading-stand, I supported the volume I had taken up to read on my knees. It was entitled _Conduct and Ceremonial,_ and the subject-matter was divided into short sections, each with an appropriate heading. Turning over the leaves, and reading a sentence here and there in different sections, it occurred to me that this might prove a most useful work for me to study, whenever I could bring my mind into the right frame for such a task; for it contained minute instructions upon all points relating to individual conduct in the house--as the entertainment of pilgrims, the dress to be worn, and the conduct to be observed at the various annual festivals, with other matters of the kind. Glancing through it in this rapid way, I soon finished with the first volume, then went through the second in even less time, for many of the concluding sections related to lugubrious subjects which I did not care to linger over; the titles alone were enough to trouble me--Decay through Age, Ailments of Mind and of Body; then Death, and, finally, the Disposal of the Dead. This done I took up the third volume, the last of the series, the first portion of which was headed, _Renewal of the Family_. This part I began to examine with some attention, and pretty soon discovered that I had now at last accidentally stumbled upon a perfect mine of information of the precise kind I had so long and so vainly been seeking. Struggling to overcome my agitation I read on, hurrying through page after page with the greatest rapidity; for there was here much matter that had no special interest for me, but incidentally the things which concerned me most to know were touched on, and in some cases minutely explained. As I proceeded, the prophetic gloom which had oppressed me all that day, and for so many days before, darkened to the blackness of despair, and suddenly throwing up my arms, the book slipped from my knees and fell with a crash upon the floor. There, face downwards, with its beautiful leaves doubled and broken under its weight, it rested unheeded at my feet. For now the desired knowledge was mine, and that dream of happiness which had illumined my life was over. Now I possessed the secret of that passionless, everlasting calm of beings who had for ever outlived, and left as immeasurably far behind as the instincts of the wolf and ape, the strongest emotion of which my heart was capable. For the children of the house there could be no union by marriage; in body and soul they differed from me: they had no name for that feeling which I had so often and so vainly declared; therefore they had told me again and again that there was only one kind of love, for they, alas! could experience one kind only. I did not, for the moment, seek further in the book, or pause to reflect on that still unexplained mystery, which was the very center and core of the whole mater, namely, the existence of the father and mother in the house, from whose union the family was renewed, and who, fruitful themselves, were yet the parents of a barren race. Nor did I ask who their successors would be: for albeit long-lived, they were mortal like their own passionless children, and in this particular house their lives appeared now to be drawing to an end. These were questions I cared nothing about. It was enough to know that Yoletta could never love me as I loved her--that she could never be mine, body and soul, in my way and not in hers. With unspeakable bitterness I recalled my conversation with Chastel: now all her professions of affection and goodwill, all her schemes for smoothing my way and securing my happiness, seemed to me the veriest mockery, since even she had read my heart no better than the others, and that chill moonlight felicity, beyond which her children were powerless to imagine anything, had no charm for my passion-torn heart. Presently, when I began to recover somewhat from my stupefaction, and to realize the magnitude of my loss, the misery of it almost drove me mad. I wished that I had never made this fatal discovery, that I might have continued still hoping and dreaming, and wearing out my heart with striving after the impossible, since any fate would have been preferable to the blank desolation which now confronted me. I even wished to possess the power of some implacable god or demon, that I might shatter the sacred houses of this later race, and destroy them everlastingly, and repeople the peaceful world with struggling, starving millions, as in the past, so that the beautiful flower of love which had withered in men's hearts might blossom again. While these insane thoughts were passing through my brain I had risen from my seat, and stood leaning against the edge of the alcove, with that curious richly-colored bottle close to my eyes. There were letters on it, noticed now for the first time--minute, hair-like lines beneath the strange-contrasted processionists depicted on the band--and even in my excited condition I was a little startled when these letters, forming the end of a sentence, shaped themselves into the words--_and for the old life there shall be a new life_. Turning the bottle round I read the whole sentence. _When time and disease oppress, and the sun grows cold in heaven, and there is no longer any joy on the earth, and the fire of love grows cold in the heart, drink of me, and for the old life there shall be a new life._ "Another important secret!" thought I; "this day has certainly been fruitful in discoveries. A panacea for all diseases, even for the disease of old age, so that a man may live two hundred years, and still find some pleasure in existence. But for me life has lost its savor, and I have no wish to last so long. There is more writing here--another secret perhaps, but I doubt very much that it will give me any comfort." _When your soul is darkened, so that it is hard to know evil from good, and the thoughts that are in you lead to madness, drink of me, and be cured._ "No, I shall not drink and be cured! Better a thousand times the thoughts that lead to madness than this colorless existence without love. I do not wish to recover from so sweet a malady." I took the bottle in my hand and unstopped it. The stopper formed a curious little cup, round the rim of which was written, _Drink of me_. I poured some of the liquid out into the cup; it was pale yellow in color, and had a faint sickly smell as of honeysuckles. Then I poured it back again and replaced the bottle in its niche. _Drink and be cured_. No, not yet. Some day, perhaps, my trouble increasing till it might no longer be borne, would drive me to seek such dreary comfort as this cure-all bottle contained. To love without hope was sad enough, but to be without love was even sadder. I had grown calm now: the knowledge that I had it in my power to escape at once and for eyer from that rage of desire, had served to sober my mind, and at last I began to reason about the matter. The nature of my secret feelings could never be suspected, and in the unsubstantial realm of the imagination it would still be in my power to hide myself with my love, and revel in all supreme delight. Would not that be better than this cure--this calm contentment held out to me? And in time also my feelings would lose their present intensity, which often made them an agony, and would come at last to exist only as a gentle rapture stirring in my heart when I clasped my darling to my bosom and pressed her sweet lips with mine. Ah, no! that was a vain dream, I could not be deceived by it; for who can say to the demon of passion in him, thus far shalt thou go and no further? Perplexed in mind and unable to decide which thing was best, my troubled thoughts at length took me back to that far-off dead past, when the passion of love was so much in man's life. It was much; but in that over-populated world it divided the empire of his soul with a great, ever-growing misery--the misery of the hungry ones whose minds were darkened, through long years of decadence, with a sullen rage against God and man; and the misery of those who, wanting nothing, yet feared that the end of all things was coming to them. For the space of half an hour I pondered on these things, then said: "If I were to tell a hundredth part of this black retrospect to Yoletta, would not she bid me drink and forget, and herself pour out the divine liquor, and press it to my lips?" Again I took the bottle with trembling hand, and filled the same small cup to the brim, saying: "For your sake then, Yoletta, let me drink, and be cured; for this is what you desire, and you are more to me than life or passion or happiness. But when this consuming fire has left me--this feeling which until now burns and palpitates in every drop of my blood, every fiber of my being--I know that you shall still be to me a sweet, sacred sister and immaculate bride, worshipped more of my soul than any mother in the house; that loving and being loved by you shall be my one great joy all my life long." I drained the cup deliberately, then stopped the bottle and put it back in its place. The liquor was tasteless, but colder than ice, and made me shiver when I swallowed it. I began to wonder whether I would be conscious of the change it was destined to work in me or not; and then, half regretting what I had done, I wished that Yoletta would come to me, so that I might clasp her in my arms with all the old fervor once more, before that icy-cold liquor had done its work. Finally, I carefully raised the fallen book, and smoothed out its doubled leaves, regretting that I had injured it; and, sitting down again, I held the open volume as before, resting on my knees. Now, however, I perceived that it had opened at a place some pages in advance of the passages which had excited me; but, feeling no desire to go back to resume my reading just where I had left off, my eyes mechanically sought the top of the page before me, and this is what I read: "...make choice of one of the daughters of the house; it is fitting that she should rejoice for that brighter excellence which caused her to be raised to so high a state, and to have authority over all others, since in her, with the father, all the majesty and glory of the house is centered; albeit with a solemn and chastened joy, like that of the pilgrim who, journeying to some distant tropical region of the earth, and seeing the shores of his native country fading from sight, thinks at one and the same time of the unimaginable beauties of nature and art that fire his mind and call him away, and of the wide distance which will hold him for many years divided from all familiar scenes and the beings he loves best, and of the storms and perils of the great wilderness of waves, into which so many have ventured and have not returned. For now a changed body and soul shall separate her forever from those who were one in nature with her; and with that superior happiness destined to be hers there shall be the pains and perils of childbirth, with new griefs and cares unknown to those of humbler condition. But on that lesser gladness had by the children of the house in her exaltation, and because there will be a new mother in the house--one chosen from themselves--there shall be no cloud or shadow; and, taking her by the hand, and kissing her face in token of joy, and of that new filial love and obedience which will be theirs, they shall lead her to the Mother's Room, thereafter to be inhabited by her as long as life lasts. And she shall no longer serve in the house or suffer rebuke; but all shall serve her in love, and hold her in reverence, who is their predestined mother. And for the space of one year she shall be without authority in the house, being one apart, instructing herself in the secret books which it is not lawful for another to read, and observing day by day the directions contained therein, until that new knowledge and practice shall ripen her for that state she has been chosen to fill." * * * * * This passage was a fresh revelation to me. Again I recalled Chastel's words, her repeated assurances that she knew what was passing in my mind, that her eyes saw things more clearly than others could see them, that only by giving me the desire of my heart could the one remaining hope of her life be fulfilled. Now I seemed able to understand these dark sayings, and a new excitement, full of the joy of hope, sprang up in me, making me forget the misery I had so recently experienced, and even that increasing sensation of intense cold caused by the draught from the mysterious bottle. I continued reading, but the above passage was succeeded by minute instructions, extending over several pages, concerning the dress, both for ordinary and extraordinary occasions, to be worn by the chosen daughter during her year of preparation: the conduct to be observed by her towards other members of the family, also towards pilgrims visiting the house in the interval, with many other matters of secondary importance. Impatient to reach the end, I tried to turn the leaves rapidly, but now found that my arm had grown strangely stiff and cold, and seemed like an arm of iron when I raised it, so that the turning over of each leaf was an immense labor. Then I read yet another page, but with the utmost difficulty; for, notwithstanding the eagerness of my mind, my eyes began to remain more and more rigidly fixed on the center of the leaf, so that I could scarcely force them to follow the lines. Here I read that the bride-elect, her year of preparation being over, rises before daylight, and goes out alone to an appointed place at a great distance from the house, there to pass several hours in solitude and silence, communing with her own heart. Meanwhile, in the house all the others array themselves in purple garments, and go out singing at sunrise to gather flowers to adorn their heads; then, proceeding to the appointed spot, they seek for their new mother, and, finding her, lead her home with music and rejoicing. When, reading in this miserable, painful way, I had reached the bottom of the page, and attempted to turn it over, I found that I could no longer move my hand--my arms being now like arms of iron, absolutely devoid of sensation, while my hands, rigidly grasping the book like the hands of a frozen corpse, held it upright and motionless before me. I tried to start up and shake off this strange deadness from my body, but was powerless to move a muscle. What was the meaning of this condition? for I had absolutely no pain, no discomfort even; for the sensation of intense cold had almost ceased, and my mind was active and clear, and I could hear and see, and yet was as powerless as if I had been buried in a marble coffin a thousand fathoms deep in earth. Suddenly I remembered the draught from the bottle, and a terrible doubt shot through my heart. Alas! had I mistaken the meaning of those strange words I had read?--was _death_ the cure which that mysterious vessel promised to those who drank of its contents? "When life becomes a burden, it is good to lay it down"; now too late the words of the father, when reproving me after my fever, came back to my mind in all their awful significance. All at once I heard a voice calling my name, and in a moment the tempest in me was stilled. Yes, it was my darling's voice--she was coming to me--she would save me in this dire extremity. Again and again she called, but the voice now sounded further and further away; and with ineffable anguish I remembered that she would not be able to see me where I sat. I tried to cry out, "Come quick, Yoletta, and save me from death!" but though I mentally repeated the words again and again in an extreme agony of terror, my frozen tongue refused to make a sound. Presently I heard a light, quick step on the floor, then Yoletta's clear voice. "Oh, I have found you at last!" she cried. "I have been seeking you all over the house. I have something glad to tell you--something to make you happier than on that day--do you remember?--when you saw me coming to you in the wood. The mother has left her chamber at last; she is in the Mother's Room again, waiting impatiently to see you. Come, come!" Her words sounded distinctly in my ears, and although I could not lift or turn my rigid eyes to see her, yet I seemed to see her now better than ever before, with some fresh glory, as of a new, unaccustomed gladness or excitement enhancing her unsurpassed loveliness, so clearly at that moment did her image shine in my soul! And not hers only, for now suddenly, by a miracle of the mind, the entire family appeared there before me; and in the midst sat Chastel, my sweet, suffering mother, as on that day after my illness when she had pardoned me, and put out her hand for me to kiss. As on that occasion, now--now she was gazing on me with such divine love and compassion in her eyes, her lips half parted, and a slight color flushing her pale face, recalling to it the bloom and radiance of which cruel disease had robbed her! And in my soul also, at that supreme moment, like a scene starting at the lightning's flash out of thick darkness, shone the image of the house, with all its wide, tranquil rooms rich in art and ancient memories, every stone within them glowing, with everlasting beauty--a house enduring as the green plains and rushing rivers and solemn woods and world-old hills amid which it was set like a sacred gem! O sweet abode of love and peace and purity of heart! O bliss surpassing that of the angels! O rich heritage, must I lose you for ever! Save me from death, Yoletta, my love, my bride--save me--save me--save me! Then something touched or fell on my neck, and at the same moment a deeper shadow passed over the page before me, with all its rich coloring floating formless, like vapors, mingling and separating, or dancing before my vision, like bright-winged insects hovering in the sunlight; and I knew that she was bending over me, her hand on my neck, her loose hair falling on my forehead. In that enforced stillness and silence I waited expectant for some moments. Then a great cry, as of one who suddenly sees a black phantom, rang out loud in the room, jarring my brain with the madness of its terror, and striking as with a hundred passionate hands on all the hidden harps in wall and roof; and the troubled sounds came back to me, now loud and now low, burdened with an infinite anguish and despair, as of voices of innumerable multitudes wandering in the sunless desolations of space, every voice reverberating anguish and despair; and the successive reverberations lifted me like waves and dropped me again, and the waves grew less and the sounds fainter, then fainter still, and died in everlasting silence. 
44307	----	Transcriber's note A detailed transcriber's note can be found at the end of this book. [Illustration] A. D. 2000 BY LIEUT. ALVARADO M. FULLER U. S. A. CHICAGO LAIRD & LEE PUBLISHERS 1890 Entered according to act of Congress in the year eighteen hundred and ninety, by LAIRD & LEE, in the office of the librarian of Congress at Washington. (All rights reserved.) PREFACE Lest originality of title and theme be denied, it is but justice to myself to state that both were assumed in November, 1887. My thanks are due to Lieutenant D. L. Brainard, Second Cavalry, for the true copy of the record of the Greely party left in the cairn at the farthest point on the globe ever reached by man--83 degrees 24 minutes North Latitude, 40 degrees 46 minutes West Longitude. THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS CHAPTER I JUNIUS COBB'S MARVELOUS DISCOVERY 9 CHAPTER II A STARTLING PROPOSITION 31 CHAPTER III PREPARING FOR THE TEST 45 CHAPTER IV JEAN COLCHIS, CONSPIRATOR AND SAVANT 61 CHAPTER V ON THE EVE OF A CENTURY'S SLEEP 80 CHAPTER VI FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH 101 CHAPTER VII "YOU SAY THIS IS A. D. 2000?" 108 CHAPTER VIII SAN FRANCISCO IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY 130 CHAPTER IX THE CENTRAL PNEUMATIC RAILROAD 150 CHAPTER X UNDER THE CENTRAL SEA 168 CHAPTER XI THE ARMY OF INSTRUCTION 199 CHAPTER XII JUNIUS COBB READS A NEWSPAPER 235 CHAPTER XIII NEW YORK CITY--POPULATION 4,000,000 245 CHAPTER XIV THE LAW OF THE LAND 261 CHAPTER XV THE SYMPATHETIC TELEGRAPH 278 CHAPTER XVI CHICAGO THE METROPOLIS OF THE COUNTRY 299 CHAPTER XVII NIAGARA FALLS HARNESSED 309 CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERY OF THE COPPER CYLINDER 315 CHAPTER XIX RESURRECTED 332 CHAPTER XX AN AERIAL VOYAGE 347 CHAPTER XXI THE TRANSATLANTIC LIFE-SAVING STATIONS 363 CHAPTER XXII LOCATING THE NORTH POLE 380 CHAPTER XXIII UNITED AT LAST 396 CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION 404 A. D. 2000 CHAPTER I "Number three! half-past eleven o'clock--and all's well!" "All is well!" came the response from the sentry at the guard-house, while the sharp click of his piece as he brought it to his shoulder and the heavy tread of his retreating footsteps were all that was heard to break the stillness that reigned supreme throughout the garrison. It was a dark, dreary, foggy night. The heavy atmosphere seemed laden with great masses of fleeting vapor, and the walks of the post and the ground surrounding them were as wet as if a heavy shower had just spent its force. Such was the Presidio of San Francisco, California, a military post of the United States government, on the night of November 17th, 1887. The lights of the garrison made little effect upon that thick and saturated atmosphere; yet the little that they did make only seemed to add more to the depth of the surrounding gloom. In the officers' club-room, near the main parade, was gathered a jolly party of old and young officers. The rooms were handsomely, even superbly, furnished. The billiard-tables were in full blast; the card-tables were occupied; while many sat and chatted upon the various military topics which are ever a part of the soldier's life. In a set of officers' quarters, some distance away from the main parade, were assembled three subalterns of the line. The room was bright and cheerful, and the decanters upon the table showed that they knew of the good cheer of the world. The furniture upon which the officers sat and reclined, as also about the room, gave evidence of refinement and education; while the cases stacked with books, near the entrance, bespoke a tendency and desire on the part of the occupant of the quarters for the improvement of his mind. A grate fire in the angle threw its cheerful rays upon those present, while the luxuriousness and warmth of the whole room was in direct contrast with the gloominess and cold without. Opening from the main room through a curtained door was a second room, the inside of which was a study. There was no carpet upon the floor, and the boards gave evidence of having been used by many feet. Tables containing jars and many curious vessels, wires in every direction, bottles filled and empty, maps and drawings, and instruments of peculiar form and shape, were seen about the room. In one corner was a large Holtz machine, whose great disc of glass reflected back the rays from the lights in the front room. The three men were soldiers and officers of the army. In the center of the room, by a small table upon which was a roll of paper, with one hand holding down the pages, while the other was raised in a commanding gesture, stood Junius Cobb, a lieutenant in the cavalry arm of the service. Sitting in an easy-chair near the fire, with his legs on the fender and his eyes watching every movement of the speaker, reclined Lester Hathaway; while midway between the table and the right side of the room, in a large rocker, sat Hugh Craft. Lester Hathaway was a graduate of the military academy of the United States, as was also Hugh Craft; both were lieutenants in the army--the former in the infantry, and the latter in the artillery branch of the service. Lester Hathaway was about twenty-eight years of age, tall and slim, fair-haired, a pleasing face, languid air, and a blasé style. To him the world was one grand sphere for enjoyment; it was his life, his almost every thought, as to how he could pass his time in an easy and amusing manner. Balls, parties, and dances were his special vocations. With him there was no thought of the true hardships of life. Young and handsome, courted by the ladies, he could not understand how it was that others should occupy their minds with subjects of research and study. Hugh Craft was of a different type; yet, like Hathaway, he was tall and thin, and about the same age; but here the likeness terminated. He was darker than his companion, with sharp features, an aquiline nose, and a chin denoting great firmness. His eye was piercing, and wandered from one object to another with the rapidity of lightning. He was much more of a student than Hathaway, delighting in all that portion of the sciences touching the marvelous; a good listener to the views of others. Altogether, Hugh Craft was a man worthy to be the partner of a scientific man in a great enterprise. Junius Cobb, the central figure in the room, deserves more than a passing description. He was a man about thirty-three years of age, of medium height, but of a full and well-developed form, black eyes, a pleasing countenance, a dark mustache nearly covering his lips, square chin, and eyebrows meeting in the center of the face--all tokens of a great firmness and decision. He was one who had given many of his days and nights to hard study in science, in political economy, and, in fact, had taken a deep interest in almost all of the various progressive undertakings of his day. Outside of his duties, Junius Cobb had employed every spare moment of his time in experimenting in chemistry and electricity. The room off the sitting-room, where the three gentlemen were gathered this dark and foggy night, was his workshop, into which no man was permitted to go save he himself. Its mysterious contents were known to no other person. His friends would come and visit him, and sit for hours talking and chatting, but no invitation was ever accorded them to enter that single room. "Craft," and Cobb pointed his finger at that personage in an impatient manner, "we have often discussed these matters, I will admit, but it is a theme I like to talk upon. Do you believe in the immortality of the soul?" "Why, of course," replied that person, looking surprised. "And you, too, Hathaway?" continued Cobb, addressing the other. "Most certainly I do," was the reply. "Now, do either of you believe that the living body can be so prepared that it will continue to hold the soul within its fleshly portals for years without losing that great and unknown essence?" and Cobb fixed his sparkling eyes upon his listeners. "Yes," answered Craft; "but by God alone." "I do not mean by God," quickly returned the other. "God is all powerful; but by man?" "Then, of course, I would say that it cannot be done." "But if I were to show you that it was a fact, an accomplished fact, you would, of course, admit it?" "No, Cobb. Look here, old fellow," pettishly exclaimed Hathaway, rising from his chair, "what is all this about, anyway?" Cobb glanced at him with an expression of pity, and quickly replied: "I mean, Hathaway, that it is in my power to hold the life of mortal man within its living body for an unlimited time. I mean that I can take your body, Hathaway, and so manipulate it that you will be, to all appearance, dead; but your soul, or whatever you choose to call it, will still be in your body; and further, that after a certain time you will again come to life, having all your former freshness and youth." Cobb stood at the table with his hand upon the pages of his book, and a smile upon his face which seemed to say, "Deny it if you can." Hathaway and Craft looked at him in amazement. These men had known Cobb to be a student, but neither of them had ever thought him demented. The proposition advanced by him seemed so terribly contrary to all the principles of science, natural law, and life, that neither of them could believe that the man was in earnest. Both Hathaway and Craft had often come to Cobb's quarters, and exchanged ideas with him concerning various and many topics; both knew him to be a student of chemistry and philosophy, and that he worked many hours in his little back room. They knew that he worked with chemicals and electricity, and both knew him to be a very peculiar man, yet neither of them had ever before seemed to be imbued with the belief that the man was of unsound mind. The grave and startling statement advanced by Cobb had so astonished them that it was impossible to think him sane. "Yes," continued Cobb, "I have found this power. I have no doubt that it strikes you with amazement that I should even suggest such an almost preposterous theory. I have no doubt that you almost think me insane; but my researches in the past few years have been rewarded by the most startling discoveries. We have all imagined, for many years, that as soon as the body was deprived of air for a considerable time, life would become extinct, or, in other words, that life could not exist without air. Such is not the case--ah! do not start," he exclaimed, seeing both Hathaway and Craft bend forward inquiringly in their chairs. "I repeat, such is not the case. Without the oxygen in the air, the blood of man would be white, yet it would possess all the properties necessary to continue life. But one thing must not be confounded with this statement: oxygen is necessary for life _with_ action, but not necessary for life _without_ action. A strange statement, is it not? Am I tedious?" he asked, looking at his listeners. "No; not at all," they both exclaimed. "Please continue, for we are very much interested." "Well," and Cobb's eyes flashed as he warmed up to his subject, "it was long ago discovered that there was a peculiar odor arising upon the passage of a current of electricity through oxygen gas; this was also perceived even in working an electrical machine. This odor was named ozone. Both of you gentlemen are sufficiently proficient in chemistry for me to pass over the various methods by which ozone can be manufactured, yet I think it quite necessary that I should state a few facts about this very remarkable gas, if, indeed, it can be called a gas; it is really allotropic oxygen. Now, oxygen can be put into a liquid state, or even into a solid state; yet it is most difficult to keep it in either of those conditions--so much so that it would be of no use for the purposes for which I desire to use it. Oxygen is contracted by passing an electric spark through it, and ozone is perceived by the peculiar odor arising therefrom. If the intensity of the current is increased sufficiently, the oxygen is proportionately decreased in bulk. Suffice it to say that oxygen can be reduced millions of times in bulk by this simple method, always provided that the electrical energy was sufficient at starting. You will perceive," and he hastily quitted the room, entered his workshop, and returned with a small bottle fitted with a tight stopper, and containing apparently a stick of camphor--"you will perceive," he continued, "when I open this bottle, a most peculiar odor, a lightness in the atmosphere, a seeming renewal of life, and a sense of languidness passing over you." Saying this, he took out the glass stopper and passed the bottle two or three times in front of Hathaway and Craft. As the bottle was moved from side to side, both of them experienced a strange sensation; it seemed that the air was heavily charged with a something that gave them feelings of unutterable lightness, of calm repose, and intense satisfaction. The lights danced about in thousands of forms, yet each appeared to possess some true and beautiful shape. They moved, they walked and ran, yet no effort seemed to be required. It was as if they were a part of some living thing, yet not a part: a part of it in that they moved and had feelings coincident with it, yet not a part because no effort was required, of brain or muscle, to be a part of it. For a moment it seemed to each of them that a state of exertionless existence had been reached, and then each knew no more. They lay in their chairs apparently lifeless. Cobb quickly replaced the stopper in the bottle, and took from his nostrils two small pieces of sponge, which had been saturated in some kind of solution. Returning to the back room, he replaced the bottle on the shelf from which he had taken it, and came back to his position by the table. He watched Hathaway and Craft a few minutes, when, seeing no appearance of reviving, he arose and opened the windows and wheeled their chairs around so that the cool night air could strike them full in the face. This done, he sat himself down near the table and seemed to watch with great earnestness the countenances of his two friends. He had sat this way but a moment, when a sigh escaped the lips of Craft, his eyes opened, and he gazed about him with a most puzzled and dazed expression. Cobb sprang quickly to his side, and presented a glass of wine to his lips. "There," he said, "take some of that, old fellow; you will feel like your former self in a moment." Craft drank the liquor without saying a word; then, raising himself, he looked Cobb in the eyes, and asked: "Have I been asleep, Cobb, or what is the matter? I feel as if I had just awakened from a most delicious slumber, a most refreshing one, and yet I had no dreams, nor does it seem that I am fatigued in the least." At this moment Hathaway opened his eyes, and also in a dazed manner viewed his surroundings. "Why, bless me, I have been asleep!" he exclaimed. Cobb quickly filled a second glass of wine and gave it to him, saying: "Drink that; you will feel all right in a jiffy." Hathaway emptied the glass, and then, looking at Craft, said: "I know now; it was the bottle, or rather the contents, that has caused us both to fall asleep." "Yes," said Cobb, "it was the contents of that bottle that has caused you both to enter the first stages of death." "How long has this sleep continued?" asked Craft. "About ten minutes." "And was I also asleep as long?" asked Hathaway. "Yes; a little longer," returned Cobb. "Craft awoke first." Pausing to light a cigar, he then resumed: "How do you feel--sick or languid?" "Oh, as for me, not at all," spoke up Craft. "I cannot say that I feel any ill effect from the drug." "Nor I," said Hathaway, "except that I am a little dry," with a laugh. "Then take some of this wine," and Cobb filled a glass for each of them. "It will brace up your nerves." They drank the wine, and appeared to suffer no evil effects from their enforced sleep. "Will you not smoke, also?" asked Cobb, as he passed over a box of fine Havana cigars. Each took one, and Cobb laid the box aside. Soon the clouds of smoke rising to the ceiling renewed the scene of warmth and sociability which had prevailed before the uncorking of the bottle of ozone. "You, gentlemen," said Cobb, drawing his chair to the fire, and taking a seat near the others, "have seen pure ozone in its solid state, and you both have felt its effect. It is the life-giving principle of oxygen. Ozone is everywhere; in the air, of course; in all creation, in fact. I do not wish to tire you, but if you desire, I will explain why I said that I had the power to hold life in the human body for an indefinite time." "You will not tire us. Pray go on; I, for one, am most anxious to know more of this wonderful discovery of yours," quickly returned Craft. "I also can listen for hours to your words," answered Hathaway. "Then, I will explain to you my researches in this direction;" and Cobb arose and entered his little back room, soon returning with a good-sized box, which he laid upon the table. Craft and Hathaway watched him with an earnestness which gave evidence of the interest they took in the strange theories which he had advanced. Indeed, it was a most strange, not to say terrible, power for a man to possess--that of holding the soul of man within its fleshly portals during his pleasure. After Cobb had placed the box upon the table, he opened the roll of papers which he had before him at the time he got the bottle of ozone. Referring to one of the pages, he looked toward Hathaway and said: "Can you tell me how many cubic feet of air the average man requires in every twenty-four hours?" Hathaway, taken by surprise, hesitated, blushed, and admitted that he had forgotten the exact amount. "Well," continued the other, quickly, "it is not to be supposed that you should remember the answer to such a question, so I will tell you. A healthy man, in action, consumes about 686,000 cubic inches in every twenty-four hours. Now, what I wish to have you understand by that, is this: that the average man requires about 137,200 cubic inches of oxygen in every twenty-four hours. This is the accepted way of putting it; in reality, he needs the ozone contained in that amount of oxygen. I do not desire that you should receive the impression that the oxygen is not needed for the man, but that the ozone only is required for the continuance of life where there is no action. I may surprise you when I say that each of you draws into your lungs, every day, over seven pounds of oxygen gas, but such is the case. Now, in those seven pounds of oxygen there are just two grains of pure ozone. Do not interrupt me," as Craft attempted to speak; "I know what you would say--that that is contrary to the accepted opinion on the subject, and that the amount is much greater--but let me tell you that my researches have found it entirely different: two grains only, to seven pounds of oxygen, or thirty-five pounds of common air. You will perceive by the above that each of you requires nearly two grains of ozone per day, or about 700 grains per year. Now, if by any freak of nature you could remain in a perfectly passive state, doing nothing, exercising no action at all, this amount of 700 grains would fall to about 400 grains; that is, the blood would require that amount to continue to perform its vital functions. Thus you see that you would require for the maintenance of life for a hundred years, 40,000 grains. This is equivalent to nearly seven pounds of ozone. Ozone, as you have already ascertained, cannot be taken into the system through the nostrils without serious consequences. It is too powerful, and would soon cause paralysis and death; but it can be taken into the system through the pores of the body without danger to life. Again, ozone can be kept in the solid state under the pressure of two atmospheres; reduce this pressure, and it will begin to evaporate. Crystals of stronetic acid, you both know, quickly decompose carbonic acid gas. Now, the whole secret is this: If insensibility is first produced by any of the various means at our command, and the subject is then placed in a receptacle sufficiently strong to withstand a pressure of over two atmospheres, and surrounded by crystals of ozone and stronetic acid in certain proportions, insensibility will continue, and the subject will in no way change, save a slight decrease in weight. Life is there, and will continue there until the ozone is entirely exhausted. To compensate for the loss in weight, the subject is bound about the abdomen with cloths saturated in certain oils and preparations which I have ascertained will furnish all the nourishment required for a given period." Craft and Hathaway could not help looking at this man in amazement. Was this the man with whom they had played billiards, with whom they had drank and associated, never dreaming that he was engaged in any such investigations? Was he, indeed, crazy? and were they the listeners to a lunatic's chattering discourse? Such were the thoughts that passed through the minds of both. Cobb stood watching the effect of his words upon them. He noted every change in their countenances; he read every thought as it came to their minds. He spoke not a word, waiting for them to give utterance to the skeptical ideas which he knew they entertained. "It is too strange! It is too contrary to natural law and science! It is impossible!" and Craft arose as if to go. "Yes, Cobb," said Hathaway, "this is too much; it is a fancy you have gotten, but a fancy which can never be realized. You have allowed your theories to become shadows, your shadows to become tangible, but the tangibility is apparent to no one but yourself." He too arose from his chair. A smile played upon the lips of Cobb, a smile of perfect self-satisfaction. His eyes shone as if his very soul centered in them. "Look!" he cried; "look! and behold for yourselves whether my words are worthy of consideration!" Saying this, he raised the lid of the box on the table; then, stepping back and pointing his finger at it, exclaimed, in a tone of command, a tone of majestic confidence in his own power: "Look! Behold life in death; death in life!" Craft took a step forward, and glanced into the box. A puzzled and ludicrous expression came over his face, his lips parted, then, finally, his white teeth showed themselves as he gave vent to a loud and prolonged laugh. Hathaway had by this time advanced and obtained a view of the contents of the box. "A cat, by all that's holy!" he exclaimed; "a poor dead cat!" and he too joined in the merriment of his friend. Cobb stood still, not in the least endeavoring to check their hilarity, but waiting for them to get through. Again the others looked at the cat in the box, and again they laughed heartily; but seeing Cobb so quiet, it at last dawned upon them that there was something peculiar in the surroundings of the animal. In the box which had been brought out and placed upon the table was a large Maltese cat, lying upon its side on an asbestos pillow. The head of the animal was wrapped with bandages, as was also the under part of the body for a space of about two inches above its thighs. The cushion upon which it lay was placed within what appeared to be a zinc coffin of something under ten inches in height. At the head of the cat was a small saucer-shaped vessel with a perforated top, while surrounding the whole was a space of over four inches in width. In this space were the remains of a few crystals of some white substance. The box seemed to be lined with glass, and a glass top covered the whole, its sides seemingly glued to the sides of the box. "Come," said Craft, noticing that Cobb was waiting for some remark from one or the other of them; "tell us, Cobb, why you have that cat lying in that box. Is this the principle you have been speaking of? Are we really to believe that you have in that case an animal undergoing the treatment you have spoken of?" "Gentlemen," answered Cobb, with a feeling of pride, "you have guessed it. One year ago to-night, at twelve o'clock, I caused this poor animal to become insensible; then placing it in this case, with its mouth and nostrils covered, with bandages of nourishment about its loins, with a cup of stronetic acid at its head, and crystals of ozone surrounding the body, I hermetically sealed the case. From my experiments, I ascertained that the amount of ozone necessary for the continuance of life in an animal of this size, and for a period of one year, was 1,425 grains. This amount I put into the case. You can easily see how near correct I was in my calculations, for there are not over ten grains of ozone left on the floor of the box to-night. I asked you here, gentlemen, not only to listen to my lecture on ozone, but to witness the return to life of this animal." All laughter in Hathaway and Craft had changed to a grave attention to all that was said by their friend. At last it seemed to them that there was something, indeed, in the theory he advanced. In an attitude of intense expectation, they awaited his next move. "As I have said," continued Cobb, "that cat was placed in this condition one year ago to-night. It is my intention to bring it to life again this evening; but before we begin, let us take a glass of wine and light our cigars, and then to business." He filled their glasses from the decanter on the table, and each took a fresh cigar from the box. Craft again sat himself down in his chair and leisurely puffed clouds of smoke from his mouth, while Hathaway stood with his back to the fire. Both were now prepared for anything which Cobb might advance, for it seemed to each of them that it was no longer a question of "Is it true?" but a "fact only to be proved." Cobb, having left the room, soon returned with a small box containing six cells of Grenet battery and about ten feet of wire attached to two pieces of copper. These he placed upon the table. Taking the box containing the cat, he carried it to the front window and set it upon a chair. Entering once again his little work-room, he brought out three sponges and as many strips of common linen, and then from a bottle in his hand he sprinkled the sponges well. Approaching Craft, he said: "Let me bind this upon your nostrils, and at the same time caution you not to open your mouth, but to breathe through the linen bandage and sponge." Craft arose and submitted to the operation of having his face below the eyes covered by the sponge and bandages. Cobb then approached Hathaway and treated him in like manner. This having been finished, he wrapped his own face carefully with the third bandage. His mouth was purposely left free that he might explain the few remaining acts in his strange comedy. Going across the room, he threw open the window to its full extent; then coming back again, he opened the window before which stood the chair containing the box. Turning to his friends, he answered their mute inquiries by stating that he took these precautions lest the remaining ozone in the case should, in escaping, overpower them. The air passing through the room from the back window would quickly carry out the evaporating ozone. "I will break the glass top of the case," he said, "and quickly seize the cat, withdraw it, and throw the box out of the window." Cobb now adjusted the cloth about his mouth, while the others came closer to him that they might not miss any part of the proceedings. Taking a small hammer from a shelf near by, he struck the glass a smart blow, shattering it into many pieces; quickly seizing the cat, he drew it out of the case and threw the latter out of the window. Next, tearing off the bandages about its loins and head, he clapped the two copper discs against the body of the animal--one upon its back and one upon its breast, just over the heart; then dropping the zincs into the fluid of the battery, completed the circuit by touching a push-button. The effect was startling: the poor animal gave a gasp, a shiver ran through its frame, its chest heaved a moment, and it breathed. Quickly taking it to the fire, he rubbed it briskly with a towel for a couple of minutes, and then laid it down upon the warm rug near the grate, that its body might receive the heat from the fire. The animal lay but a moment where he had placed it; it soon arose on its legs, walked around once or twice, and then quietly lay down in a new position. Taking the bandages from his face, Cobb told the others to do likewise. The air in the room was only slightly impregnated with the odor of ozone. The windows being closed, a saucer of milk was placed before the cat, and the animal instantly arose and lapped its contents. It seemed to all present as if the animal had just arisen from a sound sleep. There was no indication in its manner that it had undergone any new or unusual treatment. It was strange! It was more than strange--it was marvelous! No longer was there any doubt in the mind of either Craft or Hathaway. The theory had been plainly and truly demonstrated. Cobb had become possessed of a power unknown to any other living man. What would he do with this power? was the question that immediately came to the mind of each. Would he use it for good, or for evil? Was it a play-thing that he had discovered? or had he worked out this problem for some great and grand undertaking? "What next?" inquired Hathaway. "What is the next act in this drama?" "To bed," said Cobb, glancing up at the clock. "It is now ten minutes past one. To-morrow evening meet me here. Say nothing, not even a word, about what you both have witnessed and heard to-night. Have I your word?" he asked, inquiringly. "Yes, certainly," they replied together; "if you wish us not to speak of it." "I do indeed wish it, and trust that nothing will cause you to divulge a single part of this evening's occurrences. Good-night!" Shaking their hands at the door, he again said good-night as they descended the stairway. Returning, he filled the grate with more coal, and threw himself down, without undressing, upon the cot in the corner of the room. A moment later, the deep sound of his breathing and the low purring of the cat on the rug were the only sounds heard in the room. CHAPTER II The next evening, Junius Cobb again welcomed the arrival of his friends to his apartments. The November rains had set in in reality, and like the preceding evening, the post wore an aspect of moistened gloom. Cobb's friends had come earlier than usual, for the events of the previous evening were so vividly before their minds that it was impossible to await the arrival of the conventional hour for calling upon their friend. They rattled up the stairs, knocked respectfully at his door, and entered without waiting for his well-known voice. He was sitting in his easy-chair, but arose at the first sound of their approach, and as they entered, cordially grasped the hand of each. "Boys, I am glad you came earlier than is your custom," he said, motioning them to chairs. "We could not wait for nine o'clock," replied Hathaway, breathless from running up the stairs. "No; we couldn't wait," chimed in Craft. "I do believe I dreamed of nothing but ozone, dead cats, chemistry, and the like, all night. I am, in fact, weary for want of sleep." Cobb did the honors of his house, and soon all three were quietly sitting, and sending clouds of smoke airily toward the ceiling. "Any news at the club?" inquired Cobb of Craft. "Nothing out of the usual run. Dilly, the young one from the Point, and the others are working hard at a game of cinch." "A good night for a quiet game, or for a quiet chat, too," said Hathaway. "Yes," said Cobb; "but would you rather play cinch to remaining here and listening to what I have to say?" "Oh, no, my dear boy; excuse us. I left them all in their glory, and hunted up Craft, that we might the sooner get here, for I have no doubt that you have some remarkable disclosures to make to-night." "You are right; I have--and some that will probably strike you as being the most fanciful and, perhaps, untenable, you have ever heard," returned the other, looking his two listeners in the eye. "Let that be seen in the future," they both exclaimed. "What is your pay?" abruptly asked Cobb, after a moment's silence. "You ought to know--$1,500 a year." "And yours the same?" to Craft, "both being dismounted officers." "Certainly; and a mighty small sum for a man to put on style, go to parties, and send bouquets and the like, I assure you," returned that personage. "And mine is but a trifle more. We are all poor, impecunious gentlemen, are we not?" "Yes, decidedly so, I fear; for I am not aware that either of us has anything outside of his pay," answered Craft. "And what are our chances for promotion? The way things go now, I will have to serve fifty years to become a colonel. Of course, I cannot serve that long, as I would be over the maximum age," gloomily broke in Hathaway. "It is even so, gentlemen," and Cobb knocked the ashes from his cigar. "Promotion in the army is so exceedingly slow that none of us can expect to reach a colonelcy; in fact, the most that is before us is a majority. Here we are, gentlemen of thirty and thirty-five years of age, giving our lives and brains to this government for a paltry $2,000 a year. I, for one, intend to remedy this sad state of affairs," and he arose and walked across the room in an impatient manner. The others watched him curiously. His manner of action spoke volumes, and indicated plainly that there was something he had to tell them in conjunction with his remarks. Cobb strode nervously across the room for a minute, then suddenly approaching the table, he filled to the brim a glass with whisky from one of the decanters. Raising it to his lips to drink its contents, he suddenly paused, and begging the pardon of his guests, invited them to join him. His thoughts were not upon his actions. "Listen," he exclaimed, as their glasses were laid upon the table; "are you ready to give me your strictest attention?" "We are all ears, and will gladly listen to all you have to say," answered Craft, while Hathaway's eyes and manner betokened the curiosity he could not conceal. "Are you both willing to give your oaths that what I tell you to-night will never, under any circumstances, be divulged by either of you to a living soul, or ever put in writing, or in any manner made possible to be known?" Both of the men gave him this promise. Cobb arose and took a small Bible from the mantel over the grate, and advancing to the table, held it in his right hand, requesting each of the others to place his hand upon it. They arose from their chairs and placed their hands upon the sacred volume. "Repeat after me," said Cobb: "I swear by all that I hold sacred, by my hope of salvation in the after life, and by my belief in a just and good God, that I will not divulge or disclose, by tone of voice, or writing, or other symbol, that which maybe communicated to me this night; so help me God." His words were slowly and solemnly spoken, and the repetition of them by the others was in a manner indicative of the sincerity and truth they both felt in the obligation taken. "Good!" and Cobb laid the book upon the table. "I might now go on and tell you of that for which I asked you to meet me here to-night, but there would be no use in communicating to you these secrets unless you agree to assist me. It is your help that I desire." "Cobb," and Craft's manner indicated that he felt hurt by his friend's hesitation, "I have known you for quite a long time. I have admired and respected you, and if I can be of any assistance to you in any way, you have but to ask me." "Then, if I tell you that that which I ask of you can be performed without any neglect of the duties you owe to your God, your country, or yourself--that it will harm no one, nor will anyone have cause to complain of your action--will you swear it?" "Yes!" they both exclaimed. Again Cobb took the sacred volume from the mantel; again was the oath administered, and again was it taken freely and unreservedly. "Gentlemen, I thank you," and an expression of gratitude came into Cobb's eyes. "Such friendship is worthy of you!" After some ordinary conversation, he wheeled his chair nearer the others, and thus addressed them: "For many years I have served this government honestly and well, but my salary has never seemed to me sufficient for the actual needs of a man in the position of an army officer. The government requires too much for the pay it gives. Again, a man is required to serve too many years in the lower grades; he is an old man by the time he is a captain. This is certainly contrary to the principles of a good and efficient government. As a captain, he should not be over thirty years of age, at the most. Here am I, who will be only a captain at fifty, if even then. This discourages the average young man. It keeps many from entering the service, because they say, 'I can do better outside.' I am ambitious, and desire to gain rank and wealth. But one thing I have found: _Life is too short._ I propose to lengthen it. You do not yet comprehend the import of my words. _I propose to enter life again a hundred years hence!_ I know this statement startles you, but such is my intention. I propose to put myself in the condition in which you have seen that Maltese cat. I will sleep a hundred years. My arrangements are all made; my property, small though it is; is so fixed that it will not be lost to me in that time. But I must hold my commission in the army--that is the hard problem. What do you think of my scheme?" and he put his hands behind him, and stood watching the effects of his proposition. To say that his listeners were surprised, would ill interpret their feelings. They were dumbfounded. They could not believe that this man would dare to undergo the risk of death for the mere possibility of again living at a future day. He certainly was joking! He had asked them there to see if they would be such fools as to accept his remarks as given in earnest and good faith! As soon as Craft could get his breath, he exclaimed, vehemently: "You are certainly not going to subject yourself to such a test!" Hathaway could not speak; he simply sat and looked at this man in amazement. "Yes," and Cobb laughed at the horrified expressions upon their faces. "Yes, I do most certainly intend this very thing. I have nothing to lose; I have everything to gain. My theories will be tested, my suppositions proved. I have invested all my wealth except a sufficient amount to carry out my programme, in such a manner that in a hundred years it must, or my calculations are very much out of the way, increase in a way to make me a rich man. If I can hold my rank in the army, I will be a colonel, probably. With wealth and rank, I can again enter the world in a position to gratify my ambitions and desires. If I succeed, all will be well; if I fail, why, that is the end of it. Without chick or soul in this world dependent upon me, why should I hesitate to advance the sciences by undergoing the ordeal of that which I have advocated? No one but I ought to be called upon to prove the theory I have originated. If I fail, what is the consequence? I simply die! On this earth, a human being dies every second; does it interfere with the steady and slow movement of the machinery of life? No, not at all! Though 32,000,000 die every year, they are not missed! Do we know what the future is? Do we know it to be worse than the present? No! Then, why care if we die to-day or to-morrow? I am resolved to take this opportunity of demonstrating that man can live longer than the allotted time accorded him. I have always longed to know what this world would be like in a hundred years: it certainly will be a strange world! Most men think that we have reached a state of perfection already, and that it is almost impossible for man to improve upon the present condition of life, surrounded, as we are, by so many and great inventions. I, for one, do not think that way. I believe we are but in our infancy to what we will be in a hundred years. You have each given me your sacred promise that you will assist me in my undertaking. I hold you to it. I am, in reality, going to die, as regards all my friends, all my associations, and as regards the very present itself. I think I can almost understand the feelings of the condemned criminal on the scaffold, who is about to leave behind him all that is dear, all that is sacred to him. Yet I am buoyed up by other feelings that that poor wretch has not; I will live again. I do not believe that either of you can quite understand my feelings in this matter. It is too new to you both. There are many cases on record where men have given up life for various reasons--given it up cheerfully and without a murmur; and those men never expected to live again--at least, in the flesh. Why should I falter? I, who go but to come again; to again enjoy the pleasures of life; to walk, see, speak, and associate with mankind!" Cobb ceased speaking, and paced the floor in an excited manner. It was evident that this man, much as he talked of severing his connections with the present, was still loath to attempt this terrible ordeal. Yet, it was also apparent to both that he would not hesitate in his purpose. He was a man of too strong will; he would make the sacrifice. His friends knew it and felt it. Ceasing his walk, Cobb faced them and said: "Before I leave, before I enter this dormant state, I must secure my position in the army beyond the possibility of losing it. How I am to do this, has long been a problem. If I am dead, I will be dropped from the rolls of the army; if I go on leave, I must return at the expiration of that leave, or, failing to do so, be declared a deserter. There seems to be but one way for me to accomplish my object. I will explain it." Cobb now entered his little room, and soon returned with a small sporting rifle and a paper box. It was an ordinary thirty-calibre rifle, such as is used in sporting galleries. Approaching his friends, he opened the box and showed them a row of small cartridges. They differed very little from those used in the ordinary rifle. Handing one to Craft, he said: "Do you notice anything peculiar about that cartridge?" "Well," and Craft examined it critically, turning it over and over, "it seems to be nothing but a solid thirty-calibre bullet. I cannot see that it is a cartridge at all," and he handed it to Hathaway. The latter examined it closely. It was, indeed, to all appearance, but an ordinary bullet with the base filled flush with some black substance; in length it was only seven-tenths of an inch; in calibre, thirty one-hundredths. Taking one of them between his thumb and forefinger, Cobb twirled it about and said: "This is one of my new cartridges for use in actual service. It seems to you, no doubt, very small, very inadequate to the needs of actual warfare. You would both naturally say that it is too small for long range, too small for executive work; that it is altogether unfit for the purposes for which bullets are made." A smile played about his lips. Then, continuing, as he held up one of these bullets: "This is an ordinary thirty-calibre bullet, but the grand principle is in the explosive used with it. Heretofore it has required about fifty grains of powder to send such a missile on an effective mission. Now, fifty grains of powder require quite a good-sized space; it requires a case to hold it, and all this lengthens out the cartridge. If a magazine gun is used, but few such cartridges can be placed in the magazine. I have overcome all this by using a new explosive of my own manufacture. I take the ordinary bullet and simply fill the hollow end with one grain of my new compound, covering the whole with a fine and durable cement. All this saves space, and enables me to put about forty cartridges in my gun. Do you comprehend the drift of my remarks?" Both of his listeners nodded assent. Cobb loaded the gun with one of the ordinary cartridges, and then placed a bundle of common wrapping-paper on end at the other side of the room. Taking a position in the further corner, he discharged the piece at this improvised target. The bullet entered the paper and penetrated through about forty sheets. Then, loading with one of his own cartridges, he again took the same position, and again discharged the piece. Upon examination, it was found that over ninety-seven sheets of paper had been perforated. Cobb laid the gun on the table and said: "You see the effect of the two cartridges! Which is the superior of the two? Of course, mine; and in effect as forty is to ninety-seven, or even more, perhaps. This is the power that will grant me my leave! This explosive is my own invention. You have seen its power. If we put gunpowder at one and that of gun-cotton at four, then that of meteorite, my new compound, would be nearly forty-six. "Like gun-cotton, there is little or no smoke upon discharge, as you have witnessed; but, unlike gun-cotton or nitro-glycerine, the explosion is not instantaneous, but similar to that of gunpowder. Now, the amount of gas evolved upon the explosion of one grain of gunpowder is, in volume, about three hundred of carbonic acid and nitrogen, but the true volume, considering the heat, is about fifteen hundred times that of the original charge. Meteorite has a rate of combustion three times slower than gunpowder, while the volume of gas liberated is more than sixty-six times that of the latter, or about one hundred thousand times its original bulk. This is the power, as I have said, that gives me my leave of absence. On the 22d of last month I sent an application to the War Department for a leave for the purpose of perfecting a gun in which to use these cartridges. With the application I sent some of the cartridges. I also sent a sealed packet containing the formula for making the explosive, but with the positive directions that the formula should not be made known until I had perfected my experiments. I asked for leave until I had completed my work. Through the little influence I possessed, I pressed this application to be granted in the manner I asked. Yesterday I received my leave, and here it is;" and he handed Craft the following paper: "WAR DEPARTMENT, A.-G. O., } WASHINGTON, November 9, 1887.} "Special Orders, No. 156. [Extract.] "5. Leave of absence is hereby granted First Lieutenant Junius Cobb, Second Cavalry, from December 1, 1887, until surrendered by him in writing, or upon his return to duty, for purposes which he has communicated to this department. "By command of Lieut.-Gen. Sheridan. "R. C. DRUM, "_Adjutant-General_." "I had this leave," said Cobb, as he took it from Craft, after the latter had read it, "while I was talking to you last night, but I preferred not to show it to you until this evening. Any time after the first of next month I can leave the service and return when I wish, and my commission will be secured to me." Craft and Hathaway both told him that though they thought his undertaking was a very foolish one, nevertheless they would give him all the assistance in their power, as they had promised. Cobb and his friends talked a little longer on various things to be done, and finally separated for the night; the two latter going home to wonder over this great scheme of their friend, the former seating himself in his easy-chair to deliberate upon the thousand and one incidentals necessary to carry it out. CHAPTER III In order to carry into effect this great and ambitious idea, Cobb had commenced operations as early as July. He knew that he must find some place in which to lay his body, that would be perfectly safe from any possible disturbance. It would not do to select any house, or any particular piece of ground, nor could he go to any island or distant part of the globe. A hundred years would make such changes that it was impossible to foretell what places would not be disturbed in that time. It was a most difficult problem to solve. Was there a place on earth that he was sure would not be reached by human hands, and its contents and secrets made known, in a hundred years! It was imperative that he should find such a place, and with all the assurance that one has in life of anything, that it would remain unmolested. What would not happen in a hundred years! Were he to take the most unfrequented and out-of-the-way place he could conceive of, it might be the very place of all others that would be the first to be explored by some enterprising genius in the future. Cobb knew this, and realized the necessity of selecting such a spot as would give the utmost assurance that no one would desire to destroy, enter, or molest it in any way. After many hours of reflection upon the subject, he at last decided upon what he considered to be the best place possible to select--the place that would, in all probability, remain in its primitive state for the period desired. There was being built upon Mount Olympus, some three miles from the city of San Francisco, by a Mr. Sutro, a generous gentleman of that city, a reduced copy of the statue of "Liberty Enlightening the World," then in position on Bedloe's Island, New York harbor. This statue was to be about thirty feet in height, resting upon a pedestal some forty by thirty feet in area, and twenty-five feet high. Cobb conceived the idea that such a piece of work would, in all likelihood, remain undisturbed by any and every person for the period necessary for his long sleep. No sooner had this belief taken possession of him than he at once took measures to communicate with the gentleman who had charge of its construction. A Mr. Bennett was the supervising architect, and this gentleman was easily induced, for a consideration, to undertake the construction of a small chamber within the base of the pedestal. He also agreed that the chamber should be reached through the side by a hinged block of marble fitting perfectly, but movable with ease from the inside, and that the purpose for which it was constructed should never be made known by him. Mr. Bennett was not aware of Cobb's true intentions regarding the chamber; it was simply a contract between them that such a piece of work should be performed. Bennett was a man of his word, and was well known to Cobb, who placed the utmost confidence in him; yet, to make it still more binding, he placed him under a sacred oath not to enter the chamber after it was built, or communicate his knowledge of its existence to any living soul, nor to leave any information of it at his death. While the pedestal was being built, Bennett had one of the largest marble slabs taken out, at night, by workmen brought there blindfolded, and replaced upon hinges, so it would easily open and shut by the pressure of a finger on a concealed spring. This part of the work having been accomplished, it was very easy to carry out the remainder. The pedestal being finished and solid, he took workmen there every night, blindfolded, and opening the slab door, cut out the masonry, hauling away the material as fast as it was taken out. Cobb desired that the chamber should be as deep as possible below the center of the pedestal, for security; Bennett made it so by digging down, after entering the base, and lining the sides with heavy brick-work. The interior of the chamber, after construction, was fourteen by eighteen feet, and in height nine feet and six inches. The floor was made very smooth by a liberal use of Portland cement. The door was so constructed that after an inside catch had been set, it would lock itself upon being closed, and no amount of skill could open it without breaking the marble slab. There was no inlet for light, nor was there any entrance or exit for air. Such was the finished condition of the chamber, as turned over by Mr. Bennett to Cobb, on the 15th of November, 1887. Cobb had not been negligent in the meantime, but had gotten many of the necessary things into shape which he knew would be required, for his chamber was to have a great many and a great variety of instruments, all of which would be absolutely necessary to insure success. Nothing could be done before the 24th of November, for on that day the Statue of Liberty was to be unveiled and turned over to the city of San Francisco by Mr. Sutro. At last the 24th arrived, and the ceremonies of dedication were over. As the last citizen left the vicinity of the statue a man came up the hill to view the surroundings. That man was Junius Cobb. He approached the pedestal and looked carefully over its sides. Yes, it was all right; no one had had an inkling of the secret entrance, or a thought that it was to be used for anything save that for which it had been erected. Satisfied with his inspection, he passed down the hill, and took the Haight-street cars to the city, leaving them at the corner of Market and Montgomery. With rapid strides he quickly passed down that street to the Occidental Hotel. Near the entrance of that noted army resort, whipping his legs with a small cane in a most impatient manner, stood Hathaway, as if awaiting the arrival of some expected person. Cobb at once walked up to him and cried: "Hello! Hathaway; on time, I see; but where is Craft?" "Playing billiards in the other room--at least he was there a minute ago; but do you want us to-night?" inquiringly. "Of course! did I not ask you to meet me here?" "Yes, I know; but are you going to work so soon? What is the use of doing anything to-night? You know I have a partial engagement for this evening, and would like to keep it;" and Hathaway looked beseechingly toward his companion. "To me this is business, and I cannot postpone it; if your social duties are so pressing, why, I will have to excuse you." Cobb showed the displeasure he felt at the apparent want of interest displayed by the other in what to him was the greatest undertaking a man could engage in. "Oh, no," quickly replied Hathaway, noticing the effect of his words upon Cobb; "you do not understand me. I am ready now and at all times to give you my earnest assistance. What shall I do?" "Go and find Craft, and meet me here in ten minutes;" and Cobb turned on his heel, and passed down the street. Proceeding a few blocks, he hailed the driver of a passing express wagon, who pulled up his team at the curb-stone near where Cobb was standing. "Are you engaged?" quickly asked Cobb. "No," the man replied. "Do you wish to earn twenty dollars?" "Do I? try me!" The man's face gave evidence of his sincerity. "Will you work all night for that amount?" "Yes, sir." "And go wherever I wish?" "Yes; so I get back by morning." "And will you permit me to take your team, after you have gone a certain distance, and drive the remainder of the way, you to remain with one of my men until I return?" "Well, as to that, is it not a little peculiar to ask a man to let his team be driven off by unknown parties without a guarantee that it will be returned?" and the expression of his countenance indicated that he was in a quandary, for he did not like to lose the twenty dollars, nor did he like the idea of letting his team be driven away by strangers. "You need have no fear as to that; your team will be returned; but, to satisfy you, I will leave two hundred dollars with you as security until I return it." "That alters the case," said the man. "I am with you." "Then, be at the corner of California street in ten minutes;" and Cobb turned and walked back to the Occidental. Craft and Hathaway were awaiting him at the door of the hotel, the former puffing away at a cigar which the kindness of some friend had furnished. "Ah, here you are, both of you. Good! And now to business." Cobb seemed as if he was in a hurry to get to work, yet he showed no signs of excitement. They passed up Bush street to the works of the electrical supply company, where, entering the place, Cobb asked if the stores and apparatus which he had ordered had been packed and were ready for shipment. Receiving an affirmative reply, he told his friends to await him there, and quickly descended the stairs. Proceeding to the corner of California street, he met the expressman whom he had engaged; mounting the driver's seat, he directed him up Bush street, and stopped the team where he had left his friends. Giving the man orders to wait for him, he again ascended the stairs. The work of removing the boxes was at once commenced. First, there was a long box, looking much like a coffin, being some eight feet by three, and over eighteen inches in depth. This was carefully taken down-stairs and placed in the wagon; then followed five boxes of various shapes and weights. All things being safely placed in the wagon, Cobb mounted to the seat, telling Craft and Hathaway to get in and sit upon the boxes, as there was no room for them in front. Then, turning to the driver, he said: "Drive up into Kearney, and thence into Market toward the park; take Haight street at the junction." Away rattled the wagon, passing through the crowded streets and by the flashing windows filled with all the holiday goods, ready for the Christmas season. The night was quite dark; a slight drizzling rain which was falling, was very favorable to the scheme which Cobb and his friends had on hand. Passing up Haight street to within about half a mile of Mt. Olympus, Cobb ordered the driver to pull up his team. He then directed Hathaway to remain with the driver while he and Craft took the outfit to its destination. The place where they had stopped was a side street, close to and off of Haight street, and it was impossible for the driver, as much as he strained his eyes, to determine his surroundings. Cobb handed the expressman ten twenty-dollar gold pieces, with the understanding that they were to be returned when he brought back the team. Leaving Hathaway with positive orders not to permit the driver to leave that particular spot until their return, Cobb mounted the seat again, Craft sitting beside him. Turning once more into Haight street, for the purpose of throwing the driver off of their true course, they proceeded down that street for a couple of blocks, and turned sharp to the right, and drove quickly toward Mt. Olympus. Not a soul was in sight, and the many wagon-tracks made by the artillery and carriages, which had attended the unveiling of the statue, would conceal all indication that another carriage had gone up to the pedestal that evening. Driving close to the side of the base, Cobb pulled up, and both dismounted from the wagon. The secret spring of the door was quickly touched, and the heavy marble slab swung upon its hinges; then, with all dispatch, the boxes were unloaded and carried into the interior of the chamber. The large box required all the strength of the two men, but it was finally gotten inside. This being finished, Craft took the reins, and quickly drove the team back to where Hathaway was impatiently awaiting him. The money was returned by the driver, who then hurriedly departed for the city. Seeing the man well out of sight, Craft and Hathaway carefully made their way back to the statue, and were soon inside of the pedestal. The slab door was then nearly closed, leaving but a slight aperture for the entrance of air, the opening covered by boxes, to prevent the rays of their lights being seen by any chance visitors to that neighborhood. During their absence, Cobb had taken out two lanterns from one of the boxes, and now a bright light made everything quite clear within the chamber. "Now," said Cobb to Hathaway, "take that hatchet and open all of the boxes." The lids were quickly torn off and thrown to one side. The contents of these boxes needed careful inspection. The large one was first emptied. The sides of this box were wrenched off, disclosing a large glass case, seven feet six inches by two feet eight inches, and sixteen inches in height. This glass coffin--for such, indeed, it resembled--was carefully taken out and set upon the floor. Then followed, from the same box, an ordinary set of single bed-springs, or woven-wire mattress, such as are used on single beds. Cobb then took from one of the smaller boxes a pair of iron horses or trestles, and placed them in one corner of the room, with their legs firmly fixed into the cemented floor. Carefully lifting the glass case, he and Craft set it upon the trestles, leaving a space of about thirty inches between it and the floor. Next they hinged the wire mattress to the trestles, so that there were full twenty inches between it and the bottom of the glass case. From the next box unpacked were taken seventy-five cells of Grenet battery. These cells were of peculiar construction, and differed from the regular style in that the zincs were drawn up and held clear of the electropoion fluid by slight fastenings, which terminated in glass bulbs blown in the tops. Cobb had selected this battery on account of its great strength, and for the reason that it would remain inactive for an indefinite time, provided the zincs were kept out of the fluid. Placing an iron stand near the head of the case, he and Hathaway arranged the jars upon it, and connected the various cells for intensity. The wires were then run through small holes in the top glass of the large case, being insulated with a special covering that would withstand age without deteriorating. The next thing was to set in position, over the row of battery cells, an iron beam, with a fall of about four inches, the fall terminating in two sockets. This beam was held over and in position by a pulley, over which ran a wire rope composed of aluminum strands, and having attached to it a fifty-pound weight. Connected to the two poles of the battery were insulated wires, terminating in flat discs of copper. These wires were about thirty feet long, and passed through the holes in the top of the glass case, the copper discs being inside. From another box were taken two bottles of fine old French brandy, two bottles of whisky, a small bottle of Valentine's beef juice, and several cans of preserved meats, which had been prepared by Cobb, and the cans made of aluminum for the purpose. An alcohol heater was also taken out and set up in such a manner that a glass reservoir could, upon being turned on, feed it with alcohol. Through this heater ran wires joined to a platinum strip and connected with twenty cells of the battery. A cup and saucer, knife, fork, can-opener, spoon, and a couple of stew-pans, were next taken out and laid by the heater. All these things having been put in order, Cobb, with the assistance of Hathaway, carefully lifted from a large box a heavy glass case, two feet nine inches high by three feet square. This case was set in the further corner of the chamber. Through a door in the top, which Cobb opened, both Craft and Hathaway saw a number of wheel and pinion works, while at the bottom of the case was a circular piece of bright aluminum divided into equal divisions. The center of the ring was sunk into the glass bottom half an inch, and on one side of the ring was a number of small wheels and rods; the whole presenting the aspect of very fine and delicate mechanism. Cobb now took out of the last box a large and very elegant compass, two feet in diameter and with a heavy needle; this he placed in the sunken center of the glass case. Craft noticed that there was no iron or steel in the works in this box; nothing but aluminum, save the needle itself. Through the sides of the case, Cobb adjusted an aluminum rod connecting with the pulley and weight attached to the beam over the batteries. By this time the needle in the compass had settled and the positive pole pointed to 283 on the aluminum scale. Both Craft and Hathaway had asked but few questions during all this work, curbing their curiosity until such time as their companion would enlighten them as to the meaning of all this apparatus. They had been on the point, a number of times, of asking for some information, but the other had, by a look, quickly given them to understand that he was not yet ready to explain things. But it was impossible for Craft to hold in any longer; he had to ask the use of this last glass case, with its many wheels and delicate machinery. "Wait! You will understand it all soon," answered Cobb. "There is little more to do to-night." Then, taking a paper from his pocket, he scanned it for fully five minutes, making a few notes upon it with his pencil during the time. At last, seeming satisfied, he bent over the compass in the box, and by a small screw in its side turned the whole delicately adjusted works around until a fine pointer, from which projected a tiny hook, became flush with the figures 260 from the zero of the scale, or to a reading of 4 degrees 20 minutes; then turning the whole compass-box around, he carefully adjusted it so that the needle should point exactly to the figures 993, equivalent to a reading of 16 degrees 33 minutes, the magnetic variation east, of San Francisco, California, in December, 1887. It was easy to see that the little hook which hung down from the overlapping works would become engaged with the needle of the compass if the latter were to retrograde in arc 12 degrees 13 minutes. Unscrewing a cap on the top of the case, he applied a small air-pump, which he had taken out of the box, to the opening, and screwed it firmly on; then, closing the glass door, he placed cement along the junction of the door and sides, from a bottle which he had brought for that purpose. In a few moments, the cement had set, and then, working the air-pump, he soon exhausted the air from the case; finally unscrewing the pump, he replaced the cap and laid the pump in the corner of the chamber. All this being finished to his satisfaction, he announced that the work for the night was completed. Looking at his watch, Cobb said: "It is now four o'clock in the morning, and time that we should get out of this if we don't wish to be seen departing. We have done all that it is possible to do for the present; let us at once start for town; besides, you have to be at the post by six o'clock." "Yes, that is true," returned Hathaway; "we are due at that hour. We have done a good deal of work, but for the life of me, I am totally ignorant of the purposes of all this apparatus. I would like to have you explain some of it to me," and his eyes turned inquiringly toward the large case with its wheels and compass. "All in good time!" and Cobb cautiously opened the swinging panel. The coast was clear; not a single person was in sight. "Now, then, be lively!" and he stepped out, the others following quickly. In another moment the door was closed, and not a sign was left to indicate that the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty held within its interior the apparatus necessary for prolonging the life of a human being. The three friends passed down the hill, and took the Haight-street cars for the city. It was the first car for the day, and not another passenger was on board. Arriving at the Occidental, Cobb said: "You are expected to be at reveille this morning, but I have no duties until retreat. There are a few things that I wish to attend to; so I will leave you here. Be sure to be at my quarters at 9:30 to-night. Good-bye!" and he left them without waiting for a reply. It was nearly eight o'clock, and after a hearty breakfast, when Cobb left the hotel, passed down Montgomery street into Washington, and made his way to a small-sized house at the foot of an alley leading from that thoroughfare. The windows of the house were all closed by shutters, and the whole building bore an aspect of dilapidation. Ascending the four rickety steps that led to the door, he gave a sharp knock, repeating it after a moment, as no answer was obtained. "Who knocks?" "It is I, Colchis! Open the door." The door swung open, and Cobb entered, the door closing behind him with a bang. CHAPTER IV It is necessary to go back a few months in our story, and introduce a new character, the inhabitant of the little old, dilapidated house in the lane. On the evening of December 10, 1886, as Cobb was coming out of the Cosmos, a favorite club of the young gentlemen of San Francisco, he had run into an old and crippled man who was passing down the street. Cobb was in a hurry as he emerged from the place, and did not notice the poor pedestrian in time to avoid a collision. The consequences were that the old man was knocked to the ground, and appeared to be badly hurt. Cobb at once stopped and lifted the man up to ascertain the extent of his injuries, and finding him still insensible, had called a hack to convey him to the nearest druggist. The man was about sixty years of age, his right leg partially paralyzed, the sight of his right eye gone, and deep scars upon his face and neck. His clothes were shabby and much worn, yet there were indications that the man had seen better days. That portion of his face which was not scarred and seamed, gave evidence of quickness and perception, and a general appearance of knowledge and former refinement was plainly noticeable. His hands, too, were not those of a man accustomed to hard work. This man was Jean Colchis, a native of France, but a refugee from that country. He had, in his time, been a great chemist; he had been noted, far and near, as a man greatly gifted in the sciences, and one who had given much to his native country in the way of scientific invention; but, at a later day in his life, he had been led away by the persuasion of others to engage in a plot against the ruling power of his land. This plot being discovered, he was sentenced to death, but, escaping, had taken refuge in the United States. He was the recipient of a small pension from the members of his family who had not joined in the conspiracy, and upon this small pension Jean Colchis lived in the humble and rickety house in Duke's Lane. The pension was sufficient for all the needs of the old man and his only daughter, a lovely girl of seventeen years; it gave them their daily sustenance and life, and a slight margin from which to purchase the few things he needed to continue the one hobby of his life, chemical analysis. When Cobb had taken the old man to the druggist's, an examination had shown that nothing but a slight contusion of the side of the head had resulted from the unexpected knock-down he had received. He soon regained his senses, but was in a weak and helpless condition. Learning from him the place of his abode, Cobb at once took him there in a hack, and carefully attended him during the remainder of that evening. Such was the introduction of Junius Cobb to Jean Colchis. Cobb's kindness to the old Frenchman was rewarded by an invitation to call again, and as he descended the stairs of the old, rain-beaten house, he resolved to come the next evening. He did come, and many evenings after, and it was from this old man that Cobb first learned the art of making ozone in quantities. It was not a difficult matter for them to ascertain the various hobbies each possessed. Their conversation soon gave each an insight into the desires of the other for a knowledge of the many things yet unknown, but yet imagined. Their desires being so assimilated, their tendencies so coincident, it was only natural that each should take more than a common liking to the other. But, though he had worked with Colchis in the manufacture and uses of ozone, the latter never had any idea of the grand scheme his friend had in view, for Cobb would not communicate the secret to him for fear that he might divulge it to others. The door of the old house had opened to admit Cobb, and had closed again, leaving him in the hall. There was no light to guide him, but his knowledge of the place and surroundings was such that he found no difficulty in ascending to the little back parlor where Colchis usually sat when not at work. Opening the door, he entered, and was quickly clasped about the neck by a pair of plump white arms, while a face, radiantly beautiful, looked into his, and a red pouting mouth invited the kiss which he quickly bestowed upon it. "Oh, Mr. Cobb, I am so glad you have come! I heard you at the door, and have surprised you! Now, have I not? Say yes; for you know I have!" and the sweet little maiden released him, and shook her delicate finger in a menacing gesture, as if her command could not be disobeyed. Marie Colchis was the only child of Jean Colchis--a beautiful, fair-skinned girl of seventeen, with long, heavy blonde hair; plump in form, with small, fine hands; loving in disposition, with most winsome ways; innocent as a new-born babe. Jean Colchis had kept this sweet girl close to him with a jealous care. She knew no one, scarcely, save her father and Junius Cobb. Witty and bright beyond her years, yet gentle and innocent as a lamb, she had from the very first conceived a girlish love for her father's visitor. And Junius Cobb loved the girl dearly; loved to hear her girlish talk and watch her innocent ways; loved to stroke her hair, and loved to kiss her lips and feel her arms about him. Was there any harm? He was thirty-three, and she was but seventeen. [Illustration] Jean Colchis noted their peculiar love, and smiled. No man was closer to the heart of Jean Colchis than Junius Cobb. Nothing could the latter ask that the old man in Duke's Lane would not have given him--even his daughter, should he seek her. But this, of course, the old man knew was beyond expectation. It would have pleased his old heart, but the disparity of years caused him to believe it to be impossible. And Marie--what were her thoughts and feelings? She loved Junius Cobb--loved him, young as she was, as a mature woman loves the man she would call husband. She loved him with her whole heart, with her very soul. Cobb knew this, and reproached himself many times for causing her affectionate heart to entertain the hope that she would sometime be his wife. It had come by degrees, unseen by either, until each had felt that the brightness of the world was centered in the other. He could not marry her; this he knew, for she was too young. He could not wait until she had bloomed into the magnificent woman that he knew nature had destined her to become, for he would then be dead to the world. He could not tell her the truth! He did what thousands of others have done--he temporized. "Marie," and he took both of her hands in his, and looked long and lovingly into her eyes; "Marie, you are not a child, you are a woman. You are far beyond your years. What I tell you to-night will cause you pain, but it must be said." "O, Mr. Cobb!" she cried, and the tears flooded her eyes; "are you going to tell me that I am no longer your little Marie! that an--an--another is going to take you away from your little girl?" and she buried her head in his hands and cried piteously. "No, Marie, not that!" he quickly returned. "But I am going to leave you; am going far away; I may never return!" "And you will meet other and beautiful women, and will forget your Marie!" she said, still sobbing. "No! darling little Marie! Will it give you pleasure if I tell you that I swear to be true to you--to wait until you have grown to womanhood? that I will marry no other woman living but you?" and he stroked her beautiful hair and raised her face to his. "If you swear this, you do love me!" she cried through her tears; then, brightening up, she threw her arms about him, and murmured: "Though it will grieve me to the heart to see you leave me, yet your promise will ever tend to dull the sorrow of your absence, and will be a beacon light for me to look forward to. A few years, and you will come and claim me, will you not, Junius?" and as the words left her lips, she blushed and dropped her eyes from before his gaze. Somehow, she had never before used his first name. It seemed to her that he was too far above her, too much older, for such a liberty on her part. And how had their love ripened, these two of years so wide apart? Simply and easily enough. In one of his loving moods, Junius Cobb, in kissing her good-night, had said: "Marie, I will wait until you grow up, and marry you!" "Will you?" she had replied, laughing, yet earnestly. "Then, I accept you, Mr. Cobb, and will grow just as fast as I can." Very simple, and very easy. "Marie, little darling," and Cobb's voice was sad and low, "to-night I go far away. To-night we must part; but my sacred promise I give you, my girl darling, that when I return, you shall be my wife, _if living_." He knew his deception, but it was better, he thought, to let her live without the knowledge of the utter impossibility of the fulfillment of her hopes, than to tell her the truth, and break her heart. She would outgrow her girlish love, he argued, and time would soften, if not deaden, the sorrow of his continued absence. For a half-hour they talked, they loved, this man of thirty-three and the girl of seventeen. Who can fathom the mysteries of love! Leaving her in sorrow at his coming departure, but hopeful for the future, he moved toward the workshop of Colchis, while a choking sensation surrounded his heart, and tears filled his eyes. Turning the knob of the last door at the end of the hall, Cobb entered, and found his friend moving toward him. The room was lighted by four Edison incandescent lamps, one in each corner, besides an arc light directly over a large and peculiar machine from which sparks were incessantly being emitted. Like all true workers in electricity, Colchis' apartments were a net-work of wires, while the various parts of the house were connected, in one way or another, for quick communication. The answer to the summons which Cobb had made at the door was given by a speaking-tube, while the door itself opened and closed by magnets; thus Colchis was enabled to remain in his room while answering the calls at his door made by the few who had occasion to visit him. "Ah, Junius, my boy, welcome to the shop!" and the old man grasped the latter's hand. "I was expecting you this morning, sure; for it is now over forty-eight hours since you were here. What has kept you away?" "Duty, master; duty." Cobb had early used the term master, in token of the ability of his old but generous friend. "I was engaged the past two nights, and it was impossible for me to get here; but how progresses the work? Are you making a good showing, for you know the time is drawing near when I shall want the full amount." "Yes; there are nearly eight pounds ready for you when you desire to take them." "Good! It is close to the amount, I must say; and the batteries are still at it, I see." "Will you take a look at the work of the day?" "Yes; but yet, master, you know that I do not pretend to pass upon your work. I am too well satisfied that it is being well done." They moved toward the sparkling and crackling instrument near the further corner of the room. In reality, it was not what would be called an instrument, but a veritable manufacturing machine, turning out its products, small though they were, in the most perfect manner, and ceasing in its work but for a brief time during the whole twenty-four hours. This was the decomposing machine which Colchis and Cobb had devised and made for the concentrating of the ozone in the air. It was a rude affair, in one sense of the word, for neither of them had had any experience in making such machinery before; yet it was marvelous in other respects, for it accurately performed the duty for which it had been constructed. Standing upon four legs, was a glass case, about sixteen inches square by twenty deep, in the upper portion of which was a separate compartment with a glass bottom, having a hole some eight inches square through its center; on each side of this hole, with the points about one-sixteenth of an inch apart, were ten platinum wires, while the opening in the top terminated in a common stove-pipe, which was run into the chimney. Entering at the bottom of the case was a two-inch pipe, connected with a large double-cylinder air-pump, which in turn was coupled to a pony motor worked by storage batteries. Along the other side of the room were twenty-four cases, each containing four accumulators of under .005-ohm internal resistance. These batteries were, individually, capable of developing 350 ampere hours of work, and each cell had an electromotive force of eight volts. A part of this battery was attached to the platinum points in the inside of the case, while the remainder was used to work the pump, feed the lamps in the house, etc. The pump was an ordinary compressor of two cylinders, each cylinder having a capacity of 1,000 cubic inches. The total power exerted was 3,000 pounds every six-tenths of a second, or about thirteen actual horse power. The air being received into the cylinder, was forced into the glass case through the pipe in the bottom, and under a pressure of two atmospheres; thus delivering, every three minutes, 200,000 cubic inches of air. The air, in rising, passed through the aperture above and out through the pipe, which was provided with a valve opening at a pressure of thirty-five pounds per square inch. Between the platinum points, by means of an automatic break, were continually being sent a series of electric sparks, causing the air to be deprived of its ozone, which fell in vapor to the bottom of the glass case, and there formed into crystals of various sizes. The machinery which Colchis and Cobb had erected was not perfect by any means, and the consequence was that they could not save all of the ozone in any given quantity of air. They did the best they could, saving about fifty per cent. The air-pumps were capable of driving through the reduction chamber over 80,000,000 cubic inches, or 4,000 pounds of air in every twenty hours; but this vast amount yielded only 400 grains of ozone. The expenditure of force for the result obtained was enormous; but there was no other method for them to get the amount of ozone required, except with greater power and cost. Early in July, Cobb had gained the assistance of Colchis to manufacture these crystals, and had put in the reducer, pumps, and motor immediately after. Every evening at six o'clock, and every morning at five, a team drove up to Colchis' back gate, delivering new storage batteries and taking away the old ones. Day after day, from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon, and from seven in the afternoon until five in the morning, since the 5th of August, the manufacture had been going on; making one hundred and twelve days' work up to the morning in question--November 25, 1887. "Master, this is the 25th of August, is it not?" "Yes, Junius." "And you say the quantity that I asked for is nearly ready?" "Nearly. At five o'clock to-morrow morning I will have 45,000 grains." "Good! That is the amount, exactly." "But at first you desired only seven pounds; I would have had that some time ago." "Yes, master; but I did not care to have you stop at the exact amount; circumstances might cause me to wish for more, at the last moment." "It has been incessant work for the machines, I can assure you; but they have done splendidly;" and Colchis laid his hand lovingly upon the reducer, near which he was standing. "Colchis, how can I ever repay you for the time you have given to the manufacture of these crystals?" and Cobb took up a glass bottle with a sealed top containing a pound of ozone, the result of over two weeks' constant work. "Say nothing about pay, my dear boy; it has cost you enough already, I fear; for the continual recharging of all these accumulators must take no small sum." "True; it has taken quite a little fortune, to me at least, to obtain these eight pounds of ozone; but I hope the money has been well expended." "Junius," and Colchis laid his hand upon the other's shoulder, "you have never told me what you are going to do with all this ozone. Is there a secret about it? If there is, my boy, you need not say a word; perhaps I ought not to ask you, but leave you to tell me, or not, as you wish." [Illustration] "Colchis, my dear old friend, I ought to be more confiding, and tell you why I sought your assistance, why I have used your time, why I have taken your knowledge and used it to my own advantage; but it is impossible to make you acquainted with this one great object. Ask no more, I pray you!" and he turned away as if he had refused that which the other was justly entitled to request. Putting his arm about Cobb's neck, Colchis looked him in the eyes with a kind and loving expression: "Say no more; make no excuses; I surely would not pry into your secrets. We all have undertakings, we all have periods of our lives concerning which we do not care to communicate to the world. Your secrets are yours, Junius; I do not feel hurt in the least that you enlighten me not upon them." "But I know your curiosity has been aroused, and you naturally have wondered why I have wanted all this ozone, especially when it has taken such an expenditure of money and time to procure it." "Yes, it has; but it is gone now. I no longer have any curiosity on the subject. To-morrow morning I will have the full amount that you have requested, 45,000 grains." "How much have I had already?" "In August, a year ago, you had about ninety grains, and in the following October, a little over 1,500 more." "Yes; that was for the experiment with the cat." He had spoken without thinking. Colchis looked up, surprised; a curious expression came over his face, but he said nothing. "Yes," he continued, "I remember now. There were about 1,600 grains made by the old process. Had we been compelled to follow that method, we would never have completed our task." "True, my boy! It was a lucky day for you, I have no doubt, when we hit upon the idea we have since employed." "Come," said Cobb, "let us sit down. I have a little more to speak of ere we part for the night." They passed through the door into a smaller but neater room. The furniture was plain and scarce, but the fire in the grate gave the room an agreeable appearance. Colchis touched a button, and instantly a bright light shone out from a pair of Edison lamps; then, handing Cobb a glass and bottle, taken from a pile of books and papers on the table, he said: "Brighten up, Junius, with some of this old cognac; it is good, I can assure you, for we Frenchmen know what is good brandy. Had I a cigar, I would offer you one; but I do not smoke, so you will have to provide yourself with that article, if you smoke at all. Now, sit down," as Cobb finished his glass of brandy, "and tell me what it is that appears to worry you. Why are you so sad to-night?" "There is not much to tell, master, except that this will be my last night to pass with you, my dear old friend; I am going on a long and dangerous journey, one from which I will never return--that is, to my friends now living. I go not to escape the consequences of any crime or wrong-doing, but to gratify my ambition alone. It would give me much pleasure, much happiness, could I but take with me such a dear friend as you have been; but it cannot be. Do not look startled, dear Colchis; I am not going to commit suicide; and yet, again, I am--suicide as regards all present, but not as regards the future. I will say no more, nor must you ask me any questions. For your kindness, I have only thanks to offer, unless you will confer a favor upon me by taking this check for $2,000 as a partial recompense for your labors in my behalf," and he laid the check upon the table. Colchis arose from his chair, seized the check, and tore it into a hundred pieces; his eyes looked deep into those of his young friend, and then the tears came, and the old man sunk back into his chair. The friendship which had been so romantically begun between these two men was then, by Cobb, to be ended, and the sore healed by a money consideration! "Junius, I did not believe that you would insult me in this manner! Our friendship has been one of the brightest spots in my life. Let it end if it must, but let it end with the feeling that each has aided the other to the best of his ability, and without hope of other recompense than the knowledge that the assistance was spontaneously and willingly given. You are about to embark in some new and great enterprise; of that I feel assured, yet I do not ask its import. If you must leave the old man, never again to see him--if you must sever the friendship that has been a Godsend to the refugee from his native land--so be it; I can say no word against it, believing you would not do it were it possible to do otherwise. Let us say no more upon the subject. At six o'clock to-morrow morning send to me, and I will have the ozone ready to be delivered to your man. There will be eight pounds of it, in as many bottles." "Then, there is nothing more for me to do but to take your hand, dear, kind old master, and bid you a lasting but sorrowful farewell. May a good God watch over you, Colchis, is the last wish of your friend and pupil. Good-bye!" and, saying this, Cobb pressed the old cripple to his heart. "Good-bye! my darling boy," sobbed the old man. "But, Junius, does Marie know this? The child loves you. She talks of you continually. Does she know you are going away forever?" and he put both hands on the shoulders of the young man and looked him in the eyes. "Ah! master, master! Like a coward, like a cur, am I running away! I have seen her! I have lied to her! lied, I tell you; lied to her! and because I had not strength to tell the truth!" He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed like a child. "My son, cry not at what I am convinced you did for the best interests of that dear girl. My faith in you is not shaken. Let God alone judge our motives; mankind can do it not!" "O master! I cannot leave you in this manner! To leave you now with the simple knowledge that I will never return, would be to provoke all manner of thoughts detrimental to my honesty and sincerity of character. You shall know all! I will confide in you my secret!" Then by the side of this grand old man, Cobb sat and told him of his great undertaking, and of his love for his daughter. Half an hour after, the door opened, and Colchis, with a face grave and sad, called to his daughter Marie. Entering the room, she looked from one to the other, as if seeking some explanation of the quiet, sad expression of each. Junius Cobb bowed his head, and the hot tears fell upon his hands. Colchis turned his face away. Quickly going to her lover, Marie knelt at his feet, and gently raised his head until their eyes met. "Do not cry, Junius; do not cry. I know you cannot help yourself. Duty calls you away, and you must go. Such, you have told me, is a soldier's fortune." He clasped her to his heart. "Marie," gravely and sadly spoke her father, "he leaves us to-night. When he returns, no man can tell. But let this comfort you: he has asked for your hand; your heart, I know, is his already. I have given my consent, and gladly. Let him go to his duty cheerfully, and await his return. If you are constant in the love you profess as a girl, you shall marry Junius Cobb, or no other. I swear it, as I hope for salvation hereafter," and he raised his hand toward Heaven in token of his oath. Cobb raised his eyes inquiringly to those of his friend. What did he mean by those words? Was he, too, imposing upon the girl's innocence? A strange light, a gleam of hope, of inspiration, shone in the eyes of Jean Colchis as he once more bade Cobb good-bye, and left the room. Marie and Cobb were alone--alone for the last time: she, hopeful for the future; he, broken-hearted from a knowledge of what that future was to be. "Junius, my own," she murmured, "go, and do your duty. God be with you, as will always my prayers. But go with this knowledge: that I swear by the God my mother taught me to adore, that I will wait till you come to me, will be true to you forever; will marry none on earth but you." How beautiful, heavenly beautiful, was this girl, standing there under the electric light. None can tell the passions that moved that man's heart. Would he give up his great undertaking, and live and marry this Hebe, this angel? Too late! too late! The die was cast; he must meet his destiny! With an aching heart, he kissed her good-bye--kissed her good-bye, and forever. Into the chilly morning air he went, but there was no chill like the chill at his heart. Turning once toward the old house, he cried in his anguish: "God watch over you and take you, for you are lost to me forever!" CHAPTER V It was the night of December 1st, and torrents of rain poured down, flooding the streets of the city and the grounds of the Presidio. Seven had just struck from the little, old-fashioned clock on Cobb's mantel. But few changes had taken place in that room since the last evening we saw our friends there. The lights shone just as brightly, and the fire in the grate glowed with all its former heat and cheerfulness, yet an air of depression seemed to pervade the whole room and its occupants. Cobb walked the floor with a quick and jerky step, while Craft sat silently watching the embers in the grate, as if trying to solve some abstruse problem by their aid. Hathaway lay at full length upon the long sofa, near the further wall, puffing a cigar and sending out the circles of smoke in a manner peculiar to men who are in a nervous mood. From the time that his comrades came that evening, with the exception of a few words of welcome, Cobb had appeared in this abstracted manner, and had seemed to be totally oblivious to his surroundings. His friends had, with great perception, understood his feelings, and had remained in their chairs, preserving a dead silence, waiting for him to open the conversation. At last, with a quick movement, he stepped toward a side-table and filled a glass tumbler with whisky, and drank it to the bottom; then, setting down the glass, seemed to be again absorbed in his thoughts. Only a minute, however, did he remain in this position; for it seemed that the liquor had revived him and the depressing sense of gloom was passing off. Turning to his friends, he exclaimed: "Am I not a coward, thus to seek energy and strength in that bottle of liquor? But I cannot help it; I am in the saddest mood of my life! Until this moment I have had only a longing for the time to come for me to make the experiment; but now that the time has arrived, I must admit that I am terribly loath to undertake the ordeal. O my friends!" he cried, "it is certainly impossible for you to understand my feelings! I am like the condemned man on the scaffold about to leave this world, with its pleasures and sorrows, never again to see those whom he loves; never again to associate with those who have been dear and kind to him. I am to enter into a strange condition; and when I again move, and walk, and see, if, indeed, I ever do, it will be to find that those who were dear to me are but dust." Saying this, he buried his face in his hands, bowed his head, and wept. His friends said no word, their own feelings almost overcoming them, but waited the passing of this transitory outbreak of the man's feelings. "There, dear boy," said Hathaway, rising and putting his arms about the latter; "there, let it pass. We are convinced, that if it was required of you, you would undertake this task; but it is not required, so let it end here and forever." "Yes;" and Craft joined his voice with that of his friend. "Yes; there is no need for you to suffer, no need for you to imperil your life for the sake of advancing the sciences. Let it end!" Cobb brushed away the tears, and looked at them a minute in silence; then, with a quick, jerky tone, said: "No, it is too late! My fate ordains it! I will--I will, I say, go through this ordeal! Were I to stop now, what would you think of me? that I was a coward and afraid to carry out my boasted theory!" He paused a moment, and then his face brightened. "Enough!" he cried. "It's all over now, and I am Cobb once more! Were I never again to see the light of day, yet would I venture this uncertain existence!" The old fire of his eyes flashed forth. Craft and Hathaway saw that it was useless to argue the question with him, and reluctantly submitted to the inevitable. Striking a match, the latter said: "So be it, Cobb; I deplore your undertaking, but I admire your pluck." "Then to business," returned Cobb, "for this is my last night with you. Now, listen and understand well your instructions: My leave is here; countersigned this morning," and he touched his blouse pocket; "so to all inquiring friends to-morrow you are to say that I left last evening. All my property in this house is to be divided between you two, and to be yours forever, for I will have no use for any of it again, excepting a few things which I will take with me when I leave here to-night. The iron box which you see in the corner goes with us, as it contains papers and valuables which I hope to again see and use. This valise is packed with a few articles necessary upon our arrival at the chamber; with these exceptions, everything in all my rooms belongs henceforth to you both. In my laboratory you will find many interesting works and many valuable instruments; make such use of them as will improve your minds. My manuscripts are there also, and you will find much information in them. I wish you, Hathaway, to go to town and get the same teamster that we had before--you will find him at Neeland's, and his number is fifty-six. Drive to this address," giving him a paper, "where you will receive certain packages which will be ready; then drive to the old place where Craft remained with the driver before, and await his arrival. You must not go to the address until 11:30 o'clock, nor must you be at the rendezvous an instant before 12:30. Craft will meet you there at that time, and remain with the driver, while you will continue on to the pedestal. I will be at the latter place. Is that perfectly understood?" Both signified assent. "There is one other subject," he continued, "which is of the most vital importance, and concerning which I pray you make no mistake. At 127 Market street is a medium-sized safe, within which is a full account of all that which has transpired up to this morning, as well as a full account of what will take place, as regards myself, to-night. It contains all information necessary to enable the person who may open it, a hundred years hence, to locate my body and bring me to life, should my arrangements fail to fulfill my expectations. This safe has been sealed, and the key thrown away by me. Upon the door is the legend: 'Intrusted to the care of the Treasurer of the United States, and to be opened by him in the presence of the President and his cabinet, on January 1st, 1988.' With this safe is a letter explaining that the contents are of the greatest importance, and that it will be for the good of the nation that the same be well taken care of; and further, that it is desired and requested that it be deposited in the Treasury vaults until the day set for its opening. This safe will be transferred to you upon presentation of this order," and Cobb handed Craft a large envelope which he had taken from his inside pocket. "I charge you, upon your oath, to deliver it safely at the vault doors of the Treasury. Draw lots to see which of you shall take a leave of absence and take it to Washington. Gentlemen, be sure in this; it may be life or death to me." Both of the others reiterated their promises to carry out every detail as desired by him, not only in this, but in all other things connected with the work he had in hand. "Good! And now, Hathaway, away upon your mission. Craft and I will await the arrival of the hack." Hathaway at once left the room, and passed out into the storm, while Craft settled himself down in an easy-chair by the fire. Cobb wrote a P. P. C. card, and laid it upon the table. "Give that," he said, "to the boys at the mess; it will be for a longer time than any of them think, I guess. When they read it, little will they think that that card will be faded, musty, and, perhaps, crumbling into dust when its owner calls at the club again. Ah, Craft, never before did I leave a farewell card with such feelings of sadness! They will take it in their hands, read it, and cast it aside with the single remark, 'Well, he'll be back soon.' Will be back soon! Yes: when their bones are dust; when their souls have passed out to their Maker; when they have each solved the grand problem of life!" Seizing the card in his trembling hand, he kissed it--"a brother's kiss, a parting kiss to those who are dear to me," he cried. "Ah, Craft, perhaps before theirs will my bones be mingled with the dust of the earth!" Dropping the card from his hand, he bowed his head in sad contemplation of the future. His thoughts were turning back, once more, into a gloomy channel. "Cheer up, Junius, and let us trust, dear boy, that you will successfully pass through the ordeal and live among men again. Have you completed everything that is necessary to be done? or are there some few things yet to be gotten ready?" Craft hoped to change the current of his friend's thoughts. "Nothing. Everything is ready for me, and I hope--aye, I know--I am ready myself;" and he raised his eyes glittering with his powerful will. "And to-night is your last with us? Oh, Cobb, I wish you would give this up!" imploringly said the other. "No, no; oh, press me not, Craft!" and he looked beseechingly at his friend. "I must advance to my task; it is impossible to retrace my steps, yet God knows the heart-pains which rack my breast; He alone can fathom the utter misery of my position. From father, mother, brother, and sister, and from friends most dear I am soon to be parted forever--forever, _forever_! Hear you the word? _forever!_" Like a wail of deepest anguish, prolonged and heart-breaking, came the last words, ending in a sob, as he sank into his chair and pressed his hands to his streaming eyes. Let him not be called weak. He who could face death with a smile upon his lips, now cried at simple separation. But, alas! how much meant the word, separation--forever, _forever_! The sound of carriage-wheels caused Cobb to start from his brooding. Raising his head, he glanced through the window just as the bright lights of a hack flashed along the road. "Our time is up!" he exclaimed, with a strong effort at firmness; "there is our hack. Take that box and your coats, while I will take this valise." Saying this, he arose and put the things together near the door; then entering the other room, he put out the lights. Returning to the front room, he and Craft took their several loads, turned down the lamps, and descended the stairs to the hack. Could anyone have seen Cobb's eyes in that dark hall, he would have seen the tears falling many and fast. His anguish was great, and it was all that he could do to refrain from crying out in his pain. The quarters that had sheltered him for many a day and many a night, were being left behind, never again to be occupied by him. His books and instruments, the companions of many happy hours, were to be used no more. He had taken his last look upon them. Oh, it was hard! and his strength was sublime to overcome the tendencies to a complete breakdown, and a bursting into a flood of tears. "Good-bye, dear old rooms! Good-bye to all that is in them--again, good-bye!" Craft heard his sobs as he uttered the words, and his eyes filled to overflowing. Down the walk they went without another word, and to the hack which was standing in the pouring rain, with its lights flashing out upon the night. There was no thought of the water that was streaming down upon them; other feelings filled their breasts. The door was thrown open, and Cobb motioned Craft to enter, and then followed himself. "Drive according to your instructions," he said to the driver; and the door was closed upon them. As they started away, Cobb turned to the glass window, raised his hand gently toward his old quarters and murmured sadly: "Good-bye! good-bye!" Away they rattled down the road toward the main gate. "It's a bad night, Craft." Cobb's voice was hard and forced, but it was evident that he was desirous of bringing his thoughts to other things. "Yes, indeed it is; but good for us, nevertheless. How much warmer and drier are we in this hack than if we were outside to-night!" trying to put his thoughts into another channel. "Number two! Half-past eleven o'clock--and all's well!" "Number three! Half-past eleven o'clock--and all's well!" And the cry was repeated on to all the posts, the answers coming clear and sweet to this poor, departing soul. As the last sentinel gave his call, the carriage passed through the outer gate by the main guardhouse, where number one was walking his lonely and solitary beat. As they passed the porch, the sentinel repeated the round of posts, crying, in a sharp and pleasing tone: "A-l-l's well!" "A good omen, by the gods!" and Cobb half sprang up in his seat. "A good omen, and it is for me! I feel it! I know it! Away, then, with all sorrow, and let me feel that this is my bridal trip, instead of my funeral voyage. Come, Craft, we are clear of the post; sing me the old song of 'Benny Havens.' It will cheer us up and I want to hear the words once more." "All right!" and soon Craft's soft, melodious voice swelled forth in the strains of that old song so dear to the hearts of every man from West Point. Softly, but with power, came the words: "Come, fill your glasses, fellows, and stand up in a row; To singing sentimentally, we're going for to go. In the army there's sobriety promotion's very slow; So we'll sing our reminiscences of Benny Havens, oh!" And then Cobb's full voice joined in the chorus; "Oh Benny Havens, oh! Oh! Benny Havens, oh! So we'll sing our reminiscences of Benny Havens, oh!" As the last words of the chorus were sung, the lamps of California street shot their rays into the carriage. On they went, but a silence again ensued, and neither spoke until the hack had reached McAllister street. Here Cobb caused the driver to pull up, and alighted, telling Craft to continue on until he came to where Hathaway was waiting for him. He was then to transfer the iron box into the express wagon, dismiss the hack, and send on the team. "You will find me at the appointed place," he said, as he passed down the hill. The hack soon passed out of sight, and Cobb continued on until he had arrived at the pedestal. Seeing no one in view, he applied his hand to the spring, and was soon inside of the chamber. Striking a light, he was enabled to ascertain that everything was just as he had left it. Turning to the compass box, he was satisfied that it had not been disturbed, for the needle still pointed to 993. Opening his valise, he took from it the eight bottles of ozone, a two-quart bottle of a thick, dark-brown liquor, several rolls of silk bandages, three or four small boxes, and a tumbler and sponge. By the time these preparations had been completed, Hathaway drove up with the express wagon. Dismounting quickly, the two men unloaded the contents, and carried them inside. First there were two iron boxes; these Cobb laid at the head of the case on the trestles. Next was a very heavy iron cylinder, and then a barrel of plaster of Paris and a ten-gallon keg of water; finally, a wooden frame-work with a large screw and wheel to it, was brought in. All things being gotten into the chamber, Hathaway drove back to where Craft was in waiting with the driver. The team was quickly transferred, and the driver dismissed, and watched until well on his way to the city. The two men then joined Cobb in the chamber. It was now one o'clock in the morning of December 2, 1887. Cobb turned some alcohol into the asbestos lining of the heater, and soon a bright and cheerful fire made the room quite comfortable. The bottom of the glass case, which was hung upon hinges, was then taken off and laid upon the smooth floor, then some of the old boxing was laid out to form a mixing-board for the plaster. These things being satisfactorily arranged, the plaster was mixed by Hathaway and Craft, while Cobb commenced undressing. Stripping himself to the skin, he bound his hair back with bands of flannel, and then thoroughly oiled himself from his head to his feet, that the plaster might not adhere to his naked body. "Is the plaster ready to set?" he asked, as he stood with his back to the fire. "Yes," answered Craft, adding a little more water to the mass. "Now spread the plaster upon the glass door, to the depth of two inches." This was done, and in a minute it had set; then another spreading was made to a depth of three inches. As soon as this was laid upon the former mass, Cobb carefully stretched himself upon the whole and placed his hands by his side. The plaster gave way a little as his form sunk in it. "Now," he said, "pile up the plaster until you have made it about five inches high, and I will remain in this position until it has set." [Illustration] They did so, and in about five minutes Cobb arose from the door, leaving a perfect mold of his body. Next, he bound his head and body with wide strips of cloth, surrounding the loins, and up to the lower parts of the breasts, with some fifteen wrappings. This being satisfactorily accomplished, he threw a greatcoat over his shoulders, and said: "I will now explain the working of the various apparatus which we have placed in position. After I have wrapped my face, as I will show you later on, I will lie down within this mold; you will then place the door, supporting me upon it, on its hinges and close the catch. Through the small glass door in the upper part of the case, you will arrange this platinum tube from my mouth to the orifice in the side of the case, just here where this wheel is," and he pointed to a little wheel made on the end of a projecting tube through the side of the case. "Opening the small door, you will have free access to my body, and you will attach the bandages upon my face to the little spring catch which you see upon the inside of the case, near the upper part. Cover my face and bandages well with plaster of Paris, so that no entrance may be given to the ozone. Take those eight bottles of ozone, and quickly empty the contents upon both sides of my body, into the side troughs which you see, and at once close the door. I will take this position at 2:30 o'clock, and immediately take a dose of five grains of opium. In twenty minutes after, by your watches, you will turn this wheel on the side, one point, and every minute thereafter a point, until the forty-five points, or full revolution of the wheel, have been passed over. This is to shut off the supply of air gradually as the ozone commences to enter through the pores of my body. Have some fresh plaster ready, so that the instant this is accomplished, you can, by quickly opening the little door, pull out the tube from my mouth, and cover the opening with a spoonful of plaster; then, as quickly as possible, withdraw your hand, leaving the pipe inside, and close the door again and seal it with Portland cement. Before the ozone is placed within the case, see that the lower door upon which I lie is sealed by this preparation," and he took a medium-sized bottle, and gave it to Craft. "Now, as regards the compass-needle, I will explain its action." He moved over toward the instrument as he spoke, but suddenly started back upon discovering that the needle no longer pointed to the figures 993. With a troubled look upon his face he gazed upon it. The needle now pointed to 1,007.8, or to a reading of 16 degrees 47.8 minutes. "This is caused by some local attraction," he said, looking around. Then, suddenly: "Ah! I see it! It is caused by those two iron chests. But I fear it cannot be helped; for if they are moved into any other position, the attraction, though it might not be so great now, would be greater at some future time. It cannot be helped! I am sorry, for it will add nearly a year to my stay in this chamber. You perceive that the needle of that compass points to 1,007.8, or 16 degrees 47.8 minutes. That is the magnetic variation, plus 14.8 minutes for those iron boxes, of this place at the present moment. The magnetic pole is moving slowly toward the west; very slowly, indeed, but fast enough for me to utilize its movement. At present it is moving but 0.3 minutes per year, but this movement is increasing in a direct ratio of 0.145 minutes per year, which will bring the change in the variation, in 1988, to within 14.85 minutes of where the little hanging catch now is. My calculations were for one hundred years, but those iron boxes will carry it just one year longer, or to January 1, 1989. As I said, the needle will move 0.445 minutes toward the west this year, and 0.590 minutes next, and so on, arriving at 4 degrees 34.85 minutes on January 1, 1988; but this will be still 14.85 minutes from the little catch which you see hanging down. In one year from that time, it will strike it. The instant that it does do so, the fine wheel-work is released, and the heavy weight will cause it to move; this movement will drop the large beam upon the glass bulbs of the batteries, break them, and drop the zinc into the electropoion fluid. The batteries will then work, and I will have my power. The flask of alcohol is broken, its contents saturating the asbestos feeder, while a current heating to a white heat the platinum strip, starts the fire. At the same time the same current through these magnets withdraws the bolt holding the under door of the glass case in which I am: it falls by my weight, and I roll upon the bed-springs, while the door, relieved of its weight, closes again, thus shutting off the escape of the ozone. In descending through the bottom of the case, the bandages are torn off of my face, and another current of electricity passes through my heart by means of the proper discs. Thus, you see, I am released from my ozone prison into good and fresh air; the ozone is shut off, and my life is brought back by the shock of electricity. From the alcohol heater, which is by this time all aglow, I receive the warmth necessary to again set my blood circulating properly through my veins. Of course, I am weak, very weak; so I at once commence refreshing myself from the liquors in those bottles. After that I prepare some of the beef juice, clothe myself in one of the suits I have in that small iron chest, and I am a new man. If the air in the chamber is not pure enough for me, I have plenty in that cylinder, and can turn it on at any time, for it contains 8,000 cubic inches of air under pressure of twelve atmospheres, or, in round numbers, 96,000 cubic inches; giving me plenty of air for over five hours, without counting that which may be in the chamber. Before that time I will be out of the place. Last comes the wooden frame and wheel; that we will now set in position. I had this made for fear that I might not have the necessary strength to open the door when the time came; with it in position I can bring a pressure to bear upon the slab door of this chamber and burst it open, if need be. Do you understand it all now?" and he smiled at the curious expression on their faces. "Yes," said Hathaway; "but why have you gone to all this trouble with that compass, when you could have put in good-sized springs, as well?" "That is just it, my boy. I could not have put in a spring just as well. Had I used a spring, it might be rusted or broken by the time I would want it to work. Batteries could not be thought of at all, as they would not keep so long. In fact, I had to get something that was as sure in its work as the earth is in its movement around the sun. Nothing is more sure than that the compass needle will slowly turn back toward the west. It is simple and sure; why, then, should I seek for anything different?" "I understand it all; your explanation is quite clear," said Craft. "It is a most marvelous and ingenious combination of natural laws with human auxiliaries." Taking his watch out of his pocket, Cobb then said: "The time is passing; let us at once to our work. You both know your duties; so commence." At exactly thirty minutes past two, Cobb had taken the opium and had his nostrils, and mouth between the lips and teeth, filled with fine asbestos cloth, while strips of the same material were placed over his whole face, leaving but a small opening for the platinum tube between his lips. He had previously thoroughly saturated the bandages about his loins and body with the brown compound which he took from the bottles, and which he had informed them was the nourishment to give sustenance to his system during the period of his inanimation. Lying down within the plaster mold, he told them to place the door in its position. Craft and Hathaway, by hard work, got it on to the hinges, and fastened the catch; then opening the little top door, asked Cobb if it was all right so far. "Yes," answered Cobb, partly opening his mouth, and speaking through the filling. "Yes; it is all right. And now, no tears, no show of grief; let me say a lasting farewell. I thank you, dear boys, for all your kindness to me, and it grieves me sorely that I will never again see you; but such is fate! May God bless you a thousand fold, and watch over you through life, is my last wish! Take my hand, each of you; there, that is right; good-bye! Now fit the plaster well over my face, and look to your watches." "Good-bye, dear old friend!" they both exclaimed, while the tears streamed down their cheeks. "Again good-bye! and God be with you!" Craft then quickly broke the seals of the ozone bottles, while Hathaway placed the perforated vessel containing the stronetic acid at Cobb's head. Craft then placed all of the eight bottles of ozone in the case, and, wrapping his coat about his arm to cover the hole and prevent the escape of the ozone gas, scattered the contents on either side of the body, but not touching the door upon which Cobb lay. Taking his arm out, the door was fastened, and their attention was given to watching for the time when they should commence turning the small wheel at the side of the case. Save a slight raising of his finger in token of recognition of their last farewell, Cobb had not moved since the closing of the door. At 2:41 his chest was rising and falling in a regular manner, while a slight tremor of the case denoted his heavy breathing. As their watches showed 2:51, Craft turned the wheel its first notch. From that moment on, not a word was spoken by either of them, nor a sound made, save the sharp click of the wheel as it turned onward toward the 45th division. They watched their friend through the glass cover; the heaving of the chest became less and less, the breathing lower and lower, while a purple hue settled upon his body. At thirty-six minutes past four, the last division of the wheel had been reached. Craft then took a spoonful of plaster, and, inserting his hand carefully inside of the case, pulled out the tube from Cobb's mouth, and poured the half-liquid plaster into the hole in the cast. Taking his hand out, the door was carefully fastened and cemented around its edges; the same thing was done around the edges of the lower door. They then put out the fire in the heater, and set the inside spring of the slab door of the pedestal. Going to the case, Craft laid his hand upon it, and then, kneeling at its side, gave way to his grief, and the tears came thick and fast. "Come, Craft," said Hathaway, whose eyes were also filled to overflowing; "come, old boy; it is all over. We have performed our part, and, perhaps, are accessories to a man's suicide. God be with him! he was a noble man, a true friend, and one we will never cease missing." Craft arose, and they passed out into the cool morning air. The marble door swung back upon its hinges, the inside catch gave a sharp sound as it closed upon the latch, and Junius Cobb was entombed alive. Quickly applying the cement to the edges of this door, as they had done to the glass case inside, the two friends, seeing that it was perfectly set, descended the hill and passed out of sight. CHAPTER VI For nearly five years, Jean and Marie Colchis occupied the old house in Duke's Lane. The old man worked hard, and long hours were passed in arduous experiments. The ozone machine had performed its mission, and was a thing of the past. The hair on Colchis' brows was whiter, the lines of care on his face deeper, and his gait slower. Fortune had smiled upon him. Money had rolled in, and the interior of the dilapidated old building was in strange contrast with the exterior. The rooms were handsomely furnished: bric-a-brac, books, a piano, and a thousand and one little _joujous_ dear to the feminine heart, gave evidence of the hand that had wrought this change--Marie Colchis. The seventeen-year-old girl to whom Junius Cobb had bidden a tearful adieu, had become a highly educated woman of twenty-one. The beauty of her youth grew with her years. Her disposition was commensurate with her beauty. The solace of her father in his age, the pride of his heart, she became the one object for which he lived and labored. Often and often had this sweet girl asked of her father some knowledge of Junius Cobb. When would he come? Was it known where he was? and did her father think that he still remembered his old friends in Duke's Lane? Then, as her thoughts wandered to their last interview, with its sad parting, tears filled her eyes, and her bosom heaved and fell with deep, sorrowing emotion. She still loved him; time had wrought no change. Her father saw it, knew it; and while a shade of sadness passed over his brow, he simply muttered: "It must be done!" Thus time passed. A great invention was Colchis at work upon. It would astonish the world; it would make him famous for life; his wealth would become vast in the extreme. But none of these thoughts disturbed the calm equanimity of this great man. He cared not for fame and honor, for his life was about run out. But wealth! Ah! that was another thing! He did want it; but for whom? Not himself? Who knows? "They will want it, will want all I can give them," he said to himself many times. Later on, there came many visitors to the house in Duke's Lane. They came singly, and sometimes in pairs. They remained awhile closeted with the old man, and then they went away. They were scientists sent by the government to report upon the invention of Jean Colchis. One day, after a more lengthy visit than usual from one of these gentlemen, Colchis entered the little parlor where Marie sat reclining in a large chair, reading a book of poems. Upon his approach, she quickly arose, and greeted him with warm affection. "My daughter," he commenced, as he led her to a chair and seated himself by her side, "we are going to leave Duke's Lane. I believe the time has come when you should see more of the world; should mix in society, and take the place which your talents, beauty, and moral attainments give you by right. You are nearly twenty-one years old, highly educated, and exquisitely beautiful. You will make friends wherever you go, and you will have suitors by the score. With wealth, position, wit, and beauty, what more can you desire? Do not interrupt me, darling," as his daughter was about to speak; "I know what you would say: that your heart is given to Junius Cobb, and that you want no other suitors. I have had fears, Marie, that Junius would never come back to us in this world--that, perhaps, he is dead." A cry of anguish burst from the poor girl's lips: "Oh! do not, do not say that! He is not dead! You know it, father! Oh! tell me he is not dead!" and she sank at her father's feet, overcome with grief. "O, God!" breathed the old man between his set teeth; "I fear it must be done!" Then, leaning over and stroking the golden locks of his daughter, he said: "Marie, look up." Her eyes, glistening with tiny tear-crystals, were turned up to his. "Look into my eyes, my child, and listen well to my words. Do you love Junius Cobb as fondly now as when you were a girl, on the night when he said good-bye and left you? Answer me as your heart dictates." "O, father! can you doubt it?" A heavenly look appeared in her eyes. "Would to God I could be with him in this life, or in death!" Her head fell upon her father's bosom. "Then, life without your lover is worse than death?" and her father fixed his eyes in a hoping, expecting, desiring expression upon his daughter. "Yes!" burst from her lips; "a thousand times yes! for what is life without him? If I be not with him in death, then death is oblivion!" "My noble, true-hearted daughter!" and he folded her to his heart. "Your lover is true to you--that I can swear. Await with patience, my child, till God wills your union. Now, once more listen to my words: it is my desire that you enter the world of life and fashion, rule my house as its mistress; entertain, make friends, and let no worry enter thy heart. Do this, and if at the end of four years more, you ask for Junius Cobb, your betrothed, he shall come to you. I swear to you, my daughter, that my words are true." "Father, I will do thy bidding." She wept tears of hope as she sank into her chair. Soon the world of fashion, the society of money and brains, began to chipper-chapper of the new Croesus and his divine daughter, who had suddenly come into their midst. The Colchis mansion was among the finest of those beautiful homes which have made San Francisco famous as a city of palaces. His hospitality was prodigal; his entertainments fit for kings. He and his beautiful daughter were objects around which fluttered the culture, the fashion, and the wealth of the city. Men came, saw the divinity, and worshiped at the shrine. Suitors implored her love, begged it, but without success. To all was Marie Colchis kind, honorable, and lovely, but to none gave she the slightest encouragement. Time passed, and still she was the same. Suitors still persevered, but without success. Against her no word of disrespect could be uttered, none could bear feelings save of love and admiration; all spoke of her as the frozen sunbeam. Colchis père saw it, and understood it; she could never change. Then Jean Colchis arose one morning, and told his daughter that he must go away on important duty. His stay might be protracted to months, he could not tell her how long. She was to remain, and under the guardianship of her housekeeper, she should find what amusement she chose. Their adieus were spoken, and Colchis sailed out of the Golden Gate in a ship of his own. Months passed, and Marie Colchis grew sad and disconsolate. Her lover gone, and her father away, there was nothing to live for. Hours upon hours she sat and wept--wept tears of such sadness as only a heart bowed down by the most intense sorrow could cause to flow. The house on the hill was closed to the world, and Marie lived but in the past, and with slight hopes for the future. It was the 13th of March, 1897, and Jean Colchis had arrived home to his child. There was sadness in his eyes as he clasped his darling daughter to his heart; but a firm, determined expression overspread his countenance, as though he had fought some great battle, and felt himself the victor. "Never again, dear old father, can I open this house to the world," she said to him, as they sat and spoke of the past. "And never again shall you, my child," he had returned, holding her in a loving embrace. "Let me leave the world and all it contains! Let me go and bury my body as I have my love! Father, I am dying!" The time had come. Jean Colchis saw that not an hour was to be lost. Fate had ordained it; he must comply, though he murdered his beloved child! "Grieve not, my child," he tenderly said, "the future is bright and assured. I am going to take you to your husband!" Like a burst of the sun through a dark and dreary sky, her eyes lighted up, and she sprang toward him, clasped him around the neck, and covered his face with kisses. Then she arose, staggered, and fainted. The good news was too sudden. Two weeks after this eventful day, Jean Colchis and his daughter sailed away in the ship which had once before borne him out of the harbor. As the vessel passed through the Golden Gate, the father and daughter stood at the rail and took one last look at the life behind them. "See! dear father," Marie exclaimed, pointing to the shore on the south, while a bright smile illumined her face. "See! there is the Presidio, with its little houses! Junius lived there, once--Junius, my own, and to whom we are now hastening. God watch over him!" "Amen!" The words came sadly from the old man's lips. Thus they sailed away, and never more was word heard of them by the living world. The years came and passed, but these two loving hearts came not again to the haunts of man. And the other--Junius Cobb? He lay an inert mass in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty, on Mt. Olympus. CHAPTER VII A beautiful day it was, this 19th of June, A. D. 2000; to be sure, the sun was sending down its rays with a trifle more heat than was agreeable, but all things considered, it was one of those lovely days which one sees, in the month of June, in Washington. The heads of the various departments had not yet left the city for their summer vacations in the country, but were hard pressed by the business required of them by Congress; for that body was still in session, as the national legislature did not end its work until the first of July. In the Treasury building, Treasury Square, all was bustle and activity, and clerks and messengers were flying in every direction. At his desk in the sumptuous office provided for him, sat Mr. Brett, the Treasurer of the United States; while near him, quietly smoking a cigar, sat Mr. Peck, the first assistant to the Treasurer. They were quietly discussing matters pertaining to their department, and evidently had plenty of time on their hands. It was 14:10 by the large dial on the wall, and near the time when the Secretary of the Treasury would ask for the final papers for signature for the day. A huge stack lay upon the table awaiting this call, and the two chiefs were only remaining to send them to him. As the hands of the dial marked 14:15, a sharp knock was made upon the door, and immediately after, Mr. Lane, the second assistant, entered the room accompanied by Mr. Howell, a subordinate officer in the Treasury Department. "Well, Mr. Lane, what is it? Have you any more business?" asked the Treasurer, looking up. "Yes, sir," answered that gentleman, with apparent excitement. "Yes, sir; I have some papers here which I think may be of very great importance. As Mr. Howell was going through the old store-room containing the records at the close of the administration of 1908, he found this bundle, marked as you will see by looking at it. Deeming it my duty, sir, to at once acquaint you with the fact, I have brought it here." Saying which, he handed the Treasurer a small package of papers, bearing upon the brief-side this indorsement: "TREASURY DEPARTMENT, } WASHINGTON, January 29, 1888. } "This paper is this day deposited with the Treasurer of the United States, by Hugh Craft, Second Lieutenant in the First Artillery. With it is also deposited an iron safe, presumably containing the papers referred to in the body of the communication. Entry of the papers is made in book 'C,' folio 476. This document is to be transmitted from Treasurer to Treasurer, as they may be appointed, until its contents can be complied with; which will be by the Treasurer serving in 1988. "CONRAD N. JORDAN, "_Treasurer of the United States_." The Treasurer took the paper in an unconcerned manner and glanced over the brief. Looking over his glasses, he said: "Well, Mr. Howell, I see nothing about these papers that requires my attention. Undoubtedly they have been long ago acted upon by the proper authorities," and he handed them toward that gentleman. "But the inside, sir," quickly returned Howell. "I must admit I read it, and so found out that it was of importance, even at this late day. It contains an account of a safe to be opened in 1988, and which has been deposited in the vaults since 1888. Now, if such a safe had been opened in this department in 1988, or since, I would have known it; for, as you know, sir, I have been here over fifteen years. I think, sir, that this communication has been mislaid long before the time set for opening the safe, if, indeed, any such article is in the vaults, and that it might require investigation." Mr. Brett seemed a little more interested in the matter, as he again turned the document over in his hand; then opening it, he read its contents. In silence his subordinates watched him, and noticed an increasing excitement in his manner as he progressed. This was the letter which Cobb had written and sent with the safe, and of which he had spoken to Craft and Hathaway. Having read the main document, the Treasurer returned to the briefs and saw that it had been transmitted by five Secretaries, as their indorsements were upon it; but after the year 1904 no more indorsements were made, and it was apparent that the paper had been mislaid since then. Handing the bundle to Mr. Peck, the Treasurer said: "That is a most curious document, I must say. Can you make anything out of it?" The latter perused it carefully, and also looked at its indorsements. "If such a safe is now in the vaults," he answered, returning the communication, "it should be looked after at once, for the time has long since passed when it should have been opened. Perhaps you did not notice that the last indorsement says that the safe was deposited in the certificate vaults on January 7, 1904, by Treasurer Chamberlin. I think it would be well to look into this matter; and if you wish it, I will at once attend to searching that vault." "I quite agree with you, Mr. Peck, that we ought not to let this matter drop without at least trying to discover if the safe mentioned in the paper is now in this department. I wish you would take the matter in hand and thoroughly search the old vaults, especially the one mentioned as containing the safe on January 7, 1904. Notify me if your labors are rewarded by success. Good morning," and the Treasurer bowed to Mr. Peck as the latter left the office. In passing out, Peck motioned to Mr. Howell to follow him. The vaults of the Treasury were cut up into many small and minor vaults. Some had been used for the storage of old documents of the department which had no further value than that, by law, they could not be destroyed. One series of these latter were the certificate vaults containing the stacks of fraudulent certificates used by the Chinese, in the latter part of the nineteenth century, to gain admission into the country, and in one of which the safe was supposed to have been deposited. An investigation was at once made by Peck and Howell in these vaults, and resulted in complete success; for, hidden behind huge piles of papers and boxes of documents, was found the small safe taken to Washington in 1888, by Hugh Craft. It had taken several hours for the two men, with the aid of a couple of janitors, to unearth, or rather unpaper, the iron box; but it was there, nevertheless, and they read the legend painted upon it with many expressions of wonder. At 10:30 the next morning, when the Treasurer came to his desk, they reported the result of their search, and informed him that they had gotten the safe out into the main corridor of the vault, awaiting his orders. Mr. Brett immediately accompanied Peck down to the vaults, and saw for himself the safe. He read the legend upon it, and could not conceal his astonishment: the letter was genuine, and the safe was there. The contents of that iron box had been placed in it over one hundred and thirteen years ago! What were the secrets it contained? Why was it sent to the Treasurer of the United States, with instructions not to be opened before a hundred years had passed? Why was it not opened at the proper time? All these thoughts quickly passed through the Treasurer's mind. Carefully noting the inscription upon the door of the safe, he informed Mr. Peck that he would at once communicate with the President upon the subject. He then went back to his office. At 11:15 that morning the President was informed that the Treasurer of the United States had most important business with him, and desired an immediate audience; it was granted him. The President was sitting in his private office, in the executive mansion, and received the Treasurer with a kind smile of welcome as he entered. Mr. Brett immediately communicated the purport of his mission, and handed the President the letter which had been found. Mr. Craft, the President, seemed greatly surprised at the communication, and taking the letter, read it carefully--both it and its indorsements. "Delivered by Hugh Craft, of the army," he read, to himself; then aloud: "Why, a namesake of mine! I have had relatives in the army for many years; I wonder if this man could have been one of my ancestors?" Taking down a large volume from an upper shelf of his book-case, he quickly turned the pages under the date of 1888. "Yes; yes, it is here," and he followed on for several pages more; then, referring back, read: "'Hugh Craft, Second Lieutenant, First Artillery, July 1, 1886; First Lieutenant, September 15, 1891; Captain, October 6, 1906; Major, October 14, 1916; killed at the battle of Ottawa, August 5, 1917. Married Augustine Phelps, May 28, 1890. Children: Edward, born September 12, 1891; Harry, born May 4, 1894; Mabel, born December 11, 1906.'" Then, turning over the pages, he continued: "'Edward married in 1916 and died December 22, 1937, leaving three sons; one of whom, Arthur, married in 1940. Arthur died in 1981, leaving one son, Emory D., born June 19, 1941.' And that man is myself. It is most strange that I should at this late day receive a communication signed by my great-grandfather. Whatever the contents of this safe may be, they are in some manner connected with me, and I am most anxious to at once unravel the mystery." Rising from his chair, he touched an electric bell, and upon its being answered by an orderly in the uniform of the President's guards, sent a summons to his Cabinet to immediately meet him at the Treasury building; he then called for his wraps and signified his intention of at once proceeding with Mr. Brett to the Treasury and opening the safe. In about an hour afterwards there were gathered in the office of the Treasurer the President and all the members of his Cabinet, and Mr. Brett, the Treasurer. The gentlemen, upon request of the President, then proceeded to where the safe had been drawn out into the corridor. There it stood, apparently in as good condition as when first sent to the Treasury, save a slight discoloration caused by time. The legend was still plain, and the party surveyed it with much curiosity. The combination of the lock, of course, was unknown to any of them, and the key-hole was of no use, as none had a key to fit it. The services of a couple of machinists were soon procured, and the outer door quickly yielded to their efforts, and was torn from its hinges, exposing a large plate-glass door, behind which were plainly seen several articles. Breaking open this door, for it was cemented around its edges, the contents of the safe were soon in the possession of the President. First was a bundle of papers, then some newspapers of 1887, and finally three photographs in well preserved condition, though brown with age. The bundle of papers was first examined. They gave the whole secret of Cobb's intention of undergoing the ordeal of the cataleptic state, together with all that which had taken place up to the evening of December 1st, 1887, as well as what would follow on that night, and complete directions as to what was necessary to be done to again bring him to life should he not gain his natural state by the means he had prepared. Full mention, with the names of Craft and Hathaway, was made of their share in the work, and the photographs were of himself and his two friends. His leave of absence, also, was among the papers, and proved, by its signatures, its genuineness. Upon intimation from the President, the whole party repaired to the office of the Secretary of War, where the papers were carefully read, and a deliberate consideration of the matter undertaken. The records of the War Department for the years 1887 to 1950 were then sent for, and the record of Cobb and the other two found. Opposite Craft's name was the entry, "Killed at the battle of Ottawa, August 5, 1917;" after Hathaway's name, "Died of wounds received at Bovispe Hacienda, Mexico, March 17, 1915;" while after Cobb's name were the words, "Dropped from the rolls of the army as a deserter, to date from December 1, 1904, under the provisions of section 1229 of the Revised Statutes, no report having been received from him since December 1, 1887." All those present read the instructions contained in the bundle of papers; all saw the photographs, and all read portions of the newspapers which were found in the safe. The signatures of both Craft and Cobb were carefully compared with those which were made in the old signature papers attached to the record-book, and found to correspond exactly. All present agreed that everything was perfectly genuine, and that the articles had been placed in the safe about the time specified. "This is a very remarkable affair, gentlemen!" finally exclaimed the President, after again looking over the documents. "This paper directs that the place of entombment be opened by the first of January, 1988, or as soon thereafter as possible. It is now the 20th of June, A. D. 2000; quite a long time after that set by Mr. Cobb for giving him assistance is it not? If he has done what he says he has, in my opinion, the man is long since dead. The mislaying of the first document was a culpable act on the part of the administration of 1908; but it is our duty to remedy it, if possible. I know of nothing to do but to send at once to California and open the statue spoken of in this letter. If the man is dead, we may at least learn something more of his strange undertaking. I feel a personal interest, aside from that of my office, in this matter; for it appears that my great-grandfather was an accessory to this man's foolish venture, and I would do all in my power to repair his wrong-doing. Mr. Miles, I desire that you take measures at once to solve this mystery and, if possible, render some aid to the man Cobb, if, indeed, it be not too late." The Secretary of State answered that everything would be done that was possible, and that men would that afternoon leave on the Central Pneumatic for California. He arose, bowed to those present, and retired. At 16:30 that afternoon, two men, with grips and coats, left Washington on the Central Pneumatic for California. The distance was a little over 3,600 miles, and the party arrived at its destination at 11:25 the next day. An immediate call was made upon the mayor and council of the city, and the purport of their mission disclosed. Full arrangements were soon made for going to the Statue of Liberty, which still occupied Mt. Olympus, and was apparently in as good condition as when placed there in 1887, and ascertaining if the disclosures contained in the safe were true or not. San Francisco had grown so much that the statue no longer occupied an isolated position on the outskirts, but was entirely surrounded by large and beautiful dwellings, and that part of the city was now densely populated. As it would not be well to have the mission of the party known while working into the base of the pedestal, it was decided that no entry should be attempted before the following midnight. The two gentlemen, having taken dinner, proceeded with their arrangements, and soon had procured the services of four strong men to open the supposed chamber. As the dial struck the hour of twenty-two that evening, two hacks passed quickly up Haight street, and thence to the foot of Mt. Olympus, which, though surrounded by residences, was yet bare upon its top. Leaving the carriage in two parties, the occupants cautiously proceeded to the statue. It was a quiet night, and in that part of the city few persons were about, and none in the vicinity of the top of the hill. The moon was in its first quarter, shedding very little light, and in consequence dark-lanterns had been provided. Albert Rawolle, the chief of the party which had left Washington, and who had charge of all the preparations, was a cool and quiet man, and well fitted to superintend such a piece of work. Stationing two of his men in position to guard against surprise, he commenced operations on the north-east corner of the base. He had made a careful survey of the whole structure, but could find no signs of an entrance, so had selected that corner as affording an easier task for his men. At 23:55 the work was commenced, and the picks were driven into the hard joints with quickness and dispatch, soon making a large breach in the wall. At 1:25 one of the men drove his bar through the side, piercing the wall into the chamber. Quickly enlarging the opening, bull's-eye lanterns were held to the hole, and the interior was bared to view. As their eyes gradually became accustomed to the gloom, all the contents of the chamber were brought to their vision: the cases, the batteries, the boxes, and all the many things which Cobb had placed therein a hundred years before. There were no signs of life, however; everything was as cold and silent as the grave. The first moments of their excitement being over, the men went to work with increased vigor; for there was, indeed, something more than ordinary in this place--something true in the letter of instructions left in the safe; there was about to be disclosed to the world a most marvelous fact in the history of mankind. With alacrity the men worked and toiled at the breach, and soon it was opened to a full foot in diameter. A moment later, as one of the men gave a rather more powerful blow than usual, his bar slipped from his hand and went crashing into the chamber. With the exclamation of the man came a sharp, crashing sound from within, followed by a flood of light. Everyone jumped to the opening, and gazed within the chamber, while a superstitious shudder ran through each, and it seemed to them as if their very hair was rising on end. [Illustration] "My God! Look!" excitedly exclaimed Rawolle to the others, and his voice seemed hoarse and hollow. "Look! there is a man moving inside the chamber!" With eyes almost protruding from their sockets, the men gazed through the breach. Indeed, it was enough to try a man's nerves; for within that chamber which but a moment before was wrapped in total darkness, in cold, and apparent death, was now light and life, and a man was slowly rising from his bed, with his hands pressed against his breast. They watched him as he moved feebly toward the fire, which they could not see, but which they knew was there by its reflection. They could not speak, so strained were their nerves; but their eyes followed every motion he made. They saw him turn to the fire and slowly rub himself with his hands; then take a bottle, and striking its top against the side of the fire-place, break it open and take a deep draught of its contents, giving no heed to its broken and ragged edges. They saw him open a chest and take from it what appeared to be a quilt and throw it around him, and then, seating himself at the fire, continue the rubbing as before. Lyman, Rawolle's assistant, was about to speak, but the latter motioned him to silence, saying, under his breath: "Hush! let us see what this all means--what this man will do; for it is a scene that may never again be enacted upon this earth." Cobb, for he it was, as is already surmised, did not sit long in front of the fire, but soon arose and took from his breast and back the two copper discs which were held in place by a band; then tearing off the bandages from the lower part of his body, he threw them to one side; next he placed upon the fire a small stew-pan, filling it with the liquor from another bottle which he had taken up and opened. In a minute the savory odor of cooking meat came to the nostrils of the watchers, while Cobb, taking it from the fire, poured it into a cup and began drinking it. Five minutes longer they watched him, during which time he had finished his repast, and had partially arrayed himself in clothing which he took from one of the boxes. No longer able to restrain himself, Rawolle placed his head within the breach, and in a quiet tone of voice, so as not to startle Cobb, said: "Your friends are here and waiting to assist you; what shall we do? See! we are at this hole which we have made endeavoring to gain entrance to your cell." As the words were spoken, the sound seemed to startle even the speaker, as well as the others, and Cobb turned, and for a moment shook as if some terrible vision had passed before his eyes; but, as the faces of the men were distinctly visible by the reflection from the fire and the incandescent lamp above it, he soon regained his composure, and in a weak voice asked: "Who are you that have dared to break into this place? By what misfortune am I thus disturbed and my plans upset? By whose authority do you come? Have you gained the knowledge through Mr. Craft or Mr. Hathaway?" "It is by the order of the former, sir, that we have broken into this chamber," replied Rawolle, not knowing the exact import of Cobb's question. "Alas!" murmured Cobb, "are there no true friends on earth?" With trembling limbs he sank down upon a box near the fire, but just in view of the others. "We are ordered to rescue you, Mr. Cobb," added Rawolle; "and your weak condition demands immediate succor. Waste no time, we implore. It is the President's order." "Whose order?" quickly exclaimed Cobb. "President Craft's." Weak as he was, Cobb sprang toward the opening through which Rawolle was speaking, and excitedly cried: "Is it not 1887? Who is President Craft? I never heard of him. Tell me, what is the year? Are we in 1800 or 1900?" "Neither, sir," answered Rawolle. "It is A. D. 2000." "My God! Have I been asleep since 1887?" and he pressed his hands to his brow, clutching his hair as if endeavoring to tear aside the veil of the past, that a realization of the moment might be made plain to him. "Have I slept a hundred and thirteen years? Am I now alive? or is this some terrible nightmare? No! no! I heard your voices! I live! I live again! Thank God! I have not failed in my undertaking." He looked around him in a dazed manner. "But can we not help you?" broke in Rawolle; "you have no time to lose in your weak condition. Tell us at once what we are to do; it will take over an hour to enlarge this breach. Have you no door, or mode of entrance?" "Yes; there was a door, but it was sealed up after I entered this place. Go to the other side of the pedestal, and I will try to open it." They all passed around as directed, and Cobb applied himself to the wheel and gearing. Weak as he was, it became somewhat of a difficult task for him to turn the screw, but the mechanism had been so perfectly adjusted that it revolved even by his feeble strength. Lifting up the spring catch, he slowly turned the screw, and the door opened upon its rusty hinges. A moment later, all were in the chamber of the Statue of Liberty. Astonishment was depicted upon the countenances of all, as they beheld the interior of the chamber and its peculiar contents. But Rawolle gave no heed to the strange condition of the place; his thoughts were upon Cobb, who lay upon the floor, where he had fallen, unconscious, after opening the door. Quickly seizing him, they bore his body to the fire and rubbed back the departing life. His legs and arms were stiff from long inaction; his face was wan and his form somewhat emaciated. Their work was soon rewarded by a return to consciousness of their patient. Rawolle opened the box from which he had seen the clothing taken, and soon Cobb was clad in warm, comfortable garments. Ten minutes were consumed in preparing fresh broth and administering to the weak man's wants. Cobb's strength returned quickly to him, thanks to the liquor and beef juice, and he moved from the fire toward the compass case. "You say it is A. D. 2000?" he asked again; "are you not joking me? Is it indeed that year? or, rather, is A. D. 2000 this year?" "For a fact," answered Rawolle. "It is as I tell you; and we are now in the year 2000." All the others joined Rawolle in assuring Cobb that he was not the subject of any jest; it was just as had been told him. "I cannot understand it; I cannot see why I have lain so long. I should have been awake years ago, in 1988; something has gone wrong," and he moved closer to the compass case. "It must be here, if anywhere," and he leaned over the box and gazed upon the needle and wheel-work. An instant only he looked, and then he sprang back and exclaimed: "Ah! what is this?" and an expression of blank astonishment came over his face. "What is this? The needle of the compass not at 260, but still far away to the east of it!" and he examined it most carefully. There it was, not at 260, but away to the east of those figures--at 899, or to the reading of 14 degrees 59 minutes. There was some mystery about this that sorely puzzled the brain of Cobb. As the others attempted to speak, he bade them be silent until he could solve this problem. Looking down, his eye fell upon the iron bar which the workman had let slip through his hand in opening the breach. It rested just under the aluminum rod attached to the wheel-work. From the bar his eyes wandered inquiringly from one to the other. "It shlipped out of me hond in making ther hule," said the man who had dropped it into the chamber. The mystery was solved. The iron bar, in slipping through the workman's hands into the chamber, had struck the aluminum rod and set the wheel-work in motion; everything else had worked perfectly, and as Cobb had designed that it should work. But one other thing troubled him very much, and that was why did the compass-needle mark 899 instead of 260, as it ought to do? "Give me a pencil and paper," he said to Rawolle, "and be still but a moment, and I will answer your questions." The materials were given to him, and he busied himself a moment in putting down some figures. "Yes, as I thought," he soon exclaimed, throwing down the pencil. "It was I who made the mistake. Gentlemen, you see that needle marking 899," and he pointed it to them. "Well, a hundred and thirteen years ago, or, more accurately, in December, 1887, it marked 1,007.8. I computed that it would move to where that catch now is, at 260, in one hundred years; but, like many another man, I made a most simple error. In my work, I read 14.355, instead of 1.4355--the mere misplacing of the decimal point. It came near costing me my life. Instead of the needle moving 732.7 points, as I thought it would, it moved but 73.27 points in the hundred years that I anticipated remaining here. It has moved only 108.7 points in one hundred and thirteen years." It was well that Cobb had made this great mistake, for the movement of the magnetic meridian was, in reality, so slow on the meridian of San Francisco, that he could not have used it with any degree of safety. One hundred and eight points, or an arc of 1 degree 48 minutes, was too small to work upon, as any great magnetic storm, earthquake, or other disturbance might have caused it to oscillate over such a small arc and spring the wheel-work. In fact, the needle, as Cobb had set it, would not have arrived at the little catch before the middle of June, A. D. 2198. Without losing another moment, Cobb wrapped himself in a heavy overcoat taken from the iron box, and requested Rawolle to take the other box with him, and to take him to a hotel at once, as he needed rest and refreshment. The party then left the chamber which had been Cobb's abiding-place for so many years, and proceeded to the Occidental Hotel, leaving a man to guard the place and its contents. Arriving at the hotel, Cobb was at once shown to his room, and refreshments ordered; later on he detailed the whole story of his long and death-like sleep, and received, in return, all the information concerning the finding of the safe and the mission of Rawolle and Lyman. Despite the secrecy with which all had been done, the papers of the next day contained the following: "MOST WONDERFUL! "IS IT A HOAX? IS IT TRUE? "ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN YEARS ASLEEP, BUT NOW ALIVE! "Junius Cobb, a Lieutenant in the Army in 1887, was Last Night Taken from a Chamber Cut in the Solid Masonry of the Statue of Liberty on Mt. Olympus. "The Rescue Made by a Party Sent from Washington. "The Paraphernalia Still in the Base of the Pedestal. "The Story of the Guard Who was Left to Prevent Entrance into the Interior. "The Man Now at the Occidental Hotel. "Copy of the Dispatches sent by the Chief to the President of the United States." And then followed column after column of the news, which startled all San Francisco at nine the next morning, when the extra edition was sent into the streets. Thousands upon thousands of people visited Mt. Olympus after twelve had struck that day, and by midnight of that 22d of June, A. D. 2000, the whole world had heard the news, and wondered and wondered. CHAPTER VIII The sun was streaming into Cobb's eyes; he was restless; he awoke. The room was empty, not a soul in sight, and he lay in his bed, all alone. How long he had lain there he could not tell, but he knew it must have been some time, for his bones felt sore, and he had a great desire to get up and stretch himself. The room was the same that he had entered the night before; of that he felt assured as he glanced around. For some time he lay half awake and half asleep, his thoughts running in a most confused channel. In memory he wandered back to his old friends, Craft and Hathaway. He was living, but where were they? And his kindred, where were they? Dead! all of them! Not a single soul of all those whom he had known and associated with were living. Indeed, he was alone in the world! In his mind, once again he viewed the longings and cravings which he had cherished for a knowledge of what the world would be at a future day, and the vision materialized into a full knowledge that at last he had the power he so long had desired. What a wonderful experience! What a remarkable transition he had passed through! He had become a king, an emperor, a very god, for he had annihilated time, and passed, in a second, over many score of years. Was he to find such changes in the world as he had anticipated? Was he to be satisfied with things as he should find them now? Had he thrown away a life of quiet enjoyment and comparative ease, among his friends and kindred, for a new life in which he would be dissatisfied, miserable? Was the light worth the candle? All these and many more were the questions he asked himself as he lay there awaiting the approach of some one from whom he might possibly receive an answer. He could lie there no longer; he must arise and be about. Had they all deserted him, that he was thus left alone? No, that was hardly possible; they would soon come. He rose upon his elbow and looked about the room. No sooner had he raised himself in his bed than a door opened and a man entered and quickly approached his bed. It was Lyman, and Cobb instantly recognized him, though he appeared to be so differently dressed from the style which he was accustomed to seeing that it made him doubt his identity. Approaching close to him, Lyman looked into his eyes with a searching expression, as if endeavoring to fathom his very thoughts. Still upon his elbow, Cobb returned his gaze and asked: "Well! is it time to get up? Why do you look at me in such a manner?" and a feeling of fear ran through him that he might be laboring under a hideous dream, and that he was not only alive again, but had never been dead to the world, as he thought. The sorrowful expression of Lyman's eyes disappeared, and a glad smile parted his lips. "Thank God, my boy, you are yourself again! We have watched you for a long time, hoping for this return to consciousness. Do you indeed know me?" and he leaned over and took the other's hand. "Of course I know you. Have I been sick? have I lain here long? Has everything been a dream? or am I awake in the new era?" and as he asked the question, he sat up in bed. "You are laboring under no delusion, Mr. Cobb," Lyman replied, smiling at the man's eagerness on the subject. "You are the same man whom we rescued from the pedestal of Sutro's statue, and you are still in the land of the living, after years of inanimation. You have had a long and most severe struggle for your life since being brought here on the night we dug you out of the pedestal. It is now the 16th of September, almost three months since your release, and you have lain upon your bed or sat in your chair nearly all the time. Your mind has wandered, and you have known no one until to-day. We have sat near you for hours, and for hours have listened to the history of your life." As he ceased speaking, he arose and filled a glass with wine, and gave it to the other, saying that it was necessary that he should get well as soon as possible, now that he was himself again. "And I have lain here since June 22d?" Cobb asked again. "Yes; lain, sat, and walked--for you did walk a very little of late." "It is strange! But, really, is it A. D. 2000?" "In truth, it is." "And Rawolle; where is he?" "Out; but he will soon be back, for he has not left your side, except for brief periods, since we brought you here. One of us has always been near you." Cobb looked at him a moment, and then asked: "Will you please explain why you are wearing such outlandish clothing, for it is entirely different from anything I have been accustomed to seeing," and he surveyed the other from head to foot. Lyman smiled, and took a step backward that a better view of him might be obtained. "All in good time, my boy," he answered. "Suffice it to say that this is the custom, or style, now. We have got a full suit for you as soon as you are able to put it on." Saying this, he went across the room and threw open the doors of a wardrobe, disclosing a number of articles of wearing apparel hanging therein. To Cobb, he presented an appearance quite out of the general order of dress, and an aspect quite comical; yet, the more he looked at him, the more he was inclined to admit that his dress was becoming, and, no doubt, very comfortable. It seemed to him that he had seen styles similar to that his friend wore, depicted in the old prints as worn by his forefathers. The main features were: tight-fitting knee-breeches, but coming a little lower down than those of the old style; black silk stockings and low-cut shoes, the shoes having large gilded buckles upon the instep; vest low in front, but closing at the neck; close-fitting cutaway coat without tails, unbuttoned in front, but held together by frogs; neither collars nor cuffs, but in their place small and neat rufflings. There was no shirt-front visible. His glance was but momentary, yet it was long enough for him to note these few changes and minor details in Lyman's dress. "Come, Cobb," said Lyman, "get up and dress. I will bring you your clothing." With the aid of Lyman, it was but a few minutes ere he was thoroughly arrayed and fitted out in the prevailing style of the day. Handing him a fine pair of boots of very light material, Lyman said: "Put these on, for it is wet outside; the low shoes are worn only during dry weather." Putting on the boots, which fitted him perfectly, Cobb surveyed himself in the glass. He liked the change from the old style. It was indeed a comfortable substitute for the heavy and loose-fitting trousers and long-tailed coats formerly worn. No collars to cut one's ears, nor cuffs to hang down over one's hands. It was handsome withal, and permitted a free action of the limbs. "Is this now the prevailing style?" he asked Lyman. "Yes. No other style of clothing but this is worn by men," was the answer. "And how long has this been the custom?" "A great many years--how many I cannot say. It has been the style since I was born. I believe I have heard that it was inaugurated in 1910. Certain gentlemen in the city of Chicago were the first to start the movement, as near as I remember it. Anyway, the change was made, and now it is the only style of gentlemen's wearing apparel in the United States. Of course, there are certain modifications of it, as for summer and winter, and in certain trades, but the one main idea is adhered to, namely: close-fitting clothing and knee-breeches, with shoes for dry and boots for wet weather." "I think it a jolly change. It seems like old times, when I dressed for mounted duty with my troop." And Cobb took a turn around the room, bringing back the memories of the days when he had, in his top-boots, swung the belle of a frontier town. At this moment Rawolle entered the room, and started at seeing Cobb up and dressed. With unfeigned pleasure he rushed up to him and grasped his hand, crying: "Cobb, I congratulate you on your return to consciousness!" "Pray don't mention it. I am just as glad to be up and around as you are to see me." "And how do you feel? Have you had a good rest?" "Good rest! Well, I like that! I should say I have. I hope you don't think a man can sleep three months without being satisfied, do you?" "No. You ought to be ready to get up by this time, I must admit; but that is not to the point: are you in condition to start for Washington to-day?" "Yes; any time you desire." "How glad I am!" Rawolle quickly returned. "I have been away from home so long that I am most anxious to get back to my family. I will look into the matter and see if we cannot go to-day. In the meantime, look over the morning paper," and he tossed the paper which he had in his hand to him. "Yes," said Lyman, going over to the other side of the room and taking up a large grip; "busy yourself with the news while I get our traps into shape for traveling." Cobb took the paper as it fell into his hand, and opened it. It was a very large daily, and seemed to contain a vast amount of information. Looking at the heading of the paper, he saw that it was the "Daily American." At the first glance over it, he perceived that it was quite different from the papers which he had seen in former days. Leaning back in his chair, he carefully looked it over. It was not headed San Francisco, as he thought it would be, but America; and the date was the 16th of September. Where was America? he asked himself; he knew of no such place. It must be some new and very large city close by, else the paper could not have reached them so soon. No paper that he had ever before seen contained the amount of news that this did. There was news from all parts of the world; not scant and close-cut, either, but full and elaborate accounts. What appeared to him as very peculiar was that each column had its own heading, as, "From Europe," "From Asia," "From South America," etc. Another thing that appeared very remarkable was that there were no advertisements, nor time-tables of transportation, nor lists of places of amusement. In fact, there was nothing local in the paper that he could ascertain. It was just such a combination of news as would as quickly interest a man in New York as one in San Francisco. He also noticed that the printing was peculiar; that but two or three kinds of type were used in the body of the paper, and that the ends of lines were not, as formerly, flush with the ruling of the next column. All this was so very strange to him that he was on the point of asking for information from Lyman, when his eyes met the word "Cobb," in big headline letters. Of course he must read what was said of him before asking any questions regarding the paper in which the account was given. He read: "COBB! "S. F., 15, 22 D.--The physicians in charge of Junius Cobb report no change in their patient during the day. Food is administered at regular intervals, and taken with apparent relish by the sick man. Mr. Cobb has gained rapidly in flesh, and his health seems to be almost perfect, save the one remarkable condition of insensibility to surrounding objects. The physicians in charge have strong hopes that another week will bring forth great and marked improvement, and that the man's mind will return to him." And again, further on: "JUNIUS COBB. "WASHINGTON, 15, 11 D.--In the Cabinet meeting to-day, the President said, referring to the peculiar condition of Junius Cobb, the Lieutenant taken from the tomb in San Francisco last June, 'that if his condition did not soon show some signs of improvement, he thought that it would be to the best interests of the man, as well as the nation, that he should be brought to Washington for treatment.' He further said, 'that all of the apparatus used by Cobb in his experiment had been received at the State Department, and was there held until Cobb would be able to arrive and explain its use.'" And still further on: "LIEUTENANT COBB! "S. F., 15, 5 D.--The excitement in the case of Lieutenant Cobb has not in the least abated. Crowds of people have, for weeks, endeavored to gain admission to his room, but have been prohibited by the doctors. The Lieutenant has shown wonderful vitality in passing through the fever which followed his resurrection from the dead. Rawolle, the President's messenger, has shown most commendable skill in keeping his patient quiet and holding back the crowds of reporters who wished to gain admission." He dropped the paper, closed his eyes, and sat in a kind of dreamy state, revolving over the extracts which he had read. The world had not forgotten him yet. He was still an object of interest, and his condition was the subject of special telegrams to the papers. What would be the next dispatch sent out to the world, when it was found that he was up and in his right mind; was able to start for the capital city--was, in fact, on his way? How would he be received when he reached there? Whom would he meet? and what would his future be? His reveries were broken into by the entrance of Rawolle, who took a telegram from his pocket, saying: "We are going to-day. I have just received this dispatch, and will read it to you: "WAR DEPARTMENT, } WASHINGTON, 16, 13 D.} "_To Albert Rawolle, Occidental Hotel, S. F._ "Telegram received. If Cobb can travel, give him the orders of the President to report with you at once in Washington. The President has read your dispatches with the greatest interest, and awaits further information in the matter. Notify me of the hour of your departure. Acknowledge receipt. "N. A. MILES, "_Secretary of State_." Cobb listened attentively to the reading of the message. "Miles, Secretary of State; and the same initials," he mused. Then aloud: "Is this Miles, who is signed here as Secretary of State, any relation to Brigadier-General Miles, of 1887?" "Not to Brigadier-General Miles, Mr. Cobb, but to General Miles, who died in 1918. He is a great-grandson of that noble and illustrious general." "And who is President now?" "Emory D. Craft, of Illinois." "Craft, did you say?" Cobb quickly asked, and he went back to his old friend of the artillery, who had so nobly aided him in his work. "Yes; but why does it seem to interest you so much? you do not know him;" and Rawolle looked puzzled. "Perhaps not," smiling; "but I may have known his great-grandfather; in fact, I may possibly have been an intimate friend of his--who knows?" "True. Your status is so different from that of any other man, that I would not be surprised if you had been his bosom friend." Then turning to Lyman, he continued: "Come; it is time we were attending to business. Let us go at once and see about our transportation and check. Cobb will excuse us for a few minutes, will you not?" to the latter. "Certainly. By all means get our tickets as soon as possible, for I will then feel that we are soon to be on the road." Saying this, he lighted a cigar and watched them depart. A few moments later he went to the window and pulled aside the heavy lace curtains and gazed out upon the busy street below him. This was his first view of the outside world, in daylight, since 1887. A hundred and thirteen years ago he had had rooms at this very same hotel. Was it possible that he was not dreaming? Was he, in fact, alive and well, and again standing in a place that had known him so many years ago--that had been his home at a time so long since that every mortal man who then lived was now dead and crumbling into dust? His thoughts wandered back to the years long past, to his old friends, to the happy days passed in their society; and then to the darling girl whom he had left in Duke's Lane--his betrothed. Alas! they were no more! But he: he was here, and alone in the world! So many years must have made a great change in the history of his country and in the manners and condition of the people. Until he should have learned them, he would be practically a stranger in a strange land. He remembered how he had sat, those many nights before entering the pedestal on Mt. Olympus, and wondered upon the future, and what that future would bring forth to him, if he was fortunate enough to survive the ordeal and live again. He remembered with what delight he had anticipated coming again into life among a new people and among scenes of great advancement and of wonderful progress. His hopes had been realized, and he lived again; yes, he who had lain a hundred years in a comatose state, now breathed, walked, and had his being once more. His theory had been most remarkably proved--proved by the man who had first advanced it, and the world should demand no further proof. What would be his reputation in Washington? Would there be any difficulty in proving that he was what he claimed to be--a man who had lived in 1887? No! it could not be; for there were the proofs in the safe, and such proofs as no man could dispute--letters written years ago by men long since dead--aye, dead before a man of his apparent age could have been born. No! He quickly dispelled the idea that it would be difficult for him to prove everything. Recovering from his sombre chain of thought, he turned his attention to the street beneath his window. He gazed again and again up and down the street and across the way. Was this the Montgomery street he had so often walked upon? It differed so from its former appearance that he felt that he was dreaming. Great, massive buildings, in all the most artistic styles, met his eyes on every side. Beautiful stores, with huge plate-glass windows, extended as far as the eye could reach. The sidewalks, as well as he could tell, were clean and in perfect condition; and where he had in former times noticed the peanut-vender, the fruit-seller, the blind and the lame with their excruciating music-boxes, and the scores of others obstructing the sidewalks, was now clear, clean, and wholly for the use of the pedestrian. He noticed that that which people had to sell was kept within their stores, and not on the sidewalk; that there were no signs hanging over the heads of the passers-by to fall and, perhaps, break their bones; nor were there any posts of all and every description along the streets. There were no telegraph or telephone wires in view, nor were visible many other things which had formerly been eye-sores to people of taste. The streets were paved with some new kind of material; what it was, he could not tell from where he stood, but it was such as gave very little sound from the passing vehicles. It was smooth and clean, and free from the many holes which had formerly rendered traveling so uncertain, even dangerous. A hundred years had made very little change in the heterogeneous assortment of vehicles one sees in a great city. There were many fine and elegant equipages, with and without horses, the latter driven, as Cobb presumed, by electric motors. Yet of this class there were not very many, as San Francisco is a city of hills, and not well adapted for anything but horse or attachment propulsion. The attire of the pedestrians was that which struck him as the most peculiar. All the women wore short dresses, none reaching lower than within eight inches of the ground. Their feet were covered with low-cut shoes, in some instances; in others, with small, neat patent-leather top-boots, the top of the boot just hidden under the dress. He noticed very few silks worn, most of the dresses being of heavy goods. No bustles were worn, and the dresses were close-fitting with jacket basques in most cases. Hats were the prevailing style. It seemed to Cobb, as he looked at his own new clothing and that of the gentler sex, that the very acme of simplicity and good, sound common sense was seen in this new order of raiment. Cobb knew that there were many things for him to learn, now that he was so new to the world, and that there would be so many peculiar and remarkable inventions that he ought not to evince much surprise when he should behold them for the first time. There was much that demanded immediate attention and study, if he wished to be upon an equal footing with the rest of mankind. At this moment Lyman entered the room, followed by Rawolle. "We have been a little longer than we anticipated," exclaimed the latter, throwing off his coat; "but there was really no need of hurrying too much. We have plenty of time to reach Washington by to-morrow morning." "To-morrow morning!" cried Cobb, in surprise. "Certainly, to-morrow morning. I think we will be there at 6 dial," nonchalantly knocking the ashes from the end of a cigar which he was smoking. "Mr. Rawolle, I am prepared for many new and, to me, quite startling statements, but this of yours is a little too strong, is it not? We are over three thousand miles from Washington, and I very much doubt your ability to overcome that distance by to-morrow morning, though you may have made great strides toward its achievement." "My dear Cobb, it is just as I tell you; at least, as near as I can remember. Let me look at the schedule and I will give it to you, exactly." Rawolle took the time-card out of his pocket, and, quickly running over it, said: "No; I am a little out of the way. If we leave here at 16 dial to-day, we will be in Washington at 8 dial to-morrow." "Enough!" pettishly exclaimed Cobb. "I will not question you any more. Go ahead and do it, that is all, and then I will be satisfied." It piqued him to think that they were making sport of his ignorance; he lighted a cigar and walked to the other side of the room. "Now, Cobb," continued Rawolle, "we have our tickets here, and will leave for Washington on the 16-dial train. I have had a trunk fully furnished with all the necessary articles that you will need for the first few days in Washington, so you will not have to immediately look after such things upon your arrival. It is now 13 dial, and we have three hours until train-time." "But tell me, Rawolle, why do you speak of 16 dial and 13 dial? Of course, I know you refer to the time; but what has been the change in the calendar that you should employ such terms?" Both Rawolle and Lyman smiled. "True! you cannot know of the changes which have occurred." Rawolle drew his chair closer to Cobb, and continued: "The calendar has been somewhat revised since you were on earth before, or rather, since you so unceremoniously skipped from the society of your friends; and I suppose you have not kept note of the changes in time?" looking at him in a quizzical manner. Cobb laughingly acknowledged the sally, and requested him to continue. "It was as long ago as 1920," proceeded Rawolle, "that the new order of time went into effect. In that year, a commission of scientific gentlemen was convened by direction of the national legislature for the purpose of considering the feasibility of making such a change in our calendar as would simplify it and make it more uniform. The result was that the calendar, as we use it to-day, is quite different from that which was in vogue during your time. We now divide the whole day into twenty-four hours, as formerly, but number them from one to twenty-four. Our time-pieces have two hands, but they are not used as were those of old time; one hand marks the minutes, and the other marks the seconds. The hours are marked by numbers showing themselves through a circular slot in the dial, changing every hour. One hour after midnight the dial shows the figure 1; and so on up to 24, which is the close of the day. Thus: 12 o'clock, old style, is 12 dial, new style; and 5 o'clock, old style, is 17 dial, new style. We do not use the word 'o'clock' any more, but employ the word 'dial,' instead. The word 'dial,' however, is usually omitted, the customary expression for time being simply the numerals of the hours and fractions thereof. The commission could not ignore the fact that the excess of 57.2 minutes per day over the 86,400 used in the computation must still be carried forward as an excess to be afterward accounted for; for 86,400 was the nearest number to the whole which was a common multiple for three numbers, representing seconds, minutes, and hours. The excess, being 5 hours 48 minutes and 47.8 seconds per year, is still carried forward to the fourth year, where it is taken up as an extra day, and is called 'Old-Year-Day.' The year, as now divided, consists of 13 months of 28 days each, and one day over. The year has 365 days, as of old, but the first day is not counted as a day of any month; it is called 'New-Year's-Day,' the next day being January first. There are 28 days in each month, with a new month, _Finis_, added. New-Year's-Day is neither Monday nor Tuesday, nor any other day of the week, but simply New-Year's-Day; and January first is always Monday. The advantages of this system are, that every month commences on Monday and ends on Sunday, having just four weeks. In leap-year the additional day is called 'Old-Year-Day,' and is just before New-Year's-Day; these days are legal holidays. This, with some other minor alterations, is the way the calendar stands in every civilized nation to-day." "But is it not a little confusing to you, this change from the old to the new style?" "You forget that I never used any other," laughingly returned Rawolle. "True; I had forgotten that fact. But does not this extra day interfere in many ways with the dates of bills, notes, and other legal documents?" "Not at all. The extra day is simply New-Year's-Day--a day of time to fill in the year, but not for any other purpose. In regard to the dating of official papers, they are dated the next day, and this day is as if it never existed. Do you comprehend?" "Yes, I comprehend your statements, but not having had any experience in the use of this new order of dates, I cannot say that I am fully aware of how it works." "You will find no difficulty in its application, I assure you." Without speaking further on the subject, all busied themselves in their preparations for the journey eastward. CHAPTER IX At 15:42, as Rawolle named it, but at 42 minutes past 3, as Cobb persisted in calling it, their arrangements had been completed and they were at the front entrance to the Occidental. At the curb stood an elegant four-seated carriage of very light construction, with a driver upon the seat. There were no horses attached to the vehicle, which was very low in build, and with wheels of fair size. The driver sat in the rear, on a sort of raised single seat, with a small wheel, like a tiller-wheel, in front of him. It was an electric drag, with the storage batteries underneath the seat. There were many passers-by at the time, but, thanks to Rawolle's care, none knew who were getting into the carriage, else there would have been a crowd in a few minutes. Taking their seats, the driver started the current, and the carriage rolled rapidly down toward Market street. "What do you think of this for a carriage, Mr. Cobb?" asked Rawolle. "It is a most decided advance upon anything we had in old days," the other returned, looking admiringly over it. "This is, no doubt, an electric carriage?" "It is an electric drag, and the style of all the first-class carriages in the city, except those which are used for hill travel. These carriages run up grades of three hundred feet to the mile with ease." "Are they expensive? and how long will their batteries last?" "No; far less expensive than horses. The batteries, or accumulators, are very small, but with great power. The weight carried by such a carriage as this, in accumulators, is about fifteen pounds, and the energy is the equivalent of two horses for six hours, or a greater number of horses for a less time. The accumulators are charged at the rate of about fifty cents per set, which is a six-hour run. The great saving is that when the carriage is not in use, there is no expense." The carriage was going at a good round gait, but the motion was easy and steady. Passing into Market street, Cobb was astonished at the magnificence of the buildings. He could not remember ever having seen a single building then standing as being there during his time. The architecture was grand in the extreme; beauty was not lacking, but was combined with strength. He saw horses, electric motors, and cable cars, but the latter no longer ran upon tracks on the street; the trucks were all underneath the roadbed, while the cars were held aloft by thin but strong steel supports. The cars, moreover, were lighter built and set closer to the ground. He saw no horse-cars. The pavement was everywhere of the same material--clean, smooth, and elastic; and he rejoiced to think that at last mankind had awakened to the fact that it was not only cruel, but costly, to cause horses to run upon cobble-stones, and pavements of similar construction. He did not have time to note all the many changes which had taken place and then in view, ere the carriage stopped at the gate of a most imposing edifice. Alighting from his seat, Rawolle assisted him down, saying: "Here we are, Mr. Cobb." Having gotten out, they all went into the depot, for such Cobb was informed it was. He was surprised at the grandeur of the building. It far exceeded anything he had ever seen for similar purposes. Rawolle took him around and showed him the various waiting, toilet, dining, and other rooms. The depot was on the site formerly occupied by the old station, at the corner of Third and Townsend streets. Passing into the main hall, he perceived a stream of people coming from the left. The interior of the depot, after passing through the main hall, was a vast space with a great arched roof. The ground was paved with marble slabs, and divided by iron fencing into five large compartments; the first running from side to side of the building, while the others were set at right angles to it. Each of the four divisions had a great slot or opening through its floor, of about two hundred feet in length by twelve in width. The last opening was filled by a train which had just arrived. The people were flocking out, and through the gates into the main hall, or, as Cobb called it, the fifth compartment. His attention was riveted to the train as it stood upon the track. It was so different from anything in the railway line that he had ever seen before, that he was most anxious to learn something about it. It was a train of five cars, each about forty feet long, and of circular construction. It rested upon innumerable little runners, and was set quite close to the ground. The end of each car was a huge circular disc of a diameter a little greater than that of the car, and having an elliptical opening of some seven feet in the long diameter. Along each side of the cars was another set of runners, while two more sets were upon the tops. There were no windows to the cars, and they looked plain iron cylinders of vast size, set upon a lot of little iron legs. Standing there a moment, Cobb watched the last passenger leave the hall, and soon heard the guard cry for the gates to be closed. Almost immediately the gate of that compartment was dropped, and he saw the huge train sink into the opening and disappear from sight. Turning toward Rawolle, who had been watching him with a curious expression, he exclaimed: "Rawolle, tell me what kind of transportation is this that I have just seen? It is something that beats my time, and I am at a loss to understand its working." "I do not wonder at your expression of astonishment, my dear boy;" then pointing toward the third opening, and looking at his watch, he continued: "You will see a similar train soon come up; watch carefully." Cobb did as directed, and in a moment saw a train of cars, in all respects similar to the train which he had seen disappear through the left-hand slot, rise from below. It came up gradually, and at last stood, as its mate had stood, flush with the floor of the room; but, unlike the former, it had no passengers to disembark. There it stood, silent and empty. As the train reached the level, a placard was dropped from the top of the gate, bearing the words "Omaha, 16 D.," in large letters. "That is our train, Cobb," said Rawolle, following the eyes of the other to the sign. "Let us get our traps together and get aboard." Approaching the gate, which had by this time been thrown open, and through which many people were passing, Rawolle showed the tickets, and the three men passed in and proceeded along the train to the second carriage. Curbing his impatience to learn more of his peculiar surroundings, Cobb followed Rawolle and Lyman into the car. The car resembled the sleepers of former years, except that it was decorated in a grander style and had no windows. It was lighted by electric lamps, which made it as bright as day. The seats were somewhat differently constructed from those of the old kind, but the general appearance of the interior was quite the same. A porter met them at the door, and after seeing their tickets, showed them to their section. Throwing down his grip and coat, Rawolle said: "Come, Cobb, there are a few minutes before the train leaves; let me show you about." "All right; I am at your service." "Mr. Cobb, I think you will find this train a most decided improvement upon those used in your day," remarked Lyman. "Of course it is old to us, but I can imagine your surprise at many of the improvements you see about you." "Right you are," returned Cobb; "there are so many new and peculiar contrivances around me that I am like a man who has just awakened in a land of fairies. I am not going to be too curious, but await developments, for I have no doubt that I will be satisfactorily informed concerning them all at the proper time." "This is the pneumatic train," continued Lyman, motioning toward the train on the track. "Now, hold on," interrupted Rawolle, quickly; "all in good time. It is better to explain all this to Mr. Cobb in detail. Let him first see what there is to be seen, and then we will explain it to him afterward." Passing into the first car of the train, Cobb was shown the smoker; and here he found a hundred little inventions which had been made with a tendency to increase the comfort of the traveler across the continent. "This is the Central Pneumatic, or Continental Express," said Rawolle, "excepting the baggage-cars; they are below, receiving the baggage as it arrives." At this moment the sound of a deep-toned gong was heard, and Rawolle said they must hurry back, as that was the signal for the gates above to be closed preparatory to starting. A moment later, they were all standing on the platform between the cars, and an instant afterward the whole train began to sink, and soon had left the opening far above them. The train rested upon a sort of hydraulic lift which came to rest as soon as it had reached a level some twenty-five feet below the floor of the depot. They were in a subterranean chamber, or rather a series of chambers, which were brilliantly lighted by electric lamps. There were many tracks in every direction, with moving trains upon them. Leaning out to the side of his car, Cobb saw an engine, or what he took to be such, move up and couple to his train, and soon he felt it being rapidly hauled away. This subterranean labyrinth of roads was similar to the yard of a great railroad center. Men were in every direction, turning switches, coupling cars, clearing tracks, etc. Their train was taken about a mile underground, and then run into a great iron tunnel. A peculiar sighing sound, like that of a great storm a long distance off, now fell upon his ears. Turning inquiringly to Rawolle, he asked the meaning of it. "Air--sucking air," was the answer. "Yes; I presumed as much," Cobb returned, piqued at the brevity of the answer. "Observe all you can, Mr. Cobb, for you have but a few minutes more. I will explain it after we are in the car," noticing the impatience of the other. The tunnel in which they then were was, like the great lower chambers, well lighted up. At one side, and opposite to where they stood, was a recessed chamber containing what appeared to be very powerful machinery. Cobb saw the motor disconnect from the train at this point, but he was not permitted to notice further the working of this most remarkable invention, for the guards ordered them into the car, and the door was closed and bolted. Going back to the smoker, they lighted their cigars and settled themselves comfortably among the cushions. "Now," exclaimed Rawolle, sending up a cloud of smoke, "now I am at your service." "Then, tell me all about that which I have seen," Cobb impatiently asked. "Don't you see how anxious I am?" "Very well. Let us commence at the beginning: In the first place, this that you have seen is the pneumatic railway. Its official designation is 'The Central Pneumatic.' There are, in the United States, quite a number of these roads. From San Francisco run three, as follows: one to the north, one to the south, and this one to the east. Here is a map showing all these roads in the country;" and he took from his pocket an official railway guide, and handed it to his listener. "As the word implies, air is the motive power--not compressed, but atmospheric pressure against a surface, on the other side of which a partial vacuum has been created by exhaustion. This is the method in the tunnels only. After the trains leave the great tunnels, they are moved about the yards, which you saw were all underground, by electric motors. Hydraulic lifts take them up to the station and lower them again. Everything is underground until the train rises through its opening in the floor of the depot. When the guard ordered us into the car, and bolted the door, we had been pushed into the receiving section of the main tunnel. The main tunnel is a complete iron and stone structure, extending between San Francisco and Salt Lake without break. At Salt Lake are the engines which exhaust the air from this tunnel, the pressure of the external air being the propelling power to move the train forward to its destination. The tunnels are twelve feet in diameter, and the rear car of the train carries a shield, or end-piece, which almost fills the cross-section of the tunnel; in fact, there is but the hundredth part of an inch between the edge of the shield and the interior side of the tunnel. The engines, as I said, are constantly pumping out the air, but this is carried to such a degree that the external pressure on the tubing of the tunnel is always under one pound per square inch. A series of valves at the end of the tunnel farthest away from the engines, permits ingress to the air which acts against the rear end of the train to move it forward. The train is first placed in a movable section of this tunnel, and, everything being ready, this section is moved upon rollers into connection with the main tunnel--a sort of valve action. The instant this is done, the air is permitted to enter _in front_ of the train, and then gradually shut off until, the train having acquired its normal speed, the valves are closed altogether, and the air permitted to enter the tunnel _behind_ the train only. It is very simple, and works to perfection. There are inlets through the rear shield of the train, to which are connected tubes running to each car. These are the air-tubes of the train. As the pressure of the air against the rear shield is one pound per square inch, a like pressure is exerted at the orifice of each tube; but, as there is no resistance to its ingress, it passes through into the cars, causing an internal pressure of the atmosphere of nearly one pound per square inch. Valves opening in _front_ of the rear shield, and at a pressure of a little less than one pound per square inch, permit of the escape of the vitiated air into the tunnel _ahead_ of the rear shield. Thus a steady stream of pure air is maintained throughout the whole train. The trains are received at their destination upon compressed-air receivers, and gradually come to a stand-still. At Salt Lake, forty five minutes are allowed for this train to transfer passengers and for supper, and then the train starts onward for Omaha. At that city the train is again made up and starts upon its new course for Chicago, New York, New Orleans, Minneapolis, or other point, as the case may be. Now, our train was placed, as I said, in an auxiliary tunnel, which was, by simple mechanical means, brought into position as the segment of the main tunnel. You, of course, noticed that each car was fitted at its end with a circular disc, covering the whole end excepting the door which leads into the next car. Well, this circular disc covers the end car completely. When our train was brought into the main tunnel, the pressure upon its end-section would have been, if suddenly exerted, so great that we would have started off with a great shock, but the air is allowed to enter behind the car gradually, as I have explained. When the full momentum is reached the full pressure of the external air is allowed to exert itself against the end of the train." "And how long does it take to gain this full momentum?" Cobb asked. "But a few moments. Are you aware that you are now traveling at the rate of two hundred and forty miles per hour, or four miles per minute?" He smiled at the look of incredulity which his words evoked. Cobb was loath to believe he was in earnest, for he felt no shock of starting, nor did he experience any motion such as he would naturally associate with such a terrific speed. "Such a rate must make the wheels spin," from Cobb. Lyman looked at him, while Rawolle burst into a laugh. "I do not see anything to laugh at," the other retorted, a little nettled. "No, no, Mr. Cobb; do not be displeased. We really meant no discourtesy; but your remark is not what you would have made had you thought a moment, for we know you to be a man of education. We do not use wheels on the pneumatic roads. These trains run upon the many little runners which you saw under the cars. Were we to use wheels," he continued, after a pause, "centrifugal force would tear them into pieces in no time. Take the case of a wheel four feet in diameter: the circumference of such a wheel is a little over twelve feet. At the rate of four miles per minute, it would have to revolve 1,760 times. No wheel that can be made would stand such a test. It would fly into fragments inside of the first mile. A wheel of the above dimensions and at that rate of revolution would have a centrifugal force equal to 1,000,000 pounds. Now, as the centripetal force is the tensile strength of the material only, and that of the best steel wire only 160,000 pounds, it will readily be seen that the centrifugal force would instantly cause the wheel to fly into fragments." "You are right," Cobb answered, going over the figures in his mind. "Wheels would never do; I can see it plainly." "Even were we to use a smaller wheel to decrease the centrifugal force, we would have to increase the number of revolutions, so there would be no gain in so doing. Our trains run upon two peculiarly constructed rails, and the runners are flanged to exactly fit the rail. There is, in addition, on either side of the tunnel, another rail of similar shape, while upon the upper part are two more. The car has runners for all of these rails, and the position of them is such that the car cannot jump the track, or swing or sway from side to side. It travels as if in a groove, and the little runners, separate from one another, conform to the curves of the tunnel." "It must take powerful engines to exhaust the air from such a long tunnel, does it not?" "Yes, very powerful ones. But what is different from any other mode of propulsion, the same engine can do as much service for a line 2,000 miles long as for one of 200 miles in length, rate of speed being the same. The reason for stations at intervals of about 500 miles, is because more trains can be kept in motion on medium short lines than on very long ones. There are at Salt Lake, at the receiving end of this line, fifteen engines of 5,000 horse-power each; ten at work all the time, with five in reserve." "A pretty strong set of engines for a single railroad, I would say; and a costly motive power, too." "Not so costly as you would think," he returned. "If you take into consideration that these engines are worked by electricity, and not by steam, and that the electricity is furnished by water-power, you will perceive that they can be worked quite cheaply." "Give me some of the statistics, please," said Cobb. "Certainly. The tunnel is twelve feet in diameter, which gives it a superficial area of 17,712 square inches. Now, at a pressure of one pound to the square inch, a train has a pushing force at its end of the same number of pounds. A train weighs 50,000 pounds. The heaviest grades on the line are some of two hundred feet to the mile. The power required to push this train up such grades is 2,000 pounds, for the matter of friction is not taken into consideration, being, by our arrangements, reduced to the minimum. Thus the pressure in the tunnel is always sufficient to move eight trains. If a train moves four miles in a minute, then the volume of air in the tunnel to be displaced is equivalent to the area multiplied by the length, which gives 2,600,000 cubic feet; but, under a pressure of one pound, this volume becomes 3,000,000. The pumps at each station are ten in number, each of thirty feet diameter by ten-foot stroke, with a volume for each of 7,060 cubic feet. These pumps make thirty strokes per minute, which is equivalent to sixty single strokes. Thus the volume of air displaced by the pumps is 7,060 × 60 × 10 = 4,236,000 cubic feet, an amount far in excess of that required." "Then, judging from your remarks, there is practically no limit to the speed which can be obtained by this method of propulsion?" "On the contrary," Rawolle returned, "the limit is reached when the friction on the runners generates such an amount of heat that they begin to disintegrate. At three hundred miles per hour they become very hot. As it is, we have to use a very peculiar kind of alloy for runners, and during all the time of running, keep a stream of oil flowing just in front of each runner." "But," asked Cobb, "does not this oil congeal upon the rail in cold weather?" "It does, most certainly; but there are little scrapers just in front of each runner which cut away the congealed oil to the merest fraction of an inch from the rail. These cutters must, by the train running between its upper and lower rails, always be just so far away, and no farther, from the rails." It seemed to Cobb that he could advance nothing but what this man had a ready explanation for its action or cause. It was, indeed, a most marvelous invention. Here he was traveling at the rate of two hundred and forty miles per hour, and scarcely felt the motion. "Where is the electricity for these powerful engines generated?" he inquired. "For the Central and Northern, as well as for the Pacific Pneumatic and Mountain lines, the dynamos are at the Shoshone Falls, in Idaho. These falls furnish an immense water-power, estimated at over 300,000 horse-power. The current is delivered at the station in great cables of peculiar construction, and well insulated." "Do you have any accidents on the roads? At such a rate of speed, an accident would be fraught with frightful consequences," Cobb continued. Rawolle smiled as he said: "During your time, accidents were not uncommon--in fact, I might say quite common, judging from the old chronicles; but we have never had an accident yet upon any of our lines. There have been, of course, breaks and delays; but as each train is in communication with each other, and with each end, and with the chief of the exhausting department, everything is known at all times regarding the position of trains and their condition." Striking a match, he continued: "No train could run into the one ahead of it, for the reason that there will always be a cushion of air between them; and further, were any ordinary number of runners to break at one time, the train would not be affected by the loss." "How wonderful, yet how simple!" exclaimed Cobb, lost in admiration. "But I am at a loss to understand why the people of my time did not discover and put into operation the same project." "Perhaps someone did discover the principle, but had not the means to test his theory," Rawolle returned. "How long has this system been in operation?" "About thirty years," he replied, after a moment's thought. "Tell me one other thing," said Cobb; "has the pneumatic railroad superseded all other kinds?" "Oh, no; by no means. There are railroads all over the United States, and very much the same style of your day, excepting the great improvements which have been made, and also the one other most important fact, that all engines are run by electricity. The pneumatic lines are through lines only, and are for rapid transit between very distant points, and only for passengers, mail, and express. All freight is sent by the other roads." "Then, the towns, excepting the great centers, are connected by electric railroads for inter-transportation?" "Yes; the pneumatic is only an auxiliary to the rest of the roads--a means only of overcoming great distances quickly." "And what is considered good speed for the electric roads?" "Seventy-five miles per hour for passenger trains, and fifty for freights." "Then, they must be very differently constructed from those of old," exclaimed Cobb. "They have very different roadbeds, and, of course, different engines. But enough for the present," looking at his watch. "It is 18 dial, and we had better get into the sleeper and prepare for supper, for we are almost at Salt Lake." CHAPTER X After supper, and when settled back once again in the cushions of their sleeper, Cobb immediately resumed the conversation about the pneumatic roads. "They must be very rich and powerful corporations, these which own such lines as this?" "No," returned Rawolle; "for they are not owned by individuals, but by the government. All railroads in the United States are in the hands of the government, and are operated with a view to just covering expenses." "Are the rates of passage high?" "We do not consider them so. There is one fixed rate throughout the country of one cent per mile." "But," musingly inquired Cobb, "is not there a difference in operating the roads? Are not some more expensive to the government than others?" "Certainly," answered Rawolle. "But, like postage on letters, a universal rate is found to be the best; the larger and more patronized roads paying the losses incurred by the smaller and country routes." "I presume," said Cobb, "that there can be but few changes in the general management, supervision, etc., of the roads from those in vogue in my time?" "There you make a mistake," quickly returned the other; "for, having been connected with the pneumatic lines, I am well posted in what is done to-day and what was the manner of operating railroads during the first part of the twentieth century. Nearly every detail of to-day's management differs from that in vogue a hundred years ago. It would tire you for me to go into details. A few facts, though, I will give you: All freight is of two classes, and is sent at so much per pound per mile. At the sending point it is stamped similarly to a letter, showing date, place of shipment, destination, etc. The same rule is followed in regard to baggage of individuals, the owner having a duplicate of the stamp placed upon his baggage. There are no tickets shown or taken up on the pneumatic lines, but the names of passengers to depart from the train at intermediate points are telegraphed ahead, and the persons are looked after by the inspectors. On all lines the tracks are double, trains passing but one way on each line of rail. There are no whistles or bells to the locomotives of the service lines; no tender with its coal and water; no cab in the rear for the engineer; no furnace and fireman. The locomotive is an electric one, with the engineer in a cab in front. In place of the huge boilers is an iron and steel tank containing the storage batteries. The whole weight is nearer the rail, thus bringing down the center of gravity and reducing the danger from oscillation." As Rawolle was thus enlightening Cobb about the innovations made in the last century, the sleeper door opened, and a trainman entered and walked direct to their section and asked for Mr. Rawolle, saying he had a telegram for him, at the same time handing out the envelope. Rawolle took it and thanked the man, who then left the car. "He hit the right man squarely that time!" surprisedly exclaimed Cobb. "They seem to know you here." "Not at all," replied Rawolle, smiling, while he tore open the envelope. "Every person on the train is known by name, and section, and car. Such is the system." He opened and read the telegram. "There!" he exclaimed, after a moment, extending the telegram to Cobb. "There is an order from the Secretary of State to stop at the Central Sea." And he and Lyman looked quizzingly at their companion, as he slowly took the telegram and read: "WASHINGTON, 16, 18 D. "_Albert Rawolle, on Central Pneumatic No. 3, east:_ "Telegram received. Stop at Cairo. Submarine boat Tracer ordered there to take you and Cobb through Central Sea. "By order Secretary State. "HARRY G. COLLINS, _Chief Clerk_." Cobb read it through twice ere he ventured any remark; then, handing it back while a troubled look overspread his countenance, he said: "Cairo is in Illinois, at the junction of the Ohio with the Mississippi; but I fail to comprehend the import of the words 'Central Sea.' The submarine boat spoken of does not surprise me, for I would naturally expect that that which was almost an accomplished fact in 1887, would be an actual success at this late date." "There is no Ohio River, or not as was in your time. The Ohio is now but a small stream flowing into the Central Sea," replied Rawolle. "Again those words 'Central Sea;' what does it mean? Is there an inland sea?" and Cobb looked inquiringly at both of the others. "There is," slowly spoke Rawolle. "And a mighty big one, too," put in Lyman. Cobb was highly educated and of a sanguine temperament; he neither doubted what seemed impossible, nor did he believe until the facts were clearly before his mind. He was perfectly cognizant of the physical geography of the United States, and did not understand under what conditions a great inland sea could have been formed, or maintained. [Illustration] Settling himself back in his seat and breaking the circuit of the electric light to lessen the glare in their faces, Rawolle continued: "I will give you some facts concerning this sea, for, now that you are one of a new generation, you have much to learn, and we cannot pass the hours between now and bed-time to better advantage. On the last day of August, 1916," he began, "at about 14 dial, or as they then said, 2 P. M., that which was taken, at the time, as the shock of a great earthquake, was felt by thousands of persons throughout the central portion of the United States. In less than two hours later, the nation was informed of the true nature of the shocks which followed each other in rapid succession. It was the explosion of natural gases deep down in the strata of the earth's crust, and the scene of the disturbances covered a vast area of territory. During the following week the shaking and trembling of the earth caused great destruction in many cities and towns not otherwise affected. Houses fell, the water supply failed, and other serious results were experienced. But throughout portions of the area now covered by the Central Sea, the scene was terrible, awe-inspiring, horrible. The earth heaved and sank; huge cracks opened, and flames hundreds of feet high shot into the air; thunder and lightning added to the horrors of the situation. The bursting of the earth's crust was attended by an appalling roar and crash, as if a million peals of thunder had combined in one grand effort to terrify mankind; then came a pall of dense, black smoke that wrapped the land in darkness. Consternation seized upon the people, and well it might, for when the full import of the disturbances was known, it was only then ascertained that a great cataclysm had befallen the nation. Without going too much into details, for you can later on gain a full knowledge of this great physical disturbance from the books published soon after its occurrence, I will explain but a few of the facts causing it. You are aware, Mr. Cobb, to what extent natural gas was used in the United States in 1887; that there were thousands of wells pouring out millions of cubic feet daily; that many of them showed pressure of from ten to twenty atmospheres. From the time you left the world, as it were, until August, 1916, gas wells were being sunk all over the country drained by the Ohio and its tributaries. Their number was way up in the thousands. Billions of cubic feet of natural gas were being consumed or flowing to waste daily. Pittsburgh alone used 300,000,000 cubic feet a day in its vast manufactories. The earth in the Ohio basin was honey-combed with the gas pockets and strata, and gas veins were struck in which the gas was under such pressure that the flow could not be checked by human hands. It was 14 dial, as I have said, on the last day of August, 1916, and the workmen in the large foundry of Dillenback & Co., at Lakeside, on the Ohio, some fifty miles below Pittsburgh, were tapping a huge melting of aluminum bronze for the purpose of casting the outer shell of one of the latest model guns of that period. But let me first describe the interior arrangements of the foundry, that you may fully grasp the situation as it then stood, and the cause of the results which followed. Natural gas was, and had been for a long time, the fuel used in these works. Up to 1914 the gas boring of Lakeside had furnished all the gas required. This well was of ten-inch bore, and reached a depth of 4,737 feet, but in the year mentioned the well had failed to furnish gas at any pressure. The standard pipe had been moved and an iron plate set over the mouth of the tube, on a level with the floor. Five hundred feet from this well a boring to 4,016 feet had struck a new stratum, giving vast quantities of gas at a pressure of five atmospheres. To revert back: Just as the tapping of the furnaces was made, the steam boiler of the crane engine, through some unaccountable cause, burst. The concussion shook the buildings, tore up the ground, displaced the iron plate over the disused gas well, and broke the aluminum furnaces, letting over one hundred tons of molten metal flow rapidly across the foundry floor. Recovering from the first shock and fright of the explosion, all efforts were at once made to arrest the flow of the liquid stream, or to divert its course away from the old well. That well, as all knew, still contained gas intermingled with common air, the mixture being of a very explosive nature. All perceived at a glance what would be the consequences if such a mass of molten metal should precipitate itself into the old well and fall over 4,500 feet into the interior of the earth's crust; the shock at bottom, the continuance of heat, the explosive medium through which it would pass, all were dangers to be dreaded. The gas strata were overlaid and underlaid by water and air strata; the breaking of one into another would cause a commingling of their constituent parts, and form explosive compounds of the most dangerous types. Human efforts failed to stem the fiery stream in its onward course across the foundry floor. With a bounding, hissing, and, as it were, victorious cry, the river of melted aluminum approached, reached and went plunging down into the old supply-pipe. Who could describe the terrible effect! Of all those hundreds of human beings employed in Dillenback's works, but two lived to tell the story of the catastrophe. These two men knew only one thing: that the earth seemed to shake to its very center, and they were hurled down among the debris of the fallen buildings, while sheets of fire almost scorched their very souls. Peal upon peal of thunder reverberated about them, and then darkness buried everything from their vision. Burned, bleeding, and nearly dead, these two men found themselves pinned down by the timbers of the works. Fire was upon every side; the timbers were burning, the heat was oppressive, and from a horrible death no man could save them. There was a higher Power, though, who had ordained that these two men should be witnesses of the full effects of this mighty effort of nature to overcome the grasping endeavors of man to accumulate wealth at the expense of reason. A sudden rush of waters from beneath them cooled their parching bodies, extinguished the fires about them, raised the mass of timbers which pinned them down, and gave them their liberty. You can read of this escape, as it is fully chronicled. This was the cause; now the effects. Are you tired?" seeing Cobb so quiet; "or would you like a drink of something to warm the inner man?" Cobb had sat with scarcely a movement, save the heaving of his chest, as he listened to this terrible narrative. The last words of Rawolle seemed to awaken him. "No, and yes," he slowly replied. "Let us take a glass of wine and retire. I wish to think this over before you finish. My head aches, and I need rest." A few minutes later, all was quiet in the first sleeper of the Central Pneumatic No. 3, east. It was 2:25 dial, or 25 minutes past 2, the next morning, when the Central Pneumatic arrived at Cairo. Here Rawolle's party was met at the train by an officer from the government submarine boat Tracer, and conducted aboard that vessel, which lay at anchor in the stream. Cobb was informed that, as it was so early, he had better retire and take a little more rest, for they would not weigh anchor until 7 dial. Acquiescing, he was shown to his state-room. It was a cozy affair, indeed, that Cobb was ushered into--a little, but handsomely furnished room, containing all that one could desire in a thoroughly well-appointed apartment. Electric lamps threw a charming, subdued light over everything in the room, while an electric heater diffused a gentle warmth which was most agreeable this September morning. Retiring to rest, Cobb dreamed of nothing but pneumatic railways, submarine boats, and gigantic convulsions of nature. It was about 7 dial when both Rawolle and Lyman came and awoke their guest, who, after a refreshing bath and a delicious breakfast, ascended to the upper deck of the Tracer. The main deck of the vessel was of very small area amidship, some two feet above the water-line, and inclosed by an iron railing. A beautiful scene presented itself to his view. The Tracer lay about half a mile from the docks of Cairo, and that city was just awakening to its daily round of bustle and activity. The stream was covered with shipping, some at anchor, while others were plying between the city and the opposite shore, a mile and a half away. Sailing craft there were a plenty, but no steamers, though there were many vessels moving swiftly through the water, yet showing no smoke or funnels. This fact was immediately noted by Cobb, and inquiry made of Lyman, who stood near him, as to why there was no smoke visible. "Neither coal nor wood is now used for marine propulsion," replied Lyman. "Lipthalite vapor, or lipthalene, is now the motive power of vessels without sails. I will show you some of this lipthalite, later on, in this vessel." Turning his eyes from the busy and charming scene about him, Cobb's thoughts came back to his immediate surroundings. What was he standing upon? The small, water-flush deck of a metal submarine vessel, the total area of which could not exceed a thousand square feet. A number of peculiar openings, valves, and pipes abutted on the deck, and a single metal mast stood at the bows; but no smoke-stack or other accessories to propulsion were visible. Surveying all these things, he was about to ask information concerning their use, when Lieutenant Sibley, the officer in command, made his appearance, and was introduced to him. "I am sorry I was not aboard to welcome your arrival, last evening, Mr. Cobb," he began, in a courteous and pleasing tone of voice, "but I was detained in Central City, across the river, until early this morning. I hope you slept well, and are ready for the trip to Pittsburgh?" "Not only ready, but anxious for it," was the reply. In a few moments more, by order of the Lieutenant, the anchor was raised, and the Tracer moved up the stream, headed E. ¼ N. As the vessel moved through the shipping, the national colors, which were displayed from its mast, were saluted by the dipping of flags and sounding of whistles. A hoarse-toned marine whistle, almost at Cobb's feet, answered these salutations, and also caused that gentleman to jump back with a startled expression. Drawing his hand from the whistle button, Lieutenant Sibley apologized for frightening him, saying: "It did not occur to me that I had others aboard than those who are accustomed to these vessels." The Tracer was a cigar-shaped vessel of two hundred feet in length by twenty beam, or middle diameter, and of nearly 1,000 tons displacement when submerged. With an outer shell of aluminum bronze and an inner shell of the finest steel, the vessel combined great strength with a minimum amount of metal in its construction. "Gentlemen, if you will follow me," said Lieutenant Sibley, "I will show you over the vessel." Descending the companion-way, the entrance to which could be closed by an air-tight door, the party proceeded about the vessel. Longitudinally and horizontally, from apex to apex of the cones, was a steel deck dividing the vessel into two equal parts. The first forty-five feet of each cone contained the tubes of compressed air and oxygen. There were in each end about 2,500 feet of five-inch steel tubes, one-half inch thick, containing over 4,500 cubic feet of air under a pressure of 1,500 pounds per square inch. This was sufficient, as Lieutenant Sibley explained, to sustain active life for the entire crew for two hours. "But we have other facilities," continued the Lieutenant, "by which the vitiated air is deprived of its carbonic acid, and then recharged with the lipthalene gas from the receivers and oxygen from the pipes, giving about eight hours of active life to the inmates of the vessel when totally deprived of air externally." The store-rooms, mess-rooms, and quarters of the men were visited. Small though these rooms were, they were made with every convenience, and given every useful contrivance which this great age of invention could produce. The Tracer was not a war vessel, but belonged to the Geographical Bureau, and was used in charting the Central Sea. Her complement was small: two engineers, two pilots, one electrician, cook, assistant cook, captain's boy, two helpers, and two officers. Everything was so admirably arranged, and machinery played such a wonderful part in the power required to handle the vessel, that a larger force was not only unnecessary, but would have been detrimental to a satisfactory working of the vessel. Cobb called attention to the steel partitions between the rooms, and asked why so much strength was required. "There are," answered Lieutenant Sibley, "twelve partitions, dividing the vessel into twenty-six compartments. In case of accident to the outer shell, whereby water might gain ingress, that particular compartment can instantly be closed and the flow of water confined to it. Before going down into the engine-room, I will give you some idea of this remarkable vessel. The Tracer, when fully submerged, displaces 1,000 tons of water. The shell of the vessel is of 1½-inch steel, covered externally by an aluminum armor of .3 of an inch in thickness, and weighs 570,000 pounds. The steel deck upon which we stand weighs 500,000; the steel partitions, braces, and iron-work weigh 195,000; the engines and machinery, 200,000; compressed air pipes, 125,000; the water cylinders, which you will soon see, weigh 100,000; all other parts, stores, lipthalite, etc., are allowed 50,000 pounds. Now, added to all this, is an immense aluminum-covered iron weight of 150,000 pounds attached to the bottom of the vessel, and which can instantly be freed and dropped from the ship into the sea, by simply breaking an electrical connection. This circuit is accessible from all parts of the vessel. Let us descend into the engine-rooms, and I will there explain why I have been so particular in giving you these weights." Following the Lieutenant down the narrow ladder into the depth below, Cobb, Rawolle, and Lyman were soon facing the powerful but small engines of the Tracer. The room was large, clean, warm, and brightly illuminated by electricity. Here, Mr. Lochridge, the first engineer, was introduced by Lieutenant Sibley. Cobb had seen the engines of many of the first-class vessels of his day, had noted their power and huge dimensions; but never before had he perceived such beautiful specimens of strength combined with size; nor did the finest workmanship he had ever seen approach to the perfection of the engines he saw beating and pulsating before him. Cobb looked them carefully over before venturing any remark. He noted an absence of steam and heat, the peculiar construction of the boilers, and many other, to him, new inventions. "I believe, Mr. Rawolle," he finally said, turning to him, "that you informed me last evening that no steam was used at the present day, but in its place, lipthalite?" "That is our fuel and vapor nowadays," broke in Mr. Lochridge. He led the way to two receivers, bearing some slight resemblance to the boilers of a steamer. "Here are our boilers and furnaces combined," he continued; "and these," as he laid his hand upon two very peculiarly constructed frontal additions, which had quite a number of straight pipes running into the large receiver, "are our furnaces, if you choose to call them by such a designation; we call them generators. Lipthalite is our fuel and gas developer." Mr. Lochridge stooped down and took from a case, containing many more, a stick of dark-brown material about four feet long by one inch in diameter, and handed it to Cobb for his inspection, saying: "That is lipthalite. These rods are placed in those tubes, and, by proper mechanism, pushed through into the field of an arc light situated in the generator. Gas is evolved in great quantities, but the composition burns only while in the field of the arc. Little heat is developed. The gas is delivered to the cylinders in the same manner as was steam in your day." "What is the volume of gas as compared with the solid base? and is it cheaper and as efficient as vapor of water?" "I expected that question, Mr. Cobb," returned Mr. Lochridge, "and will explain it. One cubic foot of water, as you know, produces nearly 1,700 cubic feet of steam; one cubic inch of gunpowder makes about 1,500 cubic inches of carbonic acid and nitrogen gases; while one cubic inch of lipthalite will evolve 500 cubic feet of lipthalene, a combination of nitrogen, carbonic acid, and other gases. The ratio between water and lipthalite, evolved into gas, is as 1 to 500. In other words, to operate the engines of this vessel at a given speed for one hour, requires, of coal and water, one and thirty-one tons respectively; while of lipthalite, twenty-three pounds. Leaving out the question of water, of which there is a plentiful supply surrounding the vessel, the gain in a twenty-four hours' run for lipthalite over coal is as 1 is to 96; or one ton of lipthalite is used where ninety-six tons of coal would have been required." "It is a wonderful discovery!" exclaimed Cobb, and a far-away, dreamy expression came into his eyes. For an instant his mind went back to the days, long years ago, when he had spent hours in his laboratory, at the Presidio, searching for this very same agent--the storage of great power in small volume--and his partial success in the discovery of meteorite. Then his thoughts led him to the remembrance that his new explosive had been sent to Washington. What had become of it? Lost, lost, years ago! "Do you comprehend the advance in science that has been made in a hundred years?" and Rawolle broke his reverie by gently touching him on the arm. "Can I help it? Could anyone have dreamed of such a power as this?" Yes. He had dreamed of it; and many, many times. But too modest to venture the knowledge that his thoughts and work had been centered on such a grand invention, he turned to Mr. Lochridge, and abruptly asked: "Is lipthalite turned into gas by explosion?" "By no means," quickly returned that gentleman; "by inflammation, and inflammation alone, and not very fast, either. In our generators, here, it is at the rate of about two hundred and fifty feet of these sticks per hour." "Strange that I should have worked on this very principle!" he said, half aloud; then turning to Lieutenant Sibley, he exclaimed: "You spoke of water cylinders; where are they?" "Under the grating, Mr. Cobb." Mr. Lochridge raised the grated flooring, and showed three iron cylinders, each divided into halves, with piston-rods and cylinder-heads. They were about four feet in diameter by twenty-three feet long. "These, gentlemen," he continued, "are connected by pipes with the outside of the vessel. Water can be admitted into any one or all of these cylinders, and, in two minutes, driven out by the pistons. Should these pistons fail, from any cause, to work, pumps connected with the cylinders could perform the same duty in ten minutes. I gave you the weights a few minutes ago; what did I make them?" taking a piece of paper and pencil from his pocket, and making a few notes. "Yes; 1,940,000 pounds, or just thirty tons less than our displacement. The water cylinders have a capacity of fifty tons. By allowing thirty tons of water to enter the cylinders, our weight is equal to our displacement, and we sink. Allowing all loss of weight aboard ship during a cruise, and which never exceeds twenty tons, we can always decrease our buoyancy and sink to the bottom, if necessary. Now, here," pointing to the left, and along the walls of the vessel, "are the dynamos for the electric lights, fans for circulating the fresh air, steering apparatus, electric heaters, exhaust pumps for expelling the vitiated air and drawing in the fresh, and many other inventions, the uses of which you can learn at your leisure." The engine-room of the Tracer was indeed a curiosity-shop to Junius Cobb. Pipes in every direction; electric wires crossed and recrossed one another; peculiar machines occupied each side of the room, and a hundred other things, strange to him, were upon either side. Leaving the engine-room, Lieutenant Sibley led the way to the instrument-room of the ship. Here a new treat awaited Cobb. Situated just at the junction of the main shell and the forward cone, was the pilot's, or instrument, room. In an easy-chair, in front of a box about two feet square, and resting on the table, sat Mr. Irwin, the first pilot of the Tracer. On either side of him, and fastened to the walls of the room, were a great number of delicate instruments, some of which were familiar to Cobb. At either side of the box on the table were several rows of push-buttons; to the left, a fine compass, and to the right, speaking tubes and bells. "You met Mr. Cobb at breakfast, did you not, Irwin?" questioned Lieutenant Sibley, as the pilot arose and greeted the entrance of the party with a smile. "Yes, I had that pleasure," he returned, bowing. "Have you been over the ship?" to Cobb. "We have taken it all in, Mr. Irwin," said Lyman, answering for the party. "How is the course? and where are we now?" asked the Lieutenant. "It is now 9:35, and we are headed northeast by east. Cairo is to our rear ninety-five miles. We are over Princeton, thirty miles north of Evansville," was the reply. "You may make Louisville. What time will we get there?" Consulting his chart a moment, Mr. Irwin replied: "Louisville is on our course now, and distant one hundred and eighty-eight miles. We will make it at 14:12." "Now, Irwin, I wish you would explain the mysteries of your castle to Mr. Cobb, and then bring the gentleman to my cabin. You will excuse us a few minutes, will you not, Mr. Cobb? I have some official papers for Mr. Rawolle's inspection. Mr. Lyman, will you come along, too?" to that gentleman. As they left the room, Mr. Irwin turned to Cobb, and held a few minutes' conversation regarding the remarkable experience of the latter; then, rising, he pointed to the right wall and said: "These are instruments used aboard submarine vessels of to-day. There is a thermometer for interior temperature, that for exterior temperature; here are electric dials giving the humidity in various parts of the ship. These dials to the left show the motion of the fans, dynamos, and all other moving machinery aboard. The interior pressure is here noted," placing his hand upon a barometer, "and the exterior, there. The purity of the air is indicated by this little delicate meter. The speed of the vessel is shown on that reel, which is connected, electrically, with the log. These little bells," pointing to twenty-four little bells overhead, "will quickly give warning of the entrance of water into any of the chambers. The equilibrium of the ship is denoted automatically by this alcohol cross combined with a double pendulum. The lipthalene pressure is given here. The many buttons and tubes communicate to all parts of the ship. Those two buttons release the iron weight at the bottom of the vessel, and these twelve buttons regulate the entry and exit of the water in the six water cylinders. The speed is regulated here, and the vessel steered by this little wheel;" and he pointed out the various instruments as he mentioned their uses. Cobb carefully examined every instrument as it was mentioned to him. Turning to Mr. Irwin, he asked: "But where is your steersman--your lookout, I mean? Cooped up in this little room, you can see nothing around the ship. Even on deck, especially in rough weather, you would be too low down to have much of a view of your surroundings." "The explanation is most simple. Look into that box, if you please, and let your head fill the opening, to darken the interior." He smiled as he noted Cobb's perplexed expression. Obeying Mr. Irwin's request, Cobb fitted his face to the opening and gazed inside the box. He saw the sea rising and falling in its swell, vessels passing in various directions, the faint blue outlines of the shore to the northwest, and--click, the scene changes: now other vessels in view, and a clear circle of the horizon, denoting a great expanse of water. Again a clicking sound, and-- "My God!" he cried, starting back; "a ship! a ship is almost upon us!" Like lightning, Irwin sprang to the camera and glanced in; then quickly reaching out his hand, his fingers touched a button, and the hoarse marine whistle of the Tracer thundered forth its warning; seizing the tiller-wheel, he threw it hard aport, and then, without pausing, pressed another button, and the large gongs of the ship pealed out their summons to its crew that danger was imminent. Even as the alarm sounded, came a shock, a shiver, a slight careening of the vessel, and as Irwin took his white face from the camera, the grateful exclamation: "Thank God! we are safe! Look! the monster passes by!" Into the camera Cobb again peered; the dark, black stern of a large freighter was passing to the southwest. Lieutenant Sibley and the crew of the Tracer were quickly huddled at the door of the pilot's room. "Lieutenant," said Irwin, with a salute, "I confess that we have had a very narrow escape from being run down by a heavy freighter. Explaining these instruments to Mr. Cobb, I failed to note the approach of the vessel." The alarm having subsided, the subject was fully discussed, and Mr. Irwin was exonerated by the Lieutenant. All parties then returned to their various occupations. Mr. Irwin then turned to Cobb and said: "It was very negligent of me not to carefully survey the field for approaching vessels. The Tracer carries but a single mast, and sits so low in the water, that these many merchant ships, with their sleepy crews, often fail to sight her until too late to make a proper clearing." Then returning to the subject upon which they had been speaking when Cobb's excited exclamation had burst forth, he continued: "I see that you have understood the object of the little dark box on the table. It is a camera-obscura. The single mast of the Tracer is of aluminum, strong, slight, and hollow, and rises to a height of twenty-eight feet. A lens at the top revolves by pushing this button; thus a perfect image of the surrounding water and all upon it is thrown on the white ground within the box. Sitting here and looking in the box, I note the proximity of objects and steer the vessel. The mast also serves to carry an arc light for night traveling, and our flag by day. Further, our air is drawn down through pipes in its interior; for, during heavy seas, we must have the air inlets far above the deck, which is constantly washed by the rollers." Some further conversation was indulged in, and then Cobb thanked Mr. Irwin for his kindness, excused himself, and was soon seated, with Lieutenant Sibley, in the latter's cozy cabin. Lunch having been disposed of, Rawolle, taking out his watch, remarked to Cobb: "In a few minutes we will be directly over Louisville, Kentucky; and in these few minutes, I will briefly explain the effects of the great cataclysm of 1916, as I promised to do: The gas strata of the Ohio basin," he began, "extending from above Pittsburgh to the Mississippi River, with pockets innumerable and ramifications in every direction, contained millions of millions of cubic feet of gas under varying pressures from nil to many atmospheres. The catastrophe at Dillenback's ignited the gas in what appeared to have been the main strata. Explosion followed explosion throughout the region now occupied by the Central Sea. The earth was rent and broken, and the great vacuums, caused by the annihilation of the gases, took away the support of the upper crust, and then atmospheric pressure completed the ruin. The earth sank and crushed into these voids until a new foundation was reached. In some sections the fall of the crust was frightful, terrific. In the vicinity of Cincinnati but one shock was felt, but that shock was terrible, horrible, annihilating. The earth sank 196 feet at one fall. Not a living soul escaped the shock of impact upon the underlying strata. The city was an inconceivable mass of ruins, and in two days, was covered with water. So it was over a region of 100,000 square miles, the earth sinking everywhere, but to different depths and with different rates of depression. Pittsburgh sank 377 feet, but so slowly that few lives were lost, though the destruction of property was very great. At the mouth of the Ohio the earth sank only one foot, increasing toward the east. Millions of lives were sacrificed and untold wealth lost, for the great depression commenced immediately to fill with the waters from the streams flowing into the Ohio basin, and from the underlying strata. Even the Mississippi turned its waters into the old mouth of the Ohio and flowed east, leaving but a small, shallow stream to flow in its old bed until augmented by the streams and rivers emptying into it below Cairo. Even with all these waters it was an insignificant river until it reached the Arkansas and received the mass of water from that river. But in 1918 the river was diverted back to its proper channel; though later on the dam was removed, owing to the rise in the Central Sea, and the natural outlet being at Cairo. This, in brief, Mr. Cobb, is the effect of a single accident in a gun factory, in 1916; though who can tell but that it might have occurred later on from some other cause?" "But did not those who were not injured by the shocks and falling buildings have time to move their effects before the waters overtook them? for, surely, this immense sea did not fill up in a few days," ventured Cobb. "Along the Ohio, from this side of Louisville to above Cincinnati, scarcely any property was saved. The depression was such that the submergence came very quickly. But this was not the case in the surrounding country. In one week the shocks were over and the earth quiet. People recovered from their fears a little, and looked about them. Later on they commenced to rebuild, and it was not until a year after that they found a new foe against which they could not combat: the country was below the level of any outlet, natural or artificial, and was filling up into an inland sea. Surveys were made, and in 1918 the true condition of the country ascertained. Then, and only then, was it found that the region now covered by the Central Sea was destined to be lost to mankind. Human ingenuity could not solve the problem of drainage. There was no drainage. Far below the bed of the Mississippi, the only possible outlet, the country was doomed to inundation. The survey was completed and the true limits established. All within that area began to be abandoned. Property, wherever possible, was removed; but the buildings, at least those which could not be taken apart and moved, still remain under the sea as monuments of a once densely populated area. To be sure, the removal was not rapid. The exact time was known, from the surveys made, when the waters would gain their maximum height, or reach to any particular point." "Such an immense basin must have required a considerable time to fill up?" inquired Cobb. "It did--years. It was a gala day at Cairo, and a day of rejoicing throughout the land, when, on the 14th of August, 1939, the Central Sea reached the dam at that city, and passed over in a gently increasing stream. The dam was removed, the channel opened, and navigation from the ocean to this immense body of water, through the mouth of the old Ohio River, was unobstructed." "Why," exclaimed Cobb, in astonishment, "that was twenty-three years after the disturbances! It took longer to fill up than I had imagined." "The area lost," continued Rawolle, "was about one hundred thousand square miles; the volume nearly one hundred and seventy-five trillion cubic feet. The water-shed of the Ohio produced ten billion cubic feet per day, all of which flowed into the Central Sea. The first two years the Mississippi discharged a like amount into the sunken area. It was estimated that over ninety trillion cubic feet of water were pushed up, so to speak, from the strata of the earth by the subsidence of the upper crust. Thus, one hundred trillion cubic feet of water rushed into the doomed basin of the Ohio in the first two years, making inundation very rapid during that time, and frightfully rapid during the first week. The Ohio water-shed supplied nearly four trillion cubic feet per year, which, to complete the seventy-five trillion necessary to fill the sea, took twenty-one years." "This is a most wonderful occurrence, and did I not have ocular proof of its reality, I admit I should be loath to believe it a possibility;" and Cobb seemed lost in a reverie of the marvelous events which had transpired during his long sleep on Mt. Olympus. The tinkling of a bell caused Lieutenant Sibley, who had been writing at his desk, to look up and say: "I presume we are near Louisville." Then, going to the tube, he answered Mr. Irwin, in the pilot-room, and was informed that the vessel was then over the city of Louisville. The Tracer was soon brought to a rest, and Cobb witnessed the peculiar arrangements made for descending to the bottom of the sea. He watched every movement and noted every detail, and saw with what wonderful facility a thousand-ton ship could be made to obey a man's will. The mast of the Tracer was dropped until its top rested upon the deck of the vessel, its top closing automatically to prevent the ingress of water. A large circular float containing air-valves, and attached to a long hose, was loosened from its fastenings on the deck. The water cylinders were opened, and as they partially filled, the vessel lost its superiority of displacement and began to sink; the large float, with its air-valves, and attached to the hose, remained upon the top of the water, permitting air to be drawn down into the vessel by suction. Thus a constant supply of fresh air was obtained without recourse to the compressed air in store. In fact, the latter was never used except in emergencies or when it was desired, as in the case of war, to keep the approach of the vessel a secret. The sensation of falling was apparent, but it was indescribably peculiar; neither pleasing, nor yet distasteful--such a feeling as when, in his boyhood days, he had sat upon the board of a swing and let the "old cat die." Passing with Lieutenant Sibley and the others into the pilot's room, he saw the ease with which the descent was regulated, and noted the instrument showing the depth of submersion. Mr. Irwin pressed a button, and Cobb felt the tremor of a forward movement. The displacement being but a trifle less than the weight of the vessel, the movements of the ship were now regulated by its engines and double rudders. Stepping to the side of the room, the Lieutenant threw open the steel covering of a bull's-eye, and then pressed the button near it. A brilliant flash shot out, and the rays penetrated the water for a considerable distance in every direction. [Illustration] "There!" cried Lieutenant Sibley, with an involuntary wave of his hand. "Behold the city of the dead, Louisville!--Louisville, once such a grand city, now a silent, slime-covered, submerged testimony of nature's conquering power over man's puny will." Cobb pressed his face against the glass and silently gazed upon the lifeless buildings and streets of the city. Even as they stood years ago, so stood many at that moment. Others were in ruins, with gaping walls and broken doors and windows, and all were covered with mud and slime and marine vegetation. The streets were half-way up to the second stories, but the tops of the street-lamps could be discerned sticking out of the muddy sediment which had been deposited over everything. Slowly the Tracer moved forward, and the whole expanse of the southeast side of this unfortunate, but once brilliant, city was presented to view. What emotions filled that man's breast, with his eyes glued, as if fascinated by some unknown power, upon the spot he had, in years long since past, visited, looked upon, and walked in! With a sickening feeling of utter sadness at his heart, he turned away. "God's ways are inscrutable," he sighed. A tear glistened in his eye as he cried: "No more! Let us ascend!" At 24 dial the Tracer was at her moorings in Pittsburgh, and Cobb, Rawolle, and Lyman took the Chicago Pneumatic for Washington. As he lay in his berth in the sleeper, his mind reverted back to the days when he had met his friends in social evenings of pleasure; to his old friend in Duke's Lane, and to the bright, lovely face of that man's daughter. Ah! how he longed for but an hour with them--an hour of true friendship and love; how he craved to listen to but a moment's innocent prattle of his girl-love. Alone among strangers, among a people far ahead of his time, he felt that he was looked upon as a curiosity, but not as one claiming sympathy and love as a relative or dear friend. Did the experiment come up to the ideal? Was he satisfied to die and live again? He asked these questions of himself. He meditated--reflected--and slept. CHAPTER XI It was 1:25 dial when the Chicago Pneumatic glided noiselessly into the switching section at Washington. Seizing their grips and coats, the party moved out on to the platform of the sleeper. In a moment the huge train had been raised by the hydraulic lift, and was soon standing in the depot of the capital of the United States. What a beautiful and fairy-like scene presented itself to Junius Cobb! A depot of magnificent proportions, exquisite workmanship and finish, and possessing a hundred conveniences never dreamed of in his time. The great vaulted roof was set with thousands of electric lights which appeared like brilliant stars in the firmament. Thousands more, in every direction and in every conceivable place, made the vast chamber as bright as the midday sun. At the barriers of the discharging section a great but orderly crowd was pushing and elbowing its way to a closer position at the gate. All Washington knew that Junius Cobb, the man of two centuries ago, would arrive on that particular train, and a great multitude had congregated to catch a glimpse of him. As he passed through the gates, while the police pushed back the crowd, he heard their exclamations and remarks: "There he is!" "Where?" "There, with Commissioner Rawolle--on his left." "I believe him to be a fake." "Oh, he's a toola!" "He has never slept a hundred years!" "Isn't he a young man to have lived so long?" "What's the matter with you? he didn't live, he just slept." "They say he is an officer in the army yet." "Well, people will be gulled!" Thus were the expressions bandied about, and fell upon the ears of Cobb in a harsh and unpleasant manner. He was not flattered by the remarks he heard. Already, it seemed, there was a desire to doubt his identity. As they neared the center of the hall, someone in the crowd cried: "Junius Cobb! Junius Cobb! Three cheers for Junius Cobb!" And the building rang and echoed back the salutation. Surely this was flattering. His reception, after all, was not without sincerity on the part of many of that vast throng. A step or two more, and Cobb and Rawolle entered an electric drag, while Lyman bade them good-night, or rather good-morning, and hurried away to report. Away, and at a rapid gait, sped the drag, its wheels of rubber giving no sound on the elastic pavement of the street, its headlight flashing out a brilliant beam, while ever and anon the driver caused a muffled-toned gong, whose sound was low and musical, to indicate the approach of the carriage. Looking from the window on his side, Cobb saw to what extent street illumination had progressed in a hundred years. At every fifty feet, on either side, were arc lamps; and this at two in the morning, when those of the shops were extinguished. No gas lights were visible. It was a September morning, but the air was mild and balmy, and it seemed like a morning in early spring. Many people were upon the street, and the electric drags, with their flashing lights and musical gongs, were passing in every direction. At exactly 1:42 dial the drag stopped under the arch of the entrance to the President's mansion, and Junius Cobb was received by the chief magistrate of the United States. Emory D. Craft, President of the United States, was a tall, rotund, and pleasant gentleman of over sixty years of age. His head was massive, and his features square and clean-cut; his hair almost white, and a beard heavy and gray. A man of great perception, executive ability, true kindness, and wisdom, he ruled the greatest nation on earth as a loving father rules his household, with justice and firmness. As Rawolle and Cobb alighted, he descended the steps, and, advancing, extended his hand to the former, exclaiming: "I welcome you back, Mr. Rawolle." "Thank you, sir; and let me present Mr. Junius Cobb." "Mr. Cobb, I cannot express to you the pleasure of this meeting;" and the President shook the young man's hand heartily. "Be assured that your remarkable, nay, wonderful, case has been uppermost in my mind since first I became aware of your existence." "Nor can I, Mr. President, express the gratification I feel in meeting and shaking the hand of the chief magistrate of this great nation, especially when that magistrate is ruling the country a hundred and forty years after my birth." Cobb seemed proud of the fact that he, of all the world, could make such a statement. A few moments later, the President and Cobb were sitting before a glowing, cheerful fire, engaged in earnest conversation. Mr. Rawolle had been dismissed by the President, and had hastened to the welcome he knew awaited him from his wife and children. "There, Mr. President," said Cobb, after a long recital of his life and the facts attending his entombment on Mt. Olympus, "you have the whole story. It is a remarkable one, is it not?" "Stranger than any fiction I ever read," he exclaimed. "I can scarcely believe that I behold the intimate friend and contemporary of my great-grandfather in the person of one so young as you." He looked at Cobb in wonder and awe. "And are you the great-grandson of Hugh Craft, my dear old friend of 1887?" cried Cobb with joy, as if a new tie had been found to bind him to this new world. "Yes; here is our family history." He arose and went to the cabinet, and returned with a large book. "Read it;" opening it and handing it to the other; "you will there see the history of your friend." He placed his finger on the page. Cobb read slowly, and like one in a dream, this page of the history of the dead--this chronicle of the life of his chum and bosom friend. "First Lieutenant, Captain, Major," he read, "killed at the battle of Ottawa, August 5, 1917." He read it over twice; then suddenly turning to the President, he cried: "A soldier's death! A noble ending to a noble man! But what battle is this in which he died?" "'Tis a long story--too long for to-night," the President replied; "but, in brief, it was the decisive termination of English power in North America. Canada desired annexation to the United States: England opposed it. British troops were massed on Canadian soil, and she endeavored to prevent the loss of her colonies. War between the Canadians and the mother country followed. We looked on, but offered no assistance. It was not until the cry for freedom became a wail of misery and a piteous appeal for succor, that we interfered. We offered England $500,000,000 for the whole of her possessions in North America. The offer was refused with contempt. Indignation prevailed throughout the United States, and public opinion demanded that assistance be given to the suffering people in their struggle for freedom. Great Britain was notified by joint resolution of Congress of March 22, 1917, to evacuate Canada and all territory between the boundaries of the United States and parallel fifty-one degrees of north latitude. The demand was refused; and on April 2, in full Congress, war was declared against England. For twenty-five years, or from about 1890, this country had been building first-class ships of war, fortifying its coast and putting the nation in a condition to enforce its demands." "They hadn't done much in my time," broke in Cobb, with a thought of the utterly defenseless condition of the country in 1887. "No," continued the President; "but Congress, as you can see by referring to history, in 1890 awoke to the necessity of national protection. In 1917, we could and did enforce our demand. The war was short but terrible. England's great but slow floating fortresses were no match for our harbor vessels. She never gained entrance to a single port of note, but lost many of her finest ships in the attempt. On land, of course, the effect of our arms was more rapid. An army marched across the border, and the decisive battle of Ottawa was fought. Here was gathered all of England's force of occupation. On August 5, 1917, her army was utterly routed, and laid down its arms. With the loss of her American army, and the destruction of many of her finest iron-clads, England asked for terms. By the protocol of October 16th, England, in consideration of $250,000,000, relinquished, forever, all possessions on the continent of North America, together with all national property, fortifications, etc." "And poor Craft never lived to see the fruits of his nation's courage," said Cobb. "No; he died in the charge of his regiment." And then, after a pause: "But Hugh Craft still lives. I will introduce him to you to-morrow--do not ask any questions," as Cobb was about to interrupt him--"to-morrow, or rather to-day; and until then, you must sleep." It was 4 dial when Cobb was shown to his apartments. The next morning Cobb was awakened from a refreshing slumber by a voice singing: "He sleeps; he wakes; the hour is late. Arise, get up! the clock strikes eight." Springing quickly from his bed, he glanced around the room. Again the song and words, and again he looked, but saw no one. Wondering much at the occurrence, he proceeded with his toilet. At 8:45 he was with the President at breakfast, and had been introduced to Mrs. Craft and her lovely daughter, Mollie. "Papa says he has taken complete possession of you, Mr. Cobb; and I am so glad, for I want you to tell me so much about those queer old days so long ago;" and she gave him a pleasant smile. "We are delighted, dear Mr. Cobb, to have you with us. You must consider this your home now, for you have no other, you know;" and good Mrs. Craft spoke in a motherly tone of voice. "And, of course, you will want a sister;" Mollie Craft cast her eyes down in a shy manner. "Yes," said Mr. Craft, with evident pleasure and hope in his voice. "We want you to feel that you have not left all your friends in that distant age. We desire you to consider this your home as long as it shall please you to do so. My wife and I will endeavor to be a mother and a father to you; our daughter, a sister; our son, a brother." Mollie Craft was a lovely girl of nineteen years--tall, dark, and robust. She was possessed of a clear skin, sparkling eyes, and beautiful teeth. She was accomplished, and a leader among the young ladies of her set. Her disposition was frank, kind, and retiring. No wonder that Cobb's eyes often wandered in her direction during that breakfast! It seemed to him that he had never before seen so lovely a face and figure, nor such charming ways as Mollie Craft was mistress of. Yes, there was one face that held just comparison with that before him; there was one figure that matched the symmetry of Mollie Craft; but, alas! she was no more! The queen was dead, but the princess lived! So passed the thoughts in his mind. Adjourning to the President's library, for Mr. Craft loved to have his family about him while he smoked his after-breakfast cigar, the conversation proceeded with animation, but always with Cobb as the central figure. "A Captain in the army, a Colonel up a tree; Quite soon I'll be a Major, as you can plainly see." As the words came forth in a free though quiet manner, a young man entered the door, stopped, and then, bowing, exclaimed: "Pardon me; I did not know that you had company." Junius Cobb looked up; then, starting from his seat with a white and perplexed expression, sprang toward the stranger, who, in astonishment, drew half back through the door. "Hugh Craft! How came you here?" Recovering himself, the man replied, but with embarrassment: "Well! that's very good, indeed! Asking a man what he is doing in his own father's house!" and he gave a quiet, undecided laugh. "Mr. Cobb, my son. Hugh, this is Mr. Junius Cobb; you know who he is," with emphasis on the pronoun. Junius Cobb rubbed his eyes in confusion. He comprehended the situation at once, and also remembered the President's words of the night before, when he said, "Hugh Craft still lives." Hugh Craft bowed, and moved behind his sister's chair, and whispered: "Is he dangerous?" Cobb, as he turned around, overheard the words, and smiled. "No, Hugh," he exclaimed; "not dangerous, but amazed. You are the exact image and counterpart of him who was my dearest and best friend, your--" he hesitated a moment--"your great-great-grandfather." Hugh and Mollie looked bewildered, while Mr. Craft's face wore a smile. The situation was too comical, and all burst into a hearty laugh, Cobb joining the others. "It is funny, is it not, to hear me talking of having been the friend and chum of this man's great-great-grandfather?" A few moments and everything had been fully explained to Hugh, who had been absent a week, and had not heard that Cobb was at the executive mansion. "Dear brother," said Mollie, as she put her arms about the young man's neck and kissed him, "I want you and Mr. Cobb to be brothers; to be to each other as your great-great-grandfather and he were long years ago." "Hugh," said his father, "as you have returned so opportunely, you can take charge of Mr. Cobb--Junius, let us call him, if he does not object--until time for the reception. I have some work to attend to, and I know Junius will excuse me--will you not?" to him. "Certainly. Do not let my presence interfere with your work; and let me thank you for calling me Junius. I hope you will always continue to do so." For an hour these three--Hugh, Junius, and Mollie--sat and chatted. To Cobb it seemed very home-like and most pleasant, and his companions so kind and natural. Hugh was so like that other Hugh, and Mollie so charming and witty, that he scarcely realized, as Hugh looked at his watch and said that they had better dress, that an hour had passed away. On their way to their rooms, Cobb suddenly said: "By the bye, Hugh, I wish to ask you a question. This morning, as I was about to arise, I heard someone singing in my room. It was not a very melodious voice, but nevertheless clear and distinct; something like 'Get up, arise; the hour is late!' Can you explain it?" "Nothing easier. It was my old phonograph clock--one I picked up at a pawn-shop one day--a relic of fifty years back;" and he laughed at the thought of his friend's perplexity at hearing the words ground out of the machine. "Why did I not think of that?" petulantly. "Why, they were just getting them out in 1887. Do you not have them now?" "No; we have something better. The electric clock companies of every city run their wires to nearly every house in their towns, and to these wires are attached electric clocks. The resident buys the clock for five dollars, and pays twenty-five cents a month for its use. At the central station, a large clock of the finest make, and absolutely correct in its time, causes all the others to follow its movements. Thus every house has a dial which records correctly and requires no care. It is simple, cheap, and beneficial." At the President's reception, at 11 dial, Junius Cobb was the lion of the hour. Senators gave him every attention; the foreign ambassadors treated him as a man of the greatest distinction; the army and navy laughed, chatted, and petted him. Just after the introductions of the Senators, Tsu-nan-li, the Minister from China, and dean of the diplomatic corps, approached and bowed low to the President; the latter, also, bowing low, in acknowledgment of the salutation, said: "O Sölal obik! Dälolsös obe nuikön mani yunik olse kela sava milagik de deil penunols, fuliko, nen dot."[1] [1] "My Lord: Permit me, if you please, to present to you the young man of whose wonderful rescue from death you have been fully informed, no doubt." As the President made the introduction, Cobb gave a slight start at hearing him speak in Volapük; then a smile of pleasure came over his face. Bowing to the young man, the Minister expressed his pleasure at the meeting by saying: "O Söl obik löfik! Panunob das pebinols bevü pedeilölsis balmil jöltum jölsevel, kaleda olsik. In ols logob oni, kel pegönom fa Confucius e Buddha god, in dat padälols denu getön luti lifa. Ogivols stimi obe fa visitöl obi ven plidos-la olsi kömön."[2] [2] "My dear sir: I am informed that you have been among the dead since 1887 of your calendar. I see in you one who has been favored by Confucius and the god Buddha, in that you are permitted again to receive the air of life. You will do me an honor by visiting me when it may please you to come." Seeing the President about to translate the words of Tsu-nan-li, Cobb quickly interrupted him, and, smiling at his ability to meet at least one of the requirements of this new age, said: "O Söl President, ed ols, Sölal obik! No stunolsös lilön obi gepükön in pük egebols. Lesevob, äs jen lefulnik, ut kel päbüsagos äyelos lemödik, das tim äkömomöv ven valik nets kulik äcälomsöv volapüki. Klödöl das et del no äbinom fago, ästudob at pük, ed adelo logob bizugi osa."[3] [3] "Mr. President, and you, my Lord: Do not be astonished to hear me reply in the language you have employed. I recognize as an accomplished fact that which was prognosticated a great many years ago: that the time would come when all civilized nations would employ a universal language. Believing that that day was not far off, I studied this language, and to-day see the advantage of it." An expression of astonishment overspread the faces of the other two gentlemen, and the President exclaimed, gleefully: "Good enough, Cobb! There's one thing of the past equal to the present." The others claiming attention, no more was said, and the throng of visitors met, were introduced to and passed the President and Junius Cobb. A little later a party of officers were talking to Cobb near the grand stairway. Speculation was rife as to what his position in the army would be, knowing that he had been dropped for desertion years ago. The discussion was animated, though Cobb himself took no active part in it. "Ah! Cobb, my boy," and a tall young man, in the full regimentals of a captain in the Second Cavalry--Cobb's old regiment--came forward and familiarly slapped him on the shoulder: "I have been looking for you. Hugh informs me that you will undoubtedly be restored to your rank in the army; in fact, he says that they can't help giving you your commission again." "Ah!" from Cobb, as he looked the other in the face. "Yes," smiling. "And you will be my lieutenant, for I command your old troop of the Second. You will be a böd seledik (rare bird) to us in the Second, and, as I am ordered to join my regiment on the 10th of next month, I intend applying to have you ordered back with me." Several smiled at the young captain's cool impudence, but Cobb simply bowed in recognition of the other's desire for his company to his regiment. Captain Hathaway, of the Second Cavalry, was twenty-eight years of age, tall in stature, slight in build, and wearing a little, light mustache. With a glass in his eye, and a voice which sounded low and sweet, he was, with all his known cool impudence, a right clever fellow. But he had taken a dislike to Junius Cobb--and why? "Yes, Mr. Cobb," taking up the army style of address to lieutenants, "I fear you will have to give up your good times here and join me. Of course they cannot refuse my request," with a new adjustment of his eyeglass. "Mr. Hathaway--" "_Captain_, sir; Captain Hathaway. You forget you are addressing your troop commander;" with dignity. A flush overspread Cobb's face, and he bit his lip to keep from replying in hot terms to this uncalled-for insolence. "Captain Hathaway, you will join your regiment before the 10th, and I will not be with you. Good morning." He turned on his heel and moved toward a group near the President. With a laugh at the blank and crushed expression of the young Captain, the others sauntered away. "Damme! but that's cool. Going to order his Captain to his regiment, eh! Going to get me out of the way and take my girl. Well, I guess not!" and he, too, moved off. At lunch, after the reception and departure of the guests, Cobb laughingly referred to the little incident of the morning. The President expressed his disapprobation of the Captain's behavior, and told Cobb that he would give the young man a lesson in politeness. According to their programme, the office of the Secretary of War was visited at 13:30 dial, and Cobb was introduced to Mr. Fowler, the urbane but quick-spoken Secretary. Here he learned much concerning himself, and a great deal in regard to the state of the nation for purposes of offense and defense. "Yes," continued the Secretary, in answer to a question from Cobb, "your status has been investigated, and it is found that you were dropped from the army, as a deserter, December 1, 1904, under the provisions of section 1,229, Revised Statutes. But when the wonderful facts attending your return to life, and the existence and tenor of your leave of absence, given in 1887, had been fully laid before the Supreme Court, sitting in bank, yesterday, a decree was formulated that you have never been out of service--that is, legally. You, therefore, Mr. Cobb, revert back to your status as a Lieutenant in the Second Cavalry." Cobb meditatively admitted that perhaps Captain Hathaway would, after all, take him back to the regiment on the 10th of the following month. "But," and the Secretary looked inquiringly at the President, who nodded assent, "you would have been the ranking Major in the cavalry arm in 1918, the year you would have retired for age, according to the law at that date." "Yes, you are quite right, Mr. Secretary, I would have been a Major; but I never expected to have been the senior. Promotion at that time was slow beyond measure--stagnated. Old men with grown-up families were still Lieutenants, while the majority of Captains were old, rheumatic, and unable to perform their duty. Lieutenants did all the work." Cobb seemed to revert back in disgust at the state of promotion in 1887. "As you would have been retired as the ranking Major," slowly continued the Secretary, paying no attention to Cobb's remarks, but with a pleasant air at the news he was about to communicate, "the President has been guided by a sense of the justice due you, and has nominated you to the Senate as such, to rank at the head of the list. Further, as a vacancy exists in the grade of Lieutenant-Colonel, your promotion to that rank follows as a natural course. The Senate will confirm the nomination at 16 dial. Allow me, Colonel Cobb, to congratulate you," and the good old man clasped the hand of the new Lieutenant-Colonel; nor was the President slow in his congratulations. Both seemed to have taken a special interest in Cobb. He, in his turn, expressed his sincere thanks for their kindness to him, and was highly elated at the good fortune attending his new life. "By the records," continued Mr. Fowler, "you are thirty-three years of age, for you entered the cataleptic state at that age; and it has been decided that the period of your inanimation shall not in any manner be counted against you. A Lieutenant-Colonel at thirty-three, the youngest in the army, you will one day command the army of the United States." And he smiled kindly, while the President looked admiringly upon his protégé. Then, for an hour, the Secretary gave Colonel Cobb a brief history of the army during the hundred and odd years which had passed. "We have, to-day," said he, "a population of over 500,000,000 of people, occupying sixty-eight States and nine Territories, covering the whole of North America from the Isthmus of Panama to the Arctic, and from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean." "This is a vast and wonderful increase since the census of 1880," exclaimed Cobb. "Why, I remember, in 1887, that the most sanguine statistician estimated only 67,000,000 for the next census, that of 1890." "True," returned the Secretary. "That was above the exact figure; if I remember correctly, it was only 64,987,504. But even that population was a trifle more than twenty-five per cent. increase upon the census of 1880. The ratio of increase since we were a nation of only 3,000,000, averaged about thirty per cent. until the year 1900. In 1910 it fell to twenty-two per cent., but the next census, that of 1920, showed an increase of thirty-four per cent. The reason for this great increase is found in the fact that in 1915 the United States acquired Mexico and all Central America, with its population of over 20,000,000 souls, and in 1917, after the conquest, the whole of British America, with 10,000,000 more. Our population was, by the census of 1920--counting in 30,000,000 people acquired--137,000,000. The increase since 1890 has averaged only 18.5 per cent, every ten years, or less than two per cent. a year." "And is not the country somewhat crowded by this great mass of people?" inquired Cobb. "By no means; there is room for double the number--yes, treble as many. The great States of Slave, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Assiniboia, and west of the isothermal line of thirty-eight degrees are teeming with people engaged in agriculture." "What is the strength of the army required to protect the country from internal violence, and for a cadre of a full army?" asked Cobb. "Our army consists of 148,000 men only, comprising 70,000 infantry, 28,000 cavalry, and 50,000 artillery. The maintenance and distribution of this force is very different from what it was during the years when the country was new and sparsely inhabited. The artillery is along the sea-board, and is a full-paid army. The enlisted portion serve for three years at a time, and are paid at a fixed rate of $20 per month for the privates. The infantry and cavalry are distributed among the States; each State and the Territories of North and South Alaska, and Indian, has one regiment of infantry and a battalion of cavalry (400). The posts are near the great centers of the States, and from them the troops can be quickly transported to the scene of any disturbance. Each governor has authority to order out his State garrison for the preservation of life or property, or to quell riot or disorder in his State. The posts are large and handsome, and with fine and sufficient quarters for officers and men. The social standing of the soldier is equal to that of the citizen, except that, as a soldier, full and implicit obedience to his officers is required and maintained. The food is excellent, and well cooked and served; the uniform is of the best material. Now, Colonel, I will explain the system: The infantry and cavalry posts are schools for the instruction of the youth of the country. The period of service is three years, and the strength of each garrison strictly maintained. The regiments are recruited wholly from the State they are in, and do not leave that State to garrison other posts. This applies only to the enlisted portion of the army; the officers hold life positions, and are promoted lineally in their own branch of the service. They are moved from station to station every three years, but never returning to a station at which they had served before. The pay of the army of instruction, or 'Inland Army,' as it is named, is $5 per month per man, regardless of grade, and $100 upon discharge after three years of faithful service. Every year the State furnishes 500 young men who have passed the physical examination, and they are sworn into the service of the United States." "But how are these men found? Do they voluntarily enlist?" broke in Cobb. "Not all, though many do, in order to get their service in. Each State keeps a complete record of every male in its territory--his age, occupation, and physical condition. From a list of all those between twenty-one and twenty-four years of age, is selected, by chance, the yearly quota for military service, less the number of voluntary enlistments; and no one so selected can avoid the three years' service at the State post; nor do they try, I might add, for no excuse but physical incapacity will avail to free them from this duty to the State and Union. From every walk in life they come--the rich, the poor, the worker and the young man of leisure. If a son is the only support of a family, the State supplies a substitute. Except in time of war, they are never called upon again for military service. This is what makes the soldier the equal of the civilian. If a name is once selected and the man does not report, being at the time a resident of the State, he is declared a deserter, and punished as such. To their officers these men are obedient and respectful; with the civilian, they are sons of the State, and their duty honorable in the extreme. Desertion is almost unknown; but when it does occur, the offender receives the fixed punishment of twenty years in the government island prison." "And the government pays these men?" asked Cobb. "No; the pay proper and subsistence is paid by the State, but everything else is furnished by the government." "And their duties, what are they?" "They are taught all the duties of a soldier; they make marches from point to point, and diffuse a military feeling among the people; they learn to ride, to use their arms, and to become able, if the time occurs, to impart this instruction to others. They are a guard against interior violence in the State, and their presence tends to keep alive that little spark of military ardor which should never be allowed to die, even in a country deemed ever so secure from foreign invasion." "A system both great and useful!" exclaimed Cobb. "But how are the artillery regiments kept full?" "By enlistment only. The applications far exceed the demands. The majority come from the Inland Army, from those who are poor and from those who have taken a fancy to a military life." "And the officers--how are they appointed?" "They are taken from the non-commissioned officers who have completed their three years' service and are desirous of becoming officers. From the number of non-commissioned officers of each regiment competing, the five who lead in the examinations are sent to the United States military school and pursue a three years' course of study. From this class, in the order of their standing, are filled the vacancies existing on New-Year's-Day of each year, the remainder of the class being discharged." "Will you tell me what kind of arms are now used?" asked Cobb. "For infantry, the service rifle and milag cartridge; for cavalry the same, but shorter and lighter, besides a pistol using the milag cartridge of calibre 35. The artillery use nothing but the heavy guns, which are of different styles and for different purposes. Some are for lipthalene, others for lipthalene and meteorite, and still others using meteorite alone." "What! did I understand you to say meteorite?" and Cobb looked at the Secretary with a surprised and earnest expression, while his hand nervously grasped the back of his chair. "Yes; certainly. Is there anything strange in the name, that you should look at me so doubtingly?" "No; I suppose not," settling back in his chair. "But you appeared very much surprised." "Yes?" "Yes; have you seen this explosive? But no; you could not have seen it. It did not come to the notice of the government until after your time." "Will you show me one of these milag cartridges?" "Certainly." He rang a bell and ordered a box of milag cartridges sent to him in the office. When the Secretary had received them, he gave one to Cobb, saying: "This small bullet does not look much like a cartridge, does it?" Cobb took it and carefully examined it. It was precisely similar to those he had sent to Washington in 1887. Smiling to himself, he turned his eyes first upon the President and then upon the Secretary. "When did you say these were invented?" he asked, in an unconcerned manner. "I can soon tell you." Rising and taking a book from the shelf, he quickly found the history of the milag cartridge, and read: "'Milag cartridge; from the Volapük word _milag_, "wonderful." A cartridge using meteorite as an explosive; usual charge for 40 calibre, one and one-third grains; initial velocity, 3,562; range, four miles. Meteorite was discovered in 1899, and the formula sold to the government by John Otis, chief clerk to the Chief of Ordnance.'" "Chief of Ordnance?" broke in Cobb, quickly. "Yes; Chief of Ordnance. But have you read this?" "No, sir." "But there certainly is some mystery here!" exclaimed the President, highly interested in the conversation. Cobb took his penknife from his pocket, and slowly opening it, said: "If I cut this black cement in the base of the bullet, I come to the meteorite; am I correct?" "Yes." "And it is white." And he cut the cement carefully away and disclosed the little disc of fulminate and the white explosive surrounding it. "Strange!" cried both of the others together, surprised that he should know the color of an explosive invented after his time. "Have you any nitric acid?" asked Cobb. "Yes; here is a little," and Secretary Fowler handed him a small bottle containing the nitric acid used in testing at the War Department. Dipping a twisted paper into the liquid, Cobb let fall a single drop of the acid on the explosive in the bullet; then moving toward the window, which he threw open, he struck a match and said: "If I understand this meteorite, it will, upon the application of flame, dissipate itself in vapor, but not explode." "Hold, Colonel!" cried Mr. Fowler, in great alarm, as he and the President drew back. "It will explode and tear your hand into pieces." It was too late. Holding his hand containing the bullet well out through the window, he touched the flame to the cartridge. A slight flash from the fulminate followed, and then the meteorite disappeared in a colorless gas. Holding aloft the empty bullet, he exultingly cried: "Was I not right when I claimed a knowledge of this explosive?" Then Junius Cobb explained how he had discovered this compound; how he had transmitted it to the Chief of Ordnance in 1887, and the restrictions he had placed upon that office regarding the sealed packet containing the formula. Time passed, and he had been dropped for desertion, but the sealed packet still remained in the office of the Chief of Ordnance. It had been opened, and a subordinate in that office had stolen his secret, sold it to the government, and reaped immense reward and honor. But Cobb had no ill-feeling against the man; he had died long years ago; and what did this theft avail him at that moment? "You are a wonderful man, my dear Colonel; and I believe that, in the dim past, you conceived the idea of many of our greatest inventions of to-day." President Craft arose from his seat as he spoke. Thanking Secretary Fowler for his kindness, Cobb turned to the President and asked: "Is it time to take our departure?" "Yes, Colonel." Then, turning to the Secretary, he said: "By the way, Mr. Fowler, be so kind as to have an order made out directing Captain Hathaway, Second Cavalry, to report to Colonel Cobb to-night for orders; send it at once." "Sir, I will attend to it immediately." "Then, Mr. Fowler, we will say good afternoon." "Good afternoon, gentlemen;" and then to Cobb: "Come and see me, Colonel, whenever you feel inclined." In fifteen minutes they were back at the executive mansion. After partaking of a cup of coffee, as was the President's custom at that hour, they entered the drag again, and were rapidly propelled toward the Capitol. Cobb noticed the handsome exterior of the buildings, their beautiful architecture and harmonious coloring. Pennsylvania Avenue was, indeed, a beautiful thoroughfare. Its buildings were large and grand; great hotels, clubs, bazars, churches, and theatres were thrown together in one complex but magnificent order. Over the sidewalk, on either side, and also covering the cross-streets, was a glass canopy supported by pillars of the same material, handsomely carved and finished. The windows and doors were grand in their size; and what seemed strange and dangerous to Cobb, no sash was to be observed; nothing but great panes of glass, some white and clear, others of various hues. The streets and walks were as clean as a parlor floor, and no obstructions were to be seen upon them. The pavement was of a soft gray tint, and like a felt blanket in its appearance. The sidewalks were laid in tessellated work of all the hues of the solar spectrum. Statues and works of art were everywhere observable. Great trees ranged on either side, while beautiful plants and green grass plats surrounded many of the buildings. As the rays of the sun in the west fell upon the buildings, they were reflected back to the opposite side of the street, again and again reflected, and the eye of Cobb beheld the parallel lines of Pennsylvania Avenue adorned with millions of sparkling, dancing lights, meeting at the farther end in one great diamond whose lustre could almost compare with the sun itself. Ah! what a grand sight!--worthy of a life of inanimation for a thousand years. Cobb feasted his eyes on the beauty of the scene. Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, he was rudely awakened to a sense of the reality by the President remarking: "It is a grand sight, is it not?" "Yes! yes, indeed! Grand beyond expression!" "This street, Colonel Cobb, is said to be the handsomest in the world." "I can well believe it! I cannot conceive of one that could be more beautiful." "And yet, Colonel, it is all glass." "Glass?" "Yes; plain, cheap, common glass." "You mystify me! You do not mean to tell me that these magnificent buildings are built of glass?" "The buildings, walks, streets, and nearly everything visible to your eye is of glass." President Craft enjoyed the look of amazement and incredulity which overspread the other's face. "Surely you are jesting with me! Glass is no substance for any of these purposes." "Remember," slowly, "you are in the year 2000. That which was impossible, unheard of, to you in 1887, may be possible and common with us to-day." "True! I find I must accept as possible every theory and proposition advanced, until it is, by undeniable evidence, totally disproved. But blame me not if doubt sometimes arises. Will you stop the drag a moment?" "Certainly," was the puzzled answer. Turning his head to the driver in the rear, he ordered the drag stopped at the curb. In front of the entrance to the Dom Kanitöl Legletik (Grand Opera House), by the side of two tall and elaborately carved pillars covered with fine and thread-like filigree work, the drag came to a standstill. Without a word of explanation, Cobb sprang from his seat, walked up to the nearest pillar and dashed the heel of his boot against a beautiful rose of pure white. A look of triumph came into his eyes. They might make it to appear like glass, but it was not glass! The beautiful rose lay crushed against its stem, its delicate petals bent and twisted, and its leaves flattened together. The President comprehended the young man's motive, and smiled. As Cobb again entered the drag, the President said, but kindly: "You have destroyed that beautiful glass rose, and because you doubted me." "Blame me not for doubting, kind sir, nor blame me for investigating. Without investigation we could never arrive at a certain knowledge of the truth or falsity of any proposition." "And you have investigated?" "Yes." "And proved--" "That glass is not the component part of that pillar," with confidence. "One word will dispel that illusion." Mr. Craft spoke very deliberately. "Speak it, then, I pray you," with greater astonishment than ever. "Malleability!" Like a flash of lightning, the conviction of the truth of the President's words fell upon the doubting man's mind. Malleable glass! that _ignis-fatuus_ which had caused men's minds to turn from reason to insanity; had caused chemists and philosophers throughout the known world to struggle for years and years, and finally go down to their graves with their hopes unfulfilled; that art which was said to have been known in the third century, during the reign of Tiburon--had been again discovered and made known to mankind. "And is all of this of malleable glass?" still with wonder. "All. The art has been known for over fifty years. It is common glass, composed of silica, lime, barytes, etc., to which is added nitrate of zesüd and coloring matter. It is cheaper than wood or any of the metals, is about the weight of copper, and has its strength and malleability. It is made into every conceivable form and shape, and has almost entirely taken the place of the cheaper metals where temper and extreme rigor are not desired. It never tarnishes, decays, or breaks. When exposed to the inclemencies of the weather, it is as bright to-day as it was yesterday, or years ago." Wonderful, indeed, were the inventions of the twentieth century! At 16:5 dial the President's electric drag glided evenly and noiselessly out of Pennsylvania Avenue, rounded the corner, and stopped at the grand entrance to the Dom Lon, or Capitol, of the United States. An hour was passed in visiting the three houses of Congress, and Cobb carefully noted the working of the national legislature. On the way home, the President said: "There is a Senate of 136 members, or two from each State, presided over by the First Vice-President; two lower houses of 400 and 280 members, respectively, presided over by the Second and Third Vice-Presidents. The Smadom, or lower house, is that body in which are introduced all bills of a private nature whatsoever--such as claims or appeals for money, position, justice, rights and franchises. If approved in this house they go to the Senate, and are usually approved by that body. In the Gledom, or upper house, originate all bills for the good of the nation at large. The system of committees, as of old, is a component part of the machinery of this house. The functions of the Senate, with the restrictions imposed upon it by the creation of a third house, have undergone few changes since your time." "Are there any changes in the method of electing Senators, Representatives, and chief magistrate?" "Yes; the President's term of office is five years, taking office on New-Year's-Day of every year divisible by five without a remainder--that is, it commenced in 1940. In the October of the year preceding the taking of office, the governors of all the States assemble at a designated place and nominate four candidates for each office. The two houses of Representatives meet on the first day of November, and proceed to elect, from the nominees, the President and Vice-Presidents." "Then, I take it that a Republican house would surely elect a Republican, and vice versa?" said Cobb. "There is no Republican or Democratic party, nor any two parties, as formerly. One party, the American, rules this country. No diversity of opinion exists as regards the welfare of the nation. No policy from the candidates for the Presidency is called for, or expected. To-day there are no great questions to split the nation with contention." "But may not the choice of the people be defeated, where the election is in the hands of so few?" "Again experience teaches that you are wrong. Under the old system the people had a choice between two men; now the nation has a choice from four men. The extent and population of the country being so enormous, individual voting would necessitate long and arduous work in counting and verifying the vote. Were the two distinct parties in the field, our method might--mind you, I say might--work disadvantageously to one party or the other. The fairness of the system now in vogue consists in the celerity of the election after nomination, and in the number of nominees. No man can tell beforehand upon whom will fall the nominations given by sixty-eight men, high in social and civil standing, and who come together from every part of this great country--men who are, as a rule, unacquainted with one another. Even if collusion brought about a certain nomination, who could tell that that nominee would be elected by the two houses? The nomination takes place October first, and certified copies, signed by every governor present, though he may have voted against the nominee, are delivered by the three governors oldest in years to each of the three Vice-Presidents of the United States. On the first day of November the names are presented, and the balloting commences in both houses simultaneously, and continues until an election is completed by that house. The record is sent to the Senate, and that body counts and verifies the vote of the two houses, and announces the result." "Very simple, after all," remarked Cobb. "But has it always worked well?" "Perfectly." "How long have you been in office, Mr. President?" "Since last New-Year's-Day." "Will you get the nomination again, do you think?" "No; assuredly not. One of the most strictly followed laws of the United States is that no man can hold the same elective office twice. This law applies to all national and State offices, but not to others below that dignity." "Does this law not tend to deprive the State and nation of the services of tried and capable men?" "Colonel, this nation is great; vast. There are thousands upon thousands of men fully as capable as those in office, ready to take their turn." "And federal appointments, the patronage of the party, as it was formerly called--how are they made?" "Wholly upon competitive examination; not in scientific branches of learning, but upon the duties required, together with a common-school education." "And the term of office?" "In many positions it is during active life; in others for ten years, or less periods. But in all cases the period is known, and removals never take place without cause having been given by the incumbent: this cause is never political." "I see we are at the door," reluctantly said Cobb, as the drag came to a standstill before the entrance to the executive mansion, "so will ask you no more questions to-day--but the subject is one of great interest to me." After dinner, as Cobb and Hugh were lounging about and smoking their cigars, the President came into the room and handed the former the evening paper, remarking: "You have not seen a paper to-day. Here is the American: you will find all the news in it." Moving toward the door, the President turned around, and added: "By the bye, Junius, Captain Hathaway will report to you this evening for orders; dispose of him as you please," and he passed out into the hall. "Don't mind me, Junius," said Hugh; "read your paper. I'll look at the society news in it--there is no such nonsense in yours," drawing out the "Washington Report" from his pocket. CHAPTER XII Leaning back in his chair, and sending upward clouds of smoke from his fragrant cigar, Cobb unfolded the paper, and glanced at the title-page. "Hello! The 'Daily American,'" he said to himself. "Another copy of the paper I saw in San Francisco." Opening it, he observed the same peculiarities which had attracted his attention before, the same headings for the columns, the same want of regularity in the spacing at the ends of the lines, and the same scarcity in the variation of the type used. Glancing at the date, he read: "'America, September 19, 2,000.' This is the 19th," he mused; "surely this paper could not have come from San Francisco, or its vicinity, since its issue." He would ask Hugh, in a moment, to explain it. Hardly knowing where to commence, he took the first column, and read: "FROM EUROPE. "LONDON, 19, 10 D.--Congress adjourned to-day out of respect to the memory of Albert Victor Guelph, formerly Prince of Wales, and ex-Senator of the Republic, who died at 2 D., aged eighty-five years. Albert Victor Guelph was the son of Albert Victor Christian Edward, the last reigning sovereign of Great Britain, and was born at Windsor Castle, April 5, 1915. Upon the downfall of the monarchy, in 1918, the King retired, with his son, to France. In 1955 Albert Guelph returned to England, by permission of the government, and became a citizen of the republic. He became a Senator in 1962, and retired to private life in 1980." "BERLIN, 19, 8 D.--A great fire is raging at this hour in die Strasse unter den Linden. At 2 D. smoke was seen issuing from the rear windows of the Berlin Art Gallery, and at this hour the building is doomed to destruction. The Berlin Art Gallery was one of the finest buildings in the city, and was, before the institution of the United States of Germany, the palace of the German monarchs. The last Emperor to occupy this palace was William II. grandson of that great and beloved Emperor, William I. By the dethronement of William II., in 1903, all the States which had formed the confederation united under the title of the United States of Germany." "ST. PETERSBURG, 19, 9 D.--An imperial ukase has been promulgated granting self-government to all Siberia. By this ukase the Russian Empire loses nearly one-half of its territories. The separation is the outcome of the bitter internal war between the mother country and the distant colonies. Since the discontinuance of exiling to Siberia, which was abolished in 1895, soon after the exposé to the world of the pernicious system and the atrocities practiced by the officials, and after the general amnesty ukase of that year, Siberia has grown in wealth and population to such an extent that self-government comes as a matter of right. Mutual offensive and defensive alliance only is stipulated." "PARIS, 19, 4 D.--Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi! The King, Louis XX. is dead. Louis Charles Philippe, great-grandson of Louis Philippe Robert, Duc d'Orleans, and afterward King Louis XVIII., expired at 23 dial of yesterday, after a prolonged and severe sickness. Louis Auguste Stanislaus, Dauphin of France, takes the throne as Louis XXI. Louis Philippe Robert, great-grandfather of Louis XX., ascended the throne in 1894, and reigned until 1917, when the republic was again declared, and Louis XVIII. fled to Naples. After thirteen years the monarchy was reëstablished, and continued until 1951. For twenty-three years did poor France struggle along without the pomp and glitter of an imperial rule; but the strain was too much, and in 1974 the deceased Emperor was summoned to the throne of his forefathers. He proved himself a good sovereign, giving France peace and prosperity." "ROME, 19, 5 D.--The Republic of Italy has sent a telegram of condolence upon the death of the French King." "MADRID, 19, 5 D.--The Republic of Granada [Spain and Portugal] has sent telegrams of sympathy to the new King of the French." "FROM ASIA. "PEKING, 18, 22 D.--By a royal edict, Li Hung Tsoi, the Emperor, has decreed that, 'in view of the fact that the good subjects of Tien-tze have for ages worn the emblem of a once distasteful slavery under the Hiong-un, it is now decreed that the ban-ma shall at once be cut from the head of every one of our male subjects, and the chang-mor no longer worn.' [Ban-ma is the long braided hair worn by all Chinese, and called by us 'the queue.' Chang-mor is long hair.--EDITOR.]" And then Cobb read on and pondered upon the changes which had taken place, and which he here saw recorded as newspaper items. England, once so proud as a kingdom, now a republic; Germany following in the wake; Spain and Portugal and Italy numbered in the fold. And France! alas! poor France! up and down, changeable as a weather-vane; who could expect a stable government? La belle France! to-day a republic; to-morrow a monarchy! Turning over the pages of the paper, his eyes lighted up with renewed interest. Though his interest was great as he read of kingdoms falling and new ones building up, here was the page that aroused his old-time enthusiasm. Yes; he was a crank--a crank of the veriest pronounced type, and he knew it as he folded out the paper in his eagerness to read: "BOSTON, 18, 18 D.--The game to-day was a fine exhibition of pitching and fielding. Neither side could score until in the last innings 'Michael,' that descendant of the only Mike of the nineteenth century, got his wagon-tongue square against the sphere, and sent it skyward outside of the field. "The score: "Innings--1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Boston 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 New York 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 "Errors: none. 2 b. hits: none. 3 b. hits: none. Home run: Michael Kelley. Batteries: for Boston, Clarkson and 'Ginty' Carroll; for New York: Keefe and Ewing. Double plays: Boston, 5; New York, 4. Umpire: Sheridan. Time of game: 1:20." "The same grand game," he murmured, "is still the national sport. It could never die! No, never!" He read on and on. Everything was of interest to him in his new life. He read of himself, of his arrival in Washington, and of his every act during the previous day. Letting the paper fall from his hand, he aroused Hugh from the perusal of the society columns of the "Washington Reporter" by exclaiming: "This paper is a great affair, is it not?" nodding toward the paper which had fallen to the floor by his chair. "A very newsy paper indeed, Junius," Hugh answered; "in fact, it is the only paper of general news in the United States." "How is that? Are there not other newspapers besides this?" "Oh, plenty. But all others are published for local interests, and rarely circulate outside of their city or township." "And you mean to tell me that this paper is the newspaper of the whole country? It must be quite stale ere it reaches many portions of this nation." "Not at all. It is simultaneously printed in over five hundred different cities, and no copy has to be sent far to reach its subscriber. For instance: this copy is printed in this city; the copies for New York, in New York; and those for San Francisco, in that town." "But the heading reads: 'America, September 19, 2000?'" "That is the original paper. At America, the type is set and form made from which copies are taken and reprinted throughout the nation." "You astonish me; pray explain yourself." "America," and Hugh wheeled his chair closer to Cobb, "is a small town on the Central Sea, in the old State of Kentucky. All the news of the world is telegraphed to this place, and set in form for printing. Copies of this form are then transmitted by telegraph to every city which is to reproduce the paper--a very simple operation." "Yes," dubiously; "very simple, indeed!" "But let us not discuss the subject now; I will take you to America, and show you the whole system." And the subject of the "Daily American" rested. At this moment Captain Hathaway entered the room, bowing to both of the gentlemen. "Good evening, Hugh," he exclaimed, extending his hand. Then to Cobb: "Good evening, Mr. Cobb." "Colonel, sir; _Colonel_ Cobb. You forget you are addressing your superior officer." As Hugh spoke, he gave the other a severe look, as if to say, "How do you like it?" The story of young Hathaway's discourtesy toward Cobb that morning had been told him. Captain Hathaway blushed, and turning toward Cobb, said, apologetically: "I am cognizant of your good fortune and new rank. I congratulate you. You will pardon my rudeness to you this morning, will you not, Colonel Cobb? Some time I will explain why I so far forgot myself," and he dropped his eyes to the floor. "Captain Hathaway, let it be forgotten," frankly extending his hand. "Let us be friends, not enemies." Hathaway grasped the hand and wrung it with a sincere grasp of friendship. Then, saluting Cobb, he reported to him for orders. "You are under orders to join your regiment, are you not?" "Yes, sir." "Do you wish to go?" "Well, to tell you the truth, there is every reason for wishing to remain; but they will not allow me to do so," sadly. "Who will not?" "The President; for I have applied to him personally." "It is rather early for me to go against the wishes of the President," and he looked at Hugh; "but you are directed to report to me for orders, and I must give them to you." "And I must join." Hathaway spoke in a resigned manner. "And you will stay in Washington until further orders," looking at him kindly. "Colonel, I thank you." Cobb had made one more friend. After an hour at the club, the trio parted; Hathaway to his hotel, and Cobb and Hugh to their rooms. That night, as he lay upon his bed, Cobb dreamed of Mollie Craft and her radiant beauty, and of Marie Colchis, his child love. The faces of both came in visions before him. He seemed translated to a dark and dreary region, and wandered about sad and alone. No human soul greeted his approach. Alone and desolate of heart, he pursued his way. At last, after ages of misery, he came upon a solitary grave in the desolate waste. Stunted and gnarled, a solitary oak grew at its foot. A headboard, worn and battered by the elements, lay, torn up from its setting upon the ground. A rivulet of water, small and silent in its course, flowed away and sank into the sand. Moving forward, he read the inscription on the moldy board: "Junius Cobb and the heart of Marie Colchis." With a flood of tears, he threw himself upon the mound, and cried aloud in his anguish: "O, Marie! Marie! my own, my darling! Oh! come; come to me ere I die!" A bright light overspread the earth; the desolation seemed to vanish, and all nature assumed its grandest garb. Rising from the grave, he beheld an angel approaching, and leading by the hand a woman in robes of white. Nearer and nearer they drew to his wondering gaze. In the angel's face he recognized the fair and lovely countenance of Mollie Craft. "Look up! Behold!" cried the angelic form. Its companion's face was raised, and forth she stretched her hands. With a wild cry of joy, he sprang forward, and was clasped in the arms of Marie Colchis. He saw her ecstatic beauty, her heavenly eyes, her form divine, and felt that she was his once more. Then the voice of the angel, in sweet, harmonious tones, spoke forth the words: "A bride I bring thee, O sorrowing soul! Those whom God hath made as man and wife, no chance of fate can set apart. Though years and years have fled and passed, yet life shall once again renew her heart!" CHAPTER XIII Weeks passed, and Junius Cobb still remained the guest of the President. He investigated the many marvelous subjects which presented themselves to his view. He studied and learned, and became familiar with his new life. He visited New York and other large cities in his vicinity, and noted their growth and progress. He was astonished to find New York a city of over four millions of people, and covering nearly two hundred square miles of territory. He visited the great tunnels which connect East and West New York to the city proper, Brooklyn and Jersey City having become a corporate part of New York City. The double streets of the city were a wonderful realization of what the needs of a great commercial center will demand of its people. From One Hundredth street south, and over the whole island from the East to the North River, was a double street--a city on top of a city. The lower streets were the originals, and were paved with roughened glass. On one side, covered, and just below the street level, were the great sewers of the city. The height from lower to upper street was twenty feet. In the center of Lower Broadway, Lower Fourth, Sixth, and Ninth Avenues (for such the under streets were designated), and below the level of the pavement, was a double tunnel carrying the rapid-transit electric trains. These trains were composed of light, cylindrical cars, about ten feet in diameter; they had no windows, light being obtained from electricity. The air was received through ventilators, a steady stream of pure, fresh air being kept circulating through the tunnels by immense fans. Automatic indices gave warning of the different stations. The normal speed of these trains was forty miles per hour, and stops were made at every half-mile between Three Hundred and Fifty-third street and the Battery, East New York (Brooklyn); and West New York (Jersey City). Handsome stations along the line, connected by hydraulic lifts with the upper-street stations, enabled the passengers to quickly take the surface lines to all parts of the city. All vehicles devoted to business purposes were confined to the lower streets, and all merchandise, also, was here received and shipped. In the roof of the street were the water-pipes, electric light, telephone, power, and other wires--all easy of access. Like the lower, the upper streets and sidewalks were of glass, which was molded into huge blocks, these resting on steel girders running across and down the streets. The sidewalks were light gray, and the street light steel-color. The thickness of these blocks of glass was four inches, and the light transmitted to the under-street had nearly its natural intensity. On the upper streets, light electric cars ran in every direction, stopping whenever desired. These surface trains were peculiar in that they sat two feet above the pavement, held aloft and in position by two wide but thin rods of steel passing through a slot in the street, the trucks for the cars running upon a roadbed just under the center of the street, or in the roof of the lower street. Upon inquiry, he was informed that the reasons for the elevation of the cars and the subterranean roadway were to avoid accidents; as a person who was so unfortunate as to be struck by a train would be knocked down but passed over by the elevated car without much injury, the steel bars having rounded guards in front to push any object aside. Cobb observed that the entrances to all of the houses, stores, theatres, churches, hotels, etc., were on the upper streets; and also, that access to the lower streets was obtained at every street-corner by flights of broad steps. He noticed that the streets and sidewalks were perfectly clean, and that an air of care, attention, and good order seemed to prevail. Light carriages to horses, electric drags, and such lighter vehicles as are used for transportation of persons only, were alone permitted upon the upper streets. At short distances upon either side of the street were electric lamps, while at one of the corners of each cross-street was a combination post of fine and handsome make. At the base it was about two feet square, decreasing in size to about eight inches at a height of six feet, the whole surmounted by a white glass shaft, twenty-five feet in length. These posts were for a variety of purposes. The lower part contained the carbons, materials, etc., for the electric lights which were placed upon the top; the next compartment was for the reception of mail matter; above these two were the fire-alarm and police boxes, while on either side were the hydrant nozzles. Just under the lamp were the names of the two streets and the ward of the city. The street name was also set into the sidewalk under foot, in different colors--two names on each corner. Red names indicated a north direction; white, east; blue, south; and green, west. Asking Hugh, who was with him, if they had any improved method of removing the snow during the winter--for he remembered with what difficulty the streets of New York had been cleared of their snow in his time--he was informed that very little snow fell in New York, or, in fact, along the coast as far north as Maine. "How is that?" exclaimed Cobb, in surprise. "You haven't changed the seasons, have you?" "Yes," nonchalantly. "What!" "We have changed the possibility of a frightful winter into the reality of a very even and uniform temperature," he continued. "What haven't you done?" "Well, we haven't made a California climate by our work, but we have vastly decreased the severity of our Eastern winters," he laughingly replied. "And how have you accomplished this great change?" Cobb asked. "Here is the Metropolitan Club," as they came to a grand edifice near Union Square; "let us go in, have a bottle of wine, and I will explain the methods pursued to work this beneficial change of climate." "Do you know," asked Hugh, as he filled two glasses with champagne, after they had become seated in one of the reception-rooms of the club; "do you know why New York and the coast to Nova Scotia is so much colder than the Pacific coast of equal latitude?" "Certainly. On the Pacific, we have the Kuro Sivo, or Japanese current, touching the coast; while on the Atlantic the Gulf Stream is driven off the coast from about the mouth of the James River, by an arctic current coming around Newfoundland and flowing close to the coast." "Exactly. And if this arctic current could be checked, or driven off, then what?" "Why, the Gulf Stream would bring its waters close to the shore, and the temperature would be raised." "That's it, precisely. And that is just what we have done." "How have you done this, pray?" "The waters of the arctic current," said Hugh, as he lighted a fresh cigar, and settled himself back in his chair, "come down Davis Strait with icy chillness and sweep around Newfoundland, over the banks and along the eastern coast. This is the main current. By the northerly point of Newfoundland projecting, as it does, into the Atlantic, a second or minor current is evolved which passes through the Straits of Belle Isle. This current, three miles wide by twenty-five fathoms deep, flows at a rapid pace through the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and turns sharp around Cape Breton and flows south. Its icy waters, as they reach the Gulf Stream, chill the latter for miles along the coast, finally disappearing under the stream about the mouth of the James River. If it was not for this minor current, the Gulf Stream would touch our eastern shores to the banks of Newfoundland; of course, more or less chilled by the arctic current, which would impinge upon and sink under the Gulf Stream off the southwest extremity of the banks. Knowing this, we have closed up Belle Isle Strait, save a ship passage." "That must have been a huge undertaking," remarked Cobb. "Yes, it was. But it was done, nevertheless." "How?" "By very hard and costly work, and very little science. On the southern coast of Labrador, near the straits, are large and vast quarries of granite. Thousands upon thousands of tons of this were quarried out, and when winter came and Belle Isle Straits were frozen over, a double track was laid across the straits, on the ice; large holes cut through, and the granite blocks brought and thrown into the water. Accurate charts were made of each year's work, so that the material should always fall upon the same line. In four years the work was finished. The sediment brought down by the arctic current soon filled all the interstices, and to-day the dam is perfect, preventing any entrance of the waters of Davis Strait into the Gulf of St. Lawrence, except through a narrow channel for the passage of vessels. Four hundred million cubic feet of material was used in this work." Thus, little by little, did Cobb learn of the reasons and wherefores of the many innovations and changes which he constantly saw about him. The days came and passed; Cobb finding delight in the society of Mollie Craft, and pleasure and instruction in that of Hugh, her brother. And then, when alone, came the dream wherein the angel had led Marie Colchis to him and had spoken the prophetic words. Words prophetic of what? he asked himself. Long and long did he ponder over the vision. His was a nature to love and to desire love in return. To him, woman was an angel, a being divine. Desolate and alone, his heart demanded a companion. He admired Mollie Craft; did he love her? And when he asked the question of himself, he could give no satisfactory reply. But of one fact he felt assured: if he loved her, he loved his lost Marie more. Yet she, his Marie, was dead: was it wrong for him to seek for a companion to soothe the desolation of his heart, especially one embodying such virtues as Mollie Craft? May not the vision have been given for such an interpretation? he argued: he did not know. One day in the latter part of November, as he and Mollie were sitting by the cheerful fire in the private parlor of the executive mansion, he looked intently into her eyes, and sadly asked: "Do you not think me sad at times, Mollie?" He called her Mollie, and she called him Junius; such was the President's request, as he considered Junius Cobb his adopted son. "Yes, Junius; and it often pains me to think that, perhaps, we are not doing all that we ought to make your life happy." "Would you do more if you could?" and he fixed his eyes with a loving expression upon hers, which fell at his glance. "I am sure, Junius, that never was a sister--" and she emphasized the word--"more ready and willing to make a brother happy, than I." "Were you ever in love, Mollie?" He jerked the words out as if fearful of the answer she might give. "Why! what a question!" "But were you?" he persisted. "Now, Junius, that is not fair, to ask a girl such a question. Were you ever in love?" She laughed, but anxiously awaited his answer. "Yes." He spoke slowly and with an absent air. "Twice have I known what it was to love a woman." A tear seemed to glisten in his eye as his memory carried him back a hundred years. "Twice?" inquiringly. "Yes; or rather might I say, once to love a woman, and once to love a child." "You surprise me greatly, Junius. Will you not make a confidant of me and tell me all about your loves?" and she put her hand upon his shoulder. That touch, so gentle and light, sent a thrill of pleasure through his heart. He turned and seized her hands in his, and looked long and lovingly into her eyes. "Can man forswear his soul?" he cried, harshly, while his tight grasp of her hands gave her pain. "Do not hurt me, Junius!" she cried, trying to free her hands. He released her, and sat down in his chair. "I did not mean to hurt you, Mollie. I am torn by contending passions of right and wrong. My soul is athirst. I long to quench its burning fires, but dare not speak my thoughts. Alone in a new world, I am barren of kith or kin to fill the aching void in my heart. And, though knowing this, yet am I bound by chains of honor, respect and manly devotion from speaking the words which might, perchance, secure me that greatest of God's blessings to man, a woman's love." He bowed his head, and remained silent. Mollie Craft was no child, no affected school-girl, nor hardened society woman. She was a true, noble-hearted being, and read this man's secret without his lips framing its confession: he loved her. With sorrow in her voice, she said: "Junius, you are not alone in the world. You have a father, mother, brother, and sister, though not of the same blood, yet are they as loving as your own relatives could be." "I know," he returned; "but my heart craves more--a being like you, Mollie, to love me and be loved by me in return." It was out. He had avowed his love, but not in such passionate terms as one would have used if a reply had been expected. He meant not to ask her heart and hand; he merely told her what his heart craved. She made no answer; gave no reply. Then, with a burst of increased sadness, Cobb continued: "I crave this love, Mollie, but cannot ask for it. I have already given my pledge to a woman--have promised to marry none but her." "Then, Junius, you should not break that promise," and a relieved expression came over the fair face. "But she can never be mine; she is dead!" and the strong man bowed his head and wept like a child. Going up to him, she put her arms about his neck, and kissed him on the forehead, then silently left the room. As the dial in the executive mansion sounded the hour of 22 that night, a figure wrapped in a black cloak stole silently from the rear entrance of the building, through the gardener's gate and into the conservatory. An instant later and a tall man had clasped her in his arms, and lovingly pressed her to his heart. "Ah, Lester, you are waiting for me," looking up into his manly face. "Yes, dearest; waiting and watching. These moments by your side, stolen though they are, become the happiest in my life. Ah, Mollie! would that you could be with me forever. Why must I thus always beat about the bush to seek your society?" Reluctantly he released her, but held one dainty hand in his, as he led her to a wicker seat just beside the daisy rows at the lower end of the conservatory and seated himself by her side. Throwing her large black cloak over the back of the seat, Mollie turned her great blue eyes toward her lover. "Why must you seek me thus stealthily, Lester, you ask? You know." Her eyes dropped, and a shade of shame overspread her fair face. "Yes, I know. For you have told me that your father has taken a dislike to me in particular, and against all army officers as suitors for your hand in general. But he can find no cause to be prejudiced against me--at least, none that I am aware of," looking into her eyes inquiringly. "No, Lester," quickly returned the girl, "he can certainly find no stain upon your character, else his daughter would not have entered here to-night to meet you." This with a proud knowledge that, wrong as she was in disobeying her father's wishes, she was conscious of the nobleness of her lover's character. "'Tis the old story, Lester," she continued, after a moment--"a father's ambition. Papa _is_ ambitious, but his ambition no longer centers in himself, but in his children. Reaching, as he has, to the highest position within the gift of the nation, he hopes to see his children, when he descends from his station, still moving onward and upward toward renown, popularity, and--and--O Lester, I hate to say it--wealth." She hung her head as if ashamed to confess that her father for a moment considered pecuniary matters in connection with the disposal of her hand. Taking her hand in his, he calmly said: "Mollie, I blame him not. 'Tis a father's first duty to seek the welfare of his children. But, darling," drawing her toward him, "though I have not wealth, yet have I my pay as a Captain in the army, a sum sufficient to enable me to provide a cozy, happy home for us. Do you not think it would be cozy and happy?" looking tenderly into her eyes, which had been raised and turned upon him as he spoke. "Ah, Lester, to me, yes," she returned, petting the hand that held hers. "I am your promised wife, Lester--promised by me, but not by my father. Let us hope, dearest, that time will make some change in his determination to find a suitor of greater wealth; he could _not_ find one more noble," blushing sweetly at the confession. Lester Hathaway drew her closer to him, and kissed her rich, red lips in appreciation of her kind and loving words. "We will hope," he said, as she modestly drew away. "I dislike, dearest, as much as you, to have our meetings clandestine, but I could not live throughout the day without at least a moment of your sweet society. You do not blame me, Mollie, do you?" lovingly pressing the hand that lay in his. "Of course not, Lester, if you say so; for I believe you to be the very soul of truth," she returned, smiling archly. "And when I avow that no fairer woman ever lived, that my heart beats but in love for you, that I adore you, Mollie, you believe me sincere, do you not, dearest?" and his arm stole gently about her slender waist, drawing her unresisting form closer to his heart. "Lester, my own, I do; and your love is reciprocated with all the depth of my heart." She spoke with truth and pathos. Raising her face to his, he looked into her eyes. "You will marry none other than me? You will wait until I can claim you from your father? Speak, dearest." "I will," came the words, lowly but lovingly spoken. He kissed her lips even as the words were uttered. "Now, Lester, I have something to communicate to you," continued Mollie, as Hathaway finally released her. "Mr. Cobb half proposed to me to-day," and she related the whole conversation. "Now, Lester; I could not tell him I was engaged. He loves me, I can see it; but he is laboring under the restrictions which an honorable heart has imposed. If he succeeds in holding to his sense of duty, he will never ask me to be his wife; if he wavers, I may expect an open declaration. Be not angry with him, Lester. He knows not our relations; for if he did, his lips would be sealed forever. I know the honorable and true heart that beats within his breast." "What will you do? You should not have encouraged his love," reprovingly said Hathaway. "I, Lester? I did not encourage it. I tried from the first to teach him that I could be only a sister to him. I know not what to do! If I had a handsome, jolly girl friend to come and remain with me for a month or two, perhaps his thoughts and love might be transferred to her." "You have never seen my sister, dearest; but I think she would meet all the requirements, exactly," with an air of pride. "O Lester! papa wouldn't like to have your sister come as a guest at the house, and be compelled to keep the brother out; and, besides, he might fear her influence in your behalf; and she might help your case, too," with a sly glance. "That would be terrible intriguing, wouldn't it?" laughing. "But couldn't she come as somebody else? your friend, for instance, at school?" "Capital! That's it! I will introduce her as Miss Marie Colchester, my old chum at Weldon. Send for her, Lester; and when she comes I will meet her at the hotel and instruct her in her duties." "I will send for her to-morrow." "But I had forgotten; is she engaged, or in love?" "Neither; I am positive of it." "And you will send for her to-morrow?" "Yes, my darling. She will be here by the 20th of the month." "Good! And now, Lester, you may have just one kiss, and I must go." She put up her lips, and raised on the tips of her toes to meet his kiss. "Oh!--oh!--don't smother me, Lester," disengaging herself. "Will I see you here to-morrow evening?" he anxiously asked. "I don't know; but you can come," laughing as she passed through the door. CHAPTER XIV The evening following his interview with Mollie found Cobb in better spirits and more cheerful. He had not seen her since the day before, as she had complained of a slight indisposition and had remained in her room. Seated in the library of the President, and in his accustomed place--for Cobb came nearly every evening to hear Mr. Craft discourse on the topics of the day, and to narrate, in his turn, the events contemporary with his former existence--he reminded his friend that he had promised to explain the law system of the present day, and to discuss its merits and defects. "And right happy I am, my dear boy," returned the President, "to sit and chat with you on these subjects, which, in many cases and under many phases, may strike you as being worthless, absurd, and detrimental to a just definition of the principles of sound common law." "You will hardly surprise me by any innovation upon the law of my time," said Cobb; "knowing, as I do, that the age is progressing. It could not have taken a retrograde movement in common law--not the law itself, but its definition and interpretation in the courts." "The laws of the land have been greatly modified and simplified. No longer are the bickerings, snarlings, personal abuse and ungentlemanly conduct of the opposing counsel permitted in the courts. Decorum is strictly observed, and justice--pure, plain justice, as far as it is possible for human minds to discern it--is meted out to the culprit at the bar, the defendant or the appellant in the case." "If such is now the condition of your courts and your law, you are worthy of man's sincere praise and thanks. The farce daily enacted in the courts of 1887 was a disgrace to an enlightened and civilized community." "The root of the innovation was the substitution of a plain and simple code of laws for the cumbrous shelves of State and national codes existing during your time. There is now one universal code of laws for the nation, whole or integral. Every crime known to man is laid down fully and plainly, and one, and only one, punishment ordained for the guilty." "But does this not work more harshly against those of otherwise good reputation than against the habitual criminal?" "Possibly. But to avoid that greatest of evils--the giving of different sentences for exactly the same crimes, and committed under almost similar conditions--the universal code was established. Now every man knows exactly the punishment fixed for those guilty of any particular crime. There is no such thing as irrelevant testimony. The desire of justice is to know every circumstance connected with the commission of the crime. Yet limits to the continuance of testimony in certain directions are fixed. The desire now is not to defeat the just endeavors of man to obtain his rights--not to punish the accused because he is accused, but to quickly dispense justice to all. The most radical change in the dispensing of justice is the discontinuance of the jury system in vogue up to 1926--a system faulty in the extreme; a system where twelve men of widely different characters, education, religious principles, and ideas of justice, were expected to each and individually concur in one particular finding, and where a single dissenting voice required the trial to be held again, before a similar enlightened jury, or the accused discharged. In fact, during the jury system, it was the endeavor of counsel to impanel a jury of ignoramuses, a jury of men who had not read of the events of the day, or if they had read them, then of such infantile, idiotic minds as to have reached no conclusion upon the case whatever. That system is obsolete, thank God! Outside of the police courts, which have a single judge who hears and determines the case, and whose powers are very limited, we have the Dom Cöda, or house of justice, in which all cases are tried in which the punishment does not exceed a certain fixed standard. This house is presided over by three judges, and to them is the testimony given, by them heard, and by them is judgment rendered. They are lawyers, and understand the law. Next comes the Gledom Cöda, or superior court, presided over by five judges. Here are heard the highest criminal cases. The Legledom Cöda, or supreme court, is the highest in the State, and is presided over by nine judges. There are Doms Cöda and Gledoms Cöda for civil cases, likewise." "But suppose one is dissatisfied with his trial; what then?" "He appeals it, as formerly; but with this knowledge and understanding: If the higher court finds him guilty, the penalty fixed by the lower court is doubled, provided such a sentence is possible." "Humph! I should think guilty people would hesitate about appealing." "Indeed they do. It is not often that an appealed case is decided against the appellant; and for the very reason you have advanced, that if guilty, they stand by the finding given in the lower court." "Does not this system give opportunities for bribery and jobbery?" "The opportunities may exist, but the practice is one of the rarest crimes known in the calendar. The punishment for conviction of bribery of, or corruption in, a judge, is life imprisonment in the government prisons; and to the person accomplishing it, a similar sentence; while to attempt it is a twenty years' offense." "Severe punishments, compared with those of former times," was Cobb's remark. "Yes, very severe. But a good government needs and demands a good and true corps of judges to settle, justly, the individual disputes of its people, and to protect them in their lives, liberty and property." "I should imagine that the system is very expensive--the salary of so many judges?" "Not nearly as expensive as the summoning of jurors, their per diem pay, the delays in justice, and the many incidentals of cost in trials in former years. One Dom and one Gledom Cöda serves for 15,000 people. The salary lists are $12,000 and $25,000, respectively; or three dollars per capita to insure justice. The judges serve until seventy years of age, unless removed for incapacity or for commission of crime. The lease of office is thus, practically, for life, the salary high, the honor great, and self-interest makes the man honest." "I think it a good innovation," exclaimed Cobb. "No doubt you would like to hear of the prison system as it exists to-day; for it is directly connected, of course, with the law?" "Certainly. I have wondered if there was any change." "Each State has its own prison, wherein are incarcerated all convicts whose sentence is less than five years. All others are sent to the government prisons. Of these latter prisons, there are ten, situated in various parts of the country, but all on islands and isolated from communication with the world except by government vessels. The island of Anticosti, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, is the main Eastern prison; then, there are those of Tiburon, in the Gulf of California; Great Abicos, among the Bahamas; Charlotte's Island, in the Pacific Ocean, and others. These are prisons belonging to the government, and no convicts are sent to them whose sentence is less than five years. Here are manufactured every conceivable thing needed by the government, and for which it would have to pay cash, did it not make it itself. Great ship-yards, from which are turned out magnificent vessels of war; foundries, in which immense and powerful guns are fabricated; looms and workshops for the clothing of the army and navy; factories for boots, shoes, furniture, ironware, and thousands of other articles that the various departments of the government require. In fact, the manufactured articles are few that the government has to buy by contract. The raw material, however, is purchased and sent to the prisons, and there fabricated into the articles needed. As no convict comes with less sentence than five years, ample time is available in which to teach him such a trade as will give to the government the greatest benefit from his labor. The working system of the prisons is admirable in the extreme. The convicts are well fed and clothed, and required to work a given number of hours, only, a day, depending upon the fatigue of the labor. Good conduct remits four days in each month, or fifty-two days in each year; extra work, when available, is furnished to them, and credited at the rate of the number of hours of that particular service per day, as so many days of their sentence served. This system prevails in all of the State prisons, but, of course, upon a minor scale. In them only such articles are manufactured as are required and used by the State governments." "How about pardons from these prisons?" inquired Cobb. "The President alone has the power of pardoning from national prisons; the governors, from State prisons. At each prison is a Legledom Cöda, and a pardon is never issued except this court has examined the case and recommended it. The Legledom Cöda of each prison also tries all cases of infraction of the laws of the prison, and fixes the punishment for the same. As a matter of fact, few, very few, pardons are given, and then only when it is apparent from subsequent evidence that an injustice has been done a man." "What are considered among the gravest crimes?" "Murder, perjury, rape, receiving of bribes, or giving of same, corruption in office, arson, mayhem, premeditated and willful. These are all life imprisonment offenses, and there is no reduction of sentence for any reason." "But does not this convict labor compete with the labor of the masses?" asked Cobb. "How can it? If the government needs a million dollars' worth of manufactured articles, one of two courses must be pursued to obtain them: either to buy or manufacture. If they are bought, the people are taxed to pay for them; if they are manufactured by convict labor, the tax-payers save just that amount of money, while a punishment is inflicted upon the worthless class by causing it to labor without reward." "True; but in my time the people howled and railed against convict competition. Now, turning from the subject, tell me if there are many labor troubles at the present day." "None worthy of the name. A great and just law was advocated, in 1920, by that eminent jurist, Attorney-General William Bean, of Pennsylvania, and passed the next year, that it should be unlawful for any firm or corporation carrying on any manufacture, to accumulate in any one calendar year a profit in excess of twenty per cent. on the actual money invested, and exclusive of that invested in the plant. Full provision was made in the bill for examination of accounts, books, etc. The bill further provided that each person, firm, etc., should regulate the price of the labor employed by them. Then further laws were enacted against combined strikes, intimidation of the employed, etc. It was a wise bill, and has worked advantageously ever since it was passed by Congress." "But I fail to see its benefits to the laborer," dubiously returned Cobb. "In this way, Junius. Twenty per cent. interest on the money invested is enough to satisfy any man, and cause him to advance capital and embark in manufactures. Now, if the wages of his laborers are fixed by him, he can increase them just as much as his income is greater than twenty per cent.; he must do it or cut down supply. He actually divides the surplus over twenty per cent. among his men. If competition is great and the profits less, he must cut the wages or increase the output to save his percentage; but if he is willing to accept fifteen per cent., or ten per cent., then the wages remain the same as before. But if he desires to cut the wages, it is his right by the law; the laborer may work for it, or not. As a truth, though, wages are better now than ever, while the price of articles has fallen nearly twenty-five per cent. below that of 1920." "Are there any laws relating to the holding of real estate?" Cobb asked. "I remember quite an agitation on that subject during the '80s." "Yes; one general law only: no individual not a citizen can hold land in the United States; and no one citizen can hold, in his own name, more than 640 acres, or one square mile." "A good and wise law. In my time, vast tracts of land were held by individuals and corporations, both domestic and foreign." "It was so until the Bean bill of 1920. One year after the passage of that bill was given to foreigners to dispose of their real estate, and five years given the citizen to bring his holdings within the limit of the law." "I think I was informed by Mr. Rawolle that the government owns all of the railroads in the country?" inquiringly. "Yes, all; and likewise the telegraph system. Furthermore, each city owns its own water supply and electric-light plant. It will thus be seen that the people, and not the capitalist, own and govern the country." "What is the rate of taxation--national and municipal?" "There is no national taxation except on tobacco and liquors. Municipal taxation is really the only burden, if it can be called a burden, which the people bear. That taxation is very low indeed, and is levied under certain equitable laws. The revenue of the nation is derived from customs, liquor, tobacco, and the excess of receipts over expenditures of the railroads, telegraph and postal service." "And how about the rates of postage?" "The rate per mile for railroad traveling is one cent, the rate for telegraphic messages is one cent per word, and letter postage one cent per ounce, throughout the United States." "Is the nation in debt?" "No; the nation owes not a dollar. The last of what we call the great debt was paid in 1979. It would have been paid long before that time had it not been that an enormous outlay was required to gain possession of the railway system of the country." "What did you pay for the telegraph system? That must have taken another immense sum." "The rights of the sympathetic telegraph system were purchased in 1892, for five millions of dollars, and that system caused all of the surface lines to be abandoned in a few years." "The sympathetic system, did you say?" and Cobb showed more interest than he had evinced in the President's dry recital of the law of the country. "That is the name of it," Mr. Craft replied. "Does it differ much from the Morse system?" "Many would not understand your question, Junius. You must remember that the system has been in operation for over a hundred years; few persons know any other. Fortunately, I can answer your question, for I have studied the subject. There is practically no difference between the two systems, save in one respect--" "And that respect is--" interrupted Cobb. "That there is no wire, metal, or tangible connection of any kind between the instruments." "What! no wire! How, then, does the current pass?" "We do not know!" "Well! that is very strange! A telegraph system, and its principle unknown!" "It is just as I tell you. We know how it works, but not why." "And was the principle never divulged by the inventor?" "Never." "Surely, he taught you how to make the instruments?" "Oh, yes; or the system would have been of little worth," and Mr. Craft smiled at the utter amazement of his listener. "But I can conceive of no instrument being made by human hands for a specific purpose, unless the principle upon which it was constructed was fully known," and Junius Cobb shook his head as if doubting the statement of the other. "The sympathetic telegraph is, however, a manifest success," continued the President. "It works over miles of country and in every direction, and at each station records the pulsations of the heart of its mate, wheresoever on the face of the earth that mate may be." "By whom was this wonderful instrument invented? Surely, his name will live forever!" "Ah, Junius, you are right! The name of Jean Colchis will--why, Junius! what is the matter?" Cobb had sprung from his chair as the old name, so dear to him, was uttered. He moved anxiously toward the President, and seized him by the arm, while an expression of hope, of fond remembrance, came into his eyes. "O, tell me," he cried. "Tell me of this Jean Colchis! of his daughter! It was he, you have said! There never was but one Jean Colchis! It must be he--my master!" "Calm yourself, Junius," hurriedly exclaimed Mr. Craft, as he gently laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "Did _you_ know Jean Colchis?" in a wondering tone. "Ah! did I? He was my master! It was he, Mr. Craft, who invented the power that brought me to this new life!" Tears came into his manly eyes as he remembered his benefactor and his lovely daughter. "I know nothing of him," sadly returned Mr. Craft. "He was, and has passed out of life. He lives now but in history and the minds of the American people." A dimness came into his eyes as he witnessed the emotion of the other. "Where is the evidence of his skill, of his ingenuity? Where can I behold the work of his loved mind?" "If you desire, Junius, you shall visit the great theatre of action of hundreds upon hundreds of his wonderful instruments--the city of America, on the Central Sea." Cobb had heard the announcement of his old master's wonderful achievement in the sciences with astonishment not unmixed with joy. He thought, now the good old man will have money, fame, and distinction; his daughter, the dear little Marie, would be advanced to her rightful place among womankind, and no longer be hidden in Duke's Lane, unknown and unsought. Unsought! Then came a feeling of jealousy at his heart. Men would seek the heart and hand of his little fiancé. Would they succeed? Would she quickly forget him, and receive with pleasure the advances of other suitors? Then, with a grim smile, he bade his heart have no fear; Marie Colchis was no more. It mattered not what she had done; she was dead to him forever. He would live in the remembrance of her childish yet womanlike love. It was past midnight when Cobb and the President separated, each to his bed; the latter to slumber, the former to lie in a mournful remembrance of former days and former friends. The next few days were passed by Cobb as the others had been, in the gaining of a knowledge of the world as he now found it. Much of the excitement caused by his advent had passed; much of the curiosity of mankind in his appearance among them had vanished. He settled down to a life similar to the rest. To Mollie Craft he was kind and polite, but not passionate. He still believed her the magnet toward which fate was drawing him; but he awaited the propitious moment to tell her of his belief, of his love. She was kind and sisterly to him; nothing more. It was near the first of December that a new face, a sweet, girlish face of innocence and simplicity, came across the path of his life. Marie Colchester had arrived at the executive mansion as the one dear friend of Mollie Craft during her school-days at Weldon. As she was presented to mamma and papa Craft, she blushed at the knowledge of the deception she was practicing; but she had promised her brother and his fiancé to obey their wishes. [Illustration] A tall girl, with blonde hair, majestic form, round and plump, with eyes melting in their expression of artlessness and innocence, Marie Colchester was one who would easily conquer the heart of a susceptible man. In the parlor they met for the first time, Junius Cobb and she. "My brother, Marie. Junius, let me make you acquainted with my dear old schoolmate, Marie Colchester. I want you to be the best of friends," and she moved toward the piano, and listlessly tapped the ivory keys. "Oh, I am sure we will, will we not, Mr. Cobb?" exclaimed Miss Colchester, with a winning smile. "You know everybody has heard of you, and I feel it a great honor to know one who has lived in two lives." For a moment Cobb stood with a perplexed expression, and gazed intently at her; the name had startled him. She raised her face, and met his gaze, then, blushing, dropped her eyes to the floor. "You do not answer, Mr. Cobb?" she ventured. "Are you displeased at meeting me?" Recovering himself in a moment, he quickly returned: "Pardon me. My thoughts were far away." "Not very complimentary to me," with a merry laugh. "But, then, if you will tell me of whom you were thinking, and her name, for I know it must be a woman, I will forgive your ungallantry," with bewitching naiveté. "Marie Colchis," he slowly answered, with his thoughts still far away. "How funny! almost my own name. Now you have aroused my curiosity. Who is this divinity that can hold your thoughts so enthralled when _I_ am near?" and again she laughed as she emphasized the pronoun. "She was my affianced wife!" The words came as if from the depths of his heart. Marie Colchester saw she had touched a tender chord in his memory. Casting aside all semblance of levity, she approached him and laid her white, small hand upon his arm. "Forgive me," she said; "I did not wish to bring sad memories to your mind." Mollie Craft slyly watched them both, as she stood at the piano, apparently deeply absorbed in the music copy on the stand. "Good! They will be friends," she murmured. Such was the meeting of Junius Cobb and Marie Colchester. CHAPTER XV The month of Finis had passed, and it was Old-Year-Day; to-morrow would be New-Year's-Day, A. D. 2001. In the conservatory, among the roses, geraniums and violets, with scissors and twine in their hands, were Marie and Mollie. As fresh and bright as the flowers about them, they chatted and laughed as they clipped the buds and fashioned the floral pieces which were to grace the private room of the executive mansion on the morrow. New-Year's-Day was a great day, in this new era of time. It was a day upon which all toil ceased, and all hearts were made glad by the exchange of good wishes and good cheer. The President held a great reception from 9 until 11 dial, and after that hour devoted the afternoon to his family and intimate friends. In the evening the day was crowned by a magnificent ball; such had been the custom for years in Washington on New-Year's-Day. With deft fingers, the two girls made the pretty floral pieces: one for papa and mamma; one each for Hugh and Junius; and Lester was to have one--Mollie said two--sent to his hotel. "Well, if you send him two, I shall send another to Hugh," cried Marie, with a pretty, threatening gesture. "Marie Colchester, you are in love!" and Mollie stopped in her work to note the effect of her words. "Oh!" prolonged and low from her companion. "Yes, you are," teasingly. "O Mollie Craft! How can you ever say such a thing?" and the blushes overspread her whole face. "You are a little traitor," with a show of anger. Marie looked up as if uncertain of her friend's meaning, but the twinkle in the latter's eye satisfied her that no belligerent intentions were premeditated. "How so, Mollie?" demurely, as she clipped a japonica rose from its stalk. "How so? Didn't I ask you to come here and win the love of Junius Cobb so as to free me from the pain of seeing his love for me unreturned? Didn't you agree to throw yourself away for Lester's sake and mine? Didn't you tell me that you knew he couldn't help loving you, and that his heart would soon be lying at your feet like a--a--a sponge-cake stepped upon by an elephant? There!" "O Mollie! I didn't say all that!" cried Marie, in confusion. "Yes, you did; you know you did," shaking her scissors at the other. "Well, haven't I tried to make him love me? Oh, I am so ashamed! Trying to make a man love me, and he won't show the least little bit of love," and she hid her face in her hands, in apparent distress. "That's all put on, miss; as if I couldn't see. You were not here a week before you had that great big brother of mine dancing after you as if tied to your apron-strings," and Mollie looked severely at the culprit. "But, Mollie, I couldn't help it. He would come--and come, and stay--and stay--and--and--I didn't know you objected--and I'll go away to-morrow," and the poor girl burst into a flood of tears, and sank beside the floral tribute to her lover. In an instant Mollie was by her side, her white arms clasped around the sobbing girl, and the kisses checking the rain of tears. "There, there, Marie, my own true girl!" she coaxingly said, "I was only teasing you. I would not, indeed I would not, have said it if I had thought you would have believed me in earnest. I am proud of my brother's choice; I want you for a sister." "And you are not angry with me for not loving Mr. Cobb?" looking up beseechingly. "No, dear girl. I love Junius, for he is a noble though a silent man. It would have given me great pleasure to have seen him love and marry you, Marie, for you will be a prize to your husband; but, to be my brother's wife, that is better still," and she kissed the red, quivering lips of the girl, and gently raised her form from the ground. Thus another scheme devised by human minds had failed. Hugh Craft had been won by the innocence and loveliness of this girl; had given her his whole heart, and had received hers, with its wealth of love, in return. Their love plighted, and sitting by his side one afternoon in the conservatory, whither he had led her to enjoy, unmolested, her sweet society, she had told him the story of her coming, her identity and her relationship to Lester Hathaway. And then, under his promise of secrecy, she had told him of Lester's infatuation and semi-engagement to Mollie. Loving this woman as he did, he could find no fault with his sister for loving the brother; but in deference to Marie's wishes, he had refrained from informing his sister and her lover that their secret was known. It was New-Year's night, and the grand ball-room of the executive mansion was a scene of beauty and splendor. Incandescent lights hung in huge festoons from the ceiling; beautiful women and brilliant uniforms mingled in one grand, gorgeous panorama. Out from the moving multitude came Hugh Craft, with Marie leaning on his arm. Pausing at the grand stairway to the supper-room, Hugh sent word to Lester and Mollie to meet him in the conservatory. A few minutes later they were joined by Mollie and her lover, who found them standing under the rose arbor at the lower end of the conservatory. As they approached, Hugh left the side of Marie, and, confronting Lester, addressed him in a tone of severity: "You have made love to my sister, sir!" Mollie uttered a little scream, and clung to the arm of Lester, while Marie stood mute in astonishment at the scene. "I repeat it, sir," continued Hugh, in harsh and severe tones; "you have been guilty of engaging yourself to my sister." For a moment Lester Hathaway stood looking at the other, not knowing what answer to make. His sister must have told Hugh of his secret, he thought; then, boldly: "And you, sir, have made love to _my sister_!" Hugh was surprised at the retort, for he did not know of the interview between the two girls, of the day before, nor that Mollie had told Lester all about it. "I admit it," he smilingly said. "And so do I," returned Lester, as the twinkle in Hugh's eye gave him the assurance that there was no anger in his words. "You want her, Lester?" "And you want her, Hugh?" So rapidly had the words been spoken that the girls had had no time to speak. "Yes; and you?" "Want her forever." "Then, Lester, let us trade sisters," and he laughed heartily as he saw the comical expression which came over Mollie's face as she realized the situation. "You are real mean, Hugh, to scare us that way. Look at poor Marie; she doesn't know yet if you are in earnest or not," and Mollie looked toward the girl. "She knows now," as he clasped her in his arms and kissed her lips. "Oh!" exclaimed Mollie. Then these lovers sat and discussed their hopes and plans. Sympathy, deep and true, was expressed for Junius Cobb; for it had been noticed by all that an appearance of sadness was ever in his face. He seemed devoid of energy and all desire for amusement. He cared not for the society of women; even Mollie received far less attention from him than formerly; not that she believed he thought any less of her, but that he never did actually love her. In her kind heart, she suggested to the others that they combine their forces, and endeavor to arouse him from the apathy into which he certainly was sinking. Each gladly agreed to do all in her power to make the man forget his former life and enter into the enjoyment of the present. With their hearts bearing nothing but respect and friendship for Junius Cobb, they left the conservatory, and returned to the ball-room. The night passed, and it was January 1, 2001. At breakfast, Hugh told Cobb that he intended to take him to America, as the President had promised that he should be made acquainted with the system of the sympathetic telegraph, and also with the methods pursued in publishing the "Daily American." Cobb's face brightened up, and he expressed his pleasure at the prospect of gaining a knowledge of these wonderful inventions. Accordingly, at 14 dial the two young men took the Chicago Pneumatic, and reached Pittsburgh at 16:50 dial. Here the Tracer, in which Cobb had crossed the Central Sea in the preceding September, and which had been ordered to report to Captain Craft, was boarded, and Cobb again met Lieutenant Sibley and his assistants. Putting to sea as soon as the baggage had arrived from the train, the Tracer was headed southwest by west, and quickly made the offing. At 3:10 dial the next morning the vessel came to anchor in the harbor of America. It was 7 dial before Lieutenant Sibley would awaken his guests, and nearly 9 dial when Mr. Doane, the superintendent of the telegraph system, presented himself, under an order from the Secretary of State to render every service to his visitors. The city of America lay just a mile from the shores of the Central Sea, upon a nearly level plain about six miles long by three in width. The Kentucky hills in the background, with their magnificent scenery, the great sea in front and the beautiful streets and houses, made the scene appear to Cobb like an enchanted city of the Arabian Nights. Landing at the dock, an electric drag quickly took the party to the beautiful residence of Mr. Doane. A few minutes later, after meeting the charming wife of their host, Cobb and Hugh were ushered into the library by Mr. Doane, who again expressed the pleasure which he felt at meeting the man of whom the world had been talking for the past four months. "I can assure you," he exclaimed, "we see it here. Thousands of telegrams have passed through the United States--I should say the Central Office--in which your name was the prominent subject." "I ought to feel flattered at such world-wide reputation," returned Cobb, modestly; "but I am tired of it, and wish to be a man born in the period." The conversation continued, and the object of Cobb's visit to the city was fully explained. Stepping to a book-case, Mr. Doane took a large book from a shelf, and, opening it upon a table, displayed a map of the city of America and its immediate vicinity. "There is a map of the city, Mr. Cobb," he said, "and you can follow me as I explain to you the reasons why the city has been so laid out, and in such an extraordinary fashion. America is a city of about 125,000 souls. The plan of the city is very peculiar indeed, but made with the one view of bringing the employés of the system into little communities near the place of their occupation. It resembles a portion of a great checkerboard, eight squares long by six in breadth. Each square is a half-mile in length and breadth, and has an area of one-quarter of a square mile. Four of these squares is called a section, making twelve sections, or twelve square miles in the city. Each section is divided into eight triangles of equal shape and area by diagonals from its corners. Thus there are in the city five great streets, each four miles in length, extending from one extreme to the other, or east and west; seven streets two miles in length running north and south, and the diagonal streets. Electric cars run on all the streets except the diagonals. All of these streets are 200 feet wide, and paved with gray glass. Each triangle is cut into streets of 100 feet in width, running north and south for the north and south triangles, and east and west for the others, and contain about 400 houses. Thus there are in each section 3,200 houses for employés. Each house occupies an area of fifty feet front by 100 feet in depth. In the center of each section is a beautiful but small park. Four large, grand buildings of six stories each face this park, occupying the apices of the eight triangles. "These buildings are the workshops, or site of occupation, of the inhabitants of that particular section. Thus a community of 3,200 families live and work in each section. For further benefit to the people, each two triangles of a quadrant is combined under the title of 'square.' Each square, therefore, has its own diagonal street, meeting the other diagonals of the section in the center, or place of occupation. Again, as each square is a smaller community of the section, it has its own shops, stores, etc. All of these places of business are located midway on the diagonals, and are styled the 'bazar.' There is allowed in each bazar, only one store for each particular trade; for instance, there is but one grocer, baker, market, etc., through the whole list of trades. There are, also, restaurants and club-rooms for men and women, libraries, churches and school-houses located on these streets. So complete is the system that the residents have little need of ever going outside their square to have their wants properly attended to. All of the stores in the city, except the grocers, bakers, and markets, are under control of the authorities; and the articles offered for trade have to be of the best, while the schedule of prices is so regulated that only a certain minimum profit can be made. The excepted trades are directly under the charge of competent officials, and the articles sold at cost. The houses for the operators, on the main streets, are all six-room cottages, while those on the cross-streets contain only five rooms. They are built in various and different designs, and all are provided with heat and light by electricity. They are covered with ornamental slabs of various colored glass, which give them durability against the weather, and exquisite beauty. Each section is under the direct supervision of a governor and two assistants, and all disputes and controversies arising among the people are settled and judged by them. No person is allowed to settle or remain in the city without special authority from the superintendent and council of the system. The cars are free to all people; so, also, is the rent of the houses to the operators, the only requirement being that each occupant shall keep his house in good repair. Every expenditure for the welfare of the city is paid out of the receipts of the system, thus leaving nothing to be demanded of the employés save the cost price of their subsistence. You will see from the map, Mr. Cobb, that there are ten sections having their central offices, while the two interior sections of the city, and wherein we now are," and he placed his finger upon the spot, "have one between them. This central spot, with its parks and great buildings, is called 'The United States,' to distinguish it from the other centers of operations; which are named, in order, from left to right, around to point of beginning: 'Islands,' 'Indias,' 'Asia,' 'Africa,' 'East,' 'Australia,' 'Continent,' 'Britain,' 'South America,' and 'West.' In each section 2,000 operators move down to the central offices each morning at 8 dial, making 20,000 telegraph operators, besides 2,000 in the central section of the whole system, who daily work the keys that flash the millions of messages over the world. This vast throng of employés moves, easily and without impediment, down the cross-streets of their triangles into the diagonals of their squares, and thence to their work. By the system of squares, no employé has a greater distance to walk to his work than the length of the hypotenuse of the triangle whose base and altitude is a half-mile in length; or a little less than three quarters of a mile. One-half of the number of operators go to their dinner at 12 dial, and the other half at 13 dial. At 20 dial, they are relieved, and 10,000 others take their place until 8 dial the next morning. Their work is clean and light; but the hours are long, as it is not practicable to have three sets of operators. Now, for the amusement of the city, there are theatres, dancing-halls, clubs, boating and sea-bathing, libraries, gymnasiums, and many other means of recreation. The greater portion of the operators are married, and live happy and contented in their positions. The finer houses, on the main streets, are given to those longest in service, as a reward for their services. The salary of an operator is sixty dollars per month, and promotion is by competition. I may have wearied you, Mr. Cobb, by going into details as I have," Mr. Doane said, apologetically; "but in order to understand this vast system of communication, with its ramifications extending to every known part of the globe, it is necessary that you should learn how the working force is set in motion and how continued." "On the contrary, Mr. Doane, you have not wearied me at all," replied Cobb. "I can assure you I take special delight in everything tending to better the condition of the working classes. How much better could capital have been employed in my day in building up communities like this, instead of accumulating vast wealth to be fought over by contending heirs." "This, Mr. Cobb," continued Mr. Doane, "is the condition of life and the surroundings of these thousands of men who daily tick the thoughts and wishes of mankind from every part of the known earth. Now, if you are ready, we will take the drag and visit one of the sectional offices, and you can see the actual working of the system." It was but a few minutes' ride from Mr. Doane's residence to the nearest sectional headquarters, and they were soon entering the beautiful park surrounding the four large buildings which faced toward the center. Cobb noticed the air of order and cleanliness which pervaded everything, and the lack of hubbub which might be expected in the vicinity of four buildings holding 2,000 employés. Ascending by the elevator to the first floor, they were ushered into "The State of New York," as the floor was designated in the system. The scene that met the eye of Cobb was unique in the extreme. Row upon row of little tables, at each of which sat an operator, extended from one end of the room to the other. In front of each line of tables an endless belt was carrying little folded papers, and dropping them through a chute in the floor. At one extremity of the room was a number of pipes vomiting forth an unceasing stream of small metal cases, which were quickly seized and deposited in boxes near at hand. A stream of assistants were busy handing these cases to the operators at the tables. A humming sound, low and musical, pervaded the room as the hundred and more instruments clicked forth their messages. "This is the 'State of New York,'" explained Mr. Doane. "There are 140 operators in this room, working direct with the central office of the State of New York. Upon the next floor is 'New England,' and above that, 'Pennsylvania,' and so on, each floor being devoted to the work with the central office of a particular State or States." Mr. Doane then enlightened Cobb on the work of the system. In each State of the United States, and each nation of the various divisions of the world, was located a central office; these central offices worked direct with some floor of the buildings in the sectional offices. For instance: the section designated "East," contained the operators who worked with the central offices of the Eastern States. "South America" worked with the central offices of all the countries of South America. From the central office of a State or nation, the message was sent direct to the town or city of destination, if in that State or nation. "To understand the system," said Mr. Doane, "let us follow the course of a message from St. Petersburg to San Francisco. The operator at St. Petersburg sends it to the central office of his county by his sympathetic instruments. From that central office it is sent to the section in this city designated 'Continent;' there it is received, and sent to 'The World,' or central office, by pneumatic tubes. At 'The World' it is assorted from the hundreds dropping from the tubes, and sent in a tube to the 'West' section. Here it is received, and sent to the floor named 'California,' handed to an operator, and transmitted to the central office of California, and by them to the city of San Francisco. The time of transit of such a message of twenty words, from St. Petersburg to San Francisco, is thirty minutes." "Quick work, that!" exclaimed Cobb, admiringly. "But a more peculiar illustration of the system," continued Mr. Doane, "is exemplified in the sending of a message from Portland, Oregon, to Vancouver, Washington. These cities are but fifteen miles apart; yet the message from the former city is sent to its central office, thence to the 'West' section in this city, thence by tube to the next floor, thence to the central office of Washington, and thence to Vancouver. Now I will show you the instruments," and he motioned them to follow him to the lower end of the room. Here Cobb for the first time examined the great invention of his old friend and master, Jean Colchis. On a table were set an ordinary relay, sounder and key, instruments which were familiar to Cobb, who had thoroughly studied the electric telegraph system of his day. The relay only differed from those used in former years in that it had no large and heavy armature in front of its poles, but in its place was a small, bright needle swinging on a vertical pivot. The short end of the needle was held by two delicate springs, pulling in opposite directions. The needle was metallically connected through a local battery to an ordinary sounder, and thence the current was carried to a little stud near the extreme end of the short arm of the needle. The relay was connected through its keys to another local battery. If the key was closed--that is, pressed down so as to form a metallic connection--the relay magnets were magnetized by its local battery, and the little needle was drawn toward them by their attraction, until the short arm of the needle rested against the little stud. This touching of the needle to the stud closed the circuit of the second local battery, and the sounder armature answered to the influence. If the key was opened, the circuit was broken, the needle was drawn back by its little spring and the local current of the sounder disrupted. With the exception of the needle, the whole apparatus was precisely similar to that employed in telegraphing in 1887. Cobb examined it carefully and noted its delicacy and the care exercised in its protection from external forces by being covered with a glass globe and surrounded by helices in opposite directions. Mr. Doane watched his expression, and smiled at his perplexity. "Simple, isn't it?" he asked. "Yes, in construction," returned Cobb; "but its theory of action upon the distant instrument is to me a total mystery, I must confess." "But easily explained, in so far as how it acts, but not why it performs its work," Mr. Doane answered. "The needle which you see has a mate, and that mate is in the California office. These needles are made in pairs, and, by a wonderful process, made sympathetic. No two pairs are charged with the same sympathy; consequently, no other needle of the whole system of instruments will affect this save that single one in California. The instruments of each pair are most carefully set up at their different stations, so that the needles shall point to the true north; thus the needles are exactly parallel to each other. When the instrument is not in use, the key is left open, and the needle is held back by its spring. Now, if the California operator should close his key, he would cause his needle to be attracted toward the relay magnets; this movement of his needle exerts a sympathetic influence upon the needle in this instrument. _It endeavors to parallel itself to its mate._ It moves to the right, overcoming the power of its spring, and, touching the stud, closes the circuit, and the sounder records the fact. Opening his key in California, both needles move back by the tension of their springs, and the sounders are demagnetized. The sympathy of these two needles to place themselves in a parallel position, or, more properly, the repulsion of the poles of each from those of the other, is the secret of the sympathetic telegraph system." "A wonderful, grand invention!" burst from the lips of Cobb, as he comprehended the almost human action of the two needles. "How could mortal man have discovered such a secret of nature!" "Yes, Junius; it is wonderful!" echoed Hugh. "How many pairs of these sagacious little instruments have you in the system?" asked Cobb, after a silence. "In the United States, 280,000; in the world, 450,000. But more are needed very much, and have been for years," returned Mr. Doane. "Well, why don't you make them?" inquiringly. "Ah! there's where the trouble is! Since 1963 no instruments have been made. The secret is lost!" "Lost! The secret is lost! How could it be possible to lose the secret of such a discovery as this?" and a look of incredulity expressed the doubts he entertained. "It is a fact, nevertheless, Mr. Cobb; a fact coupled with sorrow to me in many ways. But let us take the drag and return to the house, as it is near luncheon; I will tell you of the accident as we ride along." A shade of sorrow came over his face as he spoke. As the drag sped along the grand avenue toward the beautiful home of the superintendent, Cobb listened to the old man's story concerning the loss of the secret of Jean Colchis' great invention. "My grandfather," commenced Mr. Doane, "was the first superintendent of the sympathetic telegraph system. In 1892, when the wonderful discovery of Jean Colchis, of whom you no doubt have heard--" "And with whom he was on terms of the closest friendship," broke in Hugh, in a matter-of-fact sort of way. "Knew Jean Colchis! personally knew the inventor of the system I have been explaining to you!" cried Mr. Doane, in astonishment. "Yes," from Cobb. "Ah, yes! I had forgotten your status in this life. You have lived a hundred years; why may you not have known him?" murmured the old man, as if reasoning with some doubt in his mind as to Cobb's sincerity of expression. "You must tell me of him," with an eager look; "for I reverence the name of him who conceived this wonderful agent of communication, and placed its power subject to the will of man. To-night, to-night, Mr. Cobb, you must tell me of yourself and of him." "With pleasure, Mr. Doane," returned Cobb. "Be it so. And now I will go on with my story," continued the superintendent. "As I was saying, in 1892, when Jean Colchis made his discovery, the government bought the invention from him, and selected my grandfather, who was a Major in the army, to be the superintendent of the system. I do not know what were the terms of sale, or what were the conditions imposed, excepting that only one man was to know the secret of sympathizing the needles; that that man was never to commit the secret to writing or to tell it to any living soul until at death's door; then it was to be transmitted to only one other, verbally. It is believed that this great stipulation on the part of Jean Colchis was to prevent France from reaping any benefit from his discovery, as he was said to have been an exile from that country." Cobb smiled as he uttered the latter words, for the political secrets of Colchis were fresh in his memory. "For thirty-seven years my grandfather sympathized, in his laboratory, all the needles used in the system. Upon his death-bed, in 1929, at the ripe age of eighty-five, he communicated the secret to his son, who was his assistant in the system. The government made my father superintendent to succeed my grandfather. I was born in 1937, and at twenty years of age became my father's assistant. It was his intention to leave the secret with me; but, from a stroke of paralysis preventing speech and motion, he died on the 6th of September, 1963, and the secret died with him. On account of my knowledge of the system I was, upon the death of my father, immediately appointed superintendent, and have occupied the position ever since." "And has no effort been made to rediscover this secret?" asked Cobb. "Oh, yes. Scientists throughout the world have worked assiduously, but without success. The government has standing rewards of five millions of dollars for the lost secret." They had reached the house, and the drag stopped at the door. CHAPTER XVI After lunch a visit was made to the offices of the "Daily American," the great newspaper of the country. The establishment was situated at the southeastern corner of the city, just outside of section "South America." The making of the form and printing of this great paper was explained by Mr. McGregor, the manager. The items of news and interest from all parts of the world were received at the "World" building by the sympathetic telegraph, and then transmitted by tube to the chief of copy at the office of the paper. Here it was assorted and given to the type-writers. Type, as used in the nineteenth century, had no place in the form of this paper. Each compositor sat before a machine which appeared to Cobb very like a Yost type-writer, and printed his copy on slips about as long and twice as wide as the columns of an ordinary newspaper. The paper was prepared, by immersion in certain chemicals, to undergo a change of texture and composition upon the passage of an electric current of 400 volts. The letter arms of the type-writers were connected with the batteries, and whenever, in printing, a letter was struck upon the paper, the current passed through to the metallic bed, leaving a silver-gray print of the character on the paper. These strips, or columns of the paper, as they proved to be, were set together to form sheets or pages of the "Daily American." A little instrument, having a pointer with 100 metallic hairs, each about an inch in length, and each connected by an insulated wire to a sympathetic instrument, was placed on the outer edge of the sheet of paper, which lay flat and smooth upon a copper bed. The 100 little points were so set that they just touched the paper, but not each other; and their arrangement was such that, as the machine traveled over the sheet from bottom to top, every part of the paper for a width of two inches was touched by some one of these points. Now, the current of electricity which passed through the slips of paper when printed, had not left the letters in clear color, but had changed the metallic composition in the paper into metallic letters. Another, and one of the most important factors in this new process, was that the letter was metallic clear through the paper, the reverse side of the sheet showing a perfect type-form. The "Daily American" was printed simultaneously in one hundred cities of the country, and from these cities delivered by train as in former days. Of course it was necessary that each city should have its own type-form, but the size of the paper precluded the possibility of sending such a vast amount of matter to each place and there putting it in type-form. The difficulty was overcome by each city having a little 100-pointed instrument, similar to the one at the main office of the paper, the wires of which were connected to mates to the 100 sympathetic instruments in the home office; for the special work the needles had been sympathized in 100 sets of 100 needles each. At 2:45 dial by the time at America, each sub-office had great sheets of paper saturated with the metallic chemicals used to prepare the home-form, spread perfectly flat upon copper beds, and the little traveler in position at the lower left-hand corner of the sheet. At precisely 3 dial the operator at America touched the key of a sympathetic instrument, and the traveler on his sheet of paper passed rapidly down the entire page. At every sub-office the traveler performed a similar journey, being regulated by a main sympathetic instrument. When the travelers reached the end of the page, they automatically returned to the point of starting, excepting that they moved the width of the 100 points, or two inches, to the right. This was repeated until every particle of the paper necessary for a whole edition had been completely passed over. The principle, as Cobb learned, was this: The home sheet having metallic letters, and the copper bed being connected with a battery, whenever a point of the traveler touched a letter a current passed to the point, thence to the relay, which caused the sympathetic needle to move to the right. At the sub-office, the mate of this needle also moved to the right and closed the circuit of the local battery; a current then passed down to a point of the traveler--which point was a mate to one of the points in the home traveler--and thence through the prepared paper, changing the composition into a fine metallic line. Whenever the points of the home traveler passed off of a metallic letter the current for that particular point or points was broken, as the paper had been rendered non-conductive after its receipt from the type-writers. The result was that each sub-office had an exact copy of the original form, made up of thousands of little, fine lines, but so close together as to form perfect letters. These forms were quickly placed in rapid-acting plating baths, and the top surface, or that side over which the traveler passed, plated with aluminum. In thirty minutes the forms were covered by a sheet of metal which held every letter that had been made in the paper by the electrical change of the chemical, rigidly in position; the letters being formed clear through the paper. The forms were now flattened, and then bent over rollers for the great rotary presses. The last act in the manipulation of these forms was then accomplished by decomposing and removing all the paper which had not been transformed into metal. The result of all these operations was that a printing cylinder was obtained exactly similar to the one at the home office. The paper was then printed and distributed as in former times. Cobb studied all these details very carefully, and left the establishment with feelings of astonishment at the progress made in a hundred years. "We must have an early breakfast, Junius," said Hugh, that evening, "for we are to take the Tracer across the sea and visit the metropolis." "The metropolis?" echoed Cobb, with a look of surprise. "Yes." "I do not think that I care about going to New York again; not for the present, anyway," said the other. "Well, did I say anything about going to New York?" returned Hugh, carelessly. "But you spoke of visiting the metropolis." "So I did." "There can be but one metropolis in a country." "True," smiling. "And that must be New York for this country." "And that is not New York for this country." This with a decided emphasis. "I am going to take you to Chicago; to the metropolis of the United States; to the greatest city on earth." He noted the expression of wonder which came over the other's face. "And do you mean to tell me that Chicago is a greater city than New York? Chicago, an inland town, to compete with and excel New York, a sea-port city?" and Cobb shook his head as if he doubted the possibility of the truth of such an assertion. "Why, you have told me that New York has over four million inhabitants; has Chicago more than that number?" "Yes," returned Hugh; "nearly double that number. By the census finished last June, Chicago had, at that date, 7,345,906 souls living within its corporate limits." "Come, Hugh," pettishly exclaimed Cobb, "that's a little too strong. I remember that it was estimated, in 1887, that Chicago would have about 1,500,000 in 1890, and if that estimate was correct, this vast population given by you could never have been obtained through ordinary growth." "Nor was it, Junius. The growth was extraordinary," lightly returned the other. "Humph! So I should say. Why, it is equivalent to a gain of 53,000 persons every year since 1890. Such a rapid growth for so many years is an absurdity." "As you please; have it so. But let me enlighten you a little. In 1910 the population of Chicago was 1,800,000--a rapid but fair growth for a city possessing the surrounding country, energy, resources, and natural attractions of Chicago. But it was after the year 1916, and for the next ten years that Chicago, as well as many other towns and cities in the West, received the greatest addition to its population. After the great cataclysm of 1916 the vast numbers of people who were driven from their homes by the rising of the waters over the doomed area of the Ohio basin, sought temporary shelter in all the towns and cities surrounding the Central Sea. As time progressed and showed the future destruction that would be wrought as the waters rose, the people emigrated in great numbers. The movement was westward, only a small portion going East or to the South. The great cities of Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, St. Paul, and Kansas City received vast additions; but of them all, Chicago, being the nearest and largest, gained the most. From a million and three-quarters, in 1910, that city had over four million in 1930. The rest of her immense population has been gained through natural increase and immigration, being at the rate of about 50,000 per year, or less than one and-a-half per cent. increase." "And Chicago is now the metropolis of the United States," mused Cobb. Then aloud: "Yes, it was to be. The condition and extent of this great republic were factors to cause a westward movement, not only of the center of population, but of the location, even, of the metropolis of the nation." "Now, Junius, go to bed and get a good sleep; we will rise early in the morning," said Hugh, rising from his chair. "All right; anything to keep me interested," returned Cobb. "I must have excitement. I feel blue and down in the mouth the instant my interest flags." "O, pshaw, man! you ought not to feel that way. You'll come around all right in time; you mark my words," and Hugh sauntered off to his room. It was 17:25 dial the next day, when Cobb and Hugh arrived in Chicago, on the Southern Pneumatic. Taking a drag at the Central Station, they soon reached and were comfortably domiciled in "The World," the great and magnificent hotel of the metropolis. "The World" was but one of the many grand and luxuriously appointed hostelries of that great city, but it was nevertheless the leading one. The building was situated upon Michigan avenue, facing the Lake Front. Built entirely of metal and glass, it was absolutely fire-proof; its frontage was one mass of ornamentation in all the colors of the spectrum, yet harmoniously blended. There were 3,000 rooms for guests, each provided with bath, telephone, electric light, dumb-waiters, etc. The parlors were upon the eighth floor; while above them, and covering the entire block, were magnificent gardens, covered by a glass canopy thirty-five feet above the floor. Here rare flowers bloomed every day in the year, the temperature being uniform; the immense and lofty roof being made to slide in panels, by electricity, thus allowing the natural temperature of the outside air to prevail, when sufficiently high not to be detrimental to the plants. At night the grandeur of the scene was superb when lighted by the electric lamps. After an hour for their toilet and lunch, Cobb and Hugh passed out and around the eastern part of the city bordering the lake, and here Cobb observed the wonderful growth and curious innovations over his time. Like New York, the city was a double one, over its central portion, appropriate descents being situated at short intervals for passing from the upper to the lower streets. The great avenues, such as Michigan, Wabash, State, First, Fifth, and Seventh, were provided with rapid-transit trains, in tunnels crossing the river below its surface, and running south to Five Hundred and Tenth street. Electric surface roads were used for cross-transportation, and were similar to those which he had already seen. The city was divided into four great divisions; or, as they were styled, zenods. Each zenod had its own post-office, court house, police, city prison, and all the machinery necessary in the operation of a complete city. The zenods were governed by a lieutenant-mayor and a council of fifteen members; the city, as a whole, was governed by a mayor and a supreme council of thirty-nine members. Cobb ascertained from Hugh that it had been found utterly impossible to properly provide for the welfare and advancement of such a great population unless the work was divided, and to that end the four zenods, with their respective municipal corporations, with a supreme head and upper house, had been created. For three days Cobb and Hugh passed about the great city, the one observing and the other explaining the many wonderful things to be seen. Chicago was indeed a remarkable city, not only in its vast population, quadruple government, extent of territory and unprecedented increase, but in the application of every known adjunct to man's welfare, comfort, and benefit. Leaving "The Wonderful City" and its vast progress for a future and thorough investigation, the two friends took the 23 dial pneumatic for Niagara. CHAPTER XVII It was 2 dial the next morning, when Cobb and Hugh reached Niagara. The night was beautiful, but the weather cold, and it was with pleasure that the two men reached the hotel, and ensconced themselves by the side of a real coal fire, as Cobb called it. The stillness of the night was a source of surprise to Cobb, as he heard not that thundering, deafening roar of the mighty cataract which had always heretofore greeted him upon his arrival at the falls. The next morning Cobb and Hugh were up early, and, after a hearty breakfast, proceeded in the direction of the old inclined railways where Cobb had so often, in former years, made love and talked nonsense to the pretty girls of Niagara. A different sight met his eyes as he neared the balcony where formerly the best view of the grand falls was to be obtained. Niagara was still a mighty cataract, but not half the volume of water which had passed over its precipitous edge in former days now flowed over the walls of rock. Where formerly the great mass of surging, foamy floods rushed out over the top to a distance of fifty feet, and fell in one unbroken blue sheet into the boiling torrent below, now was a lighter sheet of white and broken water. Two artificial streams, one on either side of the river, below the falls, the beds for which had been carved out of the precipitous banks which marked the erosive power of the stream, carried an immense flow seven miles down the river. Along the banks, and from one hundred to seventy-five feet below the canals, were rows of houses of similar construction and color. From every house, in either line, poured forth a torrent of water which rushed and leaped down the rocks to the stream below. Electric wires and huge cables were to be seen in every direction. [Illustration] Turning back from the novel scene in front of him, Cobb moved nearer the edge of the balcony, and looked over towards the base of the falls. Great masses of ice rose from the depths below, half obscuring his view; but the field was clear enough for him to ascertain that a new order of phenomena had taken place since his last advent there. It seemed as if a hundred gigantic mouths in the face of the cliff were belching forth mighty torrents of seething, foamy water. Passing down the stairs to the first landing, which was sixty feet below the brink of the falls, he and Hugh came to the gate of a tunnel in the walls under the falls. The gatekeeper, after a few words from Hugh, touched an electric bell, and a young man who answered the summons was directed to show them about the works. Niagara Falls had, indeed, undergone a most remarkable change in a hundred years. The face of the cliff, from the Canadian, or "Ontario" side, as it was then termed, clear around to the city, had been pierced by huge tunnels, ten feet in diameter, extending under the rapids above for a distance of 1,000 feet. There were two rows of these tunnels; the first row was 120 feet below the top of the falls, and the tunnels were twenty feet apart. The next row was cut over the walls between the lower tunnels, and was ninety feet below the edge of the falls. Again, above this line, was a row of smaller tunnels, five feet in diameter and 100 feet apart. From the two rows of large tunnels mighty jets of water were pouring out, and breaking into foam as they reached the waters coming from over the cliff. Cobb and Hugh passed into the tunnel, which was brilliantly lighted by electricity, dry, and much warmer than the outer air. Moving onward, they soon came to the great chambers of the cliff. "Here, Cobb," said Hugh, as they entered the first chamber, "here are the first dynamos. This whole cliff, from the front to 1,000 feet in rear, is honeycombed with these chambers. Each chamber has a turbine wheel and a set of dynamos, and receives its water-supply through shafts drilled straight up through the roof into the waters of the rapids above. The water, after working the turbines, is discharged into the great tunnels which you saw emptying from the face of the rock. Of the mighty body of water flowing over the falls, only a portion could be used in this manner, as it was not deemed wise to make more than two rows of tunnels; but to gain as much power from the water as possible, the two lines of dynamo houses along the banks, which you saw from above, were constructed. The little tunnels are for air circulation, and fans are continually moving the air through the whole labyrinth of chambers. There are, in the face of this rock, 200 tunnels, in two rows of one hundred each, and extending back 1,000 feet, or forty miles in total length. Over each tunnel are chambers, twelve by twenty feet, with ten-foot walls between, or thirty chambers along the line of each tunnel. "Each chamber has a fifteen-inch shaft tapping the water-supply above. Now, the descent of the water is at the rate of 3,840 feet per minute, the fall is sixty feet, and the weight of a cubic foot of water 62.5 pounds: thus the horse-power of each shaft is exactly 400, and the flow-off, in area, one square foot. As there are thirty of these chambers to each discharge tunnel, then an area of thirty square feet flows from a seventy-eight-square-foot escape. But the volume of water from the shafts, owing to its increased velocity, would soon overflow the discharge tunnels if level; to obviate this, they are inclined as much as possible. Four hundred horse-power turbines in each chamber, coupled to dynamos, give 350 electrical horses. As there are 6,000 chambers in the rock, the output, in electricity, is equivalent to 2,100,000 electrical horse-power; this, added to the power generated by the fourteen miles of dynamos along the river, which have 3,650 wheels, brings the whole power utilized up to three and a quarter millions of electrical horses. This mighty current is carried by great copper cables to all parts of eastern United States, and used for every conceivable purpose where power is required." "You seem to be pretty well posted in this matter," was all Cobb could say, as Hugh gave him this array of figures. "I am. I was on a board of engineer officers in connection with the water-power of these falls, some years ago," he replied. "How long have these works been in operation?" "About fifty years." "So long?" "Yes." "Is it a private concern?" inquired Cobb. "Oh, bless you, no. It cost too much money to put it into operation. The government expended over two hundred millions of dollars in building the works; but they have paid for themselves almost twice over." "And this is the source of the great electrical supply--" "For the Eastern States of the nation," interrupted Hugh; "but it is only a portion of the power used. The water-power everywhere is converted into electricity, and sent over the country." "And steam isn't used any more?" hesitatingly. "To be sure, it is; in the great timber districts, and where fuel, which otherwise would go to waste, is plentiful, steam engines are still used." [Illustration] After a thorough inspection of the great center of electrical supply, the two returned to their hotel, and made preparations to leave Niagara and visit New England, and especially Boston and Providence, "the places I love so dearly," said Cobb. "I must once more visit the scenes of my childhood, and note their advancement." So away they went to pass a week, intending to be in Washington by the 10th of January. CHAPTER XVIII It was the third morning after Cobb and Hugh had started for America, that Marie Colchester, or, as she should be called, Marie Hathaway, had said to Mollie: "I wish I could see some of those peculiar contrivances which Mr. Cobb used in his sepulchre, in San Francisco." "And why may we not?" Mollie had returned. "He is away, and we can take a peep into his room without a living soul but ourselves knowing it." So it was that these two girls stole silently into Cobb's bedroom, and noted, with feminine curiosity, every detail of a man's private apartments. With a guilty feeling, they opened bureau and chiffonier drawers, peered into boxes, and finally opened the doors of the wardrobe. None of the wonderful inventions for prolonging life, which they had expected to find, were discernible. Then into the closet, to the left of the bed, they looked. An old trunk, an iron box, some old boots, and a bundle of clothing, were all that met their view. "Humph! We haven't discovered much, Marie," dolefully exclaimed Mollie. "Hugh's room looks just like this. Nothing but clothing, old boots and shoes, and such traps," and she seized the old clothing in the corner, and threw it disdainfully to the side of the closet. "Hello! What's this?" she slowly exclaimed, as a hollow rod of copper fell to the floor at her feet. Stooping down, she cautiously picked it up and examined it. Marie was looking over her shoulder, brought there by her exclamation. "There's writing on it, Mollie!" Marie cried. "There; on the side!" Mollie turned it over, and saw the words, dim and blurred by time: "To Junius Cobb. Important!" "In God's name, do not delay in opening this cylinder!" With palpitating hearts and bated breath, the two girls stood with their eyes glued upon the inscription. Finally, Mollie, in a solemn voice, said to her companion: "Junius has never seen this. It has been mislaid. It is our duty to send it to him at once." "But you do not know where they will go from America," referring to Hugh and Cobb. "True," sadly. "We may not see them for a week or more. What shall we do?" in a tone of inquiry. "Why, put it where he will see it when he returns," answered Marie, as if there was no doubt of the propriety of the action. "But it says not to delay in opening it," persisted Mollie. "Yes," slowly; "it does." Then, after a pause: "Why not open it, Mollie? Maybe we may become like the good genii in the fairy tales, who always helped the poor, unfortunate prince who was about to lose his sweetheart." "Oh, I dare not," and Mollie shook her head. "But you must; we cannot leave it now," the other returned. "But dare I?" It was evident that Mollie's curiosity would overcome her scruples. "Of course, you dare. We may do some good. At least," hesitatingly, "it will do no harm to see what that cylinder contains." So they argued the point, and finally left the room bearing the cylinder with them. An hour later, in the sanctity of Mollie's bedroom, and with the aid of a file which she had procured, the cylinder was opened. From it Mollie drew forth, cautiously, and with a sense of fear, a tightly-rolled paper. The cylinder was only half an inch in diameter by ten inches in length, and the rolled paper, when spread out, was simply a letter containing a few words, yet with writing as fresh as if spread upon its surface only a short time since. With heads together, and wonder in their hearts, they read: "To you, Junius Cobb, is ordained the task of freeing from a living tomb a woman of rare beauty and angelic disposition of heart. Lose not a moment! A delay of a day will cost you a year of sorrow! Hasten to your duty, and God be with you! On the island of Guadalupe, in the Pacific Ocean, in latitude 29 degrees 15 minutes north, and longitude 41 degrees 16 minutes west, is entombed a woman whose return to life may gladden your heart, or be a curse to your existence. Listen, and heed well these instructions: From the town of Noniva, on the island, travel southwest, nineteen miles, to the deep canyons of the dry fork of the Ninta River; pass up this fork until you come to a tall and slender rock which the superstitious natives have named the 'Finger of God.' Set your chronometer with the exact time of the meridian, and when your time shall indicate the hour of four o'clock in the afternoon of January 6th, note carefully the spot where the shadow of the 'Finger of God' rests on the gray, steep rock of the eastern side of Ninta Creek. Along a shelving ledge on the face of the cliff, pass to the spot and look for the two letters 'J. C.,' cut in the wall. Into the lower point of the letter J, which will show a small hole, drive a steel rod until twenty inches have passed into the rock. A door of solid granite will open, and you will be at the mouth of a cavern. Enter, and learn the rest." A feeling of awe came over the hearts of the two girls, as they read this weird communication. Again and again they read the letter, and pondered long over its contents. "What does it mean?" gasped Marie. But Mollie was of a more practical turn of mind. She saw it to be an order for the deliverance of a human being--a woman. Casting aside her feelings of superstition which the reading of the letter had at first inspired, she commenced to debate in her mind what was the true meaning of the instructions so minutely given. Taking the letter again in her hand, she carefully read it over. "Ah! this letter is very old!" she exclaimed; then pointing her delicate finger to a line, she cried: "Do you see that? 'four o'clock in the afternoon,' it says. It has been years and years since the time of day has been designated as 'o'clock.' This paper must be very old!" "Yes; it must be very old," agreed Marie, in a low voice, reverently looking at the letter. "And here! this must be important! The shadow must be seen on January 6th of any year," and she again read the letter. "Junius must go at once, or another year will have to be passed before a trial can be made." Then, musing a moment, she exclaimed: "It is even less time than I thought, for if this paper is as ancient as we believe, then January 6th is really January 5th, for in old times, New-Year's-Day was January 1st." "Yes?" from Marie. "Yes," sadly. "It is plain that we cannot get word to Junius in time for him to reach Guadalupe by that day." Then starting up with fire in her eye, she cried: "Why not make the attempt ourselves?" "Oh!" prolonged, and in amazement, by Marie. "We dare not!" "And why dare we not, Miss Timidity?" retorted Mollie, scornfully. "Because we are only poor, weak women; it would take men, great, big men, to perform this terrible task." "Oh, pshaw! you are a timid little mouse; that's what you are, Marie Hathaway. I am going to rescue this woman, and you are going with me," grandly. "Now, don't say a word," as the other attempted to speak. "You go immediately and get everything ready for our journey; we will leave for San Diego to-night, at 19 dial, for I remember that San Diego is in latitude 33, or thereabouts; and that should be the place from which to take a lipthalener." "Truly, Mollie?" with a look of consternation in her eyes. "Yes; truly! Now, Marie; have some courage. Will you go with me and aid me? or must I go alone?" and she put her arms lovingly about the girl's waist. "If you really and truly mean it, dear Mollie, I will do as you wish, and go with you; but it's an awful undertaking," shaking her head. Thus was it decided by these two young women to go thousands of miles to an unknown island, seek the location of an isolated cavern, and bring back to life the prisoner therein entombed. An hour after, and Mollie came into the library, where her father was engaged in writing. Stealing softly up to him, she put her plump white arms about his neck, and kissed his forehead reverently. "What is it now, pet?" he said, laying down his pen. "Father, dear; I wish to visit aunt Lora in San Francisco; can I go?" looking him in the eyes. "Why, yes; I suppose so. You may go next week if you can get ready." "Not next week, papa. I want to go to-night; on the Central Pneumatic." "What?" he exclaimed. "To-night! And why this haste, my daughter?" and he gave her a deep, searching look. "Father, have I been a good, true daughter to you?" and her deep blue eyes looked straight into his. "In truth you have, my daughter," and he kissed her cheek, so close to his lips. "Then, my dear father, I beg of you one great kindness, one great confidence in my sincerity, honesty, and truthfulness. Grant me permission to go West to-night with Marie Colchester; grant me a short time to remain, give me a thousand dollars, and ask me not to tell you the reasons for my strange request and actions." "My daughter, this is very strange!" and he arose from his chair, took her hands in his, and drew her toward him. His eyes looked into hers with an earnest expression. Steadily, and with an honest eye, she returned his gaze. "Do you, indeed, make this request?" he slowly added. "Father, I do," she replied. "Answer me one question. Has Lester Hathaway any connection with this undertaking?" "As God sees me, he has not," she firmly replied. "My daughter, you shall go as you desire, and may God watch over you. Now see your mother and inform her, and then prepare for your journey." She again kissed him, and left the room. At 19 dial the two girls, clad in traveling-dresses, and with grips in their hands, entered the depot, and were soon cozily ensconced in the fourth sleeper of the Central Pneumatic, No. 5, west. "What will Lester say when he does not find me in the conservatory to-night?" sighed Mollie. "And what will Hugh say when he returns and finds me gone?" and another deep sigh could have been heard. "But I left a letter for him," with a sly glance toward the other. "And I left a note for Hugh," glancing toward Mollie. Their eyes met, and a smile lighted up both faces. "Oh! you did?" from Mollie. "Ah! you did?" retorted Marie. On rushed the train. Miles upon miles were left behind them, and the hours sped by. They should be at El Paso at 6:30 dial the next morning, and at San Diego at 10 dial. It would be nearly 11 dial before they would be able to search for a vessel to take them to Guadalupe. The time was passing, and it was with a troubled mind that Mollie surveyed the route and the time at her command. With beating hearts, the two girls watched the hours pass as the train rushed along to the Pacific; eagerly did they look for the approach of the city by the sea. It was 12 dial when the train reached the city of San Diego. Quickly disembarking, the girls entered a drag, and were rapidly propelled to the Great Pacific. Once within the office of the hotel, Mollie excitedly asked for information as to what lipthaleners were in the port. "None, madame," was the calm reply of the clerk. Her heart sank within her bosom at the words. "There are none but sailing vessels in the harbor; will madame have use for one of them?" continued the man, noticing her agitation. "No; and yes--I cannot tell. Show us a room and serve breakfast there, and at once," was the impatient reply. During their breakfast, the two girls discussed the situation, but without arriving at any solution as to how they would reach Guadalupe Island. Having partaken of a light repast, they proceeded to the docks to find some means of transportation to the island. Not a lipthalener was in port, and but few sailing vessels. To her inquiries, Mollie was informed that the island was 120 leagues southwest, and no sailing vessel could make the voyage in less than three days, with the best of winds; and that the chances were that it would take five. Disheartened, she and Marie turned back to the hotel. Fate was against them, and they would not be able to rescue the imprisoned girl ere another year had come and passed. Would the woman live through another year? Would she not die, if yet alive? _Was_ she yet alive? Such were the questions Mollie asked herself. Often and often she went out on the porch, and scanned the horizon for the approach of a lipthalener. Sixteen dial came, and found poor Mollie in a fever of anxiety. If no lipthalener came into port before 20 dial, her case was hopeless. It was 350 miles to Guadalupe Island, and she must be there at 10 dial the next day, in order to have sufficient time to reach Ninta Creek and make her preparations. Discouraged, she sat and buried her face in her hands, while Marie, in sympathy, put her arms about her, and tried to comfort the sinking heart. Hark! What was that sound? Like a flash of lightning, Mollie was on her feet. "Did you hear it, Marie?" she cried, excitedly. "Yes; what was it?" the other replied with equal excitement. "There! there! Do you hear it? There it is again!" and the girl danced for very joy. The hoarse, rolling sound of a marine whistle was plainly heard by both. "A lipthalener! A lipthalener!" they both cried, and rushed out on to the porch. Coming around the fortress point was a magnificent cruiser of about 3,000 tons. Her black hull and raking, yardless masts proclaimed her calling; the flag at the peak, the glorious stars and stripes, proclaimed her nationality. Off the lower dock, and a half-mile from it, she came to anchor, and her great hull swung around with the tide. "Come, Marie; no time is to be lost!" and Mollie rushed into the parlor, seized her hat, and quickly made her way to the dock. For a dollar, a boatman gladly took them in his little craft, and rowed to where the lipthalener lay quietly at her anchors. "Ahoy! On deck! Is the captain on board?" cried the boatman, as he held off by a hook against the side of the big vessel. "You'll think so, you lubber, if he sees that hook in his vessel," came the response from the port bows. "Heave off and lie to, and I'll report," and the man and voice disappeared. A moment after, a man in the uniform of the United States navy, appeared at the companion-way and cried: "Ahoy! What's wanted?" "Two ladies wish to come aboard and speak to the captain, sir," replied the boatman, touching his hat in a nautical fashion. "Very well. Heave to on the starboard side." A few minutes later Mollie and Marie were in the captain's cabin of the San Francisco, and had asked its commander to take them to Guadalupe Island. "But, ladies," replied Captain Gordon, a bluff but kind-hearted old gentleman of fifty-five years, "this is rather an unusual request upon the United States navy, and comes from a very unusual source; yes, a very unusual source indeed, but a very charming source, I must confess," and he bowed gallantly to the two girls. "I know it, Captain; but the case is one of life or death: I must be in Guadalupe Island at 10 dial to-morrow." Mollie looked beseechingly at him as she spoke. "I wish I could accommodate you, ladies; but I fear it is impossible." Mollie's heart almost ceased to throb as she heard these words. "I am here for dispatches," continued the captain, "and expect to leave for San Francisco to-morrow morning." "But," pleaded Mollie, "it will only take a half-day to make the run--" "And a half-day back again," interrupted the captain, "is a whole day. Why, my children, I might be court-martialed if I were to do this thing." "But, if I promise that you not only will not be court-martialed, but will receive the commendation of the President, and the Secretary of the Navy, will you go?" "If you could guarantee this, ladies, why, damn me!--I beg your pardon--I would do it, just to please two such lovely girls as honor my cabin by their presence to-day; but, of course, you cannot do it." "But I can!" cried Mollie, "and your promise is given. I am Miss Mollie Craft, the President's daughter: in his name, I guarantee approval of your action." The beautiful girl arose from her chair, and stood proudly before the old sailor. Without moving a muscle of his face, Captain Gordon slowly said: "Pardon me, ladies, but any woman could have uttered those words." Crushed, and with a sinking feeling at her heart, Mollie nearly fell at his feet. He doubted her, and she had nothing to prove her identity. Deliberately came the words: "Have you anything to prove your relationship to the President?" "Alas, nothing!" she cried, and the tears filled her eyes. "No letter in which you are recognized?" he kindly asked. Ah! Stay! Hope again rose within her soul. Quickly thrusting her hand into her pocket, she drew out a letter. Nervously she broke the seal, and glanced over its contents. A ray of sunshine came into her tear-bedimmed eyes, her bosom heaved for a moment, and then she became calm. Handing the letter to the captain, she said: "The letter is to my aunt, in San Francisco, and was written by my father just before my departure." Captain Gordon took the letter, and, instantly recognizing the executive heading, slowly read: "WASHINGTON, January 3, 2001. "DEAR LORA: * * * * * "She is the only daughter I have, sister, and you must watch over her carefully. We cannot afford to lose our Mollie. * * * * * "Affectionately, your brother, "EMORY D. CRAFT." As he finished reading the letter, Captain Gordon rose from his chair, advanced toward Mollie, and extended his hand. "You will pardon my doubts, will you not, Miss Craft?" he asked; "but men in official positions must protect themselves. I no longer doubt your identity; the San Francisco is at your command," and he bowed low to her. "I thank you, Captain Gordon, and you will not lose by this kind act." Mollie's eyes were again flowing with tears, but now tears of joy. "When do you desire to start, Miss Craft?" "At once," she cried. "Return, then, dear ladies, and get your effects. I will leave the port in half an hour." Thirty minutes sped by, and Mollie and Marie were again on board the San Francisco. Then came the orders to weigh anchor, much to the astonishment of all the crew, and the vessel moved slowly toward the fortress at the point of the harbor. As the San Francisco approached the north water battery, the sound of a gun was heard, and the flag on the battery-staff was dipped twice, then a red streamer was run up the staff, and a boat put off from the mole. "Hard aport, Mr. Navigator, and stop the ship," cried the captain, who was standing on the bridge by the side of Mollie, who had been invited there as the commander of the vessel for a day. Slowly the great ship ceased on her course, and awaited the little craft, which came rushing through the water, propelled by a lipthalene screw. "The dispatch boat, sir," said the officer of the deck, touching his cap. "So I perceive," returned the captain. "You will receive the dispatches and cast her off, as we must not delay." "Very well, sir;" and the officer again saluted, and passed to the companion-way. A moment later the dispatches had been received, and handed to Captain Gordon. Breaking the port seal, he read the dispatch; then, hesitating a moment, he handed it to Mollie, and noted the sudden paleness of her face as she slowly reached forth her hand and took it. With a feeling of impending evil, she read the paper: "WASHINGTON, January 4, 15 D. "_To Captain Gordon, U. S. L. San Francisco, San Diego, Cal._ "(Due at and hold.) "Proceed to San Francisco at once. Make no delays. C. SCOFIELD, "_Secretary of Navy_." With a beating heart and a quivering lip, the girl handed it back. "And you will obey this order?" she slowly asked. "It is imperative," he replied. Almost out of the harbor, almost away from the chance of a telegram, she had become happy and cheerful once more. Now it was changed: this man would not dare, no matter how she prayed, to violate such an order. Bursting into tears, a woman's resource to relieve her overcharged heart, she looked into his face, and again asked: "And you will obey these instructions?" "Damn it; no! I--pardon me, I--I--well, damn it! the course of this vessel will not be changed; she goes to Guadalupe Island. There!" blowing as if from some great exertion, and wiping his forehead in a vigorous manner. "If they dismiss me from the service for it, you shall perform your mission on that island," and the good old man walked to the extremity of the bridge to hide his agitation, and escape the thanks which Mollie was about to shower upon him. The sea was rough, and the southwest winds blowing a small gale, a combination that told on the speed of the San Francisco, swift as she was. The 350 miles became nearly 450, and it was not until 4 dial the next day, that anchors were cast in the harbor of Noniva, Guadalupe Island. Mollie Craft had had a long conversation with the ship's surgeon, Dr. Town, the day previous, and had shown him the mysterious letter, and asked his assistance; the doctor had readily consented to aid her by all means in his power. Captain Gordon gave Mollie until 20 dial to return to the vessel before shaping his course for San Francisco. CHAPTER XIX At 8 dial that bright day of January 5, 2001, an expectant and anxious party left the deck of the San Francisco, and landed at the mole of Noniva. The Doctor had two men from the ship to carry the stretcher--he was a thoughtful man, and always had a stretcher along for emergencies--and the tools and such things as he believed might be needed. In the town, saddle mules were obtained, and the party of five quietly left the vicinity, as if for a day's camping in the hills. The journey was through a broken and thickly-wooded country, and the traveling slow and tedious. It was long past the meridian when the party reached and passed up the dry bed of the Ninta River, and nearly 15 dial when "The Finger of God," which all recognized from the description furnished by the natives of Noniva, was reached. The gray cliffs on either bank of the river were steep and rugged. Huge festoons of tropical growth covered them from top to bottom, and stunted pines stood nodding their crested heads among the rocky crevices. Already the shadow of the rock was creeping up the eastern bank, and by its position the pathway ledge was easily found. Leaving the two seamen at the base of the rock, Dr. Town, with the tools which he had brought, and followed by the two girls, carefully made his way up the narrow, overhanging ledge, and stood near the point of the dark shadow on the face of the rock. With watch in hand, which he had set to the meridian of Guadalupe, he awaited the time of 16 dial, or 4 P. M., as recorded by the author of the letter of instructions. The minutes passed slowly--too slowly for the two girls, who stood by his side. Their feelings were wrought to a fever heat; their hearts beat a tattoo within their bosoms, and a fear of some dreadful revelation possessed their souls. The shadow crept on; the sun was going down to its bed in the ocean, which spread out in every direction. On moved the shadow; it had reached a dense cluster of mountain-ivy, which completely hid the rock from view: the hour was 15:55 dial. Seizing a large knife from his bundle of tools, the doctor sprang quickly to the spot, and with dispatch, cleared away the evergreen, exposing the solid rock of the cliffs. With his eyes upon his watch, he noted the passing moments. "Sixteen dial!" he cried, and placed the point of his knife at the end of the shadow of the "Finger of God." Carefully marking the spot, he diligently searched for the letters mentioned in the communication. Not a trace of a letter was visible; the virgin rock lay bare, and undefiled by human hands. Above, below, and on either side, his search was equally unsuccessful, and as he communicated the result of his examination to Mollie and Marie, consternation seized upon them. Could it be that they had been deceived, and that the contents of the letter were false, and made for some purpose of alluring Junius Cobb to this spot? They looked at each other in bewilderment. Suddenly the doctor exclaimed: "Ah! It may be that!" "What, doctor?" they both cried, excitedly. But the doctor made no reply; he was climbing up the cliff, straight up from the knife-mark in the rock. With the celerity of a man intensely excited, he cut and slashed away the ivy, and threw it into the ravine; then, looking at his watch, he noted that twenty-five minutes had passed since the shadow of the rock had reached the point which he had marked. Noting the variation of the shadow from the vertical for these twenty-five minutes, he drew his knife slowly and carefully up the face of the cliff, from the mark which he had made to where the shadow of the "Finger of God" then rested, the knife describing the path of the shadow. Turning to Mollie, who had been watching his movements in wonder, he said: "If the instructions are correct, then will the characters 'J. C.' be found near the line which my knife has described; for the letter, if true, as I have remarked, was written a long time ago, and the 'Finger of God' was taller then than it is to-day, as the elements must have worn many inches from its top in the course of a great number of years; its shadow was higher up the cliff, at any particular hour of the day, at a remote period, than it is to-day. Now come and examine closely along the line I have described." With diligence and care, all three scanned the face of the rock, scraped away the mold, and sought to find the key to the mysterious cavern. Suddenly Mollie gave a scream--an exultant scream--and cried: "Here it is! Here it is! I have found them!" Crowding about her, the other two saw before them the letters in the rock. Small, discolored, and covered with a green moss, it was a wonder they had been discovered at all. Yes, there they were, "J. C." Leaning over, Dr. Town took his penknife and carefully dug the moss away from the point of the J, and exposed the hole mentioned in the letter. There was no farce, no falsehood in the communication, after all; at least, not as regards the letters "J. C." and the hole in the J. The decisive moment had arrived. Putting the point of the steel rod, which he had brought along for the purpose, into the hole, the doctor drove it in to its full length. A creaking, cracking sound followed, and the rock in front of them sank into the side of the cliff, leaving exposed a doorway about six feet high by three in width. Involuntarily all started back as the yawning, dark passage was exposed, and a cry of alarm escaped the lips of Marie. The opening had been made, but the interior was dark and unknown. "I will go in," said the doctor, "and explore the place; I will return, and inform you if it is safe." "Oh, I am not afraid," returned Mollie; "certainly there can be nothing there to harm us." "Oh, but there may be!" broke in Marie. "Go in, doctor; we will follow you," not heeding Marie's alarm. Dr. Town lighted a lantern, and, followed by the girls, passed in through the opening. A passage of some fifteen feet in length hewed into the solid rock, led them into a large chamber with a high and arched roof. As the light of the lantern threw its rays about the room, its contents were plainly discernible by all. The walls were draped with beautiful silks and plushes; chandeliers were suspended from the arched roof; costly chairs with embroidered cushions were upon every side; books and works of art lay upon the massive center-table and about the room. A thousand objects of beauty and richness adorned the large chamber. As they walked across the room, a light cloud of dust rose at their feet as the carpet gave way in its rottenness. Reaching out her hand, Mollie took a book from the table, and was about to open it, when it fell to the floor in a mass of rotten fibre. A beautiful picture hanging on the wall, its oil coloring still fresh and its gilded frame yet bright and handsome, was accidentally struck by the doctor, and came tumbling to the ground, in a heap of decayed wood and canvas. The table, with all its beautiful ornaments, was but a phantom; for, as they endeavored to move it to one side, it fell to the floor in ruins. Time and nature had caused such decay that it seemed to need but the touch of man to change the vision of enchantment into a scene of ruin and chaos. There was no moisture, no mold; but apparently a dry-rotting process had been at work for years, and the destructible articles of the chamber were ready to fall in pieces at the least shock. From the first chamber opened a second, to the left, and here was found what appeared to have been a kitchen. Utensils of all kinds were scattered about as if left where they had been last used; dishes of finest china lay broken on the floor, where also lay the once beautiful sideboard, now fallen by its weight and rottenness; decay worse than was found in the first chamber pervaded the place. A large oil-stove in one corner, and glass bottles with seals upon them, gave evidence of the methods which had been pursued in this the culinary department of the establishment. From this room a long passage opened to the right, and led deep into the cliff. With feelings of awe, not unmixed with terror on the part of Marie, the three moved forward. The light flashed upon the dark, rocky walls, and was absorbed in their dingy gray. Moving cautiously forward, a dozen steps brought them to a third chamber, small and low. Mollie, who was close in rear of the doctor, glanced in as the light penetrated the darkness of the room. With a scream, she drew back, shuddering with fear, and clasped Marie in her arms: "A skeleton!" she cried. "A coffin!" [Illustration] The fear was contagious; Marie sank to the ground, trembling like a leaf, and, in her fall, dragged Mollie with her. There they lay, frightened, and with chattering teeth. "Come, young ladies," brusquely said the doctor, "there is nothing to be afraid of. Scared at a skeleton, eh? I thought you had more nerve," to Mollie. "But it was so sudden," she gasped; "and it seems so terrible." "Well, there is nothing to fear," as he assisted them to their feet. "O Mollie! Let us go!" cried Marie. "Stuff and nonsense!" broke in the doctor. "Let us fathom this mystery. We will go in." In the center of the chamber and on a high bier, covered with black velvet, which fell in great folds to the floor, lay a golden casket. It bore no ornamentation, save the beading of silver about its edges. Its top was of glass, and a wreath of the most exquisite flowers lay near the head. On the four corners of the great black pall were sprigs of immortelles, and at the head of the casket, a wreath of orange blossoms. The floor of the chamber was of slabs of white marble, skillfully laid and joined together. At the side of the room, upon a low couch, lay the skeleton of a human being; the grinning skull was turned upon one side, with its yawning, eyeless sockets turned toward the casket in the center of the chamber. The garments which had been worn in life, still clung about the form, and showed it to have been a man. Upon a small table, at the head of the couch, stood a bronze lamp, from which the oil had long since passed into vapor; a paper lay by its side, and at the foot of the couch stood an iron box. Reverently they moved toward the casket, and, with feelings wrought up to the highest pitch, looked through the glass top. Again did the girls cry out in their wonder and awe; and the doctor, accustomed though he was to sights of death, pressed his hand to his head, and stared with eyes almost starting from their sockets. Within the casket, upon the whitest silk, lay the form of a woman of wondrous beauty--a form of the most exquisite shape, a face of the rarest mold; hair of the fairest golden blonde, and hands and feet as delicate and small as a girl's. Naked from her feet to her loins, and exposing a bust of wondrous form, she lay among the folds of the white silk lining. A swathing of bandages covered the abdomen, and the mouth was wrapped in cloth. By her side lay a golden saucer, and another, filled with a black substance, lay at her head. Silently they stood and gazed upon the motionless form. Within her casket she lay in death before them, but such a death as none had ever seen before. The eyelids closed, the face as white as the driven snow, the hands folded upon her bosom, it seemed to all that sacrilege had been committed by intruding within the sacred precincts of her tomb. The awe-inspiring silence was at last broken by the voice of the doctor, who had recovered himself, and whose thoughts had come back again to the duty of the present. "This is a most remarkable discovery, ladies," he slowly said; "but we should look for a further solution of the mystery. We can do nothing by standing here and gazing at this wondrous vision." Laying his hand on the pall near the head of the casket, the velvet fell in dust and rags to the floor, and the sprig of immortelles, striking the marble slab, became mashed and battered. Picking up the flowers, he examined them carefully. "Why, they are made of gold and silver and precious stones," he exclaimed, in astonishment. Then they examined the three remaining sprigs, and the wreath of orange blossoms at the head of the casket; all were of the finest gold and silver, and diamonds were the petal-points of the flowers. Wondering much, the doctor then took those from the top of the casket, and found them, likewise, of the same precious materials. But in removing the last bunch of flowers, a discovery had been made. Where the wreath of golden flowers had lain, was now seen a silver plate, covered with engraved letters. "Perhaps we have a clue to the identity of the beautiful woman who lies in this casket," exclaimed the doctor, as he threw the rays of the light upon the plate on the top of the casket. Crowding close to him, all three read the words cut in the silver plate: "MY DAUGHTER: To God I trust thee; into His keeping I give thee. O Junius! If thou hast, in years past and numbered in the great cycle of time, loved, and loved with steadfast heart, then arise and rescue that love from oblivion; but--and search thy heart to its utmost depths--if such love has never been, or is past and gone, turn back again, and leave to eternal rest the being who lies entombed before you--my daughter, Marie Colchis. "Within the second chamber are batteries and means of obtaining heat, and fluids of life-giving principles. Cause the chamber to be warmed, arrange the batteries for current, and prepare the nourishment which you will find in the glass jars. When all is ready, cover your nostrils well, break the top glass of the casket, quickly seize the form therein lying, and bear it to the second chamber. "Once within the warmth of that room, tear off the bandages, and apply the poles of the battery to the heart, in front, and over the fifth rib, in the back. Let the current come with all its force. If it be God's will, the form will shake, will quiver, open its eyes, will breathe, and become a living woman once again. Nourishment and care are all that will be required to complete the resurrection. Within the folds of the bandages over the heart lies a golden case containing a letter which is to be read by my daughter alone. Give it to her when she is recovered, and may God be with you. "JEAN COLCHIS." "Ah!" sighed Mollie, with tears in her eyes; "I see it all--I know it all!" Then, with all semblance of fear vanished from her heart, she cried: "To work, doctor! To work!" Dr. Town was a man quick to grasp a situation. He did not stop to wonder or ask questions. To be sure, he was very much surprised at what he saw, and at Mollie's exclamation, but he was prepared to rescue a woman therein entombed--this from a knowledge of the contents of the letter found in the copper cylinder, and which Mollie had shown him. Wasting no time in speculation, the instructions engraved upon the tablet on the top of the casket were carefully followed out. Returning to the second chamber, they commenced their work. Oil was found in the sealed bottles, and put into the stove, whose asbestos wick would still perform its functions. The stove was soon aglow with a bright flame, and its warmth diffused about the chamber. The batteries were ready for adjustment, and only required the dropping of the carbons into the electropoion fluid. The bottles of beef extract and fluids of nourishment were opened, and their contents prepared upon the stove. Clothing from their own persons was prepared by the two girls, as none could be found about the place. When all was ready, the doctor prepared to break the glass top of the casket. "Remain here," he said to them, "and I will bring her to you;" then, modestly: "and you shall strip off the bandages and cover her form; but leave bare her bosom and back." Having given his instructions, he proceeded to the chamber wherein Marie Colchis lay. A moment of silence followed, then a crash was heard, and the doctor came staggering into the room with the drooping, lifeless form of Marie Colchis in his arms. Laying her upon a bed, which had been improvised from their wraps, he cried, as he turned away: "Quick! Strip off the bandages, and tell me when you are ready!" A moment later, when the girls had performed their work and had called upon him to come, he was by their side, and had adjusted the copper plates; then, pushing down the carbons into the batteries, he seized her hand and placed his finger on her pulse. As the current of electricity passed through her heart, there was a spasmodic contraction of the muscles of the body, a quivering of the flesh, a gasp, and her lovely bosom rose and fell as the air was inhaled and expelled; then the lips parted, and a low, deep sigh escaped, her eyes opened, and she lived. "What is it?" she asked, in a quiet, weak voice. "Hush! You must not speak; you are ill," hastily said the doctor. "Drink this, and you will feel better," and he put the cup of liquid to her lips. Mechanically the girl obeyed the order, and drank the warm broth; then, closing her eyes, she became motionless, save a slight rising and falling of the bosom in breathing. Gently throwing aside her clothing, the doctor commenced a brisk rubbing of the legs, arms, and body along the spine. The heat of the fire, together with the friction of the rubbing, soon caused a free circulation of the blood, which had but barely moved through her arteries and veins for years. The color came slowly to her face, her breathing became stronger, she was receiving back the life which had been on the point of leaving her body. Once more the eyes opened, and she spoke, but in a stronger voice: "Who are you? Where is my father?" "Marie, dear girl," cried Mollie, bending over her, while tears of joy fell from her eyes, "we are your friends, your dearest friends. You are ill now; do not speak or ask questions. All will be made known to you soon." Dressing her in warm clothing taken from their own bodies, they bore her to the litter which the doctor had ordered brought to the door of the cavern. An hour later the whole party was en route to Noniva. The litter was strung between two mules, with a man on each side to steady it, while Mollie and Marie followed, mounted on their mules. The doctor led the way down the creek, across the country to the town. Mollie had the little gold case which had been found among the bandages, Marie the golden flowers, and the doctor carried the iron box in front of him on the saddle. It was 2 dial the next day when the party reached Noniva, as they had been compelled to travel very slowly. A fear that the lipthalener had departed caused Mollie much uneasiness, for they should have been back at 20 dial. But, no; as they entered the town, they saw the San Francisco's lights streaming over the waters. Captain Gordon had not found it in his heart to leave until the girls had joined the vessel. Two days later, bidding a kind farewell to Captain Gordon and Dr. Town, the girls, with their charge, and the things brought from the cavern, left the deck of the cruiser in the Bay of San Francisco. Landing at Mission street dock, a drag was taken, and the home of Mollie's aunt Lora soon reached. The weeks followed, and by careful nursing from her two faithful attendants, Marie Colchis regained her health, strength and beauty. The letter in the golden case had been read by all the girls, and long and earnest were the conversations which had followed. Marie learned of the resurrection of her lover, and of his entrance into the family of the President; she became fully informed concerning the period of time it was in the world's history, and all the details attending her own lifeless sleep and miraculous return to the world of the living. It seemed but a day since she was with her father in the cavern on Guadalupe Island; it was but a moment that her thoughts had been away from her lover. With all the fire and passion of her former life not decreased, but increased, by long years of patient waiting, she longed for the time when she could meet him, could see him, and hear his loved voice. She had been told of his apparent lack of interest, his seemingly moody ways, and his careworn and sad expression of countenance. She felt the cause; she knew it: he still loved his little girl-wife of Duke's Lane. And she? Ah, God! she worshiped him! CHAPTER XX It was the 10th of January when Cobb and Hugh returned from their visit to New England and reached the city of Washington. Hugh was not at all pleased to find Marie gone; as for Cobb, it mattered not whether Mollie was there or not. To be sure, he admired the girl; loved her, but as a brother. All the passion which he had first thought to be in his heart for his friend's sister had vanished into a simple brotherly regard. "Hello!" cried a familiar voice as Hugh came from the executive mansion that evening. "Hello, Lester!" exclaimed Hugh, extending his hand. "Glad to see you back, old man." "I can't say that I'm glad to get back. The girls are gone, father says," returned Hugh, in a woe-begone tone of voice. "Yes," laconically. "Given us the slip, eh?" "Looks very much that way." "Did she leave any word for you?" "Yes; a short letter. Gone to visit her aunt in San Francisco, or some other seaport, I believe," answered Lester, dubiously. "Father says she went in a great hurry; don't know the cause of her sudden departure. Looks funny, doesn't it?" inquiringly. "Very," knowingly. "Bad, eh?" with a scowl. "Horrible!" "Well, you hear me, young man; when your sister walks off on an unknown journey and to be gone an unknown time, she generally comes back and finds me on an equally unknown voyage, and having about as much idea when that voyage will end as a jackass knows about Sunday;" and he thrust his hands savagely into his coat-tail pockets, and assumed the air of a man perfectly indifferent as to what the world liked or disliked. "And when your sister forgets that she has an affianced husband dodging about your father's back door every night to catch but a moment's happiness in her society, why--she'll come back and find me off on a pleasure trip, somewhere," and poor Lester faced the other, and mingled his disgust at the state of affairs with that of his friend. "Let us clear out, and not come back until they have experienced the same disappointment as we do now--that is, if our absence will affect them that way," with a dubious shake of his head. "I'll do it, Hugh! I'll go to-morrow!" cried Lester, with an injured expression on his face. "Then, it's agreed. We'll get Cobb and take the Orion and skip to--well, anywhere, so we don't get back here under two months." Hugh whistled an air of satisfaction at the thought of the misery he was going to bring to the heart of Marie Hathaway. That evening Cobb was informed of Hugh's intention of starting the next day in the Orion, and making a tour of the United States. "Ah, Hugh; why say the United States? say the world! Let us go far, far away; to the north pole, for instance," and Cobb looked his friend in the face, sadly, but yet with an anxious hope that his proposition would be accepted. "Yes, to the north pole," he continued. "No living man has been there, even in this great age of progress, so you have informed me." "It is impossible, Junius. We cannot reach it," returned Hugh. "It is funny! I have seen your aërial ships, large and stanch; why can't you go in one of them?" "Yes, our aërial ships are large and stanch; but it would be foolhardy to attempt to reach the pole in one of them. We, of course, depend on their lightness to overcome gravitation; now, the lightest gas we can get is hydrogen, and this we use. With our vessels filled with this gas, we have no trouble in making from twenty to fifty, and even a hundred miles per hour, according to the wind. But here comes in the greatest factor in aërial navigation; how to make up the gas discharged in changing altitudes and lost by exudation through the skin of the balloon. In nearly every great city large quantities of hydrogen are kept in store for filling the balloons of such vessels as may arrive and require replenishment. So long as a vessel is kept within a day's journey of one of these cities, it is easy to keep sufficient gas in the balloon, and thus to travel from point to point; but as there are no hydrogen works north of latitude fifty-four degrees fifteen minutes, and as the distance from there to the pole is over 2,200 miles, and the same distance back again, and as, again, the speed of an aërial ship depends upon the direction of the wind, and its velocity--the maximum speed in a perfectly tranquil atmosphere being only forty-five miles per hour--it will easily be seen that a period of one hundred hours, and perhaps very many more, would elapse ere the ship could return to the starting point. As a fact, the loss of hydrogen will be so great that, unless replenished, the vessel will lose its carrying power ere thirty hours have passed. Thus you see, Junius, it is impossible to use the aërial ship to reach the pole." "But can you not carry material to keep your supply of hydrogen up to the amount required?" asked Cobb, eagerly. "No. The amount would be too great to manufacture in the time which would be at one's command; besides, the apparatus would be too heavy for the balloon to carry." "Then, I understand that, if you could manufacture this gas in sufficient quantities on the ship, and by light apparatus, you could go anywhere?" Cobb spoke the words slowly, as if lost in some deep thought. "Certainly," replied Hugh. "But that is a discovery which I doubt much will ever be accomplished!" "Perhaps." "Perhaps?" "Yes, I said perhaps," returned Cobb, with a complaisant smile. Then, inquiringly: "Will you show me your finest aërial ship to-morrow?" "Of course you will see it if we start to-morrow, as we have agreed." "But do not agree to start to-morrow. Show me your ship, as I have not seen them closely, and I will be ready to start soon after." "Well, if you wish it, Junius, I will do so; but I do not understand the reason for your request." "You will see," quietly returned Cobb. It was about 10 dial the next day when Cobb accompanied Hugh to the dock house of the large government aërial ship Orion. The vessel stood in the navy yard at Washington, covered by an immense canvas shed. Her gas bags were uninflated, and lay in great folds along the central support. The vessel was 377 feet long, and was built in a very peculiar manner. The balloon part of the vessel was in the form of a huge cigar, through the center of which extended a rod 380 feet long, with trusses to keep it rigid. The cones of the balloon were covered with aluminum shields, which extended toward the center to a distance of sixty feet. Light rods joined these two shields to each other, thereby bracing the whole vessel. Depending from the central rod, by stiff hangings, and just under the gas envelope, was the car, built of bamboo, canvas, and aluminum rods. The car was 100 feet in length and 15 wide, and had an area of 1,500 square feet; the flooring was of the lightest material consistent with safety. The rear point of the cone carried a wind propeller of forty-six feet in diameter; the forward cone had four rudders working from the point of the cone back to a distance of thirty feet, and set in pairs--one pair vertical, and the other horizontal. There was a small lipthalene engine in the center of the ship coupled to the propeller. Within the car were fourteen state-rooms, parlor, instrument-room, kitchen, dining-room, and cabin, besides the pilot's room in front, and the engine-room in the center. The balloon, when inflated, was 377 feet from point to point of the cones, and 100 feet in diameter. Its displacement of air was 2,000,000 cubic feet, or 153,000 pounds, under the pressure of one atmosphere. Inflated with hydrogen, it had a carrying capacity of seventy tons. The silk bag was covered with a peculiar coating, which made it almost impervious to change of texture, yet soft and pliable. The weight of the whole ship was fifty-two tons, the engines and machinery three tons more; making the whole weight, without passengers or freight, fifty-five tons. Five tons was the usual weight carried, as the gas bag was only about six-sevenths full at rising, in order to allow for the expansion of the gas as the elevation increased. The cabin was aft, and the state-rooms near the center; all were furnished handsomely, and with everything requisite for one's comfort, but of the lightest material. Through the center of the great gas bag a silk shaft led to a platform on the very top of the balloon. This was the lookout's station, and communication with the pilot was by telephone. The vessel was lighted and heated by electricity, supplied from storage batteries of great power, though small in volume. The cooking was by electricity likewise, and owing to the inflammability of the hydrogen gas, fire was not permitted aboard the ship. Cobb surveyed the vessel very carefully, examining every part, and looking at every detail of the mechanism of the machinery. The gas bag was critically inspected, and then the area of the deck measured. With a smiling, satisfied air, Cobb turned to Hugh, and said: "It rests with you, Hugh, whether this vessel take us to the north pole or simply makes a tour of the States." "You astonish me!" exclaimed Hugh. "You certainly will not ask me to make an attempt which others have declared impossible?" "I mean to ask you to do it," calmly replied the other. "But I certainly will not grant your request," with a decided movement of the head. "But you will not only grant my request, but you will, with me, reach the pole before a week has passed." There was a quiet, cool assurance in his words that gave Hugh a feeling that the man was not talking at random, but had some grand scheme in view, which, to him, gave promise of success. Feeling this to be the case, he framed his next words accordingly: "Tell me what you mean? How is this to be accomplished? Explain yourself." Without replying to the questions, Cobb simply asked: "Will you get the authority for a few simple changes in the construction of this vessel? Can you do this?" "Yes; I think I can; that is, if it is to improve the ship." "Then, get that permission, and have the changes made, a list of which I will give you this evening; they can be finished by day after to-morrow. Also, have 10,000 pounds of meteorite and 200 gallons of nitric acid put aboard the vessel, and 2,500 pounds of meteorite and fifty gallons of acid near at hand. Increase your supply of lipthalite sufficiently to run the engines twenty-five days." "But will you not be adding too much weight for buoyancy?" suggested Hugh. "How much will the hydrogen which is used to inflate that bag weigh?" asked Cobb, pointing to the folded envelope. "Well," replied Hugh, thinking a moment, "the capacity is two million cubic feet, and a cubic foot of air weighs nearly eight hundredths of a pound; that would give about 160,000 pounds. Assuming the specific gravity of air at one, that of hydrogen would be sixty-nine thousandths, and the weight about 11,000 pounds." "Correct," said Cobb, who had made a mental calculation of the weight. "Now I ask you to put on the vessel 12,000 pounds of meteorite and acid. Very well; if your ship can take care of 6,000 of these pounds, I will reduce the weight of the gas in the bag to 5,000 pounds, thus providing for the other 6,000 pounds." "But you cannot do it!" cried Hugh. "Hydrogen is the lightest gas known; you cannot reduce its weight." "I can." Cobb looked calmly into the face of his friend. "You, perhaps, think you can," insinuated Hugh. "I know I can," firmly replied the other. "Then the changes shall be made." "And day after to-morrow, at 12 dial, we sail for the north pole?" asked Cobb. "Is it to be so?" "As you wish, Junius." Their plans being settled, they returned to the executive mansion, where Hugh immediately sought his father, and told him of his interview with Cobb, and what the latter had promised to do. He then asked for the order permitting the changes in the Orion. Without evincing any surprise, the President wrote the order, and gave it to him, adding: "I think I know where he will get this new gas. I saw it demonstrated in the Secretary's office last September." "And I am to go with him, you understand?" anxiously asked Hugh. "Well, as to that, if he has found a method of manufacturing the gas as it is needed, I see not the slightest objection, for you know that has been the only difficulty, heretofore, in making the voyage. Yes, my son, go, and let another laurel be added to the family name." When Cobb read the "Daily American" the next morning he was surprised to come across a notice to the world of his proposed voyage. He had said nothing to anyone, and could only account for the item by reasoning that the order to the Secretary, and which Hugh had shown him, had read: "* * * These changes must be completed by the 12th instant, at 12 dial, as Colonel Cobb and Captains Craft and Hathaway will start for the north pole at that hour. * * *" The paper gave the news, and commented upon the proposed undertaking as follows: "WASHINGTON, 10, 18 D.--Orders have been received at the War Department to have the aërial ship Orion put into shape for a long and extended voyage. It is currently reported at the Capitol that Lieutenant-Colonel Junius Cobb, Second Cavalry, the man of '87, as he has become known, intends to make the attempt of reaching the pole in an air-ship. His companions will be Captains Craft and Hathaway, of the army; the former officer a son of the President of the United States. This will be the seventh trial to reach the pole since the invention of the air-ship. The first four who competed for the honor returned in disgrace, their vessels failing to reach the sixty-ninth parallel of north latitude ere they were compelled to turn back on account of loss of gas. The other two adventurers, Pope, in the Star, in 1985, and Capron, in the Highflyer, in 1993, have never been heard from. The problem is one utterly without solution; the air-ship is not destined to ever reach the pole. "The foolhardy attempt now about to be made will not only end in disaster to the gentlemen engaged in it, but will bring sorrow to the nation by the loss to the President of his only son." "Rather discouraging, that," said Cobb to himself, as he laid the paper aside. "Strange how much these newspaper men know! They haven't changed a particle since the days of old." The work progressed upon the Orion, and the sound of hammers was heard all the day. A long silken pipe had been connected to the gas bag, and terminated near a small, bell-shaped aluminum receiver. The poles of the storage batteries had been joined to a dozen pairs of carbon points within this receiver, and a series of long pipes projected from its base. Two huge safety-valves had been placed in the top of the great gas bag, and additional escape provided. It was 9 dial of the 12th of January, and great crowds of people filled the streets, covered the house-tops, and jammed themselves into every available place from which a view could be had of the departure of the Orion. At the dock of the vessel the President, Secretaries, foreign ministers, and other notables were assembled to witness the departure of the man who had promised to reach the pole and return. The huge silken bag still lay inert and motionless against the aluminum support, no attempt having been made to fill it. The baggage had been placed on board; the stores, the meteorite, and nitric acid were carefully in place, and the crew, consisting of two pilots, a cook, cabin boy, and two engineers, were standing near the vessel. [Illustration] A moment later Junius Cobb appeared, and by his side walked Craft and Hathaway. Their appearance was greeted by cheer upon cheer from the vast concourse of people. Slowly approaching the big ship, they mounted the ladders to the side, and stood upon the deck of the Orion. Throwing off his coat, Cobb at once commenced his work. The meteorite was in sticks four feet long and an inch in diameter, and much resembled the sticks of lipthalite used on the Tracer. Taking a glass cylinder five feet in length by one in diameter, he filled it nearly full of nitric acid, and then placed a bunch of the meteorite rods in the liquid. Waiting but a moment, he withdrew them, and then put one into each of the ten pipes of the receiver, placed springs against their ends, and closed the caps. Having thus charged the receiver, he stepped back, and touched a push-button, and turned on the current to the carbons inside. Slowly at first, then faster, rose fold upon fold of the gas bag of the Orion; the gas was generating. The crowd cheered. For two hours the process was continued, until the Orion just balanced at her moorings; then and only then, Cobb ceased to fill the receiver. The 2,500 pounds of meteorite and fifty gallons of nitric acid, which had been brought as an extra supply, had been nearly all consumed, and over 1,500,000 cubic feet of meteorlene filled the great gas bag to within one-seventh of its capacity. Stepping down the ladders, Cobb and his two companions bade good-bye to their friends. The crew went aboard, and then the three officers followed. At 11:57 the receiver pipes were again charged, and the electric current turned on; the great ship tugged hard at her cables, and swayed in the air. "Cast off!" thundered the words from Cobb, and the hawsers whirled through the guards, and came tumbling to the ground. The vessel rose swiftly and gracefully in the air; the dial marked 12. High up in the cold winter air, and swiftly, the noble ship rose; and soon the tooting of whistles and the cheers of the people became but faint murmurings in the depths below. "Admiral," reported Hugh, making a grave salute, and with a twinkle in his eye, "the barometer shows 8,000 feet." The fact was apparent that a great elevation had already been attained, for the temperature had fallen and a decided cold feeling was experienced by all. "That is sufficient, Commodore," returning the other's salute, and smiling at his new title. "Be kind enough to have the course laid northeast by east, and discharge gas to keep at about this altitude," and Cobb passed into his state-room, and donned a heavy overcoat. As the engines commenced their work the great propeller turned rapidly on its axis, and the Orion, describing a great circle, took a course which would soon bring her over Newfoundland. Rapidly they passed over the country; the towns and cities, the rivers and lakes, lay far below them, and the scene was like some gigantic panorama. Emerging from the cabin, Cobb walked to the port bows, where Hugh and Lester were leaning on the rail, and commenting on the grand scenery over which they were being swiftly whirled. An expression of satisfaction overspread his face, and a fire of ambition sparkled in his eye. "Would that I were never more compelled to descend to earth!" he cried. "Would that I could ever remain thus far away from civilization and society!" and a sad, mournful expression succeeded the former brightness of his countenance. "Say not so, dear Junius," and Hugh took the other's hand in his. "I am sure there is a bright future in store for you. I feel it; I know it!" "I am not a part of those below," and he jerked his thumb toward the earth dimly outlined far below them. "I am not a part of that people. No solitary tie, save that of new-found friendship, binds me to them, or them to me, Hugh," and he pressed the hand that held his. "If I but had the love of her long since dead, long since gone to her heavenly home, then all would be changed. I would live again, would laugh and jest, and be another man. Alas, it is not to be," and tears filled his eyes, and became crystals of ice in the freezing temperature that pervaded the air about them. "Brace up, my dear Colonel!" interposed Lester. "Accept the world as you find it! The sun of a week hence may shine on a people shouting your praise to the end of the earth." "What care I for praise!" savagely returned the man, as he turned upon the other; then in a kinder tone, he said, "Forgive me, Lester; I know your heart is in the right place." Twice he crossed the deck in moody silence. "Enough," he cried, at length, as he stopped in front of them. "Let fate work its decree." Then turning once more from his friends, his emotion gave utterance to the feelings of his heart: "I abide the time of death, and a return to thee, O Marie, my darling, my girl wife!" Once more he faced them, and in harsh tones exclaimed: "It is over! Let us to business now; we are bound for the pole! For your sakes I hope we return." It was 1,500 miles to the banks of Newfoundland, and nearly 5 dial the next day, when the Orion was poised a thousand feet above the Atlantic. Below, plowing her way through the water, was one of the latest transatlantic passenger lipthaleners. Eight hundred and fifty feet in length by a beam of only forty-six feet, the huge spindle rushed through the water with a speed of over forty miles an hour. Sounding the great whistle of the Orion, Cobb threw over a small parachute, to which was attached a bundle of papers of the 12th inst. The lipthalener sounded her whistle in salutation, ceased her course, and sent a launch to pick up the papers. Again sounding the whistle as a parting salute, Cobb ordered gas, and the Orion rose, and was soon hidden in the clouds. The course was then laid due east. CHAPTER XXI It was 20 dial. High up in the air and swiftly sped the Orion. At the bow rail stood Junius Cobb and Hugh. Each was silent, his thoughts far away; the one in the present, and the other in a former, period of the world's time. How their thoughts contrasted! Hugh, bright in his hopes for the future, meditated on the renown and glory that would attach to them all should their great undertaking prove successful. And then, was she not now informed of his mission? and was she not watching and praying for his safe return? Ah! was he not to be envied? But the other--Junius--how ran his thoughts? Back, back years before, he was wandering, among old scenes and old friends so dear to his heart. His head bowed upon his arm, he gave no heed to his friend's presence. On, on they sped; the whir of the propeller alone breaking the awful silence that surrounded them. The night advanced; the darkness came upon them. "Are you not too cold, Junius?" asked Hugh, after watching for a moment his companion, and noticing a slight tremor of his form. The words, though lowly spoken, fell upon the ear of the other as if a voice from the unknown world had shouted out his doom; so still was all about them that a whisper even seemed to vibrate back until it had swelled into a harsh, discordant cry. With a quick, shaking movement, Cobb raised his head, and turned toward the speaker: "What is it, Hugh? you spoke to me, did you not?" "Yes; I asked if you were not cold. For ten minutes have we stood here in this freezing temperature, each busy with his own thoughts." "Yes; I am cold," came the reply. "And, cold as my body may be, my dear friend, my heart is colder. I would that I could shake off these depressing feelings, but my mind will wander. Even now I thought how easily, how swiftly, and painlessly man could from this air-ship terminate a distasteful and annoying existence. Yes," looking into the other's eyes, "yes, one has but to throw himself over this rail, and life passes from him without a pang." "And do you call that a painless death, being crushed upon the earth below into a shapeless mass?" asked Hugh, with a shudder, glancing over the rail. "Yes, Hugh. Death from falling from a great height is perfectly painless. Let me explain it," warming to the subject, and losing some of his melancholy in the prospective discussion of a scientific theme. "Let me tell you why such is the case. We are now 10,000 feet above the ocean, are we not?" "So I read the barometer, a quarter of an hour ago," answered Hugh. "Well, no matter; let us assume that we are at that elevation. Now, what would be our velocity falling from this point upon reaching the surface of the earth below?" "Really, I could not answer that question without working it out," the other returned. "Well, it would be just 802 feet per second," said Cobb. "And that velocity at 500, 1,000 and 5,000 feet below us would be 179, 253, and 567 feet, respectively, per second. A human being falling is, for an instant, convulsed by a terrible, awful feeling; not a feeling of pain, but rather a feeling of apprehension. This fear, this apprehension, is but momentary, I say; it lasts during the first second of the descent only, or for a distance of about sixteen feet. After this first second the senses become confused, circulation of the blood is retarded, a feeling of rest, a sense of pleasure, pervades the whole soul. This state of ecstasy, which it should really be called, increases as the velocity of descent is accelerated, until the mind can no longer enjoy the delightful sensation, but loses all knowledge, all thought, all feeling, and insensibility ensues. This condition of the senses is produced when the velocity of the body has attained a rate of 400 feet a second, or at the fourteenth second of descent--about 2,480 feet below the point of starting. The cause of this is, that the lungs no longer perform their function; they fail to take in the quantity of air, and consequently the oxygen necessary to fully renovate the blood. The velocity being so great, the air is pushed aside by the falling body, and fails to surround that portion of the body not directly in the line of descent, with air at the normal pressure. The air supply being thus diminished, the blood leaps through the veins, rushes to the brain, and the mind knows no more. A human body of 175 pounds weight falling from this height--10,000 feet--would reach the earth at the end of the twenty-fifth second, and would have, at that moment, a velocity of 802 feet per second." "There would not be much resemblance to a human being left," ejaculated Hugh, intently interested, and looking over the rail as if he already saw the body falling toward the earth. "No." Cobb shook his head in a decided manner. "No; I should say not. The body would strike the earth with a force of 146,000 foot pounds per second, and would become but a shapeless, pulpy mass." He ceased speaking a moment, as if lost in thought, then quickly added: "But enough of this subject. Let us take a turn on the forward deck, and then retire to the cabin." The two men moved forward, and crossed to the starboard side of the Orion. Here the air was a trifle warmer, or, rather, the wind caused by their forward movement was less strong and piercing. The great perpendicular rudders of the vessel were inclined two degrees to the left to overcome the northern currents, which came strong and cold. It was now 21 dial, and the earth below seemed covered by a black pall. Around them were silence and darkness. No moon was visible, and the gloom below was only relieved by the beautiful sky, with its thousands of twinkling stars above them. Stopping at the rocket box, just to the right of the rudder chains, Cobb laid his hand upon the rail, and gazed fixedly into the depths below; and then, raising his eyes toward the horizon, he pointed his finger forward, and exclaimed: "Hugh, what are those bright lights away off in the ocean, and this one, almost under us?" Hugh looked in the direction indicated, and also leaned over the rail, and noted a beautiful, brilliant light almost underneath the Orion. Hesitating a moment, he cried: "Why, Junius, those are the Atlantic stations. We can see one--two--three of them. Yes, I am sure; and there is one behind us," pointing to a light directly in their rear. "Yes, they are the stations. That one behind us must be the first one, and this underneath, the second, from Newfoundland; that would agree with our position, which, I take it, is about a hundred miles east of the land." "Atlantic stations! Do you mean that these lights are on stationary vessels in the ocean?" asked Cobb, intently gazing at the bright lights. "Yes; those are ocean stations for the relief of distressed vessels and shipwrecked people. You see the lights; this one under us, and the one toward the west, and those two to the east. Ah! there is another! see it? away down on the horizon. That makes five. By Jove! I doubt if ever before five of these lights have been seen at the same time by one person!" with a pleased expression on his face. Cobb viewed for a moment the brilliant light, which was apparently gently swaying to right and left just beneath him, and then his eyes passed along the line made by the others. The second light was quite bright also, but the third seemed faint. The fourth light appeared as a star lying just on the edge of the ocean. Indeed, were it not for the fact that the Orion lay exactly in the line of the stations, and for the further fact that no stars were visible so low down toward the horizon, the light might not have been noticed at all. "How far apart are these stations?" he asked. "They are placed at intervals of fifty miles," returned the other. "Then, that light away down near the horizon is nearly 150 miles from us?" "Yes." "And our elevation now is 10,000 feet, you say?" "So I observed it, as I told you, some fifteen or twenty minutes ago." Then, after a moment's silence, Cobb exclaimed: "We are rising. We cannot be less than 12,500 feet above the ocean." "How do you make that out, Junius?" asked Hugh. "I don't think we have ascended 2,500 feet since my last observation." "It is easily answered," said the other. "The curvature of the earth and the refraction of light necessitate an elevation of 1,430 feet for one to see an object on the surface at a distance of fifty miles. To see this light, distant 150 miles, our altitude must be at least 11,500 feet." "Yes?" "Yes. Let us go inside, and see if I am not correct, and then I want you to tell me about these stations," touching the other on the arm, and then moving aft. Once in the cabin, the barometer was consulted, and found to read 19.29 inches, or an elevation of 11,581 feet. Cobb again asked his friend to enlighten him concerning this new invention, the lights of which he had seen twinkling and scintillating away toward the east. "I cannot tell you much, Junius, for I am not well posted on the subject. These transatlantic life-stations are set on a line extending from St. John's, Newfoundland, to Land's End, England, or nearly on the fiftieth parallel of north latitude. Perhaps there may be something relating to the subject among the books in the chart-room. Excuse me but a moment, and I will look." Saying which, he arose and passed out to the pilot's house. A moment later he returned, bearing a pamphlet in his hand. "Here we are, my boy," he exclaimed, as he shut the door behind him. "Here's quite a history of these stations. I found it among the nautical almanacs and charts in the pilot's room." Opening the first page, Hugh displayed three wood-cuts of one of the transatlantic life-stations. The first cut showed the station in its normal position upon the surface of the ocean; the second showed it partially submerged, during a storm, and the third gave a cross-section of its interior. Handing the book to Cobb, he said: "You can read it yourself, for everything is explained therein, I think." The other took the pamphlet, and settling himself back in his chair, read of this wonderful adjunct to a safe traveling of the great Atlantic highway to Europe. [Illustration] There were, across the Atlantic Ocean, from Newfoundland to England, thirty-eight marine life-saving stations. These stations were, in all respects, similar; a full description of one answered for all. In the pamphlet which Cobb read, were given the details of Station No. 14, situated in longitude 37 degrees 5 minutes west, and latitude 49 degrees 50 minutes north. He read: "HISTORY OF THE TRANSATLANTIC LIFE-SAVING SERVICE. "In 1923 a joint commission of Great Britain, France and the United States, met in the city of Washington for the purpose of devising some means toward making travel across the Atlantic Ocean more safe and sure than was possible under the circumstances at the time. Vessels of the finest description and of great tonnage were traversing a well-known route continuously. Accidents had occurred, which it seemed could not have been prevented, whereby a great number of lives had been sacrificed and vast property lost. "Great factors in the calling together of this commission were a series of terrible accidents in the years 1919, 1920, and in the fall of 1922. "On the 15th of July, 1919, at 23 dial, or as they then reckoned time, 11 o'clock P. M., the City of New York was struck by lightning, in latitude 49 degrees 10 minutes, and longitude 31 degrees 14 minutes. Despite the endeavors of a well-trained crew and every facility for extinguishing fire, the vessel burned and sunk; 2,167 souls who were aboard of her at the time took to the boats. Of this number 914 only were rescued, or ever heard of. Those who were rescued had sailed over 450 miles before being picked up. The supposition is that the distance from land was too great for them to overcome with the limited amount of water and food aboard the boats, and had land, or some station, been within reasonable distance from the scene of the accident, all would have been saved. "A most peculiar case was that of the City of Providence in 1920. This vessel was one of the finest of the American transatlantic passenger steamers, 600 feet in length, with a tonnage of 16,000. She left the Mersey on October 7 of that year, with 3,465 souls on board. On the morning of the 9th, at 4:12 dial, a terrible accident occurred; two of the thirty-six boilers burst, the concussion causing nine more to explode. The vessel was torn almost asunder, her bulkheads broken, and the water poured into the ship. Her engines were wrecked, and the engine-room flooded. A vessel of ordinary construction would have sunk immediately, but the Providence, having every improvement, and a great number of water-tight compartments, continued to float. Torn and broken, she lay upon the ocean perfectly helpless. "The strange but sad continuation of this disaster follows: "The City of Providence, making the trip across the ocean, as she usually did, in four days, carried provisions for but eight days. After the explosion the ship drifted at the mercy of the currents and wind. "It was four weeks after the disaster when she was found by vessels sent out to look for her, in latitude 44 degrees 12 minutes, and longitude 31 degrees 16 minutes. Seven boats' crews had left her to seek aid; her passengers had been cut down to rations, and finally every vestige of food had been consumed, and starvation and thirst commenced their deadly work. Out of that host of people on the Providence when she sailed, only fifty-four lived to tell of the terrible disaster. Four of the boats were never heard from, and only twenty-seven persons were found alive on the ship. During all these weeks that the Providence drifted about, she twice crossed the line upon which the life-stations are now situated. Had these stations then been in existence, every soul on board of the ill-fated vessel would probably have been saved. How it could be that a vessel of the Providence's size could have escaped the notice of the hundreds of ships passing in that latitude is a problem none can solve; that she did, is a fact, for no report of her was ever made until she was sighted by the relief vessel sent out to search for her. * * * * * "These terrible disasters, taken in consideration with the great advantages which would accrue were there stations at intervals across the ocean, led to the creation of the commission. "The commission met on the 19th day of June, 1923, and made proposals for plans for these stations. On the 11th of December of that year the commission selected, from the plans submitted, those of Mr. Cyril Louis, of California. "These plans were for a huge cylindrical vessel, sitting upright in the water, and surmounted by a tower one hundred feet above the water line. The vessel proper was a cylinder; its base, a plane; its top, the frustum of a cone, surmounted by a tower upon a tower. The cylinder was eighty-three feet in length to the water line, the cone nine feet high, the first tower fifty one feet above the frustum of the cone, and the second tower forty feet above this. The cylinder was made of boiler iron in three layers of one-inch plates, and covered on the outside with aluminum plates a quarter of an inch thick; the diameter was thirty feet, and the vessel was divided into eight stories by floors of one-inch steel. The first, or lower, and second chambers were fourteen feet high; the next twelve; the four following, ten; while the top chamber, under the cone, was twelve feet to the frustum. All of these chambers, except the first, were divided into water-tight compartments by steel bulkheads. The second chamber had eight compartments; the third, two; the fourth, fifth and sixth, four; the seventh and eighth two. The first, or main tower extended down through the cylinder to the top of the third chamber, and was eight feet in diameter. It was necessary to pass through this tube to gain entrance to any of the floors. Access to the different compartments of each floor was by means of doors closing water-tight. The chambers were for use as follows: the first contained 10,000 cubic feet of fine sand--1,300,000 pounds--or so much of it as was needed to bring the surface of the water to within three feet of the cone. This chamber was peculiarly constructed; water-holes permitted free access to the surrounding water, causing the sand to be saturated. Ten capped openings in the bottom were manipulated from the engine-room and office, and by means of which any amount of sand could be quickly dropped from the chamber into the ocean, thus decreasing the weight and increasing the buoyancy. "The second chamber was the water-chamber, and was divided into eight separate compartments. Water could be admitted into any one, or all, by suitable levers worked in the engine-room. Pipes from each compartment were connected to the pumps in the engine-room, thus permitting of the compartment being quickly emptied of its water. The capacity of the eight compartments was 10,000 cubic feet, or 64,000 pounds of water. "The third chamber was the engine-room. Here was all of the machinery used in operating the station: The main engines for the pumps (pipes from which ran to every compartment in the cylinder), for the fans for circulating fresh air; dynamos for electric lighting, pumps of the condensers, and, last, the three propellers, which were situated on the outside, on a level with the engine-room floor--two at 180 degrees apart, their faces parallel to the diameter of the cylinder, and the other at right angles to them and ninety degrees from either. These propellers were used to prevent any rotary motion of the cylinder. "Until lipthalite had been discovered--and it is now used--petroleum was the fuel for these engines, the vapors escaping through a tube extending to near the top of the first tower. Within the engine-room was a set of dials and bells which would give instant warning of the entrance of water into any compartment, tubes and telephones to all parts of the vessel; dials for pressure, submergence, state of electricity; levers for opening sand and water ports, etc. The fourth and fifth chambers were for stores and material. "The sixth contained the kitchen, mess, etc. "The seventh was the dormitory, while the eighth was the officers' cabin and office. Natural light was admitted into the last two chambers through bull's-eyes. "The office was provided with every instrument necessary in operating the station, and from it the sand and water ports could be opened. "The first tower was eight feet in diameter, tapering to five feet at the top, and fifty-one feet high. It was made of two-inch steel rings, six feet wide, firmly riveted together, the whole covered by aluminum plates. "The entrance to the vessel was through the tower, at the top of the frustum. A spiral stairway led to a port at the top, through which the upper balcony was reached. Bull's-eyes admitted light to the interior during the day. "The upper tower was forty feet high in the clear, setting down fifteen feet in the first tower, and was twenty inches in diameter, of one-inch cast steel. The interior of this tower was divided into a central pipe of ten inches diameter, surrounded by four pipes in the quadrants of its area. The central pipe was used for raising the electric lamp, of 25,000 candle power; the other pipes were, two for the engines, to carry off the vapors, etc., one for receiving fresh air into the vessel, and the other for carrying off the vitiated air. "Upon the side of the cone was a complete life raft, provisioned and ready for instant use, and so fastened that it could be launched at a moment's notice. "The station was anchored by a three-inch cable, pivoted at both ends to prevent twisting. In the center of the cable were electric wires terminating at the bottom of the ocean in a large coil. This coil was laid upon one of the old Atlantic cables which had been abandoned after the invention of the sympathetic telegraph. "In the office were a set of instruments, and communication was by induction to the cable below, and thence to each end and to each station. "The normal submergence of the vessel was to within three feet of the cone. The exceptional, or rough weather, submergence was to within two feet of the top of the tower. "The weights were as follows: Pounds. Shell of vessel 1,200,000 Cone 106,000 First tower 163,000 Second tower 12,000 Seven floors 176,000 Bulkheads 100,000 Bracing and iron-work 100,000 Engines and machinery 200,000 Stores for 100 persons (six months) 75,000 Stores for vessels 50,000 Cable 260,000 --------- Total weights 2,442,000 "The normal displacement of the vessel was 57,225 cubic feet, or 3,664,000 pounds. This displacement, less the weights, gave an excess of 1,200,000 pounds, which was compensated for by the sand in the sand-chamber--the capacity of that chamber being 1,300,000 pounds. "During stormy and rough weather, to decrease the pressure of the winds and waves upon the towers, and to increase the stability of the vessel, water could be admitted into the water-chambers, and the vessel would sink until the water line was within two feet of the top of the first tower, for the displacements to be overcome were: Pounds. Three feet of the shell 135,000 Cone 180,000 First tower 149,000 ------- Total 464,000 "The capacity of the water-chamber being 677,000 pounds, there was a large excess over this displacement; this excess was to compensate for loss of weight by stores being used, taken out, etc. * * * * * "The station carries a flag at its peak, by day, with its station number thereon; at night it shows a 25,000 candle-power light; its interior, also, is lighted by electricity. * * * * * "The plans of Mr. Louis were accepted, and in less than three years a line of thirty-eight stations were placed across the Atlantic Ocean. * * * * * "It was agreed between the nations that each should contribute a third of the cost ($12,000,000), and that salvage for person and property, at a fixed and just rate, should be demanded from every nation whose flag may be succored by one of these stations; and further, that should war intervene between any of the nations contracting, the line of stations should remain unmolested, and should not be used for purposes of war." Cobb dropped the pamphlet by his side, and pondered over the great invention of which he had just read, and which he had seen. "And have no accidents ever happened to these stations from ice-floes, collisions, or faulty construction?" he finally asked, turning toward Hugh. "I believe there has been but one noteworthy accident," the other returned. "An immense ice-floe caused Station No. 5 to slip her cable, and run away--an easy matter for her, as her propellers give her a speed of about five miles an hour. Of course her cable was lost; but she was saved, and was picked up and reset by the lipthalener which continuously plies along the line." It was now nearly 23 dial, and Cobb arose, and consulted the speed dial of the Orion. "Hugh," he said, "please have the course changed to due north; we are nearly on the fortieth meridian, and should now make direct for Cape Farewell." The other passed up to the pilot's house. CHAPTER XXII The cold was increasing, and the snug, warm cabin of the Orion was a most acceptable substitute for the frost-covered deck of the vessel. At 7 dial breakfast was laid, and the three officers partook of a hearty meal; then lighting their cigars--the necessity for fires aboard the vessel being removed by the substitution of meteorlene for hydrogen--they lay back and enjoyed the hour. "Why did you bring so much meteorite and acid?" suddenly asked Lester. "Because," answered Cobb, "I wished to have enough to meet all emergencies which may arise. I have enough to fully inflate the balloon four times." "Do you intend to make direct for the pole from Cape Farewell?" broke in Hugh. "No. I wish to satisfy myself about the northern extremity of Smith's Sound first. I shall pass west when on the eightieth parallel of latitude." "Can you explain why it is that the pole has never been reached by land parties?" inquired Lester. "My opinion," replied Cobb, "is that they have never proceeded upon the proper course. I think that Smith's Sound leads the waters of an immense polar ocean into Baffin's Bay; that the sea is a moving sea of ice, and that any northward progress upon it would be more than counterbalanced by its southward movement. I have long believed that the only route lay along the backbone of Greenland." "Well," with satisfaction, "we can soon ascertain the truth or fallacy of your hypothesis," exclaimed Hugh. "Yes; for we will pass up on the fortieth meridian of longitude to the eightieth parallel; this course will take us over the central length of Greenland," and Cobb blew a cloud of smoke about him, and closed his eyes in meditation. At precisely 4:15 dial the following day the Orion stood poised above the southern extremity of Greenland. The earth below them lay like a white sheet, extending as far to the north as the eye could reach; the waters to the south were covered with floating ice, while great, towering icebergs were visible in many directions. The cold had become very great, and it was necessary to change their clothing for fur. But, despite the freezing atmosphere, they were warm and cozy in the ship. Hugh had worked hard during the two days given him to complete their arrangements; the canvas exterior of the car had been given a thorough coating of heavy varnish, and the interior lined with blankets throughout, while heavy, thick carpets covered all the floors. The electric heaters, except in the pilot's house and three staterooms, had been replaced by oil-stoves of superior heating properties. Ten barrels of oil had been placed on board, and one hundred cells of storage battery added to the plant. With these wise provisions and the forethought to provide an abundance of the warmest flannel, and fur clothing for all, the severity of the weather had little effect upon the welfare and comfort of those aboard the Orion. A strong wind was blowing off the coast, and the vessel made but little headway; the barometer marked 26.64 inches, and the elevation was 3,200 feet. "Lester," said Cobb, after a pause, and looking through the frosted window, "I wish you would increase the gas; we must rise above this current of air, or we will be blown off the coast." Hathaway passed out, and filled the receivers, and soon the Orion was rapidly ascending. Watching the barometer carefully, Cobb soon put his lips to the speaking-tube, and called to Lester: "That will do." The barometer registered 18.2 inches, and the elevation had been increased to 13,000 feet, striking a strong current which immediately took the vessel swiftly due north. Cape Farewell was in latitude sixty degrees, and on the forty-fourth meridian from Greenwich. It was over 1,200 miles to the eightieth degree, from which Cobb intended to move west to Smith's Sound. The days had become shorter and shorter as they progressed northward. "It's a bad time of the year," said Hugh, "to make the voyage. The cold will be intense, and there will be no sun north of the seventy-fourth degree after to-day." "Yes; I know it," returned Cobb. "But we will have the aurora, and that will give a sufficiency of light for all our purposes." In the steady, strong northerly current, the Orion made rapid progress. The great glaciers of Southern Greenland were passed, and then the chain of mountains which traverses the land from north to south were reached. Keeping exactly along the backbone of the range, the Orion sped northward. On either side great canyons opened toward the west and east; immense rivers of ice and slow-moving glaciers extended toward the sea. The land was white with snow, save here and there where the black rocks of the mountains broke through. A barren, dreary waste was upon every side, and a scene of utter desolation presented itself to these few mortals far up in the clouds. Still the vessel moved northward; degree after degree was passed, and it was 12 dial when they reached the seventy-fifth degree of latitude. The sun lay like a ball of fire upon the plain of snow to the south, its disc just visible as it seemed to rest on the horizon. The three officers stood at the rail, and raised their fur caps in salutation. "Good-bye, old Sol; good-bye to your bright light!" cried Cobb, as he waved his cap. "It will be many an hour--days, even, and perhaps years, ere your face is seen by us again!" "Let us say days only, Junius," the others exclaimed, together. "We hope soon to see its glorious face again." "Perhaps!" With this single word, Cobb turned and entered the cabin, where he spread out before him a chart of the arctic regions, and examined it intently. Five degrees more and he would turn to the west! Dinner was soon announced, and eaten with a relish, as the bracing air had given each a good appetite. The sunlight had given place to twilight, and that, in turn, had been followed by night. The stars shone out with brilliancy, and studded the heavens in every direction. The Orion, being in an upper current, moved with surprising evenness. The pole-star was high in the sky, and the great bear directly over their heads. It was 18 dial by their chronometers, and they should be near the eightieth parallel. "Hugh," said Cobb, rising from his chair, "will you take the latitude from Polaris? Never mind the refraction; I want it only to within a few minutes." Hugh took the sextant, and left the cabin, while Cobb turned to Hathaway, and remarked: "Lester, this is a very comfortable room, this one of ours in the arctic regions, is it not?" "Indeed, it is," the other replied. "And we are going north, to the extremity of the earth?" "I understand such to be your intention." "It would be sad for you and Hugh if we never returned!" "I do not think of it in that light," smilingly returned his companion, as he lighted a fresh cigar. "There is no reason why we should not return, and return in a halo of glory." "I hope so." At this moment Hugh came, and announced that he made the latitude 79 degrees 55 minutes. Seven minutes later the course of the Orion was laid due west. On the 17th of January, at 1 dial, the vessel lay to over Napoleon Island. From this point they proceeded due north, Cobb carefully watching the earth below them. For three degrees the course of Smith's Sound was plainly visible, then it terminated in a great sea of floating ice to the north. "As I thought," he murmured: "There is no road to the pole from the continent of North America." At 6 dial the Orion's course was still due north. Returning to the cabin, breakfast was served, and all enjoyed the good things which had been prepared, and, also, the warmth of the interior. As the hour of 10 dial drew near, Cobb took the sextant, and passed out of the cabin, and stationed himself at the rail near the pilot's house. There, with instrument in hand, he carefully watched Polaris rise toward the zenith as the ship moved north. Suddenly he dropped the instrument to his side, and cried, in a quick, sharp voice: "Ninety degrees to the right; quick!" The Orion turned in a graceful curve, and bore due east. At 16 dial Cobb again came on deck and consulted his sextant. After a moment he laid aside the instrument, and took his watch in his fur-covered hand, and noted the revolution-counter on the side of the pilot's house. "We are moving due east on the parallel of 83 degrees 24 minutes," he replied to Hugh and Lester, as the two men came from the cabin and inquired why he was consulting his watch, "and if I am not mistaken, will be on the meridian of 40 degrees 46 minutes in five minutes," and he put the telescope to his eye and intently examined the earth below them. "Ha! As I thought!" he suddenly cried, excitedly: "Stop her! Stop her! Stop the engines!" The pilot threw over the electric switch, and the great propeller gradually ceased to revolve. Jumping quickly to the escape-valve, Cobb carefully allowed the gas to escape, and the Orion began gently to settle. Hugh and Lester looked at the man in amazement. Was he crazy? Why was he thus descending into a barren, icy plain miles yet from the pole? "Make ready, Hugh, to alight," cried Cobb. "I will explain all afterward." The Orion touched the snowy plain. Still discharging gas that the vessel might not ascend, when relieved of the weight of himself and companions, he pointed to a cone of rocks standing high and bare above the snow, some four hundred yards away. "That is why I have landed," he quietly said: "Come; follow me, and I will explain." Stepping down the ladders, the three men made their way over the snow toward the spot pointed out, and found a pile of rocks about thirty feet high standing on the shore of the icy sea. As Lester and Hugh examined the monument, Cobb, saying nothing, commenced to pull aside the stones. A moment later and he had unearthed an old rusty meat-can, and was excitedly tearing it open. Its contents was a letter. Without waiting to hear the questions which he knew the two men were about to ask, he said: "This is the cairn left by Brainard and Lockwood in 1882. This is the spot, 83 degrees 24 minutes north latitude, and 40 degrees 46 minutes west longitude, which they reached on that day, memorable in history, when the highest latitude on the globe was reached by a human being." "And you knew that a letter would be found in that cairn?" inquired Lester, with intense surprise. "I was told so by Brainard," Cobb answered, with quiet unconcern. "And you personally knew the man who left that letter here in this desolate waste?" incredulously broke in Hugh. "Intimately." [Illustration: handwritten note] Transcription: ~lat. 83° 24' north long 40° 46' west~ ~Copy of record left in Cairn at Farthest.~ I left Fort Conger, Discovery Harbor, April 3d, 1882 with party of twelve men and equipment consisting of one dog-sledge and team and four Hudson Bay sledges. Four of the party broke down in crossing the straits and were sent back. Two of the sledges also became useless and another, a large sledge, was substituted for them. Thus equipped the party left the base of supplies (which we had in mean time established at the Boat Camp, Newman Bay) April 16th and reached Cape Bryant April 27th. Near the Black Horn Cliffs the large sledge referred to broke a runner, and at Cape Bryant the two remaining Hudson Bay sledges were unable to go farther, being worn out. Here the rest of the party turned back while I continued on with the dog team. Sergeant David L. Brainard, General Service, U. S. Army, and Frederik Christiansen (Eskimo). Cape Britannia was reached May 4th and this cape May 13th, 1882. Here I turn back starting tomorrow, the 15th instant. All well at this date. J. B. Lockwood 2d Lieutenant 23d Infantry U.S. Army. Cobb then detailed all the circumstances attending the fit-out of the Greely expedition, and his personal acquaintance with Brainard and Lockwood. He narrated that they had reached this memorable spot on the 13th of May, 1882, and could go no farther, as a great sea washed the shore in front of them--the time being summer. Opening the letter which he had taken from the meat-can, he read to his astonished friends: "Now!" he exclaimed, as he raised the letter aloft; "now, in honor to the men who suffered, and to Lockwood, who perished, the record of their search for the pole shall not rest here, but shall continue its journey, even to the pole itself, and be laid upon the pivotal axis of this mighty globe." An hour later the Orion was bearing due north, and the three officers were sitting in the warm cabin discussing the cairn, the letter, and the Greeley expedition of 1880. Higher and higher rose Polaris to the zenith; onward, mile after mile, flew the ship. The cold outside had become intense, and the spirit thermometer registered 86 degrees F. The aurora filled the heavens about them as if a huge, circular tent of brilliantly colored stripes of fire had been pitched above them. No moisture in the air, no sound, save the whir of the propeller, as it rapidly revolved and sent the vessel forward. Below was ice--ice--and nothing more. So intense was the cold that, as Cobb unthinkingly touched his bare moist hand to the sextant which had been brought in by the boy, the skin and flesh were burnt as by a red-hot iron. "It was 18 dial when we left the cairn, in latitude 83 degrees 24 minutes," said Cobb, after a pause in the conversation, "and the distance to the pole was just 458 miles. Our speed has been uniform, and at the rate of forty-three and-a-half miles per hour, we should cover the distance in ten hours thirty-one minutes and forty-eight seconds, and at thirty-one minutes forty-eight seconds past 4 dial ought to be directly over the pole." Indeed, Cobb was perfectly correct in his reckoning, for at the hour mentioned the Orion was brought to a standstill, and then gently dropped to the earth below. Excitedly jumping down the ladders, the three men sprang out upon the snow, and, in one voice, exultingly exclaimed: "The pole! the pole! the north pole!" True, it was the vicinity of the north pole of the earth, but it was not until after five days of hard work and intricate calculations that the exact spot through which the axis of the earth passed, had been located. The record showed the exact time of locating this spot to be 12 dial, January 23, 2001. Then was erected, from such materials as could be spared from the Orion, a monument to mark the spot. A hollow aluminum rod was driven deep through the snow into the earth underneath, and within it were placed letters and papers, and a portion of the documents found in the cairn in latitude 83 degrees 24 minutes. Their task completed, they contemplated their achievement; a dreary waste, with snow in every direction, contained within its center the evidence of their wonderful discovery; and that evidence was a single monument of boxes, barrels, metals, and whatever else could be spared from the Orion to mark the north point of the earth's axis! Surely this was little reward for the years of arduous toil and physical suffering of mankind, for the vast sums expended and for the hundreds of human lives which had been sacrificed in the vain ambition of discovering the polar axis of the earth! The Orion lay about a hundred yards from the monument which had been erected, with her great gas bag nearly empty. A large tent, however, had been set up exactly over the pole to shelter them from the cold winds as they made their observations. On the morning of the 24th of January the three men proceeded to the tent for the last time. Hugh carried a large box in his arms, and Lester had a storage battery well wrapped in warm flannels. "It will be gladsome news to your father, Hugh, if you can send a message to him from here," said Cobb, as they entered the tent. "Indeed, it will!" joyously returned the other. "I will soon have my instruments in position, and then for word from home!" He beamed with the thought, for might he not hear from Marie? Of course he would! They certainly would tell him where she was, and if she and Mollie were well! Hugh had brought a set of sympathetic instruments with him, the mate to which was in the office of the President's private secretary. He had cautioned that gentleman to watch at a certain hour of each day for his signals. That hour had been designated as 11 to 12 dial. Setting his instruments on the top of the little monument, Hugh worked assiduously to get an answering click from the office in Washington, but without success. In every conceivable position that he laid the needle the result was the same--no influence from its Washington mate. Disgusted, he arose from his work, and debated the situation in his mind. "Ah!" he suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the needle. "I see it now! The needle is directly over the pole, and moves in the plane of the equator, while every other needle of the whole system of the sympathetic telegraph points to the north star." As he spoke, he seized the instrument, and carefully turned it on its side until the needle moved in a vertical plane; then fixing it solidly, he brought the needle into a perfectly vertical position, and raised his hands from the instrument. [Illustration] "Ah!" burst sharp and quick from all. "Click--click--click," and the needle seemed to fondly pat the little brass stud on its right. "Hurrah! we've got him!" cried Hugh, and wild with excitement, he sprang to the key and called, "W-W-W." Again the joyful click, and the "I-I-I-W" of the Washington operator was heard by all. For an hour the instruments clicked, and message upon message had been sent to the President and others in the great, busy world far to the south of them; and from these messages word had been flashed to all the known nations of the globe of the great success--the discovery of the north pole by three American officers. At last came the words, through the instrument: "Your father says Mollie and Marie are in San Francisco yet, and have sent word for you to join them there as soon as possible. They have a surprise in store for Mr. Cobb. He says you are not to delay at the pole, but proceed direct to San Francisco, to your aunt's. Your father further says that, as Captain Hathaway has made such a record for himself with you and Mr. Cobb, he may call upon him, on his return, in regard to a little matter which has been, heretofore, an unpleasant subject between them." Hugh smiled as he translated the message, and looked with a glad expression into the eyes of Lester. That gentleman, as he comprehended the meaning of the message, danced a hornpipe in the snow, and cried, with ecstasy: "She'll be mine at last!" "Let us be up and away!" exclaimed Hugh, as he gave the final answers to the Washington operator. "On to San Francisco, Lester! on to our girls, is our cry!" "Then, take your bearings, Hugh, for Behring Strait," directed Cobb. "It will be necessary for us to go that way to replenish our supply of lipthalite at Port Clarence, or else trust to the currents part of the way." A puzzled expression came over the face of the other, and he seemed lost in a quandary. "Easy enough to say, 'Take your bearings,'" he returned, "but how? I will be hanged if I know one meridian from another here. In fact, we are on all of them." "Don't you know in which direction south is?" asked Lester, with a laugh. "Of course, I do. But do you know in which direction the meridian of ten degrees runs, for that is the meridian which passes through Behring Strait?" In fact, it was quite a puzzling question to answer. All the meridians centered at the pole, and the time there was the apparent time of every meridian on the globe. Standing on the pole, it seemed absolutely impossible for one to know if he were facing London or Washington, or any particular point on the earth's surface. Hugh scratched his head in perplexity. "Take the needle," calmly said Cobb. "Yes; but it don't point north any more; it points somewhere south," he answered. "And where may that south point be?" inquiringly. "Why, the north magnetic pole of the earth, of course," with a glimmer of perception. "And that pole is where?" "In Boothia Felix." "Exactly; in 70 degrees 6 minutes north latitude, and 96 degrees 50 minutes 45 seconds west longitude, on the west coast of Boothia, facing Ross Straits. Your needle points there; so all you have to do is to lay off 73 degrees 9 minutes 15 seconds to the right, and you have the course to Port Clarence, North Alaska." The Orion was again made ready, the gas bag filled, a last adieu given to the north pole of the earth, and the three friends mounted the ladders, touched the electric button of the engines, and sped swiftly down the one hundred and seventieth meridian of longitude. CHAPTER XXIII It was the 11th of February, warm and bright, in that delightful climate of California. In the handsome residence of Mrs. Morse, on California street, reclining in a large arm-chair, sat Marie Colchis. A book lay upon the floor, where it had fallen from her hand, and she lay among the cushions with a far-away, dreamy expression in her eyes. Nearly five weeks had elapsed since she left the Island of Guadalupe and came with her two friends to San Francisco. Care and attention and the best of nursing had saved the girl from the fever which first threatened to make her recovery slow and uncertain. She had regained her health, her flesh and beauty; her skin was exceeding fair, but the whiteness was set off by the rich red of her cheeks and lips. Recovered from death, among friends who loved her, and expecting every moment the arrival of the one of all men whom she had ever loved, whom she adored now, she lay dreaming of the time when she should be clasped in his arms. Marie had been informed of everything concerning Junius Cobb. She knew of his apparent infatuation with Mollie, and of his subsequent disinclination for the society of either her or Marie Hathaway. Mollie had told her of the time when he had called her by name in such words of love and endearment, and Marie believed that his heart was hers yet. She was informed of his journey to the pole, of his safe arrival there, and knew that he was expected in San Francisco at any moment. "Oh that the time would soon come!" she had cried in her heart many times. "Will he know me? Will he still love me?" she had asked herself; "and then, if not, I shall die!" she would murmur sadly, while the beautiful eyes would fill with tears. "They are coming, Marie! They are coming!" screamed Mollie, rushing into the room. "They are at the door!" Marie started from her chair, gasped, and pressed her hand to her heart. He was at the door! he whom she loved, and from whom she had been separated for over a hundred years! [Illustration] "Remember, Marie, your promise; you are Leona Bennett;" and with this parting instruction, Mollie shot to the door just in time to be clasped in the arms of Lester Hathaway, who was leading the way for Cobb. Hugh had stopped in the hall, hugging the plump little form of Marie Hathaway. A moment later Mollie led Cobb toward Marie, who was standing by the window at the side of the room. "Leona, this is our friend, Mr. Cobb, of whom you have heard us speak. Junius, my cousin, Leona Bennett." Mollie smiled slyly, and gave Marie a knowing look. Cobb bowed low, and then, looking up, hesitated as if lost in admiration of the beautiful face before him. Ere a word could be spoken by either, Lester and Hugh were brought forward and presented. "You must have thought me rude, Miss Bennett," said Cobb, a little later, as he and Marie sat near each other, "not to have expressed the pleasure which I could not but feel at meeting one so beautiful as yourself." "I, equally, was unable to more than acknowledge the introduction; for you know the others were upon us, and we had no time," and she smiled charmingly upon him, while her eyes seemed to have a longing, craving expression. "You have had a most remarkable experience in life, Mr. Cobb," she added, after a pause. "Yes," sadly. "And many times I have wished my fate had ordained it otherwise; but now, Miss Bennett, it would be ungallant, and," with a searching look, "untrue, to say that I do, for I have met you." "Ah, you are like all men, ever ready with a compliment." "But it seems as if I was drawn to you by some power I cannot express," he continued, looking deep into her eyes. "Do I remind you of some old friend, some old love?" she banteringly asked, though it was easy to perceive that she longed for an affirmative reply. "That is just what puzzles me, Miss Bennett. It seems as if your face was familiar, and yet I could never have met you before." "Are you sure?" She looked up with one of those expressions of childhood days when she had clung to him and begged him to come again to her in Duke's Lane. His eyes scanned her; his thoughts traveled back many years. "How like Marie Colchis was that expression," he said to himself; yet he gave no utterance to his thoughts. "She was dead, dead long years ago!" Then, aloud, he slowly said: "Yes; I am sure." "Then, how can you account for the power of attraction which draws you to me?" she persisted. "I know not its cause," he smilingly returned, "unless it be that perhaps all men are similarly attracted. I am but mortal, Miss Bennett, and consequently cannot resist the loadstone of so much grace and loveliness." Thus they met, and thus they talked. He knew her not, nor did she reveal her identity. She wished to test the man she loved; and why? Ask a woman! Two weeks passed, and still they all remained in San Francisco; but the next day was to see them on their way to Washington; the President had sent an imperative summons for all to join him at once. Junius Cobb had seen Marie every one of these days; had walked and driven and been her escort everywhere. In fact, he had been by her side during every moment that propriety would allow. A new life seemed opened to him; he laughed and chatted like the gayest; he was witty and bright, and the old expression of sorrow had vanished from his face. He seemed to live in her smiles, to be supremely happy in her presence. He was in love; this time he knew it. Did he ever think of little Marie Colchis? Yes, often and often, and the divinity he now worshiped seemed to him as if risen from the soul of her, and that in loving the former he still maintained his allegiance to the latter. Leona, to him, was his old love Marie. He could not explain the semblance, yet he saw that it existed. He loved Leona Bennett; he thought of Marie Colchis. Sitting by her side that evening, in the small, cozy library, whither he had gently led her, and whither she had gladly, willingly gone, he quietly said, "Miss Bennett, you return to Washington to-morrow?" Turning her large blue eyes upon him, she asked, "And do you not go, too, Mr. Cobb?" "It all depends," he answered, nervously. "Why, I thought it was all settled. Mollie told me that you were to go. Have you changed your mind, Mr. Cobb?" "I dislike to return to Washington," he continued, not heeding her question, "unless I can do so with a lighter heart than I took away with me when I left." "You ought to go there with the greatest pleasure. Your name is famous throughout the world," and she looked proudly upon him; proud of the man she loved. "But fame is not all that man craves," he returned. "What more can man desire than a name great to the world; a name honored, respected and loved?" Her eyes had dropped, while his were fastened upon her with love intense. "Love." He whispered the word lowly and sweetly in her ear as he bent over her drooping form. Raising her eyes, now full of all that deep love of her aching, patient heart, she met his ardent gaze. "And can you not have that?" she asked, in tones so low as to be almost inaudible. "Miss Bennett," he sadly returned, "mine is a peculiar position. Listen but a moment, and let me tell you my history." Junius Cobb then narrated his meeting with Marie Colchis; how he had loved her, but as a child; how he had promised to be her husband, and how he had forsaken her to gratify his ambition. He told her how this love of his little Marie had come to him in all its intensity since his return to life, yet he knew that she was lost to him forever. He informed her of his supposed love for Mollie Craft, and of his sudden discovery that his heart could never be given to her. He related the vision he had wherein Marie had been led to him by an angel. And during all this recital his listener had sat, with tears in her eyes, but a holy feeling of adoration for the man who had remembered her with such love. It was only by a supreme effort that she refrained from declaring herself and falling into the arms of this noble man. "Miss Bennett--Leona," gently and slowly; "since my eyes have beheld you, I have seen but one form, have known but one name--Marie Colchis. Yours is the face, the voice, the grace and loveliness that would have been hers at your age. It seems that in your form reposes her soul; that through your eyes beams her sweet and loving nature. Never could two beings be more alike." As he spoke the words, Marie's overflowing heart gave vent to its fullness in a deep sob. "I know, Leona," proceeded Cobb, as he noticed her agitation, "that you feel sad at the recital of my story; your great heart--her heart--responds in sympathy to the sufferings of others. I feel that the vision of her coming has been realized; that though departed from this earth and among the angels in heaven, she has sent her soul, her form, her mortal being, back again to earth that I might meet my just reward--life or death. Marie Colchis--for by that name are you henceforth in my heart--I love you, I adore you. Is it to be life or death?" Amid the sobs which came from her heart, she asked: "And will I always be Marie Colchis to you, Junius? Will you always bear me the love you profess for that other?" "Yes; a thousand times yes," he cried, as he arose and took her hand in his. "As my life, will I love you; as my life do I now adore you. O Marie, my darling, my own. Will you give me life? Can you love me in return, for her sake?" pleadingly, as he gently turned the beautiful face toward him and looked into her tear-bedimmed eyes. Her heart was overflowing; the flood-gates of her love, so long closed and barred, were about to break asunder; her soul had passed out into his keeping. With a passionate cry, she threw her arms about him, and wept tears of joy. Gently he drew her closer to him, and kissed her lips; kissed away the tear-drops in her eyes. "You love me, my own, my darling!" he cried. "Tell me that you do." "O Junius; as I love my God!" Again the tears of joy and happiness flowed fast and furious from her eyes. "And you reproach me not that I see in you my former love?" "No. No more is my name Leona Bennett. To you, my own, my noble heart, it shall ever be Marie Colchis. By that name alone shall you henceforth know me, love me, and be my husband." Thus she spoke the truth, yet kept the promise she had made. CHAPTER XXIV "Home again, at last," gleefully exclaimed Mollie, as the double drag brought the whole party from the depot to the executive mansion. The President and Mrs. Craft met them at the private entrance, and gave to each a cordial welcome. Marie Colchis was received by the old people as a beloved niece, for Mollie had, in a letter written some weeks before to her father, partially explained the situation of Marie, whom she wished to be called Leona Bennett. Once in the house, the several members, excepting Mollie, went directly to their rooms to change their traveling clothes; but she, taking her father by the hand, asked him and her mother to give her a few moments of their time, as she had something of importance to relate. Once in the library, she knelt at her father's feet, and related the whole story concerning Marie Colchis. She told of finding the letter in Cobb's room, and of her journey to Guadalupe Island, and the rescue of the girl; she dwelt upon all the wonderful incidents of the finding of the cavern and its contents; and then she told him of the letter which was found with Marie, and the relations which had existed between Marie and Junius Cobb, years ago; that Junius was ignorant of Marie's identity, but was in love with her, and had asked her to marry him. The iron box which was found in the cavern, and which was now in the trunk, was next spoken of. Finally, she admitted to her parents her love for Lester, and his adoration of her, and asked for their consent to their union. "And this is not all, dear papa and mamma," she said: "Marie Colchester is Marie Hathaway, Lester's sister; I brought her here to win the love of Junius, but it was not to be, for"--and she hesitated--"for she is engaged to Hugh." It was several minutes ere Mr. and Mrs. Craft could grasp the whole situation, the revelations had come so fast and free; but, finally, the old man took his wife's hand in his, and slowly, but with a smile of pleasure, said: "Mamma, we were young once." Mollie accepted the words and expression of his face as evidence that a happy termination would end the hide-and-seek courtship of herself and Lester; she kissed them both, and ran to communicate the good news to her lover. It was evening of that day. A happy, jolly, bright party was congregated in the private parlor of the executive mansion. In the corner, by the great mirror, sat Junius Cobb and Marie Colchis, his eyes drinking in the beauty of her being, and his thoughts wrapped in a contemplation of her grace and loveliness. On the sofa, across from them, sat Hugh and Marie Hathaway; Lester was alone in a big arm-chair near the window, while Mollie stood in the center of the room under the electric lights, bright, radiant and vivacious. "Three spooney couples!" she cried. "No; I mean two and a half--and you are the half, Lester," slyly turning her head toward him. "Six hearts beating as one; all in unison, but none engaged. He is coming, papa is coming; and I advise some young gentlemen whom I could name to step boldly to the front and ask--well, I think I'll say no more, but I pity you. Papa holds his daughters in an iron fist," and she clenched her little hand to emphasize her words. A moment later and the President and his wife entered the room, and all arose to meet them. "Be seated, my children," he kindly said. "For the first time in my life I feel that I have three beautiful daughters and three noble sons. I have asked you to meet me here that I might bring complete happiness to three pairs of loving hearts. I know all your secrets, dear children; everything is known to me." He paused. An expression of surprise came over the face of Hugh, while anxiety was depicted in Lester's countenance. Marie Colchis turned her eyes upon the speaker, but said nothing. As for Cobb, he thought it all quite natural, as, no doubt, Marie had told her uncle of his proposal. "I will not keep you long in suspense. You, Lester," and he turned toward him. "Love my daughter. You have asked for her hand more than once. I know she returns that love; and as her happiness is next my heart, I will not bring sorrow to her by refusing your request." He stepped forward, and took the hand of Mollie, whose cheeks were red with blushes, and led her to where Lester stood, having risen from his chair. "Lester, take her; she is yours. Be a good, kind husband to her, is all I ask." Lester took the fair girl in his arms, and imprinted the first lawful kiss upon her lips. "And now," continued Mr. Craft, "as two hearts are thus made happy, let me seek another pair. Hugh; stand up, my son." Hugh arose, gently raising Marie Hathaway from the sofa, and moved toward his father. "Father," he said, "here is another pair." Marie hung her head in confusion, but Hugh was bold and fearless. "I know all about you two also," said Mr. Craft, smiling. "I am more than satisfied to receive such a daughter as you, Marie Hathaway." The girl started as her name was pronounced, and a guilty blush mantled her cheek at the thought of the deception she had practiced upon this good old man. "Unto my son I give you, if it be your wish that he should become your husband." He paused. Marie made no reply, save to pass her hand through Hugh's arm, and nestle closer to his heart. "Hugh, take her, and bless God for the prize which you have received." Hugh led the girl away with joy in his heart. "Junius"--the President spoke the word low, and with more embarrassment than he had used in addressing the others--"I know not how to commence. She who stands by your side is not my niece, but my daughter," and he took Marie Colchis' hand in his, and drew her toward him. "She is my daughter; no blood makes the tie, but that of love has given her to me. She stands before you alone in this life. No father or mother, brother or sister, or relative has she in the wide world." The tears were now falling from Marie's eyes, and she clung closer to her adopted father. Hugh and Lester looked on in silence but wonder. "She has come," he continued, "like a radiant star in our universe, and from a remote period of time. She lived years ago--a hundred or more. Do not start, Junius," as the other moved a step, and stood gazing on Marie's face with a look of partial recognition. "Like you, she lived, and died, and lived again. The same methods which were used to prolong your life were used to give life again to this fair girl. The hand that assisted at your interment prepared the casket wherein his daughter has lain for over a century. She is--" The wild excitement of Cobb's soul, paralyzed for a moment by the words of the other, now broke forth in a hoarse, pathetic cry--"Marie Colchis!" and he rushed forward, and almost crushed the fair form in his strong arms. Regardless of all present, he kissed her face, her lips--kissed her with all the depth and passion of a man receiving back from death the being divine of his heart. When Cobb's feelings had calmed sufficiently for him to realize the situation, the President led him and Marie to their chairs. "Take her, Junius; God has ordained it!" he said, with a choking sensation in his throat. Without letting too long a pause ensue, he drew from his pocket a paper, unfolded it, and said: "Listen, my children, to the last words of that girl's father, Jean Colchis." In a low tone he read: "GUADALUPE ISLAND, December 15, 1897. "JUNIUS: To you I leave these words! Dead though thou art, yet a voice tells me that you will live again. In this chamber, with the inanimate body of my darling daughter lying beside me, I write my last words to mortal man. "From the day you left us, and for years after, the heart of Marie has lain like a stone in her bosom; no feeling but that of love for you has gained entrance there. "Wealth poured in upon me, and I endeavored by its aid to surround her with life, luxury and change of scene, hoping thus to turn her thoughts into other channels than of you. It was in vain! Sad and sorrowful she passed the days and years in hope of your return. "I did not tell her that you had entered into a state of inanimation from which you would not awake until years had passed. I could not crush her heart! The days came and went, and no change took place. I felt that she was dying of a broken heart. As the conviction forced itself upon me, I prayed to God for help. Long and long I debated the situation. The knowledge was apparent that she would die ere many days had passed unless means were promptly taken to remove the sorrow in her heart on account of your prolonged absence. What should I do? I had assisted in your preparations for a future existence; I knew of the methods you had taken to continue life in your body. "'Junius can never return to my daughter,' I cried, in the agony of my soul. 'Why not send that daughter to him?' If you lived, she might again live, through the means I might employ. If you did not survive the ordeal, then it were better that she, also, should die. I argued with myself; I won. I sought for a spot where no human being would find the resting place of my beloved daughter until the time should arrive for her deliverance. I selected the island of Guadalupe, far from the busy world. I prepared the chambers and made them beautiful. "My daughter came, and for nearly a year we lived in quiet but sad community. But, alas! it was of no avail! I saw her dying before my eyes. I resolved to subject her to a living death, in the hope that she might live again and be happy. "I have prepared her body, even as you had told me yours was to be prepared. I inclose her fair form in a golden coffin, as a fitting receptacle for one so true and noble. With immortelles for her death, should she die, I surround the casket; with orange blossoms at her head, in the hope of future life and of her marriage to you, I lay her to rest. "In an iron box at the foot of her coffin you will find my last testament, and the dowry I bequeath my daughter. I have prepared everything for this moment. That you might know this place, I put the letter into the copper cylinder; I bored through the walls of your tomb, and pushed in the case; and when I heard it fall on the floor of your sepulchre, I sealed up the hole. I knew if you lived again you would rescue your Marie. I felt, that if you died, it was better that she died also. "The time has come! I lay this letter upon the snowy bosom of her who loved you as never woman loved a man. O God! can mortal know the anguish that seizes my heart as I am about to seal the lid which closes her sweet face in a living tomb! "When these words are read by thee, O my daughter, if ever thine eyes shall brighten again in life, my bones will lie bare and naked at the foot of thy coffin. Good-bye, my darling daughter. I close the lid! I seal thy fate! "JEAN COLCHIS." Without allowing the sadness of the moment to weigh upon their feelings, the President stepped to the door, and soon returned, followed by a servant bearing the little iron box which Dr. Town had carried on his saddle from Guadulupe Island, and which Mollie had surrendered to her father. Soon it had been opened, and its contents exposed to view. A bundle of papers was on top, and these the President took out and gave to Cobb. He took them, and opened the first paper: it was the will of Jean Colchis, giving to Junius Cobb, on the day of his marriage to Marie Colchis, all money due from the government of the United States on the contract of sale of the invention of the sympathetic telegraph. The second paper examined was the original contract for the transfer of this invention to the government in consideration of $5,000,000 paid down and a perpetuity of one-half of one per cent, on the gross earnings derived from its use. "Why!" exclaimed the President, as Cobb read the contract, "you will be one of the richest men in the country. As near as I remember, there are over a hundred millions of dollars lying unclaimed in the Treasury on this contract." [Illustration] The third paper found was the formula for making the needles used in the invention, sympathetic. "Ah!" cried Cobb. "This is most important! Not but that the wealth given Marie and me is most acceptable; but now," and he held up the paper, "now the world will again know and make use of the secret of sympathizing the needles." "And you forget another thing, Junius," broke in Hugh. "You are five millions of dollars richer by that paper, as that is the reward offered by the government for the discovery of the lost secret." The last paper in the box was then read: "That the wealth which I possess may descend to my daughter unimpaired by time and change, I have converted the $5,000,000 which the government paid me for my invention into the sack of stones underneath this paper. J. C." Cobb reached his hand into the box, and withdrew a silken bag. Opening it, he poured the contents upon the table. All started with exclamations of astonishment at the sight; and well they might. The center of the table seemed ablaze with a million sparkling, dancing rays of light. Five million dollar's worth of precious stones lay before them--the dowry of Marie Colchis. "Junius," said the President, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, "wealth has rolled in upon you by millions, but above all the wealth you have received is the fair prize you have won, your future wife," and he kissed the blushing face of Marie. "One more gift I can add to the many you have received," and he drew from his pocket a folded paper bearing the great seal of the Navy Department upon it. "Your commission as Admiral of the Aërial Navy of the United States," and he handed the paper to Junius Cobb. "Your discovery of meteorlene has revolutionized warfare, and you soon will command a powerful fleet of aërial war ships." Cobb bowed low as he accepted the paper, and expressed his gratitude to the President for this additional proof of his generosity. "I was not far wrong," exclaimed Hugh, grasping his hand, "when I saluted you as Admiral, on board of the Orion." "No, Hugh," returned Cobb; "and I wish I had not been, when I returned it to you as my Commodore." "And you were not, Junius," laughed the President, as he drew another paper from his pocket. "Your commission as Commodore in the Aërial Navy, Hugh," handing him the paper. "And what does my hubby get?" cried Mollie, pouting her pretty lips. "A colonelcy in the army for distinguished service during the war," and the President smiled as he took a third paper from his pocket and gave it to Lester. "And now," said Cobb, after a pause, "as wealth more than I can use has been heaped upon me, I wish to add my mite to the happiness of the moment. Hugh," and he took up the third paper from the bundle on the table, "here is the secret of the sympathetic telegraph; it is worth five million dollars. Take it, and divide it between yourself and Lester, as a wedding gift from me." Then Marie stepped forward, and filled her two hands with glittering stones from the pile on the table. "Take these, my dear sisters," she said, as she poured them into the laps of the two astonished girls; "take these as a bridal gift from Marie Colchis." THE END A LITERARY GEM. Mademoiselle de Maupin A ROMANCE OF LOVE AND PASSION. By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 12mo, 413 pages. Paper covers. Illustrated with 16 Half-tones from the original etchings by Toudouze. "The golden book of spirit and sense, the Holy Writ of beauty."--_A. C. Swinburne._ "Gautier is an inimitable model. His manner is so light and true, so really creative, his fancy so alert, his taste so happy, his humor so genial, that he makes illusion almost as contagious as laughter."--_Mr. Henry James._ "=MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN=," the latest product of the pen of Theophile Gautier, is considered by the best critics of this inimitable Frenchman to be his most artistic, witty and audacious work. In writing this charming novel, Gautier has displayed all the artistic coloring that atmospheres the romantic school of literature this versatile author has created. "=MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN=" is alive with the characteristic vigor shown in "ALBERTUS," "LES JEUNES--FRANCE," and "POESIES DE THEOPHILE GAUTIER," his earlier works, but is more delicate, and abounds in the subtle cynicism which contrasts so delightfully with the pungent wit that sparkles on every page. The book is a marvel of beauty, both from an artistic as well as a typographical standpoint. FOR SALE AT ALL BOOK STORES AND NEWS STANDS AND ON ALL RAILROAD TRAINS. LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS CHICAGO, ILLINOIS. Transcriber's note Words in italics have been surround with _underscores_, and bold with =signs=. Small capitals were replaced with all capitals. A transcription of the handwritten note on page 388 was added. Some lines in the note were struck out, this was represented with ~signs~. A few punctuation errors were corrected, also the following changes were made, on page 74 The words "completed our task" filled in 97 "a" changed to "as" (as they would not keep so long) 324 "I" changed to "If" (If no lipthalener came into port) 366 "hot" changed to "not" (I should say not.) 375 "quicky" changed to "quickly" (the compartment being quickly emptied of its water) 383 "speed" changed to "sped" (the Orion sped northward) 394 "poinas" changed to "points" (it points somewhere south). Otherwise the original was preserved, including possible errors in Volapük, and inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation. 
7303	----	[Illustration: EDWARD BELLAMY.] EQUALITY by EDWARD BELLAMY Author of Looking Backward, Dr. Heidenhoff's Process, Miss Ludington's Sister, etc. * * * * * Second Edition * * * * * PREFACE. Looking Backward was a small book, and I was not able to get into it all I wished to say on the subject. Since it was published what was left out of it has loomed up as so much more important than what it contained that I have been constrained to write another book. I have taken the date of Looking Backward, the year 2000, as that of Equality, and have utilized the framework of the former story as a starting point for this which I now offer. In order that those who have not read Looking Backward may be at no disadvantage, an outline of the essential features of that story is subjoined: In the year 1887 Julian West was a rich young man living in Boston. He was soon to be married to a young lady of wealthy family named Edith Bartlett, and meanwhile lived alone with his man-servant Sawyer in the family mansion. Being a sufferer from insomnia, he had caused a chamber to be built of stone beneath the foundation of the house, which he used for a sleeping room. When even the silence and seclusion of this retreat failed to bring slumber, he sometimes called in a professional mesmerizer to put him into a hypnotic sleep, from which Sawyer knew how to arouse him at a fixed time. This habit, as well as the existence of the underground chamber, were secrets known only to Sawyer and the hypnotist who rendered his services. On the night of May 30, 1887, West sent for the latter, and was put to sleep as usual. The hypnotist had previously informed his patron that he was intending to leave the city permanently the same evening, and referred him to other practitioners. That night the house of Julian West took fire and was wholly destroyed. Remains identified as those of Sawyer were found and, though no vestige of West appeared, it was assumed that he of course had also perished. One hundred and thirteen years later, in September, A. D. 2000, Dr. Leete, a physician of Boston, on the retired list, was conducting excavations in his garden for the foundations of a private laboratory, when the workers came on a mass of masonry covered with ashes and charcoal. On opening it, a vault, luxuriously fitted up in the style of a nineteenth-century bedchamber, was found, and on the bed the body of a young man looking as if he had just lain down to sleep. Although great trees had been growing above the vault, the unaccountable preservation of the youth's body tempted Dr. Leete to attempt resuscitation, and to his own astonishment his efforts proved successful. The sleeper returned to life, and after a short time to the full vigor of youth which his appearance had indicated. His shock on learning what had befallen him was so great as to have endangered his sanity but for the medical skill of Dr. Leete, and the not less sympathetic ministrations of the other members of the household, the doctor's wife, and Edith the beautiful daughter. Presently, however, the young man forgot to wonder at what had happened to himself in his astonishment on learning of the social transformation through which the world had passed while he lay sleeping. Step by step, almost as to a child, his hosts explained to him, who had known no other way of living except the struggle for existence, what were the simple principles of national co-operation for the promotion of the general welfare on which the new civilization rested. He learned that there were no longer any who were or could be richer or poorer than others, but that all were economic equals. He learned that no one any longer worked for another, either by compulsion or for hire, but that all alike were in the service of the nation working for the common fund, which all equally shared, and that even necessary personal attendance, as of the physician, was rendered as to the state like that of the military surgeon. All these wonders, it was explained, had very simply come about as the results of replacing private capitalism by public capitalism, and organizing the machinery of production and distribution, like the political government, as business of general concern to be carried on for the public benefit instead of private gain. But, though it was not long before the young stranger's first astonishment at the institutions of the new world had passed into enthusiastic admiration and he was ready to admit that the race had for the first time learned how to live, he presently began to repine at a fate which had introduced him to the new world, only to leave him oppressed by a sense of hopeless loneliness which all the kindness of his new friends could not relieve, feeling, as he must, that it was dictated by pity only. Then it was that he first learned that his experience had been a yet more marvelous one than he had supposed. Edith Leete was no other than the great-granddaughter of Edith Bartlett, his betrothed, who, after long mourning her lost lover, had at last allowed herself to be consoled. The story of the tragical bereavement which had shadowed her early life was a family tradition, and among the family heirlooms were letters from Julian West, together with a photograph which represented so handsome a youth that Edith was illogically inclined to quarrel with her great-grandmother for ever marrying anybody else. As for the young man's picture, she kept it on her dressing table. Of course, it followed that the identity of the tenant of the subterranean chamber had been fully known to his rescuers from the moment of the discovery; but Edith, for reasons of her own, had insisted that he should not know who she was till she saw fit to tell him. When, at the proper time, she had seen fit to do this, there was no further question of loneliness for the young man, for how could destiny more unmistakably have indicated that two persons were meant for each other? His cup of happiness now being full, he had an experience in which it seemed to be dashed from his lips. As he lay on his bed in Dr. Leete's house he was oppressed by a hideous nightmare. It seemed to him that he opened his eyes to find himself on his bed in the underground chamber where the mesmerizer had put him to sleep. Sawyer was just completing the passes used to break the hypnotic influence. He called for the morning paper, and read on the date line May 31, 1887. Then he knew that all this wonderful matter about the year 2000, its happy, care-free world of brothers and the fair girl he had met there were but fragments of a dream. His brain in a whirl, he went forth into the city. He saw everything with new eyes, contrasting it with what he had seen in the Boston of the year 2000. The frenzied folly of the competitive industrial system, the inhuman contrasts of luxury and woe--pride and abjectness--the boundless squalor, wretchedness, and madness of the whole scheme of things which met his eye at every turn, outraged his reason and made his heart sick. He felt like a sane man shut up by accident in a madhouse. After a day of this wandering he found himself at nightfall in a company of his former companions, who rallied him on his distraught appearance. He told them of his dream and what it had taught him of the possibilities of a juster, nobler, wiser social system. He reasoned with them, showing how easy it would be, laying aside the suicidal folly of competition, by means of fraternal co-operation, to make the actual world as blessed as that he had dreamed of. At first they derided him, but, seeing his earnestness, grew angry, and denounced him as a pestilent fellow, an anarchist, an enemy of society, and drove him from them. Then it was that, in an agony of weeping, he awoke, this time awaking really, not falsely, and found himself in his bed in Dr. Leete's house, with the morning sun of the twentieth century shining in his eyes. Looking from the window of his room, he saw Edith in the garden gathering flowers for the breakfast table, and hastened to descend to her and relate his experience. At this point we will leave him to continue the narrative for himself. * * * * * CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--A SHARP CROSS-EXAMINER II.--WHY THE REVOLUTION DID NOT COME EARLIER III.--I ACQUIRE A STAKE IN THE COUNTRY IV.--A TWENTIETH-CENTURY BANK PARLOR V.--I EXPERIENCE A NEW SENSATION VI.--HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE VII.--A STRING OF SURPRISES VIII.--THE GREATEST WONDER YET--FASHION DETHRONED IX.--SOMETHING THAT HAD NOT CHANGED X.--A MIDNIGHT PLUNGE XI.--LIFE THE BASIS OF THE RIGHT OF PROPERTY XII.--HOW INEQUALITY OF WEALTH DESTROYS LIBERTY XIII.--PRIVATE CAPITAL STOLEN FROM THE SOCIAL FUND XIV.--WE LOOK OVER MY COLLECTION OF HARNESSES XV.--WHAT WE WERE COMING TO BUT FOR THE REVOLUTION XVI.--AN EXCUSE THAT CONDEMNED XVII.--THE REVOLUTION SAVES PRIVATE PROPERTY FROM MONOPOLY XVIII.--AN ECHO OF THE PAST XIX.--"CAN A MAID FORGET HER ORNAMENTS?" XX.--WHAT THE REVOLUTION DID FOR WOMEN XXI.--AT THE GYMNASIUM XXII.--ECONOMIC SUICIDE OF THE PROFIT SYSTEM XXIII.--"THE PARABLE OF THE WATER TANK" XXIV.--I AM SHOWN ALL THE KINGDOMS OF THE EARTH XXV.--THE STRIKERS XXVI.--FOREIGN COMMERCE UNDER PROFITS; PROTECTION AND FREE TRADE, OR BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA XXVII.--HOSTILITY OF A SYSTEM OF VESTED INTERESTS TO IMPROVEMENT XXVIII.--HOW THE PROFIT SYSTEM NULLIFIED THE BENEFIT OF INVENTIONS XXIX.--I RECEIVE AN OVATION XXX.--WHAT UNIVERSAL CULTURE MEANS XXXI.--"NEITHER IN THIS MOUNTAIN NOR AT JERUSALEM" XXXII.--ERITIS SICUT DEUS XXXIII.--SEVERAL IMPORTANT MATTERS OVERLOOKED XXXIV.--WHAT STARTED THE REVOLUTION XXXV.--WHY THE REVOLUTION WENT SLOW AT FIRST BUT FAST AT LAST XXXVI.--THEATER-GOING IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY XXXVII.--THE TRANSITION PERIOD XXXVIII.--THE BOOK OF THE BLIND * * * * * EQUALITY. * * * * * CHAPTER I. A SHARP CROSS-EXAMINER. With many expressions of sympathy and interest Edith listened to the story of my dream. When, finally, I had made an end, she remained musing. "What are you thinking about?" I said. "I was thinking," she answered, "how it would have been if your dream had been true." "True!" I exclaimed. "How could it have been true?" "I mean," she said, "if it had all been a dream, as you supposed it was in your nightmare, and you had never really seen our Republic of the Golden Rule or me, but had only slept a night and dreamed the whole thing about us. And suppose you had gone forth just as you did in your dream, and had passed up and down telling men of the terrible folly and wickedness of their way of life and how much nobler and happier a way there was. Just think what good you might have done, how you might have helped people in those days when they needed help so much. It seems to me you must be almost sorry you came back to us." "You look as if you were almost sorry yourself," I said, for her wistful expression seemed susceptible of that interpretation. "Oh, no," she answered, smiling. "It was only on your own account. As for me, I have very good reasons for being glad that you came back." "I should say so, indeed. Have you reflected that if I had dreamed it all you would have had no existence save as a figment in the brain of a sleeping man a hundred years ago?" "I had not thought of that part of it," she said smiling and still half serious; "yet if I could have been more useful to humanity as a fiction than as a reality, I ought not to have minded the--the inconvenience." But I replied that I greatly feared no amount of opportunity to help mankind in general would have reconciled me to life anywhere or under any conditions after leaving her behind in a dream--a confession of shameless selfishness which she was pleased to pass over without special rebuke, in consideration, no doubt, of my unfortunate bringing up. "Besides," I resumed, being willing a little further to vindicate myself, "it would not have done any good. I have just told you how in my nightmare last night, when I tried to tell my contemporaries and even my best friends about the nobler way men might live together, they derided me as a fool and madman. That is exactly what they would have done in reality had the dream been true and I had gone about preaching as in the case you supposed." "Perhaps a few might at first have acted as you dreamed they did," she replied. "Perhaps they would not at once have liked the idea of economic equality, fearing that it might mean a leveling down for them, and not understanding that it would presently mean a leveling up of all together to a vastly higher plane of life and happiness, of material welfare and moral dignity than the most fortunate had ever enjoyed. But even if the rich had at first mistaken you for an enemy to their class, the poor, the great masses of the poor, the real nation, they surely from the first would have listened as for their lives, for to them your story would have meant glad tidings of great joy." "I do not wonder that you think so," I answered, "but, though I am still learning the A B C of this new world, I knew my contemporaries, and I know that it would not have been as you fancy. The poor would have listened no better than the rich, for, though poor and rich in my day were at bitter odds in everything else, they were agreed in believing that there must always be rich and poor, and that a condition of material equality was impossible. It used to be commonly said, and it often seemed true, that the social reformer who tried to better the condition of the people found a more discouraging obstacle in the hopelessness of the masses he would raise than in the active resistance of the few, whose superiority was threatened. And indeed, Edith, to be fair to my own class, I am bound to say that with the best of the rich it was often as much this same hopelessness as deliberate selfishness that made them what we used to call conservative. So you see, it would have done no good even if I had gone to preaching as you fancied. The poor would have regarded my talk about the possibility of an equality of wealth as a fairy tale, not worth a laboring man's time to listen to. Of the rich, the baser sort would have mocked and the better sort would have sighed, but none would have given ear seriously." But Edith smiled serenely. "It seems very audacious for me to try to correct your impressions of your own contemporaries and of what they might be expected to think and do, but you see the peculiar circumstances give me a rather unfair advantage. Your knowledge of your times necessarily stops short with 1887, when you became oblivious of the course of events. I, on the other hand, having gone to school in the twentieth century, and been obliged, much against my will, to study nineteenth-century history, naturally know what happened after the date at which your knowledge ceased. I know, impossible as it may seem to you, that you had scarcely fallen into that long sleep before the American people began to be deeply and widely stirred with aspirations for an equal order such as we enjoy, and that very soon the political movement arose which, after various mutations, resulted early in the twentieth century in overthrowing the old system and setting up the present one." This was indeed interesting information to me, but when I began to question Edith further, she sighed and shook her head. "Having tried to show my superior knowledge, I must now confess my ignorance. All I know is the bare fact that the revolutionary movement began, as I said, very soon after you fell asleep. Father must tell you the rest. I might as well admit while I am about it, for you would soon find it out, that I know almost nothing either as to the Revolution or nineteenth-century matters generally. You have no idea how hard I have been trying to post myself on the subject so as to be able to talk intelligently with you, but I fear it is of no use. I could not understand it in school and can not seem to understand it any better now. More than ever this morning I am sure that I never shall. Since you have been telling me how the old world appeared to you in that dream, your talk has brought those days so terribly near that I can almost see them, and yet I can not say that they seem a bit more intelligible than before." "Things were bad enough and black enough certainly," I said; "but I don't see what there was particularly unintelligible about them. What is the difficulty?" "The main difficulty comes from the complete lack of agreement between the pretensions of your contemporaries about the way their society was organized and the actual facts as given in the histories." "For example?" I queried. "I don't suppose there is much use in trying to explain my trouble," she said. "You will only think me stupid for my pains, but I'll try to make you see what I mean. You ought to be able to clear up the matter if anybody can. You have just been telling me about the shockingly unequal conditions of the people, the contrasts of waste and want, the pride and power of the rich, the abjectness and servitude of the poor, and all the rest of the dreadful story." "Yes." "It appears that these contrasts were almost as great as at any previous period of history." "It is doubtful," I replied, "if there was ever a greater disparity between the conditions of different classes than you would find in a half hour's walk in Boston, New York, Chicago, or any other great city of America in the last quarter of the nineteenth century." "And yet," said Edith, "it appears from all the books that meanwhile the Americans' great boast was that they differed from all other and former nations in that they were free and equal. One is constantly coming upon this phrase in the literature of the day. Now, you have made it clear that they were neither free nor equal in any ordinary sense of the word, but were divided as mankind had always been before into rich and poor, masters and servants. Won't you please tell me, then, what they meant by calling themselves free and equal?" "It was meant, I suppose, that they were all equal before the law." "That means in the courts. And were the rich and poor equal in the courts? Did they receive the same treatment?" "I am bound to say," I replied, "that they were nowhere else more unequal. The law applied in terms to all alike, but not in fact. There was more difference in the position of the rich and the poor man before the law than in any other respect. The rich were practically above the law, the poor under its wheels." "In what respect, then, were the rich and poor equal?" "They were said to be equal in opportunities." "Opportunities for what?" "For bettering themselves, for getting rich, for getting ahead of others in the struggle for wealth." "It seems to me that only meant, if it were true, not that all were equal, but that all had an equal chance to make themselves unequal. But was it true that all had equal opportunities for getting rich and bettering themselves?" "It may have been so to some extent at one time when the country was new," I replied, "but it was no more so in my day. Capital had practically monopolized all economic opportunities by that time; there was no opening in business enterprise for those without large capital save by some extraordinary fortune." "But surely," said Edith, "there must have been, in order to give at least a color to all this boasting about equality, some one respect in which the people were really equal?" "Yes, there was. They were political equals. They all had one vote alike, and the majority was the supreme lawgiver." "So the books say, but that only makes the actual condition of things more absolutely unaccountable." "Why so?" "Why, because if these people all had an equal voice in the government--these toiling, starving, freezing, wretched masses of the poor--why did they not without a moment's delay put an end to the inequalities from which they suffered?" "Very likely," she added, as I did not at once reply, "I am only showing how stupid I am by saying this. Doubtless I am overlooking some important fact, but did you not say that all the people, at least all the men, had a voice in the government?" "Certainly; by the latter part of the nineteenth century manhood suffrage had become practically universal in America." "That is to say, the people through their chosen agents made all the laws. Is that what you mean?" "Certainly." "But I remember you had Constitutions of the nation and of the States. Perhaps they prevented the people from doing quite what they wished." "No; the Constitutions were only a little more fundamental sort of laws. The majority made and altered them at will. The people were the sole and supreme final power, and their will was absolute." "If, then, the majority did not like any existing arrangement, or think it to their advantage, they could change it as radically as they wished?" "Certainly; the popular majority could do anything if it was large and determined enough." "And the majority, I understand, were the poor, not the rich--the ones who had the wrong side of the inequalities that prevailed?" "Emphatically so; the rich were but a handful comparatively." "Then there was nothing whatever to prevent the people at any time, if they just willed it, from making an end of their sufferings and organizing a system like ours which would guarantee their equality and prosperity?" "Nothing whatever." "Then once more I ask you to kindly tell me why, in the name of common sense, they didn't do it at once and be happy instead of making a spectacle of themselves so woeful that even a hundred years after it makes us cry?" "Because," I replied, "they were taught and believed that the regulation of industry and commerce and the production and distribution of wealth was something wholly outside of the proper province of government." "But, dear me, Julian, life itself and everything that meanwhile makes life worth living, from the satisfaction of the most primary physical needs to the gratification of the most refined tastes, all that belongs to the development of mind as well as body, depend first, last, and always on the manner in which the production and distribution of wealth is regulated. Surely that must have been as true in your day as ours." "Of course." "And yet you tell me, Julian, that the people, after having abolished the rule of kings and taken the supreme power of regulating their affairs into their own hands, deliberately consented to exclude from their jurisdiction the control of the most important, and indeed the only really important, class of their interests." "Do not the histories say so?" "They do say so, and that is precisely why I could never believe them. The thing seemed so incomprehensible I thought there must be some way of explaining it. But tell me, Julian, seeing the people did not think that they could trust themselves to regulate their own industry and the distribution of the product, to whom did they leave the responsibility?" "To the capitalists." "And did the people elect the capitalists?" "Nobody elected them." "By whom, then, were they appointed?" "Nobody appointed them." "What a singular system! Well, if nobody elected or appointed them, yet surely they must have been accountable to somebody for the manner in which they exercised powers on which the welfare and very existence of everybody depended." "On the contrary, they were accountable to nobody and nothing but their own consciences." "Their consciences! Ah, I see! You mean that they were so benevolent, so unselfish, so devoted to the public good, that people tolerated their usurpation out of gratitude. The people nowadays would not endure the irresponsible rule even of demigods, but probably it was different in your day." "As an ex-capitalist myself, I should be pleased to confirm your surmise, but nothing could really be further from the fact. As to any benevolent interest in the conduct of industry and commerce, the capitalists expressly disavowed it. Their only object was to secure the greatest possible gain for themselves without any regard whatever to the welfare of the public." "Dear me! Dear me! Why you make out these capitalists to have been even worse than the kings, for the kings at least professed to govern for the welfare of their people, as fathers acting for children, and the good ones did try to. But the capitalists, you say, did not even pretend to feel any responsibility for the welfare of their subjects?" "None whatever." "And, if I understand," pursued Edith, "this government of the capitalists was not only without moral sanction of any sort or plea of benevolent intentions, but was practically an economic failure--that is, it did not secure the prosperity of the people." "What I saw in my dream last night," I replied, "and have tried to tell you this morning, gives but a faint suggestion of the misery of the world under capitalist rule." Edith meditated in silence for some moments. Finally she said: "Your contemporaries were not madmen nor fools; surely there is something you have not told me; there must be some explanation or at least color of excuse why the people not only abdicated the power of controling their most vital and important interests, but turned them over to a class which did not even pretend any interest in their welfare, and whose government completely failed to secure it." "Oh, yes," I said, "there was an explanation, and a very fine-sounding one. It was in the name of individual liberty, industrial freedom, and individual initiative that the economic government of the country was surrendered to the capitalists." "Do you mean that a form of government which seems to have been the most irresponsible and despotic possible was defended in the name of liberty?" "Certainly; the liberty of economic initiative by the individual." "But did you not just tell me that economic initiative and business opportunity in your day were practically monopolized by the capitalists themselves?" "Certainly. It was admitted that there was no opening for any but capitalists in business, and it was rapidly becoming so that only the greatest of the capitalists themselves had any power of initiative." "And yet you say that the reason given for abandoning industry to capitalist government was the promotion of industrial freedom and individual initiative among the people at large." "Certainly. The people were taught that they would individually enjoy greater liberty and freedom of action in industrial matters under the dominion of the capitalists than if they collectively conducted the industrial system for their own benefit; that the capitalists would, moreover, look out for their welfare more wisely and kindly than they could possibly do it themselves, so that they would be able to provide for themselves more bountifully out of such portion of their product as the capitalists might be disposed to give them than they possibly could do if they became their own employers and divided the whole product among themselves." "But that was mere mockery; it was adding insult to injury." "It sounds so, doesn't it? But I assure you it was considered the soundest sort of political economy in my time. Those who questioned it were set down as dangerous visionaries." "But I suppose the people's government, the government they voted for, must have done something. There must have been some odds and ends of things which the capitalists left the political government to attend to." "Oh, yes, indeed. It had its hands full keeping the peace among the people. That was the main part of the business of political governments in my day." "Why did the peace require such a great amount of keeping? Why didn't it keep itself, as it does now?" "On account of the inequality of conditions which prevailed. The strife for wealth and desperation of want kept in quenchless blaze a hell of greed and envy, fear, lust, hate, revenge, and every foul passion of the pit. To keep this general frenzy in some restraint, so that the entire social system should not resolve itself into a general massacre, required an army of soldiers, police, judges, and jailers, and endless law-making to settle the quarrels. Add to these elements of discord a horde of outcasts degraded and desperate, made enemies of society by their sufferings and requiring to be kept in check, and you will readily admit there was enough for the people's government to do." "So far as I can see," said Edith, "the main business of the people's government was to struggle with the social chaos which resulted from its failure to take hold of the economic system and regulate it on a basis of justice." "That is exactly so. You could not state the whole case more adequately if you wrote a book." "Beyond protecting the capitalist system from its own effects, did the political government do absolutely nothing?" "Oh, yes, it appointed postmasters and tidewaiters, maintained an army and navy, and picked quarrels with foreign countries." "I should say that the right of a citizen to have a voice in a government limited to the range of functions you have mentioned would scarcely have seemed to him of much value." "I believe the average price of votes in close elections in America in my time was about two dollars." "Dear me, so much as that!" said Edith. "I don't know exactly what the value of money was in your day, but I should say the price was rather extortionate." "I think you are right," I answered. "I used to give in to the talk about the pricelessness of the right of suffrage, and the denunciation of those whom any stress of poverty could induce to sell it for money, but from the point of view to which you have brought me this morning I am inclined to think that the fellows who sold their votes had a far clearer idea of the sham of our so-called popular government, as limited to the class of functions I have described, than any of the rest of us did, and that if they were wrong it was, as you suggest, in asking too high a price." "But who paid for the votes?" "You are a merciless cross-examiner," I said. "The classes which had an interest in controling the government--that is, the capitalists and the office-seekers--did the buying. The capitalists advanced the money necessary to procure the election of the office-seekers on the understanding that when elected the latter should do what the capitalists wanted. But I ought not to give you the impression that the bulk of the votes were bought outright. That would have been too open a confession of the sham of popular government as well as too expensive. The money contributed by the capitalists to procure the election of the office-seekers was mainly expended to influence the people by indirect means. Immense sums under the name of campaign funds were raised for this purpose and used in innumerable devices, such as fireworks, oratory, processions, brass bands, barbecues, and all sorts of devices, the object of which was to galvanize the people to a sufficient degree of interest in the election to go through the motion of voting. Nobody who has not actually witnessed a nineteenth-century American election could even begin to imagine the grotesqueness of the spectacle." "It seems, then," said Edith, "that the capitalists not only carried on the economic government as their special province, but also practically managed the machinery of the political government as well." "Oh, yes, the capitalists could not have got along at all without control of the political government. Congress, the Legislatures, and the city councils were quite necessary as instruments for putting through their schemes. Moreover, in order to protect themselves and their property against popular outbreaks, it was highly needful that they should have the police, the courts, and the soldiers devoted to their interests, and the President, Governors, and mayors at their beck." "But I thought the President, the Governors, and Legislatures represented the people who voted for them." "Bless your heart! no, why should they? It was to the capitalists and not to the people that they owed the opportunity of officeholding. The people who voted had little choice for whom they should vote. That question was determined by the political party organizations, which were beggars to the capitalists for pecuniary support. No man who was opposed to capitalist interests was permitted the opportunity as a candidate to appeal to the people. For a public official to support the people's interest as against that of the capitalists would be a sure way of sacrificing his career. You must remember, if you would understand how absolutely the capitalists controled the Government, that a President, Governor, or mayor, or member of the municipal, State, or national council, was only temporarily a servant of the people or dependent on their favour. His public position he held only from election to election, and rarely long. His permanent, lifelong, and all-controling interest, like that of us all, was his livelihood, and that was dependent, not on the applause of the people, but the favor and patronage of capital, and this he could not afford to imperil in the pursuit of the bubbles of popularity. These circumstances, even if there had been no instances of direct bribery, sufficiently explained why our politicians and officeholders with few exceptions were vassals and tools of the capitalists. The lawyers, who, on account of the complexities of our system, were almost the only class competent for public business, were especially and directly dependent upon the patronage of the great capitalistic interests for their living." "But why did not the people elect officials and representatives of their own class, who would look out for the interests of the masses?" "There was no assurance that they would be more faithful. Their very poverty would make them the more liable to money temptation; and the poor, you must remember, although so much more pitiable, were not morally any better than the rich. Then, too--and that was the most important reason why the masses of the people, who were poor, did not send men of their class to represent them--poverty as a rule implied ignorance, and therefore practical inability, even where the intention was good. As soon as the poor man developed intelligence he had every temptation to desert his class and seek the patronage of capital." Edith remained silent and thoughtful for some moments. "Really," she said, finally, "it seems that the reason I could not understand the so-called popular system of government in your day is that I was trying to find out what part the people had in it, and it appears that they had no part at all." "You are getting on famously," I exclaimed. "Undoubtedly the confusion of terms in our political system is rather calculated to puzzle one at first, but if you only grasp firmly the vital point that the rule of the rich, the supremacy of capital and its interests, as against those of the people at large, was the central principle of our system, to which every other interest was made subservient, you will have the key that clears up every mystery." CHAPTER II. WHY THE REVOLUTION DID NOT COME EARLIER. Absorbed in our talk, we had not heard the steps of Dr. Leete as he approached. "I have been watching you for ten minutes from the house," he said, "until, in fact, I could no longer resist the desire to know what you find so interesting." "Your daughter," said I, "has been proving herself a mistress of the Socratic method. Under a plausible pretext of gross ignorance, she has been asking me a series of easy questions, with the result that I see as I never imagined it before the colossal sham of our pretended popular government in America. As one of the rich I knew, of course, that we had a great deal of power in the state, but I did not before realize how absolutely the people were without influence in their own government." "Aha!" exclaimed the doctor in great glee, "so my daughter gets up early in the morning with the design of supplanting her father in his position of historical instructor?" Edith had risen from the garden bench on which we had been seated and was arranging her flowers to take into the house. She shook her head rather gravely in reply to her father's challenge. "You need not be at all apprehensive," she said; "Julian has quite cured me this morning of any wish I might have had to inquire further into the condition of our ancestors. I have always been dreadfully sorry for the poor people of that day on account of the misery they endured from poverty and the oppression of the rich. Henceforth, however, I wash my hands of them and shall reserve my sympathy for more deserving objects." "Dear me!" said the doctor, "what has so suddenly dried up the fountains of your pity? What has Julian been telling you?" "Nothing, really, I suppose, that I had not read before and ought to have known, but the story always seemed so unreasonable and incredible that I never quite believed it until now. I thought there must be some modifying facts not set down in the histories." "But what is this that he has been telling you?" "It seems," said Edith, "that these very people, these very masses of the poor, had all the time the supreme control of the Government and were able, if determined and united, to put an end at any moment to all the inequalities and oppressions of which they complained and to equalize things as we have done. Not only did they not do this, but they gave as a reason for enduring their bondage that their liberties would be endangered unless they had irresponsible masters to manage their interests, and that to take charge of their own affairs would imperil their freedom. I feel that I have been cheated out of all the tears I have shed over the sufferings of such people. Those who tamely endure wrongs which they have the power to end deserve not compassion but contempt. I have felt a little badly that Julian should have been one of the oppressor class, one of the rich. Now that I really understand the matter, I am glad. I fear that, had he been one of the poor, one of the mass of real masters, who with supreme power in their hands consented to be bondsmen, I should have despised him." Having thus served formal notice on my contemporaries that they must expect no more sympathy from her, Edith went into the house, leaving me with a vivid impression that if the men of the twentieth century should prove incapable of preserving their liberties, the women might be trusted to do so. "Really, doctor," I said, "you ought to be greatly obliged to your daughter. She has saved you lots of time and effort." "How so, precisely?" "By rendering it unnecessary for you to trouble yourself to explain to me any further how and why you came to set up your nationalized industrial system and your economic equality. If you have ever seen a desert or sea mirage, you remember that, while the picture in the sky is very clear and distinct in itself, its unreality is betrayed by a lack of detail, a sort of blur, where it blends with the foreground on which you are standing. Do you know that this new social order of which I have so strangely become a witness has hitherto had something of this mirage effect? In itself it is a scheme precise, orderly, and very reasonable, but I could see no way by which it could have naturally grown out of the utterly different conditions of the nineteenth century. I could only imagine that this world transformation must have been the result of new ideas and forces that had come into action since my day. I had a volume of questions all ready to ask you on the subject, but now we shall be able to use the time in talking of other things, for Edith has shown me in ten minutes' time that the only wonderful thing about your organization of the industrial system as public business is not that it has taken place, but that it waited so long before taking place, that a nation of rational beings consented to remain economic serfs of irresponsible masters for more than a century after coming into possession of absolute power to change at pleasure all social institutions which inconvenienced them." "Really," said the doctor, "Edith has shown herself a very efficient teacher, if an involuntary one. She has succeeded at one stroke in giving you the modern point of view as to your period. As we look at it, the immortal preamble of the American Declaration of Independence, away back in 1776, logically contained the entire statement of the doctrine of universal economic equality guaranteed by the nation collectively to its members individually. You remember how the words run: "'We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal, with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these rights it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it and institute a new government, laying its foundations on such principles and organizing its powers in such form as may seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.' "Is it possible, Julian, to imagine any governmental system less adequate than ours which could possibly realize this great ideal of what a true people's government should be? The corner stone of our state is economic equality, and is not that the obvious, necessary, and only adequate pledge of these three birthrights--life, liberty, and happiness? What is life without its material basis, and what is an equal right to life but a right to an equal material basis for it? What is liberty? How can men be free who must ask the right to labor and to live from their fellow-men and seek their bread from the hands of others? How else can any government guarantee liberty to men save by providing them a means of labor and of life coupled with independence; and how could that be done unless the government conducted the economic system upon which employment and maintenance depend? Finally, what is implied in the equal right of all to the pursuit of happiness? What form of happiness, so far as it depends at all on material facts, is not bound up with economic conditions; and how shall an equal opportunity for the pursuit of happiness be guaranteed to all save by a guarantee of economic equality?" "Yes," I said, "it is indeed all there, but why were we so long in seeing it?" "Let us make ourselves comfortable on this bench," said the doctor, "and I will tell you what is the modern answer to the very interesting question you raise. At first glance, certainly the delay of the world in general, and especially of the American people, to realize that democracy logically meant the substitution of popular government for the rule of the rich in regulating the production and distribution of wealth seems incomprehensible, not only because it was so plain an inference from the idea of popular government, but also because it was one which the masses of the people were so directly interested in carrying out. Edith's conclusion that people who were not capable of so simple a process of reasoning as that did not deserve much sympathy for the afflictions they might so easily have remedied, is a very natural first impression. "On reflection, however, I think we shall conclude that the time taken by the world in general and the Americans in particular in finding out the full meaning of democracy as an economic as well as a political proposition was not greater than might have been expected, considering the vastness of the conclusions involved. It is the democratic idea that all human beings are peers in rights and dignity, and that the sole just excuse and end of human governments is, therefore, the maintenance and furtherance of the common welfare on equal terms. This idea was the greatest social conception that the human mind had up to that time ever formed. It contained, when first conceived, the promise and potency of a complete transformation of all then existing social institutions, one and all of which had hitherto been based and formed on the principle of personal and class privilege and authority and the domination and selfish use of the many by the few. But it was simply inconsistent with the limitations of the human intellect that the implications of an idea so prodigious should at once have been taken in. The idea must absolutely have time to grow. The entire present order of economic democracy and equality was indeed logically bound up in the first full statement of the democratic idea, but only as the full-grown tree is in the seed: in the one case, as in the other, time was an essential element in the evolution of the result. "We divide the history of the evolution of the democratic idea into two broadly contrasted phases. The first of these we call the phase of negative democracy. To understand it we must consider how the democratic idea originated. Ideas are born of previous ideas and are long in outgrowing the characteristics and limitations impressed on them by the circumstances under which they came into existence. The idea of popular government, in the case of America as in previous republican experiments in general, was a protest against royal government and its abuses. Nothing is more certain than that the signers of the immortal Declaration had no idea that democracy necessarily meant anything more than a device for getting along without kings. They conceived of it as a change in the forms of government only, and not at all in the principles and purposes of government. "They were not, indeed, wholly without misgivings lest it might some time occur to the sovereign people that, being sovereign, it would be a good idea to use their sovereignty to improve their own condition. In fact, they seem to have given some serious thought to that possibility, but so little were they yet able to appreciate the logic and force of the democratic idea that they believed it possible by ingenious clauses in paper Constitutions to prevent the people from using their power to help themselves even if they should wish to. "This first phase of the evolution of democracy, during which it was conceived of solely as a substitute for royalty, includes all the so-called republican experiments up to the beginning of the twentieth century, of which, of course, the American Republic was the most important. During this period the democratic idea remained a mere protest against a previous form of government, absolutely without any new positive or vital principle of its own. Although the people had deposed the king as driver of the social chariot, and taken the reins into their own hands, they did not think as yet of anything but keeping the vehicle in the old ruts and naturally the passengers scarcely noticed the change. "The second phase in the evolution of the democratic idea began with the awakening of the people to the perception that the deposing of kings, instead of being the main end and mission of democracy, was merely preliminary to its real programme, which was the use of the collective social machinery for the indefinite promotion of the welfare of the people at large. "It is an interesting fact that the people began to think of applying their political power to the improvement of their material condition in Europe earlier than in America, although democratic forms had found much less acceptance there. This was, of course, on account of the perennial economic distress of the masses in the old countries, which prompted them to think first about the bearing any new idea might have on the question of livelihood. On the other hand, the general prosperity of the masses in America and the comparative ease of making a living up to the beginning of the last quarter of the nineteenth century account for the fact that it was not till then that the American people began to think seriously of improving their economic condition by collective action. "During the negative phase of democracy it had been considered as differing from monarchy only as two machines might differ, the general use and purpose of which were the same. With the evolution of the democratic idea into the second or positive phase, it was recognized that the transfer of the supreme power from king and nobles to people meant not merely a change in the forms of government, but a fundamental revolution in the whole idea of government, its motives, purposes, and functions--a revolution equivalent to a reversal of polarity of the entire social system, carrying, so to speak, the entire compass card with it, and making north south, and east west. Then was seen what seems so plain to us that it is hard to understand why it was not always seen, that instead of its being proper for the sovereign people to confine themselves to the functions which the kings and classes had discharged when they were in power, the presumption was, on the contrary, since the interest of kings and classes had always been exactly opposed to those of the people, that whatever the previous governments had done, the people as rulers ought not to do, and whatever the previous governments had not done, it would be presumably for the interest of the people to do; and that the main use and function of popular government was properly one which no previous government had ever paid any attention to, namely, the use of the power of the social organization to raise the material and moral welfare of the whole body of the sovereign people to the highest possible point at which the same degree of welfare could be secured to all--that is to say, an equal level. The democracy of the second or positive phase triumphed in the great Revolution, and has since been the only form of government known in the world." "Which amounts to saying," I observed, "that there never was a democratic government properly so called before the twentieth century." "Just so," assented the doctor. "The so-called republics of the first phase we class as pseudo-republics or negative democracies. They were not, of course, in any sense, truly popular governments at all, but merely masks for plutocracy, under which the rich were the real though irresponsible rulers! You will readily see that they could have been nothing else. The masses from the beginning of the world had been the subjects and servants of the rich, but the kings had been above the rich, and constituted a check on their dominion. The overthrow of the kings left no check at all on the power of the rich, which became supreme. The people, indeed, nominally were sovereigns; but as these sovereigns were individually and as a class the economic serfs of the rich, and lived at their mercy, the so-called popular government became the mere stalking-horse of the capitalists. "Regarded as necessary steps in the evolution of society from pure monarchy to pure democracy, these republics of the negative phase mark a stage of progress; but if regarded as finalities they were a type far less admirable on the whole than decent monarchies. In respect especially to their susceptibility to corruption and plutocratic subversion they were the worst kind of government possible. The nineteenth century, during which this crop of pseudo-democracies ripened for the sickle of the great Revolution, seems to the modern view nothing but a dreary interregnum of nondescript, _faineant_ government intervening between the decadence of virile monarchy in the eighteenth century and the rise of positive democracy in the twentieth. The period may be compared to that of the minority of a king, during which the royal power is abused by wicked stewards. The people had been proclaimed as sovereign, but they had not yet assumed the sceptre." "And yet," said I, "during the latter part of the nineteenth century, when, as you say, the world had not yet seen a single specimen of popular government, our wise men were telling us that the democratic system had been fully tested and was ready to be judged on its results. Not a few of them, indeed, went so far as to say that the democratic experiment had proved a failure when, in point of fact, it seems that no experiment in democracy, properly understood, had as yet ever been so much as attempted." The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "It is a very sympathetic task," he said, "to explain the slowness of the masses in feeling their way to a comprehension of all that the democratic idea meant for them, but it is one equally difficult and thankless to account for the blank failure of the philosophers, historians, and statesmen of your day to arrive at an intelligent estimate of the logical content of democracy and to forecast its outcome. Surely the very smallness of the practical results thus far achieved by the democratic movement as compared with the magnitude of its proposition and the forces behind it ought to have suggested to them that its evolution was yet but in the first stage. How could intelligent men delude themselves with the notion that the most portentous and revolutionary idea of all time had exhausted its influence and fulfilled its mission in changing the title of the executive of a nation from king to President, and the name of the national Legislature from Parliament to Congress? If your pedagogues, college professors and presidents, and others who were responsible for your education, had been worth their salt, you would have found nothing in the present order of economic equality that would in the least have surprised you. You would have said at once that it was just what you had been taught must necessarily be the next phase in the inevitable evolution of the democratic idea." Edith beckoned from the door and we rose from our seat. "The revolutionary party in the great Revolution," said the doctor, as we sauntered toward the house, "carried on the work of agitation and propaganda under various names more or less grotesque and ill-fitting as political party names were apt to be, but the one word democracy, with its various equivalents and derivatives, more accurately and completely expressed, explained, and justified their method, reason, and purpose than a library of books could do. The American people fancied that they had set up a popular government when they separated from England, but they were deluded. In conquering the political power formerly exercised by the king, the people had but taken the outworks of the fortress of tyranny. The economic system which was the citadel and commanded every part of the social structure remained in possession of private and irresponsible rulers, and so long as it was so held, the possession of the outworks was of no use to the people, and only retained by the sufferance of the garrison of the citadel. The Revolution came when the people saw that they must either take the citadel or evacuate the outworks. They must either complete the work of establishing popular government which had been barely begun by their fathers, or abandon all that their fathers had accomplished." CHAPTER III. I ACQUIRE A STAKE IN THE COUNTRY. On going into breakfast the ladies met us with a highly interesting piece of intelligence which they had found in the morning's news. It was, in fact, nothing less than an announcement of action taken by the United States Congress in relation to myself. A resolution had, it appeared, been unanimously passed which, after reciting the facts of my extraordinary return to life, proceeded to clear up any conceivable question that might arise as to my legal status by declaring me an American citizen in full standing and entitled to all a citizen's rights and immunities, but at the same time a guest of the nation, and as such free of the duties and services incumbent upon citizens in general except as I might choose to assume them. Secluded as I had been hitherto in the Leete household, this was almost the first intimation I had the public in my case. That interest, I was now informed, had passed beyond my personality and was already producing a general revival of the study of nineteenth-century literature and politics, and especially of the history and philosophy of the transition period, when the old order passed into the new. "The fact is," said the doctor, "the nation has only discharged a debt of gratitude in making you its guest, for you have already done more for our educational interests by promoting historical study than a regiment of instructors could achieve in a lifetime." Recurring to the topic of the congressional resolution, the doctor said that, in his opinion, it was superfluous, for though I had certainly slept on my rights as a citizen rather an extraordinary length of time, there was no ground on which I could be argued to have forfeited any of them. However that might be, seeing the resolution left no doubt as to my status, he suggested that the first thing we did after breakfast should be to go down to the National Bank and open my citizen's account. "Of course," I said, as we left the house, "I am glad to be relieved of the necessity of being a pensioner on you any longer, but I confess I feel a little cheap about accepting as a gift this generous provision of the nation." "My dear Julian," replied the doctor, "it is sometimes a little difficult for me to quite get your point of view of our institutions." "I should think it ought to be easy enough in this case. I feel as if I were an object of public charity." "Ah!" said the doctor, "you feel that the nation has done you a favor, laid you under an obligation. You must excuse my obtuseness, but the fact is we look at this matter of the economic provision for citizens from an entirely different standpoint. It seems to us that in claiming and accepting your citizen's maintenance you perform a civic duty, whereby you put the nation--that is, the general body of your fellow-citizens--under rather more obligation than you incur." I turned to see if the doctor were not jesting, but he was evidently quite serious. "I ought by this time to be used to finding that everything goes by contraries in these days," I said, "but really, by what inversion of common sense, as it was understood in the nineteenth century, do you make out that by accepting a pecuniary provision from the nation I oblige it more than it obliges me?" "I think it will be easy to make you see that," replied the doctor, "without requiring you to do any violence to the methods of reasoning to which your contemporaries were accustomed. You used to have, I believe, a system of gratuitous public education maintained by the state." "Yes." "What was the idea of it?" "That a citizen was not a safe voter without education." "Precisely so. The state therefore at great expense provided free education for the people. It was greatly for the advantage of the citizen to accept this education just as it is for you to accept this provision, but it was still more for the interest of the state that the citizen should accept it. Do you see the point?" "I can see that it is the interest of the state that I should accept an education, but not exactly why it is for the state's interest that I should accept a share of the public wealth." "Nevertheless it is the same reason, namely, the public interest in good government. We hold it to be a self-evident principle that every one who exercises the suffrage should not only be educated, but should have a stake in the country, in order that self-interest may be identified with public interest. As the power exercised by every citizen through the suffrage is the same, the economic stake should be the same, and so you see we come to the reason why the public safety requires that you should loyally accept your equal stake in the country quite apart from the personal advantage you derive by doing so." "Do you know," I said, "that this idea of yours, that every one who votes should have an economic stake in the country, is one which our rankest Tories were very fond of insisting on, but the practical conclusion they drew from it was diametrically opposed to that which you draw? They would have agreed with you on the axiom that political power and economic stake in the country should go together, but the practical application they made of it was negative instead of positive. You argue that because an economic interest in the country should go with the suffrage, all who have the suffrage should have that interest guaranteed them. They argued, on the contrary, that from all who had not the economic stake the suffrage should be taken away. There were not a few of my friends who maintained that some such limitation of the suffrage was needed to save the democratic experiment from failure." "That is to say," observed the doctor, "it was proposed to save the democratic experiment by abandoning it. It was an ingenious thought, but it so happened that democracy was not an experiment which could be abandoned, but an evolution which must be fulfilled. In what a striking manner does that talk of your contemporaries about limiting the suffrage to correspond with the economic position of citizens illustrate the failure of even the most intelligent classes in your time to grasp the full significance of the democratic faith which they professed! The primal principle of democracy is the worth and dignity of the individual. That dignity, consisting in the quality of human nature, is essentially the same in all individuals, and therefore equality is the vital principle of democracy. To this intrinsic and equal dignity of the individual all material conditions must be made subservient, and personal accidents and attributes subordinated. The raising up of the human being without respect of persons is the constant and only rational motive of the democratic policy. Contrast with this conception that precious notion of your contemporaries as to restricting suffrage. Recognizing the material disparities in the circumstances of individuals, they proposed to conform the rights and dignities of the individual to his material circumstances instead of conforming the material circumstances to the essential and equal dignity of the man." "In short," said I, "while under our system we conformed men to things, you think it more reasonable to conform things to men?" "That is, indeed," replied the doctor, "the vital difference between the old and the new orders." We walked in silence for some moments. Presently the doctor said: "I was trying to recall an expression you just used which suggested a wide difference between the sense in which the same phrase was understood in your day and now is. I was saying that we thought everybody who voted ought to have a property stake in the country, and you observed that some people had the same idea in your time, but according to our view of what a stake in the country is no one had it or could have it under your economic system." "Why not?" I demanded. "Did not men who owned property in a country--a millionaire, for instance, like myself--have a stake in it?" "In the sense that his property was geographically located in the country it might be perhaps called a stake within the country but not a stake in the country. It was the exclusive ownership of a piece of the country or a portion of the wealth in the country, and all it prompted the owner to was devotion to and care for that specific portion without regard to the rest. Such a separate stake or the ambition to obtain it, far from making its owner or seeker a citizen devoted to the common weal, was quite as likely to make him a dangerous one, for his selfish interest was to aggrandize his separate stake at the expense of his fellow-citizens and of the public interest. Your millionaires--with no personal reflection upon yourself, of course--appear to have been the most dangerous class of citizens you had, and that is just what might be expected from their having what you called but what we should not call a stake in the country. Wealth owned in that way could only be a divisive and antisocial influence. "What we mean by a stake in the country is something which nobody could possibly have until economic solidarity had replaced the private ownership of capital. Every one, of course, has his own house and piece of land if he or she desires them, and always his or her own income to use at pleasure; but these are allotments for use only, and, being always equal, can furnish no ground for dissension. The capital of the nation, the source of all this consumption, is indivisibly held by all in common, and it is impossible that there should be any dispute on selfish grounds as to the administration of this common interest on which all private interests depend, whatever differences of judgment there may be. The citizen's share in this common fund is a sort of stake in the country that makes it impossible to hurt another's interest without hurting one's own, or to help one's own interest without promoting equally all other interests. As to its economic bearings it may be said that it makes the Golden Rule an automatic principle of government. What we would do for ourselves we must of necessity do also for others. Until economic solidarity made it possible to carry out in this sense the idea that every citizen ought to have a stake in the country, the democratic system never had a chance to develop its genius." "It seems," I said, "that your foundation principle of economic equality which I supposed was mainly suggested and intended in the interest of the material well-being of the people, is quite as much a principle of political policy for safeguarding the stability and wise ordering of government." "Most assuredly," replied the doctor. "Our economic system is a measure of statesmanship quite as much as of humanity. You see, the first condition of efficiency or stability in any government is that the governing power should have a direct, constant, and supreme interest in the general welfare--that is, in the prosperity of the whole state as distinguished from any part of it. It had been the strong point of monarchy that the king, for selfish reasons as proprietor of the country, felt this interest. The autocratic form of government, solely on that account, had always a certain rough sort of efficiency. It had been, on the other hand, the fatal weakness of democracy, during its negative phase previous to the great Revolution, that the people, who were the rulers, had individually only an indirect and sentimental interest in the state as a whole, or its machinery--their real, main, constant, and direct interest being concentrated upon their personal fortunes, their private stakes, distinct from and adverse to the general stake. In moments of enthusiasm they might rally to the support of the commonwealth, but for the most part that had no custodian, but was at the mercy of designing men and factions who sought to plunder the commonwealth and use the machinery of government for personal or class ends. This was the structural weakness of democracies, by the effect of which, after passing their first youth, they became invariably, as the inequality of wealth developed, the most corrupt and worthless of all forms of government and the most susceptible to misuse and perversion for selfish, personal, and class purposes. It was a weakness incurable so long as the capital of the country, its economic interests, remained in private hands, and one that could be remedied only by the radical abolition of private capitalism and the unification of the nation's capital under collective control. This done, the same economic motive--which, while the capital remained in private hands, was a divisive influence tending to destroy that public spirit which is the breath of life in a democracy--became the most powerful of cohesive forces, making popular government not only ideally the most just but practically the most successful and efficient of political systems. The citizen, who before had been the champion of a part against the rest, became by this change a guardian of the whole." CHAPTER IV. A TWENTIETH-CENTURY BANK PARLOR. The formalities at the bank proved to be very simple. Dr. Leete introduced me to the superintendent, and the rest followed as a matter of course, the whole process not taking three minutes. I was informed that the annual credit of the adult citizen for that year was $4,000, and that the portion due me for the remainder of the year, it being the latter part of September, was $1,075.41. Taking vouchers to the amount of $300, I left the rest on deposit precisely as I should have done at one of the nineteenth-century banks in drawing money for present use. The transaction concluded, Mr. Chapin, the superintendent, invited me into his office. "How does our banking system strike you as compared with that of your day?" he asked. "It has one manifest advantage from the point of view of a penniless _revenant_ like myself," I said--"namely, that one receives a credit without having made a deposit; otherwise I scarcely know enough of it to give an opinion." "When you come to be more familiar with our banking methods," said the superintendent. "I think you will be struck with their similarity to your own. Of course, we have no money and nothing answering to money, but the whole science of banking from its inception was preparing the way for the abolition of money. The only way, really, in which our system differs from yours is that every one starts the year with the same balance to his credit and that this credit is not transferable. As to requiring deposits before accounts are opened, we are necessarily quite as strict as your bankers were, only in our case the people, collectively, make the deposit for all at once. This collective deposit is made up of such provisions of different commodities and such installations for the various public services as are expected to be necessary. Prices or cost estimates are put on these commodities and services, and the aggregate sum of the prices being divided by the population gives the amount of the citizen's personal credit, which is simply his aliquot share of the commodities and services available for the year. No doubt, however, Dr. Leete has told you all about this." "But I was not here to be included in the estimate of the year," I said. "I hope that my credit is not taken out of other people's." "You need feel no concern," replied the superintendent. "While it is astonishing how variations in demand balance one another when great populations are concerned, yet it would be impossible to conduct so big a business as ours without large margins. It is the aim in the production of perishable things, and those in which fancy often changes, to keep as little ahead of the demand as possible, but in all the important staples such great surpluses are constantly carried that a two years' drought would not affect the price of non-perishable produce, while an unexpected addition of several millions to the population could be taken care of at any time without disturbance." "Dr. Leete has told me," I said, "that any part of the credit not used by a citizen during the year is canceled, not being good for the next year. I suppose that is to prevent the possibility of hoarding, by which the equality of your economic condition might be undermined." "It would have the effect to prevent such hoarding, certainly," said the superintendent, "but it is otherwise needful to simplify the national bookkeeping and prevent confusion. The annual credit is an order on a specific provision available during a certain year. For the next year a new calculation with somewhat different elements has to be made, and to make it the books must be balanced and all orders canceled that have not been presented, so that we may know just where we stand." "What, on the other hand, will happen if I run through my credit before the year is out?" The superintendent smiled. "I have read," he said, "that the spendthrift evil was quite a serious one in your day. Our system has the advantage over yours that the most incorrigible spendthrift can not trench on his principal, which consists in his indivisible equal share in the capital of the nation. All he can at most do is to waste the annual dividend. Should you do this, I have no doubt your friends will take care of you, and if they do not you may be sure the nation will, for we have not the strong stomachs that enabled our forefathers to enjoy plenty with hungry people about them. The fact is, we are so squeamish that the knowledge that a single individual in the nation was in want would keep us all awake nights. If you insisted on being in need, you would have to hide away for the purpose. "Have you any idea," I asked, "how much this credit of $4,000 would have been equal to in purchasing power in 1887?" "Somewhere about $6,000 or $7,000, I should say," replied Mr. Chapin. "In estimating the economic position of the citizen you must consider that a great variety of services and commodities are now supplied gratuitously on public account, which formerly individuals had to pay for, as, for example, water, light, music, news, the theatre and opera, all sorts of postal and electrical communications, transportation, and other things too numerous to detail." "Since you furnish so much on public or common account, why not furnish everything in that way? It would simplify matters, I should say." "We think, on the contrary, that it would complicate the administration, and certainly it would not suit the people as well. You see, while we insist on equality we detest uniformity, and seek to provide free play to the greatest possible variety of tastes in our expenditure." Thinking I might be interested in looking them over, the superintendent had brought into the office some of the books of the bank. Without having been at all expert in nineteenth-century methods of bookkeeping, I was much impressed with the extreme simplicity of these accounts compared with any I had been familiar with. Speaking of this, I added that it impressed me the more, as I had received an impression that, great as were the superiorities of the national co-operative system over our way of doing business, it must involve a great increase in the amount of bookkeeping as compared with what was necessary under the old system. The superintendent and Dr. Leete looked at each other and smiled. "Do you know, Mr. West," said the former, "it strikes us as very odd that you should have that idea? We estimate that under our system one accountant serves where dozens were needed in your day." "But," said I, "the nation has now a separate account with or for every man, woman, and child in the country." "Of course," replied the superintendent, "but did it not have the same in your day? How else could it have assessed and collected taxes or exacted a dozen other duties from citizens? For example, your tax system alone with its inquisitions, appraisements, machinery of collection and penalties was vastly more complex than the accounts in these books before you, which consist, as you see, in giving to every person the same credit at the beginning of the year, and afterward simply recording the withdrawals without calculations of interest or other incidents whatever. In fact, Mr. West, so simple and invariable are the conditions that the accounts are kept automatically by a machine, the accountant merely playing on a keyboard." "But I understand that every citizen has a record kept also of his services as the basis of grading and regrading." "Certainly, and a most minute one, with most careful guards against error or unfairness. But it is a record having none of the complications of one of your money or wages accounts for work done, but is rather like the simple honor records of your educational institutions by which the ranking of the students was determined." "But the citizen also has relations with the public stores from which he supplies his needs?" "Certainly, but not a relation of account. As your people would have said, all purchases are for cash only--that is, on the credit card." "There remains," I persisted, "the accounting for goods and services between the stores and the productive departments and between the several departments." "Certainly; but the whole system being under one head and all the parts working together with no friction and no motive for any indirection, such accounting is child's work compared with the adjustment of dealings between the mutually suspicious private capitalists, who divided among themselves the field of business in your day, and sat up nights devising tricks to deceive, defeat, and overreach one another." "But how about the elaborate statistics on which you base the calculations that guide production? There at least is need of a good deal of figuring." "Your national and State governments," replied Mr. Chapin, "published annually great masses of similar statistics, which, while often very inaccurate, must have cost far more trouble to accumulate, seeing that they involved an unwelcome inquisition into the affairs of private persons instead of a mere collection of reports from the books of different departments of one great business. Forecasts of probable consumption every manufacturer, merchant, and storekeeper had to make in your day, and mistakes meant ruin. Nevertheless, he could but guess, because he had no sufficient data. Given the complete data that we have, and a forecast is as much increased in certainty as it is simplified in difficulty." "Kindly spare me any further demonstration of the stupidity of my criticism." "Dear me, Mr. West, there is no question of stupidity. A wholly new system of things always impresses the mind at first sight with an effect of complexity, although it may be found on examination to be simplicity itself. But please do not stop me just yet, for I have told you only one side of the matter. I have shown you how few and simple are the accounts we keep compared with those in corresponding relations kept by you; but the biggest part of the subject is the accounts you had to keep which we do not keep at all. Debit and credit are no longer known; interest, rents, profits, and all the calculations based on them no more have any place in human affairs. In your day everybody, besides his account with the state, was involved in a network of accounts with all about him. Even the humblest wage-earner was on the books of half a dozen tradesmen, while a man of substance might be down in scores or hundreds, and this without speaking of men not engaged in commerce. A fairly nimble dollar had to be set down so many times in so many places, as it went from hand to hand, that we calculate in about five years it must have cost itself in ink, paper, pens, and clerk hire, let alone fret and worry. All these forms of private and business accounts have now been done away with. Nobody owes anybody, or is owed by anybody, or has any contract with anybody, or any account of any sort with anybody, but is simply beholden to everybody for such kindly regard as his virtues may attract." CHAPTER V. I EXPERIENCE A NEW SENSATION. "Doctor," said I as we came out of the bank, "I have a most extraordinary feeling." "What sort of a feeling?" "It is a sensation which I never had anything like before," I said, "and never expected to have. I feel as if I wanted to go to work. Yes, Julian West, millionaire, loafer by profession, who never did anything useful in his life and never wanted to, finds himself seized with an overmastering desire to roll up his sleeves and do something toward rendering an equivalent for his living." "But," said the doctor, "Congress has declared you the guest of the nation, and expressly exempted you from the duty of rendering any sort of public service." "That is all very well, and I take it kindly, but I begin to feel that I should not enjoy knowing that I was living on other people." "What do you suppose it is," said the doctor, smiling, "that has given you this sensitiveness about living on others which, as you say, you never felt before?" "I have never been much given to self-analysis," I replied, "but the change of feeling is very easily explained in this case. I find myself surrounded by a community every member of which not physically disqualified is doing his or her own part toward providing the material prosperity which I share. A person must be of remarkably tough sensibilities who would not feel ashamed under such circumstances if he did not take hold with the rest and do his part. Why didn't I feel that way about the duty of working in the nineteenth century? Why, simply because there was no such system then for sharing work, or indeed any system at all. For the reason that there was no fair play or suggestion of justice in the distribution of work, everybody shirked it who could, and those who could not shirk it cursed the luckier ones and got even by doing as bad work as they could. Suppose a rich young fellow like myself had a feeling that he would like to do his part. How was he going to go about it? There was absolutely no social organization by which labor could be shared on any principle of justice. There was no possibility of co-operation. We had to choose between taking advantage of the economic system to live on other people or have them take advantage of it to live on us. We had to climb on their backs as the only way of preventing them from climbing on our backs. We had the alternative of profiting by an unjust system or being its victims. There being no more moral satisfaction in the one alternative than the other, we naturally preferred the first. By glimpses all the more decent of us realized the ineffable meanness of sponging our living out of the toilers, but our consciences were completely bedeviled by an economic system which seemed a hopeless muddle that nobody could see through or set right or do right under. I will undertake to say that there was not a man of my set, certainly not of my friends, who, placed just as I am this morning in presence of an absolutely simple, just, and equal system for distributing the industrial burden, would not feel just as I do the impulse to roll up his sleeves and take hold." "I am quite sure of it," said the doctor. "Your experience strikingly confirms the chapter of revolutionary history which tells us that when the present economic order was established those who had been under the old system the most irreclaimable loafers and vagabonds, responding to the absolute justice and fairness of the new arrangements, rallied to the service of the state with enthusiasm. But talking of what you are to do, why was not my former suggestion a good one, that you should tell our people in lectures about the nineteenth century?" "I thought at first that it would be a good idea," I replied, "but our talk in the garden this morning has about convinced me that the very last people who had any intelligent idea of the nineteenth century, what it meant, and what it was leading to, were just myself and my contemporaries of that time. After I have been with you a few years I may learn enough about my own period to discuss it intelligently." "There is something in that," replied the doctor. "Meanwhile, you see that great building with the dome just across the square? That is our local Industrial Exchange. Perhaps, seeing that we are talking of what you are to do to make yourself useful, you may be interested in learning a little of the method by which our people choose their occupations." I readily assented, and we crossed the square to the exchange. "I have given you thus far," said the doctor, "only a general outline of our system of universal industrial service. You know that every one of either sex, unless for some reason temporarily or permanently exempt, enters the public industrial service in the twenty-first year, and after three years of a sort of general apprenticeship in the unclassified grades elects a special occupation, unless he prefers to study further for one of the scientific professions. As there are a million youth, more or less, who thus annually elect their occupations, you may imagine that it must be a complex task to find a place for each in which his or her own taste shall be suited as well as the needs of the public service." I assured the doctor that I had indeed made this reflection. "A very few moments will suffice," he said, "to disabuse your mind of that notion and to show you how wonderfully a little rational system has simplified the task of finding a fitting vocation in life which used to be so difficult a matter in your day and so rarely was accomplished in a satisfactory manner." Finding a comfortable corner for us near one of the windows of the central hall, the doctor presently brought a lot of sample blanks and schedules and proceeded to explain them to me. First he showed me the annual statement of exigencies by the General Government, specifying in what proportion the force of workers that was to become available that year ought to be distributed among the several occupations in order to carry on the industrial service. That was the side of the subject which represented the necessities of the public service that must be met. Next he showed me the volunteering or preference blank, on which every youth that year graduating from the unclassified service indicated, if he chose to, the order of his preference as to the various occupations making up the public service, it being inferred, if he did not fill out the blank, that he or she was willing to be assigned for the convenience of the service. "But," said I, "locality of residence is often quite as important as the kind of one's occupation. For example, one might not wish to be separated from parents, and certainly would not wish to be from a sweetheart, however agreeable the occupation assigned might be in other respects." "Very true," said the doctor. "If, indeed, our industrial system undertook to separate lovers and friends, husbands and wives, parents and children, without regard to their wishes, it certainly would not last long. You see this column of localities. If you make your cross against Boston in that column, it becomes imperative upon the administration to provide you employment somewhere in this district. It is one of the rights of every citizen to demand employment within his home district. Otherwise, as you say, ties of love and friendship might be rudely broken. But, of course, one can not have his cake and eat it too; if you make work in the home district imperative, you may have to take an occupation to which you would have preferred some other that might have been open to you had you been willing to leave home. However, it is not common that one needs to sacrifice a chosen career to the ties of affection. The country is divided into industrial districts or circles, in each of which there is intended to be as nearly as possible a complete system of industry, wherein all the important arts and occupations are represented. It is in this way made possible for most of us to find an opportunity in a chosen occupation without separation from friends. This is the more simply done, as the modern means of communication have so far abolished distance that the man who lives in Boston and works in Springfield, one hundred miles away, is quite as near his place of business as was the average workingman of your day. One who, living in Boston, should work two hundred miles away (in Albany), would be far better situated than the average suburbanite doing business in Boston a century ago. But while a great number desire to find occupations at home, there are also many who from love of change much prefer to leave the scenes of their childhood. These, too, indicate their preferences by marking the number of the district to which they prefer to be assigned. Second or third preferences may likewise be indicated, so that it would go hard indeed if one could not obtain a location in at least the part of the country he desired, though the locality preference is imperative only when the person desires to stay in the home district. Otherwise it is consulted so far as consistent with conflicting claims. The volunteer having thus filled out his preference blank, takes it to the proper registrar and has his ranking officially stamped upon it." "What is the ranking?" I asked. "It is the figure which indicates his previous standing in the schools and during his service as an unclassified worker, and is supposed to give the best attainable criterion thus far of his relative intelligence, efficiency, and devotion to duty. Where there are more volunteers for particular occupations than there is room for, the lowest in ranking have to be content with a second or third preference. The preference blanks are finally handed in at the local exchange, and are collated at the central office of the industrial district. All who have made home work imperative are first provided for in accordance with rank. The blanks of those preferring work in other districts are forwarded to the national bureau and there collated with those from other districts, so that the volunteers may be provided for as nearly as may be according to their wishes, subject, where conflict of claim arises, to their relative ranking right. It has always been observed that the personal eccentricities of individuals in great bodies have a wonderful tendency to balance and mutually complement one another, and this principle is strikingly illustrated in our system of choice of occupation and locality. The preference blanks are filled out in June, and by the first of August everybody knows just where he or she is to report for service in October. "However, if any one has received an assignment which is decidedly unwelcome either as to location or occupation, it is not even then, or indeed at any time, too late to endeavor to find another. The administration has done its best to adjust the individual aptitude and wishes of each worker to the needs of the public service, but its machinery is at his service for any further attempts he may wish to make to suit himself better." And then the doctor took me to the Transfer Department and showed me how persons who were dissatisfied either with their assignment of occupation or locality could put themselves in communication with all others in any part of the country who were similarly dissatisfied, and arrange, subject to liberal regulations, such exchanges as might be mutually agreeable. "If a person is not absolutely unwilling to do anything at all," he said, "and does not object to all parts of the country equally, he ought to be able sooner or later to provide himself both with pretty nearly the occupation and locality he desires. And if, after all, there should be any one so dull that he can not hope to succeed in his occupation or make a better exchange with another, yet there is no occupation now tolerated by the state which would not have been as to its conditions a godsend to the most fortunately situated workman of your day. There is none in which peril to life or health is not reduced to a minimum, and the dignity and rights of the worker absolutely guaranteed. It is a constant study of the administration so to bait the less attractive occupations with special advantages as to leisure and otherwise always to keep the balance of preference between them as nearly true as possible; and if, finally, there were any occupation which, after all, remained so distasteful as to attract no volunteers, and yet was necessary, its duties would be performed by all in rotation." "As, for example," I said, "the work of repairing and cleansing the sewers." "If that sort of work were as offensive as it must have been in your day, I dare say it might have to be done by a rotation in which all would take their turn," replied the doctor, "but our sewers are as clean as our streets. They convey only water which has been chemically purified and deodorized before it enters them by an apparatus connected with every dwelling. By the same apparatus all solid sewage is electrically cremated, and removed in the form of ashes. This improvement in the sewer system, which followed the great Revolution very closely, might have waited a hundred years before introduction but for the Revolution, although the necessary scientific knowledge and appliances had long been available. The case furnishes merely one instance out of a thousand of the devices for avoiding repulsive and perilous sorts of work which, while simple enough, the world would never have troubled itself to adopt so long as the rich had in the poor a race of uncomplaining economic serfs on which to lay all their burdens. The effect of economic equality was to make it equally the interest of all to avoid, so far as possible, the more unpleasant tasks, since henceforth they must be shared by all. In this way, wholly apart from the moral aspects of the matter, the progress of chemical, sanitary, and mechanical science owes an incalculable debt to the Revolution." "Probably," I said, "you have sometimes eccentric persons--'crooked sticks' we used to call them--who refuse to adapt themselves to the social order on any terms or admit any such thing as social duty. If such a person should flatly refuse to render any sort of industrial or useful service on any terms, what would be done with him? No doubt there is a compulsory side to your system for dealing with such persons?" "Not at all," replied the doctor. "If our system can not stand on its merits as the best possible arrangement for promoting the highest welfare of all, let it fall. As to the matter of industrial service, the law is simply that if any one shall refuse to do his or her part toward the maintenance of the social order he shall not be allowed to partake of its benefits. It would obviously not be fair to the rest that he should do so. But as to compelling him to work against his will by force, such an idea would be abhorrent to our people. The service of society is, above all, a service of honor, and all its associations are what you used to call chivalrous. Even as in your day soldiers would not serve with skulkers, but drummed cowards out of the camp, so would our workers refuse the companionship of persons openly seeking to evade their civic duty." "But what do you do with such persons?" "If an adult, being neither criminal nor insane, should deliberately and fixedly refuse to render his quota of service in any way, either in a chosen occupation or, on failure to choose, in an assigned one, he would be furnished with such a collection of seeds and tools as he might choose and turned loose on a reservation expressly prepared for such persons, corresponding a little perhaps with the reservations set apart for such Indians in your day as were unwilling to accept civilization. There he would be left to work out a better solution of the problem of existence than our society offers, if he could do so. We think we have the best possible social system, but if there is a better we want to know it, so that we may adopt it. We encourage the spirit of experiment." "And are there really cases," I said, "of individuals who thus voluntarily abandon society in preference to fulfilling their social duty?" "There have been such cases, though I do not know that there are any at the present time. But the provision for them exists." CHAPTER VI. HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE. When we reached the house the doctor said: "I am going to leave you to Edith this morning. The fact is, my duties as mentor, while extremely to my taste, are not quite a sinecure. The questions raised in our talks frequently suggest the necessity of refreshing my general knowledge of the contrasts between your day and this by looking up the historical authorities. The conversation this morning has indicated lines of research which will keep me busy in the library the rest of the day." I found Edith in the garden, and received her congratulations upon my fully fledged citizenship. She did not seem at all surprised on learning my intention promptly to find a place in the industrial service. "Of course you will want to enter the service as soon as you can," she said. "I knew you would. It is the only way to get in touch with the people and feel really one of the nation. It is the great event we all look forward to from childhood." "Talking of industrial service," I said, "reminds me of a question it has a dozen times occurred to me to ask you. I understand that everyone who is able to do so, women as well as men, serves the nation from twenty-one to forty-five years of age in some useful occupation; but so far as I have seen, although you are the picture of health and vigor, you have no employment, but are quite like young ladies of elegant leisure in my day, who spent their time sitting in the parlor and looking handsome. Of course, it is highly agreeable to me that you should be so free, but how, exactly, is so much leisure on your part squared with the universal obligation of service?" Edith was greatly amused. "And so you thought I was shirking? Had it not occurred to you that there might probably be such things as vacations or furloughs in the industrial service, and that the rather unusual and interesting guest in our household might furnish a natural occasion for me to take an outing if I could get it?" "And can you take your vacation when you please?" "We can take a portion of it when we please, always subject, of course, to the needs of the service." "But what do you do when you are at work--teach school, paint china, keep books for the Government, stand behind a counter in the public stores, or operate a typewriter or telegraph wire?" "Does that list exhaust the number of women's occupations in your day?" "Oh, no; those were only some of their lighter and pleasanter occupations. Women were also the scrubbers, the washers, the servants of all work. The most repulsive and humiliating kinds of drudgery were put off upon the women of the poorer class; but I suppose, of course, you do not do any such work." "You may be sure that I do my part of whatever unpleasant things there are to do, and so does every one in the nation; but, indeed, we have long ago arranged affairs so that there is very little such work to do. But, tell me, were there no women in your day who were machinists, farmers, engineers, carpenters, iron workers, builders, engine drivers, or members of the other great crafts?" "There were no women in such occupations. They were followed by men only." "I suppose I knew that," she said; "I have read as much; but it is strange to talk with a man of the nineteenth century who is so much like a man of to-day and realize that the women were so different as to seem like another order of beings." "But, really," said I, "I don't understand how in these respects the women can do very differently now unless they are physically much stronger. Most of these occupations you have just mentioned were too heavy for their strength, and for that reason, largely, were limited to men, as I should suppose they must still be." "There is not a trade or occupation in the whole list," replied Edith, "in which women do not take part. It is partly because we are physically much more vigorous than the poor creatures of your time that we do the sorts of work that were too heavy for them, but it is still more an account of the perfection of machinery. As we have grown stronger, all sorts of work have grown lighter. Almost no heavy work is done directly now; machines do all, and we only need to guide them, and the lighter the hand that guides, the better the work done. So you see that nowadays physical qualities have much less to do than mental with the choice of occupations. The mind is constantly getting nearer to the work, and father says some day we may be able to work by sheer will power directly and have no need of hands at all. It is said that there are actually more women than men in great machine works. My mother was first lieutenant in a great iron works. Some have a theory that the sense of power which one has in controlling giant engines appeals to women's sensibilities even more than to men's. But really it is not quite fair to make you guess what my occupation is, for I have not fully decided on it." "But you said you were already at work." "Oh, yes, but you know that before we choose our life occupation we are three years in the unclassified or miscellaneous class of workers. I am in my second year in that class." "What do you do?" "A little of everything and nothing long. The idea is to give us during that period a little practical experience in all the main departments of work, so that we may know better how and what to choose as an occupation. We are supposed to have got through with the schools before we enter this class, but really I have learned more since I have been at work than in twice the time spent in school. You can not imagine how perfectly delightful this grade of work is. I don't wonder some people prefer to stay in it all their lives for the sake of the constant change in tasks, rather than elect a regular occupation. Just now I am among the agricultural workers on the great farm near Lexington. It is delightful, and I have about made up my mind to choose farm work as an occupation. That is what I had in mind when I asked you to guess my trade. Do you think you would ever have guessed that?" "I don't think I ever should, and unless the conditions of farm work have greatly changed since my day I can not imagine how you could manage it in a woman's costume." Edith regarded me for a moment with an expression of simple surprise, her eyes growing large. Then her glance fell to her dress, and when she again looked up her expression had changed to one which was at once meditative, humorous, and wholly inscrutable. Presently she said: "Have you not observed, my dear Julian, that the dress of the women you see on the streets is different from that which women wore in the nineteenth century?" "I have noticed, of course, that they generally wear no skirts, but you and your mother dress as women did in my day." "And has it not occurred to you to wonder why our dress was not like theirs--why we wear skirts and they do not?" "Possibly that has occurred to me among the thousand other questions that every day arise in my mind, only to be driven out by a thousand others before I can ask them; but I think in this case I should have rather wondered why these other women did not dress as you do instead of why you did not dress as they do, for your costume, being the one I was accustomed to, naturally struck me as the normal type, and this other style as a variation for some special or local reason which I should later learn about. You must not think me altogether stupid. To tell the truth, these other women have as yet scarcely impressed me as being very real. You were at first the only person about whose reality I felt entirely sure. All the others seemed merely parts of a fantastic farrago of wonders, more or less possible, which is only just beginning to become intelligible and coherent. In time I should doubtless have awakened to the fact that there were other women in the world besides yourself and begun to make inquiries about them." As I spoke of the absoluteness with which I had depended on her during those first bewildering days for the assurance even of my own identity the quick tears rushed to my companion's eyes, and--well, for a space the other women were more completely forgotten than ever. Presently she said: "What were we talking about? Oh, yes, I remember--about those other women. I have a confession to make. I have been guilty toward you all this time of a sort of fraud, or at least of a flagrant suppression of the truth, which ought not to be kept up a moment longer. I sincerely hope you will forgive me, in consideration of my motive, and not----" "Not what?" "Not be too much startled." "You make me very curious," I said. "What is this mystery? I think I can stand the disclosure." "Listen, then," she said. "That wonderful night when we saw you first, of course our great thought was to avoid agitating you when you should recover full consciousness by any more evidence of the amazing things that had happened since your day than it was necessary you should see. We knew that in your time the use of long skirts by women was universal, and we reflected that to see mother and me in the modern dress would no doubt strike you very strangely. Now, you see, although skirtless costumes are the general--indeed, almost universal--wear for most occasions, all possible costumes, ancient and modern, of all races, ages, and civilizations, are either provided or to be obtained on the shortest possible notice at the stores. It was therefore very easy for us to furnish ourselves with the old-style dress before father introduced you to us. He said people had in your day such strange ideas of feminine modesty and propriety that it would be the best way to do. Can you forgive us, Julian, for taking such an advantage of your ignorance?" "Edith," I said, "there were a great many institutions of the nineteenth century which we tolerated because we did not know how to get rid of them, without, however, having a bit better opinion of them than you have, and one of them was the costume by means of which our women used to disguise and cripple themselves." "I am delighted!" exclaimed Edith. "I perfectly detest these horrible bags, and will not wear them a moment longer!" And bidding me wait where I was, she ran into the house. Five minutes, perhaps, I waited there in the arbor, where we had been sitting, and then, at a light step on the grass, looked up to see Edith with eyes of smiling challenge standing before me in modern dress. I have seen her in a hundred varieties of that costume since then, and have grown familiar with the exhaustless diversity of its adaptations, but I defy the imagination of the greatest artist to devise a scheme of color and fabric that would again produce upon me the effect of enchanting surprise which I received from that quite simple and hasty toilet. I don't know how long I stood looking at her without a thought of words, my eyes meanwhile no doubt testifying eloquently enough how adorable I found her. She seemed, however, to divine more than that in my expression, for presently she exclaimed: "I would give anything to know what you are thinking down in the bottom of your mind! It must be something awfully funny. What are you turning so red for?" "I am blushing for myself," I said, and that is all I would tell her, much as she teased me. Now, at this distance of time I may tell the truth. My first sentiment, apart from overwhelming admiration, had been a slight astonishment at her absolute ease and composure of bearing under my gaze. This is a confession that may well seem incomprehensible to twentieth-century readers, and God forbid that they should ever catch the point of view which would enable them to understand it better! A woman of my day, unless professionally accustomed to use this sort of costume, would have seemed embarrassed and ill at ease, at least for a time, under a gaze so intent as mine, even though it were a brother's or a father's. I, it seems, had been prepared for at least some slight appearance of discomposure on Edith's part, and was consciously surprised at a manner which simply expressed an ingenuous gratification at my admiration. I refer to this momentary experience because it has always seemed to me to illustrate in a particularly vivid way the change that has taken place not only in the customs but in the mental attitude of the sexes as to each other since my former life. In justice to myself I must hasten to add that this first feeling of surprise vanished even as it arose, in a moment, between two heart-beats. I caught from her clear, serene eyes the view point of the modern man as to woman, never again to lose it. Then it was that I flushed red with shame for myself. Wild horses could not have dragged from me the secret of that blush at the time, though I have told her long ago. "I was thinking," I said, and I was thinking so, too, "that we ought to be greatly obliged to twentieth-century women for revealing for the first time the artistic possibilities of the masculine dress." "The masculine dress," she repeated, as if not quite comprehending my meaning. "Do you mean my dress?" "Why, yes; it is a man's dress I suppose, is it not?" "Why any more than a woman's?" she answered rather blankly. "Ah, yes, I actually forgot for a moment whom I was talking to. I see; so it was considered a man's dress in your day, when the women masqueraded as mermaids. You may think me stupid not to catch your idea more quickly, but I told you I was dull at history. It is now two full generations since women as well as men have worn this dress, and the idea of associating it with men more than women would occur to no one but a professor of history. It strikes us merely as the only natural and convenient solution of the dress necessity, which is essentially the same for both sexes, since their bodily conformation is on the same general lines." CHAPTER VII. A STRING OF SURPRISES. The extremely delicate tints of Edith's costume led me to remark that the color effects of the modern dress seemed to be in general very light as compared with those which prevailed in my day. "The result," I said, "is extremely pleasing, but if you will excuse a rather prosaic suggestion, it occurs to me that with the whole nation given over to wearing these delicate schemes of color, the accounts for washing must be pretty large. I should suppose they would swamp the national treasury if laundry bills are anything like what they used to be." This remark, which I thought a very sensible one, set Edith to laughing. "Doubtless we could not do much else if we washed our clothes," she said; "but you see we do not wash them." "Not wash them!--why not?" "Because we don't think it nice to wear clothes again after they have been so much soiled as to need washing." "Well, I won't say that I am surprised," I replied; "in fact, I think I am no longer capable of being surprised at anything; but perhaps you will kindly tell me what you do with a dress when it becomes soiled." "We throw it away--that is, it goes back to the mills to be made into something else." "Indeed! To my nineteenth-century intellect, throwing away clothing would seem even more expensive than washing it." "Oh, no, much less so. What do you suppose, now, this costume of mine cost?" "I don't know, I am sure. I never had a wife to pay dressmaker's bills for, but I should say certainly it cost a great deal of money." "Such costumes cost from ten to twenty cents," said Edith. "What do you suppose it is made of?" I took the edge of her mantle between my fingers. "I thought it was silk or fine linen," I replied, "but I see it is not. Doubtless it is some new fiber." "We have discovered many new fibers, but it is rather a question of process than material that I had in mind. This is not a textile fabric at all, but paper. That is the most common material for garments nowadays." "But--but," I exclaimed, "what if it should come on to rain on these paper clothes? Would they not melt, and at a little strain would they not part?" "A costume such as this," said Edith, "is not meant for stormy weather, and yet it would by no means melt in a rainstorm, however severe. For storm-garments we have a paper that is absolutely impervious to moisture on the outer surface. As to toughness, I think you would find it as hard to tear this paper as any ordinary cloth. The fabric is so strengthened with fiber as to hold together very stoutly." "But in winter, at least, when you need warmth, you must have to fall back on our old friend the sheep." "You mean garments made of sheep's hair? Oh, no, there is no modern use for them. Porous paper makes a garment quite as warm as woolen could, and vastly lighter than the clothes you had. Nothing but eider down could have been at once so warm and light as our winter coats of paper." "And cotton!--linen! Don't tell me that they have been given up, like wool?" "Oh, no; we weave fabrics of these and other vegetable products, and they are nearly as cheap as paper, but paper is so much lighter and more easily fashioned into all shapes that it is generally preferred for garments. But, at any rate, we should consider no material fit for garments which could not be thrown away after being soiled. The idea of washing and cleaning articles of bodily use and using them over and over again would be quite intolerable. For this reason, while we want beautiful garments, we distinctly do not want durable ones. In your day, it seems, even worse than the practice of washing garments to be used again you were in the habit of keeping your outer garments without washing at all, not only day after day, but week after week, year after year, sometimes whole lifetimes, when they were specially valuable, and finally, perhaps, giving them away to others. It seems that women sometimes kept their wedding dresses long enough for their daughters to wear at their weddings. That would seem shocking to us, and yet, even your fine ladies did such things. As for what the poor had to do in the way of keeping and wearing their old clothes till they went to rags, that is something which won't bear thinking of." "It is rather startling," I said, "to find the problem of clean clothing solved by the abolition of the wash tub, although I perceive that that was the only radical solution. 'Warranted to wear and wash' used to be the advertisement of our clothing merchants, but now it seems, if you would sell clothing, you must warrant the goods neither to wear nor to wash." "As for wearing," said Edith, "our clothing never gets the chance to show how it would wear before we throw it away, any more than the other fabrics, such as carpets, bedding, and hangings that we use about our houses." "You don't mean that they are paper-made also!" I exclaimed. "Not always made of paper, but always of some fabric so cheap that they can be rejected after the briefest period of using. When you would have swept a carpet we put in a new one. Where you would wash or air bedding we renew it, and so with all the hangings about our houses so far as we use them at all. We upholster with air or water instead of feathers. It is more than I can understand how you ever endured your musty, fusty, dusty rooms with the filth and disease germs of whole generations stored in the woolen and hair fabrics that furnished them. When we clean out a room we turn the hose on ceiling, walls, and floor. There is nothing to harm--nothing but tiled or other hard-finished surfaces. Our hygienists say that the change in customs in these matters relating to the purity of our clothing and dwellings, has done more than all our other improvements to eradicate the germs of contagious and other diseases and relegate epidemics to ancient history. "Talking of paper," said Edith, extending a very trim foot by way of attracting attention to its gear, "what do you think of our modern shoes?" "Do you mean that they also are made of paper?" I exclaimed. "Of course." "I noticed the shoes your father gave me were very light as compared with anything I had ever worn before. Really that is a great idea, for lightness in foot wear is the first necessity. Scamp shoemakers used to put paper soles in shoes in my day. It is evident that instead of prosecuting them for rascals we should have revered them as unconscious prophets. But, for that matter, how do you prepare soles of paper that will last?" "There are plenty of solutions which will make paper as hard as iron." "And do not these shoes leak in winter?" "We have different kinds for different weathers. All are seamless, and the wet-weather sort are coated outside with a lacquer impervious to moisture." "That means, I suppose, that rubbers too as articles of wear have been sent to the museum?" "We use rubber, but not for wear. Our waterproof paper is much lighter and better every way." "After all this it is easy to believe that your hats and caps are also paper-made." "And so they are to a great extent," said Edith; "the heavy headgear that made your men bald ours would not endure. We want as little as possible on our heads, and that as light as may be." "Go on!" I exclaimed. "I suppose I am next to be told that the delicious but mysterious articles of food which come by the pneumatic carrier from the restaurant or are served there are likewise made out of paper. Proceed--I am prepared to believe it!" "Not quite so bad as that," laughed my companion, "but really the next thing to it, for the dishes you eat them from are made of paper. The crash of crockery and glass, which seems to have been a sort of running accompaniment to housekeeping in your day, is no more heard in the land. Our dishes and kettles for eating or cooking, when they need cleaning are thrown away, or rather, as in the case of all these rejected materials I have spoken of, sent back to the factories to be reduced again to pulp and made over into other forms." "But you certainly do not use paper kettles? Fire will still burn, I fancy, although you seem to have changed most of the other rules we went by." "Fire will still burn, indeed, but the electrical heat has been adopted for cooking as well as for all other purposes. We no longer heat our vessels from without but from within, and the consequence is that we do our cooking in paper vessels on wooden stoves, even as the savages used to do it in birch-bark vessels with hot stones, for, so the philosophers say, history repeats itself in an ever-ascending spiral." And now Edith began to laugh at my perplexed expression. She declared that it was clear my credulity had been taxed with these accounts of modern novelties about as far as it would be prudent to try it without furnishing some further evidence of the truth of the statements she had made. She proposed accordingly, for the balance of the morning, a visit to some of the great paper-process factories. CHAPTER VIII. THE GREATEST WONDER YET--FASHION DETHRONED. "You surely can not form the slightest idea of the bodily ecstasy it gives me to have done with that horrible masquerade in mummy clothes," exclaimed my companion as we left the house. "To think this is the first time we have actually been walking together!" "Surely you forget," I replied; "we have been out together several times." "Out together, yes, but not walking," she answered; "at least I was not walking. I don't know what would be the proper zoological term to describe the way I got over the ground inside of those bags, but it certainly was not walking. The women of your day, you see, were trained from childhood in that mode of progression, and no doubt acquired some skill in it; but I never had skirts on in my life except once, in some theatricals. It was the hardest thing I ever tried, and I doubt if I ever again give you so strong a proof of my regard. I am astonished that you did not seem to notice what a distressful time I was having." But if, being accustomed, as I had been, to the gait of women hampered by draperies, I had not observed anything unusual in Edith's walk when we had been out on previous occasions, the buoyant grace of her carriage and the elastic vigor of her step as she strode now by my side was a revelation of the possibilities of an athletic companionship which was not a little intoxicating. To describe in detail what I saw in my tour that day through the paper-process factories would be to tell an old story to twentieth-century readers; but what far more impressed me than all the ingenuity and variety of mechanical adaptations was the workers themselves and the conditions of their labor. I need not tell my readers what the great mills are in these days--lofty, airy halls, walled with beautiful designs in tiles and metal, furnished like palaces, with every convenience, the machinery running almost noiselessly, and every incident of the work that might be offensive to any sense reduced by ingenious devices to the minimum. Neither need I describe to you the princely workers in these palaces of industry, the strong and splendid men and women, with their refined and cultured faces, prosecuting with the enthusiasm of artists their self-chosen tasks of combining use and beauty. You all know what your factories are to-day; no doubt you find them none too pleasant or convenient, having been used to such things all your lives. No doubt you even criticise them in various ways as falling short of what they might be, for such is human nature; but if you would understand how they seem to me, shut your eyes a moment and try to conceive in fancy what our cotton and woolen and paper mills were like a hundred years ago. Picture low rooms roofed with rough and grimy timbers and walled with bare or whitewashed brick. Imagine the floor so crammed with machinery for economy of space as to allow bare room for the workers to writhe about among the flying arms and jaws of steel, a false motion meaning death or mutilation. Imagine the air space above filled, instead of air, with a mixture of stenches of oil and filth, unwashed human bodies, and foul clothing. Conceive a perpetual clang and clash of machinery like the screech of a tornado. But these were only the material conditions of the scene. Shut your eyes once more, that you may see what I would fain forget I had ever seen--the interminable rows of women, pallid, hollow-cheeked, with faces vacant and stolid but for the accent of misery, their clothing tattered, faded, and foul; and not women only, but multitudes of little children, weazen-faced and ragged--children whose mother's milk was barely out of their blood, their bones yet in the gristle. * * * * * Edith introduced me to the superintendent of one of the factories, a handsome woman of perhaps forty years. She very kindly showed us about and explained matters to me, and was much interested in turn to know what I thought of the modern factories and their points of contrast with those of former days. Naturally, I told her that I had been impressed, far more than by anything in the new mechanical appliances, with the transformation in the condition of the workers themselves. "Ah, yes," she said, "of course you would say so; that must indeed be the great contrast, though the present ways seem so entirely a matter of course to us that we forget it was not always so. When the workers settle how the work shall be done, it is not wonderful that the conditions should be the pleasantest possible. On the other hand, when, as in your day, a class like your private capitalists, who did not share the work, nevertheless settled how it should be done it is not surprising that the conditions of industry should have been as barbarous as they were, especially when the operation of the competitive system compelled the capitalists to get the most work possible out of the workers on the cheapest terms." "Do I understand." I asked, "that the workers in each trade regulate for themselves the conditions of their particular occupation?" "By no means. The unitary character of our industrial administration is the vital idea of it, without which it would instantly become impracticable. If the members of each trade controlled its conditions, they would presently be tempted to conduct it selfishly and adversely to the general interest of the community, seeking, as your private capitalists did, to get as much and give as little as possible. And not only would every distinctive class of workers be tempted to act in this manner, but every subdivision of workers in the same trade would presently be pursuing the same policy, until the whole industrial system would become disintegrated, and we should have to call the capitalists from their graves to save us. When I said that the workers regulated the conditions of work, I meant the workers as a whole--that is, the people at large, all of whom are nowadays workers, you know. The regulation and mutual adjustment of the conditions of the several branches of the industrial system are wholly done by the General Government. At the same time, however, the regulation of the conditions of work in any occupation is effectively, though indirectly, controlled by the workers in it through the right we all have to choose and change our occupations. Nobody would choose an occupation the conditions of which were not satisfactory, so they have to be made and kept satisfactory." * * * * * While we were at the factory the noon hour came, and I asked the superintendent and Edith to go out to lunch with me. In fact, I wanted to ascertain whether my newly acquired credit card was really good for anything or not. "There is one point about your modern costumes," I said, as we sat at our table in the dining hall, "about which I am rather curious. Will you tell me who or what sets the fashions?" "The Creator sets the only fashion which is now generally followed," Edith answered. "And what is that?" "The fashion of our bodies," she answered. "Ah, yes, very good," I replied, "and very true, too, of your costumes, as it certainly was not of ours; but my question still remains. Allowing that you have a general theory of dress, there are a thousand differences in details, with possible variations of style, shape, color, material, and what not. Now, the making of garments is carried on, I suppose, like all your other industries, as public business, under collective management, is it not?" "Certainly. People, of course, can make their own clothes if they wish to, just as they can make anything else, but it would be a great waste of time and energy." "Very well. The garments turned out by the factories have to be made up on some particular design or designs. In my day the question of designs of garments was settled by society leaders, fashion journals, edicts from Paris, or the Lord knows how; but at any rate the question was settled for us, and we had nothing to do but to obey. I don't say it was a good way; on the contrary, it was detestable; but what I want to know is, What system have you instead, for I suppose you have now no society leaders, fashion journals, or Paris edicts? Who settles the question what you shall wear?" "We do," replied the superintendent. "You mean, I suppose, that you determine it collectively by democratic methods. Now, when I look around me in this dining hall and see the variety and beauty of the costumes, I am bound to say that the result of your system seems satisfactory, and yet I think it would strike even the strongest believer in the principle of democracy that the rule of the majority ought scarcely to extend to dress. I admit that the yoke of fashion which we bowed to was very onerous, and yet it was true that if we were brave enough, as few indeed were, we might defy it; but with the style of dress determined by the administration, and only certain styles made, you must either follow the taste of the majority or lie abed. Why do you laugh? Is it not so?" "We were smiling," replied the superintendent, "on account of a slight misapprehension on your part. When I said that we regulated questions of dress, I meant that we regulated them not collectively, by majority, but individually, each for himself or herself." "But I don't see how you can," I persisted. "The business of producing fabrics and of making them into garments is carried on by the Government. Does not that imply, practically, a governmental control or initiative in fashions of dress?" "Dear me, no!" exclaimed the superintendent. "It is evident, Mr. West, as indeed the histories say, that governmental action carried with it in your day an arbitrary implication which it does not now. The Government is actually now what it nominally was in the America of your day--the servant, tool, and instrument by which the people give effect to their will, itself being without will. The popular will is expressed in two ways, which are quite distinct and relate to different provinces: First, collectively, by majority, in regard to blended, mutually involved interests, such as the large economic and political concerns of the community; second, personally, by each individual for himself or herself in the furtherance of private and self-regarding matters. The Government is not more absolutely the servant of the collective will in regard to the blended interests of the community than it is of the individual convenience in personal matters. It is at once the august representative of all in general concerns, and everybody's agent, errand boy, and factotum for all private ends. Nothing is too high or too low, too great or too little, for it to do for us. "The dressmaking department holds its vast provision of fabrics and machinery at the absolute disposition of the whims of every man or woman in the nation. You can go to one of the stores and order any costume of which a historical description exists, from the days of Eve to yesterday, or you can furnish a design of your own invention for a brand-new costume, designating any material at present existing, and it will be sent home to you in less time than any nineteenth-century dressmaker ever even promised to fill an order. Really, talking of this, I want you to see our garment-making machines in operation. Our paper garments, of course, are seamless, and made wholly by machinery. The apparatus being adjustable to any measure, you can have a costume turned out for you complete while you are looking over the machine. There are, of course, some general styles and shapes that are usually popular, and the stores keep a supply of them on hand, but that is for the convenience of the people, not of the department, which holds itself always ready to follow the initiative of any citizen and provide anything ordered in the least possible time." "Then anybody can set the fashion?" I said. "Anybody can set it, but whether it is followed depends on whether it is a good one, and really has some new point in respect of convenience or beauty; otherwise it certainly will not become a fashion. Its vogue will be precisely proportioned to the merit the popular taste recognizes in it, just as if it were an invention in mechanics. If a new idea in dress has any merit in it, it is taken up with great promptness, for our people are extremely interested in enhancing personal beauty by costume, and the absence of any arbitrary standards of style such as fashion set for you leaves us on the alert for attractions and novelties in shape and color. It is in variety of effect that our mode of dressing seems indeed to differ most from yours. Your styles were constantly being varied by the edicts of fashion, but as only one style was tolerated at a time, you had only a successive and not a simultaneous variety, such as we have. I should imagine that this uniformity of style, extending, as I understand it often did, to fabric, color, and shape alike, must have caused your great assemblages to present a depressing effect of sameness. "That was a fact fully admitted in my day," I replied. "The artists were the enemies of fashion, as indeed all sensible people were, but resistance was in vain. Do you know, if I were to return to the nineteenth century, there is perhaps nothing else I could tell my contemporaries of the changes you have made that would so deeply impress them as the information that you had broken the scepter of fashion, that there were no longer any arbitrary standards in dress recognized, and that no style had any other vogue that might be given it by individual recognition of its merits. That most of the other yokes humanity wore might some day be broken, the more hopeful of us believed, but the yoke of fashion we never expected to be freed from, unless perhaps in heaven." "The reign of fashion, as the history books call it, always seemed to me one of the most utterly incomprehensible things about the old order," said Edith. "It would seem that it must have had some great force behind it to compel such abject submission to a rule so tyrannical. And yet there seems to have been no force at all used. Do tell us what the secret was, Julian?" "Don't ask me," I protested. "It seemed to be some fell enchantment that we were subject to--that is all I know. Nobody professed to understand why we did as we did. Can't you tell us," I added, turning to the superintendent--"how do you moderns diagnose the fashion mania that made our lives such a burden to us?" "Since you appeal to me," replied our companion, "I may say that the historians explain the dominion of fashion in your age as the natural result of a disparity of economic conditions prevailing in a community in which rigid distinctions of caste had ceased to exist. It resulted from two factors: the desire of the common herd to imitate the superior class, and the desire of the superior class to protect themselves from that imitation and preserve distinction of appearance. In times and countries where class was caste, and fixed by law or iron custom, each caste had its distinctive dress, to imitate which was not allowed to another class. Consequently fashions were stationary. With the rise of democracy, the legal protection of class distinctions was abolished, while the actual disparity in social ranks still existed, owing to the persistence of economic inequalities. It was now free for all to imitate the superior class, and thus seem at least to be as good as it, and no kind of imitation was so natural and easy as dress. First, the socially ambitious led off in this imitation; then presently the less pretentious were constrained to follow their example, to avoid an apparent confession of social inferiority; till, finally, even the philosophers had to follow the herd and conform to the fashion, to avoid being conspicuous by an exceptional appearance." "I can see," said Edith, "how social emulation should make the masses imitate the richer and superior class, and how the fashions should in this way be set; but why were they changed so often, when it must have been so terribly expensive and troublesome to make the changes?" "For the reason," answered the superintendent, "that the only way the superior class could escape their imitators and preserve their distinction in dress was by adopting constantly new fashions, only to drop them for still newer ones as soon as they were imitated.--Does it seem to you, Mr. West, that this explanation corresponds with the facts as you observed them?" "Entirely so," I replied. "It might be added, too, that the changes in fashions were greatly fomented and assisted by the self-interest of vast industrial and commercial interests engaged in purveying the materials of dress and personal belongings. Every change, by creating a demand for new materials and rendering those in use obsolete, was what we called good for trade, though if tradesmen were unlucky enough to be caught by a sudden change of fashion with a lot of goods on hand it meant ruin to them. Great losses of this sort, indeed, attended every change in fashion." "But we read that there were fashions in many things besides dress," said Edith. "Certainly," said the superintendent. "Dress was the stronghold and main province of fashion because imitation was easiest and most effective through dress, but in nearly everything that pertained to the habits of living, eating, drinking, recreation, to houses, furniture, horses and carriages, and servants, to the manner of bowing even, and shaking hands, to the mode of eating food and taking tea, and I don't know what else--there were fashions which must be followed, and were changed as soon as they were followed. It was indeed a sad, fantastic race, and, Mr. West's contemporaries appear to have fully realized it; but as long as society was made up of unequals with no caste barriers to prevent imitation, the inferiors were bound to ape the superiors, and the superiors were bound to baffle imitation, so far as possible, by seeking ever-fresh devices for expressing their superiority." "In short," I said, "our tedious sameness in dress and manners appears to you to have been the logical result of our lack of equality in conditions." "Precisely so," answered the superintendent. "Because you were not equal, you made yourself miserable and ugly in the attempt to seem so. The aesthetic equivalent of the moral wrong of inequality was the artistic abomination of uniformity. On the other hand, equality creates an atmosphere which kills imitation, and is pregnant with originality, for every one acts out himself, having nothing to gain by imitating any one else." CHAPTER IX. SOMETHING THAT HAD NOT CHANGED. When we parted with the superintendent of the paper-process factory I said to Edith that I had taken in since that morning about all the new impressions and new philosophies I could for the time mentally digest, and felt great need of resting my mind for a space in the contemplation of something--if indeed there were anything--which had not changed or been improved in the last century. After a moment's consideration Edith exclaimed: "I have it! Ask no questions, but just come with me." Presently, as we were making our way along the route she had taken, she touched my arm, saying, "Let us hurry a little." Now, hurrying was the regulation gait of the nineteenth century. "Hurry up!" was about the most threadbare phrase in the English language, and rather than "_E pluribus unum_" should especially have been the motto of the American people, but it was the first time the note of haste had impressed my consciousness since I had been living twentieth-century days. This fact, together with the touch of my companion upon my arm as she sought to quicken my pace, caused me to look around, and in so doing to pause abruptly. "What is this?" I exclaimed. "It is too bad!" said my companion. "I tried to get you past without seeing it." But indeed, though I had asked what was this building we stood in presence of, nobody could know so well as I what it was. The mystery was how it had come to be there for in the midst of this splendid city of equals, where poverty was an unknown word, I found myself face to face with a typical nineteenth-century tenement house of the worst sort--one of the rookeries, in fact, that used to abound in the North End and other parts of the city. The environment was indeed in strong enough contrast with that of such buildings in my time, shut in as they generally were by a labyrinth of noisome alleys and dark, damp courtyards which were reeking reservoirs of foetid odors, kept in by lofty, light-excluding walls. This building stood by itself, in the midst of an open square, as if it had been a palace or other show place. But all the more, indeed, by this fine setting was the dismal squalor of the grimy structure emphasized. It seemed to exhale an atmosphere of gloom and chill which all the bright sunshine of the breezy September afternoon was unable to dominate. One would not have been surprised, even at noonday, to see ghosts at the black windows. There was an inscription over the door, and I went across the square to read it, Edith reluctantly following me. These words I read, above the central doorway: "THIS HABITATION OF CRUELTY IS PRESERVED AS A MEMENTO TO COMING GENERATIONS OF THE RULE OF THE RICH." "This is one of the ghost buildings," said Edith, "kept to scare the people with, so that they may never risk anything that looks like bringing back the old order of things by allowing any one on any plea to obtain an economic advantage over another. I think they had much better be torn down, for there is no more danger of the world's going back to the old order than there is of the globe reversing its rotation." A band of children, accompanied by a young woman, came across the square as we stood before the building, and filed into the doorway and up the black and narrow stairway. The faces of the little ones were very serious, and they spoke in whispers. "They are school children." said Edith. "We are all taken through this building, or some other like it, when we are in the schools, and the teacher explains what manner of things used to be done and endured there. I remember well when I was taken through this building as a child. It was long afterward before I quite recovered from the terrible impression I received. Really, I don't think it is a good idea to bring young children here, but it is a custom that became settled in the period after the Revolution, when the horror of the bondage they had escaped from was yet fresh in the minds of the people, and their great fear was that by some lack of vigilance the rule of the rich might be restored. "Of course," she continued, "this building and the others like it, which were reserved for warnings when the rest were razed to the ground, have been thoroughly cleaned and strengthened and made sanitary and safe every way, but our artists have very cunningly counterfeited all the old effects of filth and squalor, so that the appearance of everything is just as it was. Tablets in the rooms describe how many human beings used to be crowded into them, and the horrible conditions of their lives. The worst about it is that the facts are all taken from historical records, and are absolutely true. There are some of these places in which the inhabitants of the buildings as they used to swarm in them are reproduced in wax or plaster with every detail of garments, furniture, and all the other features based on actual records or pictures of the time. There is something indescribably dreadful in going through the buildings fitted out in that way. The dumb figures seem to appeal to you to help them. It was so long ago, and yet it makes one feel conscience-stricken not to be able to do anything." "But, Julian, come away. It was just a stupid accident my bringing you past here. When I undertook to show you something that had not changed since your day, I did not mean to mock you." Thanks to modern rapid transit, ten minutes later we stood on the ocean shore, with the waves of the Atlantic breaking noisily at our feet and its blue floor extending unbroken to the horizon. Here indeed was something that had not been changed--a mighty existence, to which a thousand years were as one day and one day as a thousand years. There could be no tonic for my case like the inspiration of this great presence, this unchanging witness of all earth's mutations. How petty seemed the little trick of time that had been played on me as I stood in the presence of this symbol of everlastingness which made past, present, and future terms of little meaning! In accompanying Edith to the part of the beach where we stood I had taken no note of directions, but now, as I began to study the shore, I observed with lively emotion that she had unwittingly brought me to the site of my old seaside place at Nahant. The buildings were indeed gone, and the growth of trees had quite changed the aspect of the landscape, but the shore line remained unaltered, and I knew it at once. Bidding her follow me, I led the way around a point to a little strip of beach between the sea and a wall of rock which shut off all sight or sound of the land behind. In my former life the spot had been a favorite resort when I visited the shore. Here in that life so long ago, and yet recalled as if of yesterday, I had been used from a lad to go to do my day dreaming. Every feature of the little nook was as familiar to me as my bedroom and all was quite unchanged. The sea in front, the sky above, the islands and the blue headlands of the distant coast--all, indeed, that filled the view was the same in every detail. I threw myself upon the warm sand by the margin of the sea, as I had been wont to do, and in a moment the flood of familiar associations had so completely carried me back to my old life that all the marvels that had happened to me, when presently I began to recall them, seemed merely as a day dream that had come to me like so many others before it in that spot by the shore. But what a dream it had been, that vision of the world to be; surely of all the dreams that had come to me there by the sea the weirdest! There had been a girl in the dream, a maiden much to be desired. It had been ill if I had lost her; but I had not, for this was she, the girl in this strange and graceful garb, standing by my side and smiling down at me. I had by some great hap brought her back from dreamland, holding her by the very strength of my love when all else of the vision had dissolved at the opening of the eyes. Why not? What youth has not often been visited in his dreams by maidenly ideals fairer than walk on earth, whom, waking, he has sighed for and for days been followed by the haunting beauty of their half-remembered faces? I, more fortunate than they, had baffled the jealous warder at the gates of sleep and brought my queen of dreamland through. When I proceeded to state to Edith this theory to account for her presence, she professed to find it highly reasonable, and we proceeded at much length to develop the idea. Falling into the conceit that she was an anticipation of the twentieth-century woman instead of my being an excavated relic of the nineteenth-century man, we speculated what we should do for the summer. We decided to visit the great pleasure resorts, where, no doubt, she would under the circumstances excite much curiosity and at the same time have an opportunity of studying what to her twentieth-century mind would seem even more astonishing types of humanity than she would seem to them--namely, people who, surrounded by a needy and anguished world, could get their own consent to be happy in a frivolous and wasteful idleness. Afterward we would go to Europe and inspect such things there as might naturally be curiosities to a girl out of the year 2000, such as a Rothschild, an emperor, and a few specimens of human beings, some of which were at that time still extant in Germany, Austria, and Russia, who honestly believed that God had given to certain fellow-beings a divine title to reign over them. CHAPTER X. A MIDNIGHT PLUNGE. It was after dark when we reached home, and several hours later before we had made an end of telling our adventures. Indeed, my hosts seemed at all times unable to hear too much of my impressions of modern things, appearing to be as much interested in what I thought of them as I was in the things themselves. "It is really, you see," Edith's mother had said, "the manifestation of vanity on our part. You are a sort of looking-glass to us, in which we can see how we appear from a different point of view from our own. If it were not for you, we should never have realized what remarkable people we are, for to one another, I assure you, we seem very ordinary." To which I replied that in talking with them I got the same looking-glass effect as to myself and my contemporaries, but that it was one which by no means ministered to my vanity. When, as we talked, the globe of the color clock turning white announced that it was midnight, some one spoke of bed, but the doctor had another scheme. "I propose," said he, "by way of preparing a good night's rest for us all, that we go over to the natatorium and take a plunge." "Are there any public baths open so late as this?" I said. "In my day everything was shut up long before now." Then and there the doctor gave me the information which, matter of course as it is to twentieth-century readers, was surprising enough to me, that no public service or convenience is ever suspended at the present day, whether by day or night, the year round; and that, although the service provided varies in extent, according to the demand, it never varies in quality. "It seems to us," said the doctor, "that among the minor inconveniences of life in your day none could have been more vexing than the recurrent interruption of all, or of the larger part of all, public services every night. Most of the people, of course, are asleep then, but always a portion of them have occasion to be awake and about, and all of us sometimes, and we should consider it a very lame public service that did not provide for the night workers as good a service as for the day workers. Of course, you could not do it, lacking any unitary industrial organization, but it is very easy with us. We have day and night shifts for all the public services--the latter, of course, much the smaller." "How about public holidays; have you abandoned them?" "Pretty generally. The occasional public holidays in your time were prized by the people, as giving them much-needed breathing spaces. Nowadays, when the working day is so short and the working year so interspersed with ample vacations, the old-fashioned holiday has ceased to serve any purpose, and would be regarded as a nuisance. We prefer to choose and use our leisure time as we please." It was to the Leander Natatorium that we had directed our steps. As I need not remind Bostonians, this is one of the older baths, and considered quite inferior to the modern structures. To me, however, it was a vastly impressive spectacle. The lofty interior glowing with light, the immense swimming tank, the four great fountains filling the air with diamond-dazzle and the noise of falling water, together with the throng of gayly dressed and laughing bathers, made an exhilarating and magnificent scene, which was a very effective introduction to the athletic side of the modern life. The loveliest thing of all was the great expanse of water made translucent by the light reflected from the white tiled bottom, so that the swimmers, their whole bodies visible, seemed as if floating on a pale emerald cloud, with an effect of buoyancy and weightlessness that was as startling as charming. Edith was quick to tell me, however, that this was as nothing to the beauty of some of the new and larger baths, where, by varying the colors of the tiling at the bottom, the water is made to shade through all the tints of the rainbow while preserving the same translucent appearance. I had formed an impression that the water would be fresh, but the green hue, of course, showed it to be from the sea. "We have a poor opinion of fresh water for swimming when we can get salt," said the doctor. "This water came in on the last tide from the Atlantic." "But how do you get it up to this level?" "We make it carry itself up," laughed the doctor; "it would be a pity if the tidal force that raises the whole harbor fully seven feet, could not raise what little we want a bit higher. Don't look at it so suspiciously," he added. "I know that Boston Harbor water was far from being clean enough for bathing in your day, but all that is changed. Your sewerage systems, remember, are forgotten abominations, and nothing that can defile is allowed to reach sea or river nowadays. For that reason we can and do use sea water, not only for all the public baths, but provide it as a distinct service for our home baths and also for all the public fountains, which, thus inexhaustibly supplied, can be kept always playing. But let us go in." "Certainly, if you say so," said I, with a shiver, "but are you sure that it is not a trifle cool? Ocean water was thought by us to be chilly for bathing in late September." "Did you think we were going to give you your death?" said the doctor. "Of course, the water is warmed to a comfortable temperature; these baths are open all winter." "But, dear me! how can you possibly warm such great bodies of water, which are so constantly renewed, especially in winter?" "Oh, we have no conscience at all about what we make the tides do for us," replied the doctor. "We not only make them lift the water up here, but heat it, too. Why, Julian, cold or hot are terms without real meaning, mere coquettish airs which Nature puts on, indicating that she wants to be wooed a little. She would just as soon warm you as freeze you, if you will approach her rightly. The blizzards which used to freeze your generation might just as well have taken the place of your coal mines. You look incredulous, but let me tell you now, as a first step toward the understanding of modern conditions, that power, with all its applications of light, heat, and energy, is to-day practically exhaustless and costless, and scarcely enters as an element into mechanical calculation. The uses of the tides, winds, and waterfalls are indeed but crude methods of drawing on Nature's resources of strength compared with others that are employed by which boundless power is developed from natural inequalities of temperature." A few moments later I was enjoying the most delicious sea bath that ever up to that time had fallen to my lot; the pleasure of the pelting under the fountains was to me a new sensation in life. "You'll make a first-rate twentieth-century Bostonian," said the doctor, laughing at my delight. "It is said that a marked feature of our modern civilization is that we are tending to revert to the amphibious type of our remote ancestry; evidently you will not object to drifting with the tide." It was one o'clock when we reached home. "I suppose," said Edith, as I bade her good-night, "that in ten minutes you will be back among your friends of the nineteenth century if you dream as you did last night. What would I not give to take the journey with you and see for myself what the world was like!" "And I would give as much to be spared a repetition of the experience," I said, "unless it were in your company." "Do you mean that you really are afraid you will dream of the old times again?" "So much afraid," I replied, "that I have a good mind to sit up all night to avoid the possibility of another such nightmare." "Dear me! you need not do that," she said. "If you wish me to, I will see that you are troubled no more in that way." "Are you, then, a magician?" "If I tell you not to dream of any particular matter, you will not," she said. "You are easily the mistress of my waking thoughts," I said; "but can you rule my sleeping mind as well?" "You shall see," she said, and, fixing her eyes upon mine, she said quietly, "Remember, you are not to dream of anything to-night which belonged to your old life!" and, as she spoke, I knew in my mind that it would be as she said. CHAPTER XI. LIFE THE BASIS OF THE RIGHT OF PROPERTY. Among the pieces of furniture in the subterranean bedchamber where Dr. Leete had found me sleeping was one of the strong boxes of iron cunningly locked which in my time were used for the storage of money and valuables. The location of this chamber so far underground, its solid stone construction and heavy doors, had not only made it impervious to noise but equally proof against thieves, and its very existence being, moreover, a secret, I had thought that no place could be safer for keeping the evidences of my wealth. Edith had been very curious about the safe, which was the name we gave to these strong boxes, and several times when we were visiting the vault had expressed a lively desire to see what was inside. I had proposed to open it for her, but she had suggested that, as her father and mother would be as much interested in the process as herself, it would be best to postpone the treat till all should be present. As we sat at breakfast the day after the experiences narrated in the previous chapters, she asked why that morning would not be a good time to show the inside of the safe, and everybody agreed that there could be no better. "What is in the safe?" asked Edith's mother. "When I last locked it in the year 1887," I replied, "there were in it securities and evidences of value of various sorts representing something like a million dollars. When we open it this morning we shall find, thanks to the great Revolution, a fine collection of waste paper.--I wonder, by the way, doctor, just what your judges would say if I were to take those securities to them and make a formal demand to be reinstated in the possessions which they represented? Suppose I said: 'Your Honors, these properties were once mine and I have never voluntarily parted with them. Why are they not mine now, and why should they not be returned to me?' You understand, of course, that I have no desire to start a revolt against the present order, which I am very ready to admit is much better than the old arrangements, but I am quite curious to know just what the judges would reply to such a demand, provided they consented to entertain it seriously. I suppose they would laugh me out of court. Still, I think I might argue with some plausibility that, seeing I was not present when the Revolution divested us capitalists of our wealth, I am at least entitled to a courteous explanation of the grounds on which that course was justified at the time. I do not want my million back, even if it were possible to return it, but as a matter of rational satisfaction I should like to know on just what plea it was appropriated and is retained by the community." "Really Julian," said the doctor, "it would be an excellent idea if you were to do just what you have suggested--that is, bring a formal suit against the nation for reinstatement in your former property. It would arouse the liveliest popular interest and stimulate a discussion of the ethical basis of our economic equality that would be of great educational value to the community. You see the present order has been so long established that it does not often occur to anybody except historians that there ever was any other. It would be a good thing for the people to have their minds stirred up on the subject and be compelled to do some fundamental thinking as to the merits of the differences between the old and the new order and the reasons for the present system. Confronting the court with those securities in your hand, you would make a fine dramatic situation. It would be the nineteenth century challenging the twentieth, the old civilization, demanding an accounting of the new. The judges, you may be sure, would treat you with the greatest consideration. They would at once admit your rights under the peculiar circumstances to have the whole question of wealth distribution and the rights of property reopened from the beginning, and be ready to discuss it in the broadest spirit." "No doubt," I answered, "but it is just an illustration, I suppose, of the lack of unselfish public spirit among my contemporaries that I do not feel disposed to make myself a spectacle even in the cause of education. Besides, what is the need? You can tell me as well as the judges could what the answer would be, and as it is the answer I want and not the property that will do just as well." "No doubt," said the doctor, "I could give you the general line of reasoning they would follow." "Very well. Let us suppose, then, that you are the court. On what ground would you refuse to return me my million, for I assume that you would refuse?" "Of course it would be the same ground," replied the doctor, "that the nation proceeded upon in nationalizing the property which that same million represented at the time of the great Revolution." "I suppose so; that is what I want to get at. What is that ground?" "The court would say that to allow any person to withdraw or withhold from the public administration for the common use any larger portion of capital than the equal portion allotted to all for personal use and consumption would in so far impair the ability of society to perform its first duty to its members." "What is this first duty of society to its members, which would be interfered with by allowing particular citizens to appropriate more than an equal proportion of the capital of the country?" "The duty of safeguarding the first and highest right of its members--the right of life." "But how is the duty of society to safeguard the lives of its members interfered with when one person, has more capital than another?" "Simply," answered the doctor, "because people have to eat in order to live, also to be clothed and to consume a mass of necessary and desirable things, the sum of which constitutes what we call wealth or capital. Now, if the supply of these things was always unlimited, as is the air we need to breathe, it would not be necessary to see that each one had his share, but the supply of wealth being, in fact, at any one time limited, it follows that if some have a disproportionate share, the rest will not have enough and may be left with nothing, as was indeed the case of millions all over the world until the great Revolution established economic equality. If, then, the first right of the citizen is protection to life and the first duty of society is to furnish it, the state must evidently see to it that the means of life are not unduly appropriated by particular individuals, but are distributed so as to meet the needs of all. Moreover, in order to secure the means of life to all, it is not merely necessary that the state should see that the wealth available for consumption is properly distributed at any given time; for, although all might in that case fare well for to-day, tomorrow all might starve unless, meanwhile, new wealth were being produced. The duty of society to guarantee the life of the citizen implies, therefore, not merely the equal distribution of wealth for consumption, but its employment as capital to the best possible advantage for all in the production of more wealth. In both ways, therefore, you will readily see that society would fail in its first and greatest function in proportion as it were to permit individuals beyond the equal allotment to withdraw wealth, whether for consumption or employment as capital, from the public administration in the common interest." "The modern ethics of ownership is rather startlingly simple to a representative of the nineteenth century," I observed. "Would not the judges even ask me by what right or title of ownership I claimed my wealth?" "Certainly not. It is impossible that you or any one could have so strong a title to material things as the least of your fellow-citizens have to their lives, or could make so strong a plea for the use of the collective power to enforce your right to things as they could make that the collective power should enforce their right to life against your right to things at whatever point the two claims might directly or indirectly conflict. The effect of the disproportionate possession of the wealth of a community by some of its members to curtail and threaten the living of the rest is not in any way affected by the means by which that wealth was obtained. The means may have constituted, as in past times they often did by their iniquity, an added injury to the community; but the fact of the disproportion, however resulting, was a continuing injury, without regard to its beginnings. Our ethics of wealth is indeed, as you say, extremely simple. It consists merely in the law of self-preservation, asserted in the name of all against the encroachments of any. It rests upon a principle which a child can understand as well as a philosopher, and which no philosopher ever attempted to refute--namely, the supreme right of all to live, and consequently to insist that society shall be so organized as to secure that right. "But, after all," said the doctor, "what is there in our economic application of this principle which need impress a man of your time with any other sensation than one of surprise that it was not earlier made? Since what you were wont to call modern civilization existed, it has been a principle subscribed to by all governments and peoples that it is the first and supreme duty of the state to protect the lives of the citizens. For the purpose of doing this the police, the courts, the army, and the greater part of the machinery of governments has existed. You went so far as to hold that a state which did not at any cost and to the utmost of its resources safeguard the lives of its citizens forfeited all claim to their allegiance. "But while professing this principle so broadly in words, you completely ignored in practice half and vastly the greater half of its meaning. You wholly overlooked and disregarded the peril to which life is exposed on the economic side--the hunger, cold, and thirst side. You went on the theory that it was only by club, knife, bullet, poison, or some other form of physical violence that life could be endangered, as if hunger, cold, and thirst--in a word, economic want--were not a far more constant and more deadly foe to existence than all the forms of violence together. You overlooked the plain fact that anybody who by any means, however indirect or remote, took away or curtailed one's means of subsistence attacked his life quite as dangerously as it could be done with knife or bullet--more so, indeed, seeing that against direct attack he would have a better chance of defending himself. You failed to consider that no amount of police, judicial, and military protection would prevent one from perishing miserably if he had not enough to eat and wear." "We went on the theory," I said, "that it was not well for the state to intervene to do for the individual or to help him to do what he was able to do for himself. We held that the collective organization should only be appealed to when the power of the individual was manifestly unequal to the task of self-defense." "It was not so bad a theory if you had lived up to it," said the doctor, "although the modern theory is far more rational that whatever can be done better by collective than individual action ought to be so undertaken, even if it could, after a more imperfect fashion, be individually accomplished. But don't you think that under the economic conditions which prevailed in America at the end of the nineteenth century, not to speak of Europe, the average man armed with a good revolver would have found the task of protecting himself and family against violence a far easier one than that of protecting them against want? Were not the odds against him far greater in the latter struggle than they could have been, if he were a tolerably good shot, in the former? Why, then, according to your own maxim, was the collective force of society devoted without stint to safeguarding him against violence, which he could have done for himself fairly well, while he was left to struggle against hopeless odds for the means of a decent existence? What hour, of what day of what year ever passed in which the number of deaths, and the physical and moral anguish resulting from the anarchy of the economic struggle and the crushing odds against the poor, did not outweigh as a hundred to one that same hour's record of death or suffering resulting from violence? Far better would society have fulfilled its recognized duty of safeguarding the lives of its members if, repealing every criminal law and dismissing every judge and policeman, it had left men to protect themselves as best they might against physical violence, while establishing in place of the machinery of criminal justice a system of economic administration whereby all would have been guaranteed against want. If, indeed, it had but substituted this collective economic organization for the criminal and judicial system it presently would have had as little need of the latter as we do, for most of the crimes that plagued you were direct or indirect consequences of your unjust economic conditions, and would have disappeared with them. "But excuse my vehemence. Remember that I am arraigning your civilization and not you. What I wanted to bring out is that the principle that the first duty of society is to safeguard the lives of its members was as fully admitted by your world as by ours, and that in failing to give the principle an economic as well as police, judicial, and military interpretation, your world convicted itself of an inconsistency as glaring in logic as it was cruel in consequences. We, on the other hand, in assuming as a nation the responsibility of safeguarding the lives of the people on the economic side, have merely, for the first time, honestly carried out a principle as old as the civilized state." "That is clear enough," I said. "Any one, on the mere statement of the case, would of course be bound to admit that the recognized duty of the state to guarantee the life of the citizen against the action of his fellows does logically involve responsibility to protect him from influences attacking the economic basis of life quite as much as from direct forcible assaults. The more advanced governments of my day, by their poor laws and pauper systems, in a dim way admitted this responsibility, although the kind of provision they made for the economically unfortunate was so meager and accompanied with such conditions of ignominy that men would ordinarily rather die than accept it. But grant that the sort of recognition we gave of the right of the citizen to be guaranteed a subsistence was a mockery more brutal than its total denial would have been, and that a far larger interpretation of its duty in this respect was incumbent on the state, yet how does it logically follow that society is bound to guarantee or the citizen to demand an absolute economic equality?" "It is very true, as you say," answered the doctor, "that the duty of society to guarantee every member the economic basis of his life might be after some fashion discharged short of establishing economic equality. Just so in your day might the duty of the state to safeguard the lives of citizens from physical violence have been discharged after a nominal fashion if it had contented itself with preventing outright murders, while leaving the people to suffer from one another's wantonness all manner of violence not directly deadly; but tell me, Julian, were governments in your day content with so construing the limit of their duty to protect citizens from violence, or would the citizens have been content with such a limitation?" "Of course not." "A government which in your day," continued the doctor, "had limited its undertaking to protect citizens from violence to merely preventing murders would not have lasted a day. There were no people so barbarous as to have tolerated it. In fact, not only did all civilized governments undertake to protect citizens from assaults against their lives, but from any and every sort of physical assault and offense, however petty. Not only might not a man so much as lay a finger on another in anger, but if he only wagged his tongue against him maliciously he was laid by the heels in jail. The law undertook to protect men in their dignity as well as in their mere bodily integrity, rightly recognizing that to be insulted or spit upon is as great a grievance as any assault upon life itself. "Now, in undertaking to secure the citizen in his right to life on the economic side, we do but studiously follow your precedents in safeguarding him from direct assault. If we did but secure his economic basis so far as to avert death by direct effect of hunger and cold as your pauper laws made a pretense of doing, we should be like a State in your day which forbade outright murder but permitted every kind of assault that fell short of it. Distress and deprivation resulting from economic want falling short of actual starvation precisely correspond to the acts of minor violence against which your State protected citizens as carefully as against murder. The right of the citizen to have his life secured him on the economic side can not therefore be satisfied by any provision for bare subsistence, or by anything less than the means for the fullest supply of every need which it is in the power of the nation by the thriftiest stewardship of the national resources to provide for all. "That is to say, in extending the reign of law and public justice to the protection and security of men's interests on the economic side, we have merely followed, as we were reasonably bound to follow, your much-vaunted maxim of 'equality before the law.' That maxim meant that in so far as society collectively undertook any governmental function, it must act absolutely without respect of persons for the equal benefit of all. Unless, therefore, we were to reject the principle of 'equality before the law,' it was impossible that society, having assumed charge of the production and distribution of wealth as a collective function, could discharge it on any other principle than equality." "If the court please," I said, "I should like to be permitted at this point to discontinue and withdraw my suit for the restoration of my former property. In my day we used to hold on to all we had and fight for all we could get with a good stomach, for our rivals were as selfish as we, and represented no higher right or larger view. But this modern social system with its public stewardship of all capital for the general welfare quite changes the situation. It puts the man who demands more than his share in the light of a person attacking the livelihood and seeking to impair the welfare of everybody else in the nation. To enjoy that attitude anybody must be a good deal better convinced of the justice of his title than I ever was even in the old days." CHAPTER XII. HOW INEQUALITY OF WEALTH DESTROYS LIBERTY. "Nevertheless," said the doctor, "I have stated only half the reason the judges would give wherefore they could not, by returning your wealth, permit the impairment of our collective economic system and the beginnings of economic inequality in the nation. There is another great and equal right of all men which, though strictly included under the right of life, is by generous minds set even above it: I mean the right of liberty--that is to say, the right not only to live, but to live in personal independence of one's fellows, owning only those common social obligations resting on all alike. "Now, the duty of the state to safeguard the liberty of citizens was recognized in your day just as was its duty to safeguard their lives, but with the same limitation, namely, that the safeguard should apply only to protect from attacks by violence. If it were attempted to kidnap a citizen and reduce him by force to slavery, the state would interfere, but not otherwise. Nevertheless, it was true in your day of liberty and personal independence, as of life, that the perils to which they were chiefly exposed were not from force or violence, but resulted from economic causes, the necessary consequences of inequalities of wealth. Because the state absolutely ignored this side, which was incomparably the largest side of the liberty question, its pretense of defending the liberties of citizens was as gross a mockery as that of guaranteeing their lives. Nay, it was a yet more absolute mockery and on a far vaster scale. "For, although I have spoken of the monopolization of wealth and of the productive machinery by a portion of the people as being first of all a threat to the lives of the rest of the community and to be resisted as such, nevertheless the main practical effect of the system was not to deprive the masses of mankind of life outright, but to force them, through want, to buy their lives by the surrender of their liberties. That is to say, they accepted servitude to the possessing class and became their serfs on condition of receiving the means of subsistence. Although multitudes were always perishing from lack of subsistence, yet it was not the deliberate policy of the possessing class that they should do so. The rich had no use for dead men; on the other hand, they had endless use for human beings as servants, not only to produce more wealth, but as the instruments of their pleasure and luxury. "As I need not remind you who were familiar with it, the industrial system of the world before the great Revolution was wholly based upon the compulsory servitude of the mass of mankind to the possessing class, enforced by the coercion of economic need." "Undoubtedly," I said, "the poor as a class were in the economic service of the rich, or, as we used to say, labor was dependent on capital for employment, but this service and employment had become in the nineteenth century an entirely voluntary relation on the part of the servant or employee. The rich had no power to compel the poor to be their servants. They only took such as came voluntarily to ask to be taken into service, and even begged to be, with tears. Surely a service so sought after could scarcely be called compulsory." "Tell us, Julian," said the doctor, "did the rich go to one another and ask the privilege of being one another's servants or employees?" "Of course not." "But why not?" "Because, naturally, no one could wish to be another's servant or subject to his orders who could get along without it." "I should suppose so, but why, then, did the poor so eagerly seek to serve the rich when the rich refused with scorn to serve one another? Was it because the poor so loved the rich?" "Scarcely." "Why then?" "It was, of course, for the reason that it was the only way the poor could get a living." "You mean that it was only the pressure of want or the fear of it that drove the poor to the point of becoming the servants of the rich?" "That is about it." "And would you call that voluntary service? The distinction between forced service and such service as that would seem quite imperceptible to us. If a man may be said to do voluntarily that which only the pressure of bitter necessity compels him to elect to do, there has never been any such thing as slavery, for all the acts of a slave are at the last the acceptance of a less evil for fear of a worse. Suppose, Julian, you or a few of you owned the main water supply, or food supply, clothing supply, land supply, or main industrial opportunities in a community and could maintain your ownership, that fact alone would make the rest of the people your slaves, would it not, and that, too, without any direct compulsion on your part whatever?" "No doubt." "Suppose somebody should charge you with holding the people under compulsory servitude, and you should answer that you laid no hand on them but that they willingly resorted to you and kissed your hands for the privilege of being allowed to serve you in exchange for water, food, or clothing, would not that be a very transparent evasion on your part of the charge of slaveholding?" "No doubt it would be." "Well, and was not that precisely the relation the capitalists or employers as a class held toward the rest of the community through their monopolization of wealth and the machinery of production?" "I must say that it was." "There was a great deal said by the economists of your day," the doctor went on, "about the freedom of contract--the voluntary, unconstrained agreement of the laborer with the employer as to the terms of his employment. What hypocrisy could have been so brazen as that pretense when, as a matter of fact, every contract made between the capitalist who had bread and could keep it and the laborer who must have it or die would have been declared void, if fairly judged, even under your laws as a contract made under duress of hunger, cold, and nakedness, nothing less than the threat of death! If you own the things men must have, you own the men who must have them." "But the compulsion of want," said I, "meaning hunger and cold, is a compulsion of Nature. In that sense we are all under compulsory servitude to Nature." "Yes, but not to one another. That is the whole difference between slavery and freedom. To-day no man serves another, but all the common good in which we equally share. Under your system the compulsion of Nature through the appropriation by the rich of the means of supplying Nature's demands was turned into a club by which the rich made the poor pay Nature's debt of labor not only for themselves but for the rich also, with a vast overcharge besides for the needless waste of the system." "You make out our system to have been little better than slavery. That is a hard word." "It is a very hard word, and we want above all things to be fair. Let us look at the question. Slavery exists where there is a compulsory using of men by other men for the benefit of the users. I think we are quite agreed that the poor man in your day worked for the rich only because his necessities compelled him to. That compulsion varied in force according to the degree of want the worker was in. Those who had a little economic means would only render the lighter kinds of service on more or less easy and honorable conditions, while those who had less means or no means at all would do anything on any terms however painful or degrading. With the mass of the workers the compulsion of necessity was of the sharpest kind. The chattel slave had the choice between working for his master and the lash. The wage-earner chose between laboring for an employer or starving. In the older, cruder forms of slavery the masters had to be watching constantly to prevent the escape of their slaves, and were troubled with the charge of providing for them. Your system was more convenient, in that it made Nature your taskmaster, and depended on her to keep your servants to the task. It was a difference between the direct exercise of coercion, in which the slave was always on the point of rebellion, and an indirect coercion by which the same industrial result was obtained, while the slave, instead of rebelling against his master's authority, was grateful for the opportunity of serving him." "But," said I, "the wage-earner received wages and the slave received nothing." "I beg your pardon. The slave received subsistence--clothing and shelter--and the wage-earner who could get more than these out of his wages was rarely fortunate. The rate of wages, except in new countries and under special conditions and for skilled workers, kept at about the subsistence point, quite as often dropping below as rising above. The main difference was that the master expended the subsistence wage of the chattel slave for him while the earner expended it for himself. This was better for the worker in some ways; in others less desirable, for the master out of self-interest usually saw that the chattel, children had enough; while the employer, having no stake in the life or health of the wage-earner, did not concern himself as to whether he lived or died. There were never any slave quarters so vile as the tenement houses of the city slums where the wage-earners were housed." "But at least," said I, "there was this radical difference between the wage-earner of my day and the chattel slave: the former could leave his employer at will, the latter could not." "Yes, that is a difference, but one surely that told not so much in favor of as against the wage-earner. In all save temporarily fortunate countries with sparse population the laborer would have been glad indeed to exchange the right to leave his employer for a guarantee that he would not be discharged by him. Fear of losing his opportunity to work--his job, as you called it--was the nightmare of the laborer's life as it was reflected in the literature of your period. Was it not so?" I had to admit that it was even so. "The privilege of leaving one employer for another," pursued the doctor, "even if it had not been more than balanced by the liability to discharge, was of very little worth to the worker, in view of the fact that the rate of wages was at about the same point wherever he might go, and the change would be merely a choice between the personal dispositions of different masters, and that difference was slight enough, for business rules controlled the relations of masters and men." I rallied once more. "One point of real superiority at least you must admit the wage-earner had over the chattel slave. He could by merit rise out of his condition and become himself an employer, a rich man." "Surely, Julian, you forget that there has rarely been a slave system under which the more energetic, intelligent, and thrifty slaves could and did not buy their freedom or have it given them by their masters. The freedmen in ancient Rome rose to places of importance and power quite as frequently as did the born proletarian of Europe or America get out of his condition." I did not think of anything to reply at the moment, and the doctor, having compassion on me, pursued: "It is an old illustration of the different view points of the centuries that precisely this point which you make of the possibility of the wage-earner rising, although it was getting to be a vanishing point in your day, seems to us the most truly diabolical feature of the whole system. The prospect of rising as a motive to reconcile the wage-earner or the poor man in general to his subjection, what did it amount to? It was but saying to him, 'Be a good slave, and you, too, shall have slaves of your own.' By this wedge did you separate the cleverer of the wage-workers from the mass of them and dignify treason to humanity by the name of ambition. No true man should wish to rise save to raise others with him." "One point of difference, however, you must at least admit," I said. "In chattel slavery the master had a power over the persons of his slaves which the employer did not have over even the poorest of his employees: he could not lay his hand upon them in violence." "Again, Julian," said the doctor, "you have mentioned a point of difference that tells in favor of chattel slavery as a more humane industrial method than the wage system. If here and there the anger of the chattel slave owner made him forget his self-restraint so far as to cripple or maim his slaves, yet such cases were on the whole rare, and such masters were held to an account by public opinion if not by law; but under the wage system the employer had no motive of self-restraint to spare life or limb of his employees, and he escaped responsibility by the fact of the consent and even eagerness of the needy people to undertake the most perilous and painful tasks for the sake of bread. We read that in the United States every year at least two hundred thousand men, women, and children were done to death or maimed in the performance of their industrial duties, nearly forty thousand alone in the single branch of the steam railroad service. No estimate seems to have ever been attempted of the many times greater number who perished more indirectly through the injurious effects of bad industrial conditions. What chattel-slave system ever made a record of such wastefulness of human life, as that? "Nay, more, the chattel-slave owner, if he smote his slave, did it in anger and, as likely as not, with some provocation; but these wholesale slaughters of wage-earners that made your land red were done in sheer cold-bloodedness, without any other motive on the part of the capitalists, who were responsible, save gain. "Still again, one of the more revolting features of chattel slavery has always been considered the subjection of the slave women to the lust of their masters. How was it in this respect under the rule of the rich? We read in our histories that great armies of women in your day were forced by poverty to make a business of submitting their bodies to those who had the means of furnishing them a little bread. The books say that these armies amounted in your great cities to bodies of thirty or forty thousand women. Tales come down to us of the magnitude of the maiden tribute levied upon the poorer classes for the gratification of the lusts of those who could pay, which the annals of antiquity could scarcely match for horror. Am I saying too much, Julian?" "You have mentioned nothing but facts which stared me in the face all my life," I replied, "and yet it appears I have had to wait for a man of another century to tell me what they meant." "It was precisely because they stared you and your contemporaries so constantly in the face, and always had done so, that you lost the faculty of judging their meaning. They were, as we might say, too near the eyes to be seen aright. You are far enough away from the facts now to begin to see them clearly and to realize their significance. As you shall continue to occupy this modern view point, you will more and more completely come to see with us that the most revolting aspect of the human condition before the great Revolution was not the suffering from physical privation or even the outright starvation of multitudes which directly resulted from the unequal distribution of wealth, but the indirect effect of that inequality to reduce almost the total human race to a state of degrading bondage to their fellows. As it seems to us, the offense of the old order against liberty was even greater than the offense to life; and even if it were conceivable that it could have satisfied the right of life by guaranteeing abundance to all, it must just the same have been destroyed, for, although the collective administration of the economic system had been unnecessary to guarantee life, there could be no such thing as liberty so long as by the effect of inequalities of wealth and the private control of the means of production the opportunity of men to obtain the means of subsistence depended on the will of other men." CHAPTER XIII. PRIVATE CAPITAL STOLEN FROM THE SOCIAL FUND. "I observe," pursued the doctor, "that Edith is getting very impatient with these dry disquisitions, and thinks it high time we passed from wealth in the abstract to wealth in the concrete, as illustrated by the contents of your safe. I will delay the company only while I say a very few words more; but really this question of the restoration of your million, raised half in jest as it was, so vitally touches the central and fundamental principle of our social order that I want to give you at least an outline idea of the modern ethics of wealth distribution. "The essential difference between the new and the old point of view you fully possess by this time. The old ethics conceived of the question of what a man might rightfully possess as one which began and ended with the relation of individuals to things. Things have no rights as against moral beings, and there was no reason, therefore, in the nature of the case as thus stated, why individuals should not acquire an unlimited ownership of things so far as their abilities permitted. But this view absolutely ignored the social consequences which result from an unequal distribution of material things in a world where everybody absolutely depends for life and all its uses on their share of those things. That is to say, the old so-called ethics of property absolutely overlooked the whole ethical side of the subject--namely, its bearing on human relations. It is precisely this consideration which furnishes the whole basis of the modern ethics of property. All human beings are equal in rights and dignity, and only such a system of wealth distribution can therefore be defensible as respects and secures those equalities. But while this is the principle which you will hear most generally stated as the moral ground of our economic equality, there is another quite sufficient and wholly different ground on which, even if the rights of life and liberty were not involved, we should yet maintain that equal sharing of the total product of industry was the only just plan, and that any other was robbery. "The main factor in the production of wealth among civilized men is the social organism, the machinery of associated labor and exchange by which hundreds of millions of individuals provide the demand for one another's product and mutually complement one another's labors, thereby making the productive and distributive systems of a nation and of the world one great machine. This was true even under private capitalism, despite the prodigious waste and friction of its methods; but of course it is a far more important truth now when the machinery of co-operation runs with absolute smoothness and every ounce of energy is utilized to the utmost effect. The element in the total industrial product which is due to the social organism is represented by the difference between the value of what one man produces as a worker in connection with the social organization and what he could produce in a condition of isolation. Working in concert with his fellows by aid of the social organism, he and they produce enough to support all in the highest luxury and refinement. Toiling in isolation, human experience has proved that he would be fortunate if he could at the utmost produce enough to keep himself alive. It is estimated, I believe, that the average daily product of a worker in America to-day is some fifty dollars. The product of the same man working in isolation would probably be highly estimated on the same basis of calculation if put at a quarter of a dollar. Now tell me, Julian, to whom belongs the social organism, this vast machinery of human association, which enhances some two hundredfold the product of every one's labor?" "Manifestly," I replied, "it can belong to no one in particular, but to nothing less than society collectively. Society collectively can be the only heir to the social inheritance of intellect and discovery, and it is society collectively which furnishes the continuous daily concourse by which alone that inheritance is made effective." "Exactly so. The social organism, with all that it is and all it makes possible, is the indivisible inheritance of all in common. To whom, then, properly belongs that two hundredfold enhancement of the value of every one's labor which is owing to the social organism?" "Manifestly to society collectively--to the general fund." "Previous to the great Revolution," pursued the doctor. "Although there seems to have been a vague idea of some such social fund as this, which belonged to society collectively, there was no clear conception of its vastness, and no custodian of it, or possible provision to see that it was collected and applied for the common use. A public organization of industry, a nationalized economic system, was necessary before the social fund could be properly protected and administered. Until then it must needs be the subject of universal plunder and embezzlement. The social machinery was seized upon by adventurers and made a means of enriching themselves by collecting tribute from the people to whom it belonged and whom it should have enriched. It would be one way of describing the effect of the Revolution to say that it was only the taking possession by the people collectively of the social machinery which had always belonged to them, thenceforth to be conducted as a public plant, the returns of which were to go to the owners as the equal proprietors and no longer to buccaneers. "You will readily see," the doctor went on, "how this analysis of the product of industry must needs tend to minimize the importance of the personal equation of performance as between individual workers. If the modern man, by aid of the social machinery, can produce fifty dollars' worth of product where he could produce not over a quarter of a dollar's worth without society, then forty-nine dollars and three quarters out of every fifty dollars must be credited to the social fund to be equally distributed. The industrial efficiency of two men working without society might have differed as two to one--that is, while one man was able to produce a full quarter dollar's worth of work a day, the other could produce only twelve and a half cents' worth. This was a very great difference under those circumstances, but twelve and a half cents is so slight a proportion of fifty dollars as not to be worth mentioning. That is to say, the difference in individual endowments between the two men would remain the same, but that difference would be reduced to relative unimportance by the prodigious equal addition made to the product of both alike by the social organism. Or again, before gunpowder was invented one man might easily be worth two as a warrior. The difference between the men as individuals remained what it was; yet the overwhelming factor added to the power of both alike by the gun practically equalized them as fighters. Speaking of guns, take a still better illustration--the relation of the individual soldiers in a square of infantry to the formation. There might be large differences in the fighting power of the individual soldiers singly outside the ranks. Once in the ranks, however, the formation added to the fighting efficiency of every soldier equally an element so overwhelming as to dwarf the difference between the individual efficiency of different men. Say, for instance, that the formation added ten to the fighting force of every member, then the man who outside the ranks was as two to one in power compared with his comrade would, when they both stood in the ranks, compare with him only as twelve to eleven--an inconsiderable difference. "I need scarcely point out to you, Julian, the bearing of the principle of the social fund on economic equality when the industrial system was nationalized. It made it obvious that even if it were possible to figure out in a satisfactory manner the difference in the industrial products which in an accounting with the social fund could be respectively credited to differences in individual performance, the result would not be worth the trouble. Even the worker of special ability, who might hope to gain most by it, could not hope to gain so much as he would lose in common with others by sacrificing the increased efficiency of the industrial machinery that would result from the sentiment of solidarity and public spirit among the workers arising from a feeling of complete unity of interest." "Doctor," I exclaimed, "I like that idea of the social fund immensely! It makes me understand, among other things, the completeness with which you seem to have outgrown the wages notion, which in one form or other was fundamental to all economic thought in my day. It is because you are accustomed to regarding the social capital rather than your day-to-day specific exertions as the main source of your wealth. It is, in a word, the difference between the attitude of the capitalist and the proletarian." "Even so," said the doctor. "The Revolution made us all capitalists, and the idea of the dividend has driven out that of the stipend. We take wages only in honor. From our point of view as to the collective ownership of the economic machinery of the social system, and the absolute claim of society collectively to its product, there is something amusing in the laborious disputations by which your contemporaries used to try to settle just how much or little wages or compensation for services this or that individual or group was entitled to. Why, dear me, Julian, if the cleverest worker were limited to his own product, strictly separated and distinguished from the elements by which the use of the social machinery had multiplied it, he would fare no better than a half-starved savage. Everybody is entitled not only to his own product, but to vastly more--namely, to his share of the product of the social organism, in addition to his personal product, but he is entitled to this share not on the grab-as-grab-can plan of your day, by which some made themselves millionaires and others were left beggars, but on equal terms with all his fellow-capitalists." "The idea of an unearned increment given to private properties by the social organism was talked of in my day," I said, "but only, as I remember, with reference to land values. There were reformers who held that society had the right to take in taxes all increase in value of land that resulted from social factors, such as increased population or public improvements, but they seemed to think the doctrine applicable to land only." "Yes," said the doctor, "and it is rather odd that, having hold of the clew, they did not follow it up." CHAPTER XIV. WE LOOK OVER MY COLLECTION OF HARNESSES. Wires for light and heat had been put into the vault, and it was as warm and bright and habitable a place as it had been a century before, when it was my sleeping chamber. Kneeling before the door of the safe, I at once addressed myself to manipulating the dial, my companions meanwhile leaning over me in attitudes of eager interest. It had been one hundred years since I locked the safe the last time, and under ordinary circumstances that would have been long enough for me to forget the combination several times over, but it was as fresh in my mind as if I had devised it a fortnight before, that being, in fact, the entire length of the intervening period so far as my conscious life was concerned. "You observe," I said, "that I turn this dial until the letter 'K' comes opposite the letter 'R.' Then I move this other dial till the number '9' comes opposite the same point. Now the safe is practically unlocked. All I have to do to open it is to turn this knob, which moves the bolts, and then swing the door open, as you see." But they did not see just then, for the knob would not turn, the lock remaining fast. I knew that I had made no mistake about the combination. Some of the tumblers in the lock had failed to fall. I tried it over again several times and thumped the dial and the door, but it was of no use. The lock remained stubborn. One might have said that its memory was not as good as mine. It had forgotten the combination. A materialistic explanation somewhat more probable was that the oil in the lock had been hardened by time so as to offer a slight resistance. The lock could not have rusted, for the atmosphere of the room had been absolutely dry. Otherwise I should not have survived. "I am sorry to disappoint you," I said, "but we shall have to send to the headquarters of the safe manufacturers for a locksmith. I used to know just where in Sudbury Street to go, but I suppose the safe business has moved since then." "It has not merely moved," said the doctor, "it has disappeared; there are safes like this at the historical museum, but I never knew how they were opened until now. It is really very ingenious." "And do you mean to say that there are actually no locksmiths to-day who could open this safe?" "Any machinist can cut the steel like cardboard," replied the doctor; "but really I don't believe there is a man in the world who could pick the lock. We have, of course, simple locks to insure privacy and keep children out of mischief, but nothing calculated to offer serious resistance either to force or cunning. The craft of the locksmith is extinct." At this Edith, who was impatient to see the safe opened, exclaimed that the twentieth century had nothing to boast of if it could not solve a puzzle which any clever burglar of the nineteenth century was equal to. "From the point of view of an impatient young woman it may seem so," said the doctor. "But we must remember that lost arts often are monuments of human progress, indicating outgrown limitations and necessities, to which they ministered. It is because we have no more thieves that we have no more locksmiths. Poor Julian had to go to all this pains to protect the papers in that safe, because if he lost them he would be left a beggar, and, from being one of the masters of the many, would have become one of the servants of the few, and perhaps be tempted to turn burglar himself. No wonder locksmiths were in demand in those days. But now you see, even supposing any one in a community enjoying universal and equal wealth could wish to steal anything, there is nothing that he could steal with a view to selling it again. Our wealth consists in the guarantee of an equal share in the capital and income of the nation--a guarantee that is personal and can not be taken from us nor given away, being vested in each one at birth, and divested only by death. So you see the locksmith and safe-maker would be very useless persons." As we talked, I had continued to work the dial in the hope that the obstinate tumbler might be coaxed to act, and presently a faint click rewarded my efforts and I swung the door open. "Faugh!" exclaimed Edith at the musty gust of confined air which followed. "I am sorry for your people if that is a fair sample of what you had to breathe." "It is probably about the only sample left, at any rate," observed the doctor. "Dear me! what a ridiculous little box it turns out to be for such a pretentious outside!" exclaimed Edith's mother. "Yes," said I. "The thick walls are to make the contents fireproof as well as burglar-proof--and, by the way, I should think you would need fireproof safes still." "We have no fires, except in the old structures," replied the doctor. "Since building was undertaken by the people collectively, you see we could not afford to have them, for destruction of property means to the nation a dead loss, while under private capitalism the loss might be shuffled off on others in all sorts of ways. They could get insured, but the nation has to insure itself." Opening the inner door of the safe, I took out several drawers full of securities of all sorts, and emptied them on the table in the room. "Are these stuffy-looking papers what you used to call wealth?" said Edith, with evident disappointment. "Not the papers in themselves," I said, "but what they represented." "And what was that?" she asked. "The ownership of land, houses, mills, ships, railroads, and all manner of other things," I replied, and went on as best I could to explain to her mother and herself about rents, profits, interest, dividends, etc. But it was evident, from the blank expression of their countenances, that I was not making much headway. Presently the doctor looked up from the papers which he was devouring with the zeal of an antiquarian, and chuckled. "I am afraid, Julian, you are on the wrong tack. You see economic science in your day was a science of things; in our day it is a science of human beings. We have nothing at all answering to your rent, interest, profits, or other financial devices, and the terms expressing them have no meaning now except to students. If you wish Edith and her mother to understand you, you must translate these money terms into terms of men and women and children, and the plain facts of their relations as affected by your system. Shall you consider it impertinent if I try to make the matter a little clearer to them?" "I shall be much obliged to you," I said; "and perhaps you will at the same time make it clearer to me." "I think," said the doctor, "that we shall all understand the nature and value of these documents much better if, instead of speaking of them as titles of ownership in farms, factories, mines, railroads, etc., we state plainly that they were evidences that their possessors were the masters of various groups of men, women, and children in different parts of the country. Of course, as Julian says, the documents nominally state his title to things only, and say nothing about men and women. But it is the men and women who went with the lands, the machines, and various other things, and were bound to them by their bodily necessities, which gave all the value to the possession of the things. "But for the implication that there were men who, because they must have the use of the land, would submit to labor for the owner of it in return for permission to occupy it, these deeds and mortgages would have been of no value. So of these factory shares. They speak only of water power and looms, but they would be valueless but for the thousands of human workers bound to the machines by bodily necessities as fixedly as if they were chained there. So of these coal-mine shares. But for the multitude of wretched beings condemned by want to labor in living graves, of what value would have been these shares which yet make no mention of them? And see again how significant is the fact that it was deemed needless to make mention of and to enumerate by name these serfs of the field, of the loom, of the mine! Under systems of chattel slavery, such as had formerly prevailed, it was necessary to name and identify each chattel, that he might be recovered in case of escape, and an account made of the loss in case of death. But there was no danger of loss by the escape or the death of the serfs transferred by these documents. They would not run away, for there was nothing better to run to or any escape from the world-wide economic system which enthralled them; and if they died, that involved no loss to their owners, for there were always plenty more to take their places. Decidedly, it would have been a waste of paper to enumerate them. "Just now at the breakfast table," continued the doctor, "I was explaining the modern view of the economic system of private capitalism as one based on the compulsory servitude of the masses to the capitalists, a servitude which the latter enforced by monopolizing the bulk of the world's resources and machinery, leaving the pressure of want to compel the masses to accept their yoke, the police and soldiers meanwhile defending them in their monopolies. These documents turn up in a very timely way to illustrate the ingenious and effectual methods by which the different sorts of workers were organized for the service of the capitalists. To use a plain illustration, these various sorts of so-called securities may be described as so many kinds of human harness by which the masses, broken and tamed by the pressure of want, were yoked and strapped to the chariots of the capitalists. "For instance, here is a bundle of farm mortgages on Kansas farms. Very good; by virtue of the operation of this security certain Kansas farmers worked for the owner of it, and though they might never know who he was nor he who they were, yet they were as securely and certainly his thralls as if he had stood over them with a whip instead of sitting in his parlor at Boston, New York, or London. This mortgage harness was generally used to hitch in the agricultural class of the population. Most of the farmers of the West were pulling in it toward the end of the nineteenth century.--Was it not so, Julian? Correct me if I am wrong." "You are stating the facts very accurately," I answered. "I am beginning to understand more clearly the nature of my former property." "Now let us see what this bundle is," pursued the doctor. "Ah! yes; these are shares in New England cotton factories. This sort of harness was chiefly used for women and children, the sizes ranging away down so as to fit girls and boys of eleven and twelve. It used to be said that it was only the margin of profit furnished by the almost costless labor of the little children that made these factories paying properties. The population of New England was largely broken in at a very tender age to work in this style of harness. "Here, now, is a little different sort. These are railroad, gas, and water-works shares. They were a sort of comprehensive harness, by which not only a particular class of workers but whole communities were hitched in and made to work for the owner of the security. "And, finally, we have here the strongest harness of all, the Government bond. This document, you sec, is a bond of the United States Government. By it seventy million people--the whole nation, in fact--were harnessed to the coach of the owner of this bond; and, what was more, the driver in this case was the Government itself, against which the team would find it hard to kick. There was a great deal of kicking and balking in the other sorts of harness, and the capitalists were often inconvenienced and temporarily deprived of the labor of the men they had bought and paid for with good money. Naturally, therefore, the Government bond was greatly prized by them as an investment. They used every possible effort to induce the various governments to put more and more of this sort of harness on the people, and the governments, being carried on by the agents of the capitalists, of course kept on doing so, up to the very eve of the great Revolution, which was to turn the bonds and all the other harnesses into waste paper." "As a representative of the nineteenth century," I said, "I can not deny the substantial correctness of your rather startling way of describing our system of investments. Still, you will admit that, bad as the system was and bitter as was the condition of the masses under it, the function performed by the capitalists in organizing and directing such industry as we had was a service to the world of some value." "Certainly, certainly," replied the doctor. "The same plea might be urged, and has been, in defense of every system by which men have ever made other men their servants from the beginning. There was always some service, generally valuable and indispensable, which the oppressors could urge and did urge as the ground and excuse of the servitude they enforced. As men grew wiser they observed that they were paying a ruinous price for the services thus rendered. So at first they said to the kings: 'To be sure, you help defend the state from foreigners and hang thieves, but it is too much to ask us to be your serfs in exchange; we can do better.' And so they established republics. So also, presently, the people said to the priests: 'You have done something for us, but you have charged too much for your services in asking us to submit our minds to you; we can do better.' And so they established religious liberty. "And likewise, in this last matter we are speaking of, the people finally said to the capitalists: 'Yes, you have organized our industry, but at the price of enslaving us. We can do better.' And substituting national co-operation for capitalism, they established the industrial republic based on economic democracy. If it were true, Julian, that any consideration of service rendered to others, however valuable, could excuse the benefactors for making bondmen of the benefited, then there never was a despotism or slave system which could not excuse itself." "Haven't you some real money to show us," said Edith, "something besides these papers--some gold and silver such as they have at the museum?" It was not customary in the nineteenth century for people to keep large supplies of ready money in their houses, but for emergencies I had a little stock of it in my safe, and in response to Edith's request I took out a drawer containing several hundred dollars in gold and emptied it on the table. "How pretty they are!" exclaimed Edith, thrusting her hands in the pile of yellow coins and clinking them together. "And is it really true that if you only had enough of these things, no matter how or where you got them, men and women would submit themselves to you and let you make what use you pleased of them?" "Not only would they let you use them as you pleased, but they would be extremely grateful to you for being so good as to use them instead of others. The poor fought each other for the privilege of being the servants and underlings of those who had the money." "Now I see," said Edith, "what the Masters of the Bread meant." "What is that about Masters of the Bread?" I asked. "Who were they?" "It was a name given to the capitalists in the revolutionary period," replied the doctor. "This thing Edith speaks of is a scrap of the literature of that time, when the people first began to fully wake up to the fact that class monopoly of the machinery of production meant slavery for the mass." "Let me see if I can recall it," said Edith. "It begins this way: 'Everywhere men, women, and children stood in the market-place crying to the Masters of the Bread to take them to be their servants, that they might have bread. The strong men said: "O Lords of the Bread, feel our thews and sinews, our arms and our legs; see how strong we are. Take us and use us. Let us dig for you. Let us hew for you. Let us go down in the mine and delve for you. Let us freeze and starve in the forecastles of your ships. Send us into the hells of your steamship stokeholes. Do what you will with us, but let us serve you, that we may eat and not die!" "'Then spoke up also the learned men, the scribes and the lawyers, whose strength was in their brains and not in their bodies: "O Masters of the Bread," they said, "take us to be your servants and to do your will. See how fine is our wit, how great our knowledge; our minds are stored with the treasures of learning and the subtlety of all the philosophies. To us has been given clearer vision than to others, and the power of persuasion that we should be leaders of the people, voices to the voiceless, and eyes to the blind. But the people whom we should serve have no bread to give us. Therefore, Masters of the Bread, give us to eat, and we will betray the people to you, for we must live. We will plead for you in the courts against the widow and the fatherless. We will speak and write in your praise, and with cunning words confound those who speak against you and your power and state. And nothing that you require of us shall seem too much. But because we sell not only our bodies, but our souls also, give us more bread than these laborers receive, who sell their bodies only." "'And the priests and Levites also cried out as the Lords of the Bread passed through the market-place: "Take us, Masters, to be your servants and to do your will, for we also must eat, and you only have the bread. We are the guardians of the sacred oracles, and the people hearken unto us and reply not, for our voice to them is as the voice of God. But we must have bread to eat like others. Give us therefore plentifully of your bread, and we will speak to the people, that they be still and trouble you not with their murmurings because of hunger. In the name of God the Father will we forbid them to claim the rights of brothers, and in the name of the Prince of Peace will we preach your law of competition." "'And above all the clamor of the men were heard the voices of a multitude of women crying to the Masters of the Bread: "Pass us not by, for we must also eat. The men are stronger than we, but they eat much bread while we eat little, so that though we be not so strong yet in the end you shall not lose if you take us to be your servants instead of them. And if you will not take us for our labor's sake, yet look upon us: we are women, and should be fair in your eyes. Take us and do with us according to your pleasure, for we must eat." "'And above all the chaffering of the market, the hoarse voices of the men, and the shrill voices of the women, rose the piping treble of the little children, crying: "Take us to be your servants, for the breasts of our mothers are dry and our fathers have no bread for us, and we hunger. We are weak, indeed, but we ask so little, so very little, that at last we shall be cheaper to you than the men, our fathers, who eat so much, and the women, our mothers, who eat more than we." "'And the Masters of the Bread, having taken for their use or pleasure such of the men, the women, and the little ones as they saw fit, passed by. And there was left a great multitude in the market-place for whom there was no bread.'" "Ah!" said the doctor, breaking the silence which followed the ceasing of Edith's voice, "it was indeed the last refinement of indignity put upon human nature by your economic system that it compelled men to seek the sale of themselves. Voluntary in a real sense the sale was not, of course, for want or the fear of it left no choice as to the necessity of selling themselves to somebody, but as to the particular transaction there was choice enough to make it shameful. They had to seek those to whom to offer themselves and actively to procure their own purchase. In this respect the submission of men to other men through the relation of hire was more abject than under a slavery resting directly on force. In that case the slave might be compelled to yield to physical duress, but he could still keep a mind free and resentful toward his master; but in the relation of hire men sought for their masters and begged as a favor that they would use them, body and mind, for their profit or pleasure. To the view of us moderns, therefore, the chattel slave was a more dignified and heroic figure than the hireling of your day who called himself a free worker. "It was possible for the slave to rise in soul above his circumstances and be a philosopher in bondage like Epictetus, but the hireling could not scorn the bonds he sought. The abjectness of his position was not merely physical but mental. In selling himself he had necessarily sold his independence of mind also. Your whole industrial system seems in this point of view best and most fitly described by a word which you oddly enough reserved to designate a particular phase of self-selling practiced by women. "Labor for others in the name of love and kindness, and labor with others for a common end in which all are mutually interested, and labor for its own joy, are alike honorable, but the hiring out of our faculties to the selfish uses of others, which was the form labor generally took in your day, is unworthy of human nature. The Revolution for the first time in history made labor truly honorable by putting it on the basis of fraternal co-operation for a common and equally shared result. Until then it was at best but a shameful necessity." Presently I said: "When you have satisfied your curiosity as to these papers I suppose we might as well make a bonfire of them, for they seem to have no more value now than a collection of heathen fetiches after the former worshipers have embraced Christianity." "Well, and has not such a collection a value to the student of history?" said the doctor. "Of course, these documents are scarcely now valuable in the sense they were, but in another they have much value. I see among them several varieties which are quite scarce in the historical collections, and if you feel disposed to present the whole lot to our museum I am sure the gift will be much appreciated. The fact is, the great bonfire our grandfathers made, while a very natural and excusable expression of jubilation over broken bondage, is much to be regretted from an archaeological point of view." "What do you mean by the great bonfire?" I inquired. "It was a rather dramatic incident at the close of the great Revolution. When the long struggle was ended and economic equality, guaranteed by the public administration of capital, had been established, the people got together from all parts of the land enormous collections of what you used to call the evidences of value, which, while purporting to be certificates of property in things, had been really certificates of the ownership of men, deriving, as we have seen, their whole value from the serfs attached to the things by the constraint of bodily necessities. These it pleased the people--exalted, as you may well imagine, by the afflatus of liberty--to collect in a vast mass on the site of the New York Stock Exchange, the great altar of Plutus, whereon millions of human beings had been sacrificed to him, and there to make a bonfire of them. A great pillar stands on the spot to-day, and from its summit a mighty torch of electric flame is always streaming, in commemoration of that event and as a testimony forever to the ending of the parchment bondage that was heavier than the scepters of kings. It is estimated that certificates of ownership in human beings, or, as you called them, titles to property, to the value of forty billion dollars, together with hundreds of millions of paper money, went up in that great blaze, which we devoutly consider must have been, of all the innumerable burnt sacrifices which have been offered up to God from the beginning, the one that pleased him best. "Now, if I had been there, I can easily imagine that I should have rejoiced over that conflagration as much as did the most exultant of those who danced about it; but from the calmer point of view of the present I regret the destruction of a mass of historic material. So you see that your bonds and deeds and mortgages and shares of stock are really valuable still." CHAPTER XV. WHAT WE WERE COMING TO BUT FOR THE REVOLUTION. "We read in the histories," said Edith's mother, "much about the amazing extent to which particular individuals and families succeeded in concentrating in their own hands the natural resources, industrial machinery, and products of the several countries. Julian had only a million dollars, but many individuals or families had, we are told, wealth amounting to fifty, a hundred, and even two or three hundred millions. We read of infants who in the cradle were heirs of hundreds of millions. Now, something I never saw mentioned in the books was the limit, for there must have been some limit fixed, to which one individual might appropriate the earth's surface and resources, the means of production, and the products of labor." "There was no limit," I replied. "Do you mean," exclaimed Edith, "that if a man were only clever and unscrupulous enough he might appropriate, say, the entire territory of a country and leave the people actually nothing to stand on unless by his consent?" "Certainly," I replied. "In fact, in many countries of the Old World individuals owned whole provinces, and in the United States even vaster tracts had passed and were passing into private and corporate hands. There was no limit whatever to the extent of land which one person might own, and of course this ownership implied the right to evict every human being from the territory unless the owner chose to let individuals remain on payment of tribute." "And how about other things besides land?" asked Edith. "It was the same," I said. "There was no limit to the extent to which an individual might acquire the exclusive ownership of all the factories, shops, mines, and means of industry, and commerce of every sort, so that no person could find an opportunity to earn a living except as the servant of the owner and on his terms." "If we are correctly informed," said the doctor, "the concentration of the ownership of the machinery of production and distribution, trade and industry, had already, before you fell asleep, been carried to a point in the United States through trusts and syndicates which excited general alarm." "Certainly," I replied. "It was then already in the power of a score of men in New York city to stop at will every car-wheel in the United States, and the combined action of a few other groups of capitalists would have sufficed practically to arrest the industries and commerce of the entire country, forbid employment to everybody, and starve the entire population. The self-interest of these capitalists in keeping business going on was the only ground of assurance the rest of the people had for their livelihood from day to day. Indeed, when the capitalists desired to compel the people to vote as they wished, it was their regular custom to threaten to stop the industries of the country and produce a business crisis if the election did not go to suit them." "Suppose, Julian, an individual or family or group of capitalists, having become sole owners of all the land and machinery of one nation, should wish to go on and acquire the sole ownership of all the land and economic means and machinery of the whole earth, would that have been inconsistent with your law of property?" "Not at all. If one individual, as you suggest, through the effect of cunning and skill combined with inheritances, should obtain a legal title to the whole globe, it would be his to do what he pleased with as absolutely as if it were a garden patch, according to our law of property. Nor is your supposition about one person or family becoming owner of the whole earth a wholly fanciful one. There was, when I fell asleep, one family of European bankers whose world-wide power and resources were so vast and increasing at such a prodigious and accelerating rate that they had already an influence over the destinies of nations wider than perhaps any monarch ever exercised." "And if I understand your system, if they had gone on and attained the ownership of the globe to the lowest inch of standing room at low tide, it would have been the legal right of that family or single individual, in the name of the sacred right of property, to give the people of the human race legal notice to move off the earth, and in case of their failure to comply with the requirement of the notice, to call upon them in the name of the law to form themselves into sheriffs' _posses_ and evict themselves from the earth's surface?" "Unquestionably." "O father," exclaimed Edith, "you and Julian are trying to make fun of us. You must think we will believe anything if you only keep straight faces. But you are going too far." "I do not wonder you think so," said the doctor. "But you can easily satisfy yourself from the books that we have in no way exaggerated the possibilities of the old system of property. What was called under that system the right of property meant the unlimited right of anybody who was clever enough to deprive everybody else of any property whatever." "It would seem, then," said Edith, "that the dream of world conquest by an individual, if ever realized, was more likely under the old _regime _ to be realized by economic than by military means." "Very true," said the doctor. "Alexander and Napoleon mistook their trade; they should have been bankers, not soldiers. But, indeed, the time was not in their day ripe for a world-wide money dynasty, such as we have been speaking of. Kings had a rude way of interfering with the so-called rights of property when they conflicted with royal prestige or produced dangerous popular discontent. Tyrants themselves, they did not willingly brook rival tyrants in their dominions. It was not till the kings had been shorn of power and the interregnum of sham democracy had set in, leaving no virile force in the state or the world to resist the money power, that the opportunity for a world-wide plutocratic despotism arrived. Then, in the latter part of the nineteenth century, when international trade and financial relations had broken down national barriers and the world had become one field of economic enterprise, did the idea of a universally dominant and centralized money power become not only possible, but, as Julian has said, had already so far materialized itself as to cast its shadow before. If the Revolution had not come when it did, we can not doubt that something like this universal plutocratic dynasty or some highly centered oligarchy, based upon the complete monopoly of all property by a small body, would long before this time have become the government of the world. But of course the Revolution must have come when it did, so we need not talk of what would have happened if it had not come." CHAPTER XVI. AN EXCUSE THAT CONDEMNED. "I have read," said Edith, "that there never was a system of oppression so bad that those who benefited by it did not recognize the moral sense so far as to make some excuse for themselves. Was the old system of property distribution, by which the few held the many in servitude through fear of starvation, an exception to this rule? Surely the rich could not have looked the poor in the face unless they had some excuse to offer, some color of reason to give for the cruel contrast between their conditions." "Thanks for reminding us of that point," said the doctor. "As you say, there never was a system so bad that it did not make an excuse for itself. It would not be strictly fair to the old system to dismiss it without considering the excuse made for it, although, on the other hand, it would really be kinder not to mention it, for it was an excuse that, far from excusing, furnished an additional ground of condemnation for the system which it undertook to justify." "What was the excuse?" asked Edith. "It was the claim that, as a matter of justice, every one is entitled to the effect of his qualities--that is to say, the result of his abilities, the fruit of his efforts. The qualities, abilities, and efforts of different persons being different, they would naturally acquire advantages over others in wealth seeking as in other ways; but as this was according to Nature, it was urged that it must be right, and nobody had any business to complain, unless of the Creator. "Now, in the first place, the theory that a person has a right in dealing with his fellows to take advantage of his superior abilities is nothing other than a slightly more roundabout expression of the doctrine that might is right. It was precisely to prevent their doing this that the policeman stood on the corner, the judge sat on the bench, and the hangman drew his fees. The whole end and amount of civilization had indeed been to substitute for the natural law of superior might an artificial equality by force of statute, whereby, in disregard of their natural differences, the weak and simple were made equal to the strong and cunning by means of the collective force lent them. "But while the nineteenth-century moralists denied as sharply as we do men's right to take advantage of their superiorities in direct dealings by physical force, they held that they might rightly do so when the dealings were indirect and carried on through the medium of things. That is to say, a man might not so much as jostle another while drinking a cup of water lest he should spill it, but he might acquire the spring of water on which the community solely depended and make the people pay a dollar a drop for water or go without. Or if he filled up the spring so as to deprive the population of water on any terms, he was held to be acting within his right. He might not by force take away a bone from a beggar's dog, but he might corner the grain supply of a nation and reduce millions to starvation. "If you touch a man's living you touch him, would seem to be about as plain a truth as could be put in words; but our ancestors had not the least difficulty in getting around it. 'Of course,' they said, 'you must not touch the man; to lay a finger on him would be an assault punishable by law. But his living is quite a different thing. That depends on bread, meat, clothing, land, houses, and other material things, which you have an unlimited right to appropriate and dispose of as you please without the slightest regard to whether anything is left for the rest of the world.' "I think I scarcely need dwell on the entire lack of any moral justification for the different rule which our ancestors followed in determining what use you might rightly make of your superior powers in dealing with your neighbor directly by physical force and indirectly by economic duress. No one can have any more or other right to take away another's living by superior economic skill or financial cunning than if he used a club, simply because no one has any right to take advantage of any one else or to deal with him otherwise than justly by any means whatever. The end itself being immoral, the means employed could not possibly make any difference. Moralists at a pinch used to argue that a good end might justify bad means, but none, I think, went so far as to claim that good means justified a bad end; yet this was precisely what the defenders of the old property system did in fact claim when they argued that it was right for a man to take away the living of others and make them his servants, if only his triumph resulted from superior talent or more diligent devotion to the acquisition of material things. "But indeed the theory that the monopoly of wealth could be justified by superior economic ability, even if morally sound, would not at all have fitted the old property system, for of all conceivable plans for distributing property, none could have more absolutely defied every notion of desert based on economic effort. None could have been more utterly wrong if it were true that wealth ought to be distributed according to the ability and industry displayed by individuals." "All this talk started with the discussion of Julian's fortune. Now tell us, Julian, was your million dollars the result of your economic ability, the fruit of your industry?" "Of course not," I replied. "Every cent of it was inherited. As I have often told you, I never lifted a finger in a useful way in my life." "And were you the only person whose property came to him by descent without effort of his own?" "On the contrary, title by descent was the basis and backbone of the whole property system. All land, except in the newest countries, together with the bulk of the more stable kinds of property, was held by that title." "Precisely so. We hear what Julian says. While the moralists and the clergy solemnly justified the inequalities of wealth and reproved the discontent of the poor on the ground that those inequalities were justified by natural differences in ability and diligence, they knew all the time, and everybody knew who listened to them, that the foundation principle of the whole property system was not ability, effort, or desert of any kind whatever, but merely the accident of birth, than which no possible claim could more completely mock at ethics." "But, Julian," exclaimed Edith, "you must surely have had some way of excusing yourself to your conscience for retaining in the presence of a needy world such an excess of good things as you had!" "I am afraid," I said, "that you can not easily imagine how callous was the cuticle of the nineteenth-century conscience. There may have been some of my class on the intellectual plane of little Jack Horner in Mother Goose, who concluded he must be a good boy because he pulled out a plum, but I did not at least belong to that grade. I never gave much thought to the subject of my right to an abundance which I had done nothing to earn in the midst of a starving world of toilers, but occasionally, when I did think of it, I felt like craving pardon of the beggar who asked alms for being in a position to give to him." "It is impossible to get up any sort of a quarrel with Julian," said the doctor; "but there were others of his class less rational. Cornered as to their moral claim to their possessions, they fell back on that of their ancestors. They argued that these ancestors, assuming them to have had a right by merit to their possessions, had as an incident of that merit the right to give them to others. Here, of course, they absolutely confused the ideas of legal and moral right. The law might indeed give a person power to transfer a legal title to property in any way that suited the lawmakers, but the meritorious right to the property, resting as it did on personal desert, could not in the nature of moral things be transferred or ascribed to any one else. The cleverest lawyer would never have pretended that he could draw up a document that would carry over the smallest tittle of merit from one person to another, however close the tie of blood. "In ancient times it was customary to hold children responsible for the debts of their fathers and sell them into slavery to make satisfaction. The people of Julian's day found it unjust thus to inflict upon innocent offspring the penalty of their ancestors' faults. But if these children did not deserve the consequences of their ancestors' sloth, no more had they any title to the product of their ancestors' industry. The barbarians who insisted on both sorts of inheritance were more logical than Julian's contemporaries, who, rejecting one sort of inheritance, retained the other. Will it be said that at least the later theory of inheritance was more humane, although one-sided? Upon that point you should have been able to get the opinion of the disinherited masses who, by reason of the monopolizing of the earth and its resources from generation to generation by the possessors of inherited property, were left no place to stand on and no way to live except by permission of the inheriting class." "Doctor," I said, "I have nothing to offer against all that. We who inherited our wealth had no moral title to it, and that we knew as well as everybody else did, although it was not considered polite to refer to the fact in our presence. But if I am going to stand up here in the pillory as a representative of the inheriting class, there are others who ought to stand beside me. We were not the only ones who had no right to our money. Are you not going to say anything about the money makers, the rascals who raked together great fortunes in a few years by wholesale fraud and extortion?" "Pardon me, I was just coming to them," said the doctor. "You ladies must remember," he continued, "that the rich, who in Julian's day possessed nearly everything of value in every country, leaving the masses mere scraps and crumbs, were of two sorts: those who had inherited their wealth, and those who, as the saying was, had made it. We have seen how far the inheriting class were justified in their holdings by the principle which the nineteenth century asserted to be the excuse for wealth--namely, that individuals were entitled to the fruit of their labors. Let us next inquire how far the same principle justified the possessions of these others whom Julian refers to, who claimed that they had made their money themselves, and showed in proof lives absolutely devoted from childhood to age without rest or respite to the piling up of gains. Now, of course, labor in itself, however arduous, does not imply moral desert. It may be a criminal activity. Let us see if these men who claimed that they made their money had any better title to it than Julian's class by the rule put forward as the excuse for unequal wealth, that every one has a right to the product of his labor. The most complete statement of the principle of the right of property, as based on economic effort, which has come down to us, is this maxim: 'Every man is entitled to his own product, his whole product, and nothing but his product.' Now, this maxim had a double edge, a negative as well as a positive, and the negative edge is very sharp. If everybody was entitled to his own product, nobody else was entitled to any part of it, and if any one's accumulation was found to contain any product not strictly his own, he stood condemned as a thief by the law he had invoked. If in the great fortunes of the stockjobbers, the railroad kings, the bankers, the great landlords, and the other moneyed lords who boasted that they had begun life with a shilling--if in these great fortunes of mushroom rapidity of growth there was anything that was properly the product of the efforts of any one but the owner, it was not his, and his possession of it condemned him as a thief. If he would be justified, he must not be more careful to obtain all that was his own product than to avoid taking anything that was not his product. If he insisted upon the pound of flesh awarded him by the letter of the law, he must stick to the letter, observing the warning of Portia to Shylock: Nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more Or less than a just pound, be it so much As makes light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair, Thou diest, and thy goods are confiscate. How many of the great fortunes heaped up by the self-made men of your day, Julian, would have stood that test?" "It is safe to say," I replied, "that there was not one of the lot whose lawyer would not have advised him to do as Shylock did, and resign his claim rather than try to push it at the risk of the penalty. Why, dear me, there never would have been any possibility of making a great fortune in a lifetime if the maker had confined himself to his own product. The whole acknowledged art of wealth-making on a large scale consisted in devices for getting possession of other people's product without too open breach of the law. It was a current and a true saying of the times that nobody could honestly acquire a million dollars. Everybody knew that it was only by extortion, speculation, stock gambling, or some other form of plunder under pretext of law that such a feat could be accomplished. You yourselves can not condemn the human cormorants who piled up these heaps of ill-gotten gains more bitterly than did the public opinion of their own time. The execration and contempt of the community followed the great money-getters to their graves, and with the best of reason. I have had nothing to say in defense of my own class, who inherited our wealth, but actually the people seemed to have more respect for us than for these others who claimed to have made their money. For if we inheritors had confessedly no moral right to the wealth we had done nothing to produce or acquire, yet we had committed no positive wrong to obtain it." "You see," said the doctor, "what a pity it would have been if we had forgotten to compare the excuse offered by the nineteenth century for the unequal distribution of wealth with the actual facts of that distribution. Ethical standards advance from age to age, and it is not always fair to judge the systems of one age by the moral standards of a later one. But we have seen that the property system of the nineteenth century would have gained nothing by way of a milder verdict by appealing from the moral standards of the twentieth to those of the nineteenth century. It was not necessary, in order to justify its condemnation, to invoke the modern ethics of wealth which deduce the rights of property from the rights of man. It was only necessary to apply to the actual realities of the system the ethical plea put forth in its defense--namely, that everybody was entitled to the fruit of his own labor, and was not entitled to the fruit of anybody's else--to leave not one stone upon another of the whole fabric." "But was there, then, absolutely no class under your system," said Edith's mother, "which even by the standards of your time could claim an ethical as well as a legal title to their possessions?" "Oh, yes," I replied, "we have been speaking of the rich. You may set it down as a rule that the rich, the possessors of great wealth, had no moral right to it as based upon desert, for either their fortunes belonged to the class of inherited wealth, or else, when accumulated in a lifetime, necessarily represented chiefly the product of others, more or less forcibly or fraudulently obtained. There were, however, a great number of modest competencies, which were recognized by public opinion as being no more than a fair measure of the service rendered by their possessors to the community. Below these there was the vast mass of well-nigh wholly penniless toilers, the real people. Here there was indeed abundance of ethical title to property, for these were the producers of all; but beyond the shabby clothing they wore, they had little or no property." "It would seem," said Edith, "that, speaking generally, the class which chiefly had the property had little or no right to it, even according to the ideas of your day, while the masses which had the right had little or no property." "Substantially that was the case," I replied. "That is to say, if you took the aggregate of property held by the merely legal title of inheritance, and added to it all that had been obtained by means which public opinion held to be speculative, extortionate, fraudulent, or representing results in excess of services rendered, there would be little property left, and certainly none at all in considerable amounts." "From the preaching of the clergy in Julian's time," said the doctor, "you would have thought the corner stone of Christianity was the right of property, and the supreme crime was the wrongful appropriation of property. But if stealing meant only taking that from another to which he had a sound ethical title, it must have been one of the most difficult of all crimes to commit for lack of the requisite material. When one took away the possessions of the poor it was reasonably certain that he was stealing, but then they had nothing to take away." "The thing that seems to me the most utterly incredible about all this terrible story," said Edith, "is that a system which was such a disastrous failure in its effects on the general welfare, which, by disinheriting the great mass of the people, had made them its bitter foes, and which finally even people like Julian, who were its beneficiaries, did not attempt to defend as having any ground of fairness, could have maintained itself a day." "No wonder it seems incomprehensible to you, as now, indeed, it seems to me as I look back," I replied. "But you can not possibly imagine, as I myself am fast losing the power to do, in my new environment, how benumbing to the mind was the prestige belonging to the immemorial antiquity of the property system as we knew it and of the rule of the rich based on it. No other institution, no other fabric of power ever known to man, could be compared with it as to duration. No different economic order could really be said ever to have been known. There had been changes and fashions in all other human institutions, but no radical change in the system of property. The procession of political, social, and religious systems, the royal, imperial, priestly, democratic epochs, and all other great phases of human affairs, had been as passing cloud shadows, mere fashions of a day, compared with the hoary antiquity of the rule of the rich. Consider how profound and how widely ramified a root in human prejudices such a system must have had, how overwhelming the presumption must have been with the mass of minds against the possibility of making an end of an order that had never been known to have a beginning! What need for excuses or defenders had a system so deeply based in usage and antiquity as this? It is not too much to say that to the mass of mankind in my day the division of the race into rich and poor, and the subjection of the latter to the former, seemed almost as much a law of Nature as the succession of the seasons--something that might not be agreeable, but was certainly unchangeable. And just here, I can well understand, must have come the hardest as well as, necessarily, the first task of the revolutionary leaders--that is, of overcoming the enormous dead weight of immemorial inherited prejudice against the possibility of getting rid of abuses which had lasted so long, and opening people's eyes to the fact that the system of wealth distribution was merely a human institution like others, and that if there is any truth in human progress, the longer an institution had endured unchanged, the more completely it was likely to have become out of joint with the world's progress, and the more radical the change must be which, should bring it into correspondence with other lines of social evolution." "That is quite the modern view of the subject," said the doctor. "I shall be understood in talking with a representative of the century which invented poker if I say that when the revolutionists attacked the fundamental justice of the old property system, its defenders were able on account of its antiquity to meet them with a tremendous bluff--one which it is no wonder should have been for a time almost paralyzing. But behind the bluff there was absolutely nothing. The moment public opinion could be nerved up to the point of calling it, the game was up. The principle of inheritance, the backbone of the whole property system, at the first challenge of serious criticism abandoned all ethical defense and shriveled into a mere convention established by law, and as rightfully to be disestablished by it in the name of anything fairer. As for the buccaneers, the great money-getters, when the light was once turned on their methods, the question was not so much of saving their booty as their bacon. "There is historically a marked difference," the doctor went on, "between the decline and fall of the systems of royal and priestly power and the passing of the rule of the rich. The former systems were rooted deeply in sentiment and romance, and for ages after their overthrow retained a strong hold on the hearts and imaginations of men. Our generous race has remembered without rancor all the oppressions it has endured save only the rule of the rich. The dominion of the money power had always been devoid of moral basis or dignity, and from the moment its material supports were destroyed, it not only perished, but seemed to sink away at once into a state of putrescence that made the world hurry to bury it forever out of sight and memory." CHAPTER XVII. THE REVOLUTION SAVES PRIVATE PROPERTY FROM MONOPOLY. "Really," said her mother, "Edith touched the match to quite a large discussion when she suggested that you should open the safe for us." To which I added that I had learned more that morning about the moral basis of economic equality and the grounds for the abolition of private property than in my entire previous experience as a citizen of the twentieth century. "The abolition of private property!" exclaimed the doctor. "What is that you say?" "Of course," I said, "I am quite ready to admit that you have something--very much better in its place, but private property you have certainly abolished--have you not? Is not that what we have been talking about?" The doctor turned as if for sympathy to the ladies. "And this young man," he said, "who thinks that we have abolished private property has at this moment in his pocket a card of credit representing a private annual income, for strictly personal use, of four thousand dollars, based upon a share of stock in the wealthiest and soundest corporation in the world, the value of his share, calculating the income on a four-per-cent basis, coming to one hundred thousand dollars." I felt a little silly at being convicted so palpably of making a thoughtless observation, but the doctor hastened to say that he understood perfectly what had been in my mind. I had, no doubt, heard it a hundred times asserted by the wise men of my day that the equalization of human conditions as to wealth would necessitate destroying the institution of private property, and, without having given special thought to the subject, had naturally assumed that the equalization of wealth having been effected, private property must have been abolished, according to the prediction. "Thanks," I said; "that is it exactly." "The Revolution," said the doctor, "abolished private capitalism--that is to say, it put an end to the direction of the industries and commerce of the people by irresponsible persons for their own benefit and transferred that function to the people collectively to be carried on by responsible agents for the common benefit. The change created an entirely new system of property holding, but did not either directly or indirectly involve any denial of the right of private property. Quite on the contrary, the change in system placed the private and personal property rights of every citizen upon a basis incomparably more solid and secure and extensive than they ever before had or could have had while private capitalism lasted. Let us analyze the effects of the change of systems and see if it was not so." "Suppose you and a number of other men of your time, all having separate claims in a mining region, formed a corporation to carry on as one mine your consolidated properties, would you have any less private property than you had when you owned your claims separately? You would have changed the mode and tenure of your property, but if the arrangement were a wise one that would be wholly to your advantage, would it not?" "No doubt." "Of course, you could no longer exercise the personal and complete control over the consolidated mine which you exercised over your separate claim. You would have, with your fellow-corporators, to intrust the management of the combined property to a board of directors chosen by yourselves, but you would not think that meant a sacrifice of your private property, would you?" "Certainly not. That was the form under which a very large part, if not the largest part, of private property in my day was invested and controlled." "It appears, then," said the doctor, "that it is not necessary to the full possession and enjoyment of private property that it should be in a separate parcel or that the owner should exercise a direct and personal control over it. Now, let us further suppose that instead of intrusting the management of your consolidated property to private directors more or less rascally, who would be constantly trying to cheat the stockholders, the nation undertook to manage the business for you by agents chosen by and responsible to you; would that be an attack on your property interests?" "On the contrary, it would greatly enhance the value of the property. It would be as if a government guarantee were obtained for private bonds." "Well, that is what the people in the Revolution did with private property. They simply consolidated the property in the country previously held in separate parcels and put the management of the business into the hands of a national agency charged with paying over the dividends to the stockholders for their individual use. So far, surely, it must be admitted the Revolution did not involve any abolition of private property." "That is true," said I, "except in one particular. It is or used to be a usual incident to the ownership of property that it may be disposed of at will by the owner. The owner of stock in a mine or mill could not indeed sell a piece of the mine or mill, but he could sell his stock in it; but the citizen now can not dispose of his share in the national concern. He can only dispose of the dividend." "Certainly," replied the doctor; "but while the power of alienating the principal of one's property was a usual incident of ownership in your time, it was very far from being a necessary incident or one which was beneficial to the owner, for the right of disposing of property involved the risk of being dispossessed of it by others. I think there were few property owners in your day who would not very gladly have relinquished the right to alienate their property if they could have had it guaranteed indefeasibly to them and their children. So to tie up property by trusts that the beneficiary could not touch the principal was the study of rich people who desired best to protect their heirs. Take the case of entailed estates as another illustration of this idea. Under that mode of holding property the possessor could not sell it, yet it was considered the most desirable sort of property on account of that very fact. The fact you refer to--that the citizen can not alienate his share in the national corporation which forms the basis of his income--tends in the same way to make it a more and not a less valuable sort of property. Certainly its quality as a strictly personal and private sort of property is intensified by the very indefeasibleness with which it is attached to the individual. It might be said that the reorganization of the property system which we are speaking of amounted to making the United States an entailed estate for the equal benefit of the citizens thereof and their descendants forever." "You have not yet mentioned" I said, "the most drastic measure of all by which the Revolution affected private property, namely, the absolute equalizing of the amount of property to be held by each. Here was not perhaps any denial of the principle itself of private property, but it was certainly a prodigious interference with property holders." "The distinction is well made. It is of vital importance to a correct apprehension of this subject. History has been full of just such wholesale readjustments of property interests by spoliation, conquest, or confiscation. They have been more or less justifiable, but when least so they were never thought to involve any denial of the idea of private property in itself, for they went right on to reassert it under a different form. Less than any previous readjustment of property relations could the general equalizing of property in the Revolution be called a denial of the right of property. On the precise contrary it was an assertion and vindication of that right on a scale never before dreamed of. Before the Revolution very few of the people had any property at all and no economic provision save from day to day. By the new system all were assured of a large, equal, and fixed share in the total national principal and income. Before the Revolution even those who had secured a property were likely to have it taken from them or to slip from them by a thousand accidents. Even the millionaire had no assurance that his grandson might not become a homeless vagabond or his granddaughter be forced to a life of shame. Under the new system the title of every citizen to his individual fortune became indefeasible, and he could lose it only when the nation became bankrupt. The Revolution, that is to say, instead of denying or abolishing the institution of private property, affirmed it in an incomparably more positive, beneficial, permanent, and general form than had ever been known before. "Of course, Julian, it was in the way of human nature quite a matter of course that your contemporaries should have cried out against the idea of a universal right of property as an attack on the principle of property. There was never a prophet or reformer who raised his voice for a purer, more spiritual, and perfect idea of religion whom his contemporaries did not accuse of seeking to abolish religion; nor ever in political affairs did any party proclaim a juster, larger, wiser ideal of government without being accused of seeking to abolish government. So it was quite according to precedent that those who taught the right of all to property should be accused of attacking the right of property. But who, think you, were the true friends and champions of private property? those who advocated a system under which one man if clever enough could monopolize the earth--and a very small number were fast monopolizing it--turning the rest of the race into proletarians, or, on the other hand, those who demanded a system by which all should become property holders on equal terms?" "It strikes me," I said, "that as soon as the revolutionary leaders succeeded in opening the eyes of the people to this view of the matter, my old friends the capitalists must have found their cry about 'the sacred right of property' turned into a most dangerous sort of boomerang." "So they did. Nothing could have better served the ends of the Revolution, as we have seen, than to raise the issue of the right of property. Nothing was so desirable as that the people at large should be led to give a little serious consideration on rational and moral grounds to what that right was as compared with what it ought to be. It was very soon, then, that the cry of 'the sacred right of property,' first raised by the rich in the name of the few, was re-echoed with overwhelming effect by the disinherited millions in the name of all." CHAPTER XVIII. AN ECHO OF THE PAST. "Ah!" exclaimed Edith, who with her mother had been rummaging the drawers of the safe as the doctor and I talked, "here are some letters, if I am not mistaken. It seems, then, you used safes for something besides money." It was, in fact, as I noted with quite indescribable emotion, a packet of letters and notes from Edith Bartlett, written on various occasions during our relation as lovers, that Edith, her great-granddaughter, held in her hand. I took them from her, and opening one, found it to be a note dated May 30, 1887, the very day on which I parted with her forever. In it she asked me to join her family in their Decoration-day visit to the grave at Mount Auburn where her brother lay, who had fallen in the civil war. "I do not expect, Julian," she had written, "that you will adopt all my relations as your own because you marry me--that would be too much--but my hero brother I want you to take for yours, and that is why I would like you to go with us to-day." The gold and parchments, once so priceless, now carelessly scattered about the chamber, had lost their value, but these tokens of love had not parted with their potency through lapse of time. As by a magic power they called up in a moment a mist of memories which shut me up in a world of my own--a world in which the present had no part. I do not know for how long I sat thus tranced and oblivious of the silent, sympathizing group around me. It was by a deep involuntary sigh from my own lips that I was at last roused from my abstraction, and returned from the dream world of the past to a consciousness of my present environment and its conditions. "These are letters," I said, "from the other Edith--Edith Bartlett, your great-grandmother. Perhaps you would be interested in looking them over. I don't know who has a nearer or better claim to them after myself than you and your mother." Edith took the letters and began to examine them with reverent curiosity. "They will be very interesting," said her mother, "but I am afraid, Julian, we shall have to ask you to read them for us." My countenance no doubt expressed the surprise I felt at this confession of illiteracy on the part of such highly cultivated persons. "Am I to understand," I finally inquired, "that handwriting, and the reading of it, like lock-making, is a lost art?" "I am afraid it is about so," replied the doctor, "although the explanation here is not, as in the other case, economic equality so much as the progress of invention. Our children are still taught to write and to read writing, but they have so little practice in after-life that they usually forget their acquirements pretty soon after leaving school; but really Edith ought still to be able to make out a nineteenth-century letter.--My dear, I am a little ashamed of you." "Oh, I can read this, papa," she exclaimed, looking up, with brows still corrugated, from a page she had been studying. "Don't you remember I studied out those old letters of Julian's to Edith Bartlett, which mother had?--though that was years ago, and I have grown rusty since. But I have read nearly two lines of this already. It is really quite plain. I am going to work it all out without any help from anybody except mother." "Dear me, dear me!" said I, "don't you write letters any more?" "Well, no," replied the doctor, "practically speaking, handwriting has gone out of use. For correspondence, when we do not telephone, we send phonographs, and use the latter, indeed, for all purposes for which you employed handwriting. It has been so now so long that it scarcely occurs to us that people ever did anything else. But surely this is an evolution that need surprise you little: you had the phonograph, and its possibilities were patent enough from the first. For our important records we still largely use types, of course, but the printed matter is transcribed from phonographic copy, so that really, except in emergencies, there is little use for handwriting. Curious, isn't it, when one comes to think of it, that the riper civilization has grown, the more perishable its records have become? The Chaldeans and Egyptians used bricks, and the Greeks and Romans made more or less use of stone and bronze, for writing. If the race were destroyed to-day and the earth should be visited, say, from Mars, five hundred years later or even less, our books would have perished, and the Roman Empire be accounted the latest and highest stage of human civilization." CHAPTER XIX. "CAN A MAID FORGET HER ORNAMENTS?" Presently Edith and her mother went into the house to study out the letters, and the doctor being so delightfully absorbed with the stocks and bonds that it would have been unkind not to leave him alone, it struck me that the occasion was favorable for the execution of a private project for which opportunity had hitherto been lacking. From the moment of receiving my credit card I had contemplated a particular purchase which I desired to make on the first opportunity. This was a betrothal ring for Edith. Gifts in general, it was evident, had lost their value in this age when everybody had everything he wanted, but this was one which, for sentiment's sake, I was sure would still seem as desirable to a woman as ever. Taking advantage, therefore, of the unusual absorption of my hosts in special interests, I made my way to the great store Edith had taken me to on a former occasion, the only one I had thus far entered. Not seeing the class of goods which I desired indicated by any of the placards over the alcoves, I presently asked one of the young women attendants to direct me to the jewelry department. "I beg your pardon," she said, raising her eyebrows a little, "what did I understand you to ask for?" "The jewelry department," I repeated. "I want to look at some rings." "Rings," she repeated, regarding me with a rather blank expression. "May I ask what kind of rings, for what sort of use?" "Finger rings," I repeated, feeling that the young woman could not be so intelligent as she looked. At the word she glanced at my left hand, on one of the fingers of which I wore a seal ring after a fashion of my day. Her countenance took on an expression at once of intelligence and the keenest interest. "I beg your pardon a thousand times!" she exclaimed. "I ought to have understood before. You are Julian West?" I was beginning to be a little nettled with so much mystery about so simple a matter. "I certainly am Julian West," I said; "but pardon me if I do not see the relevancy of that fact to the question I asked you." "Oh, you must really excuse me," she said, "but it is most relevant. Nobody in America but just yourself would ask for finger rings. You see they have not been used for so long a period that we have quite ceased to keep them in stock; but if you would like one made to order you have only to leave a description of what you want and it will be at once manufactured." I thanked her, but concluded that I would not prosecute the undertaking any further until I had looked over the ground a little more thoroughly. I said nothing about my adventure at home, not caring to be laughed at more than was necessary; but when after dinner I found the doctor alone in his favorite outdoor study on the housetop, I cautiously sounded him on the subject. Remarking, as if quite in a casual way, that I had not noticed so much as a finger ring worn by any one, I asked him whether the wearing of jewelry had been disused, and, if so, what was the explanation of the abandonment of the custom? The doctor said that it certainly was a fact that the wearing of jewelry had been virtually an obsolete custom for a couple of generations if not more. "As for the reasons for the fact," he continued, "they really go rather deeply into the direct and indirect consequences of our present economic system. Speaking broadly, I suppose the main and sufficient reason why gold and silver and precious stones have ceased to be prized as ornaments is that they entirely lost their commercial value when the nation organized wealth distribution on the basis of the indefeasible economic equality of all citizens. As you know, a ton of gold or a bushel of diamonds would not secure a loaf of bread at the public stores, nothing availing there except or in addition to the citizen's credit, which depends solely on his citizenship, and is always equal to that of every other citizen. Consequently nothing is worth anything to anybody nowadays save for the use or pleasure he can personally derive from it. The main reason why gems and the precious metals were formerly used as ornaments seems to have been the great convertible value belonging to them, which made them symbols of wealth and importance, and consequently a favorite means of social ostentation. The fact that they have entirely lost this quality would account, I think, largely for their disuse as ornaments, even if ostentation itself had not been deprived of its motive by the law of equality." "Undoubtedly," I said; "yet there were those who thought them pretty quite apart from their value." "Well, possibly," replied the doctor. "Yes, I suppose savage races honestly thought so, but, being honest, they did not distinguish between precious stones and glass beads so long as both were equally shiny. As to the pretension of civilized persons to admire gems or gold for their intrinsic beauty apart from their value, I suspect that was a more or less unconscious sham. Suppose, by any sudden abundance, diamonds of the first water had gone down to the value of bottle glass, how much longer do you think they would have been worn by anybody in your day?" I was constrained to admit that undoubtedly they would have disappeared from view promptly and permanently. "I imagine," said the doctor, "that good taste, which we understand even in your day rather frowned on the use of such ornaments, came to the aid of the economic influence in promoting their disuse when once the new order of things had been established. The loss by the gems and precious metals of the glamour that belonged to them as forms of concentrated wealth left the taste free to judge of the real aesthetic value of ornamental effects obtained by hanging bits of shining stones and plates and chains and rings of metal about the face and neck and fingers, and the view seems to have been soon generally acquiesced in that such combinations were barbaric and not really beautiful at all." "But what has become of all the diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and gold and silver jewels?" I exclaimed. "The metals, of course--silver and gold--kept their uses, mechanical and artistic. They are always beautiful in their proper places, and are as much used for decorative purposes as ever, but those purposes are architectural, not personal, as formerly. Because we do not follow the ancient practice of using paints on our faces and bodies, we use them not the less in what we consider their proper places, and it is just so with gold and silver. As for the precious stones, some of them have found use in mechanical applications, and there are, of course, collections of them in museums here and there. Probably there never were more than a few hundred bushels of precious stones in existence, and it is easy to account for the disappearance and speedy loss of so small a quantity of such minute objects after they had ceased to be prized." "The reasons you give for the passing of jewelry," I said, "certainly account for the fact, and yet you can scarcely imagine what a surprise I find in it. The degradation of the diamond to the rank of the glass bead, save for its mechanical uses, expresses and typifies as no other one fact to me the completeness of the revolution which at the present time has subordinated things to humanity. It would not be so difficult, of course, to understand that men might readily have dispensed with jewel-wearing, which indeed was never considered in the best of taste as a masculine practice except in barbarous countries, but it would have staggered the prophet Jeremiah to have his query 'Can a maid forget her ornaments?' answered in the affirmative." The doctor laughed. "Jeremiah was a very wise man," he said, "and if his attention had been drawn to the subject of economic equality and its effect upon the relation of the sexes, I am sure he would have foreseen as one of its logical results the growth of a sentiment of quite as much philosophy concerning personal ornamentation on the part of women as men have ever displayed. He would not have been surprised to learn that one effect of that equality as between men and women had been to revolutionize women's attitude on the whole question of dress so completely that the most bilious of misogynists--if indeed any were left--would no longer be able to accuse them of being more absorbed in that interest than are men." "Doctor, doctor, do not ask me to believe that the desire to make herself attractive has ceased to move woman!" "Excuse me, I did not mean to say anything of the sort," replied the doctor. "I spoke of the disproportionate development of that desire which tends to defeat its own end by over-ornament and excess of artifice. If we may judge from the records of your time, this was quite generally the result of the excessive devotion to dress on the part of your women; was it not so?" "Undoubtedly. Overdressing, overexertion to be attractive, was the greatest drawback to the real attractiveness of women in my day." "And how was it with the men?" "That could not be said of any men worth calling men. There were, of course, the dandies, but most men paid too little attention to their appearance rather than too much." "That is to say, one sex paid too much attention to dress and the other too little?" "That was it." "Very well; the effect of economic equality of the sexes and the consequent independence of women at all times as to maintenance upon men is that women give much less thought to dress than in your day and men considerably more. No one would indeed think of suggesting that either sex is nowadays more absorbed in setting off its personal attractions than the other. Individuals differ as to their interest in this matter, but the difference is not along the line of sex." "But why do you attribute this miracle," I exclaimed, "for miracle it seems, to the effect of economic equality on the relation of men and women?" "Because from the moment that equality became established between them it ceased to be a whit more the interest of women to make themselves attractive and desirable to men than for men to produce the same impression upon women." "Meaning thereby that previous to the establishment of economic equality between men and women it was decidedly more the interest of the women to make themselves personally attractive than of the men." "Assuredly," said the doctor. "Tell me to what motive did men in your day ascribe the excessive devotion of the other sex to matters of dress as compared with men's comparative neglect of the subject?" "Well, I don't think we did much clear thinking on the subject. In fact, anything which had any sexual suggestion about it was scarcely ever treated in any other than a sentimental or jesting tone." "That is indeed," said the doctor, "a striking trait of your age, though explainable enough in view of the utter hypocrisy underlying the entire relation of the sexes, the pretended chivalric deference to women on the one hand, coupled with their practical suppression on the other, but you must have had some theory to account for women's excessive devotion to personal adornment." "The theory, I think, was that handed down from the ancients--namely, that women were naturally vainer than men. But they did not like to hear that said: so the polite way of accounting for the obvious fact that they cared so much more for dress than did men was that they were more sensitive to beauty, more unselfishly desirous of pleasing, and other agreeable phrases." "And did it not occur to you that the real reason why woman gave so much thought to devices for enhancing her beauty was simply that, owing to her economic dependence on man's favor, a woman's face was her fortune, and that the reason men were so careless for the most part as to their personal appearance was that their fortune in no way depended on their beauty; and that even when it came to commending themselves to the favor of the other sex their economic position told more potently in their favor than any question of personal advantages? Surely this obvious consideration fully explained woman's greater devotion to personal adornment, without assuming any difference whatever in the natural endowment of the sexes as to vanity." "And consequently," I put in, "when women ceased any more to depend for their economic welfare upon men's favor, it ceased to be their main aim in life to make themselves attractive to men's eyes?" "Precisely so, to their unspeakable gain in comfort, dignity, and freedom of mind for more important interests." "But to the diminution, I suspect, of the picturesqueness of the social panorama?" "Not at all, but most decidedly to its notable advantage. So far as we can judge, what claim the women of your period had to be regarded as attractive was achieved distinctly in spite of their efforts to make themselves so. Let us recall that we are talking about that excessive concern of women for the enhancement of their charms which led to a mad race after effect that for the most part defeated the end sought. Take away the economic motive which made women's attractiveness to men a means of getting on in life, and there remained Nature's impulse to attract the admiration of the other sex, a motive quite strong enough for beauty's end, and the more effective for not being too strong." "It is easy enough to see," I said, "why the economic independence of women should have had the effect of moderating to a reasonable measure their interest in personal adornment; but why should it have operated in the opposite direction upon men, in making them more attentive to dress and personal appearance than before?" "For the simple reason that their economic superiority to women having disappeared, they must henceforth depend wholly upon personal attractiveness if they would either win the favor of women or retain it when won." CHAPTER XX. WHAT THE REVOLUTION DID FOR WOMEN. "It occurs to me, doctor," I said, "that it would have been even better worth the while of a woman of my day to have slept over till now than for me, seeing that the establishment of economic equality seems to have meant for more for women than for men." "Edith would perhaps not have been pleased with the substitution," said the doctor; "but really there is much in what you say, for the establishment of economic equality did in fact mean incomparably more for women than for men. In your day the condition of the mass of men was abject as compared with their present state, but the lot of women was abject as compared with that of the men. The most of men were indeed the servants of the rich, but the woman was subject to the man whether he were rich or poor, and in the latter and more common case was thus the servant of a servant. However low down in poverty a man might be, he had one or more lower even than he in the persons of the women dependent on him and subject to his will. At the very bottom of the social heap, bearing the accumulated burden of the whole mass, was woman. All the tyrannies of soul and mind and body which the race endured, weighed at last with cumulative force upon her. So far beneath even the mean estate of man was that of woman that it would have been a mighty uplift for her could she have only attained his level. But the great Revolution not merely lifted her to an equality with man but raised them both with the same mighty upthrust to a plane of moral dignity and material welfare as much above the former state of man as his former state had been above that of woman. If men then owe gratitude to the Revolution, how much greater must women esteem their debt to it! If to the men the voice of the Revolution was a call to a higher and nobler plane of living, to woman it was as the voice of God calling her to a new creation." "Undoubtedly," I said, "the women of the poor had a pretty abject time of it, but the women of the rich certainly were not oppressed." "The women of the rich," replied the doctor, "were numerically too insignificant a proportion of the mass of women to be worth considering in a general statement of woman's condition in your day. Nor, for that matter, do we consider their lot preferable to that of their poorer sisters. It is true that they did not endure physical hardship, but were, on the contrary, petted and spoiled by their men protectors like over-indulged children; but that seems to us not a sort of life to be desired. So far as we can learn from contemporary accounts and social pictures, the women of the rich lived in a hothouse atmosphere of adulation and affectation, altogether less favorable to moral or mental development than the harder conditions of the women of the poor. A woman of to-day, if she were doomed to go back to live in your world, would beg at least to be reincarnated as a scrub woman rather than as a wealthy woman of fashion. The latter rather than the former seems to us the sort of woman which most completely typified the degradation of the sex in your age." As the same thought had occurred to me, even in my former life, I did not argue the point. "The so-called woman movement, the beginning of the great transformation in her condition," continued the doctor, "was already making quite a stir in your day. You must have heard and seen much of it, and may have even known some of the noble women who were the early leaders." "Oh, yes." I replied. "There was a great stir about women's rights, but the programme then announced was by no means revolutionary. It only aimed at securing the right to vote, together with various changes in the laws about property-holding by women, the custody of children in divorces, and such details. I assure you that the women no more than the men had at that time any notion of revolutionizing the economic system." "So we understand," replied the doctor. "In that respect the women's struggle for independence resembled revolutionary movements in general, which, in their earlier stages, go blundering and stumbling along in such a seemingly erratic and illogical way that it takes a philosopher to calculate what outcome to expect. The calculation as to the ultimate outcome of the women's movement was, however, as simple as was the same calculation in the case of what you called the labor movement. What the women were after was independence of men and equality with them, while the workingmen's desire was to put an end to their vassalage to capitalists. Now, the key to the fetters the women wore was the same that locked the shackles of the workers. It was the economic key, the control of the means of subsistence. Men, as a sex, held that power over women, and the rich as a class held it over the working masses. The secret of the sexual bondage and of the industrial bondage was the same--namely, the unequal distribution of the wealth power, and the change which was necessary to put an end to both forms of bondage must obviously be economic equalization, which in the sexual as in the industrial relation would at once insure the substitution of co-operation for coercion. "The first leaders of the women's revolt were unable to see beyond the ends of their noses, and consequently ascribed their subject condition and the abuses they endured to the wickedness of man, and appeared to believe that the only remedy necessary was a moral reform on his part. This was the period during which such expressions as the 'tyrant man' and 'man the monster' were watchwords of the agitation. The champions of the women fell into precisely the same mistake committed by a large proportion of the early leaders of the workingmen, who wasted good breath and wore out their tempers in denouncing the capitalists as the willful authors of all the ills of the proletarian. This was worse than idle rant; it was misleading and blinding. The men were essentially no worse than the women they oppressed nor the capitalists than the workmen they exploited. Put workingmen in the places of the capitalists and they would have done just as the capitalists were doing. In fact, whenever workingmen did become capitalists they were commonly said to make the hardest sort of masters. So, also, if women could have changed places with the men, they would undoubtedly have dealt with the men precisely as the men had dealt with them. It was the system which permitted human beings to come into relations of superiority and inferiority to one another which was the cause of the whole evil. Power over others is necessarily demoralizing to the master and degrading to the subject. Equality is the only moral relation between human beings. Any reform which should result in remedying the abuse of women by men, or workingmen by capitalists, must therefore be addressed to equalizing their economic condition. Not till the women, as well as the workingmen, gave over the folly of attacking the consequences of economic inequality and attacked the inequality itself, was there any hope for the enfranchisement of either class. "The utterly inadequate idea which the early leaders of the women had of the great salvation they must have, and how it must come, are curiously illustrated by their enthusiasm for the various so-called temperance agitations of the period for the purpose of checking drunkenness among men. The special interest of the women as a class in this reform in men's manners--for women as a rule did not drink intoxicants--consisted in the calculation that if the men drank less they would be less likely to abuse them, and would provide more liberally for their maintenance; that is to say, their highest aspirations were limited to the hope that, by reforming the morals of their masters, they might secure a little better treatment for themselves. The idea of abolishing the mastership had not yet occurred to them as a possibility. "This point, by the way, as to the efforts of women in your day to reform men's drinking habits by law rather strikingly suggests the difference between the position of women then and now in their relation to men. If nowadays men were addicted to any practice which made them seriously and generally offensive to women, it would not occur to the latter to attempt to curb it by law. Our spirit of personal sovereignty and the rightful independence of the individual in all matters mainly self-regarding would indeed not tolerate any of the legal interferences with the private practices of individuals so common in your day. But the women would not find force necessary to correct the manners of the men. Their absolute economic independence, whether in or out of marriage, would enable them to use a more potent influence. It would presently be found that the men who made themselves offensive to women's susceptibilities would sue for their favor in vain. But it was practically impossible for women of your day to protect themselves or assert their wills by assuming that attitude. It was economically a necessity for a woman to marry, or at least of so great advantage to her that she could not well dictate terms to her suitors, unless very fortunately situated, and once married it was the practical understanding that in return for her maintenance by her husband she must hold herself at his disposal." "It sounds horribly," I said, "at this distance of time, but I beg you to believe that it was not always quite as bad as it sounds. The better men exercised their power with consideration, and with persons of refinement the wife virtually retained her self-control, and for that matter in many families the woman was practically the head of the house." "No doubt, no doubt," replied the doctor. "So it has always been under every form of servitude. However absolute the power of a master, it has been exercised with a fair degree of humanity in a large proportion of instances, and in many cases the nominal slave, when of strong character, has in reality exercised a controlling influence over the master. This observed fact is not, however, considered a valid argument for subjecting human beings to the arbitrary will of others. Speaking generally, it is undoubtedly true that both the condition of women when subjected to men, as well as that of the poor in subjection to the rich, were in fact far less intolerable than it seems to us they possibly could have been. As the physical life of man can be maintained and often thrive in any climate from the poles to the equator, so his moral nature has shown its power to live and even put forth fragrant flowers under the most terrible social conditions." "In order to realize the prodigious debt of woman to the great Revolution," resumed the doctor, "we must remember that the bondage from which it delivered her was incomparably more complete and abject than any to which men had ever been subjected by their fellow-men. It was enforced not by a single but by a triple yoke. The first yoke was the subjection to the personal and class rule of the rich, which the mass of women bore in common with the mass of men. The other two yokes were peculiar to her. One of them was her personal subjection not only in the sexual relation, but in all her behavior to the particular man on whom she depended for subsistence. The third yoke was an intellectual and moral one, and consisted in the slavish conformity exacted of her in all her thinking, speaking, and acting to a set of traditions and conventional standards calculated to repress all that was spontaneous and individual, and impose an artificial uniformity upon both the inner and outer life. "The last was the heaviest yoke of the three, and most disastrous in its effects both upon women directly and indirectly upon mankind through the degradation of the mothers of the race. Upon the woman herself the effect was so soul-stifling and mind-stunting as to be made a plausible excuse for treating her as a natural inferior by men not philosophical enough to see that what they would make an excuse for her subjection was itself the result of that subjection. The explanation of woman's submission in thought and action to what was practically a slave code--a code peculiar to her sex and scorned and derided by men--was the fact that the main hope of a comfortable life for every woman consisted in attracting the favorable attention of some man who could provide for her. Now, under your economic system it was very desirable for a man who sought employment to think and talk as his employer did if he was to get on in life. Yet a certain degree of independence of mind and conduct was conceded to men by their economic superiors under most circumstances, so long as they were not actually offensive, for, after all, what was mainly wanted of them was their labor. But the relation of a woman to the man who supported her was of a very different and much closer character. She must be to him _persona grata_, as your diplomats used to say. To attract him she must be personally pleasing to him, must not offend his tastes or prejudices by her opinions or conduct. Otherwise he would be likely to prefer some one else. It followed from this fact that while a boy's training looked toward fitting him to earn a living, a girl was educated with a chief end to making her, if not pleasing, at least not displeasing to men. "Now, if particular women had been especially trained to suit particular men's tastes--trained to order, so to speak--while that would have been offensive enough to any idea of feminine dignity, yet it would have been far less disastrous, for many men would have vastly preferred women of independent minds and original and natural opinions. But as it was not known beforehand what particular men would support particular women, the only safe way was to train girls with a view to a negative rather than a positive attractiveness, so that at least they might not offend average masculine prejudices. This ideal was most likely to be secured by educating a girl to conform herself to the customary traditional and fashionable habits of thinking, talking, and behaving--in a word, to the conventional standards prevailing at the time. She must above all things avoid as a contagion any new or original ideas or lines of conduct in any important respect, especially in religious, political, and social matters. Her mind, that is to say, like her body, must be trained and dressed according to the current fashion plates. By all her hopes of married comfort she must not be known to have any peculiar or unusual or positive notions on any subject more important than embroidery or parlor decoration. Conventionality in the essentials having been thus secured, the brighter and more piquant she could be in small ways and frivolous matters the better for her chances. Have I erred in describing the working of your system in this particular, Julian?" "No doubt," I replied, "you have described to the life the correct and fashionable ideal of feminine education in my time, but there were, you must understand, a great many women who were persons of entirely original and serious minds, who dared to think and speak for themselves." "Of course there were. They were the prototypes of the universal woman of to-day. They represented the coming woman, who to-day has come. They had broken for themselves the conventional trammels of their sex, and proved to the world the potential equality of women with men in every field of thought and action. But while great minds master their circumstances, the mass of minds are mastered by them and formed by them. It is when we think of the bearing of the system upon this vast majority of women, and how the virus of moral and mental slavery through their veins entered into the blood of the race, that we realize how tremendous is the indictment of humanity against your economic arrangements on account of woman, and how vast a benefit to mankind was the Revolution that gave free mothers to the race-free not merely from physical but from moral and intellectual fetters. "I referred a moment ago," pursued the doctor, "to the close parallelism existing in your time between the industrial and the sexual situation, between the relations of the working masses to the capitalists, and those of the women to men. It is strikingly illustrated in yet another way. "The subjection of the workingmen to the owners of capital was insured by the existence at all times of a large class of the unemployed ready to underbid the workers and eager to get employment at any price and on any terms. This was the club with which the capitalist kept down the workers. In like manner it was the existence of a body of unappropriated women which riveted the yoke of women's subjection to men. When maintenance was the difficult problem it was in your day there were many men who could not maintain themselves, and a vast number who could not maintain women in addition to themselves. The failure of a man to marry might cost him happiness, but in the case of women it not only involved loss of happiness, but, as a rule, exposed them to the pressure or peril of poverty, for it was a much more difficult thing for women than for men to secure an adequate support by their own efforts. The result was one of the most shocking spectacles the world has ever known--nothing less, in fact, than a state of rivalry and competition among women for the opportunity of marriage. To realize how helpless were women in your day, to assume toward men an attitude of physical, mental, or moral dignity and independence, it is enough to remember their terrible disadvantage in what your contemporaries called with brutal plainness the marriage market. "And still woman's cup of humiliation was not full. There was yet another and more dreadful form of competition by her own sex to which she was exposed. Not only was there a constant vast surplus of unmarried women desirous of securing the economic support which marriage implied, but beneath these there were hordes of wretched women, hopeless of obtaining the support of men on honorable terms, and eager to sell themselves for a crust. Julian, do you wonder that, of all the aspects of the horrible mess you called civilization in the nineteenth century, the sexual relation reeks worst?" "Our philanthropists were greatly disturbed over what we called the social evil," said I--"that is, the existence of this great multitude of outcast women--but it was not common to diagnose it as a part of the economic problem. It was regarded rather as a moral evil resulting from the depravity of the human heart, to be properly dealt with by moral and religious influences." "Yes, yes, I know. No one in your day, of course, was allowed to intimate that the economic system was radically wicked, and consequently it was customary to lay off all its hideous consequences upon poor human nature. Yes, I know there were, people who agreed that it might be possible by preaching to lessen the horrors of the social evil while yet the land contained millions of women in desperate need, who had no other means of getting bread save by catering to the desires of men. I am a bit of a phrenologist, and have often wished for the chance of examining the cranial developments of a nineteenth-century philanthropist who honestly believed this, if indeed any of them honestly did." "By the way," I said, "high-spirited women, even in my day, objected to the custom that required them to take their husbands' names on marriage. How do you manage that now?" "Women's names are no more affected by marriage than men's." "But how about the children?" "Girls take the mother's last name with the father's as a middle name, while with boys it is just the reverse." * * * * * "It occurs to me," I said, "that it would be surprising if a fact so profoundly affecting woman's relations with man as her achievement of economic independence, had not modified the previous conventional standards of sexual morality in some respects." "Say rather," replied the doctor, "that the economic equalization of men and women for the first time made it possible to establish their relations on a moral basis. The first condition of ethical action in any relation is the freedom of the actor. So long as women's economic dependence upon men prevented them from being free agents in the sexual relation, there could be no ethics of that relation. A proper ethics of sexual conduct was first made possible when women became capable of independent action through the attainment of economic equality." "It would have startled the moralists of my day," I said, "to be told that we had no sexual ethics. We certainly had a very strict and elaborate system of 'thou shalt nots.'" "Of course, of course," replied my companion. "Let us understand each other exactly at this point, for the subject is highly important. You had, as you say, a set of very rigid rules and regulations as to the conduct of the sexes--that is, especially as to women--but the basis of it, for the most part, was not ethical but prudential, the object being the safeguarding of the economic interests of women in their relations with men. Nothing could have been more important to the protection of women on the whole, although so often bearing cruelly upon them individually, than these rules. They were the only method by which, so long as woman remained an economically helpless and dependent person, she and her children could be even partially guarded from masculine abuse and neglect. Do not imagine for a moment that I would speak lightly of the value of this social code to the race during the time it was necessary. But because it was entirely based upon considerations not suggested by the natural sanctities of the sexual relation in itself, but wholly upon prudential considerations affecting economic results, it would be an inexact use of terms to call it a system of ethics. It would be more accurately described as a code of sexual economics--that is to say, a set of laws and customs providing for the economic protection of women and children in the sexual and family relation. "The marriage contract was embellished by a rich embroidery of sentimental and religious fancies, but I need not remind you that its essence in the eyes of the law and of society was its character as a contract, a strictly economic _quid-pro-quo_ transaction. It was a legal undertaking by the man to maintain the woman and future family in consideration of her surrender of herself to his exclusive disposal--that is to say, on condition of obtaining a lien on his property, she became a part of it. The only point which the law or the social censor looked to as fixing the morality or immorality, purity or impurity, of any sexual act was simply the question whether this bargain had been previously executed in accordance with legal forms. That point properly attended to, everything that formerly had been regarded as wrong and impure for the parties became rightful and chaste. They might have been persons unfit to marry or to be parents; they might have been drawn together by the basest and most sordid motives; the bride may have been constrained by need to accept a man she loathed; youth may have been sacrificed to decrepitude, and every natural propriety outraged; but according to your standard, if the contract had been legally executed, all that followed was white and beautiful. On the other hand, if the contract had been neglected, and a woman had accepted a lover without it, then, however great their love, however fit their union in every natural way, the woman was cast out as unchaste, impure, and abandoned, and consigned to the living death of social ignominy. Now let me repeat that we fully recognize the excuse for this social law under your atrocious system as the only possible way of protecting the economic interests of women and children, but to speak of it as ethical or moral in its view of the sex relation is certainly about as absurd a misuse of words as could be committed. On the contrary, we must say that it was a law which, in order to protect women's material interests, was obliged deliberately to disregard all the laws that are written on the heart touching such matters. "It seems from the records that there was much talk in your day about the scandalous fact that there were two distinct moral codes in sexual matters, one for men and another for women--men refusing to be bound by the law imposed on women, and society not even attempting to enforce it against them. It was claimed by the advocates of one code for both sexes that what was wrong or right for woman was so for man, and that there should be one standard of right and wrong, purity and impurity, morality and immorality, for both. That was obviously the correct view of the matter; but what moral gain would there have been for the race even if men could have been induced to accept the women's code--a code so utterly unworthy in its central idea of the ethics of the sexual relation? Nothing but the bitter duress of their economic bondage had forced women to accept a law against which the blood of ten thousand stainless Marguerites, and the ruined lives of a countless multitude of women, whose only fault had been too tender loving, cried to God perpetually. Yes, there should doubtless be one standard of conduct for both men and women as there is now, but it was not to be the slave code, with its sordid basis, imposed upon the women by their necessities. The common and higher code for men and women which the conscience of the race demanded would first become possible, and at once thereafter would become assured when men and women stood over against each other in the sexual relation, as in all others, in attitudes of absolute equality and mutual independence." "After all, doctor," I said, "although at first it startled me a little to hear you say that we had no sexual ethics, yet you really say no more, nor use stronger words, than did our poets and satirists in treating the same theme. The complete divergence between our conventional sexual morality and the instinctive morality of love was a commonplace with us, and furnished, as doubtless you well know, the motive of a large part of our romantic and dramatic literature." "Yes," replied the doctor, "nothing could be added to the force and feeling with which your writers exposed the cruelty and injustice of the iron law of society as to these matters--a law made doubly cruel and unjust by the fact that it bore almost exclusively on women. But their denunciations were wasted, and the plentiful emotions they evoked were barren of result, for the reason that they failed entirely to point out the basic fact that was responsible for the law they attacked, and must be abolished if the law were ever to be replaced by a just ethics. That fact, as we have seen, was the system of wealth distribution, by which woman's only hope of comfort and security was made to depend on her success in obtaining a legal guarantee of support from some man as the price of her person." "It seems to me," I observed, "that when the women, once fairly opened their eyes to what the revolutionary programme meant for their sex by its demand of economic equality for all, self-interest must have made them more ardent devotees of the cause than even the men." "It did indeed," replied the doctor. "Of course the blinding, binding influence of conventionality, tradition, and prejudice, as well as the timidity bred of immemorial servitude, for a long while prevented the mass of women from understanding the greatness of the deliverance which was offered them; but when once they did understand it they threw themselves into the revolutionary movement with a unanimity and enthusiasm that had a decisive effect upon the struggle. Men might regard economic equality with favor or disfavor, according to their economic positions, but every woman, simply because she was a woman, was bound to be for it as soon as she got it through her head what it meant for her half of the race." CHAPTER XXI. AT THE GYMNASIUM. Edith had come up on the house top in time to hear the last of our talk, and now she said to her father: "Considering what you have been telling Julian about women nowadays as compared with the old days, I wonder if he would not be interested in visiting the gymnasium this afternoon and seeing something of how we train ourselves? There are going to be some foot races and air races, and a number of other tests. It is the afternoon when our year has the grounds, and I ought to be there anyway." To this suggestion, which was eagerly accepted, I owe one of the most interesting and instructive experiences of those early days during which I was forming the acquaintance of the twentieth-century civilization. At the door of the gymnasium Edith left us to join her class in the amphitheater. "Is she to compete in anything?" I asked. "All her year--that is, all of her age--in this ward will be entered in more or less events." "What is Edith's specialty?" I asked. "As to specialties," replied the doctor, "our people do not greatly cultivate them. Of course, privately they do what they please, but the object of our public training is not so much to develop athletic specialties as to produce an all-around and well-proportioned physical development. We aim first of all to secure a certain standard of strength and measurement for legs, thighs, arms, loins, chest, shoulders, neck, etc. This is not the highest point of perfection either of physique or performance. It is the necessary minimum. All who attain it may be regarded as sound and proper men and women. It is then left to them as they please individually to develop themselves beyond that point in special directions. "How long does this public gymnastic education last?" "It is as obligatory as any part of the educational course until the body is set, which we put at the age of twenty-four; but it is practically kept up through life, although, of course, that is according to just how one feels." "Do you mean that you take regular exercise in a gymnasium?" "Why should I not? It is no less of an object to me to be well at sixty than it was at twenty." "Doctor," said I, "if I seem surprised you must remember that in my day it was an adage that no man over forty-five ought to allow himself to run for a car, and as for women, they stopped running at fifteen, when their bodies were put in a vise, their legs in bags, their toes in thumbscrews, and they bade farewell to health." "You do indeed seem to have disagreed terribly with your bodies," said the doctor. "The women ignored theirs altogether, and as for the men, so far as I can make out, up to forty they abused their bodies, and after forty their bodies abused them, which, after all, was only fair. The vast mass of physical misery caused by weakness and sickness, resulting from wholly preventable causes, seems to us, next to the moral aspect of the subject, to be one of the largest single items chargeable to your system of economic inequality, for to that primal cause nearly every feature of the account appears directly or indirectly traceable. Neither souls nor bodies could be considered by your men in their mad struggle for a living, and for a grip on the livelihood of others, while the complicated system of bondage under which the women were held perverted mind and body alike, till it was a wonder if there were any health left in them." On entering the amphitheater we saw gathered at one end of the arena some two or three hundred young men and women talking and lounging. These, the doctor told me, were Edith's companions of the class of 1978, being all those of twenty-two years of age, born in that ward or since coming there to live. I viewed with admiration the figures of these young men and women, all strong and beautiful as the gods and goddesses of Olympus. "Am I to understand," I asked, "that this is a fair sample of your youth, and not a picked assembly of the more athletic?" "Certainly," he replied; "all the youth in their twenty-third year who live in this ward are here to-day, with perhaps two or three exceptions on account of some special reason." "But where are the cripples, the deformed, the feeble, the consumptive?" "Do you see that young man yonder in the chair with so many of the others about him?" asked the doctor. "Ah! there is then at least one invalid?" "Yes," replied my companion: "he met with an accident, and will never be vigorous. He is the only sickly one of the class, and you see how much the others make of him. Your cripples and sickly were so many that pity itself grew weary and spent of tears, and compassion callous with use; but with us they are so few as to be our pets and darlings." At that moment a bugle sounded, and some scores of young men and women dashed by us in a foot race. While they ran, the bugle continued to sound a nerve-bracing strain. The thing that astonished me was the evenness of the finish, in view of the fact that the contestants were not specially trained for racing, but were merely the group which in the round of tests had that day come to the running test. In a race of similarly unselected competitors in my day, they would have been strung along the track from the finish to the half, and the most of them nearest that. "Edith, I see, was third in," said the doctor, reading from the signals. "She will be pleased to have done so well, seeing you were here." The next event was a surprise. I had noticed a group of youths on a lofty platform at the far end of the amphitheater making some sort of preparations, and wondered what they were going to do. Now suddenly, at the sound of a trumpet, I saw them leap forward over the edge of the platform. I gave an involuntary cry of horror, for it was a deadly distance to the ground below. "It's all right," laughed the doctor, and the next moment I was staring up at a score of young men and women charging through the air fifty feet above the race course. Then followed contests in ball-throwing and putting the shot. "It is plain where your women get their splendid chests and shoulders," said I. "You have noticed that, then!" exclaimed the doctor. "I have certainly noticed," was my answer, "that your modern women seem generally to possess a vigorous development and appearance of power above the waist which were only occasionally seen in our day." "You will be interested, no doubt," said the doctor, "to have your impression corroborated by positive evidence. Suppose we leave the amphitheater for a few minutes and step into the anatomical rooms. It is indeed a rare fortune for an anatomical enthusiast like myself to have a pupil so well qualified to be appreciative, to whom to point out the effect our principle of social equality, and the best opportunities of culture for all, have had in modifying toward perfection the human form in general, and especially the female figure. I say especially the female figure, for that had been most perverted in your day by the influences which denied woman a full life. Here are a group of plaster statues, based on the lines handed down to us by the anthropometric experts of the last decades of the nineteenth century, to whom we are vastly indebted. You will observe, as your remark just now indicated that you had observed, that the tendency was to a spindling and inadequate development above the waist and an excessive development below. The figure seemed a little as if it had softened and run down like a sugar cast in warm weather. See, the front breadth flat measurement of the hips is actually greater than across the shoulders, whereas it ought to be an inch or two less, and the bulbous effect must have been exaggerated by the bulging mass of draperies your women accumulated about the waist." At his words I raised my eyes to the stony face of the woman figure, the charms of which he had thus disparaged, and it seemed to me that the sightless eyes rested on mine with an expression of reproach, of which my heart instantly confessed the justice. I had been the contemporary of this type of women, and had been indebted to the light of their eyes for all that made life worth living. Complete or not, as might be their beauty by modern standards, through them I had learned to know the stress of the ever-womanly, and been made an initiate of Nature's sacred mysteries. Well might these stony eyes reproach me for consenting by my silence to the disparagement of charms to which I owed so much, by a man of another age. "Hush, doctor, hush!" I exclaimed. "No doubt you are right, but it is not for me to hear these words." I could not find the language to explain what was in my mind, but it was not necessary. The doctor understood, and his keen gray eyes glistened as he laid his hand on my shoulder. "Right, my boy, quite right! That is the thing for you to say, and Edith would like you the better for your words, for women nowadays are jealous for one another's honor, as I judge they were not in your day. But, on the other hand, if there were present in this room disembodied shades of those women of your day, they would rejoice more than any others could at the fairer, ampler temples liberty has built for their daughters' souls to dwell in. "Look!" he added, pointing to another figure; "this is the typical woman of to-day, the lines not ideal, but based on an average of measurements for the purpose of scientific comparison. First, you will observe that the figure is over two inches taller than the other. Note the shoulders! They have gained two inches in width relatively to the hips, as compared with the figure we have been examining. On the other hand, the girth at the hips is greater, showing more powerful muscular development. The chest is an inch and a half deeper, while the abdominal measure is fully two inches deeper. These increased developments are all over and above what the mere increase in stature would call for. As to the general development of the muscular system, you will see there is simply no comparison. "Now, what is the explanation? Simply the effect upon woman of the full, free, untrammeled physical life to which her economic independence opened the way. To develop the shoulders, arms, chest, loins, legs, and body generally, exercise is needed--not mild and gentle, but vigorous, continuous exertion, undertaken not spasmodically but regularly. There is no dispensation of Providence that will or ever would give a woman physical development on any other terms than those by which men have acquired their development. But your women had recourse to no such means. Their work had been confined for countless ages to a multiplicity of petty tasks--hand work and finger work--tasks wearing to body and mind in the extreme, but of a sort wholly failing to provoke that reaction of the vital forces which builds up and develops the parts exercised. From time immemorial the boy had gone out to dig and hunt with his father, or contend for the mastery with other youths while the girl stayed at home to spin and bake. Up to fifteen she might share with her brother a few of his more insipid sports, but with the beginnings of womanhood came the end of all participation in active physical outdoor life. What could be expected save what resulted--a dwarfed and enfeebled physique and a semi-invalid existence? The only wonder is that, after so long a period of bodily repression and perversion, the feminine physique should have responded, by so great an improvement in so brief a period, to the free life opened up to woman within the last century." "We had very many beautiful women; physically perfect they seemed at least to us," I said. "Of course you did, and no doubt they were the perfect types you deemed them," replied the doctor. "They showed you what Nature meant the whole sex to be. But am I wrong in assuming that ill health was a general condition among your women? Certainly the records tell us so. If we may believe them, four fifths of the practice of doctors was among women, and it seemed to do them mighty little good either, although perhaps I ought not to reflect on my own profession. The fact is, they could not do anything, and probably knew they couldn't, so long as the social customs governing women remained unchanged." "Of course you are right enough as to the general fact," I replied. "Indeed, a great writer had given currency to a generally accepted maxim when he said that invalidism was the normal condition of woman." "I remember that expression. What a confession it was of the abject failure of your civilization to solve the most fundamental proposition of happiness for half the race! Woman's invalidism was one of the great tragedies of your civilization, and her physical rehabilitation is one of the greatest single elements in the total increment of happiness which economic equality has brought the human race. Consider what is implied in the transformation of the woman's world of sighs and tears and suffering, as you know it, into the woman's world of to-day, with its atmosphere of cheer and joy and overflowing vigor and vitality!" "But," said I, "one thing is not quite clear to me. Without being a physician, or knowing more of such matters than a young man might be supposed to, I have yet understood in a general way that the weakness and delicacy of women's physical condition had their causes in certain natural disabilities of the sex." "Yes, I know it was the general notion in your day that woman's physical constitution doomed her by its necessary effect to be sick, wretched, and unhappy, and that at most her condition could not be rendered more than tolerable in a physical sense. A more blighting blasphemy against Nature never found expression. No natural function ought to cause constant suffering or disease; and if it does, the rational inference is that something is wrong in the circumstances. The Orientals invented the myth of Eve and the apple, and the curse pronounced upon her, to explain the sorrows and infirmities of the sex, which were, in fact, a consequence, not of God's wrath, but of man-made conditions and customs. If you once admit that these sorrows and infirmities are inseparable from woman's natural constitution, why, then there is no logical explanation but to accept that myth as a matter of history. There were, however, plentiful illustrations already in your day of the great differences in the physical conditions of women under different circumstances and different social environments to convince unprejudiced minds that thoroughly healthful conditions which should be maintained a sufficiently long period would lead to a physical rehabilitation for woman that would quite redeem from its undeserved obloquy the reputation of her Creator." "Am I to understand that maternity now is unattended with risk or suffering?" "It is not nowadays an experience which is considered at all critical either in its actual occurrence or consequences. As to the other supposed natural disabilities which your wise men used to make so much of as excuses for keeping women in economic subjection, they have ceased to involve any physical disturbance whatever. "And the end of this physical rebuilding of the feminine physique is not yet in view. While men still retain superiority in certain lines of athletics, we believe the sexes will yet stand on a plane of entire physical equality, with differences only as between individuals." "There is one question," said I, "which this wonderful physical rebirth of woman suggests. You say that she is already the physical equal of man, and that your physiologists anticipate in a few generations more her evolution to a complete equality with him. That amounts to saying, does it not, that normally and potentially she always has been man's physical equal and that nothing but adverse circumstances and conditions have ever made her seem less than his equal?" "Certainly." "How, then, do you account for the fact that she has in all ages and countries since the dawn of history, with perhaps a few doubtful and transient exceptions, been his physical subject and thrall? If she ever was his equal, why did she cease to become so, and by a rule so universal? If her inferiority since historic times may be ascribed to unfavorable man-made conditions, why, if she was his equal, did she permit those conditions to be imposed upon her? A philosophical theory as to how a condition is to cease should contain a rational suggestion as to how it arose." "Very true indeed," replied the doctor. "Your question is practical. The theory of those who hold that woman will yet be man's full equal in physical vigor necessarily implies, as you suggest, that she must probably once have been his actual equal, and calls for an explanation of the loss of that equality. Suppose man and woman actual physical equals at some point of the past. There remains a radical difference in their relation as sexes--namely, that man can passionally appropriate woman against her will if he can overpower her, while woman can not, even if disposed, so appropriate man without his full volition, however great her superiority of force. I have often speculated as to the reason of this radical difference, lying as it does at the root of all the sex tyranny of the past, now happily for evermore replaced by mutuality. It has sometimes seemed to me that it was Nature's provision to keep the race alive in periods of its evolution when life was not worth living save for a far-off posterity's sake. This end, we may say, she shrewdly secured by vesting the aggressive and appropriating power in the sex relation in that sex which had to bear the least part of the consequences resultant on its exercise. We may call the device a rather mean one on Nature's part, but it was well calculated to effect the purpose. But for it, owing to the natural and rational reluctance of the child-bearing sex to assume a burden so bitter and so seemingly profitless, the race might easily have been exposed to the risk of ceasing utterly during the darker periods of its upward evolution. "But let us come back to the specific question we were talking about. Suppose man and woman in some former age to have been, on the whole, physically equal, sex for sex. Nevertheless, there would be many individual variations. Some of each sex would be stronger than others of their own sex. Some men would be stronger than some women, and as many women be stronger than some men. Very good; we know that well within historic times the savage method of taking wives has been by forcible capture. Much more may we suppose force to have been used wherever possible in more primitive periods. Now, a strong woman would have no object to gain in making captive a weaker man for any sexual purpose, and would not therefore pursue him. Conversely, however, strong men would have an object in making captive and keeping as their wives women weaker than themselves. In seeking to capture wives, men would naturally avoid the stronger women, whom they might have difficulty in dominating, and prefer as mates the weaker individuals, who would be less able to resist their will. On the other hand, the weaker of the men would find it relatively difficult to capture any mates at all, and would be consequently less likely to leave progeny. Do you see the inference?" "It is plain enough," I replied. "You mean that the stronger women and the weaker men would both be discriminated against, and that the types which survived would be the stronger of the men and the weaker of the women." "Precisely so. Now, suppose a difference in the physical strength of the sexes to have become well established through this process in prehistoric times, before the dawn of civilization, the rest of the story follows very simply. The now confessedly dominant sex would, of course, seek to retain and increase its domination and the now fully subordinated sex would in time come to regard the inferiority to which it was born as natural, inevitable, and Heaven-ordained. And so it would go on as it did go on, until the world's awakening, at the end of the last century, to the necessity and possibility of a reorganization of human society on a moral basis, the first principle of which must be the equal liberty and dignity of all human beings. Since then women have been reconquering, as they will later fully reconquer, their pristine physical equality with men." "A rather alarming notion occurs to me," said I. "What if woman should in the end not only equal but excel man in physical and mental powers, as he has her in the past, and what if she should take as mean an advantage of that superiority as he did?" The doctor laughed. "I think you need not be apprehensive that such a superiority, even if attained, would be abused. Not that women, as such, are any more safely to be trusted with irresponsible power than men, but for the reason that the race is rising fast toward the plane already in part attained in which spiritual forces will fully dominate all things, and questions of physical power will cease to be of any importance in human relations. The control and leading of humanity go already largely, and are plainly destined soon to go wholly, to those who have the largest souls--that is to say, to those who partake most of the Spirit of the Greater Self; and that condition is one which in itself is the most absolute guarantee against the misuse of that power for selfish ends, seeing that with such misuse it would cease to be a power." "The Greater Self--what does that mean?" I asked. "It is one of our names for the soul and for God," replied the doctor, "but that is too great a theme to enter on now." CHAPTER XXII. ECONOMIC SUICIDE OF THE PROFIT SYSTEM. The morning following, Edith received a call to report at her post of duty for some special occasion. After she had gone, I sought out the doctor in the library and began to ply him with questions, of which, as usual, a store had accumulated in my mind overnight. "If you desire to continue your historical studies this morning," he said presently, "I am going to propose a change of teachers." "I am very well satisfied with the one whom Providence assigned to me," I answered, "but it is quite natural you should want a little relief from such persistent cross-questioning." "It is not that at all," replied the doctor. "I am sure no one could conceivably have a more inspiring task than mine has been, nor have I any idea of giving it up as yet. But it occurred to me that a little change in the method and medium of instruction this morning might be agreeable." "Who is to be the new teacher?" I asked. "There are to be a number of them, and they are not teachers at all, but pupils." "Come, doctor," I protested, "don't you think a man in my position has enough riddles to guess, without making them up for him?" "It sounds like a riddle, doesn't it? But it is not. However, I will hasten to explain. As one of those citizens to whom for supposed public services the people have voted the blue ribbon, I have various honorary functions as to public matters, and especially educational affairs. This morning I have notice of an examination at ten o'clock of the ninth grade in the Arlington School. They have been studying the history of the period before the great Revolution, and are going to give their general impressions of it. I thought that perhaps, by way of a change, you might be interested in listening to them, especially in view of the special topic they are going to discuss." I assured the doctor that no programme could promise more entertainment. "What is the topic they discuss?" I inquired. "The profit system as a method of economic suicide is their theme," replied the doctor. "In our talks hitherto we have chiefly touched on the moral wrongfulness of the old economic order. In the discussion we shall listen to this morning there will be no reference unless incidentally to moral considerations. The young people will endeavor to show us that there were certain inherent and fatal defects in private capitalism as a machine for producing wealth which, quite apart from its ethical character, made its abolition necessary if the race was ever to get out of the mire of poverty." "That is a very different doctrine from the preaching I used to hear," I said. "The clergy and moralists in general assured us that there were no social evils for which moral and religious medicine was not adequate. Poverty, they said, was in the end the result of human depravity, and would disappear if everybody would only be good." "So we read," said the doctor. "How far the clergy and the moralists preached this doctrine with a professional motive as calculated to enhance the importance of their services as moral instructors, how far they merely echoed it as an excuse for mental indolence, and how far they may really have been sincere, we can not judge at this distance, but certainly more injurious nonsense was never taught. The industrial and commercial system by which the labor of a great population is organized and directed constitutes a complex machine. If the machine is constructed unscientifically, it will result in loss and disaster, without the slightest regard to whether the managers are the rarest of saints or the worst of sinners. The world always has had and will have need of all the virtue and true religion that men can be induced to practice; but to tell farmers that personal religion will take the place of a scientific agriculture, or the master of an unseaworthy ship that the practice of good morals will bring his craft to shore, would be no greater childishness than the priests and moralists of your day committed in assuring a world beggared by a crazy economic system that the secret of plenty was good works and personal piety. History gives a bitter chapter to these blind guides, who, during the revolutionary period, did far more harm than those who openly defended the old order, because, while the brutal frankness of the latter repelled good men, the former misled them and long diverted from the guilty system the indignation which otherwise would have sooner destroyed it. "And just here let me say, Julian, as a most important point for you to remember in the history of the great Revolution, that it was not until the people had outgrown this childish teaching and saw the causes of the world's want and misery, not primarily in human depravity, but in the economic madness of the profit system on which private capitalism depended, that the Revolution began to go forward in earnest." Now, although the doctor had said that the school we were to visit was in Arlington, which I knew to be some distance out of the city, and that the examination would take place at ten o'clock, he continued to sit comfortably in his chair, though the time was five minutes of ten. "Is this Arlington the same town that was a suburb of the city in my time?" I presently ventured to inquire. "Certainly." "It was then ten or twelve miles from the city," I said. "It has not been moved, I assure you," said the doctor. "Then if not, and if the examination is to begin in five minutes, are we not likely to be late?" I mildly observed. "Oh, no," replied the doctor, "there are three or four minutes left yet." "Doctor," said I, "I have been introduced within the last few days to many new and speedy modes of locomotion, but I can't see how you are going to get me to Arlington from here in time for the examination that begins three minutes hence, unless you reduce me to an electrified solution, send me by wire, and have me precipitated back to my shape at the other end of the line; and even in that case I should suppose we had no time to waste." "We shouldn't have, certainly, if we were intending to go to Arlington even by that process. It did not occur to me that you would care to go, or we might just as well have started earlier. It is too bad!" "I did not care about visiting Arlington." I replied, "but I assumed that it would be rather necessary to do so if I were to attend an examination at that place. I see my mistake. I ought to have learned by this time not to take for granted that any of what we used to consider the laws of Nature are still in force." "The laws of Nature are all right," laughed the doctor. "But is it possible that Edith has not shown you the electroscope?" "What is that?" I asked. "It does for vision what the telephone does for hearing," replied the doctor, and, leading the way to the music room, he showed me the apparatus. "It is ten o'clock," he said, "and we have no time for explanations now. Take this chair and adjust the instrument as you see me do. Now!" Instantly, without warning, or the faintest preparation for what was coming, I found myself looking into the interior of a large room. Some twenty boys and girls, thirteen to fourteen years of age, occupied a double row of chairs arranged in the form of a semicircle about a desk at which a young man was seated with his back to us. The rows of students were facing us, apparently not twenty feet away. The rustling of their garments and every change of expression in their mobile faces were as distinct to my eyes and ears as if we had been directly behind the teacher, as indeed we seemed to be. At the moment the scene had flashed upon me I was in the act of making some remark to the doctor. As I checked myself, he laughed. "You need not be afraid of interrupting them," he said. "They don't see or hear us, though we both see and hear them so well. They are a dozen miles away." "Good heavens!" I whispered--for, in spite of his assurance, I could not realize that they did not hear me--"are we here or there?" "We are here certainly," replied the doctor, "but our eyes and ears are there. This is the electroscope and telephone combined. We could have heard the examination just as well without the electroscope, but I thought you would be better entertained if you could both see and hear. Fine-looking young people, are they not? We shall see now whether they are as intelligent as they are handsome." HOW PROFITS CUT DOWN CONSUMPTION. "Our subject this morning," said the teacher briskly, "is 'The Economic Suicide of Production for Profit,' or 'The Hopelessness of the Economic Outlook of the Race under Private Capitalism.'--Now, Frank, will you tell us exactly what this proposition means?" At these words one of the boys of the class rose to his feet. "It means," he said, "that communities which depended--as they had to depend, so long as private capitalism lasted--upon the motive of profit making for the production of the things by which they lived, must always suffer poverty, because the profit system, by its necessary nature, operated to stop limit and cripple production at the point where it began to be efficient." "By what is the possible production of wealth limited?" "By its consumption." "May not production fall short of possible consumption? May not the demand for consumption exceed the resources of production?" "Theoretically it may, but not practically--that is, speaking of demand as limited to rational desires, and not extending to merely fanciful objects. Since the division of labor was introduced, and especially since the great inventions multiplied indefinitely the powers of man, production has been practically limited only by the demand created by consumption." "Was this so before the great Revolution?" "Certainly. It was a truism among economists that either England, Germany, or the United States alone could easily have supplied the world's whole consumption of manufactured goods. No country began to produce up to its capacity in any line." "Why not?" "On account of the necessary law of the profit system, by which it operated to limit production." "In what way did this law operate?" "By creating a gap between the producing and consuming power of the community, the result of which was that the people were not able to consume as much as they could produce." "Please tell us just how the profit system led to this result." "There being under the old order of things," replied the boy Frank, "no collective agency to undertake the organization of labor and exchange, that function naturally fell into the hands of enterprising individuals who, because the undertaking called for much capital, had to be capitalists. They were of two general classes--the capitalist who organized labor for production; and the traders, the middlemen, and storekeepers, who organized distribution, and having collected all the varieties of products in the market, sold them again to the general public for consumption. The great mass of the people--nine, perhaps, out of ten--were wage-earners who sold their labor to the producing capitalists; or small first-hand producers, who sold their personal product to the middlemen. The farmers were of the latter class. With the money the wage-earners and farmers received in wages, or as the price of their produce, they afterward went into the market, where the products of all sorts were assembled, and bought back as much as they could for consumption. Now, of course, the capitalists, whether engaged in organizing production or distribution, had to have some inducement for risking their capital and spending their time in this work. That inducement was profit." "Tell us how the profits were collected." "The manufacturing or employing capitalists paid the people who worked for them, and the merchants paid the farmers for their products in tokens called money, which were good to buy back the blended products of all in the market. But the capitalists gave neither the wage-earner nor the farmer enough of these money tokens to buy back the equivalent of the product of his labor. The difference which the capitalists kept back for themselves was their profit. It was collected by putting a higher price on the products when sold in the stores than the cost of the product had been to the capitalists." "Give us an example." "We will take then, first, the manufacturing capitalist, who employed labor. Suppose he manufactured shoes. Suppose for each pair of shoes he paid ten cents to the tanner for leather, twenty cents for the labor of putting, the shoe together, and ten cents for all other labor in any way entering into the making of the shoe, so that the pair cost him in actual outlay forty cents. He sold the shoes to a middleman for, say, seventy-five cents. The middleman sold them to the retailer for a dollar, and the retailer sold them over his counter to the consumer for a dollar and a half. Take next the case of the farmer, who sold not merely his labor like the wage-earner, but his labor blended with his material. Suppose he sold his wheat to the grain merchant for forty cents a bushel. The grain merchant, in selling it to the flouring mill, would ask, say, sixty cents a bushel. The flouring mill would sell it to the wholesale flour merchant for a price over and above the labor cost of milling at a figure which would include a handsome profit for him. The wholesale flour merchant would add another profit in selling to the retail grocer, and the last yet another in selling to the consumer. So that finally the equivalent of the bushel of wheat in finished flour as bought back by the original farmer for consumption would cost him, on account of profit charges alone, over and above the actual labor cost of intermediate processes, perhaps twice what he received for it from the grain merchant." "Very well," said the teacher. "Now for the practical effect of this system." "The practical effect," replied the boy, "was necessarily to create a gap between the producing and consuming power of those engaged in the production of the things upon which profits were charged. Their ability to consume would be measured by the value of the money tokens they received for producing the goods, which by the statement was less than the value put upon those goods in the stores. That difference would represent a gap between what they could produce and what they could consume." MARGARET TELLS ABOUT THE DEADLY GAP. "Margaret," said the teacher, "you may now take up the subject where Frank leaves it, and tell us what would be the effect upon the economic system of a people of such a gap between its consuming and producing power as Frank shows us was caused by profit taking." "The effect," said the girl who answered to the name of Margaret, "would depend on two factors: first, on how numerous a body were the wage-earners and first producers, on whose products the profits were charged; and, second, how large was the rate of profit charged, and the consequent discrepancy between the producing and consuming power of each individual of the working body. If the producers on whose product a profit was charged were but a handful of the people, the total effect of their inability to buy back and consume more than a part of their product would create but a slight gap between the producing and consuming power of the community as a whole. If, on the other hand, they constituted a large proportion of the whole population, the gap would be correspondingly great, and the reactive effect to check production would be disastrous in proportion." "And what was the actual proportion of the total population made up by the wage-earners and original producers, who by the profit system were prevented from consuming as much as they produced?" "It constituted, as Frank has said, at least nine tenths of the whole people, probably more. The profit takers, whether they were organizers of production or of distribution, were a group numerically insignificant, while those on whose product the profits were charged constituted the bulk of the community." "Very well. We will now consider the other factor on which the size of the gap between the producing and consuming power of the community created by the profit system was dependent--namely, the rate of profits charged. Tell us, then, what was the rule followed by the capitalists in charging profits. No doubt, as rational men who realized the effect of high profits to prevent consumption, they made a point of making their profits as low as possible." "On the contrary, the capitalists made their profits as high as possible. Their maxim was, 'Tax the traffic all it will bear.'" "Do you mean that instead of trying to minimize the effect of profit charging to diminish consumption, they deliberately sought to magnify it to the greatest possible degree?" "I mean that precisely," replied Margaret. "The golden rule of the profit system, the great motto of the capitalists, was, 'Buy in the Cheapest Market, and sell in the Dearest.'" "What did that mean?" "It meant that the capitalist ought to pay the least possible to those who worked for him or sold him their produce, and on the other hand should charge the highest possible price for their product when he offered it for sale to the general public in the market." "That general public," observed the teacher, "being chiefly composed of the workers to whom he and his fellow-capitalists had just been paying as nearly nothing as possible for creating the product which they were now expected to buy back at the highest possible price." "Certainly." "Well, let us try to realize the full economic wisdom of this rule as applied to the business of a nation. It means, doesn't it, Get something for nothing, or as near nothing as you can. Well, then, if you can get it for absolutely nothing, you are carrying out the maxim to perfection. For example, if a manufacturer could hypnotize his workmen so as to get them to work for him for no wages at all, he would be realizing the full meaning of the maxim, would he not?" "Certainly; a manufacturer who could do that, and then put the product of his unpaid workmen on the market at the usual price, would have become rich in a very short time." "And the same would be true, I suppose, of a grain merchant who was able to take such advantage of the farmers as to obtain their grain for nothing, afterward selling it at the top price." "Certainly. He would become a millionaire at once." "Well, now, suppose the secret of this hypnotizing process should get abroad among the capitalists engaged in production and exchange, and should be generally applied by them so that all of them were able to get workmen without wages, and buy produce without paying anything for it, then doubtless all the capitalists at once would become fabulously rich." "Not at all." "Dear me! why not?" "Because if the whole body of wage-earners failed to receive any wages for their work, and the farmers received nothing for their produce, there would be nobody to buy anything, and the market would collapse entirely. There would be no demand for any goods except what little the capitalists themselves and their friends could consume. The working people would then presently starve, and the capitalists be left to do their own work." "Then it appears that what would be good for the particular capitalist, if he alone did it, would be ruinous to him and everybody else if all the capitalists did it. Why was this?" "Because the particular capitalist, in expecting to get rich by underpaying his employees, would calculate on selling his produce, not to the particular group of workmen he had cheated, but to the community at large, consisting of the employees of other capitalists not so successful in cheating their workmen, who therefore would have something to buy with. The success of his trick depended on the presumption that his fellow-capitalists would not succeed in practicing the same trick. If that presumption failed, and all the capitalists succeeded at once in dealing with their employees, as all were trying to do, the result would be to stop the whole industrial system outright." "It appears, then, that in the profit system we have an economic method, of which the working rule only needed to be applied thoroughly enough in order to bring the system to a complete standstill and that all which kept the system going was the difficulty found in fully carrying out the working rule. "That was precisely so," replied the girl; "the individual capitalist grew rich fastest who succeeded best in beggaring those whose labor or produce he bought; but obviously it was only necessary for enough capitalists to succeed in so doing in order to involve capitalists and people alike in general ruin. To make the sharpest possible bargain with the employer or producer, to give him the least possible return for his labor or product, was the ideal every capitalist must constantly keep before him, and yet it was mathematically certain that every such sharp bargain tended to undermine the whole business fabric, and that it was only necessary that enough capitalists should succeed in making enough such sharp bargains to topple the fabric over." "One question more. The bad effects of a bad system are always aggravated by the willfulness of men who take advantage of it, and so, no doubt, the profit system was made by selfish men to work worse than it might have done. Now, suppose the capitalists had all been fair-minded men and not extortioners, and had made their charges for their services as small as was consistent with reasonable gains and self-protection, would that course have involved such a reduction of profit charges as would have greatly helped the people to consume their products and thus to promote production?" "It would not," replied the girl. "The antagonism of the profit system to effective wealth production arose from causes inherent in and inseparable from private capitalism; and so long as private capitalism was retained, those causes must have made the profit system inconsistent with any economic improvement in the condition of the people, even if the capitalists had been, angels. The root of the evil was not moral, but strictly economic." "But would not the rate of profits have been much reduced in the case supposed?" "In some instances temporarily no doubt, but not generally, and in no case permanently. It is doubtful if profits, on the whole, were higher than they had to be to encourage capitalists to undertake production and trade." "Tell us why the profits had to be so large for this purpose." "Legitimate profits under private capitalism," replied the girl Margaret--"that is, such profits as men going into production or trade must in self-protection calculate upon, however well disposed toward the public--consisted of three elements, all growing out of conditions inseparable from private capitalism, none of which longer exist. First, the capitalist must calculate on at least as large a return on the capital he was to put into the venture as he could obtain by lending it on good security--that is to say, the ruling rate of interest. If he were not sure of that, he would prefer to lend his capital. But that was not enough. In going into business he risked the entire loss of his capital, as he would not if it were lent on good security. Therefore, in addition to the ruling rate of interest on capital, his profits must cover the cost of insurance on the capital risked--that is, there must be a prospect of gains large enough in case the venture succeeded to cover the risk of loss of capital in case of failure. If the chances of failure, for instance, were even, he must calculate on more than a hundred per cent profit in case of success. In point of fact, the chances of failure in business and loss of capital in those days were often far more than even. Business was indeed little more than a speculative risk, a lottery in which the blanks greatly outnumbered the prizes. The prizes to tempt investment must therefore be large. Moreover, if a capitalist were personally to take charge of the business in which he invested his capital, he would reasonably have expected adequate wages of superintendence--compensation, in other words, for his skill and judgment in navigating the venture through the stormy waters of the business sea, compared with which, as it was in that day, the North Atlantic in midwinter is a mill pond. For this service he would be considered justified in making a large addition to the margin of profit charged." "Then you conclude, Margaret, that, even if disposed to be fair toward the community, a capitalist of those days would not have been able safely to reduce his rate of profits sufficiently to bring the people much nearer the point of being able to consume their products than they were." "Precisely so. The root of the evil lay in the tremendous difficulties, complexities, mistakes, risks, and wastes with which private capitalism necessarily involved the processes of production and distribution, which under public capitalism have become so entirely simple, expeditious, and certain." "Then it seems it is not necessary to consider our capitalist ancestors moral monsters in order to account for the tragical outcome of their economic methods." "By no means. The capitalists were no doubt good and bad, like other people, but probably stood up as well as any people could against the depraving influences of a system which in fifty years would have turned heaven itself into hell." MARION EXPLAINS OVER-PRODUCTION. "That will do, Margaret," said the teacher. "We will next ask you, Marion, to assist us in further elucidating the subject. If the profit system worked according to the description we have listened to, we shall be prepared to learn that the economic situation was marked by the existence of large stores of consumable goods in the hands of the profit takers which they would be glad to sell, and, on the other hand, by a great population composed of the original producers of the goods, who were in sharp need of the goods but unable to purchase them. How does this theory agree with the facts stated in the histories?" "So well," replied Marion, "that one might almost think you had been reading them." At which the class smiled, and so did I. "Describe, without unnecessary infusion of humor--for the subject was not humorous to our ancestors--the condition of things to which you refer. Did our great-grandfathers recognize in this excess of goods over buyers a cause of economic disturbance?" "They recognized it as the great and constant cause of such disturbance. The perpetual burden of their complaints was dull times, stagnant trade, glut of products. Occasionally they had brief periods of what they called good times, resulting from a little brisker buying, but in the best of what they called good times the condition of the mass of the people was what we should call abjectly wretched." "What was the term by which they most commonly described the presence in the market of more products than could be sold?" "Overproduction." "Was it meant by this expression that there had been actually more food, clothing, and other good things produced than the people could use?" "Not at all. The mass of the people were in great need always, and in more bitter need than ever precisely at the times when the business machine was clogged by what they called overproduction. The people, if they could have obtained access to the overproduced goods, would at any time have consumed them in a moment and loudly called for more. The trouble was, as has been said, that the profits charged by the capitalist manufacturers and traders had put them out of the power of the original producers to buy back with the price they had received for their labor or products." "To what have our historians been wont to compare the condition of the community under the profit system?" "To that of a victim of the disease of chronic dyspepsia so prevalent among our ancestors." "Please develop the parallel." "In dyspepsia the patient suffered from inability to assimilate food. With abundance of dainties at hand he wasted away from the lack of power to absorb nutriment. Although unable to eat enough to support life, he was constantly suffering the pangs of indigestion, and while actually starving for want of nourishment, was tormented by the sensation of an overloaded stomach. Now, the economic condition of a community under the profit system afforded a striking analogy to the plight of such a dyspeptic. The masses of the people were always in bitter need of all things, and were abundantly able by their industry to provide for all their needs, but the profit system would not permit them to consume even what they produced, much less produce what they could. No sooner did they take the first edge off of their appetite than the commercial system was seized with the pangs of acute indigestion and all the symptoms of an overloaded system, which nothing but a course of starvation would relieve, after which the experience would be repeated with the same result, and so on indefinitely." "Can you explain why such an extraordinary misnomer as overproduction, should be applied to a situation that would better be described as famine; why a condition should be said to result from glut when it was obviously the consequence of enforced abstinence? Surely, the mistake was equivalent to diagnosing a case of starvation as one of gluttony." "It was because the economists and the learned classes, who alone had a voice, regarded the economic question entirely from the side of the capitalists and ignored the interest of the people. From the point of view of the capitalist it was a case of overproduction when he had charged profits on products which took them beyond the power of the people to buy, and so the economist writing in his interest called it. From the point of view of the capitalist, and consequently of the economist, the only question was the condition of the market, not of the people. They did not concern themselves whether the people were famished or glutted; the only question was the condition of the market. Their maxim that demand governed supply, and supply would always meet demand, referred in no way to the demand representing human need, but wholly to an artificial thing called the market, itself the product of the profit system." "What was the market?" "The market was the number of those who had money to buy with. Those who had no money were non-existent so far as the market was concerned, and in proportion as people had little money they were a small part of the market. The needs of the market were the needs of those who had the money to supply their needs with. The rest, who had needs in plenty but no money, were not counted, though they were as a hundred to one of the moneyed. The market was supplied when those who could buy had enough, though the most of the people had little and many had nothing. The market was glutted when the well-to-do were satisfied, though starving and naked mobs might riot in the streets." "Would such a thing be possible nowadays as full storehouses and a hungry and naked people existing at the same time?" "Of course not. Until every one was satisfied there could be no such thing as overproduct now. Our system is so arranged that there can be too little nowhere so long as there is too much anywhere. But the old system had no circulation of the blood." "What name did our ancestors give to the various economic disturbances which they ascribed to overproduction?" "They called them commercial crises. That is to say, there was a chronic state of glut which might be called a chronic crisis, but every now and then the arrears resulting from the constant discrepancy between consumption and production accumulated to such a degree as to nearly block business. When this happened they called it, in distinction from the chronic glut, a crisis or panic, on account of the blind terror which it caused." "To what cause did they ascribe the crises?" "To almost everything besides the perfectly plain reason. An extensive literature seems to have been devoted to the subject. There are shelves of it up at the museum which I have been trying to go through, or at least to skim over, in connection with this study. If the books were not so dull in style they would be very amusing, just on account of the extraordinary ingenuity the writers display in avoiding the natural and obvious explanation of the facts they discuss. They even go into astronomy." "What do you mean?" "I suppose the class will think I am romancing, but it is a fact that one of the most famous of the theories by which our ancestors accounted for the periodical breakdowns of business resulting from the profit system was the so-called 'sun-spot theory.' During the first half of the nineteenth century it so happened that there were severe crises at periods about ten or eleven years apart. Now, it happened that sun spots were at a maximum about every ten years, and a certain eminent English economist concluded that these sun spots caused the panics. Later on it seems this theory was found unsatisfactory, and gave place to the lack-of-confidence explanation." "And what was that?" "I could not exactly make out, but it seemed reasonable to suppose that there must have developed a considerable lack of confidence in an economic system which turned out such results." "Marion, I fear you do not bring a spirit of sympathy to the study of the ways of our forefathers, and without sympathy we can not understand others." "I am afraid they are a little too other, for me to understand." The class tittered, and Marion was allowed to take her seat. JOHN TELLS ABOUT COMPETITION. "Now, John," said the teacher, "we will ask you a few questions. We have seen by what process a chronic glut of goods in the market resulted from the operation of the profit system to put products out of reach of the purchasing power of the people at large. Now, what notable characteristic and main feature of the business system of our forefathers resulted from the glut thus produced?" "I suppose you refer to competition?" said the boy. "Yes. What was competition and what caused it, referring especially to the competition between capitalists?" "It resulted, as you intimate, from the insufficient consuming power of the public at large, which in turn resulted from the profit system. If the wage-earners and first-hand producers had received purchasing power sufficient to enable them to take up their numerical proportion of the total product offered in the market, it would have been cleared of goods without any effort on the part of sellers, for the buyers would have sought the sellers and been enough to buy all. But the purchasing power of the masses, owing to the profits charged on their products, being left wholly inadequate to take those products out of the market, there naturally followed a great struggle between the capitalists engaged in production and distribution to divert the most possible of the all too scanty buying each in his own direction. The total buying could not of course be increased a dollar without relatively, or absolutely increasing the purchasing power in the people's hands, but it was possible by effort to alter the particular directions in which it should be expended, and this was the sole aim and effect of competition. Our forefathers thought it a wonderfully fine thing. They called it the life of trade, but, as we have seen, it was merely a symptom of the effect of the profit system to cripple consumption." "What were the methods which the capitalists engaged in production and exchange made use of to bring trade their way, as they used to say?" "First was direct solicitation of buyers and a shameless vaunting of every one's wares by himself and his hired mouthpieces, coupled with a boundless depreciation of rival sellers and the wares they offered. Unscrupulous and unbounded misrepresentation was so universally the rule in business that even when here and there a dealer told the truth he commanded no credence. History indicates that lying has always been more or less common, but it remained for the competitive system as fully developed in the nineteenth century to make it the means of livelihood of the whole world. According to our grandfathers--and they certainly ought to have known--the only lubricant which was adapted to the machinery of the profit system was falsehood, and the demand for it was unlimited." "And all this ocean of lying, you say, did not and could not increase the total of goods consumed by a dollar's worth." "Of course not. Nothing, as I said, could increase that save an increase in the purchasing power of the people. The system of solicitation or advertising, as it was called, far from increasing the total sale, tended powerfully to decrease it." "How so?" "Because it was prodigiously expensive and the expense had to be added to the price of the goods and paid by the consumer, who therefore could buy just so much less than if he had been left in peace and the price of the goods had been reduced by the saving in advertising." "You say that the only way by which consumption could have been increased was by increasing the purchasing power in the hands of the people relatively to the goods to be bought. Now, our forefathers claimed that this was just what competition did. They claimed that it was a potent means of reducing prices and cutting down the rate of profits, thereby relatively increasing the purchasing power of the masses. Was this claim well based?" "The rivalry of the capitalists among themselves," replied the lad, "to tempt the buyers' custom certainly prompted them to undersell one another by nominal reductions of prices, but it was rarely that these nominal reductions, though often in appearance very large, really represented in the long run any economic benefit to the people at large, for they were generally effected by means which nullified their practical value." "Please make that clear." "Well, naturally, the capitalist would prefer to reduce the prices of his goods in such a way, if possible, as not to reduce his profits, and that would be his study. There were numerous devices which he employed to this end. The first was that of reducing the quality and real worth of the goods on which the price was nominally cut down. This was done by adulteration and scamped work, and the practice extended in the nineteenth century to every branch of industry and commerce and affected pretty nearly all articles of human consumption. It came to that point, as the histories tell us, that no one could ever depend on anything he purchased being what it appeared or was represented. The whole atmosphere of trade was mephitic with chicane. It became the policy of the capitalists engaged in the most important lines of manufacture to turn out goods expressly made with a view to wearing as short a time as possible, so as to need the speedier renewal. They taught their very machines to be dishonest, and corrupted steel and brass. Even the purblind people of that day recognized the vanity of the pretended reductions in price by the epithet 'cheap and nasty,' with which they characterized cheapened goods. All this class of reductions, it is plain, cost the consumer two dollars for every one it professed to save him. As a single illustration of the utterly deceptive character of reductions in price under the profit system, it may be recalled that toward the close of the nineteenth century in America, after almost magical inventions for reducing the cost of shoemaking, it was a common saying that although the price of shoes was considerably lower than fifty years before, when they were made by hand, yet that later-made shoes were so much poorer in quality as to be really quite as expensive as the earlier." "Were adulteration and scamped work the only devices by which sham reductions of prices was effected?" "There were two other ways. The first was where the capitalist saved his profits while reducing the price of goods by taking the reduction out of the wages he had paid his employees. This was the method by which the reductions in price were very generally brought about. Of course, the process was one which crippled the purchasing power of the community by the amount of the lowered wages. By this means the particular group of capitalists cutting down wages might quicken their sales for a time until other capitalists likewise cut wages. In the end nobody was helped, not even the capitalist. Then there was the third of the three main kinds of reductions in price to be credited to competition--namely, that made on account of labor-saving machinery or other inventions which enabled the capitalist to discharge his laborers. The reduction in price on the goods was here based, as in the former case, on the reduced amount of wages paid out, and consequently meant a reduced purchasing power on the part of the community, which, in the total effect, usually nullified the advantage of reduced price, and often more than nullified it." "You have shown," said the teacher, "that most of the reductions of price effected by competition were reductions at the expense of the original producers or of the final consumers, and not reductions in profits. Do you mean to say that the competition of capitalists for trade never operated to reduce profits?" "Undoubtedly it did so operate in countries where from the long operation of the profit system surplus capital had accumulated so as to compete under great pressure for investment; but under such circumstances reductions in prices, even though they might come from sacrifices of profits, usually came too late to increase the consumption of the people." "How too late?" "Because the capitalist had naturally refrained from sacrificing his profits in order to reduce prices so long as he could take the cost of the reduction out of the wages of his workmen or out of the first-hand producer. That is to say, it was only when the working masses had been reduced to pretty near the minimum subsistence point that the capitalist would decide to sacrifice a portion of his profits. By that time it was too late for the people to take advantage of the reduction. When a population had reached that point, it had no buying power left to be stimulated. Nothing short of giving commodities away freely could help it. Accordingly, we observe that in the nineteenth century it was always in the countries where the populations were most hopelessly poor that the prices were lowest. It was in this sense a bad sign for the economic condition of a community when the capitalist found it necessary to make a real sacrifice of profits, for it was a clear indication that the working masses had been squeezed until they could be squeezed no longer." "Then, on the whole, competition was not a palliative of the profit system?" "I think that it has been made apparent that it was a grievous aggravation of it. The desperate rivalry of the capitalists for a share in the scanty market which their own profit taking had beggared drove them to the practice of deception and brutality, and compelled a hard-heartedness such as we are bound to believe human beings would not under a less pressure have been guilty of." "What was the general economic effect of competition?" "It operated in all fields of industry, and in the long run for all classes, the capitalists as well as the non-capitalists, as a steady downward pull as irresistible and universal as gravitation. Those felt it first who had least capital, the wage-earners who had none, and the farmer proprietors who, having next to none, were under almost the same pressure to find a prompt market at any sacrifice of their product, as were the wage-earners to find prompt buyers for their labor. These classes were the first victims of the competition to sell in the glutted markets of things and of men. Next came the turn of the smaller capitalists, till finally only the largest were left, and these found it necessary for self-preservation to protect themselves against the process of competitive decimation by the consolidation of their interests. One of the signs of the times in the period preceding the Revolution was this tendency among the great capitalists to seek refuge from the destructive efforts of competition through the pooling of their undertakings in great trusts and syndicates." "Suppose the Revolution had not come to interrupt that process, would a system under which capital and the control of all business had been consolidated in a few hands have been worse for the public interest than the effect of competition?" "Such a consolidated system would, of course, have been an intolerable despotism, the yoke of which, once assumed, the race might never have been able to break. In that respect private capitalism under a consolidated plutocracy, such as impended at the time of the Revolution, would have been a worse threat to the world's future than the competitive system; but as to the immediate bearings of the two systems on human welfare, private capital in the consolidated form might have had some points of advantage. Being an autocracy, it would have at least given some chance to a benevolent despot to be better than the system and to ameliorate a little the conditions of the people, and that was something competition did not allow the capitalists to do." "What do you mean?" "I mean that under competition there was no free play whatever allowed for the capitalist's better feelings even if he had any. He could not be better than the system. If he tried to be, the system would crush him. He had to follow the pace set by his competitors or fail in business. Whatever rascality or cruelty his rivals might devise, he must imitate or drop out of the struggle. The very wickedest, meanest, and most rascally of the competitors, the one who ground his employees lowest, adulterated his goods most shamefully, and lied about them most skillfully, set the pace for all the rest." "Evidently, John, if you had lived in the early part of the revolutionary agitation you would have had scant sympathy with those early reformers whose fear was lest the great monopolies would put an end to competition." "I can't say whether I should have been wiser than my contemporaries in that case," replied the lad, "but I think my gratitude to the monopolists for destroying competition would have been only equaled by my eagerness to destroy the monopolists to make way for public capitalism." ROBERT TELLS ABOUT THE GLUT OF MEN. "Now, Robert," said the teacher, "John has told us how the glut of products resulting from the profit system caused a competition among capitalists to sell goods and what its consequences were. There was, however, another sort of glut besides that of goods which resulted from the profit system. What was that?" "A glut of men," replied the boy Robert. "Lack of buying power on the part of the people, whether from lack of employment or lowered wages, meant less demand for products, and that meant less work for producers. Clogged storehouses meant closed factories and idle populations of workers who could get no work--that is to say, the glut in the goods market caused a corresponding glut in the labor or man market. And as the glut in the goods market stimulated competition among the capitalists to sell their goods, so likewise did the glut in the labor market stimulate an equally desperate competition among the workers to sell their labor. The capitalists who could not find buyers for their goods lost their money indeed, but those who had nothing to sell but their strength and skill, and could find none to buy, must perish. The capitalist, unless his goods were perishable, could wait for a market, but the workingman must find a buyer for his labor at once or die. And in respect to this inability to wait for a market, the farmer, while technically a capitalist, was little better off than the wage-earner, being, on account of the smallness of his capital, almost as unable to withhold his product as the workingman his labor. The pressing necessity of the wage-earner to sell his labor at once on any terms and of the small capitalist to dispose of his product was the means by which the great capitalists were able steadily to force down the rate of wages and the prices paid for their product to the first producers." "And was it only among the wage-earners and the small producers that this glut of men existed?" "On the contrary, every trade, every occupation, every art, and every profession, including the most learned ones, was similarly overcrowded, and those in the ranks of each regarded every fresh recruit with jealous eyes, seeing in him one more rival in the struggle for life, making it just so much more difficult than it had been before. It would seem that in those days no man could have had any satisfaction in his labor, however self-denying and arduous, for he must always have been haunted by the feeling that it would have been kinder to have stood aside and let another do the work and take the pay, seeing that there was not work and pay for all." "Tell us, Robert, did not our ancestors recognize the facts of the situation you have described? Did they not see that this glut of men indicated something out of order in the social arrangements?" "Certainly. They professed to be much distressed over it. A large literature was devoted to discussing why there was not enough work to go around in a world in which so much more work evidently needed to be done as indicated by its general poverty. The Congresses and Legislatures were constantly appointing commissions of learned men to investigate and report on the subject." "And did these learned men ascribe it to its obvious cause as the necessary effect of the profit system to maintain and constantly increase a gap between the consuming and producing power of the community?" "Dear me, no! To have criticised the profit system would have been flat blasphemy. The learned men called it a problem--the problem of the unemployed--and gave it up as a conundrum. It was a favorite way our ancestors had of dodging questions which they could not answer without attacking vested interests to call them problems and give them up as insolvable mysteries of Divine Providence." "There was one philosopher, Robert--an Englishman--who went to the bottom of this difficulty of the glut of men resulting from the profit system. He stated the only way possible to avoid the glut, provided the profit system was retained. Do you remember his name?" "You mean Malthus, I suppose." "Yes. What was his plan?" "He advised poor people, as the only way to avoid starvation, not to get born--that is, I mean he advised poor people not to have children. This old fellow, as you say, was the only one of the lot who went to the root of the profit system, and saw that there was not room for it and for mankind on the earth. Regarding the profit system as a God-ordained necessity, there could be no doubt in his mind that it was mankind which must, under the circumstances, get off the earth. People called Malthus a cold-blooded philosopher. Perhaps he was, but certainly it was only common humanity that, so long as the profit system lasted, a red flag should be hung out on the planet, warning souls not to land except at their own risk." EMILY SHOWS THE NECESSITY OF WASTE PIPES. "I quite agree with you, Robert," said the teacher, "and now, Emily, we will ask you to take us in charge as we pursue a little further this interesting, if not very edifying theme. The economic system of production and distribution by which a nation lives may fitly be compared to a cistern with a supply pipe, representing production, by which water is pumped in; and an escape pipe, representing consumption, by which the product is disposed of. When the cistern is scientifically constructed the supply pipe and escape pipe correspond in capacity, so that the water may be drawn off as fast as supplied, and none be wasted by overflow. Under the profit system of our ancestors, however, the arrangement was different. Instead of corresponding in capacity with the supply pipe representing production, the outlet representing consumption was half or two thirds shut off by the water-gate of profits, so that it was not able to carry off more than, say, a half or a third of the supply that was pumped into the cistern through the feed pipe of production. Now, Emily, what would be the natural effect of such a lack of correspondence between the inlet and the outlet capacity of the cistern?" "Obviously," replied the girl who answered to the name of Emily, "the effect would be to clog the cistern, and compel the pumps to slow down to half or one third of their capacity--namely, to the capacity of the escape pipe." "But," said the teacher, "suppose that in the case of the cistern used by our ancestors the effect of slowing down the pump of production was to diminish still further the capacity of the escape pipe of consumption, already much too small, by depriving the working masses of even the small purchasing power they had before possessed in the form of wages for labor or prices for produce." "Why, in that case," replied the girl, "it is evident that since slowing down production only checked instead of hastening relief by consumption, there would be no way to avoid a stoppage of the whole service except to relieve the pressure in the cistern by opening waste pipes." "Precisely so. Well, now, we are in a position to appreciate how necessary a part the waste pipes played in the economic system of our forefathers. We have seen that under that system the bulk of the people sold their labor or produce to the capitalists, but were unable to buy back and consume but a small part of the result of that labor or produce in the market, the rest remaining in the hands of the capitalists as profits. Now, the capitalists, being a very small body numerically, could consume upon their necessities but a petty part of these accumulated profits, and yet, if they did not get rid of them somehow, production would stop, for the capitalists absolutely controlled the initiative in production, and would have no motive to increase accumulations they could not dispose of. In proportion, moreover, as the capitalists from lack of use for more profits should slacken production, the mass of the people, finding none to hire them, or buy their produce to sell again, would lose what little consuming power they had before, and a still larger accumulation of products be left on the capitalists' hands. The question then is, How did the capitalists, after consuming all they could of their profits upon their own necessities, dispose of the surplus, so as to make room for more production?" "Of course," said the girl Emily, "if the surplus products were to be so expended as to relieve the glut, the first point was that they must be expended in such ways that there should be no return, for them. They must be absolutely wasted--like water poured into the sea. This was accomplished by the use of the surplus products in the support of bodies of workers employed in unproductive kinds of labor. This waste labor was of two sorts--the first was that employed in wasteful industrial and commercial competition; the second was that employed in the means and services of luxury." "Tell us about the wasteful expenditure of labor in competition." "That was through the undertaking of industrial and commercial enterprises which were not called for by any increase in consumption, their object being merely the displacement of the enterprises of one capitalist by those of another." "And was this a very large cause of waste?" "Its magnitude may be inferred from the saying current at the time that ninety-five per cent of industrial and commercial enterprises failed, which merely meant that in this proportion of instances capitalists wasted their investments in trying to fill a demand which either did not exist or was supplied already. If that estimate were even a remote suggestion of the truth, it would serve to give an idea of the enormous amounts of accumulated profits which were absolutely wasted in competitive expenditure. And it must be remembered also that when a capitalist succeeded in displacing another and getting away his business the total waste of capital was just as great as if he failed, only in the one case it was the capital of the previous investor that was destroyed instead of the capital of the newcomer. In every country which had attained any degree of economic development there were many times more business enterprises in every line than there was business for, and many times as much capital already invested as there was a return for. The only way in which new capital could be put into business was by forcing out and destroying old capital already invested. The ever-mounting aggregation of profits seeking part of a market that was prevented from increasing by the effect of those very profits, created a pressure of competition among capitalists which, by all accounts that come down to us, must have been like a conflagration in its consuming effects upon capital. "Now tell us something about the other great waste of profits by which the pressure in the cistern was sufficiently relieved to permit production to go on--that is to say, the expenditure of profits for the employment of labor in the service of luxury. What was luxury?" "The term luxury, in referring to the state of society before the Revolution, meant the lavish expenditure of wealth by the rich to gratify a refined sensualism, while the masses of the people were suffering lack of the primary necessities." "What were some of the modes of luxurious expenditure indulged in by the capitalists?" "They were unlimited in variety, as, for example, the construction of costly palaces for residence and their decoration in royal style, the support of great retinues of servants, costly supplies for the table, rich equipages, pleasure ships, and all manner of boundless expenditure in fine raiment and precious stones. Ingenuity was exhausted in contriving devices by which the rich might waste the abundance the people were dying for. A vast army of laborers was constantly engaged in manufacturing an infinite variety of articles and appliances of elegance and ostentation which mocked the unsatisfied primary necessities of those who toiled to produce them." "What have you to say of the moral aspect of this expenditure for luxury?" "If the entire community had arrived at that stage of economic prosperity which would enable all alike to enjoy the luxuries equally," replied the girl, "indulgence in them would have been merely a question of taste. But this waste of wealth by the rich in the presence of a vast population suffering lack of the bare necessaries of life was an illustration of inhumanity that would seem incredible on the part of civilized people were not the facts so well substantiated. Imagine a company of persons sitting down with enjoyment to a banquet, while on the floors and all about the corners of the banquet hall were groups of fellow-beings dying with want and following with hungry eyes every morsel the feasters lifted to their mouths. And yet that precisely describes the way in which the rich used to spend their profits in the great cities of America, France, England, and Germany before the Revolution, the one difference being that the needy and the hungry, instead of being in the banquet room itself, were just outside on the street." "It was claimed, was it not, by the apologists of the luxurious expenditure of the capitalists that they thus gave employment to many who would otherwise have lacked it?" "And why would they have lacked employment? Why were the people glad to find employment in catering to the luxurious pleasures and indulgences of the capitalists, selling themselves to the most frivolous and degrading uses? It was simply because the profit taking of these same capitalists, by reducing the consuming power of the people to a fraction of its producing power, had correspondingly limited the field of productive employment, in which under a rational system there must always have been work for every hand until all needs were satisfied, even as there is now. In excusing their luxurious expenditure on the ground you have mentioned, the capitalists pleaded the results of one wrong to justify the commission of another." "The moralists of all ages," said the teacher, "condemned the luxury of the rich. Why did their censures effect no change?" "Because they did not understand the economics of the subject. They failed to see that under the profit system the absolute waste of the excess of profits in unproductive expenditure was an economic necessity, if production was to proceed, as you showed in comparing it with the cistern. The waste of profits in luxury was an economic necessity, to use another figure, precisely as a running sore is a necessary vent in some cases for the impurities of a diseased body. Under our system of equal sharing, the wealth of a community is freely and equally distributed among its members as is the blood in a healthy body. But when, as under the old system, that wealth was concentrated in the hands of a portion of the community, it lost its vitalizing quality, as does the blood when congested in particular organs, and like that becomes an active poison, to be got rid of at any cost. Luxury in this way might be called an ulcer, which must be kept open if the profit system was to continue on any terms." "You say," said the teacher, "that in order that production should go on it was absolutely necessary to get the excess of profits wasted in some sort of unproductive expenditure. But might not the profit takers have devised some way of getting rid of the surplus more intelligent than mere competition to displace one another, and more consistent with humane feeling than wasting wealth upon refinements of sensual indulgence in the presence of a needy multitude?" "Certainly. If the capitalists had cared at all about the humane aspect of the matter, they could have taken a much less demoralizing method in getting rid of the obstructive surplus. They could have periodically made a bonfire of it as a burnt sacrifice to the god Profit, or, if they preferred, it might have been carried out in scows beyond soundings and dumped there." "It is easy to see," said the teacher, "that from a moral point of view such a periodical bonfire or dump would have been vastly more edifying to gods and men than was the actual practice of expending it in luxuries which mocked the bitter want of the mass. But how about the economic operation of this plan?" "It would have been as advantageous economically as morally. The process of wasting the surplus profits in competition and luxury was slow and protracted, and meanwhile productive industry languished and the workers waited in idleness and want for the surplus to be so far reduced as to make room for more production. But if the surplus at once, on being ascertained, were destroyed, productive industry would go right on." "But how about the workmen employed by the capitalists in ministering to their luxuries? Would they not have been thrown out of work if luxury had been given up?" "On the contrary, under the bonfire system there would have been a constant demand for them in productive employment to provide material for the blaze, and that surely would have been a far more worthy occupation than helping the capitalists to consume in folly the product of their brethren employed in productive industry. But the greatest advantage of all which would have resulted from the substitution of the bonfire for luxury remains to be mentioned. By the time the nation had made a few such annual burnt offerings to the principle of profit, perhaps even after the first one, it is likely they would begin to question, in the light of such vivid object lessons, whether the moral beauties of the profit system were sufficient compensation for so large an economic sacrifice." CHARLES REMOVES AN APPREHENSION. "Now, Charles," said the teacher, "you shall help us a little on a point of conscience. We have, one and another, told a very bad story about the profit system, both in its moral and its economic aspects. Now, is it not possible that we have done it injustice? Have we not painted too black a picture? From an ethical point of view we could indeed scarcely have done so, for there are no words strong enough to justly characterize the mock it made of all the humanities. But have we not possibly asserted too strongly its economic imbecility and the hopelessness of the world's outlook for material welfare so long as it should be tolerated? Can you reassure us on this point?" "Easily," replied the lad Charles. "No more conclusive testimony to the hopelessness of the economic outlook under private capitalism could be desired than is abundantly given by the nineteenth-century economists themselves. While they seemed quite incapable of imagining anything different from private capitalism as the basis of an economic system, they cherished no illusions as to its operation. Far from trying to comfort mankind by promising that if present ills were bravely borne matters would grow better, they expressly taught that the profit system must inevitably result at some time not far ahead in the arrest of industrial progress and a stationary condition of production." "How did they make that out?" "They recognized, as we do, the tendency under private capitalism of rents, interest, and profits to accumulate as capital in the hands of the capitalist class, while, on the other hand, the consuming power of the masses did not increase, but either decreased or remained practically stationary. From this lack of equilibrium between production and consumption it followed that the difficulty of profitably employing capital in productive industry must increase as the accumulations of capital so disposable should grow. The home market having been first, glutted with products and afterward the foreign market, the competition of the capitalists to find productive employment for their capital would lead them, after having reduced wages to the lowest possible point, to bid for what was left of the market by reducing their own profits to the minimum point at which it was worth while to risk capital. Below this point more capital would not be invested in business. Thus the rate of wealth production would cease to advance, and become stationary." "This, you say, is what the nineteenth-century economists themselves taught concerning the outcome of the profit system?" "Certainly. I could, quote from their standard books any number of passages foretelling this condition of things, which, indeed, it required no prophet to foretell." "How near was the world--that is, of course, the nations whose industrial evolution had gone farthest--to this condition when the Revolution came?" "They were apparently on its verge. The more economically advanced countries had generally exhausted their home markets and were struggling desperately for what was left of foreign markets. The rate of interest, which indicated the degree to which capital had become glutted, had fallen in England to two per cent and in America within thirty years had sunk from seven and six to five and three and four per cent, and was falling year by year. Productive industry had become generally clogged, and proceeded by fits and starts. In America the wage-earners were becoming proletarians, and the farmers fast sinking into the state of a tenantry. It was indeed the popular discontent caused by these conditions, coupled with apprehension of worse to come, which finally roused the people at the close of the nineteenth century to the necessity of destroying private capitalism for good and all." "And do I understand, then, that this stationary condition, after which no increase in the rate of wealth production could be looked for, was setting in while yet the primary needs of the masses remained unprovided for?" "Certainly. The satisfaction of the needs of the masses, as we have abundantly seen, was in no way recognized as a motive for production under the profit system. As production approached the stationary point the misery of the people would, in fact, increase as a direct result of the competition among capitalists to invest their glut of capital in business. In order to do so, as has already been shown, they sought to reduce the prices of products, and that meant the reduction of wages to wage-earners and prices to first producers to the lowest possible point before any reduction in the profits of the capitalist was considered. What the old economists called the stationary condition of production meant, therefore, the perpetuation indefinitely of the maximum degree of hardship endurable by the people at large." "That will do, Charles; you have said enough to relieve any apprehension that possibly we were doing injustice to the profit system. Evidently that could not be done to a system of which its own champions foretold such an outcome as you have described. What, indeed, could be added to the description they give of it in these predictions of the stationary condition as a programme of industry confessing itself at the end of its resources in the midst of a naked and starving race? This was the good time coming, with the hope of which the nineteenth-century economists cheered the cold and hungry world of toilers--a time when, being worse off than ever, they must abandon forever even the hope of improvement. No wonder our forefathers described their so-called political economy as a dismal science, for never was there a pessimism blacker, a hopelessness more hopeless than it preached. Ill indeed had it been for humanity if it had been truly a science. ESTHER COUNTS THE COST OF THE PROFIT SYSTEM. "Now, Esther," the teacher pursued, "I am going to ask you to do a little estimating as to about how much the privilege of retaining the profit system cost our forefathers. Emily has given us an idea of the magnitude of the two great wastes of profits--the waste of competition and the waste of luxury. Now, did the capital wasted in these two ways represent all that the profit system cost the people?" "It did not give a faint idea of it, much less represent it," replied the girl Esther. "The aggregate wealth wasted respectively in competition and luxury, could it have been distributed equally for consumption among the people, would undoubtedly have considerably raised the general level of comfort. In the cost of the profit system to a community, the wealth wasted by the capitalists was, however, an insignificant item. The bulk of that cost consisted in the effect of the profit system to prevent wealth from being produced, in holding back and tying down the almost boundless wealth-producing power of man. Imagine the mass of the population, instead of being sunk in poverty and a large part of them in bitter want, to have received sufficient to satisfy all their needs and give them ample, comfortable lives, and estimate the amount of additional wealth which it would have been necessary to produce to meet this standard of consumption. That will give you a basis for calculating the amount of wealth which the American people or any people of those days might and would have produced but for the profit system. You may estimate that this would have meant a fivefold, sevenfold, or tenfold increase of production, as you please to guess. "But tell us this: Would it have been possible for the people of America, say, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, to have multiplied their production at such a rate if consumption had demanded it?" "Nothing is more certain than that they could easily have done so. The progress of invention had been so great in the nineteenth century as to multiply from twentyfold to many hundredfold the productive power of industry. There was no time during the last quarter of the century in America or in any of the advanced countries when the existing productive plants could not have produced enough in six months to have supplied the total annual consumption as it actually was. And those plants could have been multiplied indefinitely. In like manner the agricultural product of the country was always kept far within its possibility, for a plentiful crop under the profit system meant ruinous prices to the farmers. As has been said, it was an admitted proposition of the old economists that there was no visible limit to production if only sufficient demand for consumption could be secured." "Can you recall any instance in history in which it can be argued that a people paid so large a price in delayed and prevented development for the privilege of retaining any other tyranny as they did for keeping the profit system?" "I am sure there never was such another instance, and I will tell you why I think so. Human progress has been delayed at various stages by oppressive institutions, and the world has leaped forward at their overthrow. But there was never before a time when the conditions had been so long ready and waiting for so great and so instantaneous a forward movement all along the line of social improvement as in the period preceding the Revolution. The mechanical and industrial forces, held in check by the profit system, only required to be unleashed to transform the economic condition of the race as by magic. So much for the material cost of the profit system to our forefathers; but, vast as that was, it is not worth considering for a moment in comparison with its cost in human happiness. I mean the moral cost in wrong and tears and black negations and stifled moral possibilities which the world paid for every day's retention of private capitalism: there are no words adequate to express the sum of that." NO POLITICAL ECONOMY BEFORE THE REVOLUTION. "That will do, Esther.--Now, George, I want you to tell us just a little about a particular body among the learned class of the nineteenth century, which, according to the professions of its members, ought to have known and to have taught the people all that we have so easily perceived as to the suicidal character of the profit system and the economic perdition it meant for mankind so long as it should be tolerated. I refer to the political economists." "There were no political economists before the Revolution," replied the lad. "But there certainly was a large class of learned men who called themselves political economists." "Oh, yes; but they labeled themselves wrongly." "How do you make that out?" "Because there was not, until the Revolution--except, of course, among those who sought to bring it to pass--any conception whatever of what political economy is." "What is it?" "Economy," replied the lad, "means the wise husbandry of wealth in production and distribution. Individual economy is the science of this husbandry when conducted in the interest of the individual without regard to any others. Family economy is this husbandry carried on for the advantage of a family group without regard to other groups. Political economy, however, can only mean the husbandry of wealth for the greatest advantage of the political or social body, the whole number of the citizens constituting the political organization. This sort of husbandry necessarily implies a public or political regulation of economic affairs for the general interest. But before the Revolution there was no conception of such an economy, nor any organization to carry it out. All systems and doctrines of economy previous to that time were distinctly and exclusively private and individual in their whole theory and practice. While in other respects our forefathers did in various ways and degrees recognize a social solidarity and a political unity with proportionate rights and duties, their theory and practice as to all matters touching the getting and sharing of wealth were aggressively and brutally individualistic, antisocial, and unpolitical." "Have you ever looked over any of the treatises which our forefathers called political economies, at the Historical Library?" "I confess," the boy answered, "that the title of the leading work under that head was enough for me. It was called The Wealth of Nations. That would be an admirable title for a political economy nowadays, when the production and distribution of wealth are conducted altogether by and for the people collectively; but what meaning could it conceivably have had as applied to a book written nearly a hundred years before such a thing as a national economic organization was thought of, with the sole view of instructing capitalists how to get rich at the cost of, or at least in total disregard of, the welfare of their fellow-citizens? I noticed too that quite a common subtitle used for these so-called works on political economy was the phrase 'The Science of Wealth.' Now what could an apologist of private capitalism and the profit system possibly have to say about the science of wealth? The A B C of any science of wealth production is the necessity of co-ordination and concert of effort; whereas competition, conflict, and endless cross-purposes were the sum and substance of the economic methods set forth by these writers." "And yet," said the teacher, "the only real fault of these so-called books on Political Economy consists in the absurdity of the title. Correct that, and their value as documents of the times at once becomes evident. For example, we might call them 'Examinations into the Economic and Social Consequences of trying to get along without any Political Economy.' A title scarcely less fit would perhaps be 'Studies into the Natural Course of Economic Affairs when left to Anarchy by the Lack of any Regulation in the General Interest.' It is, when regarded in this light, as painstaking and conclusive expositions of the ruinous effects of private capitalism upon the welfare of communities, that we perceive the true use and value of these works. Taking up in detail the various phenomena of the industrial and commercial world of that day, with their reactions upon the social status, their authors show how the results could not have been other than they were, owing to the laws of private capitalism, and that it was nothing but weak sentimentalism to suppose that while those laws continued in operation any different results could be obtained, however good men's intentions. Although somewhat heavy in style for popular reading, I have often thought that during the revolutionary period no documents could have been better calculated to convince rational men who could be induced to read them, that it was absolutely necessary to put an end to private capitalism if humanity were ever to get forward. "The fatal and quite incomprehensible mistake of their authors was that they did not themselves see this, conclusion and preach it. Instead of that they committed the incredible blunder of accepting a set of conditions that were manifestly mere barbaric survivals as the basis of a social science when they ought easily to have seen that the very idea of a scientific social order suggested the abolition of those conditions as the first step toward its realization. "Meanwhile, as to the present lesson, there are two or three points to clear up before leaving it. We have been talking altogether of profit taking, but this was only one of the three main methods by which the capitalists collected the tribute from the toiling world by which their power was acquired and maintained. What were the other two?" "Rent and interest." "What was rent?" "In those days," replied George, "the right to a reasonable and equal allotment of land for private uses did not belong as a matter of course to every person as it does now. No one was admitted to have any natural right to land at all. On the other hand, there was no limit to the extent of land, though it were a whole province, which any one might not legally possess if he could get hold of it. By natural consequence of this arrangement the strong and cunning had acquired most of the land, while the majority of the people were left with none at all. Now, the owner of the land had the right to drive any one off his land and have him punished for entering on it. Nevertheless, the people who owned n required to have it and to use it and must needs go to the capitalists for it. Rent was the price charged by capitalists for not driving people off their land." "Did this rent represent any economic service of any sort rendered to the community by the rent receiver?" "So far as regards the charge for the use of the land itself apart from improvements it represented no service of any sort, nothing but the waiver for a price of the owner's legal right of ejecting the occupant. It was not a charge for doing anything, but for not doing something." "Now tell us about interest; what was that?" "Interest was the price paid for the use of money. Nowadays the collective administration directs the industrial forces of the nation for the general welfare, but in those days all economic enterprises were for private profit, and their projectors had to hire the labor they needed with money. Naturally, the loan of so indispensable a means as this commanded a high price; that price was interest." "And did interest represent any economic service to the community on the part of the interest taker in lending his money?" "None whatever. On the contrary, it was by the very nature of the transaction, a waiver on the part of the lender of the power of action in favor of the borrower. It was a price charged for letting some one else do what the lender might have done but chose not to. It was a tribute levied by inaction upon action." "If all the landlords and money lenders had died over night, would it have made any difference to the world?" "None whatever, so long as they left the land and the money behind. Their economic role was a passive one, and in strong contrast with that of the profit-seeking capitalists, which, for good or bad, was at least active." "What was the general effect of rent and interest upon the consumption and consequently the production of wealth by the community?" "It operated to reduce both." "How?" "In the same way that profit taking did. Those who received rent were very few, those who paid it were nearly all. Those who received interest were few, and those who paid it many. Rent and interest meant, therefore, like profits, a constant drawing away of the purchasing power of the community at large and its concentration in the hands of a small part of it." "What have you to say of these three processes as to their comparative effect in destroying the consuming power of the masses, and consequently the demand for production?" "That differed in different ages and countries according to the stage of their economic development. Private capitalism has been compared to a three-horned bull, the horns being rent, profit, and interest, differing in comparative length and strength according to the age of the animal. In the United States, at the time covered by our lesson, profits were still the longest of the three horns, though the others were growing terribly fast." "We have seen, George," said his teacher, "that from a period long before the great Revolution it was as true as it is now that the only limit to the production of wealth in society was its consumption. We have seen that what kept the world in poverty under private capitalism was the effect of profits, aided by rent and interest to reduce consumption and thus cripple production, by concentrating the purchasing power of the people in the hands of a few. Now, that was the wrong way of doing things. Before leaving the subject I want you to tell us in a word what is the right way. Seeing that production is limited by consumption, what rule must be followed in distributing the results of production to be consumed in order to develop consumption to the highest possible point, and thereby in turn to create the greatest possible demand for production." "For that purpose the results of production must be distributed equally among all the members of the producing community." "Show why that is so." "It is a self-evident mathematical proposition. The more people a loaf of bread or any given thing is divided among, and the more equally it is divided, the sooner it will be consumed and more bread be called for. To put it in a more formal way, the needs of human beings result from the same natural constitution and are substantially the same. An equal distribution of the things needed by them is therefore that general plan by which the consumption of such things will be at once enlarged to the greatest possible extent and continued on that scale without interruption to the point of complete satisfaction for all. It follows that the equal distribution of products is the rule by which the largest possible consumption can be secured, and thus in turn the largest production be stimulated." "What, on the other hand, would be the effect on consumption of an unequal division of consumable products?" "If the division were unequal, the result would be that some would have more than they could consume in a given time, and others would have less than they could have consumed in the same time, the result meaning a reduction of total consumption below what it would have been for that time with an equal division of products. If a million dollars were equally divided among one thousand men, it would presently be wholly expended in the consumption of needed things, creating a demand for the production of as much more; but if concentrated in one man's hands, not a hundredth part of it, however great his luxury, would be likely to be so expended in the same period. The fundamental general law in the science of social wealth is, therefore, that the efficiency of a given amount of purchasing power to promote consumption is in exact proportion to its wide distribution, and is most efficient when equally distributed among the whole body of consumers because that is the widest possible distribution." "You have not called attention to the fact that the formula of the greatest wealth production--namely, equal sharing of the product among the community--is also that application of the product which will cause the greatest sum of human happiness." "I spoke strictly of the economic side of the subject." "Would it not have startled the old economists to hear that the secret of the most efficient system of wealth production was conformity on a national scale to the ethical idea of equal treatment for all embodied by Jesus Christ in the golden rule?" "No doubt, for they falsely taught that there were two kinds of science dealing with human conduct--one moral, the other economic; and two lines of reasoning as to conduct--the economic, and the ethical; both right in different ways. We know better. There can be but one science of human conduct in whatever field, and that is ethical. Any economic proposition which can not be stated in ethical terms is false. Nothing can be in the long run or on a large scale sound economics which is not sound ethics. It is not, therefore, a mere coincidence, but a logical necessity, that the supreme word of both ethics and economics should be one and the same--equality. The golden rule in its social application is as truly the secret of plenty as of peace." CHAPTER XXIII. "THE PARABLE OF THE WATER TANK." "That will do, George. We will close the session here. Our discussion, I find, has taken a broader range than I expected, and to complete the subject we shall need to have a brief session this afternoon.--And now, by way of concluding the morning, I propose to offer a little contribution of my own. The other day, at the museum, I was delving among the relics of literature of the great Revolution, with a view to finding something that might illustrate our theme. I came across a little pamphlet of the period, yellow and almost undecipherable, which, on examination, I found to be a rather amusing skit or satirical take-off on the profit system. It struck me that probably our lesson might prepare us to appreciate it, and I made a copy. It is entitled "The Parable of the Water Tank," and runs this way: "'There was a certain very dry land, the people whereof were in sore need of water. And they did nothing but to seek after water from morning until night, and many perished because they could not find it. "'Howbeit, there were certain men in that land who were more crafty and diligent than the rest, and these had gathered stores of water where others could find none, and the name of these men was called capitalists. And it came to pass that the people of the land came unto the capitalists and prayed them that they would give them of the water they had gathered that they might drink, for their need was sore. But the capitalists answered them and said: "'"Go to, ye silly people! why should we give you of the water which we have gathered, for then we should become even as ye are, and perish with you? But behold what we will do unto you. Be ye our servants and ye shall have water." "'And the people said, "Only give us to drink and we will be your servants, we and our children." And it was so. "'Now, the capitalists were men of understanding, and wise in their generation. They ordered the people who were their servants in bands with captains and officers, and some they put at the springs to dip, and others did they make to carry the water, and others did they cause to seek for new springs. And all the water was brought together in one place, and there did the capitalists make a great tank for to hold it, and the tank was called the Market, for it was there that the people, even the servants of the capitalists, came to get water. And the capitalists said unto the people: "'"For every bucket of water that ye bring to us, that we may pour it into the tank, which is the Market, behold! we will give you a penny, but for every bucket that we shall draw forth to give unto you that ye may drink of it, ye and your wives and your children, ye shall give to us two pennies, and the difference shall be our profit, seeing that if it were not for this profit we would not do this thing for you, but ye should all perish." "'And it was good in the people's eyes, for they were dull of understanding, and they diligently brought water unto the tank for many days, and for every bucket which they did bring the capitalists gave them every man a penny; but for every bucket that the capitalists drew forth from the tank to give again unto the people, behold! the people rendered to the capitalists two pennies. "'And after many days the water tank, which was the Market, overflowed at the top, seeing that for every bucket the people poured in they received only so much as would buy again half of a bucket. And because of the excess that was left of every bucket, did the tank overflow, for the people were many, but the capitalists were few, and could drink no more than others. Therefore did the tank overflow. "'And when the capitalists saw that the water overflowed, they said to the people: "'"See ye not the tank, which is the Market, doth overflow? Sit ye down, therefore and be patient, for ye shall bring us no more water till the tank be empty." "'But when the people no more received the pennies of the capitalists for the water they brought, they could buy no more water from the capitalists, having naught wherewith to buy. And when the capitalists saw that they had no more profit because no man bought water of them, they were troubled. And they sent forth men in the highways, the byways, and the hedges, crying, "If any thirst let him come to the tank and buy water of us, for it doth overflow." For they said among themselves, "Behold, the times are dull; we must advertise." "'But the people answered, saying: "How can we buy unless ye hire us, for how else shall we have wherewithal to buy? Hire ye us, therefore, as before, and we will gladly buy water, for we thirst, and ye will have no need to advertise." But the capitalists said to the people: "Shall we hire you to bring water when the tank, which is the Market, doth already overflow? Buy ye, therefore, first water, and when the tank is empty, through your buying, will we hire you again." And so it was because the capitalists hired them no more to bring water that the people could not buy the water they had brought already, and because the people could not buy the water they had brought already, the capitalists no more hired them to bring water. And the saying went abroad, "It is a crisis." "'And the thirst of the people was great, for it was not now as it had been in the days of their fathers, when the land was open before them, for every one to seek water for himself, seeing that the capitalists had taken all the springs, and the wells, and the water wheels, and the vessels and the buckets, so that no man might come by water save from the tank, which was the Market. And the people murmured against the capitalists and said: "Behold, the tank runneth over, and we die of thirst. Give us, therefore, of the water, that we perish not." "'But the capitalists answered: "Not so. The water is ours. Ye shall not drink thereof unless ye buy it of us with pennies." And they confirmed it with an oath, saying, after their manner, "Business is business." "'But the capitalists were disquieted that the people bought no more water, whereby they had no more any profits, and they spake one to another, saying: "It seemeth that our profits have stopped our profits, and by reason of the profits we have made, we can make no more profits. How is it that our profits are become unprofitable to us, and our gains do make us poor? Let us therefore send for the soothsayers, that they may interpret this thing unto us," and they sent for them. "'Now, the soothsayers were men learned in dark sayings, who joined themselves to the capitalists by reason of the water of the capitalists, that they might have thereof and live, they and their children. And they spake for the capitalists unto the people, and did their embassies for them, seeing that the capitalists were not a folk quick of understanding neither ready of speech. "'And the capitalists demanded of the soothsayers that they should interpret this thing unto them, wherefore it was that the people bought no more water of them, although the tank was full. And certain of the soothsayers answered and said, "It is by reason of overproduction," and some said, "It is glut"; but the signification of the two words is the same. And others said, "Nay, but this thing is by reason of the spots on the sun." And yet others answered, saying, "It is neither by reason of glut, nor yet of spots on the sun that this evil hath come to pass, but because of lack of confidence." "'And while the soothsayers contended among themselves, according to their manner, the men of profit did slumber and sleep, and when they awoke they said to the soothsayers: "It is enough. Ye have spoken comfortably unto us. Now go ye forth and speak comfortably likewise unto this people, so that they be at rest and leave us also in peace." "'But the soothsayers, even the men of the dismal science--for so they were named of some--were loath to go forth to the people lest they should be stoned, for the people loved them not. And they said to the capitalists: "'"Masters, it is a mystery of our craft that if men be full and thirst not but be at rest, then shall they find comfort in our speech even as ye. Yet if they thirst and be empty, find they no comfort therein but rather mock us, for it seemeth that unless a man be full our wisdom appeareth unto him but emptiness." But the capitalists said: "Go ye forth. Are ye not our men to do our embassies?" "'And the soothsayers went forth to the people and expounded to them the mystery of overproduction, and how it was that they must needs perish of thirst because there was overmuch water, and how there could not be enough because there was too much. And likewise spoke they unto the people concerning the sun spots, and also wherefore it was that these things had come upon them by reason of lack of confidence. And it was even as the soothsayers had said, for to the people their wisdom seemed emptiness. And the people reviled them, saying: "Go up, ye bald-heads! Will ye mock us? Doth plenty breed famine? Doth nothing come out of much?" And they took up stones to stone them. "'And when the capitalists saw that the people still murmured and would not give ear to the soothsayers, and because also they feared lest they should come upon the tank and take of the water by force, they brought forth to them certain holy men (but they were false priests), who spake unto the people that they should be quiet and trouble not the capitalists because they thirsted. And these holy men, who were false priests, testified to the people that this affliction was sent to them of God for the healing of their souls, and that if they should bear it in patience and lust not after the water, neither trouble the capitalists, it would come to pass that after they had given up the ghost they would come to a country where there should be no capitalists but an abundance of water. Howbeit, there were certain true prophets of God also, and these had compassion on the people and would not prophesy for the capitalists, but rather spake constantly against them. "'Now, when the capitalists saw that the people still murmured and would not be still, neither for the words of the soothsayers nor of the false priests, they came forth themselves unto them and put the ends of their fingers in the water that overflowed in the tank and wet the tips thereof, and they scattered the drops from the tips of their fingers abroad upon the people who thronged the tank, and the name of the drops of water was charity, and they were exceeding bitter. "'And when the capitalists saw yet again that neither for the words of the soothsayers, nor of the holy men who were false priests, nor yet for the drops that were called charity, would the people be still, but raged the more, and crowded upon the tank as if they would take it by force, then took they counsel together and sent men privily forth among the people. And these men sought out the mightiest among the people and all who had skill in war, and took them apart and spake craftily with them, saying: "'"Come, now, why cast ye not your lot in with the capitalists? If ye will be their men and serve them against the people, that they break not in upon the tank, then shall ye have abundance of water, that ye perish not, ye and your children." "'And the mighty men and they who were skilled in war hearkened unto this speech and suffered themselves to be persuaded, for their thirst constrained them, and they went within unto the capitalists and became their men, and staves and swords were put in their hands and they became a defense unto the capitalists and smote the people when they thronged upon the tank. "'And after many days the water was low in the tank, for the capitalists did make fountains and fish ponds of the water thereof, and did bathe therein, they and their wives and their children, and did waste the water for their pleasure. "'And when the capitalists saw that the tank was empty, they said, "The crisis is ended"; and they sent forth and hired the people that they should bring water to fill it again. And for the water that the people brought to the tank they received for every bucket a penny, but for the water which the capitalists drew forth from the tank to give again to the people they received two pennies, that they might have their profit. And after a time did the tank again overflow even as before. "'And now, when many times the people had filled the tank until it overflowed and had thirsted till the water therein had been wasted by the capitalists, it came to pass that there arose in the land certain men who were called agitators, for that they did stir up the people. And they spake to the people, saying that they should associate, and then would they have no need to be servants of the capitalists and should thirst no more for water. And in the eyes of the capitalists were the agitators pestilent fellows, and they would fain have crucified them, but durst not for fear of the people. "'And the words of the agitators which they spake to the people were on this wise: "'"Ye foolish people, how long will ye be deceived by a lie and believe to your hurt that which is not? for behold all these things that have been said unto you by the capitalists and by the soothsayers are cunningly devised fables. And likewise the holy men, who say that it is the will of God that ye should always be poor and miserable and athirst, behold! they do blaspheme God and are liars, whom he will bitterly judge though he forgive all others. How cometh it that ye may not come by the water in the tank? Is it not because ye have no money? And why have ye no money? Is it not because ye receive but one penny for every bucket that ye bring to the tank, which is the Market, but must render two pennies for every bucket ye take out, so that the capitalists may have their profit? See ye not how by this means the tank must overflow, being filled by that ye lack and made to abound out of your emptiness? See ye not also that the harder ye toil and the more diligently ye seek and bring the water, the worse and not the better it shall be for you by reason of the profit, and that forever?" "'After this manner spake the agitators for many days unto the people, and none heeded them, but it was so that after a time the people hearkened. And they answered and said unto the agitators: "'"Ye say truth. It is because of the capitalists and of their profits that we want, seeing that by reason of them and their profits we may by no means come by the fruit of our labor, so that our labor is in vain, and the more we toil to fill the tank the sooner doth it overflow, and we may receive nothing because there is too much, according to the words of the soothsayers. But behold, the capitalists are hard men and their tender mercies are cruel. Tell us if ye know any way whereby we may deliver ourselves out of our bondage unto them. But if ye know of no certain way of deliverance we beseech you to hold your peace and let us alone, that we may forget our misery." "'And the agitators answered and said, "We know a way." "'And the people said: "Deceive us not, for this thing hath been from the beginning, and none hath found a way of deliverance until now, though many have sought it carefully with tears. But if ye know a way, speak unto us quickly." "'Then the agitators spake unto the people of the way. And they said: "'"Behold, what need have ye at all of these capitalists, that ye should yield them profits upon your labor? What great thing do they wherefore ye render them this tribute? Lo! it is only because they do order you in bands and lead you out and in and set your tasks and afterward give you a little of the water yourselves have brought and not they. Now, behold the way out of this bondage! Do ye for yourselves that which is done by the capitalists--namely, the ordering of your labor, and the marshaling of your bands, and the dividing of your tasks. So shall ye have no need at all of the capitalists and no more yield to them any profit, but all the fruit of your labor shall ye share as brethren, every one having the same; and so shall the tank never overflow until every man is full, and would not wag the tongue for more, and afterward shall ye with the overflow make pleasant fountains and fish ponds to delight yourselves withal even as did the capitalists; but these shall be for the delight of all." "'And the people answered, "How shall we go about to do this thing, for it seemeth good to us?" "'And the agitators answered: "Choose ye discreet men to go in and out before you and to marshal your bands and order your labor, and these men shall be as the capitalists were; but, behold, they shall not be your masters as the capitalists are, but your brethren and officers who do your will, and they shall not take any profits, but every man his share like the others, that there may be no more masters and servants among you, but brethren only. And from time to time, as ye see fit, ye shall choose other discreet men in place of the first to order the labor." "'And the people hearkened, and the thing was very good to them. Likewise seemed it not a hard thing. And with one voice they cried out, "So let it be as ye have said, for we will do it!" "'And the capitalists heard the noise of the shouting and what the people said, and the soothsayers heard it also, and likewise the false priests and the mighty men of war, who were a defense unto the capitalists; and when they heard they trembled exceedingly, so that their knees smote together, and they said one to another, "It is the end of us!" "'Howbeit, there were certain true priests of the living God who would not prophesy for the capitalists, but had compassion on the people; and when they heard the shouting of the people and what they said, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy, and gave thanks to God because of the deliverance. "'And the people went and did all the things that were told them of the agitators to do. And it came to pass as the agitators had said, even according to all their words. And there was no more any thirst in that land, neither any that was ahungered, nor naked, nor cold, nor in any manner of want; and every man said unto his fellow, "My brother," and every woman said unto her companion, "My sister," for so were they with one another as brethren and sisters which do dwell together in unity. And the blessing of God rested upon that land forever.'" CHAPTER XXIV. I AM SHOWN ALL THE KINGDOMS OF THE EARTH. The boys and girls of the political-economy class rose to their feet at the teacher's word of dismissal, and in the twinkling of an eye the scene which had been absorbing my attention disappeared, and I found myself staring at Dr. Leete's smiling countenance and endeavoring to imagine how I had come to be where I was. During the greater part and all the latter part of the session of the class so absolute had been the illusion of being actually present in the schoolroom, and so absorbing the interest of the theme, that I had quite forgotten the extraordinary device by which I was enabled to see and hear the proceedings. Now, as I recalled it, my mind reverted with an impulse of boundless curiosity to the electroscope and the processes by which it performed its miracles. Having given me some explanation of the mechanical operation of the apparatus and the way in which it served the purpose of a prolonged optic nerve, the doctor went on to exhibit its powers on a large scale. During the following hour, without leaving my chair, I made the tour of the earth, and learned by the testimony of my senses that the transformation which had come over Boston since my former life was but a sample of that which the whole world of men had undergone. I had but to name a great city or a famous locality in any country to be at once present there so far as sight and hearing were concerned. I looked down on modern New York, then upon Chicago, upon San Francisco, and upon New Orleans, finding each of these cities quite unrecognizable but for the natural features which constituted their setting. I visited London. I heard the Parisians talk French and the Berlinese talk German, and from St. Petersburg went to Cairo by way of Delhi. One city would be bathed in the noonday sun; over the next I visited, the moon, perhaps, was rising and the stars coming out; while over the third the silence of midnight brooded. In Paris, I remember, it was raining hard, and in London fog reigned supreme. In St. Petersburg there was a snow squall. Turning from the contemplation of the changing world of men to the changeless face of Nature, I renewed my old-time acquaintance with the natural wonders of the earth--the thundering cataracts, the stormy ocean shores, the lonely mountain tops, the great rivers, the glittering splendors of the polar regions, and the desolate places of the deserts. Meanwhile the doctor explained to me that not only the telephone and electroscope were always connected with a great number of regular stations commanding all scenes of special interest, but that whenever in any part of the world there occurred a spectacle or accident of particular interest, special connections were instantly made, so that all mankind could at once see what the situation was for themselves without need of actual or alleged special artists on the spot. With all my conceptions of time and space reduced to chaos, and well-nigh drunk with wonder, I exclaimed at last: "I can stand no more of this just now! I am beginning to doubt seriously whether I am in or out of the body." As a practical way of settling that question the doctor proposed a brisk walk, for we had not been out of the house that morning. "Have we had enough of economics for the day?" he asked as we left the house, "or would you like to attend the afternoon session the teacher spoke of?" I replied that I wished to attend it by all means. "Very good," said the doctor; "it will doubtless be very short, and what do you say to attending it this time in person? We shall have plenty of time for our walk and can easily get to the school before the hour by taking a car from any point. Seeing this is the first time you have used the electroscope, and have no assurance except its testimony that any such school or pupils really exist, perhaps it would help to confirm any impressions you may have received to visit the spot in the body." CHAPTER XXV. THE STRIKERS. Presently, as we were crossing Boston Common, absorbed in conversation, a shadow fell athwart the way, and looking up, I saw towering above us a sculptured group of heroic size. "Who are these?" I exclaimed. "You ought to know if any one," said the doctor. "They are contemporaries of yours who were making a good deal of disturbance in your day." But, indeed, it had only been as an involuntary expression of surprise that I had questioned what the figures stood for. Let me tell you, readers of the twentieth century, what I saw up there on the pedestal, and you will recognize the world-famous group. Shoulder to shoulder, as if rallied to resist assault, were three figures of men in the garb of the laboring class of my time. They were bareheaded, and their coarse-textured shirts, rolled above the elbow and open at the breast, showed the sinewy arms and chest. Before them, on the ground, lay a pair of shovels and a pickaxe. The central figure, with the right hand extended, palm outward, was pointing to the discarded tools. The arms of the other two were folded on their breasts. The faces were coarse and hard in outline and bristled with unkempt beards. Their expression was one of dogged defiance, and their gaze was fixed with such scowling intensity upon the void space before them that I involuntarily glanced behind me to see what they were looking at. There were two women also in the group, as coarse of dress and features as the men. One was kneeling before the figure on the right, holding up to him with one arm an emaciated, half-clad infant, while with the other she indicated the implements at his feet with an imploring gesture. The second of the women was plucking by the sleeve the man on the left as if to draw him back, while with the other hand she covered her eyes. But the men heeded the women not at all, or seemed, in their bitter wrath, to know that they were there. "Why," I exclaimed, "these are strikers!" "Yes," said the doctor, "this is The Strikers, Huntington's masterpiece, considered the greatest group of statuary in the city and one of the greatest in the country." "Those people are alive!" I said. "That is expert testimony," replied the doctor. "It is a pity Huntington died too soon to hear it. He would have been pleased." Now, I, in common with the wealthy and cultured class generally, of my day, had always held strikers in contempt and abhorrence, as blundering, dangerous marplots, as ignorant of their own best interests as they were reckless of other people's, and generally as pestilent fellows, whose demonstrations, so long as they were not violent, could not unfortunately be repressed by force, but ought always to be condemned, and promptly put down with an iron hand the moment there was an excuse for police interference. There was more or less tolerance among the well-to-do, for social reformers, who, by book or voice, advocated even very radical economic changes so long as they observed the conventionalities of speech, but for the striker there were few apologists. Of course, the capitalists emptied on him the vials of their wrath and contempt, and even people who thought they sympathized with the working class shook their heads at the mention of strikes, regarding them as calculated rather to hinder than help the emancipation of labor. Bred as I was in these prejudices, it may not seem strange that I was taken aback at finding such unpromising subjects selected for the highest place in the city. "There is no doubt as to the excellence of the artist's work," I said, "but what was there about the strikers that has made you pick them out of our generation as objects of veneration?" "We see in them," replied the doctor, "the pioneers in the revolt against private capitalism which brought in the present civilization. We honor them as those who, like Winkelried, 'made way for liberty, and died.' We revere in them the protomartyrs of co-operative industry and economic equality." "But I can assure you, doctor, that these fellows, at least in my day, had not the slightest idea of revolting against private capitalism as a system. They were very ignorant and quite incapable of grasping so large a conception. They had no notion of getting along without capitalists. All they imagined as possible or desirable was a little better treatment by their employers, a few cents more an hour, a few minutes less working time a day, or maybe merely the discharge of an unpopular foreman. The most they aimed at was some petty improvement in their condition, to attain which they did not hesitate to throw the whole industrial machine into disorder." "All which we moderns know quite well," replied the doctor. "Look at those faces. Has the sculptor idealized them? Are they the faces of philosophers? Do they not bear out your statement that the strikers, like the working-men generally, were, as a rule, ignorant, narrow-minded men, with no grasp of large questions, and incapable of so great an idea as the overthrow of an immemorial economic order? It is quite true that until some years after you fell asleep they did not realize that their quarrel was with private capitalism and not with individual capitalists. In this slowness of awakening to the full meaning of their revolt they were precisely on a par with the pioneers of all the great liberty revolutions. The minutemen at Concord and Lexington, in 1775, did not realize that they were pointing their guns at the monarchical idea. As little did the third estate of France, when it entered the Convention in 1789, realize that its road lay over the ruins of the throne. As little did the pioneers of English freedom, when they began to resist the will of Charles I, foresee that they would be compelled, before they got through, to take his head. In none of these instances, however, has posterity considered that the limited foresight of the pioneers as to the full consequences of their action lessened the world's debt to the crude initiative, without which the fuller triumph would never have come. The logic of the strike meant the overthrow of the irresponsible conduct of industry, whether the strikers knew it or not, and we can not rejoice in the consequences of that overthrow without honoring them in a way which very likely, as you intimate, would surprise them, could they know of it, as much as it does you. Let me try to give you the modern point of view as to the part played by their originals." We sat down upon one of the benches before the statue, and the doctor went on: "My dear Julian, who was it, pray, that first roused the world of your day to the fact that there was an industrial question, and by their pathetic demonstrations of passive resistance to wrong for fifty years kept the public attention fixed on that question till it was settled? Was it your statesmen, perchance your economists, your scholars, or any other of your so-called wise men? No. It was just those despised, ridiculed, cursed, and hooted fellows up there on that pedestal who with their perpetual strikes would not let the world rest till their wrong, which was also the whole world's wrong, was righted. Once more had God chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise, the weak things to confound the mighty. "In order to realize how powerfully these strikes operated to impress upon the people the intolerable wickedness and folly of private capitalism, you must remember that events are what teach men, that deeds have a far more potent educating influence than any amount of doctrine, and especially so in an age like yours, when the masses had almost no culture or ability to reason. There were not lacking in the revolutionary period many cultured men and women, who, with voice and pen, espoused the workers' cause, and showed them the way out; but their words might well have availed little but for the tremendous emphasis with which they were confirmed by the men up there, who starved to prove them true. Those rough-looking fellows, who probably could not have constructed a grammatical sentence, by their combined efforts, were demonstrating the necessity of a radically new industrial system by a more convincing argument than any rhetorician's skill could frame. When men take their lives in their hands to resist oppression, as those men did, other men are compelled to give heed to them. We have inscribed on the pedestal yonder, where you see the lettering, the words, which the action of the group above seems to voice: "'We can bear no more. It is better to starve than live on the terms you give us. Our lives, the lives of our wives and of our children, we set against your gains. If you put your foot upon our neck, we will bite your heel!' "This was the cry," pursued the doctor, "of men made desperate by oppression, to whom existence through suffering had become of no value. It was the same cry that in varied form but in one sense has been the watchword of every revolution that has marked an advance of the race--'Give us liberty, or give us death!' and never did it ring out with a cause so adequate, or wake the world to an issue so mighty, as in the mouths of these first rebels against the folly and the tyranny of private capital. "In your age, I know, Julian," the doctor went on in a gentler tone, "it was customary to associate valor with the clang of arms and the pomp and circumstance of war. But the echo of the fife and drum comes very faintly up to us, and moves us not at all. The soldier has had his day, and passed away forever with the ideal of manhood which he illustrated. But that group yonder stands for a type of self-devotion that appeals to us profoundly. Those men risked their lives when they flung down the tools of their trade, as truly as any soldiers going into battle, and took odds as desperate, and not only for themselves, but for their families, which no grateful country would care for in case of casualty to them. The soldier went forth cheered with music, and supported by the enthusiasm of the country, but these others were covered with ignominy and public contempt, and their failures and defeats were hailed with general acclamation. And yet they sought not the lives of others, but only that they might barely live; and though they had first thought of the welfare of themselves, and those nearest them, yet not the less were they fighting the fight of humanity and posterity in striking in the only way they could, and while yet no one else dared strike at all, against the economic system that had the world by the throat, and would never relax its grip by dint of soft words, or anything less than disabling blows. The clergy, the economists and the pedagogues, having left these ignorant men to seek as they might the solution of the social problem, while they themselves sat at ease and denied that there was any problem, were very voluble in their criticisms of the mistakes of the workingmen, as if it were possible to make any mistake in seeking a way out of the social chaos, which could be so fatuous or so criminal as the mistake of not trying to seek any. No doubt, Julian, I have put finer words in the mouths of those men up there than their originals might have even understood, but if the meaning was not in their words it was in their deeds. And it is for what they did, not for what they said, that we honor them as protomartyrs of the industrial republic of to-day, and bring our children, that they may kiss in gratitude the rough-shod feet of those who made the way for us." My experiences since I waked up in this year 2000 might be said to have consisted of a succession of instantaneous mental readjustments of a revolutionary character, in which what had formerly seemed evil to me had become good, and what had seemed wisdom had become foolishness. Had this conversation about the strikers taken place anywhere else, the entirely new impression I had received of the part played by them in the great social revolution of which I shared the benefit would simply have been one more of these readjustments, and the process entirely a mental one. But the presence of this wondrous group, the lifelikeness of the figures growing on my gaze as I listened to the doctor's words, imparted a peculiar personal quality--if I may use the term--to the revulsion of feeling that I experienced. Moved by an irresistible impulse, I rose to my feet, and, removing my hat, saluted the grim forms whose living originals I had joined my contemporaries in reviling. The doctor smiled gravely. "Do you know, my boy," he said, "it is not often that the whirligig of Time brings round his revenges in quite so dramatic a way as this?" CHAPTER XXVI. FOREIGN COMMERCE UNDER PROFITS; PROTECTION AND FREE TRADE, OR BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA. We arrived at the Arlington School some time before the beginning of the recitation which we were to attend, and the doctor took the opportunity to introduce me to the teacher. He was extremely interested to learn that I had attended the morning session, and very desirous to know something of my impressions. As to the forthcoming recitation, he suggested that if the members of the class were aware that they had so distinguished an auditor, it would be likely to embarrass them, and he should therefore say nothing about my presence until the close of the session, when he should crave the privilege of presenting his pupils to me personally. He hoped I would permit this, as it would be for them the event of a lifetime which their grandchildren would never tire of hearing them describe. The entrance of the class interrupted our conversation, and the doctor and myself, having taken our seats in a gallery, where we could hear and see without being seen, the session at once began. "This morning," said the teacher, "we confined ourselves for the sake of clearness to the effects of the profit system upon a nation or community considered as if it were alone in the world and without relations to other communities. There is no way in which such outside relations operated to negative any of the laws of profit which were brought out this morning, but they did operate to extend the effect of those laws in many interesting ways, and without some reference to foreign commerce our review of the profit system would be incomplete. "In the so-called political economies of our forefathers we read a vast deal about the advantages to a country of having an international trade. It was supposed to be one of the great secrets of national prosperity, and a chief study of the nineteenth-century statesmen seems to have been to establish and extend foreign commerce.--Now, Paul, will you tell us the economic theory as to the advantages of foreign commerce?" "It is based on the fact," said the lad Paul, "that countries differ in climate, natural resources, and other conditions, so that in some it is wholly impossible or very difficult to produce certain needful things, while it is very easy to produce certain other things in greater abundance than is needed. In former times also there were marked differences in the grade of civilization and the condition of the arts in different countries, which still further modified their respective powers in the production of wealth. This being so, it might obviously be for the mutual advantage of countries to exchange with one another what they could produce against what they could not produce at all or only with difficulty, and not merely thus secure many things which otherwise they must go without, but also greatly increase the total effectiveness of their industry by applying it to the sorts of production best fitted to their conditions. In order, however, that the people of the respective countries should actually derive this advantage or any advantage from foreign exchange, it would be necessary that the exchanges should be carried on in the general interest for the purpose of giving the people at large the benefit of them, as is done at the present day, when foreign commerce, like other economic undertakings, is carried on by the governments of the several countries. But there was, of course, no national agency to carry on foreign commerce in that day. The foreign trade, just like the internal processes of production and distribution, was conducted by the capitalists on the profit system. The result was that all the benefits of this fair sounding theory of foreign commerce were either totally nullified or turned into curses, and the international trade relations of the countries constituted merely a larger field for illustrating the baneful effects of the profit system and its power to turn good to evil and 'shut the gates of mercy on mankind.'" HOW PROFITS NULLIFIED THE BENEFIT OF COMMERCE. "Illustrate, please, the operation of the profit system in international trade." "Let us suppose," said the boy Paul, "that America could produce grain and other food stuffs with great cheapness and in greater quantities than the people needed. Suppose, on the contrary, that England could produce food stuffs only with difficulty and in small quantities. Suppose, however, that England, on account of various conditions, could produce clothing and hardware much more cheaply and abundantly than America. In such a case it would seem that both countries would be gainers if Americans exchanged the food stuffs which it was so easy for them to produce for the clothing and hardware which it was so easy for the English to produce. The result would appear to promise a clear and equal gain for both people. But this, of course, is on the supposition that the exchange should be negotiated by a public agency for the benefit of the respective populations at large. But when, as in those days, the exchange was negotiated wholly by private capitalists competing for private profits at the expense of the communities, the result was totally different. "The American grain merchant who exported grain to the English would be impelled, by the competition of other American grain merchants, to put his price to the English as low as possible, and to do that he would beat down to the lowest possible figure the American farmer who produced the grain. And not only must the American merchant sell as low as his American rivals, but he must also undersell the grain merchants of other grain-producing countries, such as Russia, Egypt, and India. And now let us see how much benefit the English people received from the cheap American grain. We will say that, owing to the foreign food supply, the cost of living declined one half or a third in England. Here would seem a great gain surely; but look at the other side of it. The English must pay for their grain by supplying the Americans with cloth and hardware. The English manufacturers of these things were rivals just as the American grain merchants were--each one desirous of capturing as large a part of the American market as he could. He must therefore, if possible, undersell his home rivals. Moreover, like the American grain merchant, the English manufacturer must contend with foreign rivals. Belgium and Germany made hardware and cloth very cheaply, and the Americans would exchange their grain for these commodities with the Belgians and the Germans unless the English sold cheaper. Now, the main element in the cost of making cloth and hardware was the wages paid for labor. A pressure was accordingly sure to be brought to bear by every English manufacturer upon his workmen to compel them to accept lower wages so that he might undersell his English rivals, and also cut under the German and Belgian manufacturers, who were trying to get the American trade. Now can the English workman live on less wages than before? Plainly he can, for his food supply has been greatly cheapened. Presently, therefore, he finds his wages forced down by as much as the cheaper food supply has cheapened his living, and so finds himself just where he was to start with before the American trade began. And now look again at the American farmer. He is now getting his imported clothing and tools much cheaper than before, and consequently the lowest living price at which he can afford to sell grain is considerably lower than before the English trade began--lower by so much, in fact, as he has saved on his tools and clothing. Of this, the grain merchant, of course, took prompt advantage, for unless he put his grain into the English market lower than other grain merchants, he would lose his trade, and Russia, Egypt, and India stood ready to flood England with grain if the Americans could not bid below them, and then farewell to cheap cloth and tools! So down presently went the price the American farmer received for his grain, until the reduction absorbed all that he had gained by the cheaper imported fabrics and hardware, and he, like his fellow-victim across the sea--the English iron worker or factory operative--was no better off than he was before English trade had been suggested. "But was he as well off? Was either the American or the English worker as well off as before this interchange of products began, which, if rightly conducted, would have been so greatly beneficial to both? On the contrary, both alike were in important ways distinctly worse off. Each had indeed done badly enough before, but the industrial system on which they depended, being limited by the national borders, was comparatively simple and uncomplex, self-sustaining, and liable only to local and transient disturbances, the effect of which could be to some extent estimated, possibly remedied. Now, however, the English operatives and the American farmer had alike become dependent upon the delicate balance of a complex set of international adjustments liable at any moment to derangements that might take away their livelihood, without leaving them even the small satisfaction of understanding what hurt them. The prices of their labor or their produce were no longer dependent as before upon established local customs and national standards of living, but had become subject to determination by the pitiless necessities of a world-wide competition in which the American farmer and the English artisan were forced into rivalship with the Indian ryot, the Egyptian fellah, the half-starved Belgian miner, or the German weaver. In former ages, before international trade had become general, when one nation was down another was up, and there was always hope in looking over seas; but the prospect which the unlimited development of international commerce upon the profit system was opening to mankind the latter part of the nineteenth century was that of a world-wide standard of living fixed by the rate at which life could be supported by the worst-used races. International trade was already showing itself to be the instrumentality by which the world-wide plutocracy would soon have established its sway if the great Revolution had tarried." "In the case of the supposed reciprocal trade between England and America, which you have used as an illustration," said the teacher, "you have assumed that the trade relation was an exchange of commodities on equal terms. In such a case it appears that the effect of the profit system was to leave the masses of both countries somewhat worse off than they would have been without foreign trade, the gain on both the American and English side inuring wholly to the manufacturing and trading capitalists. But in fact both countries in a trade relation were not usually on equal terms. The capitalists of one were often far more powerful than those of another, and had a stronger or older economic organization at their service. In that case what was the result?" "The overwhelming competition of the capitalists of the stronger country crushed out the enterprises of the capitalists of the weaker country, the people of which consequently became wholly dependent upon the foreign capitalists for many productions which otherwise would have been produced at home to the profit of home capitalists, and in proportion as the capitalists of the dependent country were thus rendered economically incapable of resistance the capitalists of the stronger country regulated at their pleasure the terms of trade. The American colonies, in 1776, were driven to revolt against England by the oppression resulting from such a relation. The object of founding colonies, which was one of the main ends of seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth century statesmanship, was to bring new communities into this relation of economic vassalage to the home capitalists, who, having beggared the home market by their profit, saw no prospect of making more except by fastening their suckers upon outside communities. Great Britain, whose capitalists were strongest of all, was naturally the leader in this policy, and the main end of her wars and her diplomacy for many centuries before the great Revolution was to obtain such colonies, and to secure from weaker nations trade concessions and openings--peaceably if possible, at the mouth of the cannon if necessary." "How about the condition of the masses in a country thus reduced to commercial vassalage to the capitalists of another country? Was it necessarily worse than the condition of the masses of the superior country?" "That did not follow at all. We must constantly keep in mind that the interests of the capitalists and of the people were not identical. The prosperity of the capitalists of a country by no means implied prosperity on the part of the population, nor the reverse. If the masses of the dependent country had not been exploited by foreign capitalists, they would have been by domestic capitalists. Both they and the working masses of the superior country were equally the tools and slaves of the capitalists, who did not treat workingmen any better on account of being their fellow countrymen than if they had been foreigners. It was the capitalists of the dependent country rather than the masses who suffered by the suppression of independent business enterprises." BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA. "That will do, Paul.--We will now ask some information from you, Helen, as to a point which Paul's last words have suggested. During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries a bitter controversy raged among our ancestors between two parties in opinion and politics, calling themselves, respectively, the Protectionists and the Free Traders, the former of whom held that it was well to shut out the competition of foreign capitalists in the market of a country by a tariff upon imports, while the latter held that no impediment should be allowed to the entirely free course of trade. What have you to say as to the merits of this controversy?" "Merely," replied the girl called Helen, "that the difference between the two policies, so far as it affected the people at large, reduced itself to the question whether they preferred being fleeced by home or foreign capitalists. Free trade was the cry of the capitalists who felt themselves able to crush those of rival nations if allowed the opportunity to compete with them. Protection was the cry of the capitalists who felt themselves weaker than those of other nations, and feared that their enterprises would be crushed and their profits taken away if free competition were allowed. The Free Traders were like a man who, seeing his antagonist is no match for him, boldly calls for a free fight and no favor, while the Protectionist was the man who, seeing himself overmatched, called for the police. The Free Trader held that the natural, God-given right of the capitalist to shear the people anywhere he found them was superior to considerations of race, nationality, or boundary lines. The Protectionist, on the contrary, maintained the patriotic right of the capitalist to the exclusive shearing of his own fellow-countrymen without interference of foreign capitalists. As to the mass of the people, the nation at large, it was, as Paul has just said, a matter of indifference whether they were fleeced by the capitalists of their own country under protection or the capitalists of foreign countries under free trade. The literature of the controversy between Protectionists and Free Traders makes this very clear. Whatever else the Protectionists failed to prove, they were able to demonstrate that the condition of the people in free-trade countries was quite as bad as anywhere else, and, on the other hand, the Free Traders were equally conclusive in the proofs they presented that the people in protected countries, other things being equal, were no better off than those in free-trade lands. The question of Protection or Free Trade interested the capitalists only. For the people, it was the choice between the devil and the deep sea." "Let us have a concrete illustration." said the teacher. "Take the case of England. She was beyond comparison the country of all others in the nineteenth century which had most foreign trade and commanded most foreign markets. If a large volume of foreign trade under conditions practically dictated by its capitalists was under the profit system a source of national prosperity to a country, we should expect to see the mass of the British people at the end of the nineteenth century enjoying an altogether extraordinary felicity and general welfare as compared with that of other peoples or any former people, for never before did a nation develop so vast a foreign commerce. What were the facts?" "It was common," replied the girl, "for our ancestors in the vague and foggy way in which they used the terms 'nation' and 'national' to speak of Great Britain as rich. But it was only her capitalists, some scores of thousands of individuals among some forty million people, who were rich. These indeed had incredible accumulations, but the remainder of the forty millions--the whole people, in fact, save an infinitesimal fraction--were sunk in poverty. It is said that England had a larger and more hopeless pauper problem than any other civilized nation. The condition of her working masses was not only more wretched than that of many contemporary people, but was worse, as proved by the most careful economic comparisons, than it had been in the fifteenth century, before foreign trade was thought of. People do not emigrate from a land where they are well off, but the British people, driven out by want, had found the frozen Canadas and the torrid zone more hospitable than their native land. As an illustration of the fact that the welfare of the working masses was in no way improved when the capitalists of a country commanded foreign markets, it is interesting to note the fact that the British emigrant was able to make a better living in English colonies whose markets were wholly dominated by English capitalists than he had been at home as the employee of those capitalists. We shall remember also that Malthus, with his doctrine that it was the best thing that could happen to a workingman not to be born, was an Englishman, and based his conclusions very logically upon his observation of the conditions of life for the masses in that country which had been more successful than any other in any age in monopolizing the foreign markets of the world by its commerce. "Or," the lad went on, "take Belgium, that old Flemish land of merchants, where foreign trade had been longer and more steadily used than in any other European country. In the latter part of the nineteenth century the mass of the Belgian people, the hardest-worked population in the world, was said to have been, as a rule, without adequate food--to be undergoing, in short, a process of slow starvation. They, like the people of England and the people of Germany, are proved, by statistical calculations upon the subject that have come down to us, to have been economically very much better off during the fifteenth and early part of the sixteenth century, when foreign trade was hardly known, than they were in the nineteenth. There was a possibility before foreign trade for profit began that a population might obtain some share of the richness of a bountiful land just from the lack of any outlet for it. But with the beginning of foreign commerce, under the profit system, that possibility vanished. Thenceforth everything good or desirable, above what might serve for the barest subsistence of labor, was systematically and exhaustively gathered up by the capitalists, to be exchanged in foreign lands for gold and gems, silks, velvets, and ostrich plumes for the rich. As Goldsmith had it: "Around the world each needful product flies For all the luxuries the world supplies." "To what has the struggle of the nations for foreign markets in the nineteenth century been aptly compared?" "To a contest between galleys manned by slaves, whose owners were racing for a prize." "In such a race, which crew was likely to fare worse, that of the winning or the losing galley?" "That of the winning galley, by all means," replied the girl, "for the supposition is that, other conditions being equal, it was the more sorely scourged." "Just so," said the teacher, "and on the same principle, when the capitalists of two countries contended for the supplying of a foreign market it was the workers subject to the successful group of capitalists who were most to be pitied, for, other conditions being equal, they were likely to be those whose wages had been cut lowest and whose general condition was most degraded." "But tell us," said the teacher, "were there not instances of a general poverty in countries having no foreign trade as great as prevailed in the countries you have mentioned?" "Dear me, yes!" replied the girl. "I have not meant to convey any impression that because the tender mercies of the foreign capitalists were cruel, those of the domestic capitalist were any less so. The comparison is merely between the operation of the profit system on a larger or smaller scale. So long as the profit system was retained, it would be all one in the end, whether you built a wall around a country and left the people to be exploited exclusively by home capitalists, or threw the wall down and let in the foreigners." CHAPTER XXVII. HOSTILITY OF A SYSTEM OF VESTED INTERESTS TO IMPROVEMENT. "Now, Florence," said the teacher, "with your assistance we will take up the closing topic in our consideration of the economic system of our fathers--namely, its hostility to invention and improvement. It has been our painful duty to point out numerous respects in which our respected ancestors were strangely blind to the true character and effects of their economic institutions, but no instance perhaps is more striking than this. Far from seeing the necessary antagonism between private capitalism and the march of improvement which is so plain to us, they appear to have sincerely believed that their system was peculiarly favorable to the progress of invention, and that its advantage in this respect was so great as to be an important set-off to its admitted ethical defects. Here there is decidedly a broad difference in opinion, but fortunately the facts are so well authenticated that we shall have no difficulty in concluding which view is correct. "The subject divides itself into two branches: First, the natural antagonism of the old system to economic changes; and, second, the effect of the profit principle to minimize if not wholly to nullify the benefit of such economic improvements as were able to overcome that antagonism so far as to get themselves introduced.--Now, Florence, tell us what there was about the old economic system, the system of private capitalism, which made it constitutionally opposed to changes in methods." "It was," replied the girl, "the fact that it consisted of independent vested interests without any principle of coordination or combination, the result being that the economic welfare of every individual or group was wholly dependent upon his or its particular vested interest without regard to others or to the welfare of the whole body." "Please bring out your meaning by comparing our modern system in the respect you speak of with private capitalism." "Our system is a strictly integrated one--that is to say, no one has any economic interest in any part or function of the economic organization which is distinct from his interest in every other part and function. His only interest is in the greatest possible output of the whole. We have our several occupations, but only that we may work the more efficiently for the common fund. We may become very enthusiastic about our special pursuit, but as a matter of sentiment only, for our economic interests are no more dependent upon our special occupation than upon any other. We share equally in the total product, whatever it is." "How does the integrated character of the economic system affect our attitude toward improvements or inventions of any sort in economic processes?" "We welcome them with eagerness. Why should we not? Any improvement of this sort must necessarily redound to the advantage of every one in the nation and to every one's advantage equally. If the occupation affected by the invention happens to be our particular employment we lose nothing, though it should make that occupation wholly superfluous. We might in that case feel a little sentimental regret over the passing away of old habits, but that is all. No one's substantial interests are in any way more identified with one pursuit than another. All are in the service of the nation, and it is the business and interest of the nation to see that every one is provided with other work as soon as his former occupation becomes unnecessary to the general weal, and under no circumstances is his rate of maintenance affected. From its first production every improvement in economic processes is therefore an unalloyed blessing to all. The inventor comes bringing a gift of greater wealth or leisure in his hand for every one on earth, and it is no wonder that the people's gratitude makes his reward the most enviable to be won by a public benefactor." "Now, Florence, tell us in what way the multitude of distinct vested interests which made up private capitalism operated to produce an antagonism toward economic inventions and improvements." HOW PROGRESS ANTAGONIZED VESTED INTERESTS. "As I have said," replied the girl, "everybody's interest was wholly confined to and bound up with the particular occupation he was engaged in. If he was a capitalist, his capital was embarked in it; if he was an artisan, his capital was the knowledge of some particular craft or part of a craft, and he depended for his livelihood on the demand for the sort of work he had learned how to do. Neither as capitalist or artisan, as employer or employee, had he any economic interest or dependence outside of or larger than his special business. Now, the effect of any new idea, invention, or discovery for economic application is to dispense more or less completely with the process formerly used in that department, and so far to destroy the economic basis of the occupations connected with that business. Under our system, as I have said, that means no loss to anybody, but simply a shifting of workers, with a net gain in wealth or leisure to all; but then it meant ruin to those involved in the change. The capitalist lost his capital, his plant, his investments more or less totally, and the workingmen lost their means of livelihood and were thrown on what you well called the cold charity of the world--a charity usually well below zero; and this loss without any rebate or compensation whatever from the public at large on account of any general benefit that might be received from the invention. It was complete. Consequently, the most beneficent of inventions was cruel as death to those who had been dependent for living or for profit on the particular occupations it affected. The capitalists grew gray from fear of discoveries which in a day might turn their costly plants to old iron fit only for the junkshop, and the nightmare of the artisan was some machine which should take bread from his children's mouths by enabling his employer to dispense with his services. "Owing to this division of the economic field into a set of vested personal and group interests wholly without coherency or integrating idea, each standing or falling by and for itself, every step in the advance of the arts and sciences was gained only at the cost of an amount of loss and ruin to particular portions of the community such as would be wrought by a blight or pestilence. The march of invention was white with the bleaching bones of innumerable hecatombs of victims. The spinning jenny replaced the spinning wheel, and famine stalked through English villages. The railroad supplanted the stagecoach, and a thousand hill towns died while as many sprang up in the valleys, and the farmers of the East were pauperized by the new agriculture of the West. Petroleum succeeded whale-oil, and a hundred seaports withered. Coal and iron were found in the South, and the grass grew in the streets of the Northern centers of iron-making. Electricity succeeded steam, and billions of railroad property were wiped out. But what is the use of lengthening a list which might be made interminable? The rule was always the same: every important invention brought uncompensated disaster to some portion of the people. Armies of bankrupts, hosts of workers forced into vagabondage, a sea of suffering of every sort, made up the price which our ancestors paid for every step of progress. "Afterward, when the victims had been buried or put out of the way, it was customary with our fathers to celebrate these industrial triumphs, and on such occasions a common quotation in the mouths of the orators was a line of verse to the effect that-- "Peace hath her victories not less renowned than those of war. The orators were not wont to dwell on the fact that these victories of what they so oddly called peace were usually purchased at a cost in human life and suffering quite as great as--yes, often greater than--those of so-called war. We have all read of Tamerlane's pyramid at Damascus made of seventy thousand skulls of his victims. It may be said that if the victims of the various inventions connected with the introduction of steam had consented to contribute their skulls to a monument in honor of Stevenson or Arkwright it would dwarf Tamerlane's into insignificance. Tamerlane was a beast, and Arkwright was a genius sent to help men, yet the hideous juggle of the old-time economic system made the benefactor the cause of as much human suffering as the brutal conqueror. It was bad enough when men stoned and crucified those who came to help them, but private capitalism did them a worse outrage still in turning the gifts they brought into curses." "And did the workers and the capitalists whose interests were threatened by the progress of invention take practical means of resisting that progress and suppressing the inventions and the inventors?" "They did all they could in that way. If the working-men had been strong enough they would have put an absolute veto on inventions of any sort tending to diminish the demand for crude hand labor in their respective crafts. As it was, they did all it was possible for them to accomplish in that direction by trades-union dictation and mob violence; nor can any one blame the poor fellows for resisting to the utmost improvements which improved them out of the means of livelihood. A machine gun would have been scarcely more deadly if turned upon the workingmen of that day than a labor-saving machine. In those bitter times a man thrown out of the employment he had fitted himself for might about as well have been shot, and if he were not able to get any other work, as so many were not, he would have been altogether better off had he been killed in battle with the drum and fife to cheer him and the hope of a pension for his family. Only, of course, it was the system of private capitalism and not the labor-saving machine which the workingmen should have attacked, for with a rational economic system the machine would have been wholly beneficent." "How did the capitalists resist inventions?" "Chiefly by negative means, though much more effective ones than the mob violence which the workingmen used. The initiative in everything belonged to the capitalists. No inventor could introduce an invention, however excellent, unless he could get capitalists to take it up, and this usually they would not do unless the inventor relinquished to them most of his hopes of profit from the discovery. A much more important hindrance to the introduction of inventions resulted from the fact that those who would be interested in taking them up were those already carrying on the business the invention applied to, and their interest was in most cases to suppress an innovation which threatened to make obsolete the machinery and methods in which their capital was invested. The capitalist had to be fully assured not only that the invention was a good one in itself, but that it would be so profitable to himself personally as to make up for all the damage to his existing capital before he would touch it. When inventions wholly did away with processes which had been the basis of profit-charging it was often suicidal for the capitalist to adopt them. If they could not suppress such inventions in any other way, it was their custom to buy them up and pigeonhole them. After the Revolution there were found enough of these patents which had been bought up and pigeonholed in self-protection by the capitalists to have kept the world in novelties for ten years if nothing more had been discovered. One of the most tragical chapters in the history of the old order is made up of the difficulties, rebuffs, and lifelong disappointments which inventors had to contend with before they could get their discoveries introduced, and the frauds by which in most cases they were swindled out of the profits of them by the capitalists through whom their introduction was obtained. These stories seem, indeed, well-nigh incredible nowadays, when the nation is alert and eager to foster and encourage every stirring of the inventive spirit, and every one with any sort of new idea can command the offices of the administration without cost to safeguard his claim to priority and to furnish him all possible facilities of information, material, and appliances to perfect his conception." "Considering," said the teacher, "that these facts as to the resistance offered by vested interests to the march of improvement must have been even more obvious to our ancestors than to us, how do you account for the belief they seem to have sincerely held that private capitalism as a system was favorable to invention?" "Doubtless," replied the girl, "it was because they saw that whenever an invention was introduced it was under the patronage of capitalists. This was, of course, necessarily so because all economic initiative was confined to the capitalists. Our forefathers, observing that inventions when introduced at all were introduced through the machinery of private capitalism, overlooked the fact that usually it was only after exhausting its power as an obstruction to invention that capital lent itself to its advancement. They were in this respect like children who, seeing the water pouring over the edge of a dam and coming over nowhere else, should conclude that the dam was an agency for aiding the flow of the river instead of being an obstruction which let it over only when it could be kept back no longer." * * * * * "Our lesson," said the teacher, "relates in strictness only to the economic results of the old order, but at times the theme suggests aspects of former social conditions too important to pass without mention. We have seen how obstructive was the system of vested interests which underlaid private capitalism to the introduction of improvements and inventions in the economic field. But there was another field in which the same influence was exerted with effects really far more important and disastrous.--Tell us, Florence, something of the manner in which the vested interest system tended to resist the advance of new ideas in the field of thought, of morals, science, and religion." "Previous to the great Revolution," the girl replied, "the highest education not being universal as with us, but limited to a small body, the members of this body, known as the learned and professional classes, necessarily became the moral and intellectual teachers and leaders of the nation. They molded the thoughts of the people, set them their standards, and through the control of their minds dominated their material interests and determined the course of civilization. No such power is now monopolized by any class, because the high level of general education would make it impossible for any class of mere men to lead the people blindly. Seeing, however, that such a power was exercised in that day and limited to so small a class, it was a most vital point that this class should be qualified to discharge so responsible a duty in a spirit of devotion to the general weal unbiased by distracting motives. But under the system of private capitalism, which made every person and group economically dependent upon and exclusively concerned in the prosperity of the occupation followed by himself and his group, this ideal was impossible of attainment. The learned class, the teachers, the preachers, writers, and professional men were only tradesmen after all, just like the shoemakers and the carpenters, and their welfare was absolutely bound up with the demand for the particular sets of ideas and doctrines they represented and the particular sorts of professional services they got their living by rendering. Each man's line of teaching or preaching was his vested interest--the means of his livelihood. That being so, the members of the learned and professional class were bound to be affected by innovations in their departments precisely as shoemakers or carpenters by inventions affecting their trades. It necessarily followed that when any new idea was suggested in religion, in medicine, in science, in economics, in sociology, and indeed in almost any field of thought, the first question which the learned body having charge of that field and making a living out of it would ask itself was not whether the idea was good and true and would tend to the general welfare, but how it would immediately and directly affect the set of doctrines, traditions, and institutions, with the prestige of which their own personal interests were identified. If it was a new religious conception that had been suggested, the clergyman considered, first of all, how it would affect his sect and his personal standing in it. If it were a new medical idea, the doctor asked first how it would affect the practice of the school he was identified with. If it was a new economic or social theory, then all those whose professional capital was their reputation as teachers in that branch questioned first how the new idea agreed with the doctrines and traditions constituting their stock in trade. Now, as any new idea, almost as a matter of course, must operate to discredit previous ideas in the same field, it followed that the economic self-interest of the learned classes would instinctively and almost invariably be opposed to reform or advance of thought in their fields. "Being human, they were scarcely more to be blamed for involuntarily regarding new ideas in their specialties with aversion than the weaver or the brickmaker for resisting the introduction of inventions calculated to take the bread out of his mouth. And yet consider what a tremendous, almost insurmountable, obstacle to human progress was presented by the fact that the intellectual leaders of the nations and the molders of the people's thoughts, by their economic dependence upon vested interests in established ideas, were biased against progress by the strongest motives of self-interest. When we give due thought to the significance of this fact, we shall find ourselves wondering no longer at the slow rate of human advance in the past, but rather that there should have been any advance at all." CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW THE PROFIT SYSTEM NULLIFIED THE BENEFIT OF INVENTIONS. "The general subject of the hostility of private capitalism to progress," pursued the teacher, "divides itself, as I said, into two branches. First, the constitutional antagonism between a system of distinct and separate vested interests and all unsettling changes which, whatever their ultimate effect, must be directly damaging to those interests. We will now ask you, Harold, to take up the second branch of the subject--namely, the effect of the profit principle to minimize, if not wholly to nullify, the benefit to the community of such inventions and improvements as were able to overcome the antagonism of vested interests so far as to get themselves introduced. The nineteenth century, including the last quarter of the eighteenth, was marked by an astonishing and absolutely unprecedented number of great inventions in economic processes. To what was this outburst of inventive genius due?" "To the same cause," replied the boy, "which accounts for the rise of the democratic movement and the idea of human equality during the same period--that is to say, the diffusion of intelligence among the masses, which, for the first time becoming somewhat general, multiplied ten-thousandfold the thinking force of mankind, and, in the political aspect of the matter, changed the purpose of that thinking from the interest of the few to that of the many." "Our ancestors," said the teacher, "seeing that this outburst of invention took place under private capitalism, assumed that there must be something in that system peculiarly favorable to the genius of invention. Have you anything to say on that point beyond what has been said?" "Nothing," replied the boy, "except that by the same rule we ought to give credit to the institutions of royalty, nobility, and plutocracy for the democratic idea which under their fostering influence during the same period grew to flowering in the great Revolution." "I think that will do on that point," answered the teacher. "We will now ask you to tell us something more particularly of this great period of invention which began in the latter part of the eighteenth century." HAROLD STATES THE FACTS. "From the times of antiquity up to the last quarter of the eighteenth century," said the lad, "there had been almost no progress in the mechanical sciences save as to shipbuilding and arms. From 1780, or thereabouts, dates the beginning of a series of discoveries of sources of power, and their application by machinery to economic purposes, which, during the century following, completely revolutionized the conditions of industry and commerce. Steam and coal meant a multiplication of human energy in the production of wealth which was almost incalculable. For industrial purposes it is not too much to say that they transformed man from a pygmy to a Titan. These were, of course, only the greatest factors in a countless variety of discoveries by which prodigious economies of labor were effected in every detail of the arts by which human life is maintained and ministered to. In agriculture, where Nature, which can not be too much hurried, is a large partner, and wherein, therefore, man's part is less controlling than in other industries, it might be expected that the increase of productive energy through human invention would be least. Yet here it was estimated that agricultural machinery, as most perfectly developed in America, had multiplied some fifteenfold the product of the individual worker. In most sorts of production less directly dependent upon Nature, invention during this period had multiplied the efficiency of labor in a much greater degree, ranging from fifty and a hundred-fold to several thousand-fold, one man being able to accomplish as much as a small army in all previous ages." "That is to say," said the teacher, "it would seem that while the needs of the human race had not increased, its power to supply those needs had been indefinitely multiplied. This prodigious increase in the potency of labor was a clear net economic gain for the world, such as the previous history of the race furnished nothing comparable to. It was as if God had given to man his power of attorney in full, to command all the forces of the universe to serve him. Now, Harold, suppose you had merely been told as much as you have told us concerning the hundredfold multiplication of the wealth-producing power of the race which took place at this period, and were left, without further information, to infer for yourself how great a change for the better in the condition of mankind would naturally follow, what would it seem reasonable to suppose?" "It would seem safe to take for granted at the least," replied the boy, "that every form of human unhappiness or imperfection resulting directly or indirectly from economic want would be absolutely banished from the earth. That the very meaning of the word poverty would have been forgotten would seem to be a matter-of-course assumption to begin with. Beyond that we might go on and fancy almost anything in the way of universal diffusion of luxury that we pleased. The facts given as the basis of the speculation would justify the wildest day-dreams of universal happiness, so far as material abundance could directly or indirectly minister to it." "Very good, Harold. We know now what to expect when you shall go on to tell us what the historical facts are as to the degree of improvement in the economic condition of the mass of the race, which actually did result from the great inventions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Take the condition of the mass of the people in the advanced countries at the close of the nineteenth century, after they had been enjoying the benefits of coal and steam, and the most of the other great inventions for a century, more or less, and comparing it with their condition, say, in 1780, give us some idea of the change for the better which had taken place in their economic welfare. Doubtless it was something marvelous." "It was a subject of much nice debate and close figuring," replied the boy, "whether in the most advanced countries there had been, taking one class with another, and disregarding mere changes in fashions, any real improvement at all in the economic basis of the great majority of the people." "Is it possible that the improvement had been so small that there could be a question raised whether there had been any at all?" "Precisely so. As to the English people in the nineteenth century, Florence has given us the facts in speaking of the effects of foreign commerce. The English had not only a greater foreign commerce than any other nation, but had also made earlier and fuller use of the great inventions than any other. She has told us that the sociologists of the time had no difficulty in proving that the economic condition of the English people was more wretched in the latter part of the nineteenth century than it had been centuries previous, before steam had been thought of, and that this was equally true of the peoples of the Low Countries, and the masses of Germany. As to the working masses of Italy and Spain, they had been in much better economic condition during periods of the Roman Empire than they were in the nineteenth century. If the French were a little better off in the nineteenth than in the eighteenth century, it was owing wholly to the distribution of land effected by the French Revolution, and in no way to the great inventions." "How was it in the United States?" "If America," replied the lad, "had shown a notable improvement in the condition of the people, it would not be necessary to ascribe it to the progress of invention, for the wonderful economic opportunities of a new country had given them a vast though necessarily temporary advantage over other nations. It does not appear, however, that there was any more agreement of testimony as to whether the condition of the masses had on the whole improved in America than in the Old World. In the last decade of the nineteenth century, with a view to allaying the discontent of the wage-earners and the farmers, which was then beginning to swell to revolutionary volume, agents of the United States Government published elaborate comparisons of wages and prices, in which they argued out a small percentage of gain on the whole in the economic condition of the American artisans during the century. At this distance we can not, of course, criticise these calculations in detail, but we may base a reasonable doubt of the conclusion that the condition of the masses had very greatly improved upon the existence of the popular discontent which they were published in the vain hope of moderating. It seems safe to assume that the people were better acquainted with their own condition than the sociologists, and it is certain that it was the growing conviction of the American masses during the closing decades of the nineteenth century that they were losing ground economically and in danger of sinking into the degraded condition of the proletariat and peasantry of the ancient and contemporary European world. Against the laborious tabulations of the apologists of capitalism we may adduce, as far superior and more convincing evidence of the economic tendency of the American people during the latter part of the nineteenth century, such signs of the times as the growth of beggary and vagabondage to Old World proportions, the embittered revolts of the wage-earners which kept up a constant industrial war, and finally the condition of bankruptcy into which the farming population was sinking." "That will do as to that point," said the teacher. "In such a comparison as this small margins and nice points of difference are impertinent. It is enough that if the indefinite multiplication of man's wealth-producing power by inventive progress had been developed and distributed with any degree of intelligence for the general interest, poverty would have disappeared and comfort if not luxury have become the universal condition. This being a fact as plain and large as the sun, it is needless to consider the hairsplitting debates of the economists as to whether the condition of this or that class of the masses in this or that country was a grain better or two grains worse than it had been. It is enough for the purpose of the argument that nobody anywhere in any country pretended that there had been an improvement noticeable enough to make even a beginning toward that complete transformation in the human condition for the better, of which the great inventions by universal admission had contained the full and immediate promise and potency. "And now tell us, Harold, what our ancestors had to say as to this astonishing fact--a fact more marvelous than the great inventions themselves, namely, their failure to prove of any considerable benefit to mankind. Surely a phenomenon at once so amazing in itself and involving so prodigious a defeat to the hopes of human happiness must have set a world of rational beings to speculating in a very impassioned way as to what the explanation might be. One would suppose that the facts of this failure with which our ancestors were confronted would have been enough to convince them that there must be something radically and horribly wrong about any economic system which was responsible for it or had permitted it, and that no further argument would have been wanted to induce them to make a radical change in it." "One would think so, certainly," said the boy, "but it did not seem to occur to our great-grandfathers to hold their economic system to any responsibility for the result. As we have seen, they recognized, however they might dispute as to percentages, that the great inventions had failed to make any notable improvement in the human condition, but they never seemed to get so far as to inquire seriously why this was so. In the voluminous works of the economists of the period we find no discussions, much less any attempt to explain, a fact which to our view absolutely overshadows all the other features of the economic situation before the Revolution. And the strangest thing about it all is that their failure to derive any benefit worth speaking of from the progress of invention in no way seemed to dampen the enthusiasm of our ancestors about the inventions. They seemed fairly intoxicated with the pride of their achievements, barren of benefit as they had been, and their day dreams were of further discoveries that to a yet more amazing degree should put the forces of the universe at their disposal. None of them apparently paused to reflect that though God might empty his treasure house for their benefit of its every secret of use and of power, the race would not be a whit the better off for it unless they devised some economic machinery by which these discoveries might be made to serve the general welfare more effectually than they had done before. They do not seem to have realized that so long as poverty remained, every new invention which multiplied the power of wealth production was but one more charge in the indictment against their economic system as guilty of an imbecility as great as its iniquity. They appear to have wholly overlooked the fact that until their mighty engines should be devoted to increasing human welfare they were and would continue mere curious scientific toys of no more real worth or utility to the race than so many particularly ingenious jumping-jacks. This craze for more and more and ever greater and wider inventions for economic purposes, coupled with apparent complete indifference as to whether mankind derived any ultimate benefit from them or not, can only be understood by regarding it as one of those strange epidemics of insane excitement which have been known to affect whole populations at certain periods, especially of the middle ages. Rational explanation it has none." "You may well say so," exclaimed the teacher. "Of what use indeed was it that coal had been discovered, when there were still as many fireless homes as ever? Of what use was the machinery by which one man could weave as much cloth as a thousand a century before when there were as many ragged, shivering human beings as ever? Of what use was the machinery by which the American farmer could produce a dozen times as much food as his grandfather when there were more cases of starvation and a larger proportion of half-fed and badly fed people in the country than ever before, and hordes of homeless, desperate vagabonds traversed the land, begging for bread at every door? They had invented steamships, these ancestors of ours, that were miracles, but their main business was transporting paupers from lands where they had been beggared in spite of labor-saving machinery to newer lands where, after a short space, they would inevitably be beggared again. About the middle of the nineteenth century the world went wild over the invention of the sewing-machine and the burden it was to lift from the shoulders of the race. Yet, fifty years after, the business of garment-making, which it had been expected to revolutionize for the better, had become a slavery both in America and Europe which, under the name of the 'sweating system,' scandalized even that tough generation. They had lucifer matches instead of flint and steel, kerosene and electricity instead of candles and whale-oil, but the spectacles of squalor, misery, and degradation upon which the improved light shone were the same and only looked the worse for it. What few beggars there had been in America in the first quarter of the nineteenth century went afoot, while in the last quarter they stole their transportation on trains drawn by steam engines, but there were fifty times as many beggars. The world traveled sixty miles an hour instead of five or ten at the beginning of the century, but it had not gained an inch on poverty, which clung to it as the shadow to the racer." HELEN GIVES THE EXPLANATION OF THE FACTS. "Now, Helen," pursued the teacher, "we want you to explain the facts that Harold has so clearly brought out. We want you to tell us why it was that the economic condition of humanity derived but a barely perceptible advantage at most, if indeed any at all, from an inventive progress which by its indefinite multiplication of productive energy should by every rule of reason have completely transformed for the better the economic condition of the race and wholly banished want from earth. What was there about the old system of private capitalism to account for a _fiasco_ so tremendous?" "It was the operation of the profit principle," replied the girl Helen. "Please proceed with the explanation." "The great economic inventions which Harold has been talking about," said the girl, "were of the class of what were called labor-saving machines and devices--that is to say, they enabled one man to produce more than before with the same labor, or to produce the same as before with less labor. Under a collective administration of industry in the equal general interest like ours, the effect of any such invention would be to increase the total output to be shared equally among all, or, if the people preferred and so voted, the output would remain what it was, and the saving of labor be appropriated as a dividend of leisure to be equally enjoyed by all. But under the old system there was, of course, no collective administration. Capitalists were the administrators, being the only persons who were able to carry on extensive operations or take the initiative in economic enterprises, and in what they did or did not do they had no regard to the public interest or the general gain, but to their own profit only. The only motive which could induce a capitalist to adopt an invention was the idea of increasing his profits either by getting a larger product at the same labor cost, or else getting the same product at a reduced labor cost. We will take the first case. Suppose a capitalist in adopting labor-saving machinery calculated to keep all his former employees and make his profit by getting a larger product with the same labor cost. Now, when a capitalist proposed to increase his output without the aid of a machine he had to hire more workers, who must be paid wages to be afterward expended in purchasing products in the market. In this case, for every increase of product there was some increase, although not at all an equal one, in the buying power of the community. But when the capitalist increased his output by the aid of machinery, with no increase in the number of workers employed, there was no corresponding increase of purchasing power on the part of the community to set off against the increased product. A certain amount of purchasing power went, indeed, in wages to the mechanics who constructed the labor-saving machines, but it was small in comparison with the increase in the output which the capitalist expected to make by means of the machinery, otherwise it would have been no object to him to buy the machine. The increased product would therefore tend directly to glut yet more the always glutted market; and if any considerable number of capitalists should introduce machinery in the same way, the glut would become intensified into a crisis and general stoppage of production. "In order to avert or minimize such a disaster, the capitalists could take one or two courses. They could, if they chose, reduce the price of their increased machine product so that the purchasing power of the community, which had remained stationary, could take it up at least as nearly as it had taken up the lesser quantity of higher-priced product before the machinery was introduced. But if the capitalists did this, they would derive no additional profit whatever from the adoption of the machinery, the whole benefit going to the community. It is scarcely necessary to say that this was not what the capitalists were in business for. The other course before them was to keep their product where it was before introducing the machine, and to realize their profit by discharging the workers, thus saving on the labor cost of the output. This was the course most commonly taken, because the glut of goods was generally so threatening that, except when inventions opened up wholly new fields, capitalists were careful not greatly to increase outputs. For example, if the machine enabled one man to do two men's work, the capitalist would discharge half of his force, put the saving in labor cost in his pocket, and still produce as many goods as ever. Moreover, there was another advantage about this plan. The discharged workers swelled the numbers of the unemployed, who were underbidding one another for the opportunity to work. The increased desperation of this competition made it possible presently for the capitalist to reduce the wages of the half of his former force which he still retained. That was the usual result of the introduction of labor-saving machinery: First, the discharge of workers, then, after more or less time, reduced wages for those who were retained." "If I understand you, then," said the teacher, "the effect of labor-saving inventions was either to increase the product without any corresponding increase in the purchasing power of the community, thereby aggravating the glut of goods, or else to positively decrease the purchasing power of the community, through discharges and wage reductions, while the product remained the same as before. That is to say, the net result of labor-saving machinery was to increase the difference between the production and consumption of the community which remained in the hands of the capitalists as profit." "Precisely so. The only motive of the capitalist in introducing labor-saving machinery was to retain as profit a larger share of the product than before by cutting down the share of labor--that is to say, labor-saving machinery which should have banished poverty from the world became the means under the profit system of impoverishing the masses more rapidly than ever." "But did not the competition among the capitalists compel them to sacrifice a part of these increased profits in reductions of prices in order to get rid of their goods?" "Undoubtedly; but such reductions in price would not increase the consuming power of the people except when taken out of profits, and, as John explained to us this morning, when capitalists were forced by competition to reduce their prices they saved their profits as long as possible by making up for the reductions in price by debasing the quality of the goods or cutting down wages until the public and the wage-earners could be cheated and squeezed no longer. Then only did they begin to sacrifice profits, and it was then too late for the impoverished consumers to respond by increasing consumption. It was always, as John told us, in the countries where the people were poorest that the prices were lowest, but without benefit to the people." THE AMERICAN FARMER AND MACHINERY. "And now," said the teacher, "I want to ask you something about the effect of labor-saving inventions upon a class of so-called capitalists who made up the greater half of the American people--I mean the farmers. In so far as they owned their farms and tools, however encumbered by debts and mortgages, they were technically capitalists, although themselves quite as pitiable victims of the capitalists as were the proletarian artisans. The agricultural labor-saving inventions of the nineteenth century in America were something simply marvelous, enabling, as we have been told, one man to do the work of fifteen a century before. Nevertheless, the American farmer was going straight to the dogs all the while these inventions were being introduced. Now, how do you account for that? Why did not the farmer, as a sort of capitalist, pile up his profits on labor-saving machinery like the other capitalists?" "As I have said," replied the girl, "the profits made by labor-saving machinery resulted from the increased productiveness of the labor employed, thus enabling the capitalist either to turn out a greater product with the same labor cost or an equal product with a less labor cost, the workers supplanted by the machine being discharged. The amount of profits made was therefore dependent on the scale of the business carried on--that is, the number of workers employed and the consequent figure which labor cost made in the business. When farming was carried on upon a very large scale, as were the so-called bonanza farms in the United States of that period, consisting of twenty to thirty thousand acres of land, the capitalists conducting them did for a time make great profits, which were directly owing to the labor-saving agricultural machines, and would have been impossible without them. These machines enabled them to put a greatly increased product on the market with small increase of labor cost or else the same product at a great decrease of labor cost. But the mass of the American farmers operated on a small scale only and employed very little labor, doing largely their own work. They could therefore make little profit, if any, out of labor-saving machinery by discharging employees. The only way they could utilize it was not by cutting down the expense of their output but by increasing the amount of the output through the increased efficiency of their own labor. But seeing that there had been no increase meanwhile in the purchasing power of the community at large, there was no more money demand for their products than before, and consequently if the general body of farmers through labor-saving machinery increased their output, they could dispose of the greater aggregate only at a reduced price, so that in the end they would get no more for the greater output than for the less. Indeed, they would not get so much, for the effect of even a small surplus when held by weak capitalists who could not keep it back, but must press for sale, had an effect to reduce the market price quite out of proportion to the amount of the surplus. In the United States the mass of these small farmers was so great and their pressure to sell so desperate that in the latter part of the century they destroyed the market not only for themselves but finally even for the great capitalists who conducted the great farms." "The conclusion is, then, Helen," said the teacher, "that the net effect of labor-saving machinery upon the mass of small farmers in the United States was ruinous." "Undoubtedly," replied the girl. "This is a case in which the historical facts absolutely confirm the rational theory. Thanks to the profit system, inventions which multiplied the productive power of the farmer fifteenfold made a bankrupt of him, and so long as the profit system was retained there was no help for him." "Were farmers the only class of small capitalists who were injured rather than helped by labor-saving machinery?" "The rule was the same for all small capitalists whatever business they were engaged in. Its basis, as I have said, was the fact that the advantage to be gained by the capitalists from introducing labor-saving machinery was in proportion to the amount of labor which the machinery enabled them to dispense with--that is to say, was dependent upon the scale of their business. If the scale of the capitalist's operations was so small that he could not make a large saving in reduced labor cost by introducing machinery, then the introduction of such machinery put him at a crushing disadvantage as compared with larger capitalists. Labor-saving machinery was in this way one of the most potent of the influences which toward the close of the nineteenth century made it impossible for the small capitalists in any field to compete with the great ones, and helped to concentrate the economic dominion of the world in few and ever fewer hands." "Suppose, Helen, that the Revolution had not come, that labor-saving machinery had continued to be invented as fast as ever, and that the consolidation of the great capitalists' interests, already foreshadowed, had been completed, so that the waste of profits in competition among themselves had ceased, what would have been the result?" "In that case," replied the girl, "all the wealth that had been wasted in commercial rivalry would have been expended in luxury in addition to what had been formerly so expended. The new machinery year by year would have gone on making it possible for a smaller and ever smaller fraction of the population to produce all the necessaries for the support of mankind, and the rest of the world, including the great mass of the workers, would have found employment in unproductive labor to provide the materials of luxury for the rich or in personal services to them. The world would thus come to be divided into three classes: a master caste, very limited in numbers; a vast body of unproductive workers employed in ministering to the luxury and pomp of the master caste; and a small body of strictly productive workers, which, owing to the perfection of machinery, would be able to provide for the needs of all. It is needless to say that all save the masters would be at the minimum point as to means of subsistence. Decaying empires in ancient times have often presented such spectacles of imperial and aristocratic splendor, to the supply and maintenance of which the labor of starving nations was devoted. But no such spectacle ever presented in the past would have been comparable to that which the twentieth century would have witnessed if the great Revolution had permitted private capitalism to complete its evolution. In former ages the great mass of the population has been necessarily employed in productive labor to supply the needs of the world, so that the portion of the working force available for the service of the pomp and pleasures of the masters as unproductive laborers has always been relatively small. But in the plutocratic empire we are imagining, the genius of invention, through labor-saving machinery, would have enabled the masters to devote a greater proportion of the subject population to the direct service of their state and luxury than had been possible under any of the historic despotisms. The abhorrent spectacles of men enthroned as gods above abject and worshiping masses, which Assyria, Egypt, Persia, and Rome exhibited in their day, would have been eclipsed." "That will do, Helen," said the teacher. "With your testimony we will wind up our review of the economic system of private capitalism which the great Revolution abolished forever. There are of course a multitude of other aspects and branches of the subject which we might take up, but the study would be as unprofitable as depressing. We have, I think, covered the essential points. If you understand why and how profits, rent, and interest operated to limit the consuming power of most of the community to a fractional part of its productive power, thereby in turn correspondingly crippling the latter, you have the open secret of the poverty of the world before the Revolution, and of the impossibility of any important or lasting improvement from any source whatever in the economic circumstances of mankind, until and unless private capitalism, of which the profit system with rent and interest were necessary and inseparable parts, should be put an end to." CHAPTER XXIX. I RECEIVE AN OVATION. "And now," the teacher went on, glancing at the gallery where the doctor and I had been sitting unseen, "I have a great surprise for you. Among those who have listened to your recitation to-day, both in the forenoon and afternoon, has been a certain personage whose identity you ought to be able to infer when I say that, of all persons now on earth, he is absolutely the one best able, and the only one fully able, to judge how accurate your portrayal of nineteenth-century conditions has been. Lest the knowledge should disturb your equanimity, I have refrained from telling you, until the present moment, that we have present with us this afternoon a no less distinguished visitor than Julian West, and that with great kindness he has consented to permit me to present you to him." I had assented, rather reluctantly, to the teacher's request, not being desirous of exposing myself unnecessarily to curious staring. But I had yet to make the acquaintance of twentieth-century boys and girls. When they came around me it was easy to see in the wistful eyes of the girls and the moved faces of the boys how deeply their imaginations were stirred by the suggestions of my presence among them, and how far their sentiment was from one of common or frivolous curiosity. The interest they showed in me was so wholly and delicately sympathetic that it could not have offended the most sensitive temperament. This had indeed been the attitude of all the persons of mature years whom I had met, but I had scarcely expected the same considerateness from school children. I had not, it seemed, sufficiently allowed for the influence upon manners of the atmosphere of refinement which surrounds the child of to-day from the cradle. These young people had never seen coarseness, rudeness, or brusqueness on the part of any one. Their confidence had never been abused, their sympathy wounded, or their suspicion excited. Having never imagined such a thing as a person socially superior or inferior to themselves, they had never learned but one sort of manners. Having never had any occasion to create a false or deceitful impression or to accomplish anything by indirection, it was natural that they should not know what affectation was. Truly, it is these secondary consequences, these moral and social reactions of economic equality to create a noble atmosphere of human intercourse, that, after all, have been the greatest contribution which the principle has made to human happiness. At once I found myself talking and jesting with the young people as easily as if I had always known them, and what with their interest in what I told them of the old-time schools, and my delight in their naive comments, an hour slipped away unnoticed. Youth is always inspiring, and the atmosphere of these fresh, beautiful, ingenuous lives was like a wine bath. Florence! Esther! Helen! Marion! Margaret! George! Robert! Harold! Paul!--Never shall I forget that group of star-eyed girls and splendid lads, in whom I first made acquaintance with the boys and girls of the twentieth century. Can it be that God sends sweeter souls to earth now that the world is so much fitter for them? CHAPTER XXX. WHAT UNIVERSAL CULTURE MEANS. It was one of those Indian summer afternoons when it seems sinful waste of opportunity to spend a needless hour within. Being in no sort of hurry, the doctor and I chartered a motor-carriage for two at the next station, and set forth in the general direction of home, indulging ourselves in as many deviations from the route as pleased our fancy. Presently, as we rolled noiselessly over the smooth streets, leaf-strewn from the bordering colonnades of trees, I began to exclaim about the precocity of school children who at the age of thirteen or fourteen were able to handle themes usually reserved in my day for the college and university. This, however, the doctor made light of. "Political economy," he said, "from the time the world adopted the plan of equal sharing of labor and its results, became a science so simple that any child who knows the proper way to divide an apple with his little brothers has mastered the secret of it. Of course, to point out the fallacies of a false political economy is a very simple matter also, when one has only to compare it with the true one. "As to intellectual precocity in general," pursued the doctor, "I do not think it is particularly noticeable in our children as compared with those of your day. We certainly make no effort to develop it. A bright school child of twelve in the nineteenth century would probably not compare badly as to acquirements with the average twelve-year-old in our schools. It would be as you compared them ten years later that the difference in the educational systems would show its effect. At twenty-one or twenty-two the average youth would probably in your day have been little more advanced in education than at fourteen, having probably left school for the factory or farm at about that age or a couple of years later unless perhaps he happened to be one of the children of the rich minority. The corresponding child under our system would have continued his or her education without break, and at twenty-one have acquired what you used to call a college education." "The extension of the educational machinery necessary to provide the higher education for all must have been enormous," I said. "Our primary-school system provided the rudiments for nearly all children, but not one in twenty went as far as the grammar school, not one in a hundred as far as the high school, and not one in a thousand ever saw a college. The great universities of my day--Harvard, Yale, and the rest--must have become small cities in order to receive the students flocking to them." "They would need to be very large cities certainly," replied the doctor, "if it were a question of their undertaking the higher education of our youth, for every year we graduate not the thousands or tens of thousands that made up your annual grist of college graduates, but millions. For that very reason--that is, the numbers to be dealt with--we can have no centers of the higher education any more than you had of the primary education. Every community has its university just as formerly its common schools, and has in it more students from the vicinage than one of your great universities could collect with its drag net from the ends of the earth." "But does not the reputation of particular teachers attract students to special universities?" "That is a matter easily provided for," replied the doctor. "The perfection of our telephone and electroscope systems makes it possible to enjoy at any distance the instruction of any teacher. One of much popularity lectures to a million pupils in a whisper, if he happens to be hoarse, much easier than one of your professors could talk to a class of fifty when in good voice." "Really, doctor," said I, "there is no fact about your civilization that seems to open so many vistas of possibility and solve beforehand so many possible difficulties in the arrangement and operation of your social system as this universality of culture. I am bound to say that nothing that is rational seems impossible in the way of social adjustments when once you assume the existence of that condition. My own contemporaries fully recognized in theory, as you know, the importance of popular education to secure good government in a democracy; but our system, which barely at best taught the masses to spell, was a farce indeed compared with the popular education of to-day." "Necessarily so," replied the doctor. "The basis of education is economic, requiring as it does the maintenance of the pupil without economic return during the educational period. If the education is to amount to anything, that period must cover the years of childhood and adolescence to the age of at least twenty. That involves a very large expenditure, which not one parent in a thousand was able to support in your day. The state might have assumed it, of course, but that would have amounted to the rich supporting the children of the poor, and naturally they would not hear to that, at least beyond the primary grades of education. And even if there had been no money question, the rich, if they hoped to retain their power, would have been crazy to provide for the masses destined to do their dirty work--a culture which would have made them social rebels. For these two reasons your economic system was incompatible with any popular education worthy of the name. On the other hand, the first effect of economic equality was to provide equal educational advantages for all and the best the community could afford. One of the most interesting chapters in the history of the Revolution is that which tells how at once after the new order was established the young men and women under twenty-one years of age who had been working in fields or factories, perhaps since childhood, left their work and poured back into the schools and colleges as fast as room could be made for them, so that they might as far as possible repair their early loss. All alike recognized, now that education had been made economically possible for all, that it was the greatest boon the new order had brought. It recorded also in the books that not only the youth, but the men and women, and even the elderly who had been without educational advantages, devoted all the leisure left from their industrial duties to making up, so far as possible, for their lack of earlier advantages, that they might not be too much ashamed in the presence of a rising generation to be composed altogether of college graduates. "In speaking of our educational system as it is at present," the doctor went on, "I should guard you against the possible mistake of supposing that the course which ends at twenty-one completes the educational curriculum of the average individual. On the contrary, it is only the required minimum of culture which society insists that all youth shall receive during their minority to make them barely fit for citizenship. We should consider it a very meager education indeed that ended there. As we look at it, the graduation from the schools at the attainment of majority means merely that the graduate has reached an age at which he can be presumed to be competent and has the right as an adult to carry on his further education without the guidance or compulsion of the state. To provide means for this end the nation maintains a vast system of what you would call elective post-graduate courses of study in every branch of science, and these are open freely to every one to the end of life to be pursued as long or as briefly, as constantly or as intermittently, as profoundly or superficially, as desired. "The mind is really not fit for many most important branches of knowledge, the taste for them does not awake, and the intellect is not able to grasp them, until mature life, when a month of application will give a comprehension of a subject which years would have been wasted in trying to impart to a youth. It is our idea, so far as possible, to postpone the serious study of such branches to the post-graduate schools. Young people must get a smattering of things in general, but really theirs is not the time of life for ardent and effective study. If you would see enthusiastic students to whom the pursuit of knowledge is the greatest joy of life you must seek them among the middle-aged fathers and mothers in the post-graduate schools. "For the proper use of these opportunities for the lifelong pursuit of knowledge we find the leisure of our lives, which seems to you so ample, all too small. And yet that leisure, vast as it is, with half of every day and half of every year and the whole latter half of life sacred to personal uses--even the aggregate of these great spaces, growing greater with every labor-saving invention, which are reserved for the higher uses of life, would seem to us of little value for intellectual culture, but for a condition commanded by almost none in your day but secured to all by our institutions. I mean the moral atmosphere of serenity resulting from an absolute freedom of mind from disturbing anxieties and carking cares concerning our material welfare or that of those dear to us. Our economic system puts us in a position where we can follow Christ's maxim, so impossible for you, to 'take no thought for the morrow.' You must not understand, of course, that all our people are students or philosophers, but you may understand that we are more or less assiduous and systematic students and school-goers all our lives." "Really, doctor," I said, "I do not remember that you have ever told me anything that has suggested a more complete and striking contrast between your age and mine than this about the persistent and growing development of the purely intellectual interests through life. In my day there was, after all, only six or eight years' difference in the duration of the intellectual life of the poor man's son drafted into the factory at fourteen and the more fortunate youth's who went to college. If that of the one stopped at fourteen, that of the other ceased about as completely at twenty-one or twenty-two. Instead of being in a position to begin his real education on graduating from college, that event meant the close of it for the average student, and was the high-water mark of his life, so far as concerned the culture and knowledge of the sciences and humanities. In these respects the average college man never afterward knew so much as on his graduation day. For immediately thereafter, unless of the richest class, he must needs plunge into the turmoil and strife of business life and engage in the struggle for the material means of existence. Whether he failed or succeeded, made little difference as to the effect to stunt and wither his intellectual life. He had no time and could command no thought for anything else. If he failed, or barely avoided failure, perpetual anxiety ate out his heart; and if he succeeded, his success usually made him a grosser and more hopelessly self-satisfied materialist than if he had failed. There was no hope for his mind or soul either way. If at the end of life his efforts had won him a little breathing space, it could be of no high use to him, for the spiritual and intellectual parts had become atrophied from disuse, and were no longer capable of responding to opportunity. "And this apology for an existence," said the doctor, "was the life of those whom you counted most fortunate and most successful--of those who were reckoned to have won the prizes of life. Can you be surprised that we look back to the great Revolution as a sort of second creation of man, inasmuch as it added the conditions of an adequate mind and soul life to the bare physical existence under more or less agreeable conditions, which was about all the life the most of human being's, rich or poor, had up to that time known? The effect of the struggle for existence in arresting, with its engrossments, the intellectual development at the very threshold of adult life would have been disastrous enough had the character of the struggle been morally unobjectionable. It is when we come to consider that the struggle was one which not only prevented mental culture, but was utterly withering to the moral life, that we fully realize the unfortunate condition of the race before the Revolution. Youth is visited with noble aspirations and high dreams of duty and perfection. It sees the world as it should be, not as it is; and it is well for the race if the institutions of society are such as do not offend these moral enthusiasms, but rather tend to conserve and develop them through life. This, I think, we may fully claim the modern social order does. Thanks to an economic system which illustrates the highest ethical idea in all its workings, the youth going forth into the world finds it a practice school for all the moralities. He finds full room and scope in its duties and occupations for every generous enthusiasm, every unselfish aspiration he ever cherished. He can not possibly have formed a moral idea higher or completer than that which dominates our industrial and commercial order. "Youth was as noble in your day as now, and dreamed the same great dreams of life's possibilities. But when the young man went forth into the world of practical life it was to find his dreams mocked and his ideals derided at every turn. He found himself compelled, whether he would or not, to take part in a fight for life, in which the first condition of success was to put his ethics on the shelf and cut the acquaintance of his conscience. You had various terms with which to describe the process whereby the young man, reluctantly laying aside his ideals, accepted the conditions of the sordid struggle. You described it as a 'learning to take the world as it is,' 'getting over romantic notions,' 'becoming practical,' and all that. In fact, it was nothing more nor less than the debauching of a soul. Is that too much to say? "It is no more than the truth, and we all knew it," I answered. "Thank God, that day is over forever! The father need now no longer instruct the son in cynicism lest he should fail in life, nor the mother her daughter in worldly wisdom as a protection from generous instinct. The parents are worthy of their children and fit to associate with them, as it seems to us they were not and could not be in your day. Life is all the way through as spacious and noble as it seems to the ardent child standing on the threshold. The ideals of perfection, the enthusiasms of self-devotion, honor, love, and duty, which thrill the boy and girl, no longer yield with advancing years to baser motives, but continue to animate life to the end. You remember what Wordsworth said: "Heaven lies about us in our infancy. Shades of the prison house begin to close Upon the growing boy. I think if he were a partaker of our life he would not have been moved to extol childhood at the expense of maturity, for life grows ever wider and higher to the last." CHAPTER XXXI. "NEITHER IN THIS MOUNTAIN NOR AT JERUSALEM." The next morning, it being again necessary for Edith to report at her post of duty, I accompanied her to the railway station. While we stood waiting for the train my attention was drawn to a distinguished-looking man who alighted from an incoming car. He appeared by nineteenth-century standards about sixty years old, and was therefore presumably eighty or ninety, that being about the rate of allowance I have found it necessary to make in estimating the ages of my new contemporaries, owing to the slower advent of signs of age in these times. On speaking to Edith of this person I was much interested when she informed me that he was no other than Mr. Barton, whose sermon by telephone had so impressed me on the first Sunday of my new life, as set forth in Looking Backward. Edith had just time to introduce me before taking the train. As we left the station together I said to my companion that if he would excuse the inquiry I should be interested to know what particular sect or religious body he represented. "My dear Mr. West," was the reply, "your question suggests that my friend Dr. Leete has not probably said much to you about the modern way of regarding religious matters." "Our conversation has turned but little on that subject," I answered, "but it will not surprise me to learn that your ideas and practices are quite different from those of my day. Indeed, religious ideas and ecclesiastical institutions were already at that time undergoing such rapid and radical decomposition that it was safe to predict if religion were to survive another century it would be under very different forms from any the past had known." "You have suggested a topic," said my companion, "of the greatest possible interest to me. If you have nothing else to do, and would like to talk a little about it, nothing would give me more pleasure." Upon receiving the assurance that I had absolutely no occupation except to pick up information about the twentieth century, Mr. Barton said: "Let us then go into this old church, which you will no doubt have already recognized as a relic of your time. There we can sit comfortably while we talk, amid surroundings well fitted to our theme." I then perceived that we stood before one of the last-century church buildings which have been preserved as historical monuments, and, moreover, as it oddly enough fell out, that this particular church was no other than the one my family had always attended, and I as well--that is, whenever I attended any church, which was not often. "What an extraordinary coincidence!" exclaimed Mr. Barton, when I told him this; "who would have expected it? Naturally, when you revisit a spot so fraught with affecting associations, you will wish to be alone. You must pardon my involuntary indiscretion in proposing to turn in here." "Really," I replied, "the coincidence is interesting merely, not at all affecting. Young men of my day did not, as a rule, take their church relations very seriously. I shall be interested to see how the old place looks. Let us go in, by all means." The interior proved to be quite unchanged in essential particulars since the last time I had been within its walls, more than a century before. That last occasion, I well remembered, had been an Easter service, to which I had escorted some pretty country cousins who wanted to hear the music and see the flowers. No doubt the processes of decay had rendered necessary many restorations, but they had been carried out so as to preserve completely the original effects. Leading the way down the main aisle, I paused in front of the family pew. "This, Mr. Barton," I said, "is, or was, my pew. It is true that I am a little in arrears on pew rent, but I think I may venture to invite you to sit with me." I had truly told Mr. Barton that there was very little sentiment connected with such church relations as I had maintained. They were indeed merely a matter of family tradition and social propriety. But in another way I found myself not a little moved, as, dropping into my accustomed place at the head of the pew, I looked about the dim and silent interior. As my eye roved from pew to pew, my imagination called back to life the men and women, the young men and maidens, who had been wont of a Sunday, a hundred years before, to sit in those places. As I recalled their various activities, ambitions, hopes, fears, envies, and intrigues, all dominated, as they had been, by the idea of money possessed, lost, or lusted after, I was impressed not so much with the personal death which had come to these my old acquaintances as by the thought of the completeness with which the whole social scheme in which they had lived and moved and had their being had passed away. Not only were they gone, but their world was gone, and its place knew it no more. How strange, how artificial, how grotesque that world had been!--and yet to them and to me, while I was one of them, it had seemed the only possible mode of existence. Mr. Barton, with delicate respect for my absorption, waited for me to break the silence. "No doubt," I said, "since you preserve our churches as curiosities, you must have better ones of your own for use?" "In point of fact," my companion replied, "we have little or no use for churches at all." "Ah, yes! I had forgotten for the moment that it was by telephone I heard your sermon. The telephone, in its present perfection, must indeed have quite dispensed with the necessity of the church as an audience room." "In other words," replied Mr. Barton, "when we assemble now we need no longer bring our bodies with us. It is a curious paradox that while the telephone and electroscope, by abolishing distance as a hindrance to sight and hearing, have brought mankind into a closeness of sympathetic and intellectual rapport never before imagined, they have at the same time enabled individuals, although keeping in closest touch with everything going on in the world, to enjoy, if they choose, a physical privacy, such as one had to be a hermit to command in your day. Our advantages in this respect have so far spoiled us that being in a crowd, which was the matter-of-course penalty you had to pay for seeing or hearing anything interesting, would seem too dear a price to pay for almost any enjoyment." "I can imagine," I said, "that ecclesiastical institutions must have been affected in other ways besides the disuse of church buildings, by the general adaptation of the telephone system to religious teaching. In my day, the fact that no speaker could reach by voice more than a small group of hearers made it necessary to have a veritable army of preachers--some fifty thousand, say, in the United States alone--in order to instruct the population. Of these, not one in many hundreds was a person who had anything to utter really worth hearing. For example, we will say that fifty thousand clergymen preached every Sunday as many sermons to as many congregations. Four fifths of these sermons were poor, half of the rest perhaps fair, some of the others good, and a few score, possibly, out of the whole really of a fine class. Now, nobody, of course, would hear a poor discourse on any subject when he could just as easily hear a fine one, and if we had perfected the telephone system to the point you have, the result would have been, the first Sunday after its introduction, that everybody who wanted to hear a sermon would have connected with the lecture rooms or churches of the few widely celebrated preachers, and the rest would have had no hearers at all, and presently have been obliged to seek new occupations." Mr. Barton was amused. "You have, in fact, hit," he said, "upon the mechanical side of one of the most important contrasts between your times and ours--namely, the modern suppression of mediocrity in teaching, whether intellectual or religious. Being able to pick from the choicest intellects, and most inspired moralists and seers of the generation, everybody of course agrees in regarding it a waste of time to listen to any who have less weighty messages to deliver. When you consider that all are thus able to obtain the best inspiration the greatest minds can give, and couple this with the fact that, thanks to the universality of the higher education, all are at least pretty good judges of what is best, you have the secret of what might be called at once the strongest safeguard of the degree of civilization we have attained, and the surest pledge of the highest possible rate of progress toward ever better conditions--namely, the leadership of moral and intellectual genius. To one like you, educated according to the ideas of the nineteenth century as to what democracy meant, it may seem like a paradox that the equalizing of economic and educational conditions, which has perfected democracy, should have resulted in the most perfect aristocracy, or government by the best, that could be conceived; yet what result could be more matter-of-course? The people of to-day, too intelligent to be misled or abused for selfish ends even by demigods, are ready, on the other hand, to comprehend and to follow with enthusiasm every better leading. The result is, that our greatest men and women wield to-day an unselfish empire, more absolute than your czars dreamed of, and of an extent to make Alexander's conquests seem provincial. There are men in the world who when they choose to appeal to their fellow-men, by the bare announcement are able to command the simultaneous attention of one to five or eight hundred millions of people. In fact, if the occasion be a great one, and the speaker worthy of it, a world-wide silence reigns as in their various places, some beneath the sun and others under the stars, some by the light of dawn and others at sunset, all hang on the lips of the teacher. Such power would have seemed, perhaps, in your day dangerous, but when you consider that its tenure is conditional on the wisdom and unselfishness of its exercise, and would fail with the first false note, you may judge that it is a dominion as safe as God's." "Dr. Leete," I said, "has told me something of the way in which the universality of culture, combined with your scientific appliances, has made physically possible this leadership of the best; but, I beg your pardon, how could a speaker address numbers so vast as you speak of unless the pentecostal miracle were repeated? Surely the audience must be limited at least by the number of those understanding one language." "Is it possible that Dr. Leete has not told you of our universal language?" "I have heard no language but English." "Of course, everybody talks the language of his own country with his countrymen, but with the rest of the world he talks the general language--that is to say, we have nowadays to acquire but two languages to talk to all peoples--our own, and the universal. We may learn as many more as we please, and we usually please to learn many, but these two are alone needful to go all over the world or to speak across it without an interpreter. A number of the smaller nations have wholly abandoned their national tongue and talk only the general language. The greater nations, which have fine literature embalmed in their languages, have been more reluctant to abandon them, and in this way the smaller folks have actually had a certain sort of advantage over the greater. The tendency, however, to cultivate but one language as a living tongue and to treat all the others as dead or moribund is increasing at such a rate that if you had slept through another generation you might have found none but philological experts able to talk with you." "But even with the universal telephone and the universal language," I said, "there still remains the ceremonial and ritual side of religion to be considered. For the practice of that I should suppose the piously inclined would still need churches to assemble in, however able to dispense with them for purposes of instruction." "If any feel that need, there is no reason why they should not have as many churches as they wish and assemble as often as they see fit. I do not know but there are still those who do so. But with a high grade of intelligence become universal the world was bound to outgrow the ceremonial side of religion, which with its forms and symbols, its holy times and places, its sacrifices, feasts, fasts, and new moons, meant so much in the child-time of the race. The time has now fully come which Christ foretold in that talk with the woman by the well of Samaria when the idea of the Temple and all it stood for would give place to the wholly spiritual religion, without respect of times or places, which he declared most pleasing to God. "With the ritual and ceremonial side of religion outgrown," said I, "with church attendance become superfluous for purposes of instruction, and everybody selecting his own preacher on personal grounds, I should say that sectarian lines must have pretty nearly disappeared." "Ah, yes!" said Mr. Barton, "that reminds me that our talk began with your inquiry as to what religious sect I belonged to. It is a very long time since it has been customary for people to divide themselves into sects and classify themselves under different names on account of variations of opinion as to matters of religion." "Is it possible," I exclaimed, "that you mean to say people no longer quarrel over religion? Do you actually tell me that human beings have become capable of entertaining different opinions about the next world without becoming enemies in this? Dr. Leete has compelled me to believe a good many miracles, but this is too much." "I do not wonder that it seems rather a startling proposition, at first statement, to a man of the nineteenth century," replied Mr. Barton. "But, after all, who was it who started and kept up the quarreling over religion in former days?" "It was, of course, the ecclesiastical bodies--the priests and preachers." "But they were not many. How were they able to make so much trouble?" "On account of the masses of the people who, being densely ignorant, were correspondingly superstitious and bigoted, and were tools in the hands of the ecclesiastics." "But there was a minority of the cultured. Were they bigoted also? Were they tools of the ecclesiastics?" "On the contrary, they always held a calm and tolerant attitude on religious questions and were independent of the priesthoods. If they deferred to ecclesiastical influence at all, it was because they held it needful for the purpose of controlling the ignorant populace." "Very good. You have explained your miracle. There is no ignorant populace now for whose sake it is necessary for the more intelligent to make any compromises with truth. Your cultured class, with their tolerant and philosophical view of religious differences, and the criminal folly of quarreling about them, has become the only class there is." "How long is it since people ceased to call themselves Catholics, Protestants, Baptists, Methodists, and so on?" "That kind of classification may be said to have received a fatal shock at the time of the great Revolution, when sectarian demarcations and doctrinal differences, already fallen into a good deal of disregard, were completely swept away and forgotten in the passionate impulse of brotherly love which brought men together for the founding of a nobler social order. The old habit might possibly have revived in time had it not been for the new culture, which, during the first generation subsequent to the Revolution, destroyed the soil of ignorance and superstition which had supported ecclesiastical influence, and made its recrudescence impossible for evermore. "Although, of course," continued my companion, "the universalizing of intellectual culture is the only cause that needs to be considered in accounting for the total disappearance of religious sectarianism, yet it will give you a more vivid realization of the gulf fixed between the ancient and the modern usages as to religion if you consider certain economic conditions, now wholly passed away, which in your time buttressed the power of ecclesiastical institutions in very substantial ways. Of course, in the first place, church buildings were needful to preach in, and equally so for the ritual and ceremonial side of religion. Moreover, the sanction of religious teaching, depending chiefly on the authority of tradition instead of its own reasonableness, made it necessary for any preacher who would command hearers to enter the service of some of the established sectarian organizations. Religion, in a word, like industry and politics, was capitalized by greater or smaller corporations which exclusively controlled the plant and machinery, and conducted it for the prestige and power of the firms. As all those who desired to engage in politics or industry were obliged to do so in subjection to the individuals and corporations controlling the machinery, so was it in religious matters likewise. Persons desirous of entering on the occupation of religious teaching could do so only by conforming to the conditions of some of the organizations controlling the machinery, plant, and good will of the business--that is to say, of some one of the great ecclesiastical corporations. To teach religion outside of these corporations, when not positively illegal, was a most difficult undertaking, however great the ability of the teacher--as difficult, indeed, as it was to get on in politics without wearing a party badge, or to succeed in business in opposition to the great capitalists. The would-be religious teacher had to attach himself, therefore, to some one or other of the sectarian organizations, whose mouthpiece he must consent to be, as the condition of obtaining any hearing at all. The organization might be hierarchical, in which case he took his instructions from above, or it might be congregational, in which case he took his orders from below. The one method was monarchical, the other democratic, but one as inconsistent as the other with the office of the religious teacher, the first condition of which, as we look at it, should be absolute spontaneity of feeling and liberty of utterance. "It may be said that the old ecclesiastical system depended on a double bondage: first, the intellectual subjection of the masses through ignorance to their spiritual directors; and, secondly, the bondage of the directors themselves to the sectarian organizations, which as spiritual capitalists monopolized the opportunities of teaching. As the bondage was twofold, so also was the enfranchisement--a deliverance alike of the people and of their teachers, who, under the guise of leaders, had been themselves but puppets. Nowadays preaching is as free as hearing, and as open to all. The man who feels a special calling to talk to his fellows upon religious themes has no need of any other capital than something worth saying. Given this, without need of any further machinery than the free telephone, he is able to command an audience limited only by the force and fitness of what he has to say. He now does not live by his preaching. His business is not a distinct profession. He does not belong to a class apart from other citizens, either by education or occupation. It is not needful for any purpose that he should do so. The higher education which he shares with all others furnishes ample intellectual equipment, while the abundant leisure for personal pursuits with which our life is interfused, and the entire exemption from public duty after forty-five, give abundant opportunity for the exercise of his vocation. In a word, the modern religious teacher is a prophet, not a priest. The sanction of his words lies not in any human ordination or ecclesiastical _exequatur,_ but, even as it was with the prophets of old, in such response as his words may have power to evoke from human hearts." "If people," I suggested, "still retaining a taste for the old-time ritual and ceremonial observances and face-to-face preaching, should desire to have churches and clergy for their special service, is there anything to prevent it?" "No, indeed. Liberty is the first and last word of our civilization. It is perfectly consistent with our economic system for a group of individuals, by contributing out of their incomes, not only to rent buildings for group purposes, but by indemnifying the nation for the loss of an individual's public service to secure him as their special minister. Though the state will enforce no private contracts of any sort, it does not forbid them. The old ecclesiastical system was, for a time after the Revolution, kept up by remnants in this way, and might be until now if anybody had wished. But the contempt into which the hireling relation had fallen at once after the Revolution soon made the position of such hired clergymen intolerable, and presently there were none who would demean themselves by entering upon so despised a relation, and none, indeed, who would have spiritual service, of all others, on such terms." "As you tell the story," I said, "it seems very plain how it all came about, and could not have been otherwise; but you can perhaps hardly imagine how a man of the nineteenth century, accustomed to the vast place occupied by the ecclesiastical edifice and influence in human affairs, is affected by the idea of a world getting on without anything of the sort." "I can imagine something of your sensation," replied my companion, "though doubtless not adequately. And yet I must say that no change in the social order seems to us to have been more distinctly foreshadowed by the signs of the times in your day than precisely this passing away of the ecclesiastical system. As you yourself observed, just before we came into this church, there was then going on a general deliquescence of dogmatism which made your contemporaries wonder what was going to be left. The influence and authority of the clergy were rapidly disappearing, the sectarian lines were being obliterated, the creeds were falling into contempt, and the authority of tradition was being repudiated. Surely if anything could be safely predicted it was that the religious ideas and institutions of the world were approaching some great change." "Doubtless," said I, "if the ecclesiastics of my day had regarded the result as merely depending on the drift of opinion among men, they would have been inclined to give up all hope of retaining their influence, but there was another element in the case which gave them courage." "And what was that?" "The women. They were in my day called the religious sex. The clergy generally were ready to admit that so far as the interest of the cultured class of men, and indeed of the men generally, in the churches went, they were in a bad way, but they had faith that the devotion of the women would save the cause. Woman was the sheet anchor of the Church. Not only were women the chief attendants at religious functions, but it was largely through their influence on the men that the latter tolerated, even so far as they did, the ecclesiastical pretensions. Now, were not our clergymen justified in counting on the continued support of women, whatever the men might do?" "Certainly they would have been if woman's position was to remain unchanged, but, as you are doubtless by this time well aware, the elevation and enlargement of woman's sphere in all directions was perhaps the most notable single aspect of the Revolution. When women were called the religious sex it would have been indeed a high ascription if it had been meant that they were the more spiritually minded, but that was not at all what the phrase signified to those who used it; it was merely intended to put in a complimentary way the fact that women in your day were the docile sex. Less educated, as a rule, than men, unaccustomed to responsibility, and trained in habits of subordination and self-distrust, they leaned in all things upon precedent and authority. Naturally, therefore, they still held to the principle of authoritative teaching in religion long after men had generally rejected it. All that was changed with the Revolution, and indeed began to change long before it. Since the Revolution there has been no difference in the education of the sexes nor in the independence of their economic and social position, in the exercise of responsibility or experience in the practical conduct of affairs. As you might naturally infer, they are no longer, as formerly, a peculiarly docile class, nor have they any more toleration for authority, whether in religion, politics, or economics, than their brethren. In every pursuit of life they join with men on equal terms, including the most important and engrossing of all our pursuits--the search after knowledge concerning the nature and destiny of man and his relation to the spiritual and material infinity of which he is a part." CHAPTER XXXII. ERITIS SICUT DEUS. "I infer, then," I said, "that the disappearance of religious divisions and the priestly caste has not operated to lessen the general interest in religion." "Should you have supposed that it would so operate?" "I don't know. I never gave much thought to such matters. The ecclesiastical class represented that they were very essential to the conservation of religion, and the rest of us took it for granted that it was so." "Every social institution which has existed for a considerable time," replied Mr. Barton, "has doubtless performed some function which was at the time more or less useful and necessary. Kings, ecclesiastics, and capitalists--all of them, for that matter, merely different sorts of capitalists--have, no doubt, in their proper periods, performed functions which, however badly discharged, were necessary and could not then have been discharged in any better manner. But just as the abolition of royalty was the beginning of decent government, just as the abolition of private capitalism was the beginning of effective wealth production, so the disappearance of church organization and machinery, or ecclesiastical capitalism, was the beginning of a world-awakening of impassioned interest in the vast concerns covered by the word religion. "Necessary as may have been the subjection of the race to priestly authority in the course of human evolution, it was the form of tutelage which, of all others, was most calculated to benumb and deaden the faculties affected by it, and the collapse of ecclesiasticism presently prepared the way for an enthusiasm of interest in the great problems of human nature and destiny which would have been scarcely conceivable by the worthy ecclesiastics of your day who with such painful efforts and small results sought to awake their flocks to spiritual concerns. The lack of general interest in these questions in your time was the natural result of their monopoly as the special province of the priestly class whose members stood as interpreters between man and the mystery about him, undertaking to guarantee the spiritual welfare of all who would trust them. The decay of priestly authority left every soul face to face with that mystery, with the responsibility of its interpretation upon himself. The collapse of the traditional theologies relieved the whole subject of man's relation with the infinite from the oppressive effect of the false finalities of dogma which had till then made the most boundless of sciences the most cramped and narrow. Instead of the mind-paralyzing worship of the past and the bondage of the present to that which is written, the conviction took hold on men that there was no limit to what they might know concerning their nature and destiny and no limit to that destiny. The priestly idea that the past was diviner than the present, that God was behind the race, gave place to the belief that we should look forward and not backward for inspiration, and that the present and the future promised a fuller and more certain knowledge concerning the soul and God than any the past had attained." "Has this belief," I asked, "been thus far practically confirmed by any progress actually made in the assurance of what is true as to these things? Do you consider that you really know more about them than we did, or that you know more positively the things which we merely tried to believe?" Mr. Barton paused a moment before replying. "You remarked a little while ago," he said, "that your talks with Dr. Leete had as yet turned little on religious matters. In introducing you to the modern world it was entirely right and logical that he should dwell at first mainly upon the change in economic systems, for that has, of course, furnished the necessary material basis for all the other changes that have taken place. But I am sure that you will never meet any one who, being asked in what direction the progress of the race during the past century has tended most to increase human happiness, would not reply that it had been in the science of the soul and its relation to the Eternal and Infinite. "This progress has been the result not merely of a more rational conception of the subject and complete intellectual freedom in its study, but largely also of social conditions which have set us almost wholly free from material engrossments. We have now for nearly a century enjoyed an economic welfare which has left nothing to be wished for in the way of physical satisfactions, especially as in proportion to the increase of this abundance there has been through culture a development of simplicity in taste which rejects excess and surfeit and ever makes less and less of the material side of life and more of the mental and moral. Thanks to this co-operation of the material with the moral evolution, the more we have the less we need. Long ago it came to be recognized that on the material side the race had reached the goal of its evolution. We have practically lost ambition for further progress in that direction. The natural result has been that for a long period the main energies of the intellect have been concentrated upon the possibilities of the spiritual evolution of mankind for which the completion of its material evolution has but prepared the beginning. What we have so far learned we are convinced is but the first faint inkling of the knowledge we shall attain to; and yet if the limitations of this earthly state were such that we might never hope here to know more than now we should not repine, for the knowledge we have has sufficed to turn the shadow of death into a bow of promise and distill the saltness out of human tears. You will observe, as you shall come to know more of our literature, that one respect in which it differs from yours is the total lack of the tragic note. This has very naturally followed, from a conception of our real life, as having an inaccessible security, 'hid in God,' as Paul said, whereby the accidents and vicissitudes of the personality are reduced to relative triviality. "Your seers and poets in exalted moments had seen that death was but a step in life, but this seemed to most of you to have been a hard saying. Nowadays, as life advances toward its close, instead of being shadowed by gloom, it is marked by an access of impassioned expectancy which would cause the young to envy the old, but for the knowledge that in a little while the same door will be opened to them. In your day the undertone of life seems to have been one of unutterable sadness, which, like the moaning of the sea to those who live near the ocean, made itself audible whenever for a moment the noise and bustle of petty engrossments ceased. Now this undertone is so exultant that we are still to hear it." "If men go on," I said, "growing at this rate in the knowledge of divine things and the sharing of the divine life, what will they yet come to?" Mr. Barton smiled. "Said not the serpent in the old story, 'If you eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge you shall be as gods'? The promise was true in words, but apparently there was some mistake about the tree. Perhaps it was the tree of selfish knowledge, or else the fruit was not ripe. The story is obscure. Christ later said the same thing when he told men that they might be the sons of God. But he made no mistake as to the tree he showed them, and the fruit was ripe. It was the fruit of love, for universal love is at once the seed and fruit, cause and effect, of the highest and completest knowledge. Through boundless love man becomes a god, for thereby is he made conscious of his oneness with God, and all things are put under his feet. It has been only since the great Revolution brought in the era of human brotherhood that mankind has been able to eat abundantly of this fruit of the true tree of knowledge, and thereby grow more and more into the consciousness of the divine soul as the essential self and the true hiding of our lives. Yes, indeed, we shall be gods. The motto of the modern civilization is '_Eritis sicut Deus_.'" "You speak of Christ. Do I understand that this modern religion is considered by you to be the same doctrine Christ taught?" "Most certainly. It has been taught from the beginning of history and doubtless earlier, but Christ's teaching is that which has most fully and clearly come down to us. It was the doctrine that he taught, but the world could not then receive it save a few, nor indeed has it ever been possible for the world in general to receive it or even to understand it until this present century." "Why could not the world receive earlier the revelation it seems to find so easy of comprehension now?" "Because," replied Mr. Barton, "the prophet and revealer of the soul and of God, which are the same, is love, and until these latter days the world refused to hear love, but crucified him. The religion of Christ, depending as it did upon the experience and intuitions of the unselfish enthusiasms, could not possibly be accepted or understood generally by a world which tolerated a social system based upon fratricidal struggle as the condition of existence. Prophets, messiahs, seers, and saints might indeed for themselves see God face to face, but it was impossible that there should be any general apprehension of God as Christ saw him until social justice had brought in brotherly love. Man must be revealed to man as brother before God could be revealed to him as father. Nominally, the clergy professed to accept and repeat Christ's teaching that God is a loving father, but of course it was simply impossible that any such idea should actually germinate and take root in hearts as cold and hard as stone toward their fellow-beings and sodden with hate and suspicion of them. 'If a man love not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath not seen?' The priests deafened their flocks with appeals to love God, to give their hearts to him. They should have rather taught them, as Christ did, to love their fellow-men and give their hearts to them. Hearts so given the love of God would presently enkindle, even as, according to the ancients, fire from heaven might be depended on to ignite a sacrifice fitly prepared and laid. "From the pulpit yonder, Mr. West, doubtless you have many times heard these words and many like them repeated: 'If we love one another God dwelleth in us and his love is perfected in us.' 'He that loveth his brother dwelleth in the light.' 'If any man say I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar.' 'He that loveth not his brother, abideth in death.' 'God is love and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God.' 'Every one that loveth knoweth God.' 'He that loveth not knoweth not God.' "Here is the very distillation of Christ's teaching as to the conditions of entering on the divine life. In this we find the sufficient explanation why the revelation which came to Christ so long ago and to other illumined souls could not possibly be received by mankind in general so long as an inhuman social order made a wall between man and God, and why, the moment that wall was cast down, the revelation flooded the earth like a sunburst. "'If we love one another God dwelleth in us,' and mark how the words were made good in the way by which at last the race found God! It was not, remember, by directly, purposely, or consciously seeking God. The great enthusiasm of humanity which overthrew the old order and brought in the fraternal society was not primarily or consciously a godward aspiration at all. It was essentially a humane movement. It was a melting and flowing forth of men's hearts toward one another, a rush of contrite, repentant tenderness, an impassioned impulse of mutual love and self-devotion to the common weal. But 'if we love one another God dwelleth in us,' and so men found it. It appears that there came a moment, the most transcendent moment in the history of the race of man, when with the fraternal glow of this world of new-found embracing brothers there seems to have mingled the ineffable thrill of a divine participation, as if the hand of God were clasped over the joined hands of men. And so it has continued to this day and shall for evermore." CHAPTER XXXIII. SEVERAL IMPORTANT MATTERS OVERLOOKED. After dinner the doctor said that he had an excursion to suggest for the afternoon. "It has often occurred to me," he went on, "that when you shall go out into the world and become familiar with its features by your own observation, you will, in looking back on these preparatory lessons I have tried to give you, form a very poor impression of my talent as a pedagogue. I am very much dissatisfied myself with the method in which I have developed the subject, which, instead of having been philosophically conceived as a plan of instruction, has been merely a series of random talks, guided rather by your own curiosity than any scheme on my part." "I am very thankful, my dear friend and teacher," I replied, "that you have spared me the philosophical method. Without boasting that I have acquired so soon a complete understanding of your modern system, I am very sure that I know a good deal more about it than I otherwise should, for the very reason that you have so good-naturedly followed the lead of my curiosity instead of tying me to the tailboard of a method." "I should certainly like to believe," said the doctor, "that our talks have been as instructive to you as they have been delightful to me, and if I have made mistakes it should be remembered that perhaps no instructor ever had or is likely to have a task quite so large as mine, or one so unexpectedly thrust upon him, or, finally, one which, being so large, the natural curiosity of his pupil compelled him to cover in so short a time." "But you were speaking of an excursion for this afternoon." "Yes," said the doctor. "It is a suggestion in the line of an attempt to remedy some few of my too probable omissions of important things in trying to acquaint you with how we live now. What do you say to chartering an air car this afternoon for the purpose of taking a bird's-eye view of the city and environs, and seeing what its various aspects may suggest in the way of features of present-day civilization which we have not touched upon?" The idea struck me as admirable, and we at once proceeded to put it in execution. * * * * * In these brief and fragmentary reminiscences of my first experiences in the modern world it is, of course, impossible that I should refer to one in a hundred of the startling things which happened to me. Still, even with that limitation, it may seem strange to my readers that I have not had more to say of the wonder excited in my mind by the number and character of the great mechanical inventions and applications unknown in my day, which contribute to the material fabric and actuate the mechanism of your civilization. For example, although this was very far from being my first air trip, I do not think that I have before referred to a sort of experience which, to a representative of the last century, must naturally have been nothing less than astounding. I can only say, by way of explanation of this seeming indifference to the mechanical wonders of this age, that had they been ten times more marvelous, they would still have impressed me with infinitely less astonishment than the moral revolution illustrated by your new social order. This, I am sure, is what would be the experience of any man of my time under my circumstances. The march of scientific discovery and mechanical invention during the last half of the nineteenth century had already been so great and was proceeding so rapidly that we were prepared to expect almost any amount of development in the same lines in the future. Your submarine shipping we had distinctly anticipated and even partially realized. The discovery of the electrical powers had made almost any mechanical conception seem possible. As to navigation of the air, we fully expected that would be somehow successfully solved by our grandchildren if not by our children. If, indeed, I had not found men sailing the air I should have been distinctly disappointed. But while we were prepared to expect well-nigh anything of man's intellectual development and the perfecting of his mastery over the material world, we were utterly skeptical as to the possibility of any large moral improvement on his part. As a moral being, we believed that he had got his growth, as the saying was, and would never in this world at least attain to a nobler stature. As a philosophical proposition, we recognized as fully as you do that the golden rule would afford the basis of a social life in which every one would be infinitely happier than anybody was in our world, and that the true interest of all would be furthered by establishing such a social order; but we held at the same time that the moral baseness and self-blinding selfishness of man would forever prevent him from realizing such an ideal. In vain, had he been endowed with a godlike intellect; it would not avail him for any of the higher uses of life, for an ineradicable moral perverseness would always hinder him from doing as well as he knew and hold him in hopeless subjection to the basest and most suicidal impulses of his nature. "Impossible; it is against human nature!" was the cry which met and for the most part overbore and silenced every prophet or teacher who sought to rouse the world to discontent with the reign of chaos and awaken faith in the possibility of a kingdom of God on earth. Is it any wonder, then, that one like me, bred in that atmosphere of moral despair, should pass over with comparatively little attention the miraculous material achievements of this age, to study with ever-growing awe and wonder the secret of your just and joyous living? As I look back I see now how truly this base view of human nature was the greatest infidelity to God and man which the human race ever fell into, but, alas! it was not the infidelity which the churches condemned, but rather a sort which their teachings of man's hopeless depravity were calculated to implant and confirm. This very matter of air navigation of which I was speaking suggests a striking illustration of the strange combination on the part of my contemporaries of unlimited faith in man's material progress with total unbelief in his moral possibilities. As I have said, we fully expected that posterity would achieve air navigation, but the application of the art most discussed was its use in war to drop dynamite bombs in the midst of crowded cities. Try to realize that if you can. Even Tennyson, in his vision of the future, saw nothing more. You remember how he Heard the heavens fill with shouting, And there rained a ghastly dew From the nations airy navies, Grappling in the central blue. HOW THE PEOPLE HOLD THE REINS. "And now," said the doctor, as he checked the rise of our car at an altitude of about one thousand feet, "let us attend to our lesson. What do you see down there to suggest a question?" "Well, to begin with," I said, as the dome of the Statehouse caught my eye, "what on earth have you stuck up there? It looks for all the world like one of those self-steering windmills the farmers in my day used to pump up water with. Surely that is an odd sort of ornament for a public building." "It is not intended as an ornament, but a symbol," replied the doctor. "It represents the modern ideal of a proper system of government. The mill stands for the machinery of administration, the wind that drives it symbolizes the public will, and the rudder that always keeps the vane of the mill before the wind, however suddenly or completely the wind may change, stands for the method by which the administration is kept at all times responsive and obedient to every mandate of the people, though it be but a breath. "I have talked to you so much on that subject that I need enlarge no further on the impossibility of having any popular government worthy of the name which is not based upon the economic equality of the citizens with its implications and consequences. No constitutional devices or cleverness of parliamentary machinery could have possibly made popular government anything but a farce, so long as the private economic interest of the citizen was distinct from and opposed to the public interest, and the so-called sovereign people ate their bread from the hand of capitalists. Given, on the other hand, economic unity of private interests with public interest, the complete independence of every individual on every other, and universal culture to cap all, and no imperfection of administrative machinery could prevent the government from being a good one. Nevertheless, we have improved the machinery as much as we have the motive force. You used to vote once a year, or in two years, or in six years, as the case might be, for those who were to rule over you till the next election, and those rulers, from the moment of their election to the term of their offices, were as irresponsible as czars. They were far more so, indeed, for the czar at least had a supreme motive to leave his inheritance unimpaired to his son, while these elected tyrants had no interest except in making the most they could out of their power while they held it. "It appears to us that it is an axiom of democratic government that power should never be delegated irrevocably for an hour, but should always be subject to recall by the delegating power. Public officials are nowadays chosen for a term as a matter of convenience, but it is not a term positive. They are liable to have their powers revoked at any moment by the vote of their principals; neither is any measure of more than merely routine character ever passed by a representative body without reference back to the people. The vote of no delegate upon any important measure can stand until his principals--or constituents, as you used to call them--have had the opportunity to cancel it. An elected agent of the people who offended the sentiment of the electors would be displaced, and his act repudiated the next day. You may infer that under this system the agent is solicitous to keep in contact with his principals. Not only do these precautions exist against irresponsible legislation, but the original proposition of measures comes from the people more often than from their representatives. "So complete through our telephone system has the most complicated sort of voting become, that the entire nation is organized so as to be able to proceed almost like one parliament if needful. Our representative bodies, corresponding to your former Congresses, Legislatures, and Parliaments, are under this system reduced to the exercise of the functions of what you used to call congressional committees. The people not only nominally but actually govern. We have a democracy in fact. "We take pains to exercise this direct and constant supervision of our affairs not because we suspect or fear our elected agents. Under our system of indefeasible, unchangeable, economic equality there is no motive or opportunity for venality. There is no motive for doing evil that could be for a moment set against the overwhelming motive of deserving the public esteem, which is indeed the only possible object that nowadays could induce any one to accept office. All our vital interests are secured beyond disturbance by the very framework of society. We could safely turn over to a selected body of citizens the management of the public affairs for their lifetime. The reason we do not is that we enjoy the exhilaration of conducting the government of affairs directly. You might compare us to a wealthy man of your day who, though having in his service any number of expert coachmen, preferred to handle the reins himself for the pleasure of it. You used to vote perhaps once a year, taking five minutes for it, and grudging the time at that as lost from your private business, the pursuit of which you called, I believe, 'the main chance.' Our private business is the public business, and we have no other of importance. Our 'main chance' is the public welfare, and we have no other chance. We vote a hundred times perhaps in a year, on all manner of questions, from the temperature of the public baths or the plan to be selected for a public building, to the greatest questions of the world union, and find the exercise at once as exhilarating as it is in the highest sense educational. "And now, Julian, look down again and see if you do not find some other feature of the scene to hang a question on." THE LITTLE WARS AND THE GREAT WAR. "I observe," I said, "that the harbor forts are still there. I suppose you retain them, like the specimen tenement houses, as historical evidences of the barbarism of your ancestors, my contemporaries." "You must not be offended," said the doctor, "if I say that we really have to keep a full assortment of such exhibits, for fear the children should flatly refuse to believe the accounts the books give of the unaccountable antics of their great-grandfathers." "The guarantee of international peace which the world union has brought," I said, "must surely be regarded by your people as one of the most signal achievements of the new order, and yet it strikes me I have heard you say very little about it." "Of course," said the doctor, "it is a great thing in itself, but so incomparably less important than the abolition of the economic war between man and man that we regard it as merely incidental to the latter. Nothing is much more astonishing about the mental operations of your contemporaries than the fuss they made about the cruelty of your occasional international wars while seemingly oblivious to the horrors of the battle for existence in which you all were perpetually involved. From our point of view, your wars, while of course very foolish, were comparatively humane and altogether petty exhibitions as contrasted with the fratricidal economic struggle. In the wars only men took part--strong, selected men, comprising but a very small part of the total population. There were no women, no children, no old people, no cripples allowed to go to war. The wounded were carefully looked after, whether by friends or foes, and nursed back to health. The rules of war forbade unnecessary cruelty, and at any time an honorable surrender, with good treatment, was open to the beaten. The battles generally took place on the frontiers, out of sight and sound of the masses. Wars were also very rare, often not one in a generation. Finally, the sentiments appealed to in international conflicts were, as a rule, those of courage and self-devotion. Often, indeed generally, the causes of the wars were unworthy of the sentiments of self-devotion which the fighting called out, but the sentiments themselves belonged to the noblest order. "Compare with warfare of this character the conditions of the economic struggle for existence. That was a war in which not merely small selected bodies of combatants took part, but one in which the entire population of every country, excepting the inconsiderable groups of the rich, were forcibly enlisted and compelled to serve. Not only did women, children, the aged and crippled have to participate in it, but the weaker the combatants the harder the conditions under which they must contend. It was a war in which there was no help for the wounded, no quarter for the vanquished. It was a war not on far frontiers, but in every city, every street, and every house, and its wounded, broken, and dying victims lay underfoot everywhere and shocked the eye in every direction that it might glance with some new form of misery. The ear could not escape the lamentations of the stricken and their vain cries for pity. And this war came not once or twice in a century, lasting for a few red weeks or months or years, and giving way again to peace, as did the battles of the soldiers, but was perennial and perpetual, truceless, lifelong. Finally, it was a war which neither appealed to nor developed any noble, any generous, any honorable sentiment, but, on the contrary, set a constant premium on the meanest, falsest, and most cruel propensities of human nature. "As we look back upon your era, the sort of fighting those old forts down there stood for seems almost noble and barely tragical at all, as compared with the awful spectacle of the struggle for existence. "We even are able to sympathize with the declaration of some of the professional soldiers of your age that occasional wars, with their appeals, however false, to the generous and self-devoting passions, were absolutely necessary to prevent your society, otherwise so utterly sordid and selfish in its ideals, from dissolving into absolute putrescence." "It is to be feared," I was moved to observe, "that posterity has not built so high a monument to the promoters of the universal peace societies of my day as they expected." "They were well meaning enough so far as they saw, no doubt," said the doctor, "but seem to have been a dreadfully short-sighted and purblind set of people. Their efforts to stop wars between nations, while tranquilly ignoring the world-wide economic struggle for existence which cost more lives and suffering in any one month than did the international wars of a generation, was a most striking case of straining at a gnat and swallowing a camel. "As to the gain to humanity which has come from the abolition of all war or possibility of war between nations of to-day, it seems to us to consist not so much in the mere prevention of actual bloodshed as in the dying out of the old jealousies and rancors which used to embitter peoples against one another almost as much in peace as in war, and the growth in their stead of a fraternal sympathy and mutual good will, unconscious of any barrier of race or country." THE OLD PATRIOTISM AND THE NEW. As the doctor was speaking, the waving folds of a flag floating far below caught my eye. It was the Star-Spangled Banner. My heart leaped at the sight and my eyes grew moist. "Ah!" I exclaimed, "it is Old Glory!" for so it had been a custom to call the flag in the days of the civil war and after. "Yes," replied my companion, as his eyes followed my gaze, "but it wears a new glory now, because nowhere in the land it floats over is there found a human being oppressed or suffering any want that human aid can relieve. "The Americans of your day," he continued, "were extremely patriotic after their fashion, but the difference between the old and the new patriotism is so great that it scarcely seems like the same sentiment. In your day and ever before, the emotions and associations of the flag were chiefly of the martial sort. Self-devotion to the nation in war with other nations was the idea most commonly conveyed by the word 'patriotism' and its derivatives. Of course, that must be so in ages when the nations had constantly to stand ready to fight one another for their existence. But the result was that the sentiment of national solidarity was arrayed against the sentiment of human solidarity. A lesser social enthusiasm was set in opposition to a greater, and the result was necessarily full of moral contradictions. Too often what was called love of country might better have been described as hate and jealousy of other countries, for no better reason than that there were other, and bigoted prejudices against foreign ideas and institutions--often far better than domestic ones--for no other reason than that they were foreign. This sort of patriotism was a most potent hindrance for countless ages to the progress of civilization, opposing to the spread of new ideas barriers higher than mountains, broader than rivers, deeper than seas. "The new patriotism is the natural outcome of the new social and international conditions which date from the great Revolution. Wars, which were already growing infrequent in your day, were made impossible by the rise of the world union, and for generations have now been unknown. The old blood-stained frontiers of the nations have become scarcely more than delimitations of territory for administrative convenience, like the State lines in the American Union. Under these circumstances international jealousies, suspicions, animosities, and apprehensions have died a natural death. The anniversaries of battles and triumphs over other nations, by which the antique patriotism was kept burning, have been long ago forgotten. In a word, patriotism is no longer a martial sentiment and is quite without warlike associations. As the flag has lost its former significance as an emblem of outward defiance, it has gained a new meaning as the supreme symbol of internal concord and mutuality; it has become the visible sign of the social solidarity in which the welfare of all is equally and impregnably secured. The American, as he now lifts his eyes to the ensign of the nation, is not reminded of its military prowess as compared with other nations, of its past triumphs in battle and possible future victories. To him the waving folds convey no such suggestions. They recall rather the compact of brotherhood in which he stands pledged with all his countrymen mutually to safeguard the equal dignity and welfare of each by the might of all. "The idea of the old-time patriots was that foreigners were the only people at whose hands the flag could suffer dishonor, and the report of any lack of etiquette toward it on their part used to excite the people to a patriotic frenzy. That sort of feeling would be simply incomprehensible now. As we look at it, foreigners have no power to insult the flag, for they have nothing to do with it, nor with what it stands for. Its honor or dishonor must depend upon the people whose plighted faith one to another it represents, to maintain the social contract. To the old-time patriot there was nothing incongruous in the spectacle of the symbol of the national unity floating over cities reeking with foulest oppressions, full of prostitution, beggary, and dens of nameless misery. According to the modern view, the existence of a single instance in any corner of the land where a citizen had been deprived of the full enjoyment of equality would turn the flag into a flaunting lie, and the people would demand with indignation that it should be hauled down and not raised again till the wrong was remedied." "Truly," I said, "the new glory which Old Glory wears is a greater than the old glory." MORE FOREIGN TRAVEL BUT LESS FOREIGN TRADE. As we had talked, the doctor had allowed our car to drift before the westerly breeze till now we were over the harbor, and I was moved to exclaim at the scanty array of shipping it contained. "It does not seem to me," I said, "that there are more vessels here than in my day, much less the great fleets one might expect to see after a century's development in population and resources." "In point of fact," said the doctor, "the new order has tended to decrease the volume of foreign trade, though on the other hand there is a thousandfold more foreign travel for instruction and pleasure." "In just what way," I asked, "did the new order tend to decrease exchanges with foreign countries?" "In two ways," replied the doctor. "In the first place, as you know, the profit idea is now abolished in foreign trade as well as in domestic distribution. The International Council supervises all exchanges between nations, and the price of any product exported by one nation to another must not be more than that at which the exporting nation provides its own people with the same. Consequently there is no reason why a nation should care to produce goods for export unless and in so far as it needs for actual consumption products of another country which it can not itself so well produce. "Another yet more potent effect of the new order in limiting foreign exchange is the general equalization of all nations which has long ago come about as to intelligence and the knowledge and practice of sciences and arts. A nation of to-day would be humiliated to have to import any commodity which insuperable natural conditions did not prevent the production of at home. It is consequently to such productions that commerce is now limited, and the list of them grows ever shorter as with the progress of invention man's conquest of Nature proceeds. As to the old advantage of coal-producing countries in manufacturing, that disappeared nearly a century ago with the great discoveries which made the unlimited development of electrical power practically costless. "But you should understand that it is not merely on economic grounds or for self-esteem's sake that the various peoples desire to do everything possible for themselves rather than depend on people at a distance. It is quite as much for the education and mind-awakening influence of a diversified industrial system within a small space. It is our policy, so far as it can be economically carried out in the grouping of industries, not only to make the system of each nation complete, but so to group the various industries within each particular country that every considerable district shall present within its own limits a sort of microcosm of the industrial world. We were speaking of that, you may remember, the other morning, in the Labor Exchange." THE MODERN DOCTOR'S EASY TASK. The doctor had some time before reversed our course, and we were now moving westward over the city. "What is that building which we are just passing over that has so much glass about it?" I asked. "That is one of the sanitariums," replied the doctor, "which people go to who are in bad health and do not wish to change their climate, as we think persons in serious chronic ill health ought to do and as all can now do if they desire. In these buildings everything is as absolutely adapted to the condition of the patient as if he were for the time being in a world in which his disease were the normal type." "Doubtless there have been great improvements in all matters relating to your profession--medicine, hygiene, surgery, and the rest--since my day." "Yes," replied the doctor, "there have been great improvements in two ways--negative and positive--and the more important of the two is perhaps the negative way, consisting in the disappearance of conditions inimical to health, which physicians formerly had to combat with little chance of success in many cases. For example, it is now two full generations since the guarantee of equal maintenance for all placed women in a position of economic independence and consequent complete control of their relations to men. You will readily understand how, as one result of this, the taint of syphilis has been long since eliminated from the blood of the race. The universal prevalence now for three generations of the most cleanly and refined conditions of housing, clothing, heating, and living generally, with the best treatment available for all in case of sickness, have practically--indeed I may say completely--put an end to the zymotic and other contagious diseases. To complete the story, add to these improvements in the hygienic conditions of the people the systematic and universal physical culture which is a part of the training of youth, and then as a crowning consideration think of the effect of the physical rehabilitation--you might almost call it the second creation of woman in a bodily sense--which has purified and energized the stream of life at its source." "Really, doctor, I should say that, without going further, you have fairly reasoned your profession out of its occupation." "You may well say so," replied the doctor. "The progress of invention and improvement since your day has several times over improved the doctors out of their former occupations, just as it has every other sort of workers, but only to open new and higher fields of finer work. "Perhaps," my companion resumed, "a more important negative factor in the improvement in medical and hygienic conditions than any I have mentioned is the fact that people are no longer in the state of ignorance as to their own bodies that they seem formerly to have been. The progress of knowledge in that respect has kept pace with the march of universal culture. It is evident from what we read that even the cultured classes in your day thought it no shame to be wholly uninformed as to physiology and the ordinary conditions of health and disease. They appear to have left their physical interests to the doctors, with much the same spirit of cynical resignation with which they turned over their souls to the care of the clergy. Nowadays a system of education would be thought farcical which did not impart a sufficient knowledge of the general principles of physiology, hygiene, and medicine to enable a person to treat any ordinary physical disturbance without recourse to a physician. It is perhaps not too much to say that everybody nowadays knows as much about the treatment of disease as a large proportion of the members of the medical profession did in your time. As you may readily suppose, this is a situation which, even apart from the general improvement in health, would enable the people to get on with one physician where a score formerly found business. We doctors are merely specialists and experts on subjects that everybody is supposed to be well grounded in. When we are called in, it is really only in consultation, to use a phrase of the profession in your day, the other parties being the patient and his friends. "But of all the factors in the advance of medical science, one of the most important has been the disappearance of sectarianism, resulting largely from the same causes, moral and economic, which banished it from religion. You will scarcely need to be reminded that in your day medicine, next to theology, suffered most of all branches of knowledge from the benumbing influence of dogmatic schools. There seems to have been well-nigh as much bigotry as to the science of curing the body as the soul, and its influence to discourage original thought and retard progress was much the same in one field as the other. "There are really no conditions to limit the course of physicians. The medical education is the fullest possible, but the methods of practice are left to the doctor and patient. It is assumed that people as cultured as ours are as competent to elect the treatment for their bodies as to choose that for their souls. The progress in medical science which has resulted from this complete independence and freedom of initiative on the part of the physician, stimulated by the criticism and applause of a people well able to judge of results, has been unprecedented. Not only in the specific application of the preserving and healing arts have innumerable achievements been made and radically new principles discovered, but we have made advances toward a knowledge of the central mystery of life which in your day it would have been deemed almost sacrilegious to dream of. As to pain, we permit it only for its symptomatic indications, and so far only as we need its guidance in diagnosis." "I take it, however, that you have not abolished death." "I assure you," laughed the doctor, "that if perchance any one should find out the secret of that, the people would mob him and burn up his formula. Do you suppose we want to be shut up here forever?" "HOW COULD WE INDEED?" Applying myself again to the study of the moving panorama below us, I presently remarked to the doctor that we must be pretty nearly over what was formerly called Brighton, a suburb of the city at which the live stock for the food supply of the city had mainly been delivered. "I see the old cattle-sheds are gone," I said. "Doubtless you have much better arrangements. By the way, now that everybody is well-to-do, and can afford the best cuts of beef, I imagine the problem of providing a big city with fresh meats must be much more difficult than in my day, when the poor were able to consume little flesh food, and that of the poorest sort." The doctor looked over the side of the car for some moments before answering. "I take it," he said, "that you have not spoken to any one before on this point." "Why, I think not. It has not before occurred to me." "It is just as well," said the doctor. "You see, Julian, in the transformation in customs and habits of thought and standards of fitness since your day, it could scarcely have happened but that in some cases the changes should have been attended with a decided revulsion in sentiment against the former practices. I hardly know how to express myself, but I am rather glad that you first spoke of this matter to me." A light dawned on me, and suddenly brought out the significance of numerous half-digested observations which I had previously made. "Ah!" I exclaimed, "you mean you don't eat the flesh of animals any more." "Is it possible you have not guessed that? Had you not noticed that you were offered no such food?" "The fact is," I replied, "the cooking is so different in all respects from that of my day that I have given up all attempt to identify anything. But I have certainly missed no flavor to which I have been accustomed, though I have been delighted by a great many novel ones." "Yes," said the doctor, "instead of the one or two rude processes inherited from primitive men by which you used to prepare food and elicit its qualities, we have a great number and variety. I doubt if there was any flavor you had which we do not reproduce, besides the great number of new ones discovered since your time." "But when was the use of animals for food discontinued?" "Soon after the great Revolution." "What caused the change? Was it a conviction that health would be favored by avoiding flesh?" "It does not seem to have been that motive which chiefly led to the change. Undoubtedly the abandonment of the custom of eating animals, by which we inherited all their diseases, has had something to do with the great physical improvement of the race, but people did not apparently give up eating animals mainly for health's sake any more than cannibals in more ancient times abandoned eating their fellow-men on that account. It was, of course, a very long time ago, and there was perhaps no practice of the former order of which the people, immediately after giving it up, seem to have become so much ashamed. This is doubtless why we find such meager information in the histories of the period as to the circumstances of the change. There appears, however, to be no doubt that the abandonment of the custom was chiefly an effect of the great wave of humane feeling, the passion of pity and compunction for all suffering--in a word, the impulse of tender-heartedness--which was really the great moral power behind the Revolution. As might be expected, this outburst did not affect merely the relations of men with men, but likewise their relations with the whole sentient world. The sentiment of brotherhood, the feeling of solidarity, asserted itself not merely toward men and women, but likewise toward the humbler companions of our life on earth and sharers of its fortunes, the animals. The new and vivid light thrown on the rights and duties of men to one another brought also into view and recognition the rights of the lower orders of being. A sentiment against cruelty to animals of every kind had long been growing in civilized lands, and formed a distinct feature of the general softening of manners which led up to the Revolution. This sentiment now became an enthusiasm. The new conception of our relation to the animals appealed to the heart and captivated the imagination of mankind. Instead of sacrificing the weaker races to our use or pleasure, with no thought for their welfare, it began to be seen that we should rather, as elder brothers in the great family of Nature, be, so far as possible, guardians and helpers to the weaker orders whose fate is in our hands and to which we are as gods. Do you not see, Julian, how the prevalence of this new view might soon have led people to regard the eating of their fellow-animals as a revolting practice, almost akin to cannibalism?" "That is, of course, very easily understood. Indeed, doctor, you must not suppose that my contemporaries were wholly without feeling on this subject. Long before the Revolution was dreamed of there were a great many persons of my acquaintance who owned to serious qualms over flesh-eating, and perhaps the greater part of refined persons were not without pangs of conscience at various times over the practice. The trouble was, there really seemed nothing else to do. It was just like our economic system. Humane persons generally admitted that it was very bad and brutal, and yet very few could distinctly see what the world was going to replace it with. You people seem to have succeeded in perfecting a _cuisine_ without using flesh, and I admit it is every way more satisfactory than ours was, but you can not imagine how absolutely impossible the idea of getting on without the use of animal food looked in my day, when as yet nothing definite had been suggested to take its place which offered any reasonable amount of gratification to the palate, even if it provided the means of aliment." "I can imagine the difficulty to some extent. It was, as you say, like that which so long hindered the change of economic systems. People could not clearly realize what was to take its place. While one's mouth is full of one flavor it is difficult to imagine another. That lack of constructive imagination on the part of the mass is the obstacle that has stood in the way of removing every ancient evil, and made necessary a wave of revolutionary force to do the work. Such a wave of feeling as I have described was needful in this case to do away with the immemorial habit of flesh-eating. As soon as the new attitude of men's minds took away their taste for flesh, and there was a demand that had to be satisfied for some other and adequate sort of food, it seems to have been very promptly met." "From what source?" "Of course," replied the doctor, "chiefly from the vegetable world, though by no means wholly. There had never been any serious attempt before to ascertain what its provisions for food actually were, still less what might be made of them by scientific treatment. Nor, as long as there was no objection to killing some animal and appropriating without trouble the benefit of its experiments, was there likely to be. The rich lived chiefly on flesh. As for the working masses, which had always drawn their vigor mainly from vegetables, nobody of the influential classes cared to make their lot more agreeable. Now, however, all with one consent set about inquiring what sort of a table Nature might provide for men who had forsworn murder. "Just as the crude and simple method of slavery, first chattel slavery and afterward wage slavery, had, so long as it prevailed, prevented men from seeking to replace its crude convenience by a scientific industrial system, so in like manner the coarse convenience of flesh for food had hitherto prevented men from making a serious perquisition of Nature's edible resources. The delay in this respect is further accounted for by the fact that the preparation of food, on account of the manner of its conduct as an industry, had been the least progressive of all the arts of life." "What is that?" I said. "The least progressive of arts? Why so?" "Because it had always been carried on as an isolated household industry, and as such chiefly left to servants or women, who in former times were the most conservative and habit-bound class in the communities. The rules of the art of cookery had been handed down little changed in essentials since the wife of the Aryan cowherd dressed her husband's food for him. "Now, it must remain very doubtful how immediately successful the revolt against animal food would have proved if the average family cook, whether wife or hireling, had been left each for herself in her private kitchen to grapple with the problem of providing for the table a satisfactory substitute for flesh. But, thanks to the many-sided character of the great Revolution, the juncture of time at which the growth of humane feeling created a revolt against animal food coincided with the complete breakdown of domestic service and the demand of women for a wider life, facts which compelled the placing of the business of providing and preparing food on a co-operative basis, and the making of it a branch of the public service. So it was that as soon as men, losing appetite for their fellow-creatures, began to ask earnestly what else could be eaten, there was already being organized a great governmental department commanding all the scientific talent of the nation, and backed by the resources of the country, for the purpose of solving the question. And it is easy to believe that none of the new departments was stimulated in its efforts by a keener public interest than this which had in charge the preparation of the new national bill of fare. These were the conditions for which alimentation had waited from the beginnings of the race to become a science. "In the first place, the food materials and methods of preparing them actually extant, and used in the different nations, were, for the first time in history, collected and collated. In presence of the cosmopolitan variety and extent of the international _menu_ thus presented, every national _cuisine_ was convicted of having until then run in a rut. It was apparent that in nothing had the nations been more provincial, more stupidly prejudiced against learning from one another, than in matters of food and cooking. It was discovered, as observing travelers had always been aware, that every nation and country, often every province, had half a dozen gastronomic secrets that had never crossed the border, or at best on very brief excursions. "It is well enough to mention, in passing, that the collation of this international bill of fare was only one illustration of the innumerable ways in which the nations, as soon as the new order put an end to the old prejudices, began right and left to borrow and adopt the best of one another's ideas and institutions, to the great general enrichment. "But the organization of a scientific system of alimentation did not cease with utilizing the materials and methods already existing. The botanist and the chemist next set about finding new food materials and new methods of preparing them. At once it was discovered that of the natural products capable of being used as food by man, but a petty proportion had ever been utilized; only those, and a small part even of that class, which readily lent themselves to the single primitive process whereby the race hitherto had attempted to prepare food--namely, the application of dry or wet heat. To this, manifold other processes suggested by chemistry were now added, with effects that our ancestors found as delightful as novel. It had hitherto been with the science of cooking as with metallurgy when simple fire remained its only method. "It is written that the children of Israel, when practicing an enforced vegetarian diet in the wilderness, yearned after the flesh-pots of Egypt, and probably with good reason. The experience of our ancestors appears to have been in this respect quite different. It would seem that the sentiments with which, after a very short period had elapsed, they looked back upon the flesh-pots they had left behind were charged with a feeling quite the reverse of regret. There is an amusing cartoon of the period, which suggests how brief a time it took for them to discover what a good thing they had done for themselves in resolving to spare the animals. The cartoon, as I remember it, is in two parts. The first shows Humanity, typified by a feminine figure regarding a group of animals consisting of the ox, the sheep, and the hog. Her face expresses the deepest compunction, while she tearfully exclaims, 'Poor things! How could we ever bring ourselves to eat you?' The second part reproduces the same group, with the heading 'Five Years After.' But here the countenance of Humanity as she regards the animals expresses not contrition or self-reproach, but disgust and loathing, while she exclaims in nearly identical terms, but very different emphasis, 'How could we, indeed?'" WHAT BECAME OF THE GREAT CITIES. Continuing to move westward toward the interior, we had now gradually left behind the more thickly settled portions of the city, if indeed any portion of these modern cities, in which every home stands in its own inclosure, can be called thickly settled. The groves and meadows and larger woods had become numerous, and villages occurred at frequent intervals. We were out in the country. "Doctor," said I, "it has so happened, you will remember, that what I have seen of twentieth-century life has been mainly its city side. If country life has changed since my day as much as city life, it will be very interesting to make its acquaintance again. Tell me something about it." "There are few respects, I suppose," replied the doctor, "in which the effect of the nationalization of production and distribution on the basis of economic equality has worked a greater transformation than in the relations of city and country, and it is odd we should not have chanced to speak of this before now." "When I was last in the world of living people," I said, "the city was fast devouring the country. Has that process gone on, or has it possibly been reversed?" "Decidedly the latter," replied the doctor, "as indeed you will at once see must have been the case when you consider that the enormous growth of the great cities of the past was entirely an economic consequence of the system of private capitalism, with its necessary dependence upon individual initiative, and the competitive system." "That is a new idea to me," I said. "I think you will find it a very obvious one upon reflection," replied the doctor. "Under private capitalism, you see, there was no public or governmental system for organizing productive effort and distributing its results. There was no general and unfailing machinery for bringing producers and consumers together. Everybody had to seek his own occupation and maintenance on his own account, and success depended on his finding an opportunity to exchange his labor or possessions for the possessions or labor of others. For this purpose the best place, of course, was where there were many people who likewise wanted to buy or sell their labor or goods. Consequently, when, owing either to accident or calculation, a mass of people were drawn together, others flocked to them, for every such aggregation made a market place where, owing simply to the number of persons desiring to buy and sell, better opportunities for exchange were to be found than where fewer people were, and the greater the number of people the larger and better the facilities for exchange. The city having thus taken a start, the larger it became, the faster it was likely to grow by the same logic that accounted for its first rise. The laborer went there to find the largest and steadiest market for his muscle, and the capitalist--who, being a conductor of production, desired the largest and steadiest labor market--went there also. The capitalist trader went there to find the greatest group of consumers of his goods within least space. "Although at first the cities rose and grew, mainly because of the facilities for exchange among their own citizens, yet presently the result of the superior organization of exchange facilities made them centers of exchange for the produce of the surrounding country. In this way those who lived in the cities had not only great opportunities to grow rich by supplying the needs of the dense resident population, but were able also to levy a tribute upon the products of the people in the country round about by compelling those products to pass through their hands on the way to the consumers, even though the consumers, like the producers, lived in the country, and might be next door neighbors. "In due course," pursued the doctor, "this concentration of material wealth in the cities led to a concentration there of all the superior, the refined, the pleasant, and the luxurious ministrations of life. Not only did the manual laborers flock to the cities as the market where they could best exchange their labor for the money of the capitalists, but the professional and learned class resorted thither for the same purpose. The lawyers, the pedagogues, the doctors, the rhetoricians, and men of special skill in every branch, went there as the best place to find the richest and most numerous employers of their talents, and to make their careers. "And in like manner all who had pleasure to sell--the artists, the players, the singers, yes, and the courtesans also--flocked to the cities for the same reasons. And those who desired pleasure and had wealth to buy it, those who wished to enjoy life, either as to its coarse or refined gratifications, followed the pleasure-givers. And, finally, the thieves and robbers, and those pre-eminent in the wicked arts of living on their fellow-men, followed the throng to the cities, as offering them also the best field for their talents. And so the cities became great whirlpools, which drew to themselves all that was richest and best, and also everything that was vilest, in the whole land. "Such, Julian, was the law of the genesis and growth of the cities, and it was by necessary consequence the law of the shrinkage, decay, and death of the country and country life. It was only necessary that the era of private capitalism in America should last long enough for the rural districts to have been reduced to what they were in the days of the Roman Empire, and of every empire which achieved full development--namely, regions whence all who could escape had gone to seek their fortune in the cities, leaving only a population of serfs and overseers. "To do your contemporaries justice, they seemed themselves to realize that the swallowing up of the country by the city boded no good to civilization, and would apparently have been glad to find a cure for it, but they failed entirely to observe that, as it was a necessary effect of private capitalism, it could only be remedied by abolishing that." "Just how," said I, "did the abolition of private capitalism and the substitution of a nationalized economic system operate to stop the growth of the cities?" "By abolishing the need of markets for the exchange of labor and commodities," replied the doctor. "The facilities of exchange organized in the cities under the private capitalists were rendered wholly superfluous and impertinent by the national organization of production and distribution. The produce of the country was no longer handled by or distributed through the cities, except so far as produced or consumed there. The quality of goods furnished in all localities, and the measure of industrial service required of all, was the same. Economic equality having done away with rich and poor, the city ceased to be a place where greater luxury could be enjoyed or displayed than the country. The provision of employment and of maintenance on equal terms to all took away the advantages of locality as helps to livelihood. In a word, there was no longer any motive to lead a person to prefer city to country life, who did not like crowds for the sake of being crowded. Under these circumstances you will not find it strange that the growth of the cities ceased, and their depopulation began from the moment the effects of the Revolution became apparent." "But you have cities yet!" I exclaimed. "Certainly--that is, we have localities where population still remains denser than in other places. None of the great cities of your day have become extinct, but their populations are but small fractions of what they were." "But Boston is certainly a far finer-looking city than in my day." "All the modern cities are far finer and fairer in every way than their predecessors and infinitely fitter for human habitation, but in order to make them so it was necessary to get rid of their surplus population. There are in Boston to-day perhaps a quarter as many people as lived in the same limits in the Boston of your day, and that is simply because there were four times as many people within those limits as could be housed and furnished with environments consistent with the modern idea of healthful and agreeable living. New York, having been far worse crowded than Boston, has lost a still larger proportion of its former population. Were you to visit Manhattan Island I fancy your first impression would be that the Central Park of your day had been extended all the way from the Battery to Harlem River, though in fact the place is rather thickly built up according to modern notions, some two hundred and fifty thousand people living there among the groves and fountains." "And you say this amazing depopulation took place at once after the Revolution?" "It began then. The only way in which the vast populations of the old cities could be crowded into spaces so small was by packing them like sardines in tenement houses. As soon as it was settled that everybody must be provided with really and equally good habitations, it followed that the cities must lose the greater part of their population. These had to be provided with dwellings in the country. Of course, so vast a work could not be accomplished instantly, but it proceeded with all possible speed. In addition to the exodus of people from the cities because there was no room for them to live decently, there was also a great outflow of others who, now there had ceased to be any economic advantages in city life, were attracted by the natural charms of the country; so that you may easily see that it was one of the great tasks of the first decade after the Revolution to provide homes elsewhere for those who desired to leave the cities. The tendency countryward continued until the cities having been emptied of their excess of people, it was possible to make radical changes in their arrangements. A large proportion of the old buildings and all the unsightly, lofty, and inartistic ones were cleared away and replaced with structures of the low, broad, roomy style adapted to the new ways of living. Parks, gardens, and roomy spaces were multiplied on every hand and the system of transit so modified as to get rid of the noise and dust, and finally, in a word, the city of your day was changed into the modern city. Having thus been made as pleasant places to live in as was the country itself, the outflow of population from the cities ceased and an equilibrium became established." "It strikes me," I observed, "that under any circumstances cities must still, on account of their greater concentration of people, have certain better public services than small villages, for naturally such conveniences are least expensive where a dense population is to be supplied." "As to that," replied the doctor, "if a person desires to live in some remote spot far away from neighbors he will have to put up with some inconveniences. He will have to bring his supplies from the nearest public store and dispense with various public services enjoyed by those who live nearer together; but in order to be really out of reach of these services he must go a good way off. You must remember that nowadays the problems of communication and transportation both by public and private means have been so entirely solved that conditions of space which were prohibitive in your day are unimportant now. Villages five and ten miles apart are as near together for purposes of social intercourse and economic administration as the adjoining wards of your cities. Either on their own account or by group combinations with other communities dwellers in the smallest villages enjoy installations of all sorts of public services as complete as exist in the cities. All have public stores and kitchens with telephone and delivery systems, public baths, libraries, and institutions of the highest education. As to the quality of the services and commodities provided, they are of absolutely equal excellence wherever furnished. Finally, by telephone and electroscope the dwellers in any part of the country, however deeply secluded among the forests or the mountains, may enjoy the theater, the concert, and the orator quite as advantageously as the residents of the largest cities." THE REFORESTING. Still we swept on mile after mile, league after league, toward the interior, and still the surface below presented the same parklike aspect that had marked the immediate environs of the city. Every natural feature appeared to have been idealized and all its latent meaning brought out by the loving skill of some consummate landscape artist, the works of man blending with the face of Nature in perfect harmony. Such arrangements of scenery had not been uncommon in my day, when great cities prepared costly pleasure grounds, but I had never imagined anything on a scale like this. "How far does this park extend?" I demanded at last. "There seems no end to it." "It extends to the Pacific Ocean," said the doctor. "Do you mean that the whole United States is laid out in this way?" "Not precisely in this way by any means, but in a hundred different ways according to the natural suggestions of the face of the country and the most effective way of co-operating with them. In this region, for instance, where there are few bold natural features, the best effect to be obtained was that of a smiling, peaceful landscape with as much diversification in detail as possible. In the mountainous regions, on the contrary, where Nature has furnished effects which man's art could not strengthen, the method has been to leave everything absolutely as Nature left it, only providing the utmost facilities for travel and observation. When you visit the White Mountains or the Berkshire Hills you will find, I fancy, their slopes shaggier, the torrents wilder, the forests loftier and more gloomy than they were a hundred years ago. The only evidences of man's handiwork to be found there are the roadways which traverse every gorge and top every summit, carrying the traveler within reach of all the wild, rugged, or beautiful bits of Nature." "As far as forests go, it will not be necessary for me to visit the mountains in order to perceive that the trees are not only a great deal loftier as a rule, but that there are vastly more of them than formerly." "Yes," said the doctor, "it would be odd if you did not notice that difference in the landscape. There are said to be five or ten trees nowadays where there was one in your day, and a good part of those you see down there are from seventy-five to a hundred years old, dating from the reforesting." "What was the reforesting?" I asked. "It was the restoration of the forests after the Revolution. Under private capitalism the greed or need of individuals had led to so general a wasting of the woods that the streams were greatly reduced and the land was constantly plagued with droughts. It was found after the Revolution that one of the things most urgent to be done was to reforest the country. Of course, it has taken a long time for the new plantings to come to maturity, but I believe it is now some twenty-five years since the forest plan reached its full development and the last vestiges of the former ravages disappeared." "Do you know," I said presently, "that one feature which is missing from the landscape impresses me quite as much as any that it presents?" "What is it that is missing?" "The hayfield." "Ah! yes, no wonder you miss it," said the doctor. "I understand that in your day hay was the main crop of New England?" "Altogether so," I replied, "and now I suppose you have no use for hay at all. Dear me, in what a multitude of important ways the passing of the animals out of use both for food and work must have affected human occupations and interests!" "Yes, indeed," said the doctor, "and always to the notable improvement of the social condition, though it may sound ungrateful to say so. Take the case of the horse, for example. With the passing of that long-suffering servant of man to his well earned reward, smooth, permanent, and clean roadways first became possible; dust, dirt, danger, and discomfort ceased to be necessary incidents of travel. "Thanks to the passing of the horse, it was possible to reduce the breadth of roadways by half or a third, to construct them of smooth concrete from grass to grass, leaving no soil to be disturbed by wind or water, and such ways once built, last like Roman roads, and can never be overgrown by vegetation. These paths, penetrating every nook and corner of the land, have, together with the electric motors, made travel such a luxury that as a rule we make all short journeys, and when time does not press even very long ones, by private conveyance. Had land travel remained in the condition it was in when it depended on the horse, the invention of the air-car would have strongly tempted humanity to treat the earth as the birds do--merely as a place to alight on between flights. As it is, we consider the question an even one whether it is pleasanter to swim through the air or to glide over the ground, the motion being well-nigh as swift, noiseless, and easy in one case as in the other." "Even before 1887," I said, "the bicycle was coming into such favor and the possibilities of electricity were beginning so to loom up that prophetic people began to talk about the day of the horse as almost over. But it was believed that, although dispensed with for road purposes, he must always remain a necessity for the multifarious purposes of farm work, and so I should have supposed. How is it about that?" TWENTIETH-CENTURY FARMING. "Wait a moment," replied the doctor; "when we have descended a little I will give you a practical answer." After we had dropped from an altitude of perhaps a thousand feet to a couple of hundred, the doctor said: "Look down there to the right." I did so, and saw a large field from which the crops had been cut. Over its surface was moving a row of great machines, behind which the earth surged up in brown and rigid billows. On each machine stood or sat in easy attitude a young man or woman with quite the air of persons on a pleasure excursion. "Evidently," I said, "these are plows, but what drives them?" "They are electric plows," replied the doctor. "Do you see that snakelike cord trailing away over the broken ground behind each machine? That is the cable by which the force is supplied. Observe those posts at regular intervals about the field. It is only necessary to attach one of those cables to a post to have a power which, connected with any sort of agricultural machine, furnishes energy graduated from a man's strength to that of a hundred horses, and requiring for its guidance no other force than the fingers of a child can supply." And not only this, but it was further explained to me that by this system of flexible cables of all sizes the electric power was applied not only to all the heavy tasks formerly done by animals, but also to the hand instruments--the spade, the shovel, and the fork--which the farmer in my time must bend his own back to, however well supplied he might be with horse power. There was, indeed, no tool, however small, the doctor explained, whether used in agriculture or any other art, to which this motor was not applicable, leaving to the worker only the adjustment and guiding of the instrument. "With one of our shovels," said the doctor, "an intelligent boy can excavate a trench or dig a mile of potatoes quicker than a gang of men in your day, and with no more effort than he would use in wheeling a barrow." I had been told several times that at the present day farm work was considered quite as desirable as any other occupation, but, with my impressions as to the peculiar arduousness of the earth worker's task, I had not been able to realize how this could really be so. It began to seem possible. The doctor suggested that perhaps I would like to land and inspect some of the arrangements of a modern farm, and I gladly assented. But first he took advantage of our elevated position to point out the network of railways by which all the farm transportation was done and whereby the crops when gathered could, if desirable, be shipped directly, without further handling, to any point in the country. Having alighted from our car, we crossed the field toward the nearest of the great plows, the rider of which was a dark-haired young woman daintily costumed, such a figure certainly as no nineteenth-century farm field ever saw. As she sat gracefully upon the back of the shining metal monster which, as it advanced, tore up the earth with terrible horns, I could but be reminded of Europa on her bull. If her prototype was as charming as this young woman, Jupiter certainly was excusable for running away with her. As we approached, she stopped the plow and pleasantly returned our greeting. It was evident that she recognized me at the first glance, as, thanks doubtless to the diffusion of my portrait, everybody seemed to do. The interest with which she regarded me would have been more flattering had I not been aware that I owed it entirely to my character as a freak of Nature and not at all to my personality. When I asked her what sort of a crop they were expecting to plant at this season, she replied that this was merely one of the many annual plowings given to all soil to keep it in condition. "We use, of course, abundant fertilizers," she said, "but consider the soil its own best fertilizer if kept moving." "Doubtless," said I, "labor is the best fertilizer of the soil. So old an authority as Aesop taught us that in his fable of 'The Buried Treasure,' but it was a terribly expensive sort of fertilizer in my day when it had to come out of the muscles of men and beasts. One plowing a year was all our farmers could manage, and that nearly broke their backs." "Yes," she said, "I have read of those poor men. Now you see it is different. So long as the tides rise and fall twice a day, let alone the winds and waterfalls, there is no reason why we should not plow every day if it were desirable. I believe it is estimated that about ten times the amount of power is nowadays given to the working of every acre of land that it was possible to apply in former times." We spent some time inspecting the farm. The doctor explained the drainage and pumping systems by which both excess and deficiency of rain are guarded against, and gave me opportunity to examine in detail some of the wonderful tools he had described, which make practically no requisition on the muscle of the worker, only needing a mind behind them. Connected with the farm was one of the systems of great greenhouse establishments upon which the people depend for fresh vegetables in the winter, and this, too, we visited. The wonders of intensive culture which I saw in that great structure would of course astonish none of my readers, but to me the revelation of what could be done with plants when all the conditions of light, heat, moisture, and soil ingredients were absolutely to be commanded, was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. It seemed to me that I had stolen into the very laboratory of the Creator, and found him at the task of fashioning with invisible hands the dust of the earth and the viewless air into forms of life. I had never seen plants actually grow before and had deemed the Indian juggler's trick an imposture. But here I saw them lifting their heads, putting forth their buds, and opening their flowers by movements which the eye could follow. I confess that I fairly listened to hear them whisper. "In my day, greenhouse culture of vegetables out of season had been carried on only to an extent to meet the demands of a small class of very rich. The idea of providing such supplies at moderate prices for the entire community, according to the modern practice, was of course quite undreamed of." When we left the greenhouse the afternoon had worn away and the sun was setting. Rising swiftly to a height where its rays still warmed us, we set out homeward. Strongest of all the impressions of that to me so wonderful afternoon there lingered most firmly fixed in my mind the latest--namely, the object lesson I had received of the transformation in the conditions of agriculture, the great staple human occupation from the beginning, and the basis of every industrial system. Presently I said: "Since you have so successfully done away with the first of the two main drawbacks of the agricultural occupation as known in my day--namely, its excessive laboriousness--you have no doubt also known how to eliminate the other, which was the isolation, the loneliness, the lack of social intercourse and opportunity of social culture which were incident to the farmer's life." "Nobody would certainly do farm work," replied the doctor, "if it had continued to be either more lonesome or more laborious than other sorts of work. As regards the social surroundings of the agriculturist, he is in no way differently situated from the artisan or any other class of workers. He, like the others, lives where he pleases, and is carried to and fro just as they are between the place of his residence and occupation by the lines of swift transit with which the country is threaded. Work on a farm no longer implies life on a farm, unless for those who like it." "One of the conditions of the farmer's life, owing to the variations of the season," I said, "has always been the alternation of slack work and periods of special exigency, such as planting and harvesting, when the sudden need of a multiplied labor force has necessitated the severest strain of effort for a time. This alternation of too little with too much work, I should suppose, would still continue to distinguish agriculture from other occupations." "No doubt," replied the doctor, "but this alternation, far from involving either a wasteful relaxation of effort or an excessive strain on the worker, furnishes occasions of recreation which add a special attraction to the agricultural occupation. The seasons of planting and harvesting are of course slightly or largely different in the several districts of a country so extensive as this. The fact makes it possible successively to concentrate in each district as large an extra contingent of workers drawn from other districts as is needed. It is not uncommon on a few days' notice to throw a hundred thousand extra workers into a region where there is a special temporary demand for labor. The inspiration of these great mass movements is remarkable, and must be something like that which attended in your day the mobilizing and marching of armies to war." We drifted on for a space in silence through the darkening sky. "Truly, Julian," said the doctor at length, "no industrial transformation since your day has been so complete, and none surely has affected so great a proportion of the people, as that which has come over agriculture. The poets from Virgil up and down have recognized in rural pursuits and the cultivation of the earth the conditions most favorable to a serene and happy life. Their fancies in this respect have, however, until the present time, been mocked by the actual conditions of agriculture, which have combined to make the lot of the farmer, the sustainer of all the world, the saddest, most difficult, and most hopeless endured by any class of men. From the beginning of the world until the last century the tiller of the soil has been the most pathetic figure in history. In the ages of slavery his was the lowest class of slaves. After slavery disappeared his remained the most anxious, arduous, and despairing of occupations. He endured more than the poverty of the wage-earner without his freedom from care, and all the anxiety of the capitalist without his hope of compensating profits. On the one side he was dependent for his product, as was no other class, upon the caprices of Nature, while on the other in disposing of it he was more completely at the mercy of the middleman than any other producer. Well might he wonder whether man or Nature were the more heartless. If the crops failed, the farmer perished; if they prospered, the middleman took the profit. Standing as a buffer between the elemental forces and human society, he was smitten by the one only to be thrust back by the other. Bound to the soil, he fell into a commercial serfdom to the cities well-nigh as complete as the feudal bondage had been. By reason of his isolated and unsocial life he was uncouth, unlettered, out of touch with culture, without opportunities for self-improvement, even if his bitter toil had left him energy or time for it. For this reason the dwellers in the towns looked down upon him as one belonging to an inferior race. In all lands, in all ages, the countryman has been considered a proper butt by the most loutish townsman. The starving proletarian of the city pavement scoffed at the farmer as a boor. Voiceless, there was none to speak for him, and his rude, inarticulate complaints were met with jeers. Baalam was not more astonished when the ass he was riding rebuked him than the ruling classes of America seem to have been when the farmers, toward the close of the last century, undertook to have something to say about the government of the country. "From time to time in the progress of history the condition of the farmer has for brief periods been tolerable. The yeoman of England was once for a little while one who looked nobles in the face. Again, the American farmer, up to the middle of the nineteenth century, enjoyed the golden age of agriculture. Then for a space, producing chiefly for use and not for sale to middlemen, he was the most independent of men and enjoyed a rude abundance. But before the nineteenth century had reached its last third, American agriculture had passed through its brief idyllic period, and, by the inevitable operation of private capitalism, the farmer began to go down hill toward the condition of serfdom, which in all ages before had been his normal state, and must be for evermore, so long as the economic exploitation of men by men should continue. While in one sense economic equality brought an equal blessing to all, two classes had especial reason to hail it as bringing to them a greater elevation from a deeper degradation than to any others. One of these classes was the women, the other the farmers." CHAPTER XXXIV. WHAT STARTED THE REVOLUTION. What did I say to the theater for that evening? was the question with which Edith met me when we reached home. It seemed that a celebrated historical drama of the great Revolution was to be given in Honolulu that afternoon, and she had thought I might like to see it. "Really you ought to attend," she said, "for the presentation of the play is a sort of compliment to you, seeing that it is revived in response to the popular interest in revolutionary history which your presence has aroused." No way of spending the evening could have been more agreeable to me, and it was agreed that we should make up a family theater party. "The only trouble," I said, as we sat around the tea table, "is that I don't know enough yet about the Revolution to follow the play very intelligently. Of course, I have heard revolutionary events referred to frequently, but I have no connected idea of the Revolution as a whole." "That will not matter," said Edith. "There is plenty of time before the play for father to tell you what is necessary. The matinee does not begin till three in the afternoon at Honolulu, and as it is only six now the difference in time will give us a good hour before the curtain rises." "That's rather a short time, as well as a short notice, for so big a task as explaining the great Revolution," the doctor mildly protested, "but under the circumstances I suppose I shall have to do the best I can." "Beginnings are always misty," he said, when I straightway opened at him with the question when the great Revolution began. "Perhaps St. John disposed of that point in the simplest way when he said that 'in the beginning was God.' To come down nearer, it might be said that Jesus Christ stated the doctrinal basis and practical purpose of the great Revolution when he declared that the golden rule of equal and the best treatment for all was the only right principle on which people could live together. To speak, however, in the language of historians, the great Revolution, like all important events, had two sets of causes--first, the general, necessary, and fundamental cause which must have brought it about in the end, whatever the minor circumstances had been; and, second, the proximate or provoking causes which, within certain limits, determined when it actually did take place, together with the incidental features. These immediate or provoking causes were, of course, different in different countries, but the general, necessary, and fundamental cause was the same in all countries, the great Revolution being, as you know, world-wide and nearly simultaneous, as regards the more advanced nations. "That cause, as I have often intimated in our talks, was the growth of intelligence and diffusion of knowledge among the masses, which, beginning with the introduction of printing, spread slowly through the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, and much more rapidly during the nineteenth, when, in the more favored countries, it began, to be something like general. Previous to the beginning of this process of enlightenment the condition of the mass of mankind as to intelligence, from the most ancient times, had been practically stationary at a point little above the level of the brutes. With no more thought or will of their own than clay in the hands of the potter, they were unresistingly molded to the uses of the more intelligent and powerful individuals and groups of their kind. So it went on for innumerable ages, and nobody dreamed of anything else until at last the conditions were ripe for the inbreathing of an intellectual life into these inert and senseless clods. The process by which this awakening took place was silent, gradual, imperceptible, but no previous event or series of events in the history of the race had been comparable to it in the effect it was to have upon human destiny. It meant that the interest of the many instead of the few, the welfare of the whole instead of that of a part, were henceforth to be the paramount purpose of the social order and the goal of its evolution. "Dimly your nineteenth-century philosophers seem to have perceived that the general diffusion of intelligence was a new and large fact, and that it introduced a very important force into the social evolution, but they were wall-eyed in their failure to see the certainty with which it foreshadowed a complete revolution of the economic basis of society in the interest of the whole body of the people as opposed to class interest or partial interest of every sort. Its first effect was the democratic movement by which personal and class rule in political matters was overthrown in the name of the supreme interest and authority of the people. It is astonishing that there should have been any intelligent persons among you who did not perceive that political democracy was but the pioneer corps and advance guard of economic democracy, clearing the way and providing the instrumentality for the substantial part of the programme--namely, the equalization of the distribution of work and wealth. So much for the main, general, and necessary cause and explanation of the great Revolution--namely, the progressive diffusion of intelligence among the masses from the sixteenth to the end of the nineteenth centuries. Given this force in operation, and the revolution of the economic basis of society must sooner or later have been its outcome everywhere: whether a little sooner or later and in just what way and with just what circumstances, the differing conditions of different countries determined. "In the case of America, the period of revolutionary agitation which resulted in the establishment of the present order began almost at once upon the close of the civil war. Some historians date the beginning of the Revolution from 1873." "Eighteen seventy-three!" I exclaimed; "why, that was more than a dozen years before I fell asleep! It seems, then, that I was a contemporary and witness of at least a part of the Revolution, and yet I saw no Revolution. It is true that we recognized the highly serious condition of industrial confusion and popular discontent, but we did not realize that a Revolution was on." "It was to have been expected that you would not," replied the doctor. "It is very rarely that the contemporaries of great revolutionary movements have understood their nature until they have nearly run their course. Following generations always think that they would have been wiser in reading the signs of the times, but that is not likely." "But what was there," I said, "about 1873 which has led historians to take it as the date from which to reckon the beginning of the Revolution?" "Simply the fact that it marked in a rather distinct way the beginning of a period of economic distress among the American people, which continued, with temporary and partial alleviations, until the overthrow of private capitalism. The popular discontent resulting from this experience was the provoking cause of the Revolution. It awoke Americans from their self-complacent dream that the social problem had been solved or could be solved by a system of democracy limited to merely political forms, and set them to seeking the true solution. "The economic distress beginning at the last third of the century, which was the direct provocation of the Revolution, was very slight compared with that which had been the constant lot and ancient heritage of other nations. It represented merely the first turn or two of the screw by which capitalism in due time squeezed dry the masses always and everywhere. The unexampled space and richness of their new land had given Americans a century's respite from the universal fate. Those advantages had passed, the respite was ended, and the time had come when the people must adapt their necks to the yoke all peoples before had worn. But having grown high-spirited from so long an experience of comparative welfare, the Americans resisted the imposition, and, finding mere resistance vain, ended by making a revolution. That in brief is the whole story of the way the great Revolution came on in America. But while this might satisfy a languid twentieth-century curiosity as to a matter so remote in time, you will naturally want a little more detail. There is a particular chapter in Storiot's History of the Revolution explaining just how and why the growth of the power of capital provoked the great uprising, which deeply impressed me in my school days, and I don't think I can make a better use of a part of our short time than by reading a few paragraphs from it." And Edith having brought the book from the library--for we still sat at the tea table--the doctor read: "'With reference to the evolution of the system of private capitalism to the point where it provoked the Revolution by threatening the lives and liberties of the people, historians divide the history of the American Republic, from its foundation in 1787 to the great Revolution which made it a true republic, into three periods. "'The first comprises the decades from the foundation of the republic to about the end of the first third of the nineteenth century--say, up to the thirties or forties. This was the period during which the power of capital in private hands had not as yet shown itself seriously aggressive. The moneyed class was small and the accumulations of capital petty. The vastness of the natural resources of the virgin country defied as yet the lust of greed. The ample lands to be had for the taking guaranteed independence to all at the price of labor. With this resource no man needed to call another master. This may be considered the idyllic period of the republic, the time when De Tocqueville saw and admired it, though not without prescience of the doom that awaited it. The seed of death was in the state in the principle of private capitalism, and was sure in time to grow and ripen, but as yet the conditions were not favorable to its development. All seemed to go well, and it is not strange that the American people indulged in the hope that their republic had indeed solved the social question. "'From about 1830 or 1840, speaking of course in a general way as to date, we consider the republic to have entered on its second phase--namely, that in which the growth and concentration of capital began to be rapid. The moneyed class now grew powerful, and began to reach out and absorb the natural resources of the country and to organize for its profit the labor of the people. In a word, the growth of the plutocracy became vigorous. The event which gave the great impulse to this movement, and fixed the time of the transition from the first to the second period in the history of the nation, was of course the general application of steam to commerce and industry. The transition may indeed be said to have begun somewhat earlier, with the introduction of the factory system. Of course, if neither steam nor the inventions which made the factory system possible had ever been introduced, it would have been merely a question of a longer time before the capitalist class, proceeding in this case by landlordism and usury, would have reduced the masses to vassalage, and overthrown democracy even as in the ancient republics, but the great inventions amazingly accelerated the plutocratic conquest. For the first time in history the capitalist in the subjugation of his fellows had machinery for his ally, and a most potent one it was. This was the mighty factor which, by multiplying the power of capital and relatively dwarfing the importance of the workingman, accounts for the extraordinary rapidity with which, during the second and third periods the conquest of the republic by the plutocracy was carried out. "'It is a fact creditable to Americans that they appear to have begun to realize as early as the forties that new and dangerous tendencies were affecting the republic and threatening to falsify its promise of a wide diffusion of welfare. That decade is notable in American history for the popular interest taken in the discussion of the possibility of a better social order, and for the numerous experiments undertaken to test the feasibility of dispensing with the private capitalist by co-operative industry. Already the more intelligent and public-spirited citizens were beginning to observe that their so-called popular government did not seem to interfere in the slightest degree with the rule of the rich and the subjection of the masses to economic masters, and to wonder, if that were to continue to be so, of exactly how much value the so-called republican institutions were on which they had so prided themselves. "'This nascent agitation of the social question on radical lines was, however, for the time destined to prove abortive by force of a condition peculiar to America--namely, the existence on a vast scale of African chattel slavery in the country. It was fitting in the evolution of complete human liberty that this form of bondage, cruder and more brutal, if not on the whole more cruel, than wage slavery, should first be put out of the way. But for this necessity and the conditions that produced it, we may believe that the great Revolution would have occurred in America twenty-five years earlier. From the period of 1840 to 1870 the slavery issue, involving as it did a conflict of stupendous forces, absorbed all the moral and mental as well as physical energies of the nation. "'During the thirty or forty years from the serious beginning of the antislavery movement till the war was ended and its issues disposed of, the nation had no thought to spare for any other interests. During this period the concentration of capital in few hands, already alarming to the far-sighted in the forties, had time, almost unobserved and quite unresisted, to push its conquest of the country and the people. Under cover of the civil war, with its preceding and succeeding periods of agitation over the issues of the war, the capitalists may be said to have stolen a march upon the nation and intrenched themselves in a commanding position. "'Eighteen seventy-three is the point, as near as any date, at which the country, delivered at last from the distracting ethical, and sectional issues of slavery, first began to open its eyes to the irrepressible conflict which the growth of capitalism had forced--a conflict between the power of wealth and the democratic idea of the equal right of all to life, liberty, and happiness. From about this time we date, therefore, the beginning of the final or revolutionary period of the pseudo-American Republic which resulted in the establishment of the present system. "'History had furnished abundant previous illustrations of the overthrow of republican societies by the growth and concentration of private wealth, but never before had it recorded a revolution in the economic basis of a great nation at once so complete and so swiftly effected. In America before the war, as we have seen, wealth had been distributed with a general effect of evenness never previously known in a large community. There had been few rich men and very few considerable fortunes. It had been in the power neither of individuals nor a class, through the possession of overwhelming capital, to exercise oppression upon the rest of the community. In the short space of twenty-five to thirty years these economic conditions had been so completely reversed as to give America in the seventies and eighties the name of the land of millionaires, and make it famous to the ends of the earth as the country of all others where the vastest private accumulations of wealth existed. The consequences of this amazing concentration of wealth formerly so equally diffused, as it had affected the industrial, the social, and the political interests of the people, could not have been other than revolutionary. "'Free competition in business had ceased to exist. Personal initiative in industrial enterprises, which formerly had been open to all, was restricted to the capitalists, and to the larger capitalists at that. Formerly known all over the world as the land of opportunities, America had in the time of a generation become equally celebrated as the land of monopolies. A man no longer counted chiefly for what he was, but for what he had. Brains and industry, if coupled with civility, might indeed win an upper servant's place in the employ of capital, but no longer could command a career. "'The concentration of the economic administration of the country in the hands of a comparatively small body of great capitalists had necessarily consolidated and centralized in a corresponding manner all the functions of production and distribution. Single great concerns, backed by enormous aggregations of capital, had appropriated tracts of the business field formerly occupied by innumerable smaller concerns. In this process, as a matter of course, swarms of small businesses were crushed like flies, and their former independent proprietors were fortunate to find places as underlings in the great establishments which had supplanted them. Straight through the seventies and eighties, every month, every week, every day saw some fresh province of the economic state, some new branch of industry or commerce formerly open to the enterprise of all, captured by a combination of capitalists and turned into an intrenched camp of monopoly. The words _syndicate_ and _trust_ were coined to describe these monstrous growths, for which the former language of the business world had no name. "'Of the two great divisions of the working masses it would be hard to say whether the wage-earner or the farmer had suffered most by the changed order. The old personal relationship and kindly feeling between employee and employer had passed away. The great aggregations of capital which had taken the place of the former employers were impersonal forces, which knew the worker no longer as a man, but as a unit of force. He was merely a tool in the employ of a machine, the managers of which regarded him as a necessary nuisance, who must unfortunately be retained at the least possible expense, until he could be invented wholly out of existence by some new mechanical contrivance. "'The economic function and possibilities of the farmer had similarly been dwarfed or cut off as a result of the concentration of the business system of the country in the hands of a few. The railroads and the grain market had, between them, absorbed the former profits of farming, and left the farmer only the wages of a day laborer in case of a good crop, and a mortgage debt in case of a bad one; and all this, moreover, coupled with the responsibilities of a capitalist whose money was invested in his farm. This latter responsibility, however, did not long continue to trouble the farmer, for, as naturally might be supposed, the only way he could exist from year to year under such conditions was by contracting debts without the slightest prospect of paying them, which presently led to the foreclosure of his land, and his reduction from the once proud estate of an American farmer to that of a tenant on his way to become a peasant. "'From 1873 to 1896 the histories quote some six distinct business crises. The periods of rallying between them were, however, so brief that we may say a continuous crisis existed during a large part of that period. Now, business crises had been numerous and disastrous in the early and middle epoch of the republic, but the business system, resting at that time on a widely extended popular initiative, had shown itself quickly and strongly elastic, and the rallies that promptly followed the crashes had always led to a greater prosperity than that before enjoyed. But this elasticity, with the cause of it, was now gone. There was little or slow reaction after the crises of the seventies, eighties, and early nineties, but, on the contrary, a scarcely interrupted decline of prices, wages, and the general prosperity and content of the farming and wage-earning masses. "'There could not be a more striking proof of the downward tendency in the welfare of the wage-earner and the farmer than the deteriorating quality and dwindling volume of foreign immigration which marked the period. The rush of European emigrants to the United States as the land of promise for the poor, since its beginning half a century before, had continued with increasing volume, and drawn to us a great population from the best stocks of the Old World. Soon after the war the character of the immigration began to change, and during the eighties and nineties came to be almost entirely made up of the lowest, most wretched, and barbarous races of Europe--the very scum of the continent. Even to secure these wretched recruits the agents of the transatlantic steamers and the American land syndicates had to send their agents all over the worst districts of Europe and flood the countries with lying circulars. Matters had come to the point that no European peasant or workingman, who was yet above the estate of a beggar or an exile, could any longer afford to share the lot of the American workingman and farmer, so little time before the envy of the toiling world. "'While the politicians sought, especially about election time, to cheer the workingman with the assurance of better times just ahead, the more serious economic writers seem to have frankly admitted that the superiority formerly enjoyed by American workingmen over those of other countries could not be expected to last longer, that the tendency henceforward was to be toward a world-wide level of prices and wages--namely, the level of the country where they were lowest. In keeping with this prediction we note that for the first time, about the beginning of the nineties, the American employer began to find himself, through the reduced cost of production in which wages were the main element, in a position to undersell in foreign markets the products of the slave gangs of British, Belgian, French, and German capitalists. "'It was during this period, when the economic distress of the masses was creating industrial war and making revolutionists of the most contented and previously prosperous agricultural population in history, that the vastest private fortunes in the history of the world were being accumulated. The millionaire, who had been unknown before the war and was still an unusual and portentous figure in the early seventies, was presently succeeded by the multimillionaire, and above the multimillionaires towered yet a new race of economic Titans, the hundred millionaires, and already the coming of the billionaire was being discussed. It is not difficult, nor did the people of the time find it so, to see, in view of this comparison, where the wealth went which the masses were losing. Tens of thousands of modest competencies disappeared, to reappear in colossal fortunes in single hands. Visibly as the body of the spider swells as he sucks the juices of his victims, had these vast aggregations grown in measure as the welfare of the once prosperous people had shrunk away. "'The social consequences of so complete an overthrow of the former economic equilibrium as had taken place could not have been less than revolutionary. In America, before the war, the accumulations of wealth were usually the result of the personal efforts of the possessor and were consequently small and correspondingly precarious. It was a saying of the time that there were usually but three generations from shirt-sleeves to shirt-sleeves--meaning that if a man accumulated a little wealth, his son generally lost it, and the grandson was again a manual laborer. Under these circumstances the economic disparities, slight at most and constantly fluctuating, entirely failed to furnish a basis for class distinctions. There were recognized no laboring class as such, no leisure class, no fixed classes of rich and poor. Riches or poverty, the condition of being at leisure or obliged to work were considered merely temporary accidents of fortune and not permanent conditions. All this was now changed. The great fortunes of the new order of things by their very magnitude were stable acquisitions, not easily liable to be lost, capable of being handed down from generation to generation with almost as much security as a title of nobility. On the other hand, the monopolization of all the valuable economic opportunities in the country by the great capitalists made it correspondingly impossible for those not of the capitalist class to attain wealth. The hope of becoming rich some day, which before the war every energetic American had cherished, was now practically beyond the horizon of the man born to poverty. Between rich and poor the door was henceforth shut. The way up, hitherto the social safety valve, had been closed, and the bar weighted with money bags. "'A natural reflex of the changed social conditions of the country is seen in the new class terminology, borrowed from the Old World, which soon after the war crept into use in the United States. It had been the boast of the former American that everybody in this country was a workingman; but now that term we find more and more frankly employed to distinguish the poor from the well-to-do. For the first time in American literature we begin to read of the lower classes, the upper classes, and the middle classes--terms which would have been meaningless in America before the war, but now corresponded so closely with the real facts of the situation that those who detested them most could not avoid their use. "'A prodigious display of luxury such as Europe could not rival had begun to characterize the manner of life of the possessors of the new and unexampled fortunes. Spectacles of gilded splendor, of royal pomp and boundless prodigality mocked the popular discontent and brought out in dazzling light the width and depth of the gulf that was being fixed between the masters and the masses. "'Meanwhile the money kings took no pains to disguise the fullness of their conviction that the day of democracy was passing and the dream of equality nearly at an end. As the popular feeling in America had grown bitter against them they had responded with frank indications of their dislike of the country and disgust with its democratic institutions. The leading American millionaires had become international personages, spending the greater part of their time and their revenue in European countries, sending their children there for education and in some instances carrying their preference for the Old World to the extent of becoming subjects of foreign powers. The disposition on the part of the greater American capitalists to turn their backs upon democracy and ally themselves with European and monarchical institutions was emphasized in a striking manner by the long list of marriages arranged during this period between great American heiresses and foreign noblemen. It seemed to be considered that the fitting destiny for the daughter of an American multimillionaire was such a union. These great capitalists were very shrewd in money matters, and their investments of vast sums in the purchase of titles for their posterity was the strongest evidence they could give of a sincere conviction that the future of the world, like its past, belonged not to the people but to class and privilege. "'The influence exercised over the political government by the moneyed class under the convenient euphemism of "the business interests," which merely meant the interests of the rich, had always been considerable, and at times caused grave scandals. In measure as the wealth of the country had become concentrated and allied, its influence in the government had naturally increased, and during the seventies, eighties, and nineties it became a scarcely veiled dictatorship. Lest the nominal representatives of the people should go astray in doing the will of the capitalists, the latter were represented by bodies of picked agents at all the places of government. These agents closely followed the conduct of all public officials, and wherever there was any wavering in their fidelity to the capitalists, were able to bring to bear influences of intimidation or bribery which were rarely unsuccessful. These bodies of agents had a recognized semi-legal place in the political system of the day under the name of lobbyists. "'The history of government contains few more shameful chapters than that which records how during this period the Legislatures--municipal, State, and national--seconded by the Executives and the courts, vied with each other by wholesale grants of land, privileges, franchises, and monopolies of all kinds, in turning over the country, its resources, and its people to the domination of the capitalists, their heirs and assigns forever. The public lands, which a few decades before had promised a boundless inheritance to future generations, were ceded in vast domains to syndicates and individual capitalists, to be held against the people as the basis of a future territorial aristocracy with tributary populations of peasants. Not only had the material substance of the national patrimony been thus surrendered to a handful of the people, but in the fields of commerce and of industry all the valuable economic opportunities had been secured by franchises to monopolies, precluding future generations from opportunity of livelihood or employment, save as the dependents and liegemen of a hereditary capitalist class. In the chronicles of royal misdoings there have been many dark chapters recording how besotted or imbecile monarchs have sold their people into bondage and sapped the welfare of their realms to enrich licentious favorites, but the darkest of those chapters is bright beside that which records the sale of the heritage and hopes of the American people to the highest bidder by the so-called democratic State, national, and local governments during the period of which we are speaking. "'Especially necessary had it become for the plutocracy to be able to use the powers of government at will, on account of the embittered and desperate temper of the working masses. "'The labor strikes often resulted in disturbances too extensive to be dealt with by the police, and it became the common practice of the capitalists, in case of serious strikes, to call on the State and national governments to furnish troops to protect their property interest. The principal function of the militia of the States had become the suppression of strikes with bullet or bayonet, or the standing guard over the plants of the capitalists, till hunger compelled the insurgent workmen to surrender. "'During the eighties the State governments entered upon a general policy of preparing the militia for this new and ever-enlarging field of usefulness. The National Guard was turned into a Capitalist Guard. The force was generally reorganized, increased in numbers, improved in discipline, and trained with especial reference to the business of shooting riotous workingmen. The drill in street firing--a quite new feature in the training of the American militiaman, and a most ominous one--became the prominent test of efficiency. Stone and brick armories, fortified against attack, loopholed for musketry and mounted with guns to sweep the streets, were erected at the strategic points of the large cities. In some instances the militia, which, after all, was pretty near the people, had, however, shown such unwillingness to fire on strikers and such symptoms of sympathy for their grievances, that the capitalists did not trust them fully, but in serious cases preferred to depend on the pitiless professional soldiers of the General Government, the regulars. Consequently, the Government, upon request of the capitalists, adopted the policy of establishing fortified camps near the great cities, and posting heavy garrisons in them. The Indian wars were ceasing at about this time, and the troops that had been stationed on the Western plains to protect the white settlements from the Indians were brought East to protect the capitalists from the white settlements. Such was the evolution of private capitalism. "'The extent and practical character of the use to which the capitalists intended to put the military arm of the Government in their controversy with the workingmen may be judged from the fact that in single years of the early nineties armies of eight and ten thousand men were on the march, in New York and Pennsylvania, to suppress strikes. In 1892 the militia of five States, aided by the regulars, were under arms against strikers simultaneously, the aggregate force of troops probably making a larger body than General Washington ever commanded. Here surely was civil war already. "'Americans of the former days had laughed scornfully at the bayonet-propped monarchies of Europe, saying rightly that a government which needed to be defended by force from its own people was a self-confessed failure. To this pass, however, the industrial system of the United States was fast coming--it was becoming a government by bayonets. "'Thus briefly, and without attempt at detail, may be recapitulated some of the main aspects of the transformation in the condition of the American people, resulting from the concentration of the wealth of the country, which first began to excite serious alarm at the close of the civil war. "'It might almost be said that the citizen armies of the North had returned from saving the republic from open foes, to find that it had been stolen from them by more stealthy but far more dangerous enemies whom they had left at home. While they had been putting down caste rule based on race at the South, class rule based on wealth had been set up at the North, to be in time extended over South and North alike. While the armies of the people had been shedding rivers of blood in the effort to preserve the political unity of the nation, its social unity, upon which the very life of a republic depends, had been attacked by the beginnings of class divisions, which could only end by splitting the once coherent nation into mutually suspicious and inimical bodies of citizens, requiring the iron bands of despotism to hold them together in a political organization. Four million negroes had indeed been freed from chattel slavery, but meanwhile a nation of white men had passed under the yoke of an economic and social vassalage which, though the common fate of European peoples and of the ancient world, the founders of the republic had been proudly confident their posterity would never wear.'" * * * * * The doctor closed the book from which he had been reading and laid it down. "Julian," he said, "this story of the subversion of the American Republic by the plutocracy is an astounding one. You were a witness of the situation it describes, and are able to judge whether the statements are exaggerated." "On the contrary," I replied, "I should think you had been reading aloud from a collection of newspapers of the period. All the political, social, and business facts and symptoms to which the writer has referred were matters of public discussion and common notoriety. If they did not impress me as they do now, it is simply because I imagine I never heard them grouped and marshaled with the purpose of bringing out their significance." Once more the doctor asked Edith to bring him a book from the library. Turning the pages until he had found the desired place, he said: "Lest you should fancy that the force of Storiot's statement of the economic situation in the United States during the last third of the nineteenth century owes anything to the rhetorical arrangement, I want to give you just a few hard, cold statistics as to the actual distribution of property during that period, showing the extent to which its ownership had been concentrated. Here is a volume made up of information on this subject based upon analyses of census reports, tax assessments, the files of probate courts, and other official documents. I will give you three sets of calculations, each prepared by a separate authority and based upon a distinct line of investigation, and all agreeing with a closeness which, considering the magnitude of the calculation, is astounding, and leaves no room to doubt the substantial accuracy of the conclusions. "From the first set of tables, which was prepared in 1893 by a census official from the returns of the United States census, we find it estimated that out of sixty-two billions of wealth in the country a group of millionaires and multimillionaires, representing three one-hundredths of one per cent of the population, owned twelve billions, or one fifth. Thirty-three billions of the rest was owned by a little less than nine per cent of the American people, being the rich and well-to-do class less than millionaires. That is, the millionaires, rich, and well-to-do, making altogether but nine per cent of the whole nation, owned forty-five billions of the total national valuation of sixty-two billions. The remaining ninety-one per cent of the whole nation, constituting the bulk of the people, were classed as the poor, and divided among themselves the remaining seventeen million dollars. "A second table, published in 1894 and based upon the surrogates' records of estates in the great State of New York, estimates that one per cent of the people, one one-hundredth of the nation, possessed over half, or fifty-five per cent, of its total wealth. It finds that a further fraction of the population, including the well-to-do, and amounting to eleven per cent, owned over thirty-two per cent of the total wealth, so that twelve per cent of the whole nation, including the very rich and the well-to-do, monopolized eighty-seven per cent of the total wealth of the country, leaving but thirteen per cent of that wealth to be shared among the remaining eighty-eight per cent of the nation. This eighty-eight per cent of the nation was subdivided into the poor and the very poor. The last, constituting fifty per cent out of the eighty-eight, or half the entire nation, had too little wealth to be estimated at all, apparently living a hand-to-mouth existence. "The estimates of a third computator whom I shall quote, although taken from quite different data, agree remarkably with the others, representing as they do about the same period. These last estimates, which were published in 1889 and 1891, and like the others produced a strong impression, divide the nation into three classes--the rich, the middle, and the working class. The rich, being one and four tenths per cent of the population, are credited with seventy per cent of the total wealth. The middle class, representing nine and two tenths per cent of the population, is credited with twelve per cent of the total wealth, the rich and middle classes, together, representing ten and six tenths per cent of the population, having therefore eighty-two per cent of the total wealth, leaving to the working class, which constituted eighty-nine and four tenths of the nation, but eighteen per cent of the wealth, to share among them." "Doctor," I exclaimed, "I knew things were pretty unequally divided in my day, but figures like these are overwhelming. You need not take the trouble to tell me anything further by way of explaining why the people revolted against private capitalism. These figures were enough to turn the very stones into revolutionists." "I thought you would say so," replied the doctor. "And please remember also that these tremendous figures represent only the progress made toward the concentration of wealth mainly within the period of a single generation. Well might Americans say to themselves 'If such things are done in the green tree, what shall be done in the dry?' If private capitalism, dealing with a community in which had previously existed a degree of economic equality never before known, could within a period of some thirty years make such a prodigious stride toward the complete expropriation of the rest of the nation for the enrichment of a class, what was likely to be left to the people at the end of a century? What was to be left even to the next generation?" CHAPTER XXXV. WHY THE REVOLUTION WENT SLOW AT FIRST BUT FAST AT LAST. "So much for the causes of the Revolution in America, both the general fundamental cause, consisting in the factor newly introduced into social evolution by the enlightenment of the masses and irresistibly tending to equality, and the immediate local causes peculiar to America, which account for the Revolution having come at the particular time it did and for its taking the particular course it did. Now, briefly as to that course: "The pinching of the economic shoe resulting from the concentration of wealth was naturally first felt by the class with least reserves, the wage-earners, and the Revolution may be said to have begun with their revolt. In 1869 the first great labor organization in America was formed to resist the power of capital. Previous to the war the number of strikes that had taken place in the country could be counted on the fingers. Before the sixties were out they were counted by hundreds, during the seventies by thousands, and during the eighties the labor reports enumerate nearly ten thousand, involving two or three million workers. Many of these strikes were of continental scope, shaking the whole commercial fabric and causing general panics. "Close after the revolt of the wage earners came that of the farmers--less turbulent in methods but more serious and abiding in results. This took the form of secret leagues and open political parties devoted to resisting what was called the money power. Already in the seventies these organizations threw State and national politics into confusion, and later became the nucleus of the revolutionary party. "Your contemporaries of the thinking classes can not be taxed with indifference to these signs and portents. The public discussion and literature of the time reflect the confusion and anxiety with which the unprecedented manifestations of popular discontent had affected all serious persons. The old-fashioned Fourth-of-July boastings had ceased to be heard in the land. All agreed that somehow republican forms of government had not fulfilled their promise as guarantees of the popular welfare, but were showing themselves impotent to prevent the recrudescence in the New World of all the Old World's evils, especially those of class and caste, which it had been supposed could never exist in the atmosphere of a republic. It was recognized on all sides that the old order was changing for the worse, and that the republic and all it had been thought to stand for was in danger. It was the universal cry that something must be done to check the ruinous tendency. Reform was the word in everybody's mouth, and the rallying cry, whether in sincerity or pretense, of every party. But indeed, Julian, I need waste no time describing this state of affairs to you, for you were a witness of it till 1887." "It was all quite as you describe it, the industrial and political warfare and turmoil, the general sense that the country was going wrong, and the universal cry for some sort of reform. But, as I said before, the agitation, while alarming enough, was too confused and purposeless to seem revolutionary. All agreed that something ailed the country, but no two agreed what it was or how to cure it." "Just so," said the doctor. "Our historians divide the entire revolutionary epoch--from the close of the war, or the beginning of the seventies, to the establishment of the present order early in the twentieth century--into two periods, the incoherent and the rational. The first of these is the period of which we have been talking, and with which Storiot deals with in the paragraphs I have read--the period with which you were, for the most part, contemporary. As we have seen, and you know better than we can, it was a time of terror and tumult, of confused and purposeless agitation, and a Babel of contradictory clamor. The people were blindly kicking in the dark against the pricks of capitalism, without any clear idea of what they were kicking against. "The two great divisions of the toilers, the wage-earners and the farmers, were equally far from seeing clear and whole the nature of the situation and the forces of which they were the victims. The wage-earners' only idea was that by organizing the artisans and manual workers their wages could be forced up and maintained indefinitely. They seem to have had absolutely no more knowledge than children of the effect of the profit system always and inevitably to keep the consuming power of the community indefinitely below its producing power and thus to maintain a constant state of more or less aggravated glut in the goods and labor markets, and that nothing could possibly prevent the constant presence of these conditions so long as the profit system was tolerated, or their effect finally to reduce the wage-earner to the subsistence point or below as profits tended downward. Until the wage-earners saw this and no longer wasted their strength in hopeless or trivial strikes against individual capitalists which could not possibly affect the general result, and united to overthrow the profit system, the Revolution must wait, and the capitalists had no reason to disturb themselves. "As for the farmers, as they were not wage-earners, they took no interest in the plans of the latter, which aimed merely to benefit the wage-earning class, but devoted themselves to equally futile schemes for their class, in which, for the same reason that they were merely class remedies, the wage-earners took no interest. Their aim was to obtain aid from the Government to improve their condition as petty capitalists oppressed by the greater capitalists who controlled the traffic and markets of the country; as if any conceivable device, so long as private capitalism should be tolerated, would prevent its natural evolution, which was the crushing of the smaller capitalists by the larger. "Their main idea seems to have been that their troubles as farmers were chiefly if not wholly to be accounted for by certain vicious acts of financial legislation, the effect of which they held had been to make money scarce and dear. What they demanded as the sufficient cure of the existing evils was the repeal of the vicious legislation and a larger issue of currency. This they believed would be especially beneficial to the farming class by reducing the interest on their debts and raising the price of their product. "Undoubtedly the currency and the coinage and the governmental financial system in general had been shamelessly abused by the capitalists to corner the wealth of the nation in their hands, but their misuse of this part of the economic machinery had been no worse than their manipulation of the other portions of the system. Their trickery with the currency had only helped them to monopolize the wealth of the people a little faster than they would have done it had they depended for their enrichment on what were called the legitimate operations of rent, interest, and profits. While a part of their general policy of economic subjugation of the people, the manipulation of the currency had not been essential to that policy, which would have succeeded just as certainly had it been left out. The capitalists were under no necessity to juggle with the coinage had they been content to make a little more leisurely process of devouring the lands and effects of the people. For that result no particular form of currency system was necessary, and no conceivable monetary system would have prevented it. Gold, silver, paper, dear money, cheap money, hard money, bad money, good money--every form of token from cowries to guineas--had all answered equally well in different times and countries for the designs of the capitalist, the details of the game being only slightly modified according to the conditions. "To have convinced himself of the folly of ascribing the economic distress to which his class as well as the people at large had been reduced, to an act of Congress relating to the currency, the American farmer need only have looked abroad to foreign lands, where he would have seen that the agricultural class everywhere was plunged in a misery greater than his own, and that, too, without the slightest regard to the nature of the various monetary systems in use. "Was it indeed a new or strange phenomenon in human affairs that the agriculturists were going to the wall, that the American farmer should seek to account for the fact by some new and peculiarly American policy? On the contrary, this had been the fate of the agricultural class in all ages, and what was now threatening the American tiller of the soil was nothing other than the doom which had befallen his kind in every previous generation and in every part of the world. Manifestly, then, he should seek the explanation not in any particular or local conjunction of circumstances, but in some general and always operative cause. This general cause, operative in all lands and times and among all races, he would presently see when he should interrogate history, was the irresistible tendency by which the capitalist class in the evolution of any society through rent, interest, and profits absorbs to itself the whole wealth of the country, and thus reduces the masses of the people to economic, social, and political subjection, the most abject class of all being invariably the tillers of the soil. For a time the American population, including the farmers, had been enabled, thanks to the vast bounty of a virgin and empty continent, to evade the operation of this universal law, but the common fate was now about to overtake them, and nothing would avail to avert it save the overthrow of the system of private capitalism of which it always had been and always must be the necessary effect. "Time would fail even to mention the innumerable reform nostrums offered for the cure of the nation by smaller bodies of reformers. They ranged from the theory of the prohibitionists that the chief cause of the economic distress--from which the teetotal farmers of the West were the worst sufferers--was the use of intoxicants, to that of the party which agreed that the nation was being divinely chastised because there was no formal recognition of the Trinity in the Constitution. Of course, these were extravagant persons, but even those who recognized the concentration of wealth as the cause of the whole trouble quite failed to see that this concentration was itself the natural evolution of private capitalism, and that it was not possible to prevent it or any of its consequences unless and until private capitalism itself should be put an end to. "As might be expected, efforts at resistance so ill calculated as these demonstrations of the wage-earners and farmers, not to speak of the host of petty sects of so-called reformers during the first phase of the Revolution, were ineffectual. The great labor organizations which had sprung up shortly after the war as soon as the wage-earners felt the necessity of banding themselves to resist the yoke of concentrated capital, after twenty-five years of fighting, had demonstrated their utter inability to maintain, much less to improve, the condition of the workingman. During this period ten or fifteen thousand recorded strikes and lock-outs had taken place, but the net result of the industrial civil war, protracted through so long a period, had been to prove to the dullest of workingmen the hopelessness of securing any considerable amelioration of their lot by class action or organization, or indeed of even maintaining it against encroachments. After all this unexampled suffering and fighting, the wage-earners found themselves worse off than ever. Nor had the farmers, the other great division of the insurgent masses, been any more successful in resisting the money power. Their leagues, although controlling votes by the million, had proved even more impotent if possible than the wage-earners' organizations to help their members. Even where they had been apparently successful and succeeded in capturing the political control of states, they found the money power still able by a thousand indirect influences to balk their efforts and turn their seeming victories into apples of Sodom, which became ashes in the hands of those who would pluck them. "Of the vast, anxious, and anguished volume of public discussion as to what should be done, what after twenty-five years had been the practical outcome? Absolutely nothing. If here and there petty reforms had been introduced, on the whole the power of the evils against which those reforms were directed had vastly increased. If the power of the plutocracy in 1873 had been as the little finger of a man, in 1895 it was thicker than his loins. Certainly, so far as superficial and material indications went, it looked as if the battle had been going thus far steadily, swiftly, and hopelessly against the people, and that the American capitalists who expended their millions in buying titles of nobility for their children were wiser in their generation than the children of light and better judges of the future. "Nevertheless, no conclusion could possibly have been more mistaken. During these decades of apparently unvaried failure and disaster the revolutionary movement for the complete overthrow of private capitalism had made a progress which to rational minds should have presaged its complete triumph in the near future." "Where had the progress been?" I said; "I don't see any." "In the development among, the masses of the people of the necessary revolutionary temper," replied the doctor; "in the preparation of the popular mind by the only process that could have prepared it, to accept the programme of a radical reorganization of the economic system from the ground up. A great revolution, you must remember, which is to profoundly change a form of society, must accumulate a tremendous moral force, an overwhelming weight of justification, so to speak, behind it before it can start. The processes by which and the period during which this accumulation of impulse is effected are by no means so spectacular as the events of the subsequent period when the revolutionary movement, having obtained an irresistible momentum, sweeps away like straws the obstacles that so long held it back only to swell its force and volume at last. But to the student the period of preparation is the more truly interesting and critical field of study. It was absolutely necessary that the American people, before they would seriously think of undertaking so tremendous a reformation as was implied in the substitution of public for private capitalism, should be fully convinced not by argument only, but by abundant bitter experience and convincing object lessons, that no remedy for the evils of the time less complete or radical would suffice. They must become convinced by numerous experiments that private capitalism had evolved to a point where it was impossible to amend it before they would listen to the proposition to end it. This painful but necessary experience the people were gaining during the earlier decades of the struggle. In this way the innumerable defeats, disappointments, and fiascoes which met their every effort at curbing and reforming the money power during the seventies, eighties, and early nineties, contributed far more than as many victories would have done to the magnitude and completeness of the final triumph of the people. It was indeed necessary that all these things should come to pass to make the Revolution possible. It was necessary that the system of private and class tyranny called private capitalism should fill up the measure of its iniquities and reveal all it was capable of, as the irreconcilable enemy of democracy, the foe of life and liberty and human happiness, in order to insure that degree of momentum to the coming uprising against it which was necessary to guarantee its complete and final overthrow. Revolutions which start too soon stop too soon, and the welfare of the race demanded that this revolution should not cease, nor pause, until the last vestige of the system by which men usurped power over the lives and liberties of their fellows through economic means was destroyed. Therefore not one outrage, not one act of oppression, not one exhibition of conscienceless rapacity, not one prostitution of power on the part of Executive, Legislature, or judiciary, not one tear of patriotic shame over the degradation of the national name, not one blow of the policeman's bludgeon, not a single bullet or bayonet thrust of the soldiery, could have been spared. Nothing but just this discipline of failure, disappointment, and defeat on the part of the earlier reformers could have educated the people to the necessity of attacking the system of private capitalism in its existence instead of merely in its particular manifestations. "We reckon the beginning of the second part of the revolutionary movement to which we give the name of the coherent or rational phase, from the time when there became apparent a clear conception, on the part of at least a considerable body of the people, of the true nature of the issue as one between the rights of man and the principle of irresponsible power embodied in private capitalism, and the realization that its outcome, if the people were to triumph, must be the establishment of a wholly new economic system which should be based upon the public control in the public interest of the system of production and distribution hitherto left to private management." "At about what date," I asked, "do you consider that the revolutionary movement began to pass from the incoherent into the logical phase?" "Of course," replied the doctor, "it was not the case of an immediate outright change of character, but only of the beginning of a new spirit and intelligence. The confusion and incoherence and short-sightedness of the first period long overlapped the time when the infusion of a more rational spirit and adequate ideal began to appear, but from about the beginning of the nineties we date the first appearance of an intelligent purpose in the revolutionary movement and the beginning of its development from a mere formless revolt against intolerable conditions into a logical and self-conscious evolution toward the order of to-day." "It seems I barely missed it." "Yes," replied the doctor, "if you had been able to keep awake only a year or two longer you would not have been so wholly surprised by our industrial system, and especially by the economic equality for and by which it exists, for within a couple of years after your supposed demise the possibility that such a social order might be the outcome of the existing crisis was being discussed from one end of America to the other. "Of course," the doctor went on, "the idea of an integrated economic system co-ordinating the efforts of all for the common welfare, which is the basis of the modern state, is as old as philosophy. As a theory it dates back to Plato at least, and nobody knows how much further, for it is a conception of the most natural and obvious order. Not, however, until popular government had been made possible by the diffusion of intelligence was the world ripe for the realization of such a form of society. Until that time the idea, like the soul waiting for a fit incarnation, must remain without social embodiment. Selfish rulers thought of the masses only as instruments for their own aggrandizement, and if they had interested themselves in a more exact organization of industry it would only have been with a view of making that organization the means of a more complete tyranny. Not till the masses themselves became competent to rule was a serious agitation possible or desirable for an economic organization on a co-operative basis. With the first stirrings of the democratic spirit in Europe had come the beginning of earnest discussion as to the feasibility of such a social order. Already, by the middle of the century, this agitation in the Old World had become, to discerning eyes, one of the signs of the times, but as yet America, if we except the brief and abortive social experiments in the forties, had remained wholly unresponsive to the European movement. "I need not repeat that the reason, of course, was the fact that the economic conditions in America had been more satisfactory to the masses than ever before, or anywhere else in the world. The individualistic method of making a living, every man for himself, had answered the purpose on the whole so well that the people did not care to discuss other methods. The powerful motive necessary to rouse the sluggish and habit-bound minds of the masses and interest them in a new and revolutionary set of ideas was lacking. Even during the early stage of the revolutionary period it had been found impossible to obtain any hearing for the notions of a new economic order which were already agitating Europe. It was not till the close of the eighties that the total and ridiculous failure of twenty years of desperate efforts to reform the abuses of private capitalism had prepared the American people to give serious attention to the idea of dispensing with the capitalist altogether by a public organization of industry to be administered like other common affairs in the common interest. "The two great points of the revolutionary programme--the principle of economic equality and a nationalized industrial system as its means and pledge--the American people were peculiarly adapted to understand and appreciate. The lawyers had made a Constitution of the United States, but the true American constitution--the one written on the people's hearts--had always remained the immortal Declaration with its assertion of the inalienable equality of all men. As to the nationalization of industry, while it involved a set of consequences which would completely transform society, the principle on which the proposition was based, and to which it appealed for justification, was not new to Americans in any sense, but, on the contrary, was merely a logical development of the idea of popular self-government on which the American system was founded. The application of this principle to the regulation of the economic administration was indeed a use of it which was historically new, but it was one so absolutely and obviously implied in the content of the idea that, as soon as it was proposed, it was impossible that any sincere democrat should not be astonished that so plain and common-sense a corollary of popular government had waited so long for recognition. The apostles of a collective administration of the economic system in the common interest had in Europe a twofold task: first, to teach the general doctrine of the absolute right of the people to govern, and then to show the economic application of that right. To Americans, however, it was only necessary to point out an obvious although hitherto overlooked application of a principle already fully accepted as an axiom. "The acceptance of the new ideal did not imply merely a change in specific programmes, but a total facing about of the revolutionary movement. It had thus far been an attempt to resist the new economic conditions being imposed by the capitalists by bringing back the former economic conditions through the restoration of free competition as it had existed before the war. This was an effort of necessity hopeless, seeing that the economic changes which had taken place were merely the necessary evolution of any system of private capitalism, and could not be successfully resisted while the system was retained. "'Face about!' was the new word of command. 'Fight forward, not backward! March with the course of economic evolution, not against it. The competitive system can never be restored, neither is it worthy of restoration, having been at best an immoral, wasteful, brutal scramble for existence. New issues demand new answers. It is in vain to pit the moribund system of competition against the young giant of private monopoly; it must rather be opposed by the greater giant of public monopoly. The consolidation of business in private interests must be met with greater consolidation in the public interest, the trust and the syndicate with the city, State, and nation, capitalism with nationalism. The capitalists have destroyed the competitive system. Do not try to restore it, but rather thank them for the work, if not the motive, and set about, not to rebuild the old village of hovels, but to rear on the cleared place the temple humanity so long has waited for.' "By the light of the new teaching the people began to recognize that the strait place into which the republic had come was but the narrow and frowning portal of a future of universal welfare and happiness such as only the Hebrew prophets had colors strong enough to paint. "By the new philosophy the issue which had arisen between the people and the plutocracy was seen not to be a strange and unaccountable or deplorable event, but a necessary phase in the evolution of a democratic society in passing from a lower to an incomparably higher plane, an issue therefore to be welcomed not shunned, to be forced not evaded, seeing that its outcome in the existing state of human enlightenment and world-wide democratic sentiment could not be doubtful. By the road by which every republic had toiled upward from the barren lowlands of early hardship and poverty, just at the point where the steepness of the hill had been overcome and a prospect opened of pleasant uplands of wealth and prosperity, a sphinx had ever stood, propounding the riddle, 'How shall a state combine the preservation of democratic equality with the increase of wealth?' Simple indeed had been the answer, for it was only needful that the people should so order their system of economy that wealth should be equally shared as it increased, in order that, however great the increase, it should in no way interfere with the equalities of the people; for the great justice of equality is the well of political life everlasting for peoples, whereof if a nation drink it may live forever. Nevertheless, no republic before had been able to answer the riddle, and therefore their bones whitened the hilltop, and not one had ever survived to enter on the pleasant land in view. But the time had now come in the evolution of human intelligence when the riddle so often asked and never answered was to be answered aright, the sphinx made an end of, and the road freed forever for all the nations. "It was this note of perfect assurance, of confident and boundless hope, which distinguished the new propaganda, and was the more commanding and uplifting from its contrast with the blank pessimism on the one side of the capitalist party, and the petty aims, class interests, short vision, and timid spirit of the reformers who had hitherto opposed them. "With a doctrine to preach of so compelling force and beauty, promising such good things to men in so great want of them, it might seem that it would require but a brief time to rally the whole people to its support. And so it would doubtless have been if the machinery of public information and direction had been in the hands of the reformers or in any hands that were impartial, instead of being, as it was, almost wholly in those of the capitalists. In previous periods the newspapers had not represented large investments of capital, having been quite crude affairs. For this very reason, however, they were more likely to represent the popular feeling. In the latter part of the nineteenth century a great newspaper with large circulation necessarily required a vast investment of capital, and consequently the important newspapers of the country were owned by capitalists and of course carried on in the owners' interests. Except when the capitalists in control chanced to be men of high principle, the great papers were therefore upon the side of the existing order of things and against the revolutionary movement. These papers monopolized the facilities of gathering and disseminating public intelligence and thereby exercised a censorship, almost as effective as that prevailing at the same time in Russia or Turkey, over the greater part of the information which reached the people. "Not only the press but the religious instruction of the people was under the control of the capitalists. The churches were the pensioners of the rich and well-to-do tenth of the people, and abjectly dependent on them for the means of carrying on and extending their work. The universities and institutions of higher learning were in like manner harnessed to the plutocratic chariot by golden chains. Like the churches, they were dependent for support and prosperity upon the benefactions of the rich, and to offend them would have been suicidal. Moreover, the rich and well-to-do tenth of the population was the only class which could afford to send children to institutions of the secondary education, and they naturally preferred schools teaching a doctrine comfortable to the possessing class. "If the reformers had been put in possession of press, pulpit, and university, which the capitalists controlled, whereby to set home their doctrine to the heart and mind and conscience of the nation, they would have converted and carried the country in a month. "Feeling how quickly the day would be theirs if they could but reach the people, it was natural that they should chafe bitterly at the delay, confronted as they were by the spectacle of humanity daily crucified afresh and enduring an illimitable anguish which they knew was needless. Who indeed would not have been impatient in their place, and cried as they did, 'How long, O Lord, how long?' To men so situated, each day's postponement of the great deliverance might well have seemed like a century. Involved as they were in the din and dust of innumerable petty combats, it was as difficult for them as for soldiers in the midst of a battle to obtain an idea of the general course of the conflict and the operation of the forces which would determine its issue. To us, however, as we look back, the rapidity of the process by which during the nineties the American people were won over to the revolutionary programme seems almost miraculous, while as to the ultimate result there was, of course, at no time the slightest ground of question. "From about the beginning of the second phase of the revolutionary movement, the literature of the times begins to reflect in the most extraordinary manner a wholly new spirit of radical protest against the injustices of the social order. Not only in the serious journals and books of public discussion, but in fiction and in belles-lettres, the subject of social reform becomes prominent and almost commanding. The figures that have come down to us of the amazing circulation of some of the books devoted to the advocacy of a radical social reorganization are almost enough in themselves to explain the revolution. The antislavery movement had one Uncle Tom's Cabin; the anticapitalist movement had many. "A particularly significant fact was the extraordinary unanimity and enthusiasm with which the purely agricultural communities of the far West welcomed the new gospel of a new and equal economic system. In the past, governments had always been prepared for revolutionary agitation among the proletarian wage-earners of the cities, and had always counted on the stolid conservatism of the agricultural class for the force to keep the inflammable artisans down. But in this revolution it was the agriculturists who were in the van. This fact alone should have sufficiently foreshadowed the swift course and certain issue of the struggle. At the beginning of the battle the capitalists had lost their reserves. "At about the beginning of the nineties the revolutionary movement first prominently appears in the political field. For twenty years after the close of the civil war the surviving animosities between North and South mainly determined party lines, and this fact, together with the lack of agreement on a definite policy, had hitherto prevented the forces of industrial discontent from making any striking political demonstration. But toward the close of the eighties the diminished bitterness of feeling between North and South left the people free to align themselves on the new issue, which had been steadily looming up ever since the war, as the irrepressible conflict of the near future--the struggle to the death between democracy and plutocracy, between the rights of man and the tyranny of capital in irresponsible hands. "Although the idea of the public conduct of economic enterprises by public agencies had never previously attracted attention or favor in America, yet already in 1890, almost as soon as it began to be talked about, political parties favoring its application to important branches of business had polled heavy votes. In 1892 a party, organized in nearly every State in the Union, cast a million votes in favor of nationalizing at least the railroads, telegraphs, banking system, and other monopolized businesses. Two years later the same party showed large gains, and in 1896 its platform was substantially adopted by one of the great historic parties of the country, and the nation divided nearly equally on the issue. "The terror which this demonstration of the strength of the party of social discontent caused among the possessing class seems at this distance rather remarkable, seeing that its demands, while attacking many important capitalist abuses, did not as yet directly assail the principle of the private control of capital as the root of the whole social evil. No doubt, what alarmed the capitalists even more than the specific propositions of the social insurgents were the signs of a settled popular exasperation against them and all their works, which indicated that what was now called for was but the beginning of what would be demanded later. The antislavery party had not begun with demanding the abolition of slavery, but merely its limitation. The slaveholders were not, however, deceived as to the significance of the new political portent, and the capitalists would have been less wise in their generation than their predecessors had they not seen in the political situation the beginning of a confrontation of the people and the capitalists--the masses and the classes, as the expression of the day was--which threatened an economic and social revolution in the near future." "It seems to me," I said, "that by this stage of the revolutionary movement American capitalists capable of a dispassionate view of the situation ought to have seen the necessity of making concessions if they were to preserve any part of their advantages." "If they had," replied the doctor, "they would have been the first beneficiaries of a tyranny who in presence of a rising flood of revolution ever realized its force or thought of making concessions until it was hopelessly too late. You see, tyrants are always materialists, while the forces behind great revolutions are moral. That is why the tyrants never foresee their fate till it is too late to avert it." "We ought to be in our chairs pretty soon," said Edith. "I don't want Julian to miss the opening scene." "There are a few minutes yet," said the doctor, "and seeing that I have been rather unintentionally led into giving this sort of outline sketch of the course of the Revolution, I want to say a word about the extraordinary access of popular enthusiasm which made a short story of its later stages, especially as it is that period with which the play deals that we are to attend. "There had been many, you must know, Julian, who, while admitting that a system of co-operation, must eventually take the place of private capitalism in America and everywhere, had expected that the process would be a slow and gradual one, extending over several decades, perhaps half a century, or even more. Probably that was the more general opinion. But those who held it failed to take account of the popular enthusiasm which would certainly take possession of the movement and drive it irresistibly forward from the moment that the prospect of its success became fairly clear to the masses. Undoubtedly, when the plan of a nationalized industrial system, and an equal sharing of results, with its promise of the abolition of poverty and the reign of universal comfort, was first presented to the people, the very greatness of the salvation it offered operated to hinder its acceptance. It seemed too good to be true. With difficulty the masses, sodden in misery and inured to hopelessness, had been able to believe that in heaven there would be no poor, but that it was possible here and now in this everyday America to establish such an earthly paradise was too much to believe. "But gradually, as the revolutionary propaganda diffused a knowledge of the clear and unquestionable grounds on which this great assurance rested, and as the growing majorities of the revolutionary party convinced the most doubtful that the hour of its triumph was at hand, the hope of the multitude grew into confidence, and confidence flamed into a resistless enthusiasm. By the very magnitude of the promise which at first appalled them they were now transported. An impassioned eagerness seized upon them to enter into the delectable land, so that they found every day's, every hour's delay intolerable. The young said, 'Let us make haste, and go in to the promised land while we are young, that we may know what living is': and the old said, 'Let us go in ere we die, that we may close our eyes in peace, knowing that it will be well with our children after us.' The leaders and pioneers of the Revolution, after having for so many years exhorted and appealed to a people for the most part indifferent or incredulous, now found themselves caught up and borne onward by a mighty wave of enthusiasm which it was impossible for them to check, and difficult for them to guide, had not the way been so plain. "Then, to cap the climax, as if the popular mind were not already in a sufficiently exalted frame, came 'The Great Revival,' touching this enthusiasm with religious emotion." "We used to have what were called revivals of religion in my day," I said, "sometimes quite extensive ones. Was this of the same nature?" "Scarcely," replied the doctor. "The Great Revival was a tide of enthusiasm for the social, not the personal, salvation, and for the establishment in brotherly love of the kingdom of God on earth which Christ bade men hope and work for. It was the general awakening of the people of America in the closing years of the last century to the profoundly ethical and truly religious character and claims of the movement for an industrial system which should guarantee the economic equality of all the people. "Nothing, surely, could be more self-evident than the strictly Christian inspiration of the idea of this guarantee. It contemplated nothing less than a literal fulfillment, on a complete social scale, of Christ's inculcation that all should feel the same solicitude and make the same effort for the welfare of others as for their own. The first effect of such a solicitude must needs be to prompt effort to bring about an equal material provision for all, as the primary condition of welfare. One would certainly think that a nominally Christian people having some familiarity with the New Testament would have needed no one to tell them these things, but that they would have recognized on its first statement that the programme of the revolutionists was simply a paraphrase of the golden rule expressed in economic and political terms. One would have said that whatever other members of the community might do, the Christian believers would at once have flocked to the support of such a movement with their whole heart, soul, mind, and might. That they were so slow to do so must be ascribed to the wrong teaching and non-teaching of a class of persons whose express duty, above all other persons and classes, was to prompt them to that action--namely, the Christian clergy. "For many ages--almost, indeed, from the beginning of the Christian era--the churches had turned their backs on Christ's ideal of a kingdom of God to be realized on earth by the adoption of the law of mutual helpfulness and fraternal love. Giving up the regeneration of human society in this world as a hopeless undertaking, the clergy, in the name of the author of the Lord's Prayer, had taught the people not to expect God's will to be done on earth. Directly reversing the attitude of Christ toward society as an evil and perverse order of things needing to be made over, they had made themselves the bulwarks and defenses of existing social and political institutions, and exerted their whole influence to discourage popular aspirations for a more just and equal order. In the Old World they had been the champions and apologists of power and privilege and vested rights against every movement for freedom and equality. In resisting the upward strivings of their people, the kings and emperors had always found the clergy more useful servants than the soldiers and the police. In the New World, when royalty, in the act of abdication, had passed the scepter behind its back to capitalism, the ecclesiastical bodies had transferred their allegiance to the money power, and as formerly they had preached the divine right of kings to rule their fellow-men, now preached the divine right of ruling and using others which inhered in the possession of accumulated or inherited wealth, and the duty of the people to submit without murmuring to the exclusive appropriation of all good things by the rich. "The historical attitude of the churches as the champions and apologists of power and privilege in every controversy with the rights of man and the idea of equality had always been a prodigious scandal, and in every revolutionary crisis had not failed to cost them great losses in public respect and popular following. Inasmuch as the now impending crisis between the full assertion of human equality and the existence of private capitalism was incomparably the most radical issue of the sort that had ever arisen, the attitude of the churches was likely to have a critical effect upon their future. Should they make the mistake of placing themselves upon the unpopular side in this tremendous controversy, it would be for them a colossal if not a fatal mistake--one that would threaten the loss of their last hold as organizations on the hearts and minds of the people. On the other hand, had the leaders of the churches been able to discern the full significance of the great turning of the world's heart toward Christ's ideal of human society, which marked the closing of the nineteenth century, they might have hoped by taking the right side to rehabilitate the churches in the esteem and respect of the world, as, after all, despite so many mistakes, the faithful representatives of the spirit and doctrine of Christianity. Some there were indeed--yes, many, in the aggregate--among the clergy who did see this and sought desperately to show it to their fellows, but, blinded by clouds of vain traditions, and bent before the tremendous pressure of capitalism, the ecclesiastical bodies in general did not, with these noble exceptions, awake to their great opportunity until it had passed by. Other bodies of learned men there were which equally failed to discern the irresistible force and divine sanction of the tidal wave of humane enthusiasm that was sweeping over the earth, and to see that it was destined to leave behind it a transformed and regenerated world. But the failure of these others, however lamentable, to discern the nature of the crisis, was not like the failure of the Christian clergy, for it was their express calling and business to preach and teach the application to human relations of the Golden Rule of equal treatment for all which the Revolution came to establish, and to watch for the coming of this very kingdom of brotherly love, whose advent they met with anathemas. "The reformers of that time were most bitter against the clergy for their double treason to humanity and Christianity, in opposing instead of supporting the Revolution; but time has tempered harsh judgments of every sort, and it is rather with deep pity than with indignation that we look back on these unfortunate men, who will ever retain the tragic distinction of having missed the grandest opportunity of leadership ever offered to men. Why add reproach to the burden of such a failure as that? "While the influence of ecclesiastical authority in America, on account of the growth of intelligence, had at this time greatly shrunken from former proportions, the generally unfavorable or negative attitude of the churches toward the programme of equality had told heavily to hold back the popular support which the movement might reasonably have expected from professedly Christian people. It was, however, only a question of time, and the educating influence of public discussion, when the people would become acquainted for themselves with the merits of the subject. 'The Great Revival' followed, when, in the course of this process of education, the masses of the nation reached the conviction that the revolution against which the clergy had warned them as unchristian was, in fact, the most essentially and intensely Christian movement that had ever appealed to men since Christ called his disciples, and as such imperatively commanded the strongest support of every believer or admirer of Christ's doctrine. "The American people appear to have been, on the whole, the most intelligently religious of the large populations of the world--as religion was understood at that time--and the most generally influenced by the sentiment of Christianity. When the people came to recognize that the ideal of a world of equal welfare, which had been represented to them by the clergy as a dangerous delusion, was no other than the very dream of Christ; when they realized that the hope which led on the advocates of the new order was no baleful _ignis fatuus_, as the churches had taught, but nothing less nor other than the Star of Bethlehem, it is not to be wondered at that the impulse which the revolutionary movement received should have been overwhelming. From that time on it assumes more and more the character of a crusade, the first of the many so-called crusades of history which had a valid and adequate title to that name and right to make the cross its emblem. As the conviction took hold on the always religious masses that the plan of an equalized human welfare was nothing less than the divine design, and that in seeking their own highest happiness by its adoption they were also fulfilling God's purpose for the race, the spirit of the Revolution became a religious enthusiasm. As to the preaching of Peter the Hermit, so now once more the masses responded to the preaching of the reformers with the exultant cry, 'God wills it!' and none doubted any longer that the vision would come to pass. So it was that the Revolution, which had begun its course under the ban of the churches, was carried to its consummation upon a wave of moral and religious emotion." "But what became of the churches and the clergy when the people found out what blind guides they had been?" I asked. "No doubt," replied the doctor, "it must have seemed to them something like the Judgment Day when their flocks challenged them with open Bibles and demanded why they had hid the Gospel all these ages and falsified the oracles of God which they had claimed to interpret. But so far as appears, the joyous exultation of the people over the great discovery that liberty, equality, and fraternity were nothing less than the practical meaning and content of Christ's religion seems to have left no room in their heart for bitterness toward any class. The world had received a crowning demonstration that was to remain conclusive to all time of the untrustworthiness of ecclesiastical guidance; that was all. The clergy who had failed in their office of guides had not done so, it is needless to say, because they were not as good as other men, but on account of the hopeless falsity of their position as the economic dependents of those they assumed to lead. As soon as the great revival had fairly begun they threw themselves into it as eagerly as any of the people, but not now with any pretensions of leadership. They followed the people whom they might have led. "From the great revival we date the beginning of the era of modern religion--a religion which has dispensed with the rites and ceremonies, creeds and dogmas, and banished from this life fear and concern for the meaner self; a religion of life and conduct dominated by an impassioned sense of the solidarity of humanity and of man with God; the religion of a race that knows itself divine and fears no evil, either now or hereafter." "I need not ask," I said, "as to any subsequent stages of the Revolution, for I fancy its consummation did not tarry long after 'The Great Revival.'" "That was indeed the culminating impulse," replied the doctor; "but while it lent a momentum to the movement for the immediate realization of an equality of welfare which no obstacle could have resisted, it did its work, in fact, not so much by breaking down opposition as by melting it away. The capitalists, as you who were one of them scarcely need to be told, were not persons of a more depraved disposition than other people, but merely, like other classes, what the economic system had made them. Having like passions and sensibilities with other men, they were as incapable of standing out against the contagion of the enthusiasm of humanity, the passion of pity, and the compulsion of humane tenderness which The Great Revival had aroused, as any other class of people. From the time that the sense of the people came generally to recognize that the fight of the existing order to prevent the new order was nothing more nor less than a controversy between the almighty dollar and the Almighty God, there was substantially but one side to it. A bitter minority of the capitalist party and its supporters seems indeed to have continued its outcry against the Revolution till the end, but it was of little importance. The greater and all the better part of the capitalists joined with the people in completing the installation of the new order which all had now come to see was to redound to the benefit of all alike." "And there was no war?" "War! Of course not. Who was there to fight on the other side? It is odd how many of the early reformers seem to have anticipated a war before private capitalism could be overthrown. They were constantly referring to the civil war in the United States and to the French Revolution as precedents which justified their fear, but really those were not analogous cases. In the controversy over slavery, two geographical sections, mutually impenetrable to each other's ideas were opposed and war was inevitable. In the French Revolution there would have been no bloodshed in France but for the interference of the neighboring nations with their brutal kings and brutish populations. The peaceful outcome of the great Revolution in America was, moreover, potently favored by the lack as yet of deep class distinctions, and consequently of rooted class hatred. Their growth was indeed beginning to proceed at an alarming rate, but the process had not yet gone far or deep and was ineffectual to resist the glow of social enthusiasm which in the culminating years of the Revolution blended the whole nation in a common faith and purpose. "You must not fail to bear in mind that the great Revolution, as it came in America, was not a revolution at all in the political sense in which all former revolutions in the popular interest had been. In all these instances the people, after making up their minds what they wanted changed, had to overthrow the Government and seize the power in order to change it. But in a democratic state like America the Revolution was practically done when the people had made up their minds that it was for their interest. There was no one to dispute their power and right to do their will when once resolved on it. The Revolution as regards America and in other countries, in proportion as their governments were popular, was more like the trial of a case in court than a revolution of the traditional blood-and-thunder sort. The court was the people, and the only way that either contestant could win was by convincing the court, from which there was no appeal. "So far as the stage properties of the traditional revolution were concerned, plots, conspiracies, powder-smoke, blood and thunder, any one of the ten thousand squabbles in the mediaeval, Italian, and Flemish towns, furnishes far more material to the romancer or playwright than did the great Revolution in America." "Am I to understand that there was actually no violent doings in connection with this great transformation?" "There were a great number of minor disturbances and collisions, involving in the aggregate a considerable amount of violence and bloodshed, but there was nothing like the war with pitched lines which the early reformers looked for. Many a petty dispute, causeless and resultless, between nameless kings in the past, too small for historical mention, has cost far more violence and bloodshed than, so far as America is concerned, did the greatest of all revolutions." "And did the European nations fare as well when they passed through the same crisis?" "The conditions of none of them were so favorable to peaceful social revolution as were those of the United States, and the experience of most was longer and harder, but it may be said that in the case of none of the European peoples were the direful apprehensions of blood and slaughter justified which the earlier reformers seem to have entertained. All over the world the Revolution was, as to its main factors, a triumph of moral forces." CHAPTER XXXVI. THEATER-GOING IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY. "I am sorry to interrupt," said Edith, "but it wants only five minutes of the time for the rising of the curtain, and Julian ought not to miss the first scene." On this notice we at once betook ourselves to the music room, where four easy chairs had been cozily arranged for our convenience. While the doctor was adjusting the telephone and electroscope connections for our use, I expatiated to my companion upon the contrasts between the conditions of theater-going in the nineteenth and in the twentieth centuries--contrasts which the happy denizens of the present world can scarcely, by any effort of imagination, appreciate. "In my time, only the residents of the larger cities, or visitors to them, were ever able to enjoy good plays or operas, pleasures which were by necessary consequence forbidden and unknown to the mass of the people. But even those who as to locality might enjoy these recreations were obliged, in order to do so, to undergo and endure such prodigious fuss, crowding, expense, and general derangement of comfort that for the most part they preferred to stay at home. As for enjoying the great artists of other countries, one had to travel to do so or wait for the artists to travel. To-day, I need not tell you how it is: you stay at home and send your eyes and ears abroad to see and hear for you. Wherever the electric connection is carried--and there need be no human habitation however remote from social centers, be it the mid-air balloon or mid-ocean float of the weather watchman, or the ice-crusted hut of the polar observer, where it may not reach--it is possible in slippers and dressing gown for the dweller to take his choice of the public entertainments given that day in every city of the earth. And remember, too, although you can not understand it, who have never seen bad acting or heard bad singing, how this ability of one troupe to play or sing to the whole earth at once has operated to take away the occupation of mediocre artists, seeing that everybody, being able to see and hear the best, will hear them and see them only." "There goes the bell for the curtain," said the doctor, and in another moment I had forgotten all else in the scene upon the stage. I need not sketch the action of a play so familiar as "The Knights of the Golden Rule." It is enough for this purpose to recall the fact that the costumes and setting were of the last days of the nineteenth century, little different from what they had been when I looked last on the world of that day. There were a few anachronisms and inaccuracies in the setting which the theatrical administration has since done me the honor to solicit my assistance in correcting, but the best tribute to the general correctness of the scheme was its effect to make me from the first moment oblivious of my actual surroundings. I found myself in presence of a group of living contemporaries of my former life, men and women dressed as I had seen them dressed, talking and acting, as till within a few weeks I had always seen people talk and act; persons, in short, of like passions, prejudices, and manners to my own, even to minute mannerisms ingeniously introduced by the playwright, which even more than the larger traits of resemblance affected my imagination. The only feeling that hindered my full acceptance of the idea that I was attending a nineteenth-century show was a puzzled wonder why I should seem to know so much more than the actors appeared to about the outcome of the social revolution they were alluding to as in progress. When the curtain fell on the first scene, and I looked about and saw Edith, her mother and father, sitting about me in the music room, the realization of my actual situation came with a shock that earlier in my twentieth-century career would have set my brain swimming. But I was too firm on my new feet now for anything of that sort, and for the rest of the play the constant sense of the tremendous experience which had made me at once a contemporary of two ages so widely apart, contributed an indescribable intensity to my enjoyment of the play. After the curtain fell, we sat talking of the drama, and everything else, till the globe of the color clock, turning from bottle-green to white, warned us of midnight, when the ladies left the doctor and myself to our own devices. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRANSITION PERIOD. "It is pretty late," I said, "but I want very much to ask you just a few more questions about the Revolution. All that I have learned leaves me quite as puzzled as ever to imagine any set of practical measures by which the substitution of public for private capitalism could have been effected without a prodigious shock. We had in our day engineers clever enough to move great buildings from one site to another, keeping them meanwhile so steady and upright as not to interfere with the dwellers in them, or to cause an interruption of the domestic operations. A problem something like this, but a millionfold greater and more complex, must have been raised when it came to changing the entire basis of production and distribution and revolutionizing the conditions of everybody's employment and maintenance, and doing it, moreover, without meanwhile seriously interrupting the ongoing of the various parts of the economic machinery on which the livelihood of the people from day to day depended. I should be greatly interested to have you tell me something about how this was done." "Your question," replied the doctor, "reflects a feeling which had no little influence during the revolutionary period to prolong the toleration extended by the people to private capitalism despite the mounting indignation against its enormities. A complete change of economic systems seemed to them, as it does to you, such a colossal and complicated undertaking that even many who ardently desired the new order and fully believed in its feasibility when once established, shrank back from what they apprehended would be the vast confusion and difficulty of the transition process. Of course, the capitalists, and champions of things as they were, made the most of this feeling, and apparently bothered the reformers not a little by calling on them to name the specific measures by which they would, if they had the power, proceed to substitute for the existing system a nationalized plan of industry managed in the equal interest of all. "One school of revolutionists declined to formulate or suggest any definite programme whatever for the consummating or constructive stage of the Revolution. They said that the crisis would suggest the method for dealing with it, and it would be foolish and fanciful to discuss the emergency before it arose. But a good general makes plans which provide in advance for all the main eventualities of his campaign. His plans are, of course, subject to radical modifications or complete abandonment, according to circumstances, but a provisional plan he ought to have. The reply of this school of revolutionists was not, therefore, satisfactory, and, so long as no better one could be made, a timid and conservative community inclined to look askance at the revolutionary programme. "Realizing the need of something more positive as a plan of campaign, various schools of reformers suggested more or less definite schemes. One there was which argued that the trades unions might develop strength enough to control the great trades, and put their own elected officers in place of the capitalists, thus organizing a sort of federation of trades unions. This, if practicable, would have brought in a system of group capitalism as divisive and antisocial, in the large sense, as private capitalism itself, and far more dangerous to civil order. This idea was later heard little of, as it became evident that the possible growth and functions of trade unionism were very limited. "There was another school which held that the solution was to be found by the establishment of great numbers of voluntary colonies, organized on co-operative principles, which by their success would lead to the formation of more and yet more, and that, finally, when most of the population had joined such groups they would simply coalesce and form one. Many noble and enthusiastic souls devoted themselves to this line of effort, and the numerous colonies that were organized in the United States during the revolutionary period were a striking indication of the general turning of men's hearts toward a better social order. Otherwise such experiments led, and could lead, to nothing. Economically weak, held together by a sentimental motive, generally composed of eccentric though worthy persons, and surrounded by a hostile environment which had the whole use and advantage of the social and economic machinery, it was scarcely possible that such enterprises should come to anything practical unless under exceptional leadership or circumstances. "There was another school still which held that the better order was to evolve gradually out of the old as the result of an indefinite series of humane legislation, consisting of factory acts, short-hour laws, pensions for the old, improved tenement houses, abolition of slums, and I don't know how many other poultices for particular evils resultant from the system of private capitalism. These good people argued that when at some indefinitely remote time all the evil consequences of capitalism had been abolished, it would be time enough and then comparatively easy to abolish capitalism itself--that is to say, after all the rotten fruit of the evil tree had been picked by hand, one at a time, off the branches, it would be time enough to cut down the tree. Of course, an obvious objection to this plan was that, so long as the tree remained standing, the evil fruit would be likely to grow as fast as it was plucked. The various reform measures, and many others urged by these reformers, were wholly humane and excellent, and only to be criticised when put forward as a sufficient method of overthrowing capitalism. They did not even tend toward such a result, but were quite as likely to help capitalism to obtain a longer lease of life by making it a little less abhorrent. There was really a time after the revolutionary movement had gained considerable headway when judicious leaders felt considerable apprehension lest it might be diverted from its real aim, and its force wasted in this programme of piecemeal reforms. "But you have asked me what was the plan of operation by which the revolutionists, when they finally came into power, actually overthrew private capitalism. It was really as pretty an illustration of the military manoeuvre that used to be called flanking as the history of war contains. Now, a flanking operation is one by which an army, instead of attacking its antagonist directly in front, moves round one of his flanks in such a way that without striking a blow it forces the enemy to leave his position. That is just the strategy the revolutionists used in the final issue with capitalism. "The capitalists had taken for granted that they were to be directly assaulted by wholesale forcible seizure and confiscation of their properties. Not a bit of it. Although in the end, of course, collective ownership was wholly substituted for the private ownership of capital, yet that was not done until after the whole system of private capitalism had broken down and fallen to pieces, and not as a means of throwing it down. To recur to the military illustration, the revolutionary army did not directly attack the fortress of capitalism at all, but so manoeuvred as to make it untenable, and to compel its evacuation. "Of course, you will understand that this policy was not suggested by any consideration for the rights of the capitalists. Long before this time the people had been educated to see in private capitalism the source and sum of all villainies, convicting mankind of deadly sin every day that it was tolerated. The policy of indirect attack pursued by the revolutionists was wholly dictated by the interest of the people at large, which demanded that serious derangements of the economic system should be, so far as possible, avoided during the transition from the old order to the new. "And now, dropping figures of speech, let me tell you plainly what was done--that is, so far as I remember the story. I have made no special study of the period since my college days, and very likely when you come to read the histories you will find that I have made many mistakes as to the details of the process. I am just trying to give you a general idea of the main course of events, to the best of my remembrance. I have already explained that the first step in the programme of political action adopted by the opponents of private capitalism had been to induce the people to municipalize and nationalize various quasi-public services, such as waterworks, lighting plants, ferries, local railroads, the telegraph and telephone systems, the general railroad system, the coal mines and petroleum production, and the traffic in intoxicating liquors. These being a class of enterprises partly or wholly non-competitive and monopolistic in character, the assumption of public control over them did not directly attack the system of production and distribution in general, and even the timid and conservative viewed the step with little apprehension. This whole class of natural or legal monopolies might indeed have been taken under public management without logically involving an assault on the system of private capitalism as a whole. Not only was this so, but even if this entire class of businesses was made public and run at cost, the cheapening in the cost of living to the community thus effected would presently be swallowed up by reductions of wages and prices, resulting from the remorseless operation of the competitive profit system. "It was therefore chiefly as a means to an ulterior end that the opponent of capitalism favored the public operation of these businesses. One part of that ulterior end was to prove to the people the superior simplicity, efficiency, and humanity of public over private management of economic undertakings. But the principal use which this partial process of nationalization served was to prepare a body of public employees sufficiently large to furnish a nucleus of consumers when the Government should undertake the establishment of a general system of production and distribution on a non-profit basis. The employees of the nationalized railroads alone numbered nearly a million, and with their dependent women and children represented some 4,000,000 people. The employees in the coal mines, iron mines, and other businesses taken charge of by the Government as subsidiary to the railroads, together with the telegraph and telephone workers, also in the public service, made some hundreds of thousands more persons with their dependents. Previous to these additions there had been in the regular civil service of the Government nearly 250,000 persons, and the army and navy made some 50,000 more. These groups with their dependents amounted probably to a million more persons, who, added to the railroad, mining, telegraph, and other employees, made an aggregate of something like 5,000,000 persons dependent on the national employment. Besides these were the various bodies of State and municipal employees in all grades, from the Governors of States down to the street-cleaners. THE PUBLIC-SERVICE STORES. "The first step of the revolutionary party when it came to power, with the mandate of a popular majority to bring in the new order, was to establish in all important centers public-service stores, where public employees could procure at cost all provisions of necessity or luxury previously bought at private stores. The idea was the less startling for not being wholly new. It had been the custom of various governments to provide for certain of the needs of their soldiers and sailors by establishing service stores at which everything was of absolutely guaranteed quality and sold strictly at cost. The articles thus furnished were proverbial for their cheapness and quality compared with anything that could be bought elsewhere, and the soldier's privilege of obtaining such goods was envied by the civilian, left to the tender mercies of the adulterating and profit-gorging retailer. The public stores now set up by the Government were, however, on a scale of completeness quite beyond any previous undertakings, intended as they were to supply all the consumption of a population large enough for a small-sized nation. "At first the goods in these stores were of necessity bought by the Government of the private capitalists, producers, or importers. On these the public employee saved all the middlemen's and retailers' profits, getting them at perhaps half or two thirds of what they must have paid at private stores, with the guarantee, moreover, of a careful Government inspection as to quality. But these substantial advantages were but a foretaste of the prosperity he enjoyed when the Government added the function of production to that of distribution, and proceeded as rapidly as possible to manufacture products, instead of buying them of capitalists. "To this end great food and cotton farms were established in all sections of the country and innumerable shops and factories started, so that presently the Government had in public employ not only the original 5,000,000, but as many more--farmers, artisans, and laborers of all sorts. These, of course, also had the right to be provided for at the public stores, and the system had to be extended correspondingly. The buyers in the public stores now saved not only the profits of the middleman and the retailer, but those as well of the manufacturer, the producer, and the importer. "Still further, not only did the public stores furnish the public employees with every kind of goods for consumption, but the Government likewise organized all sorts of needful services, such as cooking, laundry work, housework agencies, etc., for the exclusive benefit of public employees--all, of course, conducted absolutely at cost. The result was that the public employee was able to be supplied at home or in restaurants with food prepared by the best skill out of the best material and in the greatest possible variety, and more cheaply than he had ever been able to provide himself with even the coarsest provisions." "How did the Government acquire the lands and manufacturing plants it needed?" I inquired. "Did it buy them of the owners, or as to the plants did it build them?" "It co erected them without affecting the success of the programme, but that was generally needless. As to land, the farmers by millions were only too glad to turn over their farms to the Government and accept employment on them, with the security of livelihood which that implied for them and theirs. The Government, moreover, took for cultivation all unoccupied lands that were convenient for the purpose, remitting the taxes for compensation. "It was much the same with the factories and shops which the national system called for. They were standing idle by thousands in all parts of the country, in the midst of starving populations of the unemployed. When these plants were suited to the Government requirements they were taken possession of, put in operation, and the former workers provided with employment. In most instances former superintendents and foremen as well as the main body of operatives were glad to keep their old places, with the nation as employer. The owners of such plants, if I remember rightly, received some allowance, equal to a very low rate of interest, for the use of their property until such time as the complete establishment of the new order should make the equal maintenance of all citizens the subject of a national guarantee. That this was to be the speedy and certain outcome of the course of events was now no longer doubted, and pending that result the owners of idle plants were only too glad to get anything at all for their use. "The manufacturing plants were not the only form of idle capital which the Government on similar terms made use of. Considerable quantities of foreign imports were required to supply the public stores; and to avoid the payment of profits to capitalists on these, the Government took possession of idle shipping, building what it further needed, and went into foreign trade, exporting products of the public industries, and bringing home in exchange the needed foreign goods. Fishing fleets flying the national flag also brought home the harvest of the seas. These peace fleets soon far outnumbered the war ships which up to that time exclusively had borne the national commission. On these fleets the sailor was no more a slave. HOW MONEY LOST ITS VALUE. "And now consider the effect of another feature of the public-store system, namely, the disuse of money in its operations. Ordinary money was not received in the public stores, but a sort of scrip canceled on use and good for a limited time only. The public employee had the right of exchanging the money he received for wages, at par, into this scrip. While the Government issued it only to public employees, it was accepted at the public stores from any who presented it, the Government being only careful that the total amount did not exceed the wages exchanged into such scrip by the public employees. It thus became a currency which commanded three, four, and five hundred per cent premium over money which would only buy the high-priced and adulterated goods for sale in the remaining stores of the capitalists. The gain of the premium went, of course, to the public employees. Gold, which had been worshiped by the capitalists as the supreme and eternal type of money, was no more receivable than silver, copper, or paper currency at the public stores, and people who desired the best goods were fortunate to find a public employee foolish enough to accept three or four dollars in gold for one in scrip. "The effect to make money a drug in the market, of this sweeping reduction in its purchasing utility, was greatly increased by its practically complete disuse by the large and ever-enlarging proportion of the people in the public service. The demand for money was still further lessened by the fact that nobody wanted to borrow it now for use in extending business, seeing that the field of enterprise open to private capital was shrinking every hour, and evidently destined presently to disappear. Neither did any one desire money to hoard it, for it was more evident every day that it would soon become worthless. I have spoken of the public-store scrip commanding several hundred per cent premium over money, but that was in the earlier stages of the transition period. Toward the last the premium mounted to ever-dizzier altitudes, until the value of money quite disappeared, it being literally good for nothing as money. "If you would imagine the complete collapse of the entire monetary and financial system with all its standards and influences upon human relations and conditions, you have only to fancy what the effect would have been upon the same interests and relations in your day if positive and unquestioned information had become general that the world was to be destroyed within a few weeks or months, or at longest within a year. In this case indeed the world was not to be destroyed, but to be rejuvenated and to enter on an incomparably higher and happier and more vigorous phase of evolution; but the effect on the monetary system and all dependent on it was quite the same as if the world were to come to an end, for the new world would have no use for money, nor recognize any human rights or relations as measured by it." "It strikes me," said I, "that as money grew valueless the public taxes must have failed to bring in anything to support the Government." "Taxes," replied the doctor, "were an incident of private capitalism and were to pass away with it. Their use had been to give the Government a means of commanding labor under the money system. In proportion as the nation collectively organized and directly applied the whole labor of the people as the public welfare required it, had no need and could make no use of taxes any more than of money in other respects. Taxation went to pieces in the culminating stage of the Revolution, in measure as the organization of the capital and labor of the people for public purposes put an end to its functions." HOW THE REST OF THE PEOPLE CAME IN. "It seems to me that about this time, if not before, the mass of the people outside of the public service must have begun to insist pretty loudly upon being let in to share these good things." "Of course they did," replied the doctor; "and of course that was just what they were expected to do and what it had been arranged they should do as soon as the nationalized system of production and distribution was in full running order. The previously existing body of public employees had merely been utilized as furnishing a convenient nucleus of consumers to start with, which might be supplied without deranging meantime any more than necessary the outside wage or commodity markets. As soon as the system was in working order the Government undertook to receive into the public service not merely selected bodies of workers, but all who applied. From that time the industrial army received its recruits by tens and fifties of thousands a day till within a brief time the people as a whole were in the public service. "Of course, everybody who had an occupation or trade was kept right on at it at the place where he had formerly been employed, and the labor exchanges, already in full use, managed the rest. Later on, when all was going smoothly, would be time enough for the changings and shiftings about that would seem desirable." "Naturally," I said, "under the operation of the public employment programme, the working people must have been those first brought into the system, and the rich and well-to-do must probably have remained outside longest, and come in, so to speak, all in a batch, when they did." "Evidently so," replied the doctor. "Of course, the original nucleus of public employees, for whom the public stores were first opened, were all working people, and so were the bodies of people successively taken into the public service, as farmers, artisans, and tradesmen of all sorts. There was nothing to prevent a capitalist from joining the service, but he could do so only as a worker on a par with the others. He could buy in the public stores only to the extent of his pay as a worker. His other money would not be good there. There were many men and women of the rich who, in the humane enthusiasm of the closing days of the Revolution, abandoned their lands and mills to the Government and volunteered in the public service at anything that could be given them to do; but on the whole, as might be expected, the idea of going to work for a living on an economic equality with their former servants was not one that the rich welcomed, and they did not come to it till they had to." "And were they then, at last, enlisted by force?" I asked. "By force!" exclaimed the doctor; "dear me! no. There was no sort of constraint brought to bear upon them any more than upon anybody else, save that created by the growing difficulty and final impossibility of hiring persons for private employment, or obtaining the necessities of life except from the public stores with the new scrip. Before the Government entered on the policy of receiving into the public service every one who applied, the unemployed had thronged upon the capitalists, seeking to be hired. But immediately afterward the rich began to find it impossible to obtain men and women to serve them in field, factory, or kitchen. They could offer no inducements in the depreciated money which alone they possessed that were enough to counterbalance the advantages of the public service. Everybody knew also that there was no future for the wealthy class, and nothing to be gained through their favor. "Moreover, as you may imagine, there was already a strong popular feeling of contempt for those who would abase themselves to serve others for hire when they might serve the nation of which they were citizens; and, as you may well imagine, this growing sentiment made the position of a private servant or employee of any sort intolerable. And not only did the unfortunate capitalists find it impossible to induce people to cook for them, wash for them, to black their boots, to sweep their rooms, or drive their coaches, but they were put to straits to obtain in the dwindling private markets, where alone their money was good, the bare necessities of life, and presently found even that impossible. For a while, it would seem, they struggled against a relentless fate, sullenly supporting life on crusts in the corners of their lonesome palaces; but at last, of course, they all had to follow their former servants into the new nation, for there was no way of living save by connection with the national economic organization. Thus strikingly was illustrated, in the final exit of the capitalists from the human stage, how absolute was and always had been the dependence of capital upon the labor it despised and tyrannized over." "And do I understand that there was no compulsion upon anybody to join the public service?" "None but what was inherent in the circumstances I have named," replied the doctor. "The new order had no need or use for unwilling recruits. In fact, it needed no one, but every one needed it. If any one did not wish to enter the public service and could live outside of it without stealing or begging, he was quite welcome to. The books say that the woods were full of self-exiled hermits for a while, but one by one they tired of it and came into the new social house. Some isolated communities, however, remained outside for years." "The mill seems, indeed, to have been calculated to grind to an exceeding fineness all opposition to the new order," I observed, "and yet it must have had its own difficulties, too, in the natural refractoriness of the materials it had to make grist of. Take, for example, my own class of the idle rich, the men and women whose only business had been the pursuit of pleasure. What useful work could have been got out of such people as we were, however well disposed we might have become to render service? Where could we have been fitted into any sort of industrial service without being more hindrance than help?" "The problem might have been serious if the idle rich of whom you speak had been a very large proportion of the population, but, of course, though very much in evidence, they were in numbers insignificant compared with the mass of useful workers. So far as they were educated persons--and quite generally they had some smattering of knowledge--there was an ample demand for their services as teachers. Of course, they were not trained teachers, or capable of good pedagogical work; but directly after the Revolution, when the children and youth of the former poor were turned back by millions from the field and factories to the schools, and when the adults also of the working classes passionately demanded some degree of education to correspond with the improved conditions of life they had entered on, there was unlimited call for the services as instructors of everybody who was able to teach anything, even one of the primary branches, spelling, writing, geography, or arithmetic in the rudiments. The women of the former wealthy class, being mostly well educated, found in this task of teaching the children of the masses, the new heirs of the world, an employment in which I fancy they must have tasted more real happiness in the feeling of being useful to their kind than all their former frivolous existences could have given them. Few, indeed, were there of any class who did not prove to have some physical or mental quality by which they might with pleasure to themselves be serviceable to their kind." WHAT WAS DONE WITH THE VICIOUS AND CRIMINAL. "There was another class of my contemporaries," I said, "which I fancy must have given the new order more trouble to make anything out of than the rich, and those were the vicious and criminal idle. The rich were at least intelligent and fairly well behaved, and knew enough to adapt themselves to a new state of things and make the best of the inevitable, but these others must have been harder to deal with. There was a great floating population of vagabond criminals, loafers, and vicious of every class, male and female, in my day, as doubtless you well know. Admit that our vicious form of society was responsible for them; nevertheless, there they were, for the new society to deal with. To all intents and purposes they were dehumanized, and as dangerous as wild beasts. They were barely kept in some sort of restraint by an army of police and the weapons of criminal law, and constituted a permanent menace to law and order. At times of unusual agitation, and especially at all revolutionary crises, they were wont to muster in alarming force and become aggressive. At the crisis you are describing they must doubtless have made themselves extremely turbulent. What did the new order do with them? Its just and humane propositions would scarcely appeal to the members of the criminal class. They were not reasonable beings; they preferred to live by lawless violence, rather than by orderly industry, on terms however just. Surely the new nation must have found this class of citizens a very tough morsel for its digestion." "Not nearly so tough," replied the doctor, "as the former society had found it. In the first place, the former society, being itself based on injustice, was wholly without moral prestige or ethical authority in dealing with the criminal and lawless classes. Society itself stood condemned in their presence for the injustice which had been the provocation and excuse of their revolt. This was a fact which made the whole machinery of so-called criminal justice in your day a mockery. Every intelligent man knew in his heart that the criminal and vicious were, for the most part, what they were on account of neglect and injustice, and an environment of depraving influences for which a defective social order was responsible, and that if righteousness were done, society, instead of judging them, ought to stand with them in the dock before a higher justice, and take upon itself the heavier condemnation. This the criminals themselves felt in the bottom of their hearts, and that feeling forbade them to respect the law they feared. They felt that the society which bade them reform was itself in yet greater need of reformation. The new order, on the other hand, held forth to the outcasts hands purged of guilt toward them. Admitting the wrong that they had suffered in the past, it invited them to a new life under new conditions, offering them, on just and equal terms, their share in the social heritage. Do you suppose that there ever was a human heart so base that it did not at least know the difference between justice and injustice, and to some extent respond to it? "A surprising number of the cases you speak of, who had been given up as failures by your civilization, while in fact they had been proofs of its failure, responded with alacrity to the first fair opportunity to be decent men and women which had ever come to them. There was, of course, a large residuum too hopelessly perverted, too congenitally deformed, to have the power of leading a good life, however assisted. Toward these the new society, strong in the perfect justice of its attitude, proceeded with merciful firmness. The new society was not to tolerate, as the old had done, a criminal class in its midst any more than a destitute class. The old society never had any moral right to forbid stealing or to punish robbers, for the whole economic system was based on the appropriation, by force or fraud on the part of a few, of the earth and its resources and the fruit of the toil of the poor. Still less had it any right to forbid beggary or to punish violence, seeing that the economic system which it maintained and defended necessarily operated to make beggars and to provoke violence. But the new order, guaranteeing an equality of plenty to all, left no plea for the thief and robber, no excuse for the beggar, no provocation for the violent. By preferring their evil courses to the fair and honorable life offered them, such persons would henceforth pronounce sentence on themselves as unfit for human intercourse. With a good conscience, therefore, the new society proceeded to deal with all vicious and criminal persons as morally insane, and to segregate them in places of confinement, there to spend their lives--not, indeed, under punishment, or enduring hardships of any sort beyond enough labor for self-support, but wholly secluded from the world--and absolutely prevented from continuing their kind. By this means the race, in the first generation after the Revolution, was able to leave behind itself forever a load of inherited depravity and base congenital instincts, and so ever since it has gone on from generation to generation, purging itself of its uncleanness." THE COLORED RACE AND THE NEW ORDER. "In my day," I said, "a peculiar complication of the social problem in America was the existence in the Southern States of many millions of recently freed negro slaves, but partially as yet equal to the responsibility of freedom. I should be interested to know just how the new order adapted itself to the condition of the colored race in the South." "It proved," replied the doctor, "the prompt solution of a problem which otherwise might have continued indefinitely to plague the American people. The population of recent slaves was in need of some sort of industrial regimen, at once firm and benevolent, administered under conditions which should meanwhile tend to educate, refine, and elevate its members. These conditions the new order met with ideal perfection. The centralized discipline of the national industrial army, depending for its enforcement not so much on force as on the inability of any one to subsist outside of the system of which it was a part, furnished just the sort of a control--gentle yet resistless--which was needed by the recently emancipated bondsman. On the other hand, the universal education and the refinements and amenities of life which came with the economic welfare presently brought to all alike by the new order, meant for the colored race even more as a civilizing agent than it did to the white population which relatively had been further advanced." "There would have been in some parts," I remarked, "a strong prejudice on the part of the white population against any system which compelled a closer commingling of the races." "So we read, but there was absolutely nothing in the new system to offend that prejudice. It related entirely to economic organization, and had nothing more to do then than it has now with social relations. Even for industrial purposes the new system involved no more commingling of races than the old had done. It was perfectly consistent with any degree of race separation in industry which the most bigoted local prejudices might demand." HOW THE TRANSITION MIGHT HAVE BEEN HASTENED. "There is just one point about the transition stage that I want to go back to," I said. "In the actual case, as you have stated it, it seems that the capitalists held on to their capital and continued to conduct business as long as they could induce anybody to work for them or buy of them. I suppose that was human nature--capitalist human nature anyway; but it was also convenient for the Revolution, for this course gave time to get the new economic system perfected as a framework before the strain of providing for the whole people was thrown on it. But it was just possible, I suppose, that the capitalists might have taken a different course. For example, suppose, from the moment the popular majority gave control of the national Government to the revolutionists the capitalists had with one accord abandoned their functions and refused to do business of any kind. This, mind you, would have been before the Government had any time to organize even the beginnings of the new system. That would have made a more difficult problem to deal with, would it not?" "I do not think that the problem would have been more difficult," replied the doctor, "though it would have called for more prompt and summary action. The Government would have had two things to do and to do at once: on the one hand, to take up and carry on the machinery of productive industry abandoned by the capitalists, and simultaneously to provide maintenance for the people pending the time when the new product should become available. I suppose that as to the matter of providing for the maintenance of the people the action taken would be like that usually followed by a government when by flood, famine, siege, or other sudden emergency the livelihood of a whole community has been endangered. No doubt the first step would have been to requisition, for public use all stores of grain, clothing, shoes, and commodities in general throughout the country, excepting of course reasonable stocks in strictly private use. There was always in any civilized country a supply ahead of these necessities sufficient for several months or a year which would be many times more than would be needful to bridge over the gap between the stoppage of the wheels of production under private management and their getting into full motion under public administration. Orders on the public stores for food and clothing would have been issued to all citizens making application and enrolling themselves in the public industrial service. Meanwhile the Government would have immediately resumed the operation of the various productive enterprises abandoned by the capitalists. Everybody previously employed in them would simply have kept on, and employment would have been as rapidly as possible provided for those who had formerly been without it. The new product, as fast as made, would be turned into the public stores and the process would, in fact, have been just the same as that I have described, save that it would have gone through in much quicker time. If it did not go quite so smoothly on account of the necessary haste, on the other hand it would have been done with sooner, and at most we can hardly imagine that the inconvenience and hardship to the people would have been greater than resulted from even a mild specimen of the business crises which your contemporaries thought necessary every seven years, and toward the last of the old order became perpetual. HOW CAPITALIST COERCION OF EMPLOYEES WAS MET. "Your question, however," continued the doctor, "reminds me of another point which I had forgotten to mention--namely, the provisional methods of furnishing employment for the unemployed before the organization of the complete national system of industry. What your contemporaries were pleased to call 'the problem of the unemployed'--namely, the necessary effect of the profit system to create and perpetuate an unemployed class--had been increasing in magnitude from the beginning of the revolutionary period, and toward the close of the century the involuntary idlers were numbered by millions. While this state of things on the one hand furnished a powerful argument for the revolutionary propaganda by the object lesson it furnished of the incompetence of private capitalism to solve the problem of national maintenance, on the other hand, in proportion as employment became hard to get, the hold of the employers over the actual and would-be employees became strengthened. Those who had employment and feared to lose it, and those who had it not but hoped to get it, became, through fear and hope, very puppets in the hands of the employing class and cast their votes at their bidding. Election after election was carried in this way by the capitalists through their power to compel the workingman to vote the capitalist ticket against his own convictions, from the fear of losing or hope of obtaining an opportunity to work. "This was the situation which made it necessary previous to the conquest of the General Government by the revolutionary party, in order that the workingmen should be made free to vote for their own deliverance, that at least a provisional system of employment should be established whereby the wage-earner might be insured a livelihood when unable to find a private employer. "In different States of the Union, as the revolutionary party came into power, slightly different methods were adopted for meeting this emergency. The crude and wasteful makeshift of indiscriminate employment on public works, which had been previously adopted by governments in dealing with similar emergencies, would not stand the criticism of the new economic science. A more intelligent method was necessary and easily found. The usual plan, though varied in different localities, was for the State to guarantee to every citizen who applied therefor the means of maintenance, to be paid for in his or her labor, and to be taken in the form of commodities and lodgings, these commodities and lodgings being themselves produced and maintained by the sum of the labor of those, past and present, who shared them. The necessary imported commodities or raw materials were obtained by the sale of the excess of product at market rates, a special market being also found in the consumption of the State prisons, asylums, etc. This system, whereby the State enabled the otherwise unemployed mutually to maintain themselves by merely furnishing the machinery and superintendence, came very largely into use to meet the emergencies of the transition period, and played an important part in preparing the people for the new order, of which it was in an imperfect way a sort of anticipation. In some of these State establishments for the unemployed the circle of industries was remarkably complete, and the whole product of their labor above expenses being shared among the workers, they enjoyed far better fare than when in private employment, together with a sense of security then impossible. The employer's power to control his workmen by the threat of discharge was broken from the time these co-operative systems began to be established, and when, later, the national industrial organization was ready to absorb them, they merely melted into it." HOW ABOUT THE WOMEN? "How about the women?" I said. "Do I understand that, from the first organization of the industrial public service on a complete scale, the women were expected, like the men, if physically able, to take their places in the ranks?" "Where women were sufficiently employed already in housework in their own families," replied the doctor, "they were recognized as rendering public service until the new co-operative housekeeping was sufficiently systematized to do away with the necessity of separate kitchens and other elaborate domestic machinery for each family. Otherwise, except as occasions for exemption existed, women took their place from the beginning of the new order as units in the industrial state on the same basis with men. "If the Revolution had come a hundred years before, when as yet women had no other vocation but housework, the change in customs might have been a striking one, but already at that time women had made themselves a place in the industrial and business world, and by the time the Revolution came it was rather exceptional when unmarried women not of the rich and idle class did not have some regular occupation outside the home. In recognizing women as equally eligible and liable to public service with men, the new order simply confirmed to the women workers the independence they had already won." "But how about the married women?" "Of course," replied the doctor, "there would be considerable periods during which married women and mothers would naturally be wholly exempt from the performance of any public duty. But except at such times there seems to be nothing in the nature of the sexual relation constituting a reason why a married woman should lead a more secluded and useless life than a man. In this matter of the place of women under the new order, you must understand that it was the women themselves, rather than the men, who insisted that they must share in full the duties as well as the privileges of citizenship. The men would not have demanded it of them. In this respect you must remember that during its whole course the Revolution had been contemporary with a movement for the enlargement and greater freedom of women's lives, and their equalization as to rights and duties with men. The women, married as well as unmarried, had become thoroughly tired of being effaced, and were in full revolt against the headship of man. If the Revolution had not guaranteed the equality and comradeship with him which she was fast conquering under the old order, it could never have counted on her support." "But how about the care of children, of the home, etc.?" "Certainly the mothers could have been trusted to see that nothing interfered with the welfare of their children, nor was there anything in the public service expected of them that need do so. There is nothing in the maternal function which establishes such a relation between mother and child as need permanently interfere with her performance of social and public duties, nor indeed does it appear that it was allowed to do so in your day by women of sufficient economic means to command needed assistance. The fact that women of the masses so often found it necessary to abandon an independent existence, and cease to live any more for themselves the moment they had children, was simply a mark of the imperfection of your social arrangements, and not a natural or moral necessity. So, too, as to what you call caring for a home. As soon as co-operative methods were applied to housekeeping, and its various departments were systematized as branches of the public service, the former housewife had perforce to find another vocation in order to keep herself busy." THE LODGINGS QUESTION. "Talking about housework," I said, "how did they manage about houses? There were, of course, not enough good lodgings to go around, now that all were economic equals. How was it settled who should have the good houses and who the poor?" "As I have said," replied the doctor, "the controlling idea of the revolutionary policy at the climax of the Revolution was not to complicate the general readjustment by making any changes at that time not necessary to its main purpose. For the vast number of the badly housed the building of better houses was one of the first and greatest tasks of the nation. As to the habitable houses, they were all assessed at a graduated rental according to size and desirability, which their former occupants, if they desired to keep them, were expected to pay out of their new incomes as citizens. For a modest house the rent was nominal, but for a great house--one of the palaces of the millionaires, for instance--the rent was so large that no individual could pay it, and indeed no individual without a host of servants would be able to occupy it, and these, of course, he had no means of employing. Such buildings had to be used as hotels, apartment houses, or for public purposes. It would appear that nobody changed dwellings except the very poor, whose houses were unfit for habitation, and the very rich, who could make no use of their former habitation under the changed condition of things." WHEN ECONOMIC EQUALITY WAS FULLY REALIZED. "There is one point not quite clear in my mind," I said, "and that is just when the guarantee of equal maintenance for all citizens went into effect." "I suppose," replied the doctor, "that it must have been when, after the final collapse of what was left of private capitalism, the nation assumed the responsibility of providing for all the people. Until then the organization of the public service had been on the wage basis, which indeed was the only practicable way of initiating the plan of universal public employment while yet the mass of business was conducted by the capitalists, and the new and rising system had to be accommodated at so many points to the existing order of things. The tremendous rate at which the membership of the national industrial army was growing from week to week during the transition period would have made it impossible to find any basis of equal distribution that would hold good for a fortnight. The policy of the Government had, however, been to prepare the workers for equal sharing by establishing, as far as possible, a level wage for all kinds of public employees. This it was possible to do, owing to the cheapening of all sorts of commodities by the abolition of profits, without reducing any one's income. "For example, suppose one workman had received two dollars a day, and another a dollar and a half. Owing to the cheapening of goods in the public stores, these wages presently purchased twice as much as before. But, instead of permitting the virtual increase of wages to operate by multiplication, so as to double the original discrepancy between the pay of the two, it was applied by equal additions to the account of each. While both alike were better off than before, the disproportion in their welfare was thus reduced. Nor could the one previously more highly paid object to this as unfair, because the increased value of his wages was not the result of his own efforts, but of the new public organization, from which he could only ask an equal benefit with all others. Thus by the time the nation was ready for equal sharing, a substantially level wage, secured by leveling up, not leveling down, had already been established. As to the high salaries of special employees, out of all proportion to workmen's wages, which obtained under private capitalism, they were ruthlessly cut down in the public service from the inception of the revolutionary policy. "But of course the most radical innovation in establishing universal economic equality was not the establishment of a level wage as between the workers, but the admission of the entire population, both of workers and of those unable to work or past the working age, to an equal share in the national product. During the transition period the Government had of necessity proceeded like a capitalist in respect to recognizing and dealing only with effective workers. It took no more cognizance of the existence of the women, except when workers, or the children, or the old, or the infirm, crippled, or sick, or other dependents on the workers than the capitalists had been in the habit of doing. But when the nation gathered into its hands the entire economic resources of the country it proceeded to administer them on the principle--proclaimed, indeed, in the great Declaration, but practically mocked by the former republic--that all human beings have an equal right to liberty, life, and happiness, and that governments rightfully exist only for the purpose of making good that right--a principle of which the first practical consequence ought to be the guarantee to all on equal terms of the economic basis. Thenceforth all adult persons who could render any useful service to the nation were required to do so if they desired to enjoy the benefits of the economic system; but all who acknowledged the new order, whether they were able or unable to render any economic service, received an equal share with all others of the national product, and such provision was made for the needs of children as should absolutely safeguard their interests from the neglect or caprice of selfish parents. "Of course, the immediate effect must have been that the active workers received a less income than when they had been the only sharers; but if they had been good men and distributed their wages as they ought among those dependent on them, they still had for their personal use quite as much as before. Only those wage-earners who had formerly had none dependent on them or had neglected them suffered any curtailment of income, and they deserved to. But indeed there was no question of curtailment for more than a very short time for any; for, as soon as the now completed economic organization was fairly in motion, everybody was kept too busy devising ways to expend his or her own allowance to give any thought to that of others. Of course, the equalizing of the economic maintenance of all on the basis of citizenship put a final end to the employment of private servants, even if the practice had lasted till then, which is doubtful; for if any one desired a personal servant he must henceforth pay him as much as he could receive in the public service, which would be equivalent to the whole income of the would-be employer, leaving him nothing for himself." THE FINAL SETTLEMENT WITH THE CAPITALISTS. "There is one point," I said, "on which I should like to be a little more clearly informed. When the nation finally took possession absolutely in perpetuity of all the lands, machinery, and capital after the final collapse of private capitalism, there must have been doubtless some sort of final settling and balancing of accounts between the people and the capitalists whose former properties had been nationalized. How was that managed? What was the basis of final settlement?" "The people waived a settlement," replied the doctor. "The guillotine, the gallows, and the firing platoon played no part in the consummation of the great Revolution. During the previous phases of the revolutionary agitation there had indeed been much bitter talk of the reckoning which the people in the hour of their triumph would demand of the capitalists for the cruel past; but when the hour of triumph came, the enthusiasm of humanity which glorified it extinguished the fires of hate and took away all desire of barren vengeance. No, there was no settlement demanded; the people forgave the past." "Doctor," I said, "you have sufficiently--in fact, overwhelmingly--answered my question, and all the more so because you did not catch my meaning. Remember that I represent the mental and moral condition of the average American capitalist in 1887. What I meant was to inquire what compensation the people made to the capitalists for nationalizing what had been their property. Evidently, however, from the twentieth-century point of view, if there were to be any final settlement between the people and the capitalists it was the former who had the bill to present." "I rather pride myself," replied the doctor, "in keeping track of your point of view and distinguishing it from ours, but I confess that time I fairly missed the cue. You see, as we look back upon the Revolution, one of its most impressive features seems to be the vast magnanimity of the people at the moment of their complete triumph in according a free quittance to their former oppressors. "Do you not see that if private capitalism was right, then the Revolution was wrong; but, on the other hand, if the Revolution was right, then private capitalism was wrong, and the greatest wrong that ever existed; and in that case it was the capitalists who owed reparation to the people they had wronged, rather than the people who owed compensation to the capitalists for taking from them the means of that wrong? For the people to have consented on any terms to buy their freedom from their former masters would have been to admit the justice of their former bondage. When insurgent slaves triumph, they are not in the habit of paying their former masters the price of the shackles and fetters they have broken; the masters usually consider themselves fortunate if they do not have their heads broken with them. Had the question of compensating the capitalists been raised at the time we are speaking of, it would have been an unfortunate issue for them. To their question, Who was to pay them for what the people had taken from them? the response would have been, Who was to pay the people for what the capitalist system had taken from them and their ancestors, the light of life and liberty and happiness which it had shut off from unnumbered generations? That was an accounting which would have gone so deep and reached back so far that the debtors might well be glad to waive it. In taking possession of the earth and all the works of man that stood upon it, the people were but reclaiming their own heritage and the work of their own hands, kept back from them by fraud. When the rightful heirs come to their own, the unjust stewards who kept them out of their inheritance may deem themselves mercifully dealt with if the new masters are willing to let bygones be bygones. "But while the idea of compensating the capitalists for putting an end to their oppression would have been ethically absurd, you will scarcely get a full conception of the situation without considering that any such compensation was in the nature of the case impossible. To have compensated the capitalists in any practical way--that is, any way which would have preserved to them under the new order any economic equivalent for their former holdings--would have necessarily been to set up private capitalism over again in the very act of destroying it, thus defeating and stultifying the Revolution in the moment of its triumph. "You see that this last and greatest of revolutions in the nature of the case absolutely differed from all former ones in the finality and completeness of its work. In all previous instances in which governments had abolished or converted to public use forms of property in the hands of citizens it had been possible to compensate them in some other kind of property through which their former economic advantage should be perpetuated under a different form. For example, in condemning lands it was possible to pay for them in money, and in abolishing property in men it was possible to pay for the slaves, so that the previous superiority or privilege held by the property owner was not destroyed outright, but merely translated, so to speak, into other terms. But the great Revolution, aiming as it did at the final destruction of all forms of advantage, dominion, or privilege among men, left no guise or mode possible under which the capitalist could continue to exercise his former superiority. All the modes under which in past time men had exercised dominion over their fellows had been by one revolution after another reduced to the single form of economic superiority, and now that this last incarnation of the spirit of selfish dominion was to perish there was no further refuge for it. The ultimate mask torn off, it was left to wither in the face of the sun." "Your explanation leaves me nothing further to ask as to the matter of a final settling between the people and the capitalists," I said. "Still, I have understood that in the first steps toward the substitution of public business management for private capitalism, consisting in the nationalizing or municipalizing of quasi-public services, such as gas works, railroads, telegraphs, etc., some theory of compensation was followed. Public opinion, at that stage not having accepted the whole revolutionary programme, must probably have insisted upon this practice. Just when was it discontinued?' "You will readily perceive," replied the doctor, "that in measure as it became generally recognized that economic equality was at hand, it began to seem farcical to pay the capitalists for their possessions in forms of wealth which must presently, as all knew, become valueless. So it was that, as the Revolution approached its consummation, the idea of buying the capitalists out gave place to plans for safeguarding them from unnecessary hardships pending the transition period. All the businesses of the class you speak of which were taken over by the people in the early stages of the revolutionary agitation, were paid for in money or bonds, and usually at prices most favorable to the capitalists. As to the greater plants, which were taken over later, such as railroads and the mines, a different course was followed. By the time public opinion was ripe for these steps, it began to be recognized by the dullest that it was possible, even if not probable, that the revolutionary programme would go completely through, and all forms of monetary value or obligation become waste paper. With this prospect the capitalists owning the properties were naturally not particularly desirous of taking national bonds for them which would have been the natural form of compensation had they been bought outright. Even if the capitalists had been willing to take the bonds, the people would never have consented to increase the public debt by the five or six billions of bonds that would have been necessary to carry out the purchase. Neither the railroads nor the mines were therefore purchased at all. It was their management, not their ownership, which had excited the public indignation and created the demand for their nationalization. It was their management, therefore, which was nationalized, their ownership remaining undisturbed. "That is to say, the Government, on the high ground of public policy and for the correction of grievances that had become intolerable, assumed the exclusive and perpetual management and operation of the railroad lines. An honest valuation of the plants having been made, the earnings, if any, up to a reasonable percentage, were paid over to the security holders. This arrangement answered the purpose of delivering the people and the security holders alike from the extortions and mismanagement of the former private operators, and at the same time brought a million railroad employees into the public service and the enjoyment of all its benefits quite as effectively as if the lines had been bought outright. A similar plan was followed with the coal and other mines. This combination of private ownership with public management continued until, the Revolution having been consummated, all the capital of the country was nationalized by comprehensive enactment. "The general principle which governed the revolutionary policy in dealing with property owners of all sorts was that while the distribution of property was essentially unjust and existing property rights morally invalid, and as soon as possible a wholly new system should be established, yet that, until the new system of property could as a whole replace the existing one, the legal rights of property owners ought to be respected, and when overruled in the public interest proper provision should be made to prevent hardship. The means of private maintenance should not, that is to say, be taken away from any one until the guarantee of maintenance from public sources could take its place. The application of this principle by the revolutionists seems to have been extremely logical, clean cut, and positive. The old law of property, bad as it was, they did not aim to abolish in the name of license, spoliation, and confusion, but in the name of a stricter and more logical as well as more righteous law. In the most nourishing days of capitalism, stealing, so called, was never repressed more sternly than up to the very eve of the complete introduction of the new system. "To sum up the case in a word," I suggested, "it seems that in passing from the old order into the new it necessarily fared with the rich as it did when they passed out of this world into the next. In one case, as in the other, they just absolutely had to leave their money behind them." "The illustration is really very apt," laughed the doctor, "except in one important particular. It has been rumored that the change which Dives made from this world to the next was an unhappy one for him; but within half a dozen years after the new economic system had been in operation there was not an ex-millionaire of the lot who was not ready to admit that life had been made as much better worth living for him and his class as for the rest of the community." "Did the new order get into full running condition so quickly as that?" I asked. "Of course, it could not get into perfect order as you see it now for many years. The _personnel_ of any community is the prime factor in its economic efficiency, and not until the first generation born under the new order had come to maturity--a generation of which every member had received the highest intellectual and industrial training--did the economic order fully show what it was capable of. But not ten nor two years had elapsed from the time when the national Government took all the people into employment on the basis of equal sharing in the product before the system showed results which overwhelmed the world with amazement. The partial system of public industries and public stores which the Government had already undertaken had given the people some intimation of the cheapening of products and improvement in their quality which might follow from the abolition of profits even under a wage system, but not until the entire economic system had been nationalized and all co-operated for a common weal was it possible completely to pool the product and share it equally. No previous experience had therefore prepared the public for the prodigious efficiency of the new economic enginery. The people had thought the reformers made rather large promises as to what the new system would do in the way of wealth-making, but now they charged them of keeping back the truth. And yet the result was one that need not have surprised any one who had taken the trouble to calculate the economic effect of the change in systems. The incalculable increase of wealth which but for the profit system the great inventions of the century would long before have brought the world, was being reaped in a long-postponed but overwhelming harvest. "The difficulty under the profit system had been to avoid producing too much; the difficulty under the equal sharing system was how to produce enough. The smallness of demand had before limited supply, but supply had now set to it an unlimited task. Under private capitalism demand had been a dwarf and lame at that, and yet this cripple had been pace-maker for the giant production. National cooperation had put wings on the dwarf and shod the cripple with Mercury's sandals. Henceforth the giant would need all his strength, all his thews of steel and sinews of brass even, to keep him in sight as he flitted on before. "It would be difficult to give you an idea of the tremendous burst of industrial energy with which the rejuvenated nation on the morrow of the Revolution threw itself into the task of uplifting the welfare of all classes to a level where the former rich man might find in sharing the common lot nothing to regret. Nothing like the Titanic achievement by which this result was effected had ever before been known in human history, and nothing like it seems likely ever to occur again. In the past there had not been work enough for the people. Millions, some rich, some poor, some willingly, some unwillingly, had always been idle, and not only that, but half the work that was done was wasted in competition or in producing luxuries to gratify the secondary wants of the few, while yet the primary wants of the mass remained unsatisfied. Idle machinery equal to the power of other millions of men, idle land, idle capital of every sort, mocked the need of the people. Now, all at once there were not hands enough in the country, wheels enough in the machinery, power enough in steam and electricity, hours enough in the day, days enough in the week, for the vast task of preparing the basis of a comfortable existence for all. For not until all were well-to-do, well housed, well clothed, well fed, might any be so under the new order of things. "It is said that in the first full year after the new order was established the total product of the country was tripled, and in the second the first year's product was doubled, and every bit of it consumed. "While, of course, the improvement in the material welfare of the nation was the most notable feature in the first years after the Revolution, simply because it was the place at which any improvement must begin, yet the ennobling and softening of manners and the growth of geniality in social intercourse are said to have been changes scarcely less notable. While the class differences inherited from the former order in point of habits, education, and culture must, of course, continue to mark and in a measure separate the members of the generation then on the stage, yet the certain knowledge that the basis of these differences had passed away forever, and that the children of all would mingle not only upon terms of economic equality, but of moral, intellectual, and social sympathy, and entire community of interest, seems to have had a strong anticipatory influence in bringing together in a sentiment of essential brotherhood those who were too far on in life to expect to see the full promise of the Revolution realized. "One other matter is worth speaking of, and that is the effect almost at once of the universal and abounding material prosperity which the nation had entered on to make the people forget all about the importance they had so lately attached to petty differences in pay and wages and salary. In the old days of general poverty, when a sufficiency was so hard to come by, a difference in wages of fifty cents or a dollar had seemed so great to the artisan that it was hard for him to accept the idea of an economic equality in which such important distinctions should disappear. It was quite natural that it should be so. Men fight for crusts when they are starving, but they do not quarrel over bread at a banquet table. Somewhat so it befell when in the years after the Revolution material abundance and all the comforts of life came to be a matter of course for every one, and storing for the future was needless. Then it was that the hunger motive died out of human nature and covetousness as to material things, mocked to death by abundance, perished by atrophy, and the motives of the modern worker, the love of honor, the joy of beneficence, the delight of achievement, and the enthusiasm of humanity, became the impulses of the economic world. Labor was glorified, and the cringing wage-slave of the nineteenth century stood forth transfigured as the knight of humanity." CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE BOOK OF THE BLIND. If the reader were to judge merely from what has been set down in these pages he would be likely to infer that my most absorbing interest during these days I am endeavoring to recall was the study of the political economy and social philosophy of the modern world, which I was pursuing under the direction of Dr. Leete. That, however, would be a great mistake. Full of wonder and fascination as was that occupation, it was prosaic business compared with the interest of a certain old story which his daughter and I were going over together, whereof but slight mention has been made, because it is a story which all know or ought to know for themselves. The dear doctor, being aware of the usual course of such stories, no doubt realized that this one might be expected presently to reach a stage of interest where it would be likely, for a time at least, wholly to distract my attention from other themes. No doubt he had been governed by this consideration in trying to give to our talks a range which should result in furnishing me with a view of the institutions of the modern world and their rational basis that would be as symmetrical and rounded out as was at all consistent with the vastness of the subject and the shortness of the time. It was some days after he had told me the story of the transition period before we had an opportunity for another long talk, and the turn he gave to our discourse on that occasion seemed to indicate that he intended it as a sort of conclusion of the series, as indeed it proved to be. Edith and I had come home rather late that evening, and when she left me I turned into the library, where a light showed that the doctor was still sitting. As I entered he was turning over the leaves of a very old and yellow-looking volume, the title of which, by its oddity, caught my eye. "Kenloe's Book of the Blind," I said. "That is an odd title." "It is the title of an odd book," replied the doctor. "The Book of the Blind is nearly a hundred years old, having been compiled soon after the triumph of the Revolution. Everybody was happy, and the people in their joy were willing to forgive and forget the bitter opposition of the capitalists and the learned class, which had so long held back the blessed change. The preachers who had preached, the teachers who had taught, and the writers who had written against the Revolution, were now the loudest in its praise, and desired nothing so much as to have their previous utterances forgotten. But Kenloe, moved by a certain crabbed sense of justice, was bound that they should not be forgotten. Accordingly, he took the pains to compile, with great care as to authenticity, names, dates, and places, a mass of excerpts from speeches, books, sermons, and newspapers, in which the apologists of private capitalism had defended that system and assailed the advocates of economic equality during the long period of revolutionary agitation. Thus he proposed to pillory for all time the blind guides who had done their best to lead the nation and the world into the ditch. The time would come, he foresaw, as it has come, when it would seem incredible to posterity that rational men and, above all, learned men should have opposed in the name of reason a measure which, like economic equality obviously meant nothing more nor less than the general diffusion of happiness. Against that time he prepared this book to serve as a perpetual testimony. It was dreadfully hard on the men, all alive at the time and desiring the past to be forgotten, on whom he conferred this most undesirable immortality. One can imagine how they must have anathematized him when the book came out. Nevertheless it must be said that if men ever deserved to endure perpetual obloquy those fellows did. "When I came across this old volume on the top shelf of the library the other day it occurred to me that it might be helpful to complete your impression of the great Revolution by giving you an idea of the other side of the controversy--the side of your own class, the capitalists, and what sort of reasons they were able to give against the proposition to equalize the basis of human welfare." I assured the doctor that nothing would interest me more. Indeed, I had become so thoroughly naturalized as a twentieth-century American that there was something decidedly piquant in the idea of having my former point of view as a nineteenth-century capitalist recalled to me. "Anticipating that you would take that view," said the doctor, "I have prepared a little list of the main heads of objection from Kenloe's collection, and we will go over them, if you like, this evening. Of course, there are many more than I shall quote, but the others are mainly variations of these, or else relate to points which have been covered in our talks." I made myself comfortable, and the doctor proceeded: THE PULPIT OBJECTION. "The clergy in your day assumed to be the leaders of the people, and it is but respectful to their pretensions to take up first what seems to have been the main pulpit argument against the proposed system of economic equality collectively guaranteed. It appears to have been rather in the nature of an excuse for not espousing the new social ideal than a direct attack on it, which indeed it would have been rather difficult for nominal Christians to make, seeing that it was merely the proposal to carry out the golden rule. "The clergy reasoned that the fundamental cause of social misery was human sin and depravity, and that it was vain to expect any great improvement in the social condition through mere improvements in social forms and institutions unless there was a corresponding moral improvement in men. Until that improvement took place it was therefore of no use to introduce improved social systems, for they would work as badly as the old ones if those who were to operate them were not themselves better men and women. "The element of truth in this argument is the admitted fact that the use which individuals or communities are able to make of any idea, instrument, or institution depends on the degree to which they have been educated up to the point of understanding and appreciating it. "On the other hand, however, it is equally true, as the clergy must at once have admitted, that from the time a people begins to be morally and intellectually educated up to the point of understanding and appreciating better institutions, their adoption is likely to be of the greatest benefit to them. Take, for example, the ideas of religious liberty and of democracy. There was a time when the race could not understand or fitly use either, and their adoption as formal institutions would have done no good. Afterward there came a time when the world was ready for the ideas, and then their realization by means of new social institutions constituted great forward steps in civilization. "That is to say, if, on the one hand, it is of no use to introduce an improved institution before people begin to be ready for it, on the other hand great loss results if there be a delay or refusal to adopt the better institution as soon as the readiness begins to manifest itself. "This being the general law of progress, the practical question is, How are we to determine as to any particular proposed improvement in institutions whether the world is yet ready to make a good use of it or whether it is premature? "The testimony of history is that the only test of the fitness of people at any time for a new institution is the volume and earnestness of the popular demand for the change. When the peoples began in earnest to cry out for religious liberty and freedom of conscience, it was evident that they were ready for them. When nations began strongly to demand popular government, it was proof that they were ready for that. It did not follow that they were entirely able at once to make the best possible use of the new institution; that they could only learn to do by experience, and the further development which they would attain through the use of the better institution and could not otherwise attain at all. What was certain was that after the people had reached this state of mind the old institution had ceased to be serviceable, and that however badly for a time the new one might work, the interest of the race demanded its adoption, and resistance to the change was resistance to progress. "Applying this test to the situation toward the close of the nineteenth century, what evidence was there that the world was beginning to be ready for a radically different and more humane set of social institutions? The evidence was the volume, earnestness, and persistence of the popular demand for it which at that period had come to be the most widespread, profound, and powerful movement going on in the civilized world. This was the tremendous fact which should have warned the clergy who withstood the people's demand for better things to beware lest haply they be found fighting even against God. What more convincing proof could be asked that the world had morally and intellectually outgrown the old economic order than the detestation and denunciation of its cruelties and fatuities which had become the universal voice? What stronger evidence could there be that the race was ready at least to attempt the experiment of social life on a nobler plane than the marvelous development during this period of the humanitarian and philanthropic spirit, the passionate acceptance by the masses of the new idea of social solidarity and the universal brotherhood of man? "If the clergymen who objected to the Revolution on the ground that better institutions would be of no utility without a better spirit had been sincere in that objection, they would have found in a survey of the state and tendencies of popular feeling the most striking proof of the presence of the very conditions in extraordinary measure which they demanded as necessary to insure the success of the experiment. "But indeed it is to be greatly feared that they were not sincere. They pretended to hold Christ's doctrine that hatred of the old life and a desire to lead a better one is the only vocation necessary to enter upon such a life. If they had been sincere in professing this doctrine, they would have hailed with exultation the appeal of the masses to be delivered from their bondage to a wicked social order and to be permitted to live together on better, kinder, juster terms. But what they actually said to the people was in substance this: It is true, as you complain, that the present social and economic system is morally abominable and thoroughly antichristian, and that it destroys men's souls and bodies. Nevertheless, you must not think of trying to change it for a better system, because you are not yet good enough to try to be better. It is necessary that you should wait until you are more righteous before you attempt to leave off doing evil. You must go on stealing and fighting until you shall become fully sanctified. "How would the clergy have been scandalized to hear that a Christian minister had in like terms attempted to discourage an individual penitent who professed loathing for his former life and a desire to lead a better! What language shall we find then that is strong enough fitly to characterize the attitude of these so-called ministers of Christ, who in his name rebuked and derided the aspirations of a world weary of social wrong and seeking for a better way?" THE LACK OF INCENTIVE OBJECTION. "But, after all," pursued the doctor, turning the pages of Kenloe, "let us not be too hard on these unfortunate clergymen, as if they were more blinded or bigoted in their opposition to progress than were other classes of the learned men of the day, as, for example, the economists. One of the main arguments--perhaps the leading one--of the nineteenth-century economists against the programme of economic equality under a nationalized economic system was that the people would not prove efficient workers owing to the lack of sufficiently sharp personal incentives to diligence. "Now, let us look at this objection. Under the old system there were two main incentives to economic exertion: the one chiefly operative on the masses, who lived from hand to mouth, with no hope of more than a bare subsistence; the other operating to stimulate the well-to-do and rich to continue their efforts to accumulate wealth. The first of these motives, the lash that drove the masses to their tasks, was the actual pressure or imminent fear of want. The second of the motives, that which spurred the already rich, was the desire to be ever richer, a passion which we know increased with what it fed on. Under the new system every one on easy conditions would be sure of as good a maintenance as any one else and be quite relieved from the pressure or fear of want. No one, on the other hand, by any amount of effort, could hope to become the economic superior of another. Moreover, it was said, since every one looked to his share in the general result rather than to his personal product, the nerve of zeal would be cut. It was argued that the result would be that everybody would do as little as he could and keep within the minimum requirement of the law, and that therefore, while the system might barely support itself, it could never be an economic success." "That sounds very natural," I said. "I imagine it is just the sort of argument that I should have thought very powerful." "So your friends the capitalists seem to have regarded it, and yet the very statement of the argument contains a confession of the economic imbecility of private capitalism which really leaves nothing to be desired as to completeness. Consider, Julian, what is implied as to an economic system by the admission that under it the people never escape the actual pressure of want or the immediate dread of it. What more could the worst enemy of private capitalism allege against it, or what stronger reason could he give for demanding that some radically new system be at least given a trial, than the fact which its defenders stated in this argument for retaining it--namely, that under it the masses were always hungry? Surely no possible new system could work any worse than one which confessedly depended upon the perpetual famine of the people to keep it going." "It was a pretty bad giving away of their case," I said, "when you come to think of it that way. And yet at first statement it really had a formidable sound." "Manifestly," said the doctor, "the incentives to wealth-production under a system confessedly resulting in perpetual famine must be ineffectual, and we really need consider them no further; but your economists praised so highly the ambition to get rich as an economic motive and objected so strongly to economic equality because it would shut it off, that a word may be well as to the real value of the lust of wealth as an economic motive. Did the individual pursuit of riches under your system necessarily tend to increase the aggregate wealth of the community? The answer is significant. It tended to increase the aggregate wealth only when it prompted the production of new wealth. When, on the other hand, it merely prompted individuals to get possession of wealth already produced and in the hands of others, it tended only to change the distribution without at all increasing the total of wealth. Not only, indeed, did the pursuit of wealth by acquisition, as distinguished from production, not tend to increase the total, but greatly to decrease it by wasteful strife. Now, I will leave it to you, Julian, whether the successful pursuers of wealth, those who illustrated most strikingly the force of this motive of accumulation, usually sought their wealth by themselves producing it or by getting hold of what other people had produced or supplanting other people's enterprises and reaping the field others had sown." "By the latter processes, of course," I replied. "Production was slow and hard work. Great wealth could not be gained that way, and everybody knew it. The acquisition of other people's product and the supplanting of their enterprises were the easy and speedy and royal ways to riches for those who were clever enough, and were the basis of all large and rapid accumulations." "So we read," said the doctor; "but the desire of getting rich also stimulated capitalists to more or less productive activity which was the source of what little wealth you had. This was called production for profit, but the political-economy class the other morning showed us that production for profit was economic suicide, tending inevitably, by limiting the consuming power of a community, to a fractional part of its productive power to cripple production in turn, and so to keep the mass of mankind in perpetual poverty. And surely this is enough to say about the incentives to wealth-making which the world lost in abandoning private capitalism, first general poverty, and second the profit system, which caused that poverty. Decidedly we can dispense with those incentives. "Under the modern system it is indeed true that no one ever imagined such a thing as coming to want unless he deliberately chose to, but we think that fear is on the whole the weakest as well as certainly the cruelest of incentives. We would not have it on any terms were it merely for gain's sake. Even in your day your capitalists knew that the best man was not he who was working for his next dinner, but he who was so well off that no immediate concern for his living affected his mind. Self-respect and pride in achievement made him a far better workman than he who was thinking of his day's pay. But if those motives were as strong then, think how much more powerful they are now! In your day when two men worked side by side for an employer it was no concern of the one, however the other might cheat or loaf. It was not his loss, but the employer's. But now that all work for the common fund, the one who evades or scamps his work robs every one of his fellows. A man had better hang himself nowadays than get the reputation of a shirk. "As to the notion of these objectors that economic equality would cut the nerve of zeal by denying the individual the reward of his personal achievements, it was a complete misconception of the effects of the system. The assumption that there would be no incentives to impel individuals to excel one another in industry merely because these incentives would not take a money form was absurd. Every one is as directly and far more certainly the beneficiary of his own merits as in your day, save only that the reward is not in what you called 'cash.' As you know, the whole system of social and official rank and headship, together with the special honors of the state, are determined by the relative value of the economic and other services of individuals to the community. Compared with the emulation aroused by this system of nobility by merit, the incentives to effort offered under the old order of things must have been slight indeed. "The whole of this subject of incentive taken by your contemporaries seems, in fact, to have been based upon the crude and childish theory that the main factor in diligence or execution of any kind is external, whereas it is wholly internal. A person is congenitally slothful or energetic. In the one case no opportunity and no incentive can make him work beyond a certain minimum of efficiency, while in the other case he will make his opportunity and find his incentives, and nothing but superior force can prevent his doing the utmost possible. If the motive force is not in the man to start with, it can not be supplied from without, and there is no substitute for it. If a man's mainspring is not wound up when he is born, it never can be wound up afterward. The most that any industrial system can do to promote diligence is to establish such absolutely fair conditions as shall promise sure recognition for all merit in its measure. This fairness, which your system, utterly unjust in all respects, wholly failed to secure, ours absolutely provides. As to the unfortunates who are born lazy, our system has certainly no miraculous power to make them energetic, but it does see to it with absolute certainty that every able-bodied person who receives economic maintenance of the nation shall render at least the minimum of service. The laziest is sure to pay his cost. In your day, on the other hand, society supported millions of able-bodied loafers in idleness, a dead weight on the world's industry. From the hour of the consummation of the great Revolution, this burden ceased to be borne." "Doctor," I said, "I am sure my old friends could do better than that. Let us have another of their objections." AFRAID THAT EQUALITY WOULD MAKE EVERYBODY ALIKE. "Here, then, is one which they seem to have thought a great deal of. They argued that the effect of economic equality would be to make everybody just alike, as if they had been sawed off to one measure, and that consequently life would become so monotonous that people would all hang themselves at the end of a month. This objection is beautifully typical of an age when everything and everybody had been reduced to a money valuation. It having been proposed to equalize everybody's supply of money, it was at once assumed, as a matter of course, that there would be left no points of difference between individuals that would be worth considering. How perfectly does this conclusion express the philosophy of life held by a generation in which it was the custom to sum up men as respectively 'worth' so many thousands, hundred thousands, or millions of dollars! Naturally enough, to such people it seemed that human beings would become well-nigh indistinguishable if their bank accounts were the same. "But let us be entirely fair to your contemporaries. Possibly those who used this argument against economic equality would have felt aggrieved to have it made out the baldly sordid proposition it seems to be. They appear, to judge from the excerpts collected in this book, to have had a vague but sincere apprehension that in some quite undefined way economic equality would really tend to make people monotonously alike, tediously similar, not merely as to bank accounts, but as to qualities in general, with the result of obscuring the differences in natural endowments, the interaction of which lends all the zest to social intercourse. It seems almost incredible that the obvious and necessary effect of economic equality could be apprehended in a sense so absolutely opposed to the truth. How could your contemporaries look about them without seeing that it is always inequality which prompts the suppression of individuality by putting a premium on servile imitation of superiors, and, on the other hand, that it is always among equals that one finds independence? Suppose, Julian, you had a squad of recruits and wanted to ascertain at a glance their difference in height, what sort of ground would you select to line them up on?" "The levelest piece I could find, of course." "Evidently; and no doubt these very objectors would have done the same in a like case, and yet they wholly failed to see that this was precisely what economic equality would mean for the community at large. Economic equality with the equalities of education and opportunity implied in it was the level standing ground, the even floor, on which the new order proposed to range all alike, that they might be known for what they were, and all their natural inequalities be brought fully out. The charge of abolishing and obscuring the natural differences between men lay justly not against the new order, but against the old, which, by a thousand artificial conditions and opportunities arising from economic inequality, made it impossible to know how far the apparent differences in individuals were natural, and how far they were the result of artificial conditions. Those who voiced the objection to economic equality as tending to make men all alike were fond of calling it a leveling process. So it was, but it was not men whom the process leveled, but the ground they stood on. From its introduction dates the first full and clear revelation of the natural and inherent varieties in human endowments. Economic equality, with all it implies, is the first condition of any true anthropometric or man-measuring system." "Really," I said, "all these objections seem to be of the boomerang pattern, doing more damage to the side that used them than to the enemy." "For that matter," replied the doctor, "the revolutionists would have been well off for ammunition if they had used only that furnished by their opponents' arguments. Take, for example, another specimen, which we may call the aesthetic objection to economic equality, and might regard as a development of the one just considered. It was asserted that the picturesqueness and amusement of the human spectacle would suffer without the contrast of conditions between the rich and poor. The question first suggested by this statement is: To whom, to what class did these contrasts tend to make life more amusing? Certainly not to the poor, who made up the mass of the race. To them they must have been maddening. It was then in the interest of the mere handful of rich and fortunate that this argument for retaining poverty was urged. Indeed this appears to have been quite a fine ladies' argument. Kenloe puts it in the mouths of leaders of polite society. As coolly as if it had been a question of parlor decoration, they appear to have argued that the black background of the general misery was a desirable foil to set off the pomp of the rich. But, after all, this objection was not more brutal than it was stupid. If here and there might be found some perverted being who relished his luxuries the more keenly for the sight of others' want, yet the general and universal rule is that happiness is stimulated by the sight of the happiness of others. As a matter of fact, far from desiring to see or be even reminded of squalor and poverty, the rich seem to have tried to get as far as possible from sight or sound of them, and to wish to forget their existence. "A great part of the objections to economic equality in this book seems to have been based on such complete misapprehensions of what the plan implied as to have no sort of relevancy to it. Some of these I have passed over. One of them, by way of illustration, was based on the assumption that the new social order would in some way operate to enforce, by law, relations of social intimacy of all with all, without regard to personal tastes or affinities. Quite a number of Kenloe's subjects worked themselves up to a frenzy, protesting against the intolerable effects of such a requirement. Of course, they were fighting imaginary foes. There was nothing under the old social order which compelled men to associate merely because their bank accounts or incomes were the same, and there was nothing under the new order that would any more do so. While the universality of culture and refinement vastly widens the circle from which one may choose congenial associates, there is nothing to prevent anybody from living a life as absolutely unsocial as the veriest cynic of the old time could have desired. OBJECTION THAT EQUALITY WOULD END THE COMPETITIVE SYSTEM. "The theory of Kenloe," continued the doctor, "that unless he carefully recorded and authenticated these objections to economic equality, posterity would refuse to believe that they had ever been seriously offered, is specially justified by the next one on the list. This is an argument against the new order because it would abolish the competitive system and put an end to the struggle for existence. According to the objectors, this would be to destroy an invaluable school of character and testing process for the weeding out of inferiority, and the development and survival as leaders of the best types of humanity. Now, if your contemporaries had excused themselves for tolerating the competitive system on the ground that, bad and cruel as it was, the world was not ripe for any other, the attitude would have been intelligible, if not rational; but that they should defend it as a desirable institution in itself, on account of its moral results, and therefore not to be dispensed with even if it could be, seems hard to believe. For what was the competitive system but a pitiless, all-involving combat for the means of life, the whole zest of which depended on the fact that there was not enough to go round, and the losers must perish or purchase bare existence by becoming the bondmen of the successful? Between a fight for the necessary means of life like this and a fight for life itself with sword and gun, it is impossible to make any real distinction. However, let us give the objection a fair hearing. "In the first place, let us admit that, however dreadful were the incidents of the fight for the means of life called competition, yet, if it were such a school of character and testing process for developing the best types of the race as these objectors claimed, there would be something to have been said in favor of its retention. But the first condition of any competition or test, the results of which are to command respect or possess any value, is the fairness and equality of the struggle. Did this first and essential condition of any true competitive struggle characterize the competitive system of your day?" "On the contrary," I replied, "the vast majority of the contestants were hopelessly handicapped at the start by ignorance and lack of early advantages, and never had even the ghost of a chance from the word go. Differences in economic advantages and backing, moreover, gave half the race at the beginning to some, leaving the others at a distance which only extraordinary endowments might overcome. Finally, in the race for wealth all the greatest prizes were not subject to competition at all, but were awarded without any contest according to the accident of birth." "On the whole, then, it would appear," resumed the doctor, "that of all the utterly unequal, unfair, fraudulent, sham contests, whether in sport or earnest, that were ever engaged in, the so-called competitive system was the ghastliest farce. It was called the competitive system apparently for no other reason than that there was not a particle of genuine competition in it, nothing but brutal and cowardly slaughter of the unarmed and overmatched by bullies in armor; for, although we have compared the competitive struggle to a foot race, it was no such harmless sport as that, but a struggle to the death for life and liberty, which, mind you, the contestants did not even choose to risk, but were forced to undertake, whatever their chances. The old Romans used to enjoy the spectacle of seeing men fight for their lives, but they at least were careful to pair their gladiators as nearly as possible. The most hardened attendants at the Coliseum would have hissed from the arena a performance in which the combatants were matched with such utter disregard of fairness as were those who fought for their lives in the so-called competitive struggle of your day." "Even you, doctor," I said, "though you know these things so well through the written record, can not realize how terribly true your words are." "Very good. Now tell me what it would have been necessary to do by way of equalizing the conditions of the competitive struggle in order that it might be called, without mockery, a fair test of the qualities of the contestants." "It would have been necessary, at least," I said, "to equalize their educational equipment, early advantages, and economic or money backing." "Precisely so; and that is just what economic equality proposed to do. Your extraordinary contemporaries objected to economic equality because it would destroy the competitive system, when, in fact, it promised the world the first and only genuine competitive system it ever had." "This objection seems the biggest boomerang yet," I said. "It is a double-ended one," said the doctor, "and we have yet observed but one end. We have seen that the so-called competitive system under private capitalism was not a competitive system at all, and that nothing but economic equality could make a truly competitive system possible. Grant, however, for the sake of the argument, that the old system was honestly competitive, and that the prizes went to the most proficient under the requirements of the competition; the question would remain whether the qualities the competition tended to develop were desirable ones. A training school in the art of lying, for example, or burglary, or slander, or fraud, might be efficient in its method and the prizes might be fairly distributed to the most proficient pupils, and yet it would scarcely be argued that the maintenance of the school was in the public interest. The objection we are considering assumes that the qualities encouraged and rewarded under the competitive system were desirable qualities, and such as it was for the public policy to develop. Now, if this was so, we may confidently expect to find that the prize-winners in the competitive struggle, the great money-makers of your age, were admitted to be intellectually and morally the finest types of the race at the time. How was that?" "Don't be sarcastic, doctor." "No, I will not be sarcastic, however great the temptation, but just talk straight on. What did the world, as a rule, think of the great fortune-makers of your time? What sort of human types did they represent? As to intellectual culture, it was held as an axiom that a college education was a drawback to success in business, and naturally so, for any knowledge of the humanities would in so far have unmanned men for the sordid and pitiless conditions of the fight for wealth. We find the great prize takers in the competitive struggle to have generally been men who made it a boast that they had never had any mental education beyond the rudiments. As a rule, the children and grandchildren, who gladly inherited their wealth, were ashamed of their appearance and manners as too gross for refined surroundings. "So much for the intellectual qualities that marked the victors in the race for wealth under the miscalled competitive system; what of the moral? What were the qualities and practices which the successful seeker after great wealth must systematically cultivate and follow? A lifelong habit of calculating upon and taking advantage of the weaknesses, necessities, and mistakes of others, a pitiless insistence upon making the most of every advantage which one might gain over another, whether by skill or accident, the constant habit of undervaluing and depreciating what one would buy, and overvaluing what one would sell; finally, such a lifelong study to regulate every thought and act with sole reference to the pole star of self-interest in its narrowest conception as must needs presently render the man incapable of every generous or self-forgetting impulse. That was the condition of mind and soul which the competitive pursuit of wealth in your day tended to develop, and which was naturally most brilliantly exemplified in the cases of those who carried away the great prizes of the struggle. "But, of course, these winners of the great prizes were few, and had the demoralizing influence of the struggle been limited to them it would have involved the moral ruin of a small number. To realize how wide and deadly was the depraving influence of the struggle for existence, we must remember that it was not confined to its effect upon the characters of the few who succeeded, but demoralized equally the millions who failed, not on account of a virtue superior to that of the few winners, or any unwillingness to adopt their methods, but merely through lack of the requisite ability or fortune. Though not one in ten thousand might succeed largely in the pursuit of wealth, yet the rules of the contest must be followed as closely to make a bare living as to gain a fortune, in bargaining for a bag of old rags as in buying a railroad. So it was that the necessity equally upon all of seeking their living, however humble, by the methods of competition, forbade the solace of a good conscience as effectually to the poor man as to the rich, to the many losers at the game as to the few winners. You remember the familiar legend which represents the devil as bargaining with people for their souls, with the promise of worldly success as the price. The bargain was in a manner fair as set forth in the old story. The man always received the price agreed on. But the competitive system was a fraudulent devil, which, while requiring everybody to forfeit their souls, gave in return worldly success to but one in a thousand. "And now, Julian, just let us glance at the contrast between what winning meant under the old false competitive system and what it means under the new and true competitive system, both to the winner and to the others. The winners then were those who had been most successful in getting away the wealth of others. They had not even pretended to seek the good of the community or to advance its interest, and if they had done so, that result had been quite incidental. More often than otherwise their wealth represented the loss of others. What wonder that their riches became a badge of ignominy and their victory their shame? The winners in the competition of to-day are those who have done most to increase the general wealth and welfare. The losers, those who have failed to win the prizes, are not the victims of the winners, but those whose interest, together with the general interest, has been served by them better than they themselves could have served it. They are actually better off because a higher ability than theirs was developed in the race, seeing that this ability redounded wholly to the common interest. The badges of honor and rewards of rank and office which are the tangible evidence of success won in the modern competitive struggle are but expressions of the love and gratitude of the people to those who have proved themselves their most devoted and efficient servants and benefactors." "It strikes me," I said, "so far as you have gone, that if some one had been employed to draw up a list of the worst and weakest aspects of private capitalism, he could not have done better than to select the features of the system on which its champions seem to have based their objections to a change." OBJECTION THAT EQUALITY WOULD DISCOURAGE INDEPENDENCE AND ORIGINALITY. "That is an impression," said the doctor, "which you will find confirmed as we take up the next of the arguments on our list against economic equality. It was asserted that to have an economic maintenance on simple and easy terms guaranteed to all by the nation would tend to discourage originality and independence of thought and conduct on the part of the people, and hinder the development of character and individuality. This objection might be regarded as a branch of the former one that economic equality would make everybody just alike, or it might be considered a corollary of the argument we have just disposed of about the value of competition as a school of character. But so much seems to have been made of it by the opponents of the Revolution that I have set it down separately. "The objection is one which, by the very terms necessary to state it, seems to answer itself, for it amounts to saying that a person will be in danger of losing independence of feeling by gaining independence of position. If I were to ask you what economic condition was regarded as most favorable to moral and intellectual independence in your day, and most likely to encourage a man to act out himself without fear or favor, what would you say?" "I should say, of course, that a secure and independent basis of livelihood was that condition." "Of course. Now, what the new order promised to give and guarantee everybody was precisely this absolute independence and security of livelihood. And yet it was argued that the arrangement would be objectionable, as tending to discourage independence of character. It seems to us that if there is any one particular in which the influence upon humanity of economic equality has been more beneficent than any other, it has been the effect which security of economic position has had to make every one absolute lord of himself and answerable for his opinions, speech, and conduct to his own conscience only. "That is perhaps enough to say in answer to an objection which, as I remarked, really confutes itself, but the monumental audacity of the defenders of private capitalism in arguing that any other possible system could be more unfavorable than itself to human dignity and independence tempts a little comment, especially as this is an aspect of the old order on which I do not remember that we have had much talk. As it seems to us, perhaps the most offensive feature of private capitalism, if one may select among so many offensive features, was its effect to make cowardly, time-serving, abject creatures of human beings, as a consequence of the dependence for a living, of pretty nearly everybody upon some individual or group. "Let us just glance at the spectacle which the old order presented in this respect. Take the women in the first place, half the human race. Because they stood almost universally in a relation of economic dependence, first upon men in general and next upon some man in particular, they were all their lives in a state of subjection both to the personal dictation of some individual man, and to a set of irksome and mind-benumbing conventions representing traditional standards of opinion as to their proper conduct fixed in accordance with the masculine sentiment. But if the women had no independence at all, the men were not so very much better off. Of the masculine half of the world, the greater part were hirelings dependent for their living upon the favor of employers and having the most direct interest to conform so far as possible in opinions and conduct to the prejudices of their masters, and, when they could not conform, to be silent. Look at your secret ballot laws. You thought them absolutely necessary in order to enable workingmen to vote freely. What a confession is that fact of the universal intimidation of the employed by the employer! Next there were the business men, who held themselves above the workingmen. I mean the tradesmen, who sought a living by persuading the people to buy of them. But here our quest of independence is even more hopeless than among the workingmen, for, in order to be successful in attracting the custom of those whom they cringingly styled their patrons, it was necessary for the merchant to be all things to all men, and to make an art of obsequiousness. "Let us look yet higher. We may surely expect to find independence of thought and speech among the learned classes in the so-called liberal professions if nowhere else. Let us see how our inquiry fares there. Take the clerical profession first--that of the religious ministers and teachers. We find that they were economic servants and hirelings either of hierarchies or congregations, and paid to voice the opinions of their employers and no others. Every word that dropped from their lips was carefully weighed lest it should indicate a trace of independent thinking, and if it were found, the clergyman risked his living. Take the higher branches of secular teaching in the colleges and professions. There seems to have been some freedom allowed in teaching the dead languages; but let the instructor take up some living issue and handle it in a manner inconsistent with the capitalist interest, and you know well enough what became of him. Finally, take the editorial profession, the writers for the press, who on the whole represented the most influential branch of the learned class. The great nineteenth-century newspaper was a capitalistic enterprise as purely commercial in its principle as a woolen factory, and the editors were no more allowed to write their own opinions than the weavers to choose the patterns they wove. They were employed to advocate the opinions and interests of the capitalists owning the paper and no others. The only respect in which the journalists seem to have differed from the clergy was in the fact that the creeds which the latter were employed to preach were more or less fixed traditions, while those which the editors must preach changed with the ownership of the paper. This, Julian, is the truly exhilarating spectacle of abounding and unfettered originality, of sturdy moral and intellectual independence and rugged individuality, which it was feared by your contemporaries might be endangered by any change in the economic system. We may agree with them that it would have been indeed a pity if any influence should operate to make independence any rarer than it was, but they need not have been apprehensive; it could not be." "Judging from these examples of the sort of argumentative opposition which the revolutionists had to meet," I observed, "it strikes me that they must have had a mighty easy time of it." "So far as rational argument was concerned," replied the doctor, "no great revolutionary movement ever had to contend with so little opposition. The cause of the capitalists was so utterly bad, either from the point of view of ethics, politics, or economic science, that there was literally nothing that could be said for it that could not be turned against it with greater effect. Silence was the only safe policy for the capitalists, and they would have been glad enough to follow it if the people had not insisted that they should make some sort of a plea to the indictment against them. But because the argumentative opposition which the revolutionists had to meet was contemptible in quality, it did not follow that their work was an easy one. Their real task--and it was one for giants--was not to dispose of the arguments against their cause, but to overcome the moral and intellectual inertia of the masses and rouse them to do just a little clear thinking for themselves. POLITICAL CORRUPTION AS AN OBJECTION TO NATIONALIZING INDUSTRY. "The next objection--there are only two or three more worth mentioning--is directed not so much against economic equality in itself as against the fitness of the machinery by which the new industrial system was to be carried on. The extension of popular government over industry and commerce involved of course the substitution of public and political administration on a large scale for the previous irresponsible control of private capitalists. Now, as I need not tell you, the Government of the United States--municipal, State, and national--in the last third of the nineteenth century had become very corrupt. It was argued that to intrust any additional functions to governments so corrupt would be nothing short of madness." "Ah!" I exclaimed, "that is perhaps the rational objection we have been waiting for. I am sure it is one that would have weighed heavily with me, for the corruption of our governmental system smelled to heaven." "There is no doubt," said the doctor, "that there was a great deal of political corruption and that it was a very bad thing, but we must look a little deeper than these objectors did to see the true bearing of this fact on the propriety of nationalizing industry. "An instance of political corruption was one where the public servant abused his trust by using the administration under his control for purposes of private gain instead of solely for the public interest--that is to say, he managed his public trust just as if it were his private business and tried to make a profit out of it. A great outcry was made, and very properly, when any such conduct was suspected; and therefore the corrupt officers operated under great difficulties, and were in constant danger of detection and punishment. Consequently, even in the worst governments of your period the mass of business was honestly conducted, as it professed to be, in the public interest, comparatively few and occasional transactions being affected by corrupt influences. "On the other hand, what were the theory and practice pursued by the capitalists in carrying on the economic machinery which were under their control? They did not profess to act in the public interest or to have any regard for it. The avowed object of their whole policy was so to use the machinery of their position as to make the greatest personal gains possible for themselves out of the community. That is to say, the use of his control of the public machinery for his personal gain--which on the part of the public official was denounced and punished as a crime, and for the greater part prevented by public vigilance--was the avowed policy of the capitalist. It was the pride of the public official that he left office as poor as when he entered it, but it was the boast of the capitalist that he made a fortune out of the opportunities of his position. In the case of the capitalist these gains were not called corrupt, as they were when made by public officials in the discharge of public business. They were called profits, and regarded as legitimate; but the practical point to consider as to the results of the two systems was that these profits cost the people they came out of just as much as if they had been called political plunder. "And yet these wise men in Kenloe's collection taught the people, and somebody must have listened to them, that because in some instances public officials succeeded in spite of all precautions in using the public administration for their own gain, it would not be safe to put any more public interests under public administration, but would be safer to leave them to private capitalists, who frankly proposed as their regular policy just what the public officials were punished whenever caught doing--namely, taking advantage of the opportunities of their position to enrich themselves at public expense. It was precisely as if the owner of an estate, finding it difficult to secure stewards who were perfectly faithful, should be counseled to protect himself by putting his affairs in the hands of professional thieves." "You mean," I said, "that political corruption merely meant the occasional application to the public administration of the profit-seeking principle on which all private business was conducted." "Certainly. A case of corruption in office was simply a case where the public official forgot his oath and for the occasion took a businesslike view of the opportunities of his position--that is to say, when the public official fell from grace he only fell to the normal level on which all private business was admittedly conducted. It is simply astonishing, Julian, how completely your contemporaries overlooked this obvious fact. Of course, it was highly proper that they should be extremely critical of the conduct of their public officials; but it is unaccountable that they should fail to see that the profits of private capitalists came out of the community's pockets just as certainly as did the stealings of dishonest officials, and that even in the most corrupt public departments the stealings represented a far less percentage than would have been taken as profits if the same business were done for the public by capitalists. "So much for the precious argument that, because some officials sometimes took profits of the people, it would be more economical to leave their business in the hands of those who would systematically do so! But, of course, although the public conduct of business, even if it were marked with a certain amount of corruption, would still be more economical for the community than leaving it under the profit system, yet no self-respecting community would wish to tolerate any public corruption at all, and need not, if only the people would exercise vigilance. Now, what will compel the people to exercise vigilance as to the public administration? The closeness with which we follow the course of an agent depends on the importance of the interests put in his hands. Corruption has always thrived in political departments in which the mass of the people have felt little direct concern. Place under public administration vital concerns of the community touching their welfare daily at many points, and there will be no further lack of vigilance. Had they been wiser, the people who objected to the governmental assumption of new economic functions on account of existing political corruption would have advocated precisely that policy as the specific cure for the evil. "A reason why these objectors seem to have been especially short-sighted is the fact that by all odds the most serious form which political corruption took in America at that day was the bribery of legislators by private capitalists and corporations in order to obtain franchises and privileges. In comparison with this abuse, peculation or bribery of crude direct sorts were of little extent or importance. Now, the immediate and express effect of the governmental assumption of economic businesses would be, so far as it went, to dry up this source of corruption, for it was precisely this class of capitalist undertakings which the revolutionists proposed first to bring under public control. "Of course, this objection was directed only against the new order while in process of introduction. With its complete establishment the very possibility of corruption, would disappear with the law of absolute uniformity governing all incomes. "Worse and worse," I exclaimed. "What is the use of going further?" "Patience," said the doctor. "Let us complete the subject while we are on it. There are only a couple more of the objections that have shape enough to admit of being stated." OBJECTION THAT A NATIONALIZED INDUSTRIAL SYSTEM WOULD THREATEN LIBERTY. "The first of them," pursued the doctor, "was the argument that such an extension of the functions of public administration as nationalized industries involved would lodge a power in the hands of the Government, even though it were the people's own government, that would be dangerous to their liberties. "All the plausibility there was to this objection rested on the tacit assumption that the people in their industrial relations had under private capitalism been free and unconstrained and subject to no form of authority. But what assumption could have been more regardless of facts than this? Under private capitalism the entire scheme of industry and commerce, involving the employment and livelihood of everybody, was subject to the despotic and irresponsible government of private masters. The very demand for nationalizing industry has resulted wholly from the sufferings of the people under the yoke of the capitalists. "In 1776 the Americans overthrew the British royal government in the colonies and established their own in its place. Suppose at that time the king had sent an embassy to warn the American people that by assuming these new functions of government which formerly had been performed for them by him they were endangering their liberty. Such an embassy would, of course, have been laughed at. If any reply had been thought needful, it would have been pointed out that the Americans were not establishing over themselves any new government, but were substituting a government of their own, acting in their own interests, for the government of others conducted in an indifferent or hostile interest. Now, that was precisely what nationalizing industry meant. The question was, Given the necessity of some sort of regulation and direction of the industrial system, whether it would tend more to liberty for the people to leave that power to irresponsible persons with hostile interests, or to exercise it themselves through responsible agents? Could there conceivably be but one answer to that question? "And yet it seems that a noted philosopher of the period, in a tract which has come down to us, undertook to demonstrate that if the people perfected the democratic system by assuming control of industry in the public interest, they would presently fall into a state of slavery which would cause them to sigh for the days of Nero and Caligula. I wish we had that philosopher here, that we might ask him how, in accordance with any observed laws of human nature, slavery was going to come about as the result of a system aiming to establish and perpetuate a more perfect degree of equality, intellectual as well as material, than had ever been known. Did he fancy that the people would deliberately and maliciously impose a yoke upon themselves, or did he apprehend that some usurper would get hold of the social machinery and use it to reduce the people to servitude? But what usurper from the beginning ever essayed a task so hopeless as the subversion of a state in which there were no classes or interests to set against one another, a state in which there was no aristocracy and no populace, a state the stability of which represented the equal and entire stake in life of every human being in it? Truly it would seem that people who conceived the subversion of such a republic possible ought to have lost no time in chaining down the Pyramids, lest they, too, defying ordinary laws of Nature, should incontinently turn upon their tops. "But let us leave the dead to bury their dead, and consider how the nationalization of industry actually did affect the bearing of government upon the people. If the amount of governmental machinery--that is, the amount of regulating, controlling, assigning, and directing under the public management of industry--had continued to be just the same it was under the private administration of the capitalists, the fact that it was now the people's government, managing everything in the people's interest under responsibility to the people, instead of an irresponsible tyranny seeking its own interest, would of course make an absolute difference in the whole character and effect of the system and make it vastly more tolerable. But not merely did the nationalization of industry give a wholly new character and purpose to the economic administration, but it also greatly diminished the net amount of governing necessary to carry it on. This resulted naturally from the unity of system with the consequent co-ordination and interworking of all the parts which took the place of the former thousand-headed management following as many different and conflicting lines of interest, each a law to itself. To the workers the difference was as if they had passed out from under the capricious personal domination of innumerable petty despots to a government of laws and principles so simple and systematic that the sense of being subject to personal authority was gone. "But to fully realize how strongly this argument of too much government directed against the system of nationalized industry partook of the boomerang quality of the previous objections, we must look on to the later effects which the social justice of the new order would naturally have to render superfluous well-nigh the whole machinery of government as previously conducted. The main, often almost sole, business of governments in your day was the protection of property and person against criminals, a system involving a vast amount of interference with the innocent. This function of the state has now become almost obsolete. There are no more any disputes about property, any thefts of property, or any need of protecting property. Everybody has all he needs and as much as anybody else. In former ages a great number of crimes have resulted from the passions of love and jealousy. They were consequences of the idea derived from immemorial barbarism that men and women might acquire sexual proprietorship in one another, to be maintained and asserted against the will of the person. Such crimes ceased to be known after the first generation had grown up under the absolute sexual autonomy and independence which followed from economic equality. There being no lower classes now which upper classes feel it their duty to bring up in the way they should go, in spite of themselves, all sorts of attempts to regulate personal behavior in self-regarding matters by sumptuary legislation have long ago ceased. A government in the sense of a coordinating directory of our associated industries we shall always need, but that is practically all the government we have now. It used to be a dream of philosophers that the world would some time enjoy such a reign of reason and justice that men would be able to live together without laws. That condition, so far as concerns punitive and coercive regulations, we have practically attained. As to compulsory laws, we might be said to live almost in a state of anarchy. "There is, as I explained to you in the Labor Exchange the other morning, no compulsion, in the end, even as to the performance of the universal duty of public service. We only insist that those who finally refuse to do their part toward maintaining the social welfare shall not be partakers of it, but shall resort by themselves and provide for themselves. THE MALTHUSIAN OBJECTION. "And now we come to the last objection on my list. It is entirely different in character from any of the others. It does not deny that economic equality would be practicable or desirable, or assert that the machinery would work badly. It admits that the system would prove a triumphant success in raising human welfare to an unprecedented point and making the world an incomparably more agreeable place to live in. It was indeed the conceded success of the plan which was made the basis of this objection to it." "That must be a curious sort of objection," I said. "Let us hear about it." "The objectors put it in this way: 'Let us suppose,' they said, 'that poverty and all the baneful influences upon life and health that follow in its train are abolished and all live out their natural span of life. Everybody being assured of maintenance for self and children, no motive of prudence would be operative to restrict the number of offspring. Other things being equal, these conditions would mean a much faster increase of population than ever before known, and ultimately an overcrowding of the earth and a pressure on the food supply, unless indeed we suppose new and indefinite food sources to be found?'" "I do not see why it might not be reasonable to anticipate such a result," I observed, "other things being equal." "Other things being equal," replied the doctor, "such a result might be anticipated. But other things would not be equal, but so different that their influence could be depended on to prevent any such result." "What are the other things that would not be equal?" "Well, the first would be the diffusion of education, culture, and general refinement. Tell me, were the families of the well-to-do and cultured class in the America of your day, as a whole, large?" "Quite the contrary. They did not, as a rule, more than replace themselves." "Still, they were not prevented by any motive of prudence from increasing their numbers. They occupied in this respect as independent a position as families do under the present order of economic equality and guaranteed maintenance. Did it never occur to you why the families of the well-to-do and cultured in your day were not larger?" "Doubtless," I said, "it was on account of the fact that in proportion as culture and refinement opened intellectual and aesthetic fields of interest, the impulses of crude animalism played less important parts in life. Then, too, in proportion as families were refined the woman ceased to be the mere sexual slave of the husband, and her wishes as to such matters were considered." "Quite so. The reflection you have suggested is enough to indicate the fallacy of the whole Malthusian theory of the increase of population on which this objection to better social conditions was founded. Malthus, as you know, held that population tended to increase faster than means of subsistence, and therefore that poverty and the tremendous wastes of life it stood for were absolutely necessary in order to prevent the world from starving to death by overcrowding. Of course, this doctrine was enormously popular with the rich and learned class, who were responsible for the world's misery. They naturally were delighted to be assured that their indifference to the woes of the poor, and even their positive agency in multiplying those woes, were providentially overruled for good, so as to be really rather praiseworthy than otherwise. The Malthus doctrine also was very convenient as a means of turning the tables on reformers who proposed to abolish poverty by proving that, instead of benefiting mankind, their reforms would only make matters worse in the end by overcrowding the earth and starving everybody. By means of the Malthus doctrine, the meanest man who ever ground the face of the poor had no difficulty in showing that he was really a slightly disguised benefactor of the race, while the philanthropist was an injurious fellow. "This prodigious convenience of Malthusianism has an excuse for things as they were, furnishes the explanation for the otherwise incomprehensible vogue of so absurd a theory. That absurdity consists in the fact that, while laying such stress on the direct effects of poverty and all the ills it stands for to destroy life, it utterly failed to allow for the far greater influence which the brutalizing circumstances of poverty exerted to promote the reckless multiplication of the species. Poverty, with all its deadly consequences, slew its millions, but only after having, by means of its brutalizing conditions, promoted the reckless reproduction of tens of millions--that is to say, the Malthus doctrine recognized only the secondary effects of misery and degradation in reducing population, and wholly overlooked their far more important primary effect in multiplying it. That was its fatal fallacy. "It was a fallacy the more inexcusable because Malthus and all his followers were surrounded by a society the conditions of which absolutely refuted their theory. They had only to open then eyes to see that wherever the poverty and squalor chiefly abounded, which they vaunted as such valuable checks to population, humankind multiplied like rabbits, while in proportion as the economic level of a class was raised its proliferousness declined. What corollary from this fact of universal observation could be more obvious than that the way to prevent reckless overpopulation was to raise, not to depress, the economic status of the mass, with all the general improvement in well-being which that implied? How long do you suppose such an absurdly fundamental fallacy as underlay the Malthus theory would have remained unexposed if Malthus had been a revolutionist instead of a champion and defender of capitalism? "But let Malthus go. While the low birth-rate among the cultured classes--whose condition was the prototype of the general condition under economic equality--was refutation enough of the overpopulation objection, yet there is another and far more conclusive answer, the full force of which remains to be brought out. You said a few moments ago that one reason why the birth-rate was so moderate among the cultured classes was the fact that in that class the wishes of women were more considered than in the lower classes. The necessary effect of economic equality between the sexes would mean, however, that, instead of being more or less considered, the wishes of women in all matters touching the subject we are discussing would be final and absolute. Previous to the establishment of economic equality by the great Revolution the non-child-bearing sex was the sex which determined the question of child-bearing, and the natural consequence was the possibility of a Malthus and his doctrine. Nature has provided in the distress and inconvenience of the maternal function a sufficient check upon its abuse, just as she has in regard to all the other natural functions. But, in order that Nature's check should be properly operative, it is necessary that the women through whose wills it must operate, if at all, should be absolutely free agents in the disposition of themselves, and the necessary condition of that free agency is economic independence. That secured, while we may be sure that the maternal instinct will forever prevent the race from dying out, the world will be equally little in danger of being recklessly overcrowded." THE END. 
55505	----	NEQUA OR The Problem of the Ages By JACK ADAMS VOL. I. EQUITY PUBLISHING COMPANY Topeka, Kansas 1900 DEDICATION. TO ALL LOVERS OF HUMANITY, WHEREVER FOUND WHO BELIEVE THAT THE APPLICATION OF THE GOLDEN RULE IN HUMAN AFFAIRS WOULD REMOVE ALL THE BURDENS THAT IGNORANCE AND GREED HAVE IMPOSED UPON THE MASSES OF MANKIND, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. Copyrighted 1900, by A.O. Grigsby and Mary P. Lowe. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. Beneath the Midnight Sun--A strange visitor comes down from above--An old acquaintance recognized--Strange story by an old physician 1 CHAPTER II. In San Francisco--"Where shall I go next?"--A startling item of news answers the question and ends the search--In male attire--Enlists as Scientist on the Ice King--Off to the North Pole--An unexpected blow--The danger signal--The race for life--The earthquake--"The channel is closing!"--"The ship is lost!" 16 CHAPTER III. In the dark--All is still--Imprisoned in the ice--Distressing situation--How to preserve the health and efficiency of the crew--A new danger--The ice is moving--The common sailor to the rescue--Lief and Eric save the ship--The tunnel to the surface--Exploring the ice-field 40 CHAPTER IV. A singular discovery--Battell crossing a sand ridge on the ice-field--Captain Ganoe leads a party to his assistance--Lief and Eric--Battell's theory--A second expedition--Battell's long absence--Is discovered returning alone, scarcely able to walk--Relief party finds him unconscious--Captain Ganoe as physician--Battell relates how he was abandoned by his men--Preparing for the break 65 CHAPTER V. The break--A race for life--The island--Strange tower--A safe harbor--Crossing the open Polar sea--Strange phenomena--Sailing south--Horizon obscures familiar constellations--Return to the tower--No explanation--Off for the Pole again--A wonderful discovery 94 CHAPTER VI. Sailing south--The wind ceases--Our coal exhausted--Drifting on an unknown ocean--In the grasp of southbound currents--Desponding--Visited by an airship--Then a whole fleet--Among friends--A most highly cultivated people--We embark for Altruria--An air voyage 111 CHAPTER VII. Caring for the sick--New methods of treatment--Not physicians but nurses--A voyage through the air--Wonderful optical instruments which reveal a panorama of the world--Arrival in Altruria--Marvelous improvements--Drudgery and poverty both abolished 136 CHAPTER VIII. A colossal communal Home--District 1, Range 1--Under the Pacific Ocean--Battell at the telephone--Startling apparition in a mirror--Enrolled in school--Study of the language--Phonographic enunciator--A communal agricultural district--The first revolt against landlordism--Freedom the rule--A new world--Strikingly similar to America 151 CHAPTER IX. A happy scene--Two civilizations compared--Arrival of Oqua--Disguise penetrated--Human rights--"Glittering generalities" reduced to practice--A strange custom--Numbered, labeled and registered as citizens--Exit Jack Adams--A new name--Nequa--Bitter memories--Oqua's sympathy 178 CHAPTER X. Oqua's visit--The revelation--A story of perfidy and wrong--Cassie VanNess--Raphael Ganoe--Richard Sage--A designing guardian--False charges against Ganoe--A fraudulent marriage--Home abandoned--On the high seas--Jack Adams--Ganoe found--Effects of a false education--Legal Wrongs vs. Natural Justice--Oqua hopeful 191 CHAPTER XI. An air voyage--Change of scenery--Homes for mothers--Evolution from competitive individualism--The mountains--Battell joins us--Orbitello--A perpetual World's Fair--Department of Exchange--The business of a continent--Norrena--Public Printing--The council--All matters submitted to the People--Library of Universal Knowledge 216 CHAPTER XII. The institute of school superintendents--Norrena's address on the Transition Period--From Competition to Co-operation--The closing decades of Money supremacy--The power of gold--Its conquest of the world--Political governments its tools--The people helpless--A hint at the way out 244 CHAPTER XIII. Bona Dea--Matrons' home--Pre-natal influences--Improving the airships--Battell explains--Plans for the future--Museum of Universal History--Relics of the Past--Building toward our ideals--Law of human progress--Presaging the future--Profit causes Poverty--Equitable Exchange the remedy 283 CHAPTER XIV. Through the air to Lake Byblis--On the Ice King once more--Captain Ganoe in command--Met by the Viking, Silver King and Sea Rover--A wedding--Huston and Dione the principals--Ganoe objects--Norrena investigates--Objection over-ruled--Excursion beneath the waters of the lake--Down the Cocytas--The ruins of Kroy--Abandoned gold--The last relic of barbarism 320 CHAPTER XV. Home again--Letter from Bona Dea--Electric garments--Reporter's phonograph--Testing the new airship--A World's Council--Wallaroo on Evolution--The ideals planted by Missionaries--The Eolus--Preparing for return to America--Excursion to the far North--The Watch Tower--Symbolic representations--The Farewell--The revelation to Ganoe--"Cassie! Cassie! Come back! Come back!" 354 EXPLANATORY. The undersigned claims no credit for the concept of an "Inner World" in which the great economic problems which now confront the people had been solved in the interest of humanity and ideal conditions established for all. This was the leading thought in a work by Dr. T.A.H. Lowe, deceased, which was placed in the hands of the writer by his widow, Mrs. Mary P. Lowe. It contains a glowing description of the ideal conditions which would prevail under the practical application of the principles of Freedom, Equality and Fraternity in human affairs but the author died before he had an opportunity to work out a practical system by which the masses of the people, situated as they now are, without even a clear understanding as to just what is the matter, could commence with existing conditions, and peacefully, effectually and speedily establish the much to be desired system of absolute justice in distribution which he described. Hence it was determined to prepare a series of volumes, illustrating the operation of practical working methods by which this result could be secured, and then, publish Dr. Lowe's original volume, just as it was written as a fitting conclusion; and we now take pleasure in presenting to the reader the first volume of the series and respectfully ask a candid consideration of the principles which it is designed to elucidate. JACK ADAMS. NEQUA. CHAPTER I. BENEATH THE MIDNIGHT SUN--A STRANGE VISITOR COMES DOWN FROM ABOVE--AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE RECOGNIZED--STRANGE STORY BY AN OLD PHYSICIAN. [Illustration] MY private office was on the second floor of the sanitarium which I had fitted up in Kansas City to meet the demands of my large practice in the treatment of chronic diseases. The furniture consisted of a large book case, containing my library of standard works, and other publications useful in my practice; a writing desk, a few chairs, sofa and other conveniences usually found in such places. One door opened into the hall, and another connected with my bed chamber, bath room and laboratory in the rear. In the front was a large bay window where I often sat, in a meditative mood, concealed by the heavy lace curtains, looking out upon the throngs of people and numerous vehicles passing to and fro on the street below. On the opposite side of the main hall, and separated from it by the wide stairway, was the parlor where I received visitors. In the rear of this were the consultation and operating rooms. I usually lunched in my private office, my meals being sent up to me on an elevator, from a restaurant connecting directly with the sanitarium. As a rule, no one but the office boy, who occupied a small room over the stairway, was ever admitted to my private office. The boy attended the door, conducted visitors to the parlor, and then reported who was in waiting. If I cared to see them, I went around the head of the stairs to the parlor; otherwise I was "Not in." Many of my patients came from a distance and had lodgings and board in the sanitarium. Others called at my reception rooms during my regular office hours, which were from 9 to 11 A.M. At other hours I was ordinarily occupied in my private office, reading, thinking and writing, or in my laboratory compounding medicines, etc. But it was generally understood that I frequently drove out, and hence people calling to see me, except during office hours, were not surprised to learn that I could not be seen. This arrangement was an absolute necessity in order that I might have time to attend to my large correspondence and make my usual study of the diseases of patients who had placed themselves under my treatment as their last hope of regaining health. My success in treating these cases which had been given up as incurable, was such, that the sanitarium was always full, and it was a rare thing indeed, that I called upon patients at their homes. One bright and unusually pleasant day in June 189--, after I had attended to my patients, I retired to my private office, feeling that a call, even from my most intimate friends, would be very undesirable. I wanted to be alone. I had many letters to write, and other work that I could not well neglect, but I seemed in spite of myself to have lost my usual active interest in my business. I felt oppressed and dissatisfied with its restraints, and after worrying through with my most important correspondence, I got up and paced the floor to and fro. What could it mean? Why was it I felt this restless longing for something that seemed just beyond my reach? My business was flourishing, my health was never better, my friends were numerous and all my surroundings pleasant. Then why was it that I could not compose myself to read or write? Whenever I tried to do anything, my mind involuntarily reverted to the past, and especially to a voyage I had taken some years before in the capacity of ship surgeon. At last I despaired of being able to complete my work to my satisfaction, and determined to indulge this irresistible tendency to retrospection. All the afternoon, whatever I did or attempted to do, my mind turned to Jack Adams, a beardless young man who shipped on the same vessel with me as super-cargo. Turn which way I would, his image loomed up before my memory with a vividness that was startling. Why should I be continually thinking of him? True, we had been the closest of friends, and often spent hours together in the most enjoyable conversations. However, notwithstanding our intimacy, there had ever hung around Jack an air of fathomless mystery. His character was faultless, his modesty, refinement and culture unexcelled. His perceptions were keen, his reasoning powers deep and comprehensive, and his innate truthfulness inspired every one with unlimited confidence who came in contact with him. In times of peril he was courageous as a lion and yet he was gentle as a woman. He was of medium size and perfectly rounded form, too refined in his appearance to be masculine, but none the less active and efficient; and I must say that his face was the most handsome, and the most expressive of the finer emotions of the soul, I had ever met with in man. We were the most congenial of associates, and I was more attached to his personality than I had ever before been to one of my own sex. Though young and beardless, his intellect was mature beyond his years, and by common consent the old and experienced soon came to honor his unusually remarkable judgment. To me, he was a phenomenon that I was utterly unable to fathom. While he was not shy, he was always reserved and retiring. He never intruded where he had no business except in my cabin, where he often came to while away an hour discussing themes of lofty and far reaching import. He seemed not to live on the common plane of ordinary life, but soared far above it. Still he attended to all his duties in a prompt and energetic manner, often lending a helping hand to others when there was no necessity for him to move a muscle. He seemed to take real pleasure in lightening the burdens of others even at a sacrifice of his own comfort. Such was Jack Adams, who had worked himself up from the most menial employments on shipboard to a position of responsibility. Such was my most valued friend, always reserved and reticent with others, but genial, sociable and confidential with me, notwithstanding the disparity in our ages. But why should he now be intruding upon my memory, and holding my thoughts to himself by a mystic chord which I had no power to break, much as I had striven to do so? I had left the sea at the close of this voyage, the memory of which had haunted me all day. I had scarcely thought of Jack Adams for years, and now I found it impossible to keep from thinking of him all the time. I became almost superstitious, and began to speculate that perhaps he had just passed from earth, and that his spirit was now with me trying to force a recognition. As I was thus ruminating, my office boy announced that a gentleman wanted to see me. I was just about to send back the word "Not in," when behind the boy, through the half open door, I beheld a tall, handsome and elegantly dressed man, of commanding personal appearance. My rule had been never to permit anyone to enter my private apartments except on my personal invitation, and as the boy seemed entirely unconscious of his presence, I knew that some mistake had been made, and instinctively felt that the man was not an intruder; so all that remained for me was to recognize the requirements of common politeness and invite him in. As he entered the room I mentally took his photograph. He was tall, symmetrical, powerful, with a high intellectual forehead, dark, deep-set eyes, dark hair and whiskers, and dark complexion. His countenance was very impressive, inspiring the beholder with a feeling of respect and confidence. As the door closed behind him he fixed his large, penetrating eyes upon me as if he were reading my inmost thoughts, and after a moment's scrutiny said: "Have I the honor of addressing Dr. Thomas H. Day, who was a surgeon some years ago on a vessel engaged in the East India Trade?" "Yes," I replied, "that is my name, and I was surgeon on an East Indiaman." "Then," he continued, "may I further ask if you remember a young man on the vessel in the capacity of super-cargo, who greatly trusted and confided in you?" His words penetrated my inmost being like a shock and I exclaimed impulsively: "You mean Jack Adams! I feel it! I know it! Is he still living?" "He is alive and well," he said, "and your prompt recognition demonstrates that you are the man I am looking for. I bring you word from Jack Adams. He was also a trusted friend of mine, in whom I felt deeply interested, when he occupied the humble position of cabin boy on a steamer between New York and Liverpool." His words came to me like a flash of sunlight, dispelling at once the clouds which had seemed to paralyze all my energies. I felt that any word from Jack Adams would be an inexpressible relief to my present agitated state of mind. I grasped my visitor's hand with a warmth I could not restrain, and with an enthusiasm that must have appeared to him effusive, I said: "Thank God! Your words thrill me with delight. I will esteem any message from Jack Adams a blessing, and the messenger a benefactor. You are indeed a welcome visitor, and you have placed me under bonds of gratitude by removing a most oppressive burden from my mind." He returned the pressure of my hand in a manner I had hardly expected, and handed me a card on which was traced a significant inscription in Jack's well known handwriting which, if any confirmation was necessary, would have removed every possible doubt. Shaking his hand again I asked: "Will we ever have a world of truth such as has been the dream of every altruist?" "Jack has found it," said my visitor, "and we must make it. That is the mission he sends me on. He has made it his life work to discover just how this may be accomplished with the greatest ease, and to convey the information to us." "Then you are doubly welcome," I said. "Be seated and make yourself at home. I hail you as a brother in a common cause, even if, as yet, I have no name by which to call you." "Excuse me," he said, "I should have introduced myself before, but I was so overjoyed at finding Dr. Day that I forgot he knew nothing about me. My name is Leo Vincennes. I have been in the public service in some capacity, ever since I came to years of maturity; as soldier, sailor, scout, and later, as civil engineer and explorer. I come now from Alaska, and my special business here is to see you and deliver a message, committed to my care by our esteemed brother and co-worker, Jack Adams." I had moved my chair as near to him as decorum would permit, and said in reply: "I am indeed happy to meet you, Mr. Vincennes. I have been thinking of Jack all day, and I want you to tell me all about him." "I saw him last at Cape Lisburne, on the northwestern coast of Alaska, where I was on the lookout for a vessel that was to take me and my party to San Francisco. We were employed on the coast survey, and our allotted portion of the work included the cape, where we went into camp about the last of June. Our lookout was on top of the bluff, which at this point rises to a height of about eight hundred feet above the level of the sea. The other members of our party were out on a hunt while I remained at the lookout. Through my glass I had a clear view of the sea for leagues away, and I continued to sweep the horizon with my glass, as the unusually early breaking up of the ice led me to expect the appearance of a ship at any time. I casually turned my glass and espied a speck on the horizon, a little to the east of north, that at first gave me the impression of a distant sail. Not thinking of a vessel from that direction, I observed it more closely, and soon saw that it was not on the surface of the water, but evidently in the air and coming directly toward me. It looked like some monstrous bird, of a magnitude such as I had never conceived. "In my long experience as a soldier, sailor, scout and explorer of the polar regions, I had been accustomed to remarkable adventures, and had come to take pride in the fact that I could face danger of any kind without a tremor; but I do not hesitate to confess that as this gigantic, winged phenomenon of the heavens bore down toward me, I quivered in every vein and fiber of my being. It came with a rapidity that was startling, and ere I could recover my equanimity sufficiently to determine whether I should try to get out of the way or take my chances with the monster, it came to a halt directly over my head, and I could see that it was some kind of a mechanical contrivance for navigating the air, and that its movements were controlled by human intelligence. It remained stationary for a moment, as if the occupant were taking observations, and then dropped slowly down and alighted on the highest point of the cape, within twenty feet of where I was standing. As this strange vessel came to a rest, a door opened and out stepped a young man who said in the clearest of English: "'Well, well, I declare! Here is the same Leo Vincennes who gave me my first lessons in navigation. How glad I am to see you so far north. I was heading due south for the mouth of the Yukon, when I discovered you scanning the horizon with your glass. I then changed my course a little to the west and came directly to you.' I recognized his features, but was dazed and stood rooted to the ground. Seeing my embarrassment, he advanced, extending his hand as he said: 'Surely you have not forgotten Jack Adams, the cabin-boy, who sailed on the same ship with you from New York to Liverpool, and asked you so many questions about ships and a seafaring life.' "I grasped his hand, but for a moment my brain seemed benumbed, and my tongue, to use an oft quoted phrase, 'clave to the roof of my mouth.' I could only look at him in open eyed wonder--the same smooth-faced lad that I had known and admired--nay loved, fifteen years ago. My temporary paralysis gave way to a flood of feeling such as I had never experienced before, and I convulsively shook his hand as I exclaimed: "'Yes! yes! My dear old Jack, I remember you, but never again did I expect to meet you--and least of all on this barren rock, in the regions of eternal ice, beneath the midnight sun, and dropping from the heavens to this mundane sphere. Where did you come from and whither are you going? Have you put off this mortality with all its weakness and put on immortality in some far off clime of perpetual youth, beyond the utmost limit of our earthly vision?' "'Hold on Leo,' he exclaimed, with that mischievous twinkle in his eye that I remember so well, 'don't for Heaven's sake get superstitious. Remember that if the Kingdom of Heaven can be established in us, there evidently must be more in this mundane sphere than has ever been dreamed of in our philosophy. I am no visitant from another world, but I do come from another country, where man is master of his environments, instead of being their servile victim, just as you and I and all of the brothers and sisters on our plane of thought, believe that all of this glorious old world ought to be. We must continue to spread the light, and inspire our common humanity, in every stage of development, wherever found, with higher aspirations and brighter ideas of what is in store for them. We must give them hope and courage. The good time coming, so oft foretold, is almost here, and it will be realized just as soon as a respectable minority can be brought to fully comprehend the way out of all their miseries, as well as they now understand the crushing effects of their present environments. It is for us to speak the word that will save them from all their miseries, pains, and woes, here and now, without waiting for some far off time, and wonderful change to be brought about in some mysterious and incomprehensible manner. No! No! Leo, this is no time for us to stop and simply wonder at something that is merely the birth-right of every human being, while by a little well devised, intelligent and earnest effort on the part of the very few reformers who are not yet entirely submerged, we can secure to every human being every blessing he or she is capable of appreciating. There is nothing impossible about this, and if the world is not redeemed from its present low estate, it will be because the few altruists in the world do not make the necessary effort;--and they will surely make that effort when they comprehend how easy it is to quietly and peacefully remove the burdens that ignorance and greed have imposed, and thus rescue the toiler from the grasp of the selfish. How much are you willing to do toward this work of saving the world? Could you be persuaded to forget self for awhile and lend your services to the cause of humanity, by spreading the light that will save it, and save it too before even the older people of this generation shall have passed off the stage?' "I was carried away by his earnest appeal, and promptly responded: "'I am indeed willing to make any conceivable sacrifice in such a cause, my dear old Jack, but you must tell me what to do and how to do it.' "'Then can you go into the interior of the United States--to the great Missouri Valley, and deliver a message from me to a dearly loved friend, which will secure his assistance?' "'I certainly will,' I said. 'Personal matters require my presence in New York. I shall go from here to San Francisco, and thence across the continent by rail, and can stop off at any point you desire. I have been notified that, in the private papers of Richard Sage, who died some years ago, a document was found, clearly proving that I am one of the heirs to a large property, which was held in trust for minors, whose whereabouts were unknown to the testator, my grandfather. I am the representative of those heirs.' "As I spoke, Jack's countenance became ashen pale and the expression hard and stony, and as I concluded he asked in tones that struck me with a chill like a polar wave: "'And is Richard Sage dead?' "'He died nearly fifteen years ago,' I said. 'Committed suicide, I believe. Did you know him?' "'I think so,' he said. 'He was a friend of my father--But,' he added after a short pause, his face regaining its usual winning and kindly expression, 'we have no time to give to the discussion of the dead past. Come with me and take a look at our earth from the cosy cabin of the Eolus, while I tell you something of my adventures in the way of polar exploration, and explain what it is that I want you to do.' "We stepped into a small but luxuriantly furnished car, which I shall not attempt to describe, and seated ourselves upon a soft cushioned divan. The walls were paneled on all sides with large transparent sections, through which we obtained a clear and seemingly magnified view of the surrounding scenery. There we were, poised on the highest point of this towering rock, overlooking the sea, the rolling waves of which dashed themselves into foam on the rocks below. Jack manipulated a delicately arranged keyboard at his side, and in a minute more we were flitting to and fro far above the earth at an almost inconceivable speed, and then loitering along or standing still to get a better view of objects of especial interest. "Jack handed me what looked like a peculiarly constructed opera glass, and requested me to take a peep at Cape Lisburne through the transparent section at the bow. Though we were miles away, I felt that I could reach out and pick up a pebble anywhere along this rock-bound shore. This explained a mystery, and I turned to Jack and said: 'I can now understand how it was that you discovered me at such a great distance, for when I first saw you, your ship was but a speck, and several points to the east of north.' "'Yes,' he said, 'I discovered you on the lookout when several leagues away. I had not expected to find civilized people so far north. As soon as I saw you, I put the Eolus to her greatest speed directly toward you, lest you should leave the lookout. As I came nearer I felt sure that I recognized your features, and I at once made up my mind that I had found one whom I could trust to assist me in the work I had undertaken to perform. This fortunate meeting enables me to return immediately, and relieve the painful anxiety of many loving hearts concerning my safety. They had a most exaggerated conception of the perils I would be compelled to encounter in attempting to traverse these frozen regions.' "He told me a wonderful story of his trials, perils and adventures in getting past the great ice barriers, and his discovery of a World of Truth beyond. "When we had circumnavigated the country for miles around, we slowly descended to earth and alighted at the same spot from which we started, and as we separated, he to return to his new home beyond the ice barriers, I to come to you, he placed his portmanteau in my hands and said: "'Go to Dr. Thomas K. Day, at Kansas City, and if he will agree to publish the manuscript contained in this portmanteau and scatter it broadcast over the world, place it in his hands and tell him to use the gold contained also therein, which was contributed by the crew of the Ice King for that purpose; for nothing but gold, the fetich of this benighted and money enslaved external world, can command labor; and yet it is labor and not gold, that is the sole producer of everything essential to the sustenance and comfort of humanity. If Dr. Day cannot be found, or is so situated that he cannot attend to this matter, use the gold yourself to find a publisher, and have eight printed volumes for me when I return with another manuscript of even more value, from the same fruitful field of discovery.' "And now Dr. Day," continued my visitor, "will you undertake to discharge the trust committed to you by Jack Adams?" "I will gladly do so" I replied, "for anything from Jack will surely be a blessing to humanity." He placed the portmanteau in my hands and said: "I must bid you adieu. Send the eight volumes for Jack to my address at Fort Yukon, Alaska, and as many more for myself, unless I should send you other directions. I shall be anxious to read the book as soon as it is published. Jack must have passed through some trying ordeals, and from what I saw, his discoveries have been wonderful. But I must go." I tried to detain him, but with a cordial grasp of the hand he was gone. I turned and opened the portmanteau with the key that was attached. It contained a package, securely enclosed in a wrapper of some water-proof material, and marked "MS," and below was a glittering array of gold eagles. I examined the package of manuscript more closely. On either side it was addressed to Dr. Thomas H. Day, Kansas City, and below was written: "In the name of civilization I ask that whoever may find this package shall place it in the hands of those who will publish the MS. contained therein and have it scattered broadcast over the world, so that the discoveries recorded shall not be lost to humanity. NEQUA." This was repeated in French, German, Norwegian, Russian and Spanish. And now dear reader, I shall give you the contents of this remarkable manuscript, from the pen of my sailor comrade of years ago, Jack Adams, but known in his new home as Nequa, the teacher. Ponder well the lessons taught in these wonderful discoveries. Yours truly, THOMAS H. DAY. CHAPTER II IN SAN FRANCISCO--WHERE SHALL I GO NEXT?--A STARTLING ITEM OF NEWS ANSWERS THE QUESTION AND ENDS THE SEARCH--IN MALE ATTIRE--ENLISTS AS SCIENTIST ON THE ICE KING--OFF TO THE NORTH POLE--AN UNEXPECTED BLOW--THE DANGER SIGNAL--THE RACE FOR LIFE--THE EARTHQUAKE--"THE CHANNEL IS CLOSING!"--"THE SHIP IS LOST!" [Illustration] I WAS in the parlor of the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. Since my last visit to the city, I had circumnavigated the globe. During the last three years, I had not only again visited the leading points of interest for tourists in Asia, Africa, Europe and Australia, but had extended my travels into the frozen regions of the far south, on a whaling voyage. Yet I had not found that for which I was searching. My failure had brought a feeling of intense sadness and depression which I shall not attempt to describe. For fifteen years I had been a wanderer on the high seas. I had traversed every latitude from Greenland to the South frigid zone and was now mentally asking "Where shall I go next?" I had determined that I would not give up this long continued search until it was crowned with success, or death had intervened, as long as there was one spot on earth unexplored. Thus pondering in my own mind what to do next, I picked up an evening paper and abstractedly glanced over its pages in the attempt to form an idea of its contents by reading the headlines. In the editorial columns my eye rested on the caption: "OFF TO THE NORTH POLE." This was travel into a region I had not penetrated. I was at once interested and glancing down the column I read the comments of the editor. "The discovery of America," he said, "was the attempt to discover a more direct and consequently a nearer route to India by sailing westward. The object sought for was not found, but the search gave to the overcrowded and oppressed millions of Christendom a new world, where they might work out their destiny in conformity with the ideal of the founder of their religion, beyond the reach of the political and religious despotisms of the old world; and why may not this venture, even though it fails to reach the pole, ultimate in discoveries of inestimable value to mankind? We hope so, and hence we wish the most abundant success to the expedition now being organized in this city, by an experienced traveler and navigator, Capt. Raphael Ganoe." The paper dropped from my hand; I was overcome; my senses were paralysed; my heart almost ceased to beat; my brain for a moment was deprived of the power of thought. As the full import of this unexpected revelation dawned upon me, I arose and paced the floor. "My God," I exclaimed, "this cannot be, it must not be, but how can I prevent it? All the arrangements are perfected. I cannot, I dare not, under the circumstances, speak the word that possibly might prevent this perilous undertaking." I was powerless. But I soliloquized, "If I cannot prevent it, I must join the expedition, for never again will I permit him to leave me." My mind was made up. I was in the prime of life, about thirty-five years of age, and had traveled extensively. I was familiar with ocean navigation and versed in all the sciences taught in our higher institutions of learning. I would make application for the position of scientist, and failing in that would enlist before the mast as a common sailor, if nothing better offered. I turned to the mirror and surveyed myself long and earnestly. I raised myself to my full height and critically viewed the womanly face and figure revealed to my vision. Though not masculine, my form was strong and muscular for one of my sex, and with the proper disguise it would do. For the first time in years I had donned the habiliments of woman. In masculine attire I had traveled without being discovered. Protected by this disguise, I had filled almost every position on shipboard and had succeeded in earning a competency, something I never could have accomplished as a woman. It was not an experiment. I had tried it successfully for years and would try it again. I took up the paper and read the account of the expedition with more care. The ship was one of the staunchest that had ever been built and had been provided with all the modern appliances for the comfort and protection of the crew, during a cruise that was intended to be indefinitely extended. None but bold and experienced seamen had been enlisted. As time was no object it was intended to use the sails instead of steam whenever it was practicable. Hence the large space usually given to coal was mainly reserved for an unusual supply of carefully prepared provisions for a long sojourn in the Arctic regions. Every thing that human foresight could devise for the success of this expedition had been provided. The daring commander had determined to take all the time that was needed for making careful surveys of the shore lines of the frozen north, and sounding its seas. My mind was made up. I retired at once to my rooms. The male attire that I had used so successfully, was in my trunks. I need not worry the reader at this time with the details of my hasty yet thorough preparation for concealing my identity from the keen observation of one who knew me so much better than the many with whom I had been associated in my wanderings. Suffice it to say that every arrangement was completed in my private apartments, without exciting the suspicion of any person. I dressed myself in a neat sailor suit, which was concealed from view beneath the ample folds of a fashionable wrapper. I packed my trunks, summoned a porter and ordered my goods removed to furnished rooms that I had previously engaged. When there, I removed every article that would indicate that I was a woman, and with valise in hand took my way to the dock, where the Ice King was being fitted up with the greatest care by the experienced navigator in whose services it was my intention to enlist. It was in the early twilight of a glorious evening in May 189--. I lingered a few moments on the wharf to enjoy the scene and to collect my faculties for the trial that was to come. I was tall and slender and my appearance was youthful and refined. Yet I flattered myself that with my long experience in this disguise, I would be able to successfully act the part I had determined upon. As I stepped on board, I met an officer who accosted me with the familiar salutation: "Hello Jack, what will you have?" "I want to see Captain Ganoe," I said. "Where can I find him?" "He is in his cabin," he replied, and passed on. I gained the deck. The calm waters of the bay reflected the full rounded moon and her stellar attendants. The harbor was almost deserted. Vessels here and there dotted the placid surface of the water. Music low, sweet and plaintive reached my ears. Its melancholy strains drew me forward. The soul of the performer seemed to float out upon the air through the tender caresses of the magic bow. The very waves, as they sparkled in the mellow moonbeams, seemed to dance to the sweet melody. It came from the Captain's quarters. I passed in so quietly that I was not observed. As I suspected, the musician was Captain Ganoe. He was so absorbed in the plaintive notes of the violin, through which his soul was speaking, that he did not notice my intrusion. He was in thought, far away and oblivious to his surroundings. I stood and carefully scanned the form before me. It was that of a man of mature years, broad shoulders and medium height, firmly knit, compactly built and fair complexion. His eyes were blue, his nose a combination of Grecian and Roman, his mouth firm, and his entire bearing indicative of courage and strength of character. His brow was broad and thoughtful; his expression kind and firm. Everything left the impression that, though comparatively young, he had drained the cup of bitter disappointment to its dregs. While I sympathized, his sadness brought a feeling of sweet relief. Oh, how my heart bounded, and for the moment I felt impelled to fall upon his bosom and sob out the story of my wrongs. But no, this would not do. I must be patient and first ascertain from his own lips, in just what light he would regard me when he learned the whole truth. I aroused him from his reverie with the inquiry: "Is this Captain Ganoe?" He looked up quickly, surprised to see a stranger in his cabin, and responded: "Yes, young man, I am Captain Ganoe, and let me ask to what I am indebted for the honor of this visit. Did you not meet an officer who could attend to your wants?" "I did," I replied, "but I wanted to see and talk with Captain Ganoe." The severity left his countenance, and he bade me be seated. "Now young man," said he, "please state fully but briefly, what you want, for my time is entirely occupied." I answered promptly, and without preliminary explanations I said: "I have just learned from the papers that you are about to sail for the most thorough exploration of the Arctic regions that has yet been attempted, and I want to go with you." He turned up the lamp which had been burning low, and looked me full in the face. I felt his searching gaze but withstood it, with no exhibition of the fears I felt for the success of my plans. But with inward tremor, I awaited his reply. After hesitating a moment, he said deliberately: "You do not know what you ask. You are young and refined. This expedition must encounter dangers, known and unknown, and none but the strong and experienced should be permitted to make the venture. It would be wrong in me to take a young man like you from the bosom of his family, from society, and all the opportunities for a successful and useful life, to go with me on this perilous expedition. The fact is, you ought to return home and leave such hazardous adventures as this for those who have no hopes to be blasted, and who wish for reasons of their own, to hide themselves away from the world. Please tell me your name and where you come from." "My name sir," I replied, "is Jack Adams, and I have just returned from a three years cruise, during which time I visited the leading seaports of the world. I have become familiar with a life on the high seas in all the medial latitudes, and now propose to explore the frozen north. As to family, I have none. I am an orphan, and all alone in the world. I graduated from school at the head of my class and then shipped as cabin boy and worked my way up to a position of super-cargo. I have been a practical student of navigation--never sailing twice on the same line of travel when I could avoid it. I now offer my services to you because I want to go with you into the unexplored regions of the north. I have had enough of the tropic and temperate zones. If I never return I leave no one to mourn my loss." He looked his astonishment and was visibly softened as he responded: "We have no need of a super-cargo and we have all the seamen we want. I have just formed a co-partnership with Captain Samuel Battell, who is not only an officer of ability and long experience in the Arctics, but an expert scientist and mathematician. Every place seems to be full." "I am not," I replied, "seeking a position as super-cargo, nor am I asking any position that requires pay or even board, if you can find room in your commissary for the supplies I stand ready to furnish. I can and will do any work that may be assigned me. All I want is to be permitted to go with this expedition, take my own chances and pay my own way." "You seem very much in earnest Mr. Adams, and I am frank to admit that I admire your courage even if I doubt your judgment in this matter. But what can you do, and what evidence have you to offer that you can render valuable service in an expedition of this character? As to pay, I would not have you infer that I regarded it as any object to one of your adventurous disposition. No one enlisted in this expedition is promised a salary but the common sailors, and that is paid by Captain Battell and myself." "As to what I can do," I responded, "I am by education and experience, qualified to navigate the vessel and make every necessary scientific observation and calculation. I am familiar with all that has been published on Arctic exploration and discovery. As to my ability, you can best ascertain that by inquiring into what I know. That is the best evidence of my training and experience on the high seas. I do not shrink from the necessary examination." "You are right," said he, "and I will consult my partner. If it is agreeable to him, you may take charge of our library and scientific instruments, assist in our observations and keep a record of the expedition. I will summon Captain Battell." He touched an electric button and in a moment a bell sounded at his side. He said to me: "Captain Battell will be here in a moment, and I will leave this matter to him." A moment later, the same officer I had met when I first came aboard the ship, entered and I was formally introduced. He cordially shook my hand and Captain Ganoe told him what I wanted, and, quite unexpectedly to me, said: "Mr. Adams is admirably qualified, and I think we had better place him in charge of the scientific work of the expedition. We can assist him as occasion requires. This will enable us to give our entire attention to the exigencies of the situation in the dangerous waters of the Arctic regions, while Mr. Adams will keep a record of everything discovered that may be of value, and send out duplicates of the same by the balloons, as we intended, so that if the expedition should be lost, the winds may carry some account of our discoveries to the civilized portions of the globe." Evidently in the mind of Captain Ganoe, I had already been appointed to the position which of all others I would have preferred, and one that would always keep me near his own quarters. And to this, Captain Battell assented, saying: "I met Mr. Adams on his arrival, and was favorably impressed with his appearance and evident determination to see the senior officer of the Ice King." And turning to me he continued, "I will now take pleasure in showing you through the library, which will be your quarters during the voyage." Captain Battell was the opposite of Captain Ganoe in his personal appearance. He was powerfully built, of medium height, dark complexion, dark hair, and steel grey eyes set beneath a broad and beetling brow. The general contour of his features indicated courage, firmness, and strength of character. He was just that type of a man who might be expected to appear to the best advantage in some great emergency that demanded qualities of a high order. All the appointments for the scientific work were of the first quality. The library contained the leading scientific publications, together with encyclopedias, and historic and general literature, carefully catalogued for easy reference. Every kind of scientific instruments, charts, maps, globes, cameras, etc., had been selected with the greatest care. Among the special supplies were the balloons to which Captain Ganoe had referred. These were small and could be inflated at short notice. They were designed to be sent up from time to time with accounts of the expedition, its progress, discoveries etc., hermetically sealed. It is well known that at the equinoxes, the heated air from the tropics ascends to the higher altitudes and flows toward the poles, while the cold air flows toward the equator to fill the vacuum, producing the equinoctial storms. These little balloons were expected to be carried south by the winds, and find a resting place on the land surface where they might be picked up by civilized people; or if they fell into the water, the bottles would preserve the dispatches and the ocean currents might carry them into civilized countries. Thus every precaution was taken to secure to the world the benefit of any discovery that might be made, even though the expedition should be lost. I was well pleased with my quarters. All the surroundings would be, to me, most satisfactory, no matter what the trials and dangers that we might encounter. I was enlisted for the expedition, and in the position I preferred above all others, as it brought me into frequent consultation with the commander, and I should be able to acquaint myself with his present views and feelings and note what changes had taken place since I saw him last. I lost no time in having my trunks brought on board and made ready for the voyage. The Ice King was soon at sea. We stopped at one of the Aleutian Islands where we took on our dog teams, which were to be used for explorations on the ice. The sledges were so constructed that they might readily be converted into boats that would accommodate the whole crew and a good supply of provisions, in case we should be compelled to abandon the ship. We expected to be locked up in the ice during the winter, but with our sledges and dog teams, we could continue our explorations for long distances in every direction, with the ship for headquarters. Captain Battell was a whaler and familiar with all the methods of Arctic travel. His long experience on these northern waters enabled him to forsee many of the dangers we were likely to meet, and to make the needful preparations to overcome them. From this point our voyage northward through Behring Strait and into the Arctic Ocean, was without any incident worth recording. Our course after passing the strait, was a little east of north to avoid the ice, until we reached longitude 165 degrees West of Greenwich, and then north. Captain Ganoe often came into my cabin to while away an hour in conversation. His marked friendship seemed to increase with each visit. He always addressed me familiarly as Jack, and in these conversations he became more and more confidential, and revealed to me more and more of his inner life, his early hopes and subsequent disappointments. One evening after we had been at sea about four months, he came into my cabin looking unusually gloomy. After the customary salutation he lighted a cigar and fell into a brown study, not speaking to me for several minutes, when suddenly he said: "Jack, did you ever think what mere trifles sometimes change the whole course of a life-time? I often wonder at myself for being out here on this wild goose chase, with the certainty of loss of property, business, comfort and possibly life itself, searching for something I have no use for, and which at best if discovered, will only gratify an idle curiosity. And yet, this has been brought about by what was only a trifling incident. Have you ever thought of these strange effects which flow from trivial causes?" He spoke bitterly and I determined to take advantage of the opportunity to draw him out. I wanted to penetrate the inmost recesses of his being, and with this object in view I replied: "Yes, Captain, I have often thought of it and have realized it in my own experience. It sometimes seems little short of a miracle, that after years of wandering, I am now here with you. In my case I was not influenced by a mere trifle, but a stern necessity. I had absolutely nothing to lose, and I thought I might find something which, under the circumstances, would amply repay me for all the hardships and dangers I might have to encounter. But you were differently situated. You were independent. You had wealth, business and influential friends, while I had been robbed of my patrimony, and was thrown upon the world with nothing but my hands and brain to work with. My course was a necessity, but it is a mystery why you should abandon a profitable business and organize this expedition at such an enormous expenditure of labor and money, while you regard its avowed objects as matters of such little importance. Your course seems to involve a self-contradiction that I cannot comprehend." "And thereby hangs a tale," said the Captain. "As a matter of fact, I never did attach any great importance to Arctic exploration. From my point of view, the discovery of the Pole would be of no especial value to mankind, as no practical use could be made of it. Even the discovery of a productive country, which may be possible, could not greatly benefit the world, as it would be inaccessible to the masses of humanity whose condition would be improved by the discovery of a new country and cheap homes. While such a successful culmination would be of small benefit to the world, it would be of still less interest to myself. I really care but little about what we may find at the end of this voyage." "Then," I said, "if such be the estimate that you place upon the objects of this expedition, I am more than ever curious to learn what could have impelled you to undertake it. You must have had a reason of some kind. I cannot understand how men can act without a motive." "Yes," said he, "I was impelled to organize this expedition by a power stronger than myself, but when I ask myself what I expect to accomplish by it, truth compels me to answer: 'Nothing.' As to the motive, I suppose that I have been actuated by an all-absorbing desire to forget the miseries of the past in the activities of the present." "But this is not the tale that unlocks the mystery." I responded. "You have aroused my curiosity to a fever heat, and yet you fail to gratify it. It might be that I could pour oil on the troubled waters and possibly enable you to discover that you have been actuated by a mistaken conception, and that really there is nothing in the past that you should desire to forget. It would certainly do no harm to review the case, and it might reveal the fact that it was a source of misery, simply because all the circumstances were not fully understood." "I have no desire," said the Captain, "to conceal the story of my life from you, if you care to hear it. But I fully understand it and it is of such a nature as to admit of no remedy." "Do not be too sure of that," I said. "But until the story is told, of course I will not be able to form an intelligent opinion of the case. Yet, observation and experience have convinced me that there are always two sides to every question and that to get at the facts in all their bearings, we must closely examine both sides." "Well," said the captain, "I see that you were cut out for a lawyer and the wonder is how you came to be a sailor. You certainly have a judicial cast of mind and to while away the monotony of the hour, I will submit the matter to you, reserving the right, however, to decide for myself. I have always exercised my natural right to examine every question from my own standpoint and decide it according to my own sense of right and wrong. "It is the same old story of an all-absorbing love and a cruel disappointment, followed by long years of suppressed anguish, from which I am still striving to escape. I was an orphan, living with my bachelor uncle, Richard Sage, in one of the suburbs of New York City. He was my guardian and the executor of the estate left me by my father. My uncle was kind and indulgent, and my widowed aunt who presided over his home, was to me a loving mother, and so my childhood days were passed in happy contentment. "One misty, dreary morning, my uncle announced at the breakfast table that he had been called to the bedside of his old friend, James VanNess, who was supposed to be dying. He said he would not return until his friend was much better or dead, and not to be disappointed if he was absent for several days, or possibly weeks. "A week later I saw my uncle drive up to the gate and assist a very beautiful young girl from the carriage. He beckoned me to him, and introduced me, saying: "'Raphael, I have brought you a little sister. This is Miss Cassie VanNess, whose father I was called to see. I have been made her guardian and this will be her future home. Both mother and father are dead and she has no near relatives. Remember this, and do everything in your power to make her home with us as happy as possible.' "We at once became great friends. Cassie was at that time about fourteen or fifteen years of age and I was eighteen. She proved to be the gayest, brightest, most winsome little lady I had ever seen. I must have fallen in love with her at first sight. I have often thought since," he added slowly, "that even his Satanic Majesty might look entrancingly beautiful, for to my intense sorrow, Cassie proved herself, it seems to me, a tenfold greater hypocrite than Judas of old who betrayed with a kiss. "But enough of this. Our school days, lasting some five years, were to me one ceaseless round of delightful experiences, which seemed to fill every vein and fiber of my being with unalloyed happiness. During our vacations Cassie and I were always together, either at home or traveling, and many were the excursions, romps and drives we enjoyed. "I graduated at twenty-three and we laid our plans for the future. I had inherited an interest in a line of steamers running between Liverpool and New York, which enabled us to frequently cross the Atlantic during our vacations, and visit the leading points of interest in Great Britain and on the continent. I had acquired a taste for travel, and it was determined that I should visit the Orient, while Cassie returned to college to complete her study of the higher branches. I was to be gone about three years, during which time I would circumnavigate the globe, and on my return we were to be married. "With these objects in view I secured, through the influence of my uncle, a lucrative position in the employ of a firm of importers, whose trade extended to all parts of the eastern continent and Australia. On the evening before my departure, I placed a brilliant diamond engagement ring on Cassie's finger and a gold chain and locket of peculiar workmanship around her neck. "These presents were made from special designs for this purpose and the patterns destroyed. I shall never forget the last night we spent together. The appearance of my affianced bride in her splendid evening dress, her diamond engagement ring sparkling on her lovely hand, the gold chain and diamond set locket and her luxuriant suit of golden hair handsomely ornamented, formed a picture of beauty indelibly imprinted upon my memory. "My ship sailed from one of the piers on the Hudson near the Battery. We contemplated the circumnavigation of the globe by way of Cape Horn, the Sandwich Islands, Japan, China, Australia, Africa, Europe, and thence returning to America, stopping at all the principal seaport cities and points of interest on our voyage. This would enable Cassie and me to keep up our correspondence with no very long interruptions. "For the first year of my absence, at every port I received a package of letters from home, and this always contained letters from Cassie. We had agreed to write to each other at least once a week without waiting for replies, and it often occurred that I got a whole package of letters from her at one time, and the perusal of these affectionate missives was the one all-absorbing pleasure to which I looked forward when we came into port. Whatever else might be lacking, Cassie's loving letters never failed. "At last, however, they ceased all at once. Letters from my uncle came regularly, and through them I heard of Cassie, but I could get no word from her. I wrote to her every week, but my letters brought no response. I was miserable, and urged my uncle to find out what was the matter and let me know if my letters came safely. "My uncle's replies were at first evasive, but at last with an expression of the most cordial sympathy for me, he informed me that my letters came regularly, but that Cassie had changed her mind and they remained unopened. He enclosed a draft on London for the balance due on my estate, together with a complete statement of the account from the date of his taking charge, and the findings of the court as to all the property and investments that came to me from my father. Everything was complete and duly certified, so there was nothing that demanded my presence in New York. He advised me not to return home, but continue in my present position, as Cassie was to be married in a short time and my presence would be painful to her as well as to myself, and embarrassing to everyone concerned. "I was thunderstruck. I did not, could not, would not believe that Cassie was false to our mutual and oft repeated pledges of love and fidelity to each other. I could get no satisfaction from my uncle. My aunt had been dead several years. I wrote to my lawyer to learn if possible, the truth of the reported engagement and approaching marriage. His reply was prompt, stating that it was not only true, but that the marriage had already taken place. He wrote that he had been called in by my uncle, who was in feeble health, to make out the papers in regard to the estate of Cassie VanNess, which she was anxious to have settled satisfactorily to herself before her marriage. 'These financial matters being arranged,' wrote my lawyer, 'what was my surprise to be called upon to witness her marriage to Richard Sage. Financially she did well, but it is hard for me to believe that it was a love match. Your uncle, however, is certainly much infatuated with her, and she is indeed beautiful.' "This same letter contained a flattering offer from a firm of New York importers, for my interest in the steamship line, and I advised my attorney to close the deal at once and forward the proceeds to London and also to dispose of all my property in and about New York, lists of which were in his possession. I had made up my mind never to return home, as it would be distressing to me and certainly embarrassing to my uncle. After that my only New York correspondence was with my attorney. "When I reached London, I found a letter from my attorney with drafts on the bank of England for all my interests in America. This letter also contained the information that my uncle was in great trouble, his marriage with Cassie having resulted in much unhappiness. She had suddenly deserted him without giving any reason for her strange conduct. She merely left a note, stating that she would not live with him. This was the last that had been heard from her. 'Of course,' added my attorney, 'it would be next to impossible to find her in this large city if she desires to keep herself concealed.' "Since that time I have been a wanderer, caring little whither I went, so that my mind was fully occupied. I purchased a staunch ship in which I cruised for years, avoiding as far as practicable the regular lines of trade and often sailing without a cargo, searching for a contentment never to be found. At last I conceived the idea of getting away from civilization altogether, joining in the work of Arctic exploration, and, if possible reaching the pole. With this end in view, I had the Ice King built according to special designs, and adapted, so far as human foresight and ingenuity could devise, for a long sojourn in the frozen north. And now here we are, in the Arctic Ocean, liable at any moment to be caught between the ice fields which appear on either side, and possibly crushed. What is to come next? God only knows. "Such is a brief statement of the perfidy of the woman I loved, and its consequences. And this is why I am out here on this perilous expedition, searching for something that I care very little about. I think you will agree with me that it admits of no remedy." "It does not look that way to me," I responded. "I would be unwilling to condemn your affianced bride until I had heard her side of the story. It may be that her marriage to your uncle was secured by unfair means, and that when she discovered the fraud, in her desperation she started out to find you. In that case, the remedy would be for you to find her and renew your plighted faith." "Never!" said Captain Ganoe. "Even if your supposed case is correct, it could not set aside the facts. She knew that, in marrying my uncle, she was false to me, and when she deserted him with no legal cause for separation, she was false to her husband to whom she was bound in the holy bonds of matrimony. She acted from her own choice. She was not compelled to engage herself to me, and no law could have forced her to marry my uncle. Her conduct in both cases reveals her innate perfidy of character, and under no circumstances could I, as an honorable man, accept such a woman as my wife. Her tarnished reputation, if nothing else, would place an insurmountable barrier between us even if she were not legally the wife of another man." I was paralyzed. I had indeed succeeded in getting from him an emphatic expression of sentiment covering my own case. I had penetrated the innermost recesses of his being, but had fanned to a flame the slumbering fires of a volcano, only to be submerged in the eruption of molten lava. The blow was so unexpected and so sudden, that I was stupefied, and my astonishment left no room for grief, which gave me a moment for reflection. Here I was, in the ship with him, far within the Arctic Circle, at the beginning of the Arctic winter, and with the certainty of being locked up in the ice for months if not for years. I could not get away from him if I would, and from his own lips I had heard my conduct denounced as the acme of perfidy, and my love spurned as something treacherous and vile. Bitterly and in the most emphatic manner, had he declared that as an honorable man, he could never associate himself in the tender relations of marital love, with one of my tarnished reputation. In his own estimate, he had already assigned me a place among the most debased and abandoned characters, and all there was left for me to do was to preserve my disguise, in order to secure even respectful treatment from the man I loved. As the full sense of the situation dawned upon me in all its crushing weight of humiliation and anguish, I must have fallen at his feet in a dead faint, but for the clangor of the great bell which had been agreed upon as the signal of immediate peril, to summon each one to the post that had been assigned him in case of sudden emergencies. The alarm came to me as a sweet relief from an agony tenfold more difficult to endure than any possible hardships or dangers from an Arctic storm, amid towering mountains of ice. There was no time for grief. The emergency demanding prompt action was upon us, and we hurried out upon deck. According to previous arrangements, Captain Ganoe seized the wheel and Captain Battell, as an experienced Arctic navigator, took command, while I, with glass and note book, stood by the wheel to make observations and to render any assistance to Captain Ganoe that might be required. The cause of alarm at once became apparent. The stiff breeze that had been blowing all day from the southwest, had now increased to a gale, and the icebergs which for days were becoming more numerous on our starboard quarter, had formed a solid pack, which was evidently land-locked, as it remained stationary, while on the larboard, a solid field of ice of vast extent was approaching. It was only a question of a few hours at the utmost, when these two great ice walls must come together and it would be destruction for us to be caught in their deadly embrace. Retreat was impossible. The only open channel was the one we were pursuing. The walls on either side were continuous, and with my glass I could see the channel behind us blocked with icebergs, urged on in our wake by wind and waves as if determined not to let us escape. Our only safety seemed to be in our being able to sail beyond these two continuous walls of ice before they came together. Captain Battell, with his glass kept up a rapid survey of the horizon, and gave orders through his trumpet as calmly as if scenes like this were matters of every day occurrence, and Captain Ganoe, at the wheel, responded as if he was part of the machinery, which he handled with rapidity and precision. It was a scene never to be forgotten. The midnight sun hung just above the horizon. Off to our larboard, an unbroken wall of ice extending as far as the eye, assisted by a powerful glass could reach, was bearing down upon us. On our starboard another wall of ice against which the waves were dashing in all their fury, stood apparently as firm as the granite shores against which it rested. Behind us, the channel was filled with detached masses of ice, which if caught between these ice walls might hasten the closing of the channel before us. Could we escape? was the all pervading question that propounded itself to us. Every sail was set and under the pressure of every pound of steam our boilers could carry, the Ice King leaped forward like a frightened deer, as if conscious of the doom that was impending. For hours we kept up this reckless speed. The foam flew in blinding spray from the ship's quarters, fretted along her sides and left a broad white line in her wake. The whistling of the wind in her rigging and the regular plunging of her engines, made pandemonium on board. It was indeed a race for life, and in my perturbed state of mind I actually enjoyed the excitement, almost hoping that it might culminate in the destruction threatened. With the courage of despair I calmly surveyed the scene and took my notes, occasionally assisting Captain Ganoe at the wheel. This was the first real danger that we had encountered, and my interview with the Captain had given me a reckless daring to meet it without a tremor, that seems almost miraculous. We still kept up this rapid flight, and as far as the eye could reach the two great ice walls still confronted each other and the channel of open water continued to grow more narrow. Soon we had to veer from side to side to avoid collisions with the jagged shore-lines of ice, but nowhere was there any indication that when they came together an open space would be formed sufficient to protect the ship. We were compelled to reduce our speed, and still the ice-fields were coming closer together and at last we were forced to creep along a narrow, crooked channel between two great packs of ice-mountains which often towered far above the mainmast of the Ice King. The outlook was desperate, but the ice on our larboard ceased to approach, and for a moment it seemed as if we might escape into open water. But not so. Our way was blocked. An ice-mountain loomed up before us, and we came to a full stop. It was this that had probably checked the advance of the moving ice-pack, and saved us from the cruel "nip" which has crushed so many hapless vessels in these dangerous waters. The Ice King lay between two vast overhanging ice-mountains, which towered high above us. In the front was the huge iceberg, which had prevented the nearer approach of the wall of ice. The channel in which we lay could only be closed by the breaking up of the fields of ice behind us, and we could see no reason why this should occur. If the ice-fields remained intact until the freezing of the channel there would be no collision and we would be safe for the time being. The weather had become intensely cold and we began to feel that the danger had passed by, when an ominous roar and the sharp reports of breaking ice, gave warning of the only thing we had to dread. A violent earthquake was lashing the ocean into fury, and the ice pack was broken into innumerable fragments, which were crashing against each other in the most violent commotion. Captain Battell shouted from the lookout where he had posted himself: "Save yourselves if you can. The channel is closing and the ship is lost." I looked up, and as I did so, the lofty ice-mountains between which we lay, seemed to be falling directly down upon us, and at the same time a violent shock threw me upon the deck with a force that must have rendered me unconscious for a few seconds. CHAPTER III. IN THE DARK--ALL IS STILL--CAPTAIN GANOE'S NARROW ESCAPE--IMPRISONED IN THE ICE--DISTRESSING SITUATION--HOW TO PRESERVE THE HEALTH AND EFFICIENCY OF THE CREW--A NEW DANGER--THE ICE IS MOVING--THE COMMON SAILOR TO THE RESCUE--LIEF AND ERIC SAVE THE SHIP--THE TUNNEL TO THE SURFACE--EXPLORING THE ICE-FIELD. [Illustration] THE first thing I remember after being thrown to the deck, was the profound quiet, and the consciousness that some mighty change had taken place in our surroundings. I opened my eyes. The deck was wrapped in semi-darkness, and instead of the thundering reverberations of the breaking ice and the waves dashing into foam upon their icy barriers, there was a gentle, swish, swish, of the sea as it lashed the sides of the ship. I felt dazed, and the memory of the awful scenes through which we had passed impressed me like the vivid imagery and fantastic pictures of some horrible dream. At the moment of the shock, fully impressed with the conviction that all was lost, I was turning to grasp Raphael in my arms, so that we might die together, and on recovering consciousness, my first thought was of him. I sprang to my feet and in the dim light I saw something gliding away from me towards the edge of the deck, and I instinctively grasped it, as it was about to drop overboard. It was Captain Ganoe. He was living but unconscious. With my insecure footing, I feared for a moment that we should both go overboard together, when there was a flash of light and Battell seized my arm, exclaiming: "Thank God, you are both alive! I called to you and as you did not reply, I feared that you were both killed by the falling ice. It was lucky that you were able to grasp the Captain just when you did, or he would surely have been lost." I was holding Captain Ganoe in my arms, while Battell was briskly chafing his hands. In a moment he aroused, as if suddenly awaking out of a deep sleep, and straightening himself up in a dazed sort of way, he exclaimed: "Good God, Jack, what is the matter? Where are we? Have I been asleep?" "Oh, we are only imprisoned in the ice," said Battell. "I feared that you were crushed by that huge block of ice which came so near carrying away the part of the deck where you were standing. If Jack had not caught you and drawn you back at the imminent risk of his own life, you would now be at the bottom of the sea." Captain Ganoe, now fully aroused, took in the situation at a glance, and exclaimed as he grasped me by the hand: "Jack, my savior! The last I remember was that you were turning as if to grasp me in your arms. It was indeed a close call. But why did you risk your life to save mine?" I had scarcely spoken since the alarm had ended our conversation in my cabin, and I felt that to do so now, in answer to such a question, would betray my weakness and possibly my secret, which I had resolved to guard more closely than ever. Fortunately, however, he did not wait for a reply, but with his usual thoughtfulness for the crew and safety of the ship, he started below, saying: "Come on, my bruises are not severe, and we must look out for the sailors and make a tour of inspection around the ship and ascertain as nearly as possible, in just what kind of a place we are." Just as we reached the deck below, we met Paul Huston, the engineer; Pat O'Brien, second mate; and Mike Gallagher, the cabin boy. They understood what had happened and feared we had been injured or killed by the shower of ice that had fallen upon the upper deck. They reported everything all right with the crew and that the vessel was apparently uninjured. We passed entirely around the ship, narrowly scanning the walls of our ice prison, with a powerful reflector, which revealed every crevice. We lay in an inclosure which gave the vessel more than room enough to turn around if carefully handled. We ascertained that the great overhanging ice-mountains between which we lay, and that had threatened us with instant destruction, had actually been our salvation. When the earthquake shattered the two great ice-fields, these towering mountains had started to tumble over on the ship at the same time, and meeting far above had formed a massive arch which had prevented the closing of the channel at that point. Here and there were openings in the icy roof, but in the main, the colliding masses were closely joined together. The only injury to the ship was from the block of ice that had fallen so near to Captain Ganoe. From the number of fragments of from one to several pounds in weight, which were scattered over the upper deck, it seemed a marvel that we had escaped without serious injury. When our tour of inspection was completed we repaired to the library to talk over the situation. Addressing Battell, Captain Ganoe asked: "What do you think of the situation?" "I apprehend no immediate danger," replied Captain Battell. "In a few hours with the present intense cold, this ice-pack will be frozen into one solid block. But if we are not crushed by the ice, God only knows when we will get out. As for the present, we are most fortunately situated. We could not find better winter quarters in the frigid zone. We are well protected from the cold, and the fishing will be good, as this will be a good breathing place where the fish will gather for air. We can lay in an ample supply of dog feed and I am inclined to believe that we might capture a whale and lay in a supply of oil for fuel." "But how long do you think it will be," asked the Captain, "before we will have an opportunity to get the ship clear of the ice?" "I would not venture a prediction," replied Battell. "One thing is certain. We are sealed up for the winter, and it may be that the entire summer will not be sufficient to produce a break up of the ice-field in which we are caught. So it may be that we will be cooped up for a year or two. There is no telling how long we will be prisoners." "Well, I suppose then," said the Captain, "that all there is for us to do is to wait." "Yes," said Battell, "that is all we can do, and," he added, smiling, "it will not take much effort. But," after a pause, "it will take some effort on our part to provide sufficient exercise and amusement to preserve the health and discipline of the crew, so that we will have a reasonable prospect of getting clear of the ice when the break up does take place." "That is well thought of," said Captain Ganoe, "and I think it would be well to muster the crew and organize a regular system of employment and amusement. And," turning to me, he continued, "what do you have to say, Jack? I never knew you to be so silent. What is the matter? Have you no opinions to offer, and nothing to suggest?" "I certainly have opinions and I might offer some suggestions," I remarked, "but before doing so, I want to familiarize myself with existing conditions. Only one thing seems certain, just at present, and that is, that we are locked up in the ice for several months and perhaps for years to come. This will give us ample time for careful reflection. There is no reason that we should be in a hurry to inaugurate a rigid system of any kind just now in order to preserve the discipline of the crew. There is no danger of their deserting the ship and we can well afford to wait until the novelty of our present surroundings has worn away." "You are right," said the Captain. "There is certainly a novelty in our present surroundings, that will attract the attention of all and prevent ennui for the time being, but this will soon wear away, and the monotony of our imprisonment will become unbearable, except to the best disciplined minds. This will be particularly severe on our common sailors, who are uneducated, and thus deprived of the numberless sources of recreation and amusement to which we have ready access. When this time comes, what would you do?" "So far as I am concerned," I said, "I have access to the library, and will really enjoy the association that it affords with the brightest intellects and noblest characters of earth, past and present. Now, if I should suggest anything for the relief of the common sailors, outside of such exercise and amusements as are essential to health, I would organize them into a school, and seek to bring these more exalted pleasures within their reach by increasing their knowledge, and giving them broader views of life and higher aspirations. This will also furnish us with needful and elevating employment and will certainly afford us a splendid opportunity to do good to others, and at the same time increase our own knowledge of human nature, and to trace the effects produced by environments, on the masses who have not enjoyed the advantages of a liberal education." "Your suggestion," said the Captain, "is all right as far as the better educated are concerned, but it would be useless and probably hurtful to the common sailors. Remember the old adage that 'a little learning is a dangerous thing.' To the extent that we could succeed in giving them broader views of life and higher aspirations, we would only succeed in making them dissatisfied with their lot, and thus weaken the discipline on which the safety of all depends. All that we can do for the common sailors is to provide such healthful exercise of the muscles as will give them good appetites and enable them to enjoy rest and sleep. They would not appreciate the mental feast which you in your kindness of heart would set before them. Their training has been physical, and, hence, their enjoyments must be of the same nature. The same rules that apply to trained intellects will not apply to them." "If that is your opinion," I said, "there is no use for any suggestions from me. You are the owner and senior officer of the Ice King, and, of course, good discipline demands that your will shall be law. You ought to understand the material of which your crew is composed, better than I. My duties have not brought me in contact with your sailors and, of course, I know practically nothing about them, except that I see they are courageous and efficient. But, nevertheless, on general principles, I believe that nature has planted the germs of all that is good and noble in every human soul, and if this is true, all that is good and noble can be developed in them by the proper influences, without detracting in any way from their usefulness as mere workers; besides, the effort to elevate them draws them nearer to us, and it seems to me, would tend to engender feelings of mutual love and confidence, that strengthen instead of weaken that perfect discipline which is of such inestimable importance to an expedition like this, when the safety and well-being of every individual member is of vital importance to the safety and well being of the entire crew." "I have always had the respect and confidence of my sailors," said the Captain, "not because I tried to lift them up to the same plane that I occupied, but because I provided them with good food, good quarters, never overtaxed their strength, and gave them ample time for rest and such amusements as they could appreciate. I have always had the good-will and cheerful obedience of the common sailors, because I looked out for their physical needs and treated them kindly." "I have no doubt of that," I said. "But your voyages in the past have been between civilized ports and all your sailors wanted was their pay, and in addition to this, you gave them better treatment than they could get elsewhere. Hence, their selfish impulses held them to you. The relation between you and them was purely physical, and all that was needed to make them loyal to you, was to look out for their physical wants and treat them kindly. From their standpoint, this was an addition to their wages that they could not secure under more heartless employers. But you are now differently situated. You are not expected to come into a civilized port where sailors can spend their wages as sailors usually do. They have nothing to look forward to, and as mere workers they have no interests in common with you. But with the broader views of life to which association with the best intellects and the noblest characters gives access, they would take a more exalted view of the work in which they are engaged, and be true to you from a higher motive than their wages, which they cannot use in the supply of their physical wants. This is why I suggested the school." "I recognize the force of your reasoning," said the Captain, "and if I regarded your premises as correct, I would come to the same conclusion that you do. But you make the mistake of overlooking the fact that a liberal education can only be secured by years of training in school, from the kindergarten to the college, and should be accompanied by the elevating influences of the home and cultured society, and followed by a life of study and experience in the higher walks of life, before the average man can be reasonably expected to rise above the plane of mere physical existence, and act from the high intellectual and moral impulses which impel the most cultivated and elevated characters. And, you must still further take into consideration the fact, that even if we were imprisoned in the ice for a year or more, we would have time enough to give our sailors only a smattering of what they ought to know, in order to develop the high type of character that you propose, even if we could overcome the influence of their home lives and the low social status of the society in which they have always mingled. You do not realize, my dear Jack, the utter impossibility of the task you would have us undertake. They must still be sailors and perform the hard labor for which they were engaged, and we should be careful not to engender in their minds hopes and aspirations that would make them dissatisfied with their lot." "I certainly would not do anything," I replied, "that would tend to make them discontented. This is something that should be most carefully avoided. But, nevertheless, I still think my suggestion, if carried out, would have just the opposite tendency. From my own experience, I regard my premises as stronger than my reasoning. I enjoyed all the advantages of a liberal education and the elevating influence of home and cultured society, and still, I have engaged in the most menial employments. Yet, I did not find that my education rendered me dissatisfied with my lot. On the contrary, it did much to enable me to adapt myself to the situation, and to find sources of enjoyment which were inaccessible to my uneducated associates. But, more than this, my experience among the lowly, convinces me that a collegiate education is not essential to the development of the noblest characteristics. I have met sailors before the mast, who had accumulated a vast fund of useful knowledge, and had the broadest and most comprehensive views of life, and its duties. The premises from which I reason, are the results of actual experience with the lowly." "I fear," returned the Captain, "that in your enthusiastic love for humanity, you have made the very natural mistake of judging the uneducated by yourself. I do not desire to flatter, but you have certainly inherited qualities of a high order, and a temperament so well poised, that you could acquit yourself with credit in any capacity in which you might be placed. Your employers could not fail to discover your worth, and according to your own statement, you were rapidly promoted. This is the ordinary reward of those who have inherited exalted qualities. Real ability never remains very long in a menial position. The simple fact that our sailors, who are much above the average of their class, have, after years of experience, still remained in the same humble position, is a very good evidence that they are not qualified for anything higher. There are Lief and Eric, for instance. They have been with me for several years, and they have not even tried to master the language. As mere sailors, you could not find better men, but you would never select them for an emergency that required extraordinary quickness of perception, and the ability to lead." I was about to reply, feeling myself master of the situation, so far as the argument was concerned, when a crashing sound from above, and a careening motion of the ship brought us to our feet. On gaining the deck the cause of the commotion was immediately apparent. The ship was moving toward the starboard, and was being forced under the shelving ice. The crashing sound had been caused by the masts coming in contact with the sloping, icy roof. The masts were closely wedged under the roof and could go no farther, while the hull was still being carried forward by what seemed to be a strong ocean current. The situation was one of imminent peril, for if this motion continued, we were in immediate danger of being capsized. The ship was already careening toward the larboard. The top could go no farther, while the hull was too far from the solid ice to admit of the use of pikes and spars to prop it back. Battell was calling for axes to cut away the masts, when a shout from the larboard wall of our prison, attracted our attention. By the light of the reflectors we saw Lief, on a low lying bench of ice making a cable fast around an ice hummock, and at the same time we heard the voice of Eric calling for aid at the capstan on the lower deck. We saw instantly that this was the thing to do, and Captain Ganoe, Battell, Huston and myself were the first to take hold of the lever. Eric immediately motioned for the men who were coming forward with axes to man another capstan, while he seized a coil of small rope attached to a cable, sprang into the sea and swam rapidly to join Lief on the ice bench. The axmen hesitated for a moment and Captain Ganoe shouted: "Man the capstan! The Norwegians know what they are doing." With remarkable celerity, the new cable was made fast and the men began turning the capstan. This was not a moment too soon, as the first cable, unable to stand the strain, showed unmistakable signs of breaking. The motion of the vessel toward the starboard and under the ice was stopped. But the Norwegians now called for a boat and more cables. Their orders were promptly obeyed. Captain Ganoe, Battell and myself were the first to respond. For the moment, our Norwegian sailors were in command, and all obeyed their orders with alacrity. The boat was manned and the Ice King was lashed to the larboard wall of our prison at a number of different points. The ship was saved from the impending disaster, but still was slightly careened and the masts were bent almost to the point of breaking. Returning to the ship, Captain Ganoe and Battell began figuring on getting the masts clear of the ice and the ship righted. The pressure of the water on the larboard side was immense, but the cables held her fast and there was no especial need of haste. The first thought suggested was to remove the upper splice of the mainmast, which would relieve the pressure, but the Norwegians had evolved a more simple plan. They motioned the engineer to set the screws in motion, slowly. As soon as the ship began to move forward the masts began to bend toward the stern, and the cables which held the ship firmly on the larboard, being relatively shortened by the forward motion, the vessel was drawn in that direction and righted herself. We now moved the vessel to the center of the enclosure in which she floated, and cables were made fast to the ice on every quarter, and thus secured from contact with it, the Ice King had the appearance of a huge spider with its web spread out in every direction. The danger was past, the ship was safe, and we had time to inquire into the particulars concerning the important part that had been enacted by our two Norwegian sailors. We now learned that while the entire crew, except themselves, were resting from their recent fatigue in a feeling of security, Lief and Eric were far from believing that our winter quarters were entirely safe until the ship was securely tied up to the walls of our prison. Their especial charge was to keep the cables, capstans and anchors ready for use at a moment's notice, and they were satisfied that this was a time when they were needed. Hence, instead of retiring to their hammocks to sleep, they determined to carefully examine our surroundings for themselves. They observed that the larboard wall was nearly perpendicular to a point several feet above the top of the masts, while on the starboard, the sloping roof extended far out to the water's edge. They further observed that along the larboard was a low lying bench upon which the falling ice had formed a number of hummocks. This was a safe place to tie to. Just as they had satisfied themselves on this point, they noticed that the ship was drifting toward the starboard, and that the masts were coming dangerously near the roof, and that in a few minutes we might be capsized. There was not a moment to be lost. This motion toward the starboard must be arrested, and Lief, with one end of a coil of small rope, sprang into the water and swam to the bench along the larboard wall while Eric attached the other end to a cable. But before it could be made fast to the larboard wall the masts came in contact with the sloping roof on the starboard which gave the alarm that aroused the crew and brought the officers on deck with the results already mentioned. Captain Ganoe was visibly affected when he learned how the ship and the lives of the crew had been saved by the quick perception and prompt action of the two sailors. He shook their hands and thanked them over and over again, declaring that such all-important service should not go unrewarded. They understood his allusion and declared in their very limited supply of English that they could not be induced to take pay from the Captain for saving the ship and at the same time saving themselves. That we must all stand together or we would all perish. As soon as they had succeeded in making themselves understood, they withdrew. As a rule they kept to themselves, except when their services were needed. Yet they were not unsociable and often conversed with the engineer, Paul Huston, who understood their language. When they had an important communication to make, they secured his services as an interpreter. They seemed averse to the use of English. When they were gone Captain Ganoe said: "I little thought that Lief and Eric possessed ability of such a high order, and since I have discovered their true nobility of character, I am more than ever anxious that they should study English, as it would enable me to do so much more for them." "You little understand the material of which these Norwegians are made," said Huston, who was standing by. "They do not want you to do anything for them. They feel more than able to take care of themselves. They have not always been sailors, but that occupation suits their purpose best for the present. They are looking forward to great results that may be accomplished by this expedition, and they care more for its success than for anything you could do for them. As to the language, they already understand more than they care to use. They are proud of their native Norse." "You astonish me!" exclaimed the Captain. "I must get better acquainted with them." "Then," said Huston, "you must learn their language, and even then they may repel any familiarity. They preferred working for you because you did not understand their language. They do not care to be on confidential terms with anyone. When they found that I understood them, they became somewhat communicative but not confidential. Yet, I have learned enough to make me believe they have a history, and some well defined purpose in life. I would not think, however, of trying to draw from them anything that they did not care to give of their own accord. One thing is certain. You can place implicit confidence in their courage, ability, nobility of character and fidelity to the purposes of this expedition." "Well, thanks to their watchfulness, quick perception and prompt action," said Captain Ganoe, "we can now have the much needed rest we tried to enjoy before we had taken the precautions essential to our safety. I am surprised that we did not think of the possible dangers that might beset us from ocean currents. My only fear was that some disturbing cause might sunder the walls of our prison before they were frozen solid. And, even now, I have some fears on that score." "No danger of that kind," replied Battell. "Several hours have already elapsed, and the weather was intensely cold before the channel closed. Just listen how the storm still rages." Through the rifts in our ice roof, we had been enabled to catch glimpses of the sky, but now it was all inky blackness. The gale that had brought the two great ice-fields together, had now grown to a terrific storm, and had changed its direction. The winds roared and raged like demons in mortal combat, and ever and anon the snow was driven in upon us like fine dust, indicating the intense cold. We, now that the ship was safe, had the best of reasons for congratulating ourselves on our snug winter quarters. Our icy prison was both our safety from the violence of the storm, and our protection from the intense cold. We partook of a hearty lunch and retired to our rest with feelings of perfect security. When I awoke everything was astir on board. The carpenters were busily engaged in repairing the broken deck, while the sailors were removing the ice and snow. Everything was being put in order as if we were preparing for a voyage. The storm had ceased to howl and we were in the grasp of an Arctic winter. Even in our secluded retreat, it was necessary for us to wrap up in furs and woolens when we went on the upper deck. But our cabins were warm and we had an abundance of everything to eat and wear to make us comfortable. The ice-field was frozen into a solid block, and there was no question as to our safety, but we had no means of making observations that would indicate our location. This to me, was the loss of an occupation that I really enjoyed and I felt the need of something that would take its place. We were imprisoned in the ice on September 23d, and from my last observations I inferred that our location was about latitude 77° North and longitude 160° West. The sun made his appearance for a brief interval each day, and I calculated that the long Arctic night would be fully set in by the last of October. The rifts in the roof of our prison afforded us no opportunity for determining our location. Our recent danger had revealed the fact that we were moving. We tried the sounding line and found that we were in deep water, and that our motion was evidently due to the motion of the ice-field. We were floating at the mercy of the winds and ocean currents. But whither would they carry us? None could tell. Assuming, however, that the currents were north-bound, and reasoning from the fact that the motion of the earth was from west to east, the tendency being, as it were, to slip from under us, we concluded that as long as the ice was floating freely, our general motion would be toward the west and north. For the present we were safe and comfortable with the ship securely fastened to the solid walls of our prison. But we knew summer would come, and the warm rays of the sun would beam down on us for months, melting and breaking up the frozen surface of the ocean which was now our security, but might then become the cause of our destruction. Our future safety, and the success of the expedition, demanded that we should have easy access to the surface, so that we could make the necessary observations, and, if possible, find some means of providing for the safety of the ship and crew when the ice went to pieces. This was the task before us, but we had no means of calculating the time it would take. All we knew was, that the two ice mountains by coming together had formed a roof over our heads, and towered many feet above the ship's masts, and if their other dimensions were in proportion, it might take a long time for us to tunnel through to the surface. We felt that there was no time to lose. All needful arrangements were soon perfected under the direction of Battell, who took charge as engineer and manager. The ice-bench on our larboard was selected as the point of starting. The crew was divided into three reliefs, each with a foreman, and the work of excavation went on without intermission. This arrangement gave eight hours for work in the tunnel, and sixteen for rest and recreation. I again suggested my "pet hobby" as it was called, of organizing the crew into a school and devoting a few hours each day to educational purposes. But I was alone in the recommendation, and it was not acted on, but the library was free to all who cared to read. I noticed, however, that Paul Huston, Pat O'Brien and Mike Gallagher, were the only ones who ever called for books, and Huston was the only one who seemed to know just what he wanted. Lief and Eric had some Norwegian books and writings which they often consulted, but all the others, when not at work, spent their time in playing games, spinning yarns and fishing. As predicted by Battell, the enclosure in which the ship floated, seemed to attract the finny denizens of the deep, supplying fresh food for the crew and our dog teams, as well as oil which we used for fuel. The library was the favorite resort of those who cared to read and discuss topics of general interest. Here we spent our leisure hours, reading, conversing upon subjects of every description and devising amusements that would enable us to pass the time pleasantly. When tired of these things we joined the working force in the tunnel and exercised our muscles. This was a work of necessity, as well as a healthful recreation, and we went into it with the utmost enthusiasm. We managed to get comfortably tired every day, and enjoyed excellent appetites and most refreshing sleep, in consequence. Altogether the winter passed very agreeably. It was well on toward spring before the tunnel was completed. We now had access to the surface, up an easy incline, and beheld the uninterrupted beauties of an Arctic night. The scene which greeted us defies description. The sky was cloudless, and the Northern Lights, with their brilliant corruscations, nature's compensation for the long polar night, presented a pyrotechnic display, the grandeur and beauty of which are indelibly impressed on my memory. We took our bearings and found we were in latitude 84° N. longitude 170° W. We were seven degrees farther north than when we were caught in the ice, and ten degrees farther west. We were plainly in the grasp of north-bound currents, while our motion toward the west was uncertain. Subsequent observations revealed the fact that at times our longitude was stationary, or drifting somewhat toward the east. On the whole, our westerly motion exceeded any opposite tendency, but our progress northward was considerable though not regular, as if we were retarded by obstructions which were being overcome at intervals by the force of northerly currents. It was now the 20th of Feb., and it was determined that the work of exploration should commence. The dog-teams and sledges were brought out and provisioned for a journey to the eastward under the direction of Captain Battell. Captain Ganoe, Pat O'Brien, Mike Gallagher, Paul Huston, the two Norwegian sailors and myself remained on the ship. The sledge party was to be absent a month and possibly longer. Captain Battell wanted to make some thorough observations on the eastern borders of the ice-field, and take soundings if he could reach open water. We still had some weeks of Arctic night before us, but the full, round moon and the brilliant Aurora, made every object visible for a long distance. The weather was intensely cold, but the scenery was so attractive that I spent much of my time exploring the ice-field in the immediate vicinity of the ship. Many were the weird and fantastic scenes that I sketched, and many the strolls I took in a vain effort to find some prominent point from which with my glass I could get an unobstructed view of the horizon. But like our prison in the ice, all nature seemed cramped. The starry vault was contracted by the obscuration of stars which I thought should have been visible above the horizon. I kept searching for an elevated point of view, but this seemed always just a little ahead. These rambles often extended for miles and occupied hours. Returning from one of them, I was met by Lief and Eric who pointed to the crest of the mountain of ice that formed the roof of our prison, and beckoned me to follow them. I did so and found that they had cut an inclined road around the icy mountain to the apex, where they had erected an observatory out of ice blocks. It was built over a rift in the roof of our prison that was directly above the ice bench on the larboard near the mouth of the tunnel. The wall at this point was almost perpendicular, and with but little labor they were able to put in an elevator, consisting simply of a platform secured by ropes, and attached to a pulley inside the observatory. They showed me what they had done, and to convince me that it was entirely safe, they let themselves down on the elevator and raised themselves up again, much as a painter handles his swinging scaffold, but more rapidly. I was pleased with the contrivance, and more with the interest taken by Lief and Eric in making arrangements to facilitate my observations. I did not hesitate to take my place on the platform with them and return to the ship by this direct route. I now learned that as soon as the tunnel was completed, Lief and Eric had found their way to the top of our prison, and seeing the advantages that this elevation offered as an outlook, they conceived the idea of an observatory on the top, to be connected with the ship by an elevator. They took no one into their confidence but Huston, and set to work immediately. In a little over two weeks they were ready to put in the elevator which connected directly with the ship, and saved a long walk by way of the tunnel. This work had just been completed and they were enabled to give me a very unexpected but agreeable surprise on my return from one of my usual rambles. But it was no more of a surprise to me than it was to Captain Ganoe, who was just starting out to the surface through the tunnel, when Lief, Eric and myself came swinging down from the observatory on the platform which constituted the cage. Lief who was handling the rope stopped our descent just in time to prevent the platform from swinging against the Captain, who looking up exclaimed: "Hello, Jack! Where did you come from, and what is all this rigging for?" "Just ask Lief and Eric," I replied. "They have been looking out for a more direct route to the surface than by way of the tunnel. They have erected an observatory on the roof, and if you are going out for a walk, you had better take the elevator." "All right," said the Captain stepping on the platform, "but I would suggest that you ought to have a light on board, to give warning in this gloom to all whom it may concern, to get out of the way of the engine." "That can be provided for in the future," I said. "This is the first trial and we find that it works all right. Now we are ready for such improvements as you have to suggest. While the invention belongs to our Norwegian friends, we have no patent laws in this country and hence there can be no infringement. There is no restrictive legislation here to stand in the way of progress." "I think in view of all the facts," said the Captain, "that this matter had better be left in the hands of the inventors. I have no doubt that they are fully equal to the task, and they have free access to the ship's stores for that purpose. It seems to me that the improvement most needed is some contrivance that will counteract the swinging motion, and no doubt Lief and Eric have a plan already that will accomplish that." We were now in the observatory and the view in every direction was most satisfactory. This was by far the most elevated location anywhere in the region, and Captain Ganoe cordially concurred in my suggestion to fit it up in good shape for all the purposes of an observatory as well as a resting place when the weather became warm. We carefully explored the immediate vicinity and found that this towering mountain of ice could be made accessible from both the east and west. Towards the north and south it was easy to trace the seam where the ice walls had come together, and along this line were numerous depressions of great depth. When we were ready to return to the ship we found that Lief and Eric had stretched ropes from the top to the bottom which passing through the platform held it steady while passing up and down. They had also devised a contrivance by which the elevator could be operated either from above or below as occasion might require; also a telephone connection between the observatory and the ship. With this easy means of access to the surface, we seldom used the tunnel except for the sledges, or the transportation of some heavy burden. From this elevated point I watched with continually increasing interest, the roseate hues on the horizon which indicated the location of the rising sun. These grew brighter and brighter until the king of day made his appearance. This was the signal for inflating the balloons and sending up dispatches in the hope that they might be carried south into civilized portions of the globe by the equinoctial storms. It was also the time fixed for the return of Battell from his exploring expedition on the eastern portion of the ice field. His observations, in connection with my own, constituted our only means of accumulating that fund of information concerning these unknown regions which would make this expedition valuable to the world. Besides, our own safety depended to a very great extent upon the accuracy of the knowledge we could acquire concerning the forces which controlled the movements of this vast island of ice. My relation to the scientific work of the expedition, made me anxious to make the best possible use of our present favorable opportunity for investigation. During our long incarceration in our ice prison I had kept such notes and made such observations as our environments would permit. The movement of the ice field towards the west which at first had threatened to draw us under the ice and capsize the ship, had lost much of its force, and now that we were on the surface, and able to trace the seam which marked the channel in which we had been moving, we discovered that its general direction was from southeast to northwest, while at the time we had been caught between the colliding ice fields, we had according to my notes, been running northeast. This demonstrated, that the entire body of ice had turned one quarter around, while its general movement had been toward the west and north. And now my daily observations indicated that it was continually changing its position, and that while its motions were generally toward the west, they were by no means uniform. It seemed to have been at the mercy of contending forces ever since we had been held within its grasp, and it was one of the prime objects of the expedition to make a close study of just this kind of influences. As soon as the sun began to show itself above the horizon, I kept a constant lookout for the return of Captain Battell and his sledge party. We knew that he had gone east, and that it was his intention to commence the exploration of the western portion of the ice-field before the sun was remaining above the horizon for the full twenty-four hours. But the weather during the early spring was unfavorable and I discovered nothing worthy of note. When the days became longer and with the sun in the west, I expected to make some important discoveries with my glass. And when I did get a clear view I was startled to observe what seemed to be a barren waste of sand and sand mountains. I called Captain Ganoe's attention to this appearance, and after a careful scrutiny with his glass he said: "That looks very much like land. The surface is certainly neither snow nor ice. But where in the world did all that sand come from? I will telephone Huston to bring a larger telescope and we will make a closer examination." In a few minutes Huston made his appearance and we placed the instrument in position. With the stronger glass, our first impressions as to the nature of the surface were confirmed but we discovered nothing that offered any explanation of the phenomenon. Here was a mystery and we were now more anxious than ever for the return of Captain Battell, who we felt assured had made some very interesting discoveries. I continued to scan the horizon with the large telescope and my search was soon rewarded by the discovery of a man who seemed to have just reached the crest of what appeared to be a long sandy ridge running north and south, but a few miles distant. He seemed to be assisting others to reach the same position. Raising the instrument to its highest powers I was enabled to recognize Captain Battell and several sailors. They were hauling others up from the opposite side by means of a rope, who as soon as they reached the top, took hold and helped to raise others. I described the scene and asked Captain Ganoe to look for himself. He took in the situation at a glance and said; "We must go to their assistance. The sledges and dog teams are evidently on the opposite side and they must be lifted up as well as the men," and turning to Huston he said: "Return to the ship. Summon the entire crew. Explain the situation to the Norwegians, tell them to get out the sledges immediately and take such appliances as they deem necessary, and Jack and I will meet you at the foot of the mountain on the east side. Make all haste possible as we must hurry to the assistance of our comrades who are evidently nearly exhausted." CHAPTER IV. A SINGULAR DISCOVERY--BATTELL CROSSING A SAND RIDGE ON THE ICE-FIELD--CAPTAIN GANOE LEADS A PARTY TO HIS ASSISTANCE--LIEF AND ERIC--BATTELL'S THEORY--A SECOND EXPEDITION--BATTELL'S LONG ABSENCE--IS DISCOVERED RETURNING ALONE, SCARCELY ABLE TO WALK--RELIEF PARTY FINDS HIM UNCONSCIOUS--CAPTAIN GANOE AS PHYSICIAN--BATTELL RELATES HOW HE WAS ABANDONED BY HIS MEN--PREPARING FOR THE BREAK. [Illustration] HUSTON stepped upon the elevator and descended to the ship to carry out the instructions he had received, while Captain Ganoe and myself remained in the observatory to scan the surface more critically, and map out the route we must travel. So far as we could discover there seemed to be no serious obstacle in the way. The surface between us and the sand ridge which Battell must cross had the appearance of a level plain of snow or ice, with numerous hummocks scattered here and there. Beyond this, the ridge, with some lofty elevations, filled the outlines of the picture. The point which Battell had selected for crossing was a gap in this ridge. Directly below the gap the ridge was very steep but the top could be reached from this point by an easy incline towards the south. I made a hasty sketch of every prominent object on a direct line from the observatory to the gap which was the point we desired to reach as soon as possible, as we felt that our assistance was sorely needed. This work was completed to our satisfaction when we noticed the crew with the sledge coming around the north side, and we hastened down to meet them at the foot of the mountain on the east. We found everything in good shape for a rapid march: The sledge was lightly loaded with such appliances, ropes, pulleys, etc., as had been deemed necessary to enable us to render the most effectual assistance. The dogs were pulling on their harness as if anxious for a run, and the men were fresh, and feeling the need of exercise. The thaw had scarcely commenced and the traveling was good. Every condition seemed favorable. Captain Ganoe and myself led off along the route which our observations had indicated as the most practicable. In less than two hours we had reached the foot of the ridge just below the gap where we had discovered Captain Battell. We found the surface covered with volcanic ashes and scoria, and our minds instantly reverted to the earthquake which broke up the ice-field, and our narrow escape from destruction. However, this was no time for speculation. Our business was to reach the top as soon as possible. We found that a direct ascent would be exceedingly difficult, but that the inclining shelf along the face of the ridge would enable us to reach the top at a point about a half mile south of the gap. This shelf, or bench, was several yards in width and its appearance, covered as it was with ashes, gave the impression that it had been a level shore line that in some great convulsion of nature had been tilted up from the south at an angle of about twenty-five degrees, and that the general surface had been leveled up by a subsequent deposit over the lower part. We at once began our ascent along this comparatively easy route. Yet it was a tedious and toilsome effort to get the sledge with its load of necessary appliances to the top. However, within less than an hour, notwithstanding numerous resting spells, we reached the top and found ourselves on a level plateau, several hundred feet wide, and about one half mile south of where we expected to find Captain Battell and his comrades. While our party halted in order to give the dog-team a rest, Captain Ganoe and myself hurried on to the gap. On reaching the edge we discovered that the men were taking a rest, after having lifted most of the contents of the sledge to the top. We could see that they had been compelled to cut a road through some hundreds of feet of frozen ashes, in order to reach their present position, and we did not need to be told that they had been having a very hard time. Most of the party were asleep and no one observed our approach until we had descended into the gap, and Captain Ganoe had called out in regular sailor style the familiar: "Ship Ahoy!" This unexpected greeting brought Captain Battell to his feet, but for a moment he was too much surprised to make any response. Recovering himself, he advanced and grasped Captain Ganoe by the hand exclaiming: "How did you get here? I was just thinking how fortunate it would be if you knew the predicament we are in and would come to our relief with a capstan and some more ropes and pulleys." "That is just what we have done," said Captain Ganoe. "Jack was on the lookout for you from his observatory on top of the mountain of ice that covers the resting place of the Ice King. As soon as we discovered you, we started to your relief with a sledge load of such appliances as it seemed you most needed." "This is indeed fortunate," said Battell. "We are almost exhausted with the efforts we have been compelled to make in order to reach this gap, and now that we are here, we find that our difficulties are by no means ended, and it is most important that we should get well over the ridge and commence our exploration of the western portion of this vast island of ashes and ice." As he was speaking, our sledge appeared at the top of the gap and the men joined us at once. Huston acting as spokesman for our Norwegian sailors, said: "Lief and Eric request that they be permitted to complete the work of transferring the sledges and their loads to the west side." "Tell them," said the Captain, "to go ahead in their own way and accept our thanks for their most welcome services." In a few minutes they had their ropes, pulleys and capstan in place and gave us to understand that the dogs would furnish all the power that was needed. They soon had one of the sledges slowly but surely gliding up the steep incline to the top. We watched them a few minutes, when Captain Ganoe said: "I think we can safely leave this matter to the Norwegians and we may start on our return to the ship." "I am willing to trust them," said Battell, "and it is important that we begin at once to compare notes and lay our plans for the future. I feel that there is no time to be lost." And giving some instructions to Brown who had been selected as foreman in the work of road making, to give such assistance as might be needed, we started on foot for the ship, a distance of between five and six miles. On our way back, Battell gave us a concise account of his observations and the conclusions at which he had arrived. "When we left the ship," he said, "we took a southeasterly direction. The cold was intense, but with our ample preparations we did not suffer so much as might have been expected. We reached open water within three days, but the shore line was so precipitous that we could not launch our sledge boats and sail around as I had intended. So, we continued our journey around the ice-field toward the north, as we had begun it. The general direction of the shore line at this point was from the southwest toward the northeast. The traveling was fairly good and we made good time for about a week, and then our trouble commenced. The entire surface was covered to an unknown depth with volcanic ashes. "The surface formation was evidently new, but careful examination revealed the fact, that this covered an older formation of very considerable thickness. Our soundings, owing to the precipitous character of the coast line, were not satisfactory, but taken in connection with my observations as to the motions of the ice-field, I came to the conclusion that it was frequently grounding on the tops of submarine mountains. If this is true, it will probably hasten the breaking up when the ice becomes rotten under the influence of continuous sunshine. "Having satisfied myself on these points we started on our return trip, and but for the difficult nature of the surface, and the frequent necessity for road making, we would have been with you by the time the sun made his appearance." Before we reached the ship, it had been definitely settled that after a short rest, Battell should continue his explorations toward the western borders of the ice-field, and time the expedition, so as to return to the ship before there was any immediate danger from the thaw. We had come to the conclusion that we were floating in an open sea, and it was our intention to press on for the north when the ice went to pieces; and some phenomena, that we, in common with other explorers had observed, led to the opinion that we would find land and not unlikely a habitable country around the pole. Since the sun had made his appearance, flocks of ducks, brants and geese, coming from the north were quite numerous. When killed we found them fat and juicy and their crops were often filled with a species of grain resembling rice, which seemed to indicate that they came from a temperate climate. We now began to confidently expect that when the ice-field went to pieces we would find the country which produced this grain--the northern home of these flocks of birds. We argued that the six months and more of continued sunshine at the pole, would necessarily produce a mild, if not a warm climate, for the greater portion of the year. We held that refraction would secure perhaps as much as seven months of sunshine at the pole, and add to this the long twilights and the Aurora, preventing absolute darkness, the immediate vicinity of the pole might be in many respects, a most desirable climate. Of one thing we felt sure, and that was, that those flocks of ducks and geese that came from the north had been well fed with grain that must have grown in a productive country. When we came to the ice mountain that covered the ship, Captain Battell turned to the north, saying: "I believe that this is the route to the mouth of the tunnel." "Yes, that is true," replied Captain Ganoe, "but let us go by the way of Jack's observatory, which is directly over the ship." "All right," said Battell. "Lead on. I want to see the observatory any way, and it is probably no further over the mountain than it is around it, even if the traveling may be a little more laborious." We offered no explanation as to our elevator, and in a few minutes we were in the observatory, under the canopy of sail cloth which protected it from the rays of the sun. "Well, this is a cosy place," said Battell, as he seated himself upon one of the extemporized cushioned seats with which it was furnished. "It is," said I, "but I am more interested in seeing how Lief and Eric are getting along in their coveted task of transferring the sledges to this side of the ridge." So saying, I went directly to the large telescope which we had left bearing upon the gap Battell had chosen for a crossing place. A glance was enough, and in reply to a questioning look from Battell I said: "Both sledges are on top and they are preparing to let them down on this side. Come and see for yourself. I believe that our Norwegian sailors are equal to anything they are willing to undertake." "I believe you are right," said Battell, as he took his place at the telescope. "There," he continued, "they are letting the sledges down the steep incline fully loaded. From the progress they are making, they will be here in a few hours, with everything in ship shape for the expedition toward the west. That rests me so, that I will not mind clambering down to the mouth of the tunnel." "Why go by way of the tunnel?" asked Captain Ganoe. "Just take your seat on that divan and there need be no clambering down." "Yes," I said, "and just let me share the seat with you, and let the Captain act as chief of transportation and take command of the expedition, down to the ship." He did as he was directed with a puzzled look. Captain Ganoe took hold of the rope while I turned on the light and we began to drop down toward the ship. "Well you have got things fixed up in grand style," said Battell. "Who would have expected a few weeks ago, that we would now be descending into the interior of an iceberg on a grandly upholstered elevator, with the stern Captain of the Ice King as our elevator boy? Is not this putting on a little too much style for these regions of eternal ice?" "Not at all," I responded. "I hold, you know, that every human being is justly entitled to the very best that his own labor can produce. But this arrangement for facilitating our access to the outer world is the product of the labor and skill of our Norwegian sailors. They had the observatory almost completed before they revealed their designs to any one but Huston." "Then," said Battell "if that is the sort of men they are, I think they had better remain with the ship. I had thought of proposing to take them out with me on our western expedition and leave some of the other men to take their place here." "I could hardly consent to part with our Norwegians even for a few days," said Captain Ganoe. "Since I have discovered their ability, I want them on the ship in case of emergencies. I would not hesitate, if it was necessary, to place them in command. The quickness of perception and general reliability they have shown, almost persuade me that Jack is right and that under some circumstances the highest qualities may be developed among the most lowly." "And it may be," said Battell, "that as Huston intimated, Lief and Eric have some great purpose in life, and under such influences as Jack would like to place around the common sailors, many of them might develop qualities of a high order. I have thought much of Jack's 'pet hobby.' On this last expedition, I have realized more than ever, the importance of having men of lofty characters in the capacity of common sailors, if such a thing is possible." "And it is possible," I added. "And whether it is possible or not, it is our duty to ourselves and to humanity to do everything in our power to inspire all with whom we come in contact, with broader views of life, and nobler aspirations for the future." "Well," said Captain Ganoe, "it is certainly not my intention to antagonize your exalted idea of our duty toward our fellow beings. It is an ennobling thought to dwell upon, but whether it will ever be possible for us to do much for our sailors in this way or not, it is clearly impossible to do anything immediately, and surely Captain Battell wants one good sleep in his own bed before he starts on another expedition. So I propose that we now retire to our quarters for rest. We certainly need it, and there is no duty pressing upon us to prevent it." We acted upon the Captain's suggestion as soon as we could reach our cabins. In a few minutes I was sleeping soundly, and did not awake until the gong gave notice that breakfast was ready. The crew had returned with the sledges, and after a nap were now ready for the first meal on shipboard that they had taken for over a month. Captain Battell had completed preparations for his expedition toward the west, and once more the officer's mess was complete, and while we enjoyed our repast we discussed plans for the future. As we arose from the table, Battell took me by the hand and said: "You may keep a sharp lookout for me after the First of July. By that time we ought to be able to reach open water on the west and return. If we can launch the sledges, it is my intention to sail around the ice to the north and if possible return along the seam which marks the channel through which we were moving when we were entombed beneath these 'bergs.' I have already made use of your observatory to make a sketch of the most prominent objects toward the west and north. I apprehend no trouble. Of course we will have channels of water to contend with before we return, but as our sledges make excellent boats, they are as likely to expedite as to obstruct our movements. I need not caution you to keep up your observations, and note everything that has a bearing on our situation. I will do the same and together we cannot fail to secure a fund of valuable information." He bade us good-bye, and at once departed. I repaired to the observatory, and through my glass watched the sledges until they disappeared from view in the distance. It was now the 20th of April, and it would be two months and a half before we expected the return of the exploring party, and if it met with no mishap, there was ample time for an extended tour around the ice-field. I anticipated great results from the observations that might be made. Captain Battell had left with us three of his party who seemed the least able to bear the fatigue of the long journey over the ice which he contemplated. This was a valuable addition to the force left with the ship, and at the same time relatively strengthened the exploring party, as it relieved them of the prospective danger of being compelled to take care of disabled comrades. The weather was favorable, and soon the rays of the sun began to slowly but surely change the surface of the ice. I watched the process with constantly increasing interest. If we were ever to escape from our imprisonment, our release must come as a result of the thaw. Hence, I came to regard the little rivulets that were forming in every direction, and usually disappearing in a short distance through some crevice, as our saviors. If the process kept on with sufficient vigor, the ice-field was sure to break up before we were again locked in the embrace of an Arctic winter, and we would have an opportunity to escape. At last the sun had reached his highest altitude, and the time had come when we might expect the return of Battell. The thaw had progressed rapidly and the ice was becoming rotten, and with the first storm would probably go to pieces. But the weather was serene and there was no immediate danger. The 1st of July had come and gone and Battell was still absent. The thaw, under the continuous rays of the sun was accelerated, and I began to fear the break up would come before his return with the larger part of the crew. This might prove to be fatal to all our hopes. I felt that we sorely needed Captain Battell with his experience in the navigation of these frozen seas. I now began to dread the thaw as much as I had been inclined to welcome it two months before. I continued my observations with more interest, if possible, than ever. The motions of the ice-field puzzled me. We seemed to be slightly oscillating from one side to the other of longitude 180°, but with a frequent motion toward the north. I spent most of my time in the observatory, more on the lookout for some indication of the return of Captain Battell than for any other purpose. This interest was shared by every member of the crew, and we established regular watches for this one purpose, so that there was always some one at the telescope. Captain Ganoe and myself took the first watch, Pat O'Brien and Huston, the second, and Lief and Eric the third. So the entire twenty-four hours were occupied in the lookout for Battell. In addition to this, we made several expeditions to the north and west for many miles. While we learned that the traveling was very toilsome, we discovered no reason why the exploring party should not be able to return as long as the ice-field remained unbroken. It was true that the expedition might have reached a section where the thaw had destroyed the solidity of the ice, but it was well equipped for such a contingency, as the sledges could readily be converted into boats. We tried in vain to figure out the cause of Captain Battell's delay. The ice was becoming more rotten every day and our suspense became more and more painful. We had almost despaired of his return, when through my glass, I observed what seemed to be a human being, directly west of us, slowly struggling along over the rotten, slushy surface of the ice. I called the attention of Captain Ganoe to my discovery and after a careful scrutiny of the object he exclaimed: "That is certainly a man. It must be Battell or one of his men returning alone. And," he paused, and then added hastily: "He is scarcely able to walk and falls down from sheer exhaustion. We must go to his relief at once." And turning to Mike Gallagher, who was present, he said: "Hurry down to the ship and tell O'Brien to summon a relief party with a stretcher. Bring my medicine case with restoratives for an exhausted man. Tell Huston to explain the situation to Lief and Eric. Make all the haste possible and meet us at the mouth of the tunnel." Mike started down on the elevator at once to deliver these orders, while Captain Ganoe and myself went down the winding way on the west side. At the mouth of the tunnel we were joined by the relief party. Lief and Eric carried the stretcher, while Pat O'Brien, Paul Huston and Mike Gallagher, each had a parcel containing something intended for the relief of an exhausted man. The medicine case and some warm blankets were on the stretcher. The ice-field in this direction spread out before us into a vast plain, but the exact spot where we had observed the approaching man was hidden from view by a number of hummocks and we took these for our guide. As soon as we reached the nearest and highest of these elevations, I climbed to the top and carefully scanned the plain beyond. Several minutes elapsed without discovering any indication of the object of our search, when not more than a mile away, I saw through my glass the head and shoulders of a man, arise above the surface. For a moment he seemed to support himself on his hands and then dropped back out of sight. I carefully noted the location and we then hurried on. In a few minutes we came to a channel in the ice that had been worn out by a stream of water. A little to one side a man was lying on the bottom as if dead. We called to him, but he did not move. Lief and Eric sprang into the channel and lifted him out. It was Captain Battell and he was entirely unconscious. We could now see that he had been trying with all his strength to lift himself out of the channel which was not over four and a half feet in depth by six or seven in width. When I saw him from the summit of the ice hummock he was doubtless making the last effort to climb out, that his exhausted energies would permit. We had arrived just in time to rescue him from certain death. As he lay upon the stretcher unconscious and scarcely breathing, in fancy, I pictured the trials through which he must have passed. His worn out boots and tattered clothing; his sunken eyes and pinched features, all indicated more than words could express his terrible struggle for life against the combined forces of cold and hunger. True, it was not freezing weather, but the water through which he had been compelled to wade was ice cold, and the bed upon which he rested, must have been a melting ice hummock. All these things were evident from the environments and did not need to be stated in words in order to be understood and appreciated. While he alone could give us the particulars, we were already familiar in a general way with his experiences, traveling on foot over the fast melting ice and almost without food for weeks and possibly months. While no physician had been engaged for this expedition, it was because Captain Ganoe was well qualified by education and experience to fill the place as occasion might require, and among the stores of the Ice King, there was an ample supply of medicines, surgical instruments and appliances of all kinds. The Captain was very averse to being classed as a physician, and yet his knowledge of medicine, surgery and practice would have enabled him to aspire to the highest rank in the profession. Hence he at once took charge of the patient with the readiness and skill of an experienced practitioner, and soon he had him as comfortable as dry clothing, a warm bed and appropriate restoratives could make him. The patient did not regain consciousness, but he was soon breathing naturally and apparently enjoying a sound and refreshing sleep. When all was ready for us to start on our return to the ship, Captain Ganoe said: "As it is evident that I must turn doctor for a few days I will place Jack Adams in command. That will leave just six of us to carry Captain Battell to his cabin in the Ice King. For this purpose we will divide into three reliefs. Huston and I will take the first; Pat and Mike the second, and Lief and Eric the third. This seems to be about the proper order, as our Norwegian comrades carried the camp bed and medicine case all the way from the ship." "But what if I object to the arrangement?" I asked. "While I am willing," I continued; "to render any service in my power, I am not disposed to usurp your place as commander. You lead the way and I will take my place at the handles of the stretcher. I enlisted to obey orders and take any place assigned me, but not to usurp the prerogatives of commander." "Then I have only to insist upon the terms of the contract as you understand it," said the Captain. "You say that you enlisted to obey orders and take any place assigned you, and hence as the captain of the Ice King, I order you to take the place of commander until I choose to resume the duties of that position. This is just as it should be. It was you who discovered Captain Battell and then led us to the spot where we found him, and now you are appointed to lead us back to the ship by the most direct and practicable route. It is fortunate for us that you have spent so much of your time in the study of the topography of this country, if that is the proper word to apply to a dreary waste of ice. It is your first duty as commander to divide the distance to the ship into easy stages and see that each relief does its part of the work with all possible care for the comfort of our comrade. This is 'orders,' if you prefer to look at it in that light. I shall certainly take my place at the stretcher until in your judgment, the second relief, Pat and Mike, ought to take hold." "All right," I said. "If I am to be commander-in-chief, whether I will or not, my first order is, 'Follow me.'" We returned to the ship without any particular haste, frequently stopping to rest and to administer restoratives to the lips of our exhausted comrade. He was conveyed to his own quarters and everything was, by the direction of Captain Ganoe, placed as nearly as possible, in the same shape that he left it. He was still sleeping, and the Captain assured us that he was doing well, and that if fever could be avoided, he would soon recover. He cautioned us to keep quiet and not ask him any questions in case he should awake to consciousness. Captain Ganoe took his place at the side of the patient and from time to time touched his lips with water. After several hours he partially aroused from his lethargy, and the Captain administered a few spoonfuls of broth, which were swallowed with avidity, and he again relapsed into a profound slumber. The Captain now directed us to leave him entirely alone with the patient but to hold ourselves in readiness to come at a moment's notice. He told us that all the patient now needed was profound silence, and a little nourishment whenever he was sufficiently aroused to partake of it. "I want Mike" he said, "to remain with me so as to be ready at any moment to execute my orders. Captain Battell's restoration to health and vigor is of more importance to us now than any other consideration. I need Mike more than you do, and you must get along with cold lunches, or, do your own cooking. If I need any of you, Mike will let you know." Through Mike, we heard from the sick room from time to time, but the word was always the same; that the patient was doing well, but still sleeping. Mike said that whenever Battell showed signs of awaking, the Captain would administer a spoonful of soup and he would drop off to sleep again without ever being fully aroused to consciousness. I was keenly alive to the fact that the death, or even the great disability of Captain Battell would be an irreparable loss to all of us. He was the only experienced Arctic navigator and explorer among us, and notwithstanding the cheering news from the sick room, I felt the most intense anxiety, and remained in the library all the time, so as to be ready to respond at once to any call from Captain Ganoe. After forty-eight hours of this anxious waiting had gone by, I was surprised at a personal call from Captain Ganoe, who greeted me in his usual cordial manner, while his face fairly glowed with happiness. Without waiting for me to ply him with questions, he exclaimed: "Well, Jack, the danger has passed. Captain Battell has come to himself. He is still very weak, but there are no signs of fever. I admonished him not to talk until he had taken another nap, to which he consented on the condition that I would call you. He wants a conference at once." "I am delighted to hear such good news!" I exclaimed. "But what did he say when he realized that he was in his own cabin, and you sitting by his side in the capacity of attendant. I have all of a woman's curiosity in regard to this matter, and insist upon your giving me all the particulars." "Certainly," he replied. "Your interest is but natural, and shall be gratified as nearly as my memory will permit. In his treatment, I sought to keep him asleep until he had gained strength for mental and physical effort. When he showed signs of waking up, I knew that it was from the gnawings of hunger, and would administer a small quantity of beef tea or some strengthening cordial, and then he would again relapse into a profound slumber. These spells of semi-consciousness became more and more frequent as he gained strength, and at last he opened his eyes and looked me full in the face. He closed them again, and seemed to reflect and then looking at me, he said in his usual calm and deliberate manner: "'The last thing I remember, is, that I was trying to climb out of a channel that had been worn in the ice by a small stream of water. The bank only came up to my chin, but I was so weak that I could not succeed. After that, I seem to have dream-memories of delicious feasting, and reclining on luxurious couches. I want you to tell me at once how I got here, into my own quarters.' "I told him to be careful and not permit himself to become the least excited until he had gained more strength, but to content himself with the simple statement that Jack had noticed his approach from his observatory; and that we went immediately to his relief. 'Now,' said I, 'drink this cup of beef tea and turn over and take another nap.' "He drank the tea and said, 'I will do as you say, if you will agree to have Jack here when I wake up. It is a matter of the greatest importance that we have a conference immediately. We must be ready for the break up and I have much to tell you.' "So saying he turned over and was soon sleeping soundly, and I am here to request you to come to his quarters. As he is not likely to sleep very long we had better go at once. Nature will soon be demanding exercise for mind and body as strenuously as she has demanded rest. Let us go." Some ten or fifteen minutes after we entered Captain Battell's cabin he awoke, and immediately got up and shook hands with me most cordially. He was naturally a man of few words, and never very demonstrative of either joy or grief, affection or anger, and usually preserved the most perfect equilibrium, but he was visibly affected when he said: "My dear Jack! How fortunate it has been for Captain Ganoe and myself that you joined this expedition. But for your watchful care we would both have been dead, and in all probability, the Ice King and the entire crew would have been lost. You have certainly been our guardian angel, and must ever hold the very highest place in our esteem and affection." "I deserve no especial thanks for anything I have done," I responded. "We are out here all alone, imprisoned in the ice and our only hope of escape depends upon our standing together and helping each other, at all times and under all circumstances. The safety of every individual depends upon the safety of every other individual. Common sense and our common interests, dictate that we should be a unit and realize that 'an injury to one is the concern of all.' Our rule of action toward each other should be, 'each for all and all for each.' This is the only principle that a truly intelligent people anywhere would ever adopt, but here on this waste of floating ice, situated as we are, the most stupid ought to be able to comprehend the necessity for its application. So, I repeat that I deserve no especial credit, for in looking out for the safety of others I do the only thing that can be done for my own safety. This thing of caring for self, regardless of the interests of others, indicates a deficiency in intellectual development as much as it does hardness of heart; and a careful regard for the comfort and interest of others, is indicative of intellectual development as much as it is of kindness of heart and love for our fellow creatures." "Your philosophy," said Captain Battell, "is always right; but what is still better you practice what you preach. Would to God that our misguided crew had understood the self evident truths to which you so frequently give expression. They might have saved themselves from a terrible fate, and we would not have been short handed, now that the ice is liable to go to pieces at any time. And as this matter is referred to, I suppose I had better tell you at once what became of them and why I was stranded on the ice in such a woebegone plight." "And that is just what we are most anxious to hear," said Captain Ganoe, "but I have resolutely suppressed this anxiety because I feared fever and a possible fatal culmination, as the result of your exposure and privations. We certainly do want to hear all about your expedition, your crew and what you discovered. But do not relate it even now, if it is going to excite you in the least. The fact is, that you must be very careful for several days until your strength is fully restored." "Do not be alarmed about me," said Battell. "It is not the first time that I have been stranded on the ice and so I was to some extent prepared for this by past experience; besides you know that I am much inclined to be a stoic and never permit my feelings to very seriously disturb my equilibrium." "Then go ahead," said the Captain. "We want to hear what is uppermost in your own mind, and we will listen. If we have any questions to ask, or other matters to discuss, we will do that when you are through." "Just speak when the spirit moves," said Battell. "It will not disturb me. As you doubtless remember, when we started on this last expedition, I was anxious to reach open water on the west and if possible launch the boats and circumnavigate this island of ice around toward the north as far as practicable, so as to be able to return early in July, keeping a close watch of the movements and condition of the ice, and noting any signs of its breaking up. We found the traveling exceedingly difficult, and it was late in June before we reached open water, about one hundred and fifty miles west of this. We found the ice sloughing off in great sections and floating away from the main body, demonstrating that the ice-field was comparatively stationary so far as any westerly motion was concerned. By careful observation I satisfied myself that it had grounded somewhere to the north, probably against an island and was oscillating on that point. "This made me more anxious than ever to launch our boats and make observations along the shore of the ice-field which sloped off towards the northeast. We would therefore during the exploration of its shore-line be getting nearer to the ship, and I thought that we would be able to reach the obstruction against which it had grounded, which I found reasons for believing was not so very far north of the ship, and probably near the seam where the two original ice-fields had come together. I reasoned that it was held against an island under the influence of north bound currents, and that the entire field might be expected to part along this line as soon as the ice became sufficiently rotten, which would give us a chance to keep on our way. If such a break came along the line of this seam, the ice-field urged forward by the northerly currents, would spread apart and we would only have to follow the fissure as it formed, to come either to land, or out into an open polar sea. In either case we would be safe for the coming winter. Our greatest danger will be from the falling of the ice when these 'bergs' part company, and that, to a great extent, can be provided for. "After careful investigation we selected a spot where by cutting a short road down to the water's edge we could easily launch our boats. When I gave the word, the men sprang to their work with the greatest alacrity and in good time we had an inclined way admirably cut out and arranged for launching the boats. We first unloaded everything of importance, as our stores were too precious to run any risk of loss or damage. Our boats were very soon riding the waves without any mishap, and the dogs and baggage placed on board. While all this was going on, I noticed frequent consultations among the men, but it seemed that it was because they were taking unusual care in their work. As soon as the last of our baggage was on board, the men took their places at the oars with a promptitude which I regarded as highly commendable. Then came the climax that I had least of all things expected. Tom Brown halted me at the plank and asked a word with me. He said that the men had determined to return to civilization and that they would prefer I should go with them and retain the command. "I was astounded at such an unreasonable, as well as infamous, proposition to abandon the ship, and I told him I did not believe that any body of sane men would contemplate such a suicidal undertaking. He replied very emphatically: "'Then, if you do not take my word for it, you may speak to the men. I have only spoken at their request.' "And so saying, he stepped quickly into the boat and drew the plank in after him. The men in the boats pushed out into the water and halted as if to listen to what I had to say. "I expostulated with them, and explained how it would be utterly impossible for them to reach civilization in such frail boats, and that their provisions, at the farthest, would not last them more than four or five weeks, and then, they must look starvation in the face. Brown, who acted as spokesman, replied: "'We have decided upon this thing deliberately, and we have closely calculated how long the provisions will last. Besides, we have plenty of ammunition and can certainly kill some game, and if the game is not abundant, we will kill the dogs and salt them down.' "I then tried them on another tack, and called their attention to the comrades whom we had left behind, and the imminent danger of their being lost, as well as ourselves, if we did not all stand together, and make good use of the observations we had made. "'They have the ship and must take their own chances,' said Brown. 'We know that there is no hope of the ship being able to get out of the ice, and we propose to save ourselves while we have an opportunity, and you had better go with us. Let Captain Ganoe and his shipmates take care of themselves. We cannot afford to take any chances, in a case like this, to save them. We are determined to look out for ourselves, and let them do the same.' "I was so exasperated at this cold-blooded speech, revealing, as it did, such a depth of perfidy, that I felt that I could scarcely refrain from opening fire on them, and evidently they feared something of the kind, for as I turned to take hold of my gun, which was leaning against a block of ice, Brown gave the order, 'Ready!' and instantly twenty rifles were aimed at me, and he said: "'We do not want to hurt you, but if you do not let your gun remain where it is until we are out of range, I will give the order to fire and you will be filled with bullets, and you will not have even the poor satisfaction of dying with your friends at the ship, whom you seem to think are worth more to you than the entire crew.' "'Have your own way,' I said. 'I certainly shall not stain my hands with your blood, neither will I be responsible for the miserable fate that awaits you as the result of this infamous and rash undertaking. I have given you fair warning.' "I watched them until they were out of range, and then started on my return to the ship. All the food I had, was the hardtack and bacon which I always carry in my haversack, for emergencies. I had, however, my cartridge-box with some ammunition, and I could kill game, but considering the long journey before me, and the slow progress I could make, the supply was indeed very small. "The traveling was terrible, through water and slushy ice, often for miles at a stretch. I often had to make long detours around chasms and inaccessible elevations. When I slept it was on a melting hummock of ice. I could have killed a large number of brants for food, but I felt that it would be suicidal for me to waste my ammunition on such small game. Hence, I took my chances of finding something larger. I killed a goose occasionally, but was compelled to eat it raw, as I had no means of making a fire. But I did not fear starvation as long as my ammunition lasted. "I had reason, however, to fear that the ice would break between me and the ship, and this came near being the case when I first started on my return. When I was only a few hundred yards from the place where the boats were launched, a large strip of the shore-line broke away behind me. But, I now think this rapid breaking up on the western border was due to a strong ocean current, that did not extend very far east. However, I was very apprehensive that I might be sent adrift into an unknown ocean on a cake of ice, and probably, for this reason, I exerted myself more than I should have done for the first few days. "I got along tolerably well until my boots gave out, and then the ice-cold water seemed to paralyze my limbs, and my progress was correspondingly impeded. "I often felt that I must drop in my tracks, and never make another effort to move. But I was buoyed up by the thought that every step brought me nearer the ship. At last I could catch glimpses of this ice mountain, and the sight gave me renewed strength and courage. But my ammunition had given out, and I was famishing for food. I would often fall from sheer exhaustion, but would rally again, and stagger on toward the goal of my hopes. When I came to the channel where you found me, I made an effort to spring across, but landed on the bottom. I repeatedly attempted to climb out on this side, but failed. You know the rest." "I thank God," said Captain Ganoe, "that Jack discovered your approach so that we could come to your assistance. The loss of so many of our crew is much to be regretted, but your loss would have been much worse, as your experience is indispensable to the safety of all. And now you must take some refreshments and another nap and then I think you will be all right." "I will take the refreshments," said Battell, "but we have no time to waste on sleep until work has commenced in earnest on the necessary preparations for our escape. How long have I been here?" "A little over forty-eight hours." "Then we cannot afford to delay another two days before we commence work." "Do you think the danger so pressing as that?" asked the Captain. "I do," said Battell emphatically. "We are at the close of an Arctic summer and we may look for storms and a breaking up at any time. The ice is very rotten, and the ocean currents, which are holding this ice-field against some point of land or submarine mountain, may part it in twain at any time, and then we will be compelled to run for our lives." "And what preparation do you advise?" asked the Captain. "Tell us just what to do and I will see that work is commenced at once and pushed to completion as rapidly as our small force will permit. "The first thing to be done," said Battell, "is to see that the boilers are free from all sediment, and that the furnaces are filled with the most combustible material we have, so the application of a match will produce a fierce heat and get up steam in the shortest time possible. If we had plenty of coal, I would get up steam at once and keep up a moderate pressure until the ice had gone to pieces, or we were securely frozen up for the winter. But with our small supply of coal we cannot afford to do this, and I am quite sure that we cannot afford to wait for the break to commence, or the coming of a storm. In either case we will have a few minute's warning. Of course in such an emergency we must use steam, as with our small force the sails might be a positive detriment. "Secondly, when the break comes, there will be a fall of ice from over head that might prove fatal to those who must remain on the upper deck. This must be provided for by the erection of substantial structures to protect those who direct the course of the ship. "Thirdly, cut all the cables that hold the ship but four, so that our diminutive force can cut us loose with one blow of their axes. "This is all the work that our small force can possibly get through with before the breaking up of the ice, if that is to occur at all, this season." "Then," said the Captain, "I will go at once and commence work, and if the necessity is as pressing as you think, you had better take all the rest you can, so that you can lend a hand when the emergency comes." "I will rest and eat," said Battell, "but I will not be idle. To gain strength, I must take exercise, so Jack and I will make some observations along the seam in the ice which marks the old channel, as the break will in all probability be along that line." Captain Ganoe, commenced the work of preparation immediately, and Battell and myself engaged in the work that he had proposed. Our observations, made with the greatest care, seemed to confirm, more decidedly than ever, the theory that the ice-field had lodged against some obstruction, not very far north of us. Since we had reached longitude 180°, we had been oscillating from one side to the other but had made considerable progress toward the north, indicating that the ice was sloughing away in that direction while the main body was held against some obstruction, by the force of the currents. My own observations all the time had shown that we were oscillating, and these compared with observations made by Battell, one-hundred and fifty miles west, where this movement was much more apparent, gave us reliable data on which to make calculations. At the present time, the sloughing off of the ice was evidently much more rapid on the west and hence our position was tending more than ever toward the east of the longitudinal line on which we lay. From the observations we had made we calculated that the obstruction against which the ice-field had lodged, was about one degree due north of our present position. We closely examined the seam in which we lay and found numerous indications of its weakness. In many places, where the walls of the closing channel had not come into close contact, we found open water for considerable distances, where the fish were making their appearance. On the theory which Captain Battell had evolved, it did not seem difficult to prognosticate just where the break would first make its appearance, and some of the contingencies which would confront us when that time came. Within a few days, notwithstanding our very small force, everything was ready for the emergency we anticipated and now we anxiously awaited the storm that would sunder the ice-field and release us from our long imprisonment. But the weather remained calm while it was steadily growing colder and we began to fear that we would be locked in the ice for another winter. At last, however, a stiff breeze set in from the southwest and the barometer began to fall, indicating an approaching storm. Immediately every man was at his post, but hours passed away and the wind did not increase. The order was given for every man to remain at his post and be ready to act as soon as the alarm should be sounded. As no special duty had been assigned to me, I retired to my quarters in the library to take a much needed rest and was soon asleep. CHAPTER V. THE BREAK--A RACE FOR LIFE--THE ISLAND--STRANGE TOWER--A SAFE HARBOR--CROSSING THE OPEN POLAR SEA--STRANGE PHENOMENA--SAILING SOUTH--HORIZON OBSCURES FAMILIAR CONSTELLATIONS--RETURN TO THE TOWER--NO EXPLANATION--OFF FOR THE POLE AGAIN--A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. [Illustration] I WAS startled from my slumbers by the alarm and sprang to my feet. The strong breeze that had been blowing from the southwest had increased to a gale and the hissing of the steam revealed the fact that sufficient warning had been given to enable the engineer to be ready to start the machinery as soon as the parting of the ice gave us an opening through which we could move. The time for action had come and I heard Battell give the order to cut the cables. As I hastened on deck, the two great ice mountains between which we lay were lifted by the waves, and a moment later parted, and a shower of ice fragments from the sundered roof fell upon the upper deck with an awful crash; but thanks to the wise precautions that had been taken, no one was hurt, and the injuries to the vessel were but slight. The ice-field had parted along the line that had been predicted by Captain Battell, and the Ice King was at once subjected to the full force of the winds and waves which urged us forward with an irresistible force. But under the influence of the same power the ice continued to part before us, and all we had to do was to keep in the channel that was forming. While the waves behind us were driving the ship to seeming destruction, they were at the same time rending the ice-field asunder in the direction we were moving, creating a narrow, but constantly widening channel between the walls of ice on either side. Captain Battell, as usual in cases of emergency, was in command. Captain Ganoe was at the wheel, while I took my place at his side to take notes and render assistance as occasion might require. Captain Battell was right when he said we might be compelled to run for our lives. The gale continued to increase in its fury, and as we followed the channel that was forming before us, the wind was closing up the channel behind, by huge masses of ice in wild commotion. A halt would have invited destruction, and if we missed the channel that was being opened before us, we might be dashed to pieces against the ice. While the general direction of the channel being formed was toward the north, the ice did not break along a straight line, but was often zigzag, and it took the closest kind of attention to keep the ship from dashing against one side or the other and being disabled. The ice pack that was always forming behind us, urged forward by the wind and probably a strong ocean current made retreat impossible, even if we had so desired. There was but one thing that could be done, which was to move forward regardless of the continual danger of a collision that might prove fatal. This strain was kept up for several hours, when to our great delight we could discern what seemed to be a small island toward the northeast and an open sea beyond. A minute later; what appeared to be a mighty watch tower, at least two hundred feet in height, loomed up before our astonished vision just a little off from our starboard quarter. It stood at the edge of the water and the waves were dashing against its base. This island was evidently the obstruction against which the ice-field had been lodged. The tower was built of dressed stones accurately piled upon each other; and at one time had apparently been surrounded by a spiral staircase which led to an observatory on top. This conclusion was the logical deduction from the existence of a spiral ledge from the base to the summit, plainly indicating that it had been used as a support for an external structure. We were now running under a full head of steam through a channel that had been formed between the ice and the island, which led into an open sea beyond. This channel brought us close to the strange tower, and as we came even with it, Captain Battell gave the word: "Starboard your helm! hard up!" "Aye, aye, sir," came the response, and the wheel fairly spun in Captain Ganoe's hands. The Ice King lurched, trembled, and in the next instant shot around the tower, and into comparatively still water, under the cover of the island, which we now discovered, extended from west to east, about two miles, in the form of a crescent, constituting a safe harbor from all storms except from the north. We determined to cast anchor until the wind had subsided and give our small crew a much needed rest. This gave me an opportunity to make sketches of the tower and island at my leisure. The rest was most welcome to officers and men after the unusual fatigues of the last few days, culminating in the excitement and extraordinary efforts of the last few hours. While we slept, the winds ceased to howl, the skies became clear, and I sketched the tower and the island while they were bathed in the glorious hues of an Arctic sunset. I applied the camera to every prominent object in sight. The island had the appearance of a segment of the top of a circular mountain which might have been, in geologic ages, the crater of a vast volcano, since which time the land had been depressed, or the water level elevated, perhaps several hundred feet. The shore-line was a granite precipice, rising to the height of about one hundred feet. Over this was a lofty covering of ice, cut into the most fantastic shapes by streams of water which come with summer and depart with winter. In places where the surface had been laid bare I could discover traces of man's handiwork, which for the present I had no opportunity to investigate, owing to the precipitous nature of the shore-line. But the object of the greatest interest was the tower. As I made my sketch, the last rays of the sun illuminated this strange guardian of these unexplored waters with a luster which impressed the beholder with a feeling of awe. We examined it closely with our glasses and speculated as to its origin. It had evidently been erected to serve some important purpose, by a people who were skilled in architecture. From its location, it might have served the purpose of a light-house in some far off time, before these regions were covered with their present mantle of ice. As this mighty column loomed up above its icy background, its presence was thought-provoking as well as awe-inspiring. It seemed like some sentinel placed here to guard the gateway to this unknown northern sea. But when was it built? and for what purpose? were questions that were continually forced upon our minds. As to the time: it must have been before the great ice age, when tropical plants as well as animals, flourished in the far north, and a tropical, or semi-tropical climate extended from the equator to the poles. But this did not indicate the purpose for which it was erected. Was it an observatory for astronomical purposes, or a light-house for the guidance of the pre-historic navigators of these waters, now locked in the embrace of almost impassable ice barriers? Who could tell? All we could do for the present was to record our observations. The tower was there, two hundred feet in height, and its latitude was 85° north, and longitude 180° west. This was all that we could learn for the present. As had been the experience of all other navigators in high northern latitudes, the dipping of the needle rendered the compass useless, and we had to depend on the sun, moon and stars for our guidance. But the skies were clear and the sea open, so that we apprehended no further trouble, notwithstanding this was the beginning of winter. Accounts of the expedition were sealed in bottles and sent up in balloons, as was our custom, and as there was no ice in sight, we determined to sail due north from the tower. After holding our course for a few days, we found that the needle had again assumed the horizontal position and that we were sailing due south. We knew we had started north and had not consciously changed our course. Here was a mystery we could not fathom. But this was not all. The horizon seemed to be rising up and obscuring stars that ought to have been in full view. The pole star, which had been near the zenith was sinking toward the horizon behind us. The whole face of the celestial vault was changing. As the northern lights, which were dropping to the rear grew less brilliant, the southern horizon beamed with a halo of light, which continued to grow brighter. Without having changed our course we were now sailing away from the constellations by which we had so long been guided in our progress toward the pole. What could it mean? These strange phenomena upset all of our calculations. Everything seemed weird and unnatural. The engines were stopped and we lay to, in order to make observations and study the situation. Accounts of these strange phenomena were securely sealed in bottles and committed to the care of the winds. Captains Ganoe and Battell held a council in the library and made a careful study of the best authorities, but could find no solution to the problem, as to why we should be going south. It was determined to change our course to the northeast. Continuing in this direction, we found the cold increasing, while the northern lights grew brighter, and stars that had been obscured, again made their appearance above the horizon. At the end of this run, the ice-pack, now frozen solid, made its appearance. We changed our course toward the east, keeping the ice on our starboard quarter until we were again at the great tower from which we had started. We had discovered no opening in the ice-barriers and no solution to the problem we had started out to investigate. We found ourselves in an open sea, but encompassed by an impassable barrier of ice. We again determined to sail directly north, and, if possible, cross this wide expanse of ocean around which we had been sailing. In a few days we again found ourselves running south and leaving the pole star behind us. Star after star began to disappear behind the horizon. Again the light in the south appeared and began to grow brighter. Again, Captains Ganoe and Battell held a conference. After carefully comparing notes and going over all the facts revealed by our observations, Captain Ganoe asked me to hand him a magazine which he selected from the catalogue. I complied, and he looked through it for a minute and handed it to me saying: "There is the solution of the problem." I found the article which he had marked, to be a review of the "THEORY OF CONCENTRIC SPHERES," by Captain John Cleves Symms. "According to this theory," says the reviewer, "the earth is a hollow globe and open at the poles. The diameter of the northern opening, is about 2,000 miles, or 4,000 miles from outside to outside. The south opening is somewhat larger. The planes of these openings are parallel with each other, and form an angle of twelve degrees with the equator. The shell of the earth is about 1,000 miles thick, and the edges of the shell at the openings are called verges, and measure from the regular convexity without to the regular concavity within, about 1,500 miles." I turned and read the passage again, which he had marked for my careful perusal. I had never heard of this "Theory of Concentric Spheres." Could this earth be a hollow shell with an outer and inner surface? At first thought I felt like rejecting the idea as utterly absurd, but in view of the strange and inexplicable phenomena which we had encountered, and my confidence in the judgment of Captain Ganoe, I only requested him to tell me just what he thought about this "Hollow Globe Theory." "I believe," he said, "that this theory offers the only logical solution of the phenomena which have upset all of our calculations. We found the open polar sea, just as we expected, but when we tried to sail across it, we found ourselves sailing away from it. We also found that constellations which ought, according to the popular astronomy, to have been seen above the horizon were entirely obscured. You will remember that you remarked the cramped appearance, as you expressed it, of the celestial vault, when we were imprisoned in the ice. "This 'Theory of Concentric Spheres' offers a ready and complete explanation of all these phenomena by which we have been so much puzzled. It now begins to look as if this theory had been rejected by scientists with the same unreasoning haste that every other new idea has encountered. Many things that explorers have met with in the polar regions, seem inexplicable, unless we admit the truth of this theory." The last remark aroused the interest of Captain Battell, who was ordinarily more inclined to listen, than to join in conversation. Taking up the subject where Captain Ganoe seemed disposed to drop it, he continued: "In my long experience as a whaler and explorer, I have often found tropical vegetation, and evidences of man's handiwork, on the northern shores of Iceland, Spitzbergen and the borders of Siberia; trees, vines and flowers. The position where these were found, on the northern shores, precludes the idea of their having been brought by ocean currents, from our own temperate and tropical countries. Besides this, we find that after we pass 80° north latitude, the cold never increases. We further observe flocks of birds coming from, and returning to, the north. When we kill them for food, we often find their crops filled with grain and seeds which must be the product of a mild climate. All these things have come under my personal observation, and this 'Theory of Concentric Spheres' offers the most complete explanation that I have met with." "Then, do you believe this theory?" I asked, somewhat surprised at the unusual interest taken by Captain Battell. "Why not?" he responded. "I have always been among the few who treated every new thought with fairness and consideration, no matter what might be my own preconceived opinions. While not accepting every new fangled theory that comes along, I do not condemn, but investigate, with a view to ascertaining the exact truth. I will not knowingly twist and misrepresent facts and logical deductions therefrom, for the purpose of proving a pre-adopted creed. Hence I have given this theory an impartial hearing and justice compels me to admit that the arguments in its favor are well worthy of careful consideration. Scientists have all agreed that the earth is not a cold, solid body, and to account for its lack of density they assume that the center is expanded and diffused by heat. They further assume that it was originally a nebulous body entirely destitute of a solid surface. If this is true, then the centrifugal force generated by its rapid revolution on its axis would certainly throw its constituent elements outward toward the surface, thus tending to produce a hollow shell, the very thing claimed in this 'Theory of Concentric Spheres.' The operation of this mechanical law, which governs revolving matter, can be readily illustrated by placing a quantity of oil in alcohol of the same density. The oil at once assumes the globular form by virtue of the law of molecular attraction. Then insert a disk through the center of the globule and begin to turn it around. The oil at once begins to rotate on its axis and becomes depressed at the poles and bulged at the equator, just the form which the earth is conceived to be. Increase the rapidity of the revolution up to a certain point and the oil separates from the disk and becomes a revolving ring. Reasoning from these well-known mechanical laws, we are forced to the conclusion, that if the earth was ever a soft revolving body it must be hollow at the center, and it is not at all unlikely that there may be openings at the poles into this hollow space. So, we see that there is some logical foundation for this Hollow Globe Theory." "It is true," I replied, "that the motion of a soft revolving body, such as the earth is supposed to have been, may be so accelerated, that the mass will separate from the line of its axis, but in such a case it would become a revolving ring, and not a hollow shell, as required by this theory of concentric spheres. Have you any theory as to how a revolving ring could under the operation of known mechanical laws, be converted into a hollow shell, with convex and concave surfaces?" "Yes," responded Battell, "I can very easily formulate such a theory. I can assume that the earth was at one time a revolving ring of meteors, or minute planetary bodies, which by the mutual attraction of its parts became solid. This ring, besides the motion on its own axis, was revolving around the sun, or common center of the solar nebula, through space filled with meteors, and by its attraction it gathered other rings of meteors exterior to itself, thus forming a series of concentric rings revolving around the first, or present ring. The materials composing these external rings could not reach the parent ring at its equator because of the centrifugal force generated by its revolution around its axis, but under the operation of well-known mechanical laws, they might be drawn toward the pole where the attraction was the greatest and the centrifugal force the least. Under the influence of these contending forces, these external rings, thus acted upon, would one by one spread out and form, first a canopy over the central ring, and then it would part at the equator, and be drawn to the poles where it would ultimately find a resting place upon its polar edges. Such a process kept up long enough would convert the original revolving ring, or infant earth, into a hollow shell. Of course all this is mere speculation, but the same thing may be said of the nebular hypothesis, the supposed igneous condition of the earth's center, and in fact of nearly all the teachings of science when it attempts to go beyond the domain of undisputed facts." "I am much interested in your reasoning," I said. "This is a new thought to me and I would like to follow it a little further. How does this Hollow Globe theory account for volcanoes and other evidences of internal heat, that have led scientists to the conclusion that the center of the earth is an igneous mass?" "To my mind," said Battell, "these evidences of intense internal heat do not conflict with the Hollow Globe Theory. Assuming that the shell is one thousand miles thick; at the center, between the outer and inner crust, there would be a pressure of five hundred miles of solid matter, more than sufficient to generate a heat that would melt every known rock, and this of itself will account for every evidence of internal heat. Scientists have taught us that heat is a form of motion, or rather that it is the result of motion when arrested. Now pressure is only arrested motion, or in other words heat. Hence it has been estimated that the weight of a column of steel blocks, sixty-five thousand feet in height, would generate sufficient heat to melt the lower tier of blocks. These well-known laws, to my mind, offer a more plausible explanation of the existence of intense heat at great depths, than the assumption that this heat is the residue, that was left over from the heat of an original planetary nebula. Well known laws of physics, force us to the conclusion that this earth can never become a cold body and that the igneous condition at great depths, will continue as long as the centripetal and centrifugal forces continue to press the outer and inner surfaces toward each other. Or in other words, as long as the surface continues to press down upon the materials below, as they do now, there will be intense heat at great depths." "Your theory," I replied, "if true, will force scientists to abandon the wonderful history of creation which they have evolved from long and persistent research." "Nothing but their opinions will need to be revised," said Battell. "Every fact they have discovered will continue to be a fact. We are here on this expedition to discover facts of scientific importance, and it now looks as if we are making a most wonderful discovery that will force scientists to abandon some of their long cherished opinions and revise others. If we find that this earth is actually a hollow shell, it will be a fact, that must in the very nature of things harmonize with every other fact that has been, or will be discovered. Facts are facts, and while they may not be understood, they cannot be set aside. It was to discover facts that might benefit the entire human race by increasing their knowledge that I sacrificed a whaling business that was paying a handsome profit, to join Captain Ganoe on this expedition, in which I might lose the accumulations of years, and possibly life itself. I certainly did not join this expedition in order to either confirm, or disprove, any of the theories which scientists have given to the world." "Then it seems," I responded, "that you joined the expedition with a view to making discoveries by which mankind would be benefited, by adding to the sum total of human knowledge, rather than from any hope of personal advantage." "Possibly," he said. "But I cannot draw the line that your remark would seem to suggest. I cannot see how I could help mankind, without helping myself, at least so far as it would give me satisfaction, and that after all is the one great object that makes life worth the living. As to just what I expected to discover, I have only to say that I am not surprised at present appearances. There now seem to be as many indications of the existence of a habitable country on an inner surface of the globe, as there were of a western hemisphere, before the discovery of America. Columbus gave to mankind a new world, and should we be the means of discovering an inner world, and of opening a line of communication between that and the outer world, it would not be so much a matter of astonishment as it would be of actual advantage." Then turning to Captain Ganoe he asked: "What do you think of our prospect of success?" "The present indications," replied the Captain, "are certainly most encouraging. From the observations which we have already made, I believe that we have passed over the verge into the gateway of an inner world. You remember," he continued, turning to me, "that when we made our escape from the ice, we sailed directly north and soon made the discovery that some thing interposed between us and certain stars that ought to have been visible just above the horizon." "Yes," I replied, "I remember. But what do you infer from that?" "I infer," he said, "that it was the opposite side of the verge that interposed between us and the stars which we calculated ought to have been visible. And now, I propose to sail south until we find land, or failing in that, run out at the south opening, if we find one. We have circumnavigated the north pole and yet when we tried to sail across the open polar sea we found ourselves sailing away from it, assisted by a powerful ocean current. Now, the water which comes from this impassable polar sea, is going somewhere, and it is our business to follow it up and find out all we can about its destination." As he spoke, a large flock of birds passed over our heads. "There," said the captain, "go our oracles that will lead us to land, and as they are going in our direction I propose to follow them," and going to the wheel, he placed the ship directly in their track. "How is it," I asked, "that you now take the birds for our guide, something you have never done before?" "Because," said the Captain, "we want to find land and these birds are evidently on their way to find feeding grounds. I wonder that it did not occur to me sooner to follow them." The light we had observed in the southern horizon grew brighter, and soon we saw the sun emerge as if from behind a cloud and disappear again near the same point, when we saw the full moon and a few stars shining through the northern verge. It was indeed a strange sight to visitors from the outer world. It never became actually dark, as light from the sun either direct or reflected reached us at all times. We had therefore reached a country of which it might be truly said: "There is no night there." Some two days after the first appearance of the sun shining through the opening at the southern pole, we sighted a small island with a high, rocky shore-line, and a deep inlet, which formed a natural harbor, well protected from storms if any ever came to these placid waters. We steamed into the inlet, cast anchor and went ashore. This was the first time in over eighteen months that we had the opportunity to set our feet upon land. As there seemed to be an abundance of game birds, Captain Ganoe gave orders that all who desired might take their guns and enjoy a day's shooting. Notwithstanding the general desolation of the island it was a most welcome diversion for our small and overworked crew. The first thing that attracted our notice, was the stump of a tree that had been cut down with an axe. Though the stump was much decayed, the marks of the axe were plainly visible. On examination, we found plenty of evidence that the island had been inhabited at no very distant day, as everything in the shape of timber had been cut down. This we regretted, as we would gladly have availed ourselves of an opportunity to take on a supply of wood, our coal being well nigh exhausted. On one side of the narrow inlet in which the ship was anchored, was a wall of stone which was covered with figures of men, animals and hieroglyphics. Captain Ganoe said that he had seen similar sculptured stones in New Mexico, and from this, he inferred that the time had been when the same people had visited both localities, and that time had been before the great ice caps had enveloped the poles. On the other side of the inlet was found a rude hut constructed of rough stones, and from the inscriptions on the walls we learned that it had been occupied by an English speaking people, whose vessel had been wrecked on this lonely island. The powerful current which had been the chief factor in liberating us from the ice, and sweeping us out into the open polar sea, touched at this lonely island; and it was not unlikely that it was this current, which had stranded some disabled whaler and its crew, the vestiges of which were now attracting our attention. This would also account for the destruction of the few trees which had grown upon this stony waste. So near the icy verge, fire was a necessity. The scant growth of timber had been needed for fuel, by these ship-wrecked mariners. But what had become of the crew? They had evidently burned up all the fuel, but they had not been frozen, as their skeletons would have revealed their fate. The supply of ducks, geese and fish seemed inexhaustible, and hence they had not starved. We searched diligently, but could find no indications of death in their ranks, except one lone grave, on the most elevated point in the island, marked by a rough stone on which was inscribed the one word: "Father." With my camera I took views of the most prominent objects. We spent two days on this island to the great relief of all. The sailors enjoyed the hunt, and a goodly supply of ducks, geese, etc., rewarded their efforts. [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. SAILING SOUTH--THE WIND CEASES--OUR COAL EXHAUSTED--DRIFTING ON AN UNKNOWN OCEAN--IN THE GRASP OF SOUTHBOUND CURRENTS--DESPONDING--VISITED BY AN AIRSHIP--THEN A WHOLE FLEET--AMONG FRIENDS--A MOST HIGHLY CULTIVATED PEOPLE--WE EMBARK FOR ALTRURIA--AN AIR VOYAGE. AS we again proceeded south, the weather became more and more spring-like and the air more invigorating. The climate seemed to have opposite effects on different temperaments. The more delicate and refined were stimulated to greater vigor and endurance, while the most powerful physically were stricken with a fever, attended by acute pains. This reduced our small crew to a point where we were helpless. Our coal was also exhausted. The light breezes which had enabled us to utilize the sails, now ceased entirely and we lay becalmed. For weeks the Ice King lay idly on the bosom of this most placid ocean. So monotonous it became that even an Arctic gale would have been a most agreeable diversion, by enabling us to move. With a supply of fuel our chances of finding land would have been increased manifold. We could have made some headway, notwithstanding the fact that we had at this time only five persons able to render any efficient service. These were Captain Ganoe, Battell, Huston, Mike Gallagher and myself. Pat O'Brien and the two Norwegians, Lief and Eric, were scarcely able to move around and the three sailors that had been left with us by Battell while exploring the ice-field because they were not able to stand the exposure, were now utterly helpless, and not expected to live from hour to hour. We had plenty of provisions for an indefinite period, and when these were exhausted, the sea would furnish an unlimited supply of fish. Our vessel was seaworthy and there was seemingly no possible danger of a storm. And yet our condition was most depressing. The ocean currents were drifting us slowly along towards the south and might eventually bring us to land. But this hope, at best, was only a bare possibility. These same currents might carry us into the ice-fields at the south pole which in our present disabled condition, meant almost certain destruction. We dropped bottles into the sea containing dispatches, stating our condition, and describing our location as nearly as possible. But the chances were that these would never reach a people who would understand their purport, and be able and willing to offer us any assistance. All these considerations, added to the sickness of our most sturdy seamen, had a most depressing effect, and every hour the outlook became more hopeless. With these gloomy forebodings, I had become discouraged indeed. I am naturally hopeful, but now all hope seemed to be gone. As I look back to this period I regard it as certainly the darkest of my life. Early one morning I had gone upon the upper deck, hoping that the fresh air might brace me up and revive my drooping energies. In my mind, with my note book before me, I mentally reviewed the leading incidents of our voyage on this unknown ocean. According to my reckoning we had escaped from the ice on the 23d of September, sketched the island and tower on the 24th, and on the 25th set sail as we supposed for the north pole. Without having consciously changed our course, five days later we found ourselves sailing south. We then under a full head of steam changed our course to the northeast, and circumnavigated a large expanse of sea surrounding the pole. When we again attempted to cross this open sea we again found ourselves sailing south. We landed on a barren island on the first of November. In a few days we were becalmed, but in the grasp of a powerful current which carried us steadily southward, and now on the 25th of December, when Christmas festivities were the order of the day throughout the Christian world, here we were on a broad ocean, drifting we knew not whither. I never felt so utterly devoid of hope, but I was determined to keep up courage. We were in a most agreeable climate. The air was sweet and refreshing and I thought if we could only find land, what a glorious discovery we had made, and if we could convey the news to our own country, how it would stimulate the latent energies of the whole people to find some ready means of access to this inner world, and thus our perils and privations might ultimately prove a blessing to mankind. But why speculate? We were lost on an unknown ocean which seemed to be boundless, and utterly unable to direct our movements. The thought struck me with a chill. Suddenly in the midst of my cogitations I was startled by a loud, "Halloo!" It was certainly near at hand. I sprang to my feet and looked around over the placid surface of the ocean. I could see for leagues away in every direction, yet could not discover any living thing. I then started to go below, thinking that perhaps Captain Ganoe had called me. As I disappeared, the "Halloo!" was repeated in a somewhat louder tone. I met the Captain coming in search of me, and I told him what I had heard. With an incredulous look on his face, he placed his hand on my head and said: "I fear my dear Jack that your brain has played a trick on you." "That may be so," I said, "but let us go above and investigate before we jump to conclusions." He assented, and as we reached the deck, the "Halloo!" was repeated in a much louder tone than before and this time, apparently directly over our heads. We looked up and about one hundred feet above our starboard quarter we beheld what, at first sight, appeared to be some monster bird, with outspread wings slowly moving as if to maintain its position. But a second glance revealed it to be some kind of an aerial conveyance, with transparent sides, through which we could plainly see two persons on board, who were watching us with intense interest. "Well Jack, what do you think of it?" asked the Captain. "I hardly know," I replied, "but this seeming monster bird is some kind of a contrivance for navigating the air, and it has passengers on board who evidently want to communicate with us." Our colloquy was brought to a summary conclusion by one of our aerial visitors addressing us in a strangely musical but unknown tongue. We were astonished at the salutation, but we had had so many strange experiences lately, that we did not lose our self possession, and Captain Ganoe responded at once by inviting them to "Come on board." They did not seem to understand, and after a moment's pause he beckoned to them. They understood the gesture and after a short consultation, their strange vessel began to circle around in a spiral and came to a rest on deck, when a side door opened, and two of the finest looking people I had ever seen stepped out and shook hands with us. They were large, very fair and looked almost exactly alike. One of them who seemed to be the leader, presented a paper which I recognized as one of the dispatches which we had committed to the care of the winds a few days after our escape from the ice. I was surprised to see written below it, in strange characters, what seemed to be a translation, and this was signed, "Mac," in a plain round hand. We examined it closely, and handing it back, Captain Ganoe turned to me and exclaimed: "Thank God! English is understood by some people in this inner world. This removes our greatest difficulty. We can get acquainted." Our visitors seemed pleased when they saw that we recognized the dispatch and the leader at once stepped to the larboard side of the ship and waved a handkerchief. I now noticed for the first time that two other airships hovered near, and one of them immediately responded to the signal and came alongside. After a brief consultation with the occupants, it began to circle around and ascend until it had attained a great height, when it darted off at an amazing speed toward the west. I had noticed that these aerial conveyances both ascended and descended, by circling around in a spiral. While this was going on, I took especial notice of our visitors. They wore soft felt hats, slightly turned up at the side, with broad silver bands. Their hair was parted in the middle and hung in ringlets to their shoulders. They wore embroidered slippers, with silk stockings, and pants that fastened just below the knee, attached to a loose waist with a short skirt. Around the waist was a broad silken girdle, fastened in front by a silver buckle, and tied behind in a bow, the ends deeply fringed and hanging even with the bottom of the skirt. Their necks were bare but encircled by a golden chain to which was attached what seemed to be diamond set lockets, and at their girdles they wore watches of magnificent workmanship. While they were conferring with the occupants of the other airship, Captain Ganoe said to me: "These persons are surely women." "And," added Battell, who had just come on deck, "What beauties! Where did they come from?" "They came through the air in yonder little vessel," said the Captain, "and they seem to have been looking for us, as they have one of the dispatches we sent out after we escaped from the ice; and more than that, it has been translated into an unknown tongue, by some one who signs the name of 'Mac.'" "Then they are our saviors," said Battell. "I certainly feel so," said the Captain, "and they have evidently made up their minds to stay awhile, for some purpose." "No doubt," replied Battell. "See! They are sending that other bird off for help. They understand what they are about." As the airship disappeared from view, our strange visitors returned to where we were standing, and seeing Captain Battell, the leader advanced and gracefully extended her hand. Her unaffected and cordial manner at once placed us at ease. They now manifested a disposition to examine the ship, and seemed by their motions to confer with each other about it, pointing to the smoke stacks, the sails and steering apparatus as if they were discussing the motor power. Observing their evident interest in these things, Captain Ganoe suggested that Battell and myself should conduct them over the ship, while he would attend to having a breakfast prepared that would be a credit to the Ice King. Thus prompted, we motioned our visitors to accompany us below, which they seemed pleased to do. We took them through the engine room and pointed out such portions of the machinery as we felt would interest them the most. We showed them our liberal supply of scientific instruments, maps, charts, etc. I was astonished at the keen interest they manifested in our large library. We then led them into the presence of our sick sailors. Sympathy was plainly depicted on their countenances as they passed from one to another and cordially grasped their hands, frequently conferring with each other in low tones, as if planning for their relief. In the meantime, Mike Gallagher, who in our disabled condition was nurse, cook and general factotum, had prepared an ample repast, in which our guests participated with evident relish. While we were enjoying our meal, I noticed that our visitors were observing me closely, and then looking at the others, as if making a comparison and mentally taking notes. When we had arisen from the table the one who had presented the dispatch came up and pointed to the signature as if to ask if it was mine. I nodded assent, and she took me by the hand and drawing it through her arm, led off toward the deck and conducted me directly to her airship. I noticed now, for the first time, that the entrance was about thirty inches above the deck, where it rested, and was approached by steps so constructed that they dropped to their place when the door was opened. We entered, and I found it to be a splendidly upholstered car, about six feet wide by sixteen in length, coming to a sharp point at the bow, while the stern was oval. I could see by a glance at its proportions, that it was designed to dart through the air at a great speed. But I had no time to take many notes of this small, but elaborately finished vessel. The proprietor, so to speak, at once opened a little bookcase, and handed me a small volume with a knowing smile on her face. To my surprise, I found it to be a school history of the United States in English, with a translation, presumably into her own language, printed in parallel columns. She handed me several other volumes printed in the same manner in both languages. Among these I noticed a grammar, dictionary, small geography, a New Testament, hymn book and several introductory works on the natural sciences. She showed me a card on which was printed the English alphabet, that had evidently never been used, and opposite each letter, a varying number of characters, corresponding with the number of sounds which we assign to each. I understood from this, that the people of this country used phonetic characters. I at once realized that she had the means of acquiring a knowledge of our language, history, geography and science as taught in our common schools. I surmised that this collection of school books, had been brought to this country on the vessel that was lost near the barren island on which we had stopped. It was just such a collection as might be expected among sailors who were trying to obtain the rudiments of an education, while employed on a whaler. She had doubtless shown me these books as a means of letting me know that our country and its language were not entirely unknown in her country, and that she had contemplated making a study of these things. We were soon joined by her comrade, Battell and Huston, and this unique library of outer world school books was again exhibited, and while we could not exchange a word, we soon felt that we were old acquaintances. Our visitors were evidently highly cultured people, and while not speaking our language, they certainly knew considerable about our country, while we knew nothing about theirs. I was a little surprised at the active interest taken in our guests by Captain Battell, who was usually so reticent and retiring, and this interest was plainly mutual. Although they were not able to converse, they could understand each other, and spent their time strolling about the ship and peering out over the calm waters of the ocean. After the airship had been gone about eight hours, our guests began to consult their watches and look intently toward the west. Soon a whole fleet of airships came into view. In a few minutes the foremost one separated from the others, circled around, and alighted upon our deck, and one of the occupants stepped out, and as he did so exclaimed in good English: "Thank God, you are safe! How happy I am to welcome so many of my countrymen into this world of Truth, Justice and Fraternity." "And how happy are we," said Captain Ganoe, "to be welcomed by a fellow countryman after our long voyage in these unknown waters. We have not looked in the face of a fellow being for nearly two years, and we welcome you to the deck of the Ice King, as the saviors of all that is left of its once numerous crew." The new comer threw his arms around the Captain's neck, and embraced him as a mother would her long lost child, sobbing with sudden emotion until we were all shedding tears in sympathy. Then leaving Captain Ganoe he embraced each of us in turn. "I never was so happy in my life," he exclaimed. "I hope you will excuse me for thus giving way to my feelings. I had thought I would never again look into the face of a single human being from my own native land, and this meeting with so many overcomes me." "No apologies are necessary," said Captain Ganoe. "We appreciate the man who has feelings and is not ashamed to show them, while we could not have any respect for the man who is destitute of feeling." "Thank you," said the newcomer, "and now permit me to introduce myself. My name is, or rather was, James MacNair, an American born Scotchman." Captain Ganoe then introduced himself, Battell, Huston and myself. MacNair in turn introduced our visitors as the twin sisters, Polaris and Dione, of the Life Saving Service, and then continued: "Ever since they discovered me, almost starved, on a desolate island far to the north, these self devoted saviors of humanity, have kept an especial lookout for stranded mariners from the frozen north. And since they captured your little balloon with the dispatch I translated for them, they have known that an entire crew had passed the ice barriers, and they have been more than ever on the alert for an opportunity to render assistance, and conduct you into a safe harbor. They feared that you would be disabled by the almost perpetual calms on these waters, and be carried to the southern verge by these ocean currents which seem to carefully avoid the land. You see with all their watchfulness you have been carried nearly to the equator without being discovered, and you are now fully one thousand miles from land." "It was indeed fortunate," said Captain Ganoe "that we continued to commit dispatches to the care of the winds." "That is true," said MacNair, "but it is more fortunate that you sent up dispatches just when you did, for at that time, the sun begins to heat the air at the southern verge and it rises to higher altitudes and the air in the vicinity flows in to fill the vacuum. This produces a current of air that flows south from the northern verge. It was this breeze which occurs but once a year that brought your balloons south. Had they been sent up at the beginning of the northern summer they would have been carried south on the outside by your equinoctial storms. This is my theory. It may not be a correct one but it satisfies me." "Whether correct or not," said Captain Ganoe, "we know by experience that we had a northerly breeze for several days, which enabled us to use our sails to some advantage. But this breeze soon ceased and as we had no coal we were at the mercy of the ocean currents." "Yes," said MacNair, "there is but little use for sails in this inner world. But with plenty of coal you would have had no difficulty in finding a safe harbor among a highly civilized people, in a country where extremes of heat and cold, and violent storms are unknown." MacNair's remarks were cut short by the appearance on the scene of another magnificent woman who had evidently remained on the airship which had brought him to our deck, and he added: "And now permit me to introduce to you my wife, Iola, who wished to be among the first to welcome you to this inner world." "Glad to meet you," said Captain Ganoe, extending his hand, "and I hope that you will have no reason to regret this addition to your circle of so many of your husband's fellow countrymen." "Thank you," said Iola, in good English, but with a peculiar accent. "On behalf of our people, I take pleasure in extending to you a cordial welcome to our home in Altruria, where we are making a special study of everything we can get concerning the outer world." "And happy are we," rejoined the Captain, "to be welcomed by a people where our language is not entirely unknown. It will be so much easier for us to get acquainted, and adapt ourselves to our new surroundings." "In our district," said Iola, "you will find quite a number of people who can converse in English. We are teaching it in our schools." While this conversation was going on, Polaris had stepped to the side of the ship and commenced signaling with a yellow silken flag to the fleet of airships which hovered over us. Soon one of the largest, and seemingly the most elaborately furnished, swerved around and alighted upon the deck of the Ice King. Seeing that our attention was attracted to this new movement started by Polaris, MacNair said: "That is our hospital or relief ship. Polaris has called them to the assistance of your sick sailors." "Thank God!" ejaculated Captain Ganoe, "for indeed the poor fellows need the most careful attention. She and her comrades have placed us under obligations for their kindness, that can never be repaid. I am indeed most thankful to our new found friends." "Why feel under such obligations to anyone?" asked Iola. "Polaris is only doing her duty and so are her comrades. This is a duty which we owe to each other, and you and your sailors will only receive that which justly belongs to you." "But are we not under obligations to those who assist us when in trouble?" asked Captain Ganoe, "and should we not repay them for the burdens we impose on them?" "I do not quite understand you," said Iola. "You certainly are under obligations to yourself to entertain feelings of grateful appreciation toward those who assist you in getting out of a difficult and distressing situation, as this feeling tends to make us all better men and women, and hence more desirable members of the community. But as to repaying others for their assistance, I cannot see how we could do so unless we were to place them under similar environments, and we certainly would not do that, simply for the purpose of securing an opportunity to do for them what they did for us." "And I do not understand you at all," said the Captain. "When people help us, we are certainly under obligations to compensate them for their assistance, with something more substantial than mere thanks." "Then I will try to make my meaning clear," she said. "We all seek happiness, but a well ordered mind cannot enjoy real happiness while others are miserable. So in helping others into a condition where they may be happy, we are working to establish and perpetuate conditions that are essential to our own happiness. The act itself brings its own reward. In order for a people to be happy, it is necessary for them to do to others as they would have others do to them. This is one of the most simple and obvious laws that govern our relations to each other. It cannot be ignored without establishing conditions, under the operations of which, misery would become the normal condition of mankind, ourselves included." "I begin to get a glimpse of your meaning," replied the Captain. "The founder of our religion, inculcated the same principles in his teachings which we call the 'Golden Rule,' but I have never before met with such a practical, matter-of-fact application of it to all the relations existing between the individual members of the human family. It may be that among our people a few small circles, to some extent, apply this rule of action to a chosen few, but it is never applied to the people in general, except by some cranky individual, who in popular esteem, is regarded as a fit subject for a lunatic asylum." "It seems strange to us," said Iola, "that your people do not universally apply this fundamental law, upon which human happiness depends, in all their relations with each other. They must certainly desire happiness and the most ordinary intelligence ought to incline them to use the means by which they could secure happiness. But I know from history that this law was entirely ignored by our ancestors thousands of years ago. It was first taught as a religious tenet, but for ages it has been accepted as a fundamental principle in our civilization, and as a teacher of moral philosophy in our schools it becomes my duty to inculcate these principles into the minds of the children. The civilization which we have now, carries out in practice, the fundamental, humanitarian principles to which the founders of our old religious system gave expression. These teachings were in many respects identical, even in language, with the teachings of Jesus and the apostles as I find them recorded, in the copy of the New Testament which was among the books that my husband, then a small boy, saved from his father's ship which went to the bottom near the barren island where he was discovered." "This is indeed remarkable," said the Captain. "I had thought from the tenor of your remarks that the apostles must have penetrated this inner world and taught these doctrines, and that they had taken a better hold on the minds of the people than they have in the outer world. I see, however, that you claim an independent origin for your religious system, yet you have the same fundamental doctrines. How is this?" "Nothing strange about it," said Iola. "Truth is truth no matter where it is found. All people, no matter where they live, have the same faculties, and the same sources of knowledge are open to all alike. All the religions of the world have had their origin in some form of inspiration, and these religions have, in turn, left their impress upon the civilizations of the world. Jesus, of the outer world, and Krystus of the inner world, both inculcated the same fundamental truths, which we have incorporated into our civilization, and now teach in our schools as the fundamental natural laws which must regulate human relations, before the race can attain to the one great object of existence,--Happiness." While this most interesting conversation was going on, Polaris, Dione and MacNair were busy fitting up the Hospital ship and giving directions by signals, to the fleet which hovered above us. Ropes were attached to the bow of the Ice King, which connected with a number of the largest airships. The design was apparent, by the preparations. They intended to tow us to shore. But this was not all. Electrical apparatus was placed on board and they evidently intended to use electric motor power to set the machinery in motion. As soon as the preparations were well on the way, MacNair broke in upon the discussion by saying: "Captain Ganoe, we are now ready to look after your afflicted sailors. We want to attend to them, just as we would like to be attended to, if, unfortunately, we were compelled to change places with them, and with your permission we will take charge of them at once." "You not only have my permission, but my heart felt thanks for the interest you take in them. So now let us go below," and suiting the action to the word, Captain Ganoe led the way and we all followed. We found the ever active Mike, busy ministering to the wants of the sick and keeping up the spirits of all by his inimitable Irish wit, in which Pat O'Brien, notwithstanding his acute rheumatic pains joined with a hearty good will. This buoyant Irish lad and the herculean Irish sailor, had been the life of the expedition, when we were imprisoned in the ice, and but for these typical sons of Erin, our environments would have been much more gloomy. No matter how serious the outlook might be, they brought out the comic and laughable side of the picture by their mirth-provoking comments. A half dozen persons from the Relief ship at once began their examination into the condition of the sick, and Captain Ganoe, turning to MacNair, asked: "Are these persons all physicians?" "Well, yes, and no," replied he. "In the outer world you would call them doctors but here they are nurses. These skilled hospital attendants, understand all that has been discovered in regard to the treatment of both mind and body." "But what do they use?" asked the Captain. "I see no sign of medicines and the usual hospital appliances." "They need none," replied MacNair. "But this is something that must be learned further on." "Yes," interposed Iola. "You will doubtless find a very different system of treating human weakness from that which I understand is adopted in the outer world by the medical practitioners. In their system of healing they depend exclusively upon external appliances and ingredients, while we depend mainly upon arousing the internal powers of mind and spirit, which alone can exercise any absolute control over the human organism. Your system of treating the body is from without, while ours is from within, directly opposite to it." I did not at that time comprehend her meaning, neither did any of our crew. Its depth was beyond our grasp and we found that indeed this was something to be learned further on. But as she ceased speaking, Polaris called her to one side, and after a brief consultation with the nurses she said to Captain Ganoe: "The nurses report that it will require an hour or more to get the patients in proper condition for removal and that they want to be left alone with them, and will let us know when they are ready." With this, we all returned to the upper deck to await the pleasure of the nurses. Captain Battell, who had been an intensely interested listener, notwithstanding his retiring disposition, now moved to renew the conversation by turning to MacNair and saying: "My dear sir, did I understand you to say that the special business of Polaris and Dione is to look out for those who may be lost at sea and render assistance as occasion may require, and especially for such as may drift in from the outer world? Where are your men, that women are permitted to engage in these hazardous enterprises?" "Nothing strange about that," said MacNair. "As you well know, the women of the outer world take the lead in all humanitarian work, because they are naturally more sensitive and sympathetic than men. The women of this inner world are even more inclined to extend a helping hand to the distressed, and they are not handicapped by usages which restrict the influence of the woman of the outer world. Here, both sexes are placed upon terms of absolute equality, and every individual has an opportunity to find the place that is best suited to his or her inclinations. Men are also engaged in this work, but the women here, as in the outer world, are more sympathetic, and as there is nothing to prevent it, they have carried their humanitarian work to such perfection, that all the oppressive conditions which afflict humanity have been wellnigh removed. To this, more than to all other causes combined, do we attribute the existence of the ideal conditions which you will find throughout this inner world. You certainly cannot think that women are out of place when they are protecting their own offspring?" "Not that," said Battell. "I certainly esteem it most fortunate that we have fallen into the hands of these humanity loving women, but it all seems so strange. You have women commanding fleets in the air, and if so, why not have them navigating the ocean and commanding your armies and navies?" "We have no armies and navies to destroy our offspring," interrupted Iola. "We know nothing of these things except from our ancient histories. When woman secured her true position in the world she put an end to war by removing the vicious commercial, financial and governmental systems that enabled one class of people to oppress another. When greedy and domineering classes could no longer have soldiers to do their bidding, poverty was abolished by securing to the whole people equal access to the unlimited productive power of the earth. The women demanded peace because it prevented the slaughter of their offspring in useless wars, and in order to have peace it was necessary to secure to all an equal opportunity to create wealth by their labor." "But I do not see," said Battell, "how equal rights to women would prevent governmental injustice, with its consequent wars and bloodshed. In the outer world, some of the most bloodthirsty rulers in the annals of history have been women." "And the same thing was true in the inner world," said Iola, "until all women had secured their personal freedom from the domination of man-made laws and prerogatives. When that time came, Mother-love completed the work of human redemption. In time the women became a unit for peace, and this thought was impressed upon their offspring and these grew into maturity without any inclination to rule by violence, and war was abolished. And the same love of offspring which put an end to war and all its horrors, demanded the removal of the discriminations which enabled the offspring of one woman to defraud and oppress the offspring of another woman. It was the inspiration of Mother-love which set the women to investigating the systems which enriched the few at the expense of the many; and in defense of their children, they united their efforts along peaceful lines to establish equitable relations in all the affairs of life. The women of that day, were not more intelligent than the men, but love for their offspring gave them a deeper and more abiding sympathy for the oppressed, and this feeling, if not crushed out by the iron heel of military power, will ultimately save the people of any country from the consequences of inequitable conditions." "I believe you are right," said Battell, "but this does not explain to me why women should lead in such a hazardous business as this in which Polaris and Dione are engaged." "It is because they desire to do so," said MacNair. "Polaris is a sincere lover of humanity. She is a true womanly woman, and as such takes pleasure in rendering assistance to all who are afflicted or distressed. Besides, she is by education, inclination and long experience, an expert in aerial navigation, and holds her position as head of the Life Saving Service by virtue of her superior qualities." "But," said Battell, "as head of a department, she might send her subordinates and not take the hardest work on herself. It seems to me, that she personally superintends everything, doing as much work as a half dozen others ought to do." "Polaris always leads," said MacNair. "Besides, in your case there were especial reasons why she should personally lead the search. You were exposed to peculiar dangers, and it was uncertain whether you had been carried into the Oscan or Umbrian oceans, by the ocean currents. So, to guard against possible failure, she did not trust entirely to the patrols, but continued to circumnavigate the concave herself. "But few persons could have kept up the incessant activity and watchfulness that she and Dione have done ever since they captured your dispatches. They were determined that you should not be carried into the stormy waters of the south if persistent vigilance could prevent it." "Well, thank God, they were successful!" said Battell. "If we should live a thousand years we could not pay them for their efforts in our behalf." "No thanks are required," again interrupted Iola. "Polaris has only done her duty, and as to pay, she could hardly comprehend what you mean by it. She doubtless felt that she was amply rewarded for all her efforts when she succeeded in finding you. Success, in a praiseworthy undertaking, is the only reward that any man or woman can afford to work for. She has found you and therefore has her reward, while we can enjoy the pleasure of providing you with the comforts of a home and freedom from anxiety, toil and danger. You will only get what our common mother nature has prepared alike for all her children, while we have been especially benefited by the opportunity it has given us of helping a brother in distress. If there is any difference, we have more reasons to be thankful than you have, as we take pleasure in contributing to the happiness of others. It is in very truth 'more blessed to give than to receive.'" "I am not an enthusiast," responded Battell, "but I am frank to admit that I am carried away by the transcendent character of the sentiments you express, in regard to our duties toward each other. But it seems to me, that your grand ideal as to what human character ought to be, is so far above our fallen human nature, that it can never be realized in this life. Such a character was Jesus, the Savior of mankind as painted by our religious teachers. But this character is so very much above the human plane of development, that it would be regarded as sacrilegious for anyone to attempt to be as pure, as noble and as holy as he is said to have been." "The great mass of our people," said Iola, "would not understand your allusion to fallen human nature, and the Savior of mankind, but I have read a number of your religious books, and from comparisons with our own ancient history, have concluded that the Fall of Man and his Redemption through the Cross are allegories which were intended to teach a wonderful truth. But, be this as it may, the character of Jesus, I regard as the only truly human character that I have met with in the few outer world books that we have. The wonder is, that this magnificent character has not been incorporated into all of his professed followers. After two thousand years of preaching and discipline, it is strange that you have not developed many of these characters; even surpassing his exalted standard, especially as he told his disciples that they might do greater things than he did." "But," said Battell, "we are told that he was more than man. He was the Son of God, sent upon earth from his Father's home in heaven, to save fallen man." "I am willing," was Iola's reply, "to admit all this, as I understand it. We had similar characters in the olden time, who tried to save their fellow beings from the low estate in which they lived. But a time came when the effect of their teachings was to produce a multitude of such characters, and then the entire people made one great bound upward, and now we are all saviors whenever and wherever we find a demand for our services in that capacity." Battell looked his astonishment as he asked: "Is this heaven? Am I to be brought into the presence of not one, but a world full of these God-like characters?" Iola smiled as she said in response: "Yes, this is heaven provided you have heaven in you, the only place where you will ever find it. And this God-like character whom you call a Savior, is also in you, as it is in every other human being, just as soon as you permit it to be developed. This spark of Divinity--this Son of God--is latent in the human soul, and its efforts to make itself felt, is the source of every noble, pure and holy impulse to elevate our common humanity. Give the God that is in you a chance to develop, and you will become like unto Jesus, a 'God manifest in the flesh.'" "But how am I to develop this God-like character?" asked Battell. "By becoming a savior of the race to the best of your ability," answered Iola. "You were taught that it was the mission of Jesus to save the world. It is also your mission. He did his duty in his age and generation, to elevate humanity, and it is your duty to make just as much of an effort in your age and generation, to make the world better for your having lived in it. "You cannot afford to sit down as if you had nothing to do and 'cast all your cares on Jesus.' You have no right to impose, even if it were possible, any more burdens upon the 'meek and lowly carpenter of Judea.' He did his duty, well and truly, and you ought to do yours. You, in common with every other human being owe a debt to humanity, and you must pay it by your efforts to save humanity-- From all its sins, its aches and pains From all its multitude of woes, You cannot be released from your share of the obligation to save the world, by singing: 'Jesus paid it all, all the debt I owe.'" "I acknowledge," said Battell, "the justice of your criticism as applied to the churches of the outer world, but I am, or rather, I was, a whaler, and they do not fit me. As a sailor, and as a whaler, I never shirked any duty or danger, and I expected every other man to do his duty. I think if I had been called upon to do the work of every other man on shipboard, I would have objected to it most strenuously. On the same principle, Jesus certainly has a clear case against every one of his followers for neglect of duty." "I did not expect you to take my criticism to yourself," said Iola, "notwithstanding the fact that you referred to the religious system of your country, as if it was your standard of faith and practice. I only sought to impress upon your mind, the truths that, it seems to me, the founder of your religion intended to teach. Those who took up the work after him, seem to have entirely lost sight of the purpose and spirit of his teachings. But here comes Polaris. She has something to communicate." Polaris came forward, and after a brief conference with Iola and MacNair, she signaled the fleet, which began to maneuver, as if aligning itself under orders, according to some well-defined plan, while MacNair, addressing himself to Captain Ganoe, said: "Polaris reports that the nurses are ready, and to guard against any excitement that might disturb the patients, they want everyone to embark on the airships except Mike, who will stay with the patients on the Relief ship. Polaris will take Battell and Huston in the ship with herself and sister, while Jack and yourself will take passage with Iola and your humble servant. The rest of the fleet will tow the Ice King into port, where you can remove your baggage at your leisure. She will be taken up the Cocytas to Lake Byblis, where all will be safe and under the charge of Pat O'Brien and Mike Gallagher. It will be a convenient distance from the home we have prepared for you until you have become familiar with the language, customs of the country, and so forth." "How far will it be?" asked the Captain. "Only about 150 miles," replied MacNair, "which can easily be reached by airship or electric car in half an hour." "So quickly as that!" exclaimed Ganoe. "Certainly. 300 miles an hour is nothing extraordinary." CHAPTER VII. CARING FOR THE SICK--NEW METHODS OF TREATMENT--NOT PHYSICIANS BUT NURSES--NO MEDICINES--A RAPID RECOVERY--A VOYAGE THROUGH THE AIR--WONDERFUL OPTICAL INSTRUMENTS WHICH REVEAL A PANORAMA OF THE WORLD--ARRIVAL IN ALTRURIA--MARVELOUS IMPROVEMENTS--DRUDGERY AND POVERTY BOTH ABOLISHED. [Illustration] CAPTAIN Ganoe and myself took passage with MacNair and Iola. For the first time, we had embarked upon an airship. I had witnessed many balloon ascensions and had read much in regard to various contrivances for navigating the air, all of which had been failures. But here was a success, and I was on the alert to learn everything possible, in regard to the mechanical principles involved. We found ourselves in an elegantly furnished cabin, but we saw no signs of machinery. Everything in sight seemed to be arranged for the especial comfort and convenience of the passengers. The view in all directions, through transparent sections, was unobstructed, but the sections could be readily shaded, or the light shut out entirely as the occupants might desire. In the center was a table of exquisite design and workmanship, on which were various optical instruments for the use of the occupants, and also an electric keyboard connected with the hull which was elevated about thirty inches above the floor upon which it rested. The shape of the hull in which I concluded that the motor power was placed seemed to be adapted to the navigation of the water as well as the air and in answer to our inquiries MacNair informed us that it could readily be converted into either a water craft or land carriage. The ordinary propelling power consisted of an ingenious combination of wings shaped like those of an insect, but when extraordinary speed was required there was a rudder-like appendage, similar to the tail of a fish, that was shot out from the hull. These were operated by electricity and appropriate mechanical contrivances. He further explained that the power of levitation, or rising in the air, did not depend entirely upon the wings, but, that by a discovery in magnetism, the vessel was rendered positive to the earth so that they mutually repelled each other. When all was ready, MacNair touched a button on the keyboard, and at once our aerial conveyance became instinct with life. Its broad wings that had been neatly folded, as it alighted upon the deck, now extended out like the pinions of some mighty bird, there was a slight whirring noise beneath our feet, and we began to ascend, moving as it were forward, around a spiral incline. As we circled around and arose to a place among the fleet which had hovered over us, we had a full view of the ample preparations which our deliverers had made for our rescue. On some of the ships we noticed cables and powerful dynamos. These vessels were as unlike the light and airy passenger boat on which we were embarked, as the ponderous freight train is unlike the lightning express. They had evidently come prepared to take charge of the Ice King as well as the crew. Polaris, Dione, Battell and Huston had embarked, and ascended a short distance, as if to be in a good position to give directions. The hospital attendants were carrying the afflicted sailors on board the Relief ship, on stretchers, with the exception of Pat O'Brien, who was getting around as lively as if there never had been anything the matter with him, and Mike seemed to be trying to keep him still. We were surprised at what seemed to be such a wonderful recovery, and MacNair, noticing the intense interest we were taking in what was transpiring on the Ice King, asked: "What is the matter? Anything going wrong?" "Nothing wrong," replied Captain Ganoe, "but something strange. Do you see that herculean sailor rushing around down there and evidently making himself useful in caring for his comrades?" "Well, what of that?" asked MacNair. "Only this," said the Captain, "a few hours ago he was confined to his bed with a severe attack of rheumatism and now he seems the personification of health and vigor. Can you explain the change in his case while the others are still helpless?" "Perhaps his rheumatic attack had actually run its course, but still remained to trouble him as the result of the impression that had been made upon his mind. If that is the case, then he only needed a mental suggestion, to remove the rheumatic impression which had fastened itself upon him." "That is a queer view to take of the matter," said the Captain, "yet there may be something in it. But why are the others still helpless? Why would not mental suggestion have the same effect on them?" "I do not understand the particulars in regard to their condition, and hence, am not qualified to offer an opinion. It may be that the disease in them had worked some organic change that was not so easy to overcome, or, it may be that the suggestion that removed the pain put them to sleep. I see they are apparently sleeping soundly." "I hope their sleep may be a favorable indication," said the Captain. "I do not," he continued, "understand this strange disease which seems to single out the most robust and powerful. Can you explain it to me?" "The atmosphere of this inner world," interposed Iola, "is highly stimulating, and it requires much active exercise to provide an outlet for the surplus energy that is generated. You were becalmed. Your sailors had nothing to do but to rest when they were not tired. The energy was created and it must be expended. Mental activity would have accomplished this, and their health would have been improved. But failing in this, it took the form of fever and acute pains. The best, in fact, the only efficient safeguard from disease, situated as you were, is to be found in mental activity." "You certainly do not mean to say that mentally active people are not liable to get sick in this inner world?" remarked the Captain. "Nothing of the kind," said Iola. "But I will say this, that all other conditions being equal, mentally active people are not in as much danger, provided they think healthy thoughts. If they think disease and fear the worst, they will be even more liable than others to get just what they think. But if the active mind is trained to exercise its power to preserve the health of the body, there is no danger from disease." "This is a strange doctrine," said the Captain, "and one that I am anxious to know more about, but that must be learned further on, I suppose, as MacNair says." We had been rising slowly until we had now attained a great height and MacNair interrupted the discussion of mental suggestion by saying: "We have designedly ascended to a greater height than usual, so as to be above the more humid atmosphere. This will give you a better opportunity to make observations." "But what observations can we make," I asked, "that could not be made from the surface? When I became satisfied from seeing the sun shining through the southern verge, that we had passed into an inner world, I expected with the telescope, to be able to scan every part of the surface, but I found that I was seemingly as far from being able to do so, as when I was in the outer world. Can you explain to me why I cannot turn my glass to the zenith and see the opposite side of the concave?" "There can be but one reason," said MacNair, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. "The gaseous contents of the concave must be opaque to your vision." "Well, well," I said laughing, "I found that out without your assistance, and I am not going to let you dodge the question by a play on words. What I want to know is, why these gaseous contents at the center, are opaque while the air at the surface is not?" "Well I see," said MacNair, "that you are determined to compel me to reveal how little I know. The scientists of the early ages evolved the theory that the center of the concave is a gaseous globe composed of the very lightest materials which they knew by actual experience to be opaque to their vision." "But why," I asked, "is it that this concave sphere does not shut off the light from the sun?" "Because," said MacNair, "this opaque sphere is above our line of vision,--our position on the surface, being twelve degrees below the verges. Besides this, the central opaque sphere is conceived to be flattened at the poles and bulged at the equator, and some have contended that it is also hollow like the earth. But for this opaque sphere our nights would be as light as day by the reflection from the hemisphere above." "I have thought of that," I replied, "and still I have so much wished that the opposite hemisphere could be seen with the telescope." "Well, that is precisely what you will be able to do from this airship," said MacNair. "How so?" I asked. "We certainly cannot rise above the opaque sphere, and if we could, and got a clear view of the opposite hemisphere, that would not be seeing from one side of the concave to the other." "Not that surely," said MacNair, "but scientists knowing that magnetic currents often pass more readily through opaque than transparent substances, began to search for rays of this kind that would pass through dark bodies and be reflected by substances beyond. At last they succeeded in securing a photograph through wood and metal, and then, all that was required in order to enable us to see through opaque matter, was an optical instrument that would cast the reflection on the retina of the eye. This, in the course of time, was accomplished. And now, these wonderful discoveries are used by the medical profession, in order to enable them to look into the bodies of their patients and examine the internal organs. And, these electro-magnetic optical instruments have been so improved that they are in general use, in observations where opaque bodies obstruct the view." "And do you tell me this as sober truth?" I asked. "Certainly," responded MacNair, "I propose to give you a practical demonstration. You discovered that the space between us and the zenith was opaque to your vision. Now, take these glasses and adjust them to your eyes and look through those semi-transparent sections, which are like a lace-work of tubes. The penetrating power of these glasses, you see, can be increased or decreased by moving this slide. They enable you to use the magnetic rays which pass through all substances for the purpose of vision." We followed his directions and the first glance gave us an ocular demonstration that the surface was concave. "Now," continued MacNair, "in order to get the best idea of the leading geographical outlines of this inner world, I want you to examine with your glasses a zone from the horizon in front of us, through the zenith to the horizon behind us. We are now moving on an airline for your future home in Altruria. Our course is a little south of west and the distance about one thousand miles. We are now very near the center of the Oscan ocean. East of us is the continent of Atlan. So, a zone, extending through the zenith along the line on which we are moving will pass through the equatorial belt, and give you a clear concept of the great centers of population and material improvement. This is the most important part of the world for you to study for the present, and until you learn the language and mingle with the people, you must depend upon your eyes as the chief source of information." We were now moving at great speed and the sensations were most exhilarating. Looking out over the bow we beheld the horizon of water and raising our glasses as we had been directed, at an elevation of about twenty degrees, the coast line of a continent came into view. And still elevating our glasses, we rapidly passed in review a wonderful panorama of flowing rivers, cultivated fields, tangled wildwood, and lofty mountain chains until at an elevation of about forty-five degrees, we beheld the western coast line of the Altrurian continent. At the zenith, we saw the Umbrian ocean, and further down, and directly opposite to Altruria, the continent of Atlan, suspended, as it were, in the eastern sky like a map. Looking toward the north, and some ten or twelve degrees above the horizon, was the barren island on which we had landed. We were so engrossed with our observations in a world where we could take a bird's eye view of any part of it, that we did not care to continue the conversation in which we had become so intensely interested. The continent which we were approaching, looked through our glasses like a vast concave picture of a most lovely country suspended above the horizon, and covering almost the entire western sky. But when we looked through our ordinary glasses, the general appearance was not materially different from what it would have been in the outer world. I could but wonder at this marvelous discovery, which had enabled the inventor to construct instruments that converted opaque rays into rays of light, and I could not help thinking, what a restraint the general use of such wonderful optical instruments would be upon evil doers. Nothing could be hidden from those who cared to investigate. While my thoughts wandered into other channels, my gaze was riveted upon the wonderful panorama presented to our view. I noted that the divisions between land and water were strikingly similar to the physical geography of the outer world, except in this, that the land surface of the inner world on the line of the equator seemed to correspond very closely with the water surface of the outer world, though on a much smaller scale. The clear weather prevailing in the western hemisphere gave us a splendid view of the continent of Altruria. In a few localities dense masses of clouds obscured, but did not entirely shut out the view; and on the whole we got a clear concept of the topography of the country. A lofty mountain chain extended from the north to the south, and many long rivers flowed from the mountains into the ocean on either side. Large areas of the surface seemed to be highly cultivated, and even in the mountains, palatial buildings were brought into view by the higher powers of our telescopes. Boats plowed along the rivers and on the lakes, and the entire country seemed to be a network of railroads, while airships appeared like specks in the field of our vision, flitting here and there and speeding in every direction. But the most singular feature which attracted our attention, was, that notwithstanding all the evidences of a highly cultivated country and the most active traffic and trade between the different sections, we nowhere discovered any indications of great cities; and while what appeared to be extensive manufacturing establishments existed in numerous localities, and the harbors along the shore lines were filled with shipping, nowhere did we see vast clouds of smoke such as vitiate the atmosphere in the large cities and manufacturing districts of the outer world. We were so taken up with what we could see, that we had no inclination to withdraw our attention from this wonderful panorama, to ask for many explanations of minor details. We now had a view of an entire continent and were disposed to make the most of the opportunity. It was doubtless highly civilized, and had its libraries filled with historical, scientific, sociological and ethical works that would, in time, reveal to us all that was worth knowing. As MacNair had said, we must use our eyes as our chief source of information, until we had acquired the language and familiarized ourselves with the daily life and usages of the people. We were now nearing the continent and MacNair reduced our speed so as to give us time to make our observations more in detail. The general direction of the coast was north and south for some hundreds of miles. Along the mainland, capes and promontories were numerous, while running parallel therewith was a chain of islands, forming a continuous series of bays which in the outer world would have been of inestimable value as harbors. One long island, lying parallel with the coast immediately before us, particularly attracted our attention. It seemed to be some twenty-five or thirty miles in length, and lay like an elevated ridge, between two promontories which extended out from the mainland at either extremity, from which it was separated by narrow channels. This formed a magnificent bay which contained a number of smaller islands that divided the bay into a series of land-locked harbors. The Cocytas river, to which our attention had been called, flowing from the mountains in the northwest, entered this bay at its northern extremity, through two outlets about five miles apart. Between these outlets was a triangular island about fifteen miles in length. The north bank of the northern outlet was a promontory which extended out from the mainland, to within a few hundred feet of the northern extremity of the island which separated the waters of the bay from the ocean. As we neared the coast, what had seemed to be a huge smokestack on the point of the promontory that constituted the southern shore-line of the bay, was revealed to our vision as a colossal tower, that in its general appearance, was an exact duplicate of the strange tower we had passed at the northern verge, at the point where we had escaped from the ice. The material used, the style of architecture, and everything about it indicated that it was erected by the same people and for the same purpose. We had now been speeding forward in a straight line for five hours. We had covered fully 1,000 miles, and MacNair assured us that we had been traveling slowly, in order to give us an opportunity to study the topography of the country, as a whole, from an advantageous position, at an average height of about four miles, though at times we had ascended to higher altitudes, as Iola suggested, to so train our lungs to an attenuated atmosphere, that we would experience less discomfort from the lofty aerial flights we were destined to make. MacNair now called our especial attention to the region of country we were approaching. It was an agricultural district, and, evidently, in a high state of cultivation. It looked like a vast prairie farm, regularly laid out, in the shape of a parallelogram, extending from east to west about thirty miles, and from south to north about fifteen miles. Magnificent buildings appeared at regular intervals, surrounded by beautiful grounds, and connected by broad boulevards, reaching from one end to the other, and crossed by elevated roads at regular intervals. On these magnificent highways, splendid carriages were rolling, but no horses were in sight. Electric cars were continuously moving both ways between these houses, the north and south lines being elevated. Airships of all sizes and designs, seemed to be ubiquitous, and were moving in every direction. Children amused themselves on the shaded lawns that bordered the boulevards, and in the flower gardens of the highly ornamented grounds around the palatial buildings which appeared in every direction. While this district seemed to be distinctively agricultural, much of the surface was given up to parks, shaded driveways, miniature rivers, artificial lakes, fountains, ornamental gardens and orchards. The lands devoted to cultivation, were laid off into rectilinear fields running the entire length of the district, thus securing a saving of labor that could not have been accomplished in any other manner. From one end to the other of these long fields, monster machines were moving, operated by electricity, and completing their work as they went. One machine to which MacNair directed our especial attention, was a combined breaking plow, seeder and roller. It was moving at a rapid rate, and leaving behind it a strip, fifty feet in width, thoroughly pulverized, seeded and rolled. The operator occupied a comfortably furnished cab, and directed the progress of the machine by what we were told was a delicately arranged electric keyboard on a table before him. Everywhere within the range of our vision was presented a scene of industrial activity, and yet comparatively few appeared to be engaged in actual labor. The major portion of the population seemed to be out enjoying a holiday. So impressed was Captain Ganoe with this appearance, that he asked if it was some special festival occasion. "Not at all," said MacNair. "This scene of recreation and enjoyment is of every day occurrence. The people of this inner world have learned that it takes very little physical labor to provide an abundance of every article of necessity, comfort and luxury for the whole people. They have discovered how to control the great forces of nature and the machine has taken the place of human muscle." "But," said the Captain, "does not that throw the great masses of the people out of employment, and place them at the mercy of the people who own the machines and the land?" "It certainly does," answered MacNair. "It deprives all persons of toilsome drudgery, and places them absolutely at the mercy of the people who own the machines and the land. But this is just what they want, because these same people who are deprived of employment, own both the land and the machinery of production and distribution. Hence, they are enabled to enjoy a perpetual holiday. The amount of work to be done, is a much coveted task, as it provides necessary exercise, and from the fact that it is useful and contributes to the commonweal, it is ennobling. The people of this country are too wise to permit the private ownership of land and the means of production, and thus deprive themselves of the abundance, that can be provided for all by the intelligent application of human labor to those natural resources which exceed in productiveness all the demand that can be made upon them. "But here we are," continued MacNair, "over the land, and now we will loiter along, so you can study the immediate neighborhood in which you will have your home until you want to make a change. These magnificent buildings are communal homes, and this is a communal agricultural district. I am engaged here as a teacher of English, and it has been thought best to bring you here, because quite a number of people are learning to speak our language. It will therefore be more agreeable to you until you have learned to speak the language of Altruria, which has long been universal throughout the inner world. But this will not take you long, and then your services will be in demand as a teacher. The people are anxious to learn all that can be discovered concerning the outer world." This country is divided into numerous districts which are numbered from north to south. This is District No. 1, Range No. 1, west. This range line corresponds with longitude 180°. These longitudinal lines are numbered east and west just as they are in the outer world, but as the circle is smaller, the distance between the lines is proportionally less. "The tower which you were examining so closely as we came to land, is the point from which longitude is calculated. It stands on the equator, and the north and south verges are said to have been marked on the same longitude by similar towers, in ancient times, before communication between the inner and outer worlds was closed by the great ice age, and floods which are said to have submerged all the lower lands. Some regard these traditions as mythical, but many of the ablest scholars accept them as the fragments of authentic history which were saved from some great cataclysm." "Then," said Captain Ganoe, "it will doubtless be interesting to these people to learn, that our log book confirms the truth of these traditions. At the point where we escaped from the ice was a stupendous tower situated on a point of land, and it was in latitude 85° north, longitude 180° west. So from this it seems that we are now situated directly under the Pacific Ocean." "This indeed will be welcome news to the people of the inner world," said MacNair. "Numerous expeditions have been sent to discover these towers, but thus far, they have either perished, or have been driven back by the cold and storms of the icy verges. Our ancient histories record, that, from the top of these towers, the philosophers made note of some wonderful appearances in the heavens which threatened the race with destruction. Oqua, who is at the head of our district schools will indeed be glad to converse with you on this subject. She has been an enthusiastic patron of polar expeditions, believing that the discovery of these towers would confirm much in the history of the world that has been regarded as mythical. It was the first of these expeditions to use the airship, that rescued me. The only important discovery made was that while the airships are all the most enthusiastic expected in these medial latitudes where storms are unknown, they are not equal to the task of penetrating the icy verges." CHAPTER VIII. ARRIVAL IN ALTRURIA--A COLOSSAL COMMUNAL HOME--DISTRICT 1, RANGE 1--UNDER THE PACIFIC OCEAN--BATTELL AT THE TELEPHONE--STARTLING APPARITION IN A MIRROR--ENROLLED IN SCHOOL--STUDY OF THE LANGUAGE--PHONOGRAPHIC ENUNCIATOR--A COMMUNAL AGRICULTURAL DISTRICT--THE FIRST REVOLT AGAINST LANDLORDISM--FREEDOM THE RULE--A NEW WORLD--STRIKINGLY SIMILAR TO AMERICA. [Illustration] WHILE MacNair was speaking our airship had alighted upon the top of one of the monster houses. We found that a portion of the roof constituted the boat yard for the airships which were kept for the use of the community. In the center of this roof and elevated far above it, was a circular structure which was slowly revolving, and we could see that it was occupied by people who seemed to be enjoying a siesta. MacNair informed us that this was the reclining room where the members of the community retired to rest and enjoy the scenery in every direction, as well as a place for conferences in its many private apartments. From this roof, elevators connected at various points with the floors below. This was by far the largest residence building I had ever seen. It consisted of one main building, twelve stories in height and 600 feet in length by 200 wide. On either side were three wings, of the same height, 200 feet long by 100 feet in width. The building was constructed of semi-transparent material which admitted a mellowed light. At the points occupied by the elevator cages were awnings of the same material as that which constituted the roof. We took our seats in one of these elevators, MacNair touched a button and the cage descended, leaving its covering as part of the main roof. We landed in an extensive dining hall where a magnificent repast had been provided for us. The tables were loaded with the finest soups, bread, vegetables, honey, fruits and nuts in the greatest variety. MacNair informed us that any person had the right to eat at any communal home or public dining hall in the world provided that he had performed his share of productive labor in any part of the world. No matter where the labor is applied, the product is added to the world's supply and it does not signify where its equivalent is consumed. The evidences of useful service rendered to society, which are issued by the proper authorities in every part of the world, entitle the holder to food, shelter and raiment in any other part of the world. These evidences of labor performed, procure the right of way upon any public conveyance on land or water, or through the air. To us, this had indeed been a most eventful day. We had been discovered in our forlorn condition early in the morning and at 4 o'clock in the afternoon we had embarked for a voyage of 1000 miles through the air, during which time we had been permitted to enjoy a bird's eye view of the mighty oceans and vast continents of the world. By the time we were through with our suppers it was 11 p.m., and MacNair's announcement that we would now be conducted to our rooms, was indeed most welcome. He explained that they were in the visitor's department which we would occupy until our own apartments were ready. I was introduced into a magnificent bed chamber but was so sleepy that I scarcely noticed its contents. It was late next morning when I awoke, and when I went out into the hall, I found it full of people passing to and fro, and wondered how it was that I could sleep so soundly. But the mystery was soon explained. I met MacNair in the dining hall and in his usual cheerful manner he asked: "Well, Jack, how did you rest?" "All right," I said, "but I seem to have lost my ability to waken up. I am usually aroused by the least noise, but all the passing to and fro in the hall had no effect on me." "Of course not," said he. "We wanted you to sleep all you could, and so cut off the sounds from your rooms. These walls are all upholstered so that no sound can enter when the sound conductors are disconnected. "Now," he continued, "just make yourself at home and look around for a day or two. Go wherever your inclinations seem to direct, and make good use of your eyes. Remember that transportation is free. I am now going to register your arrival. Your other comrades have gone to Lake Byblis. Polaris will take care of them and the Ice King." I took him at his word, and roamed at will over the grounds and through the public offices, Library, Museum, Lecture Room, Music Hall, etc. I found that the heads of the departments and many others understood some English, and all treated me with the utmost courtesy. The second morning Iola informed us that Battell wanted to communicate with us and conducted us to the telephone room. On entering I was surprised to see Battell standing before me, and he greeted me in his usual cordial manner: "Well, good morning, Jack. How do you like this enchanted land?" "I am delighted to meet you," I replied, and extended my hand. Imagine my surprise when it touched the smooth surface of a mirror, and Battell broke into a hearty laugh, saying: "I would indeed like to shake, but we are not yet able to reach 150 miles." I was astonished. Indeed I was so taken aback by the unexpected and life-like apparition, that for once I was completely dumbfounded. Iola, seeing my confusion came to my rescue, saying: "I ought to have prepared you for this by some explanation of our system of inter-communication, but I thought that the use of our electro-magnetic optical instruments, by which we are enabled to see through opaque substances had prepared you for this. The reflection of Captain Battell on the mirror, is only another method of applying the same principle. The rays from him, converted into rays of light, are reflected upon the mirror, on the same principle that the rays from the eastern hemisphere are reflected on the retina of the eye." "I ought to have anticipated such an application of this wonderful discovery," I replied, "but it was nevertheless so unexpected, that I was entirely unprepared for it." "Well Jack," came from the phonograph, "you are not alone in your astonishment. I would have been quite as much surprised to see you, had I not been apprised of what I might expect. I called you up in order to let you know that we have JUST ARRIVED at Lake Byblis. The Ice King is coming. The hospital boat is here. Pat and Mike are well. Lief and Eric have gone on to the hospital and the other three sailors are dead. We are all well pleased with the possible exception of Mike, who thinks we are bewitched. Pat got well so soon that Mike thinks he must be crazy. But what shall be done with your baggage when it arrives?" After consulting with Captain Ganoe, who was present, I replied: "Send our trunks to Headquarters, District No. 1, Range 1, Continent of Altruria." "Well, well, Jack," responded Battell, "I am glad you know where you are. I am not so sure about myself. We are treated royally. This is a lovely lake with the most magnificent surroundings I ever beheld. I take it, that this is a great pleasure resort, for a people who seem to have nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. We are taking lessons in the language, and find it very easy. I have taken the liberty to authorize the Department of Education to translate our library, and they were so anxious about it, that they went out on airships to meet the Ice King, and commence the work." "That is right," said Captain Ganoe, who now came forward and took up the conversation. "Tell them the Ice King, and all we have so far as I am concerned, is at their service." "They have no use for the ship," responded Battell, "but would highly appreciate it, as a specimen of American ship building. They will place Pat and Mike in charge as soon as the ship comes in. Polaris informs me that the whole world will give us a reception at Lake Byblis when some great council meets here. By that time she thinks we will have become masters of the language and learned in all the wisdom of the Altrurians." We frequently conferred with Battell, and he kept us advised in regard to everything of interest relating to the Ice King, and other matters in which we felt especially interested. Acting upon MacNair's suggestion, I gave my entire time to the study of our immediate surroundings. I found that this magnificent home contained over 2000 people, men, women, and children, and still there was no crowding. The main building contained all the offices and store rooms, public halls, school rooms, library, museum, dining hall, kitchen and laundry. Powerful storage batteries furnished electricity for heating and lighting, and motor power for manufacturing, which formed a part of the educational system in every home. The wings were given up entirely to apartments, so that the members of this immense family could be just as secluded and exclusive as they desired. Each one had a private apartment furnished to his or her taste. Each room was numbered and connected by telephone with the library, storerooms and business offices, and could be placed in communication with the occupants of any other apartment, or with the District Exchange which could place them in communication with any part of the world. If a book was wanted from the library or any article from the storeroom, it was ordered by telephone, and delivered at once, by pneumatic tube. Every apartment could be connected by phonograph with the lecture room or music hall, and the occupant could listen to the lecture or music, without leaving his or her room. There was also a universal distribution of news by the same means to any person who desired such service. In each of these communal homes was a publishing department, and all the facilities for manufacturing furniture, clothing and almost any utensil needed, equal to the supply of the community, if it was found to be necessary. While the district was devoted mostly to agriculture, in its educational system, every member was trained in the mechanic arts and general business methods. This training began with the children and continued for life as occasion might require. People never imagined that they would become too old to learn. They were taught that the most important service they could render to themselves and to society was to educate themselves, physically, mentally and morally, and that for this kind of service society could well afford to give them access to all that was required for their sustenance and comfort. Hence all facilities for improvement, books, papers, scientific instruments and instruction were not only free, but the use of them was regarded as a valuable service to society. The pupil attended school, got his or her evidence of labor performed, which entitled the holder to food, shelter, clothing, etc., the same as the teacher,--as both were alike serving society. The pupils, in training themselves for lives of usefulness, were regarded as benefiting the community as well as themselves, and hence the community was in duty bound to provide them with all the essentials for their highest development of body and mind, in harmony with the demands of an advanced or advancing civilization. These lessons concerning this inner world civilization, derived from conversations with MacNair, Iola and others who could converse in English, and confirmed by our own observations as far as they had gone were intensely interesting, and we never tired of asking questions, which were always answered courteously and in a satisfactory manner. But I soon reached the point where I began to feel the need of more comprehensive sources of information. I wanted to be able to speak the language of the country, converse with all the people, attend lectures and make the fullest use practicable of the extensive libraries and numerous publications which contained the current literature of the times, so that I could enter into the spirit and purpose of this wonderful civilisation, which seemed to be far more attractive than the most entrancing picture of Utopia. Feeling thus, I was prepared for what was to follow. One morning after we had somewhat familiarized ourselves with our new surroundings, and we felt inclined to rest and think, rather than to roam around, MacNair asked: "How do you like your new home since you have had time to look around and get acquainted?" "So far as I am concerned," I replied, "I am delighted with the country and the treatment I receive wherever I go. But there is so much to learn, that I feel overwhelmed. If I were able to converse with the people, and enter into the spirit of their daily life, I would be more at home. I want to be able to utilize all the sources of learning which are contained in your literature and I think that the time has come when the best thing we can do is to settle down in earnest to the study of the language." "I knew that you would soon come to that conclusion," said MacNair, "but what you have seen is a necessary step in your education. We must soon go to our classes and you can go with us and take your first lesson. In order to facilitate your studies, you have been assigned apartments adjoining the Library and Lecture room." We assented and were at once conducted to our apartments. Iola presented each of us with just such a bookcase and library as Polaris had shown us, on her airship. As she opened one of these cases and displayed the contents, she said: "You will find here everything needed in order to acquire an accurate understanding of our language. It has been prepared under the direction of MacNair and myself by the publishing department, particularly for the use of English speaking people who might succeed in getting through the ice barriers. These cards contain the English alphabet with our corresponding characters printed on the right. The only difference is that we have a character for each sound while you have a number of sounds to one character. When you have learned our alphabet you will be able to read our language. If there should be any difficulty with the pronunciation all you have to do is to formulate the word by pressing the characters on this keyboard and you will hear every sound clearly enunciated. Every word thus formed is inscribed on a cylinder and after the sounds have been recorded all you have to do is to increase the speed of the clock work in order to have the word pronounced just as it is spoken in ordinary conversation. This instrument is called a Phonographic Enunciator and it records the sound of every character by means of a simple but most delicately constructed mechanical contrivance which has been carefully adjusted to the tones of the human voice. The sounds thus recorded by the use of the sound characters on the keyboard are then pronounced audibly on the principle of our old fashioned phonograph. "You will find that the definition of the words and the grammatical structure of our language are very easy to learn. This small dictionary of root words, defined in English, contains the key to the definition of every word in our language. When you have committed these definitions to memory you will not find it difficult, even without a teacher, or lexicon, to define every word compounded from them. The grammar, as you will see, is not essentially different from your own, except that we have simplified its treatment. We recognize but four parts of speech; nouns, verbs, modifiers and connectives. The study of our language is further facilitated from the fact, that when its fundamental principles are fully understood, you will naturally have a word for every meaning, instead of a variety of meanings for one word. Our Altrurian language has been repeatedly revised by carefully selected committees of eminent scholars, with a view to making it so easy to learn that it would become universal, a result that was accomplished several hundred years ago." "Polaris showed me a school library something like this," said I, "but it was adapted to pupils who wanted to study English." "Yes," remarked Iola, "we have been urging her for a long time to study English, but we never could induce her to make the effort. But," she added, smiling, "no doubt she now regrets it. I predict that it will not be long before she is speaking English as glibly as she does her mother tongue. But I must go now. If you need any help, just touch that button and I will come at once." She bade us adieu, and we went to work to master the language. As Iola and MacNair had informed us, we found it remarkably easy. We had been well trained from childhood in distinguishing all these sounds, and our eyes soon became familiar with the characters by which they were represented, and before we retired to rest after our first day's study, we were practicing the pronunciation of words, and committing definitions to memory. We soon had quite a vocabulary of words at our command, which we introduced into our ordinary conversation. This could be the more readily done, because of the grammatical construction of the language being so similar to the English. Associated as we were, with a number of highly educated people, who understood both languages, our progress was very rapid, and in a short time we could express all of our wants in the language of the country, and when we did not have the right word we substituted English, knowing it would be understood, and also, that some one would supply the right word. We determined from the beginning, to use no language but the Altrurian, just as rapidly as we could acquire it. We used it in reading, writing and conversation, and soon we scarcely thought of our mother tongue, except when we heard it spoken. MacNair and Iola were engaged with their classes an average of two hours a day, and we ordinarily spent our leisure and recreation time together. Our home was also District Headquarters, and here we were continually meeting with representatives from every home in the district, and our acquaintance was rapidly extended. We often visited other homes, sometimes by electric carriage or airship, and sometimes we would walk for miles. When tired, we could always hail a car or carriage. Thus, we were by our associations continually improving in the use of the language, while we were adding to our fund of knowledge concerning the country, by observation and conversation with the people. I carefully studied the economy of the home in which we lived, being assured that this was a sample of a multitude of others. The same thing was true of the district. So in a general way, we were making a study of the entire concave by having a sample submitted to our inspection. At least, I could get a very clear idea of agriculture, the great basic industry that sustains the race, and hence, I am condensing into this chapter the results of a long and careful investigation under exceptionally favorable conditions. During our attendance at school Iola and MacNair frequently took us for a sail in their airship. This gave us an opportunity to study its mechanism, and at the same time obtain a bird's eye view of the country, and if anything especially attracted our attention, all we had to do was to ask for an explanation. As we had first approached the continent we were struck by the large residences, storage buildings, and the long rectilinear fields, but now that we examined the scene at leisure we began to take in the details, and were impressed by the general sameness of the picture. These magnificent buildings were strikingly similar to each other and the same thing was true of the long rectilinear fields and the arrangement of the crops. The residence buildings were apparently situated at alternate section corners and hence about two miles apart each way. Midway between these were large warehouses, elevators, mills, factories, etc. To the east and west these long rows of buildings were connected by surface, electric roads, and north and south by elevated roads. These roads, both passenger and freight, all passed through these buildings. This general arrangement of everything into squares, gave the entire district, from the cabin of the airships, the appearance of an immense checkerboard. This district which may be taken as a sample of many others, had a complete system of waterworks, a continuous pressure being secured by a series of stand-pipes, from three to five hundred feet in height, which forced the water to every point where it was needed. This system also provided water for irrigation purposes as the season seemed to require. This with a complete system of drainage, constituted a method of keeping the most perfect condition for producing the greatest abundance. In addition to this, all the waste products were converted into fertilizer and returned to the soil. These wise, economic, scientific methods and intense cultivation, explain how this small district, sustained a population of 200,000 and yet gave up fully one-half of its lands to boulevards, lawns, parks, driveways and ornamented grounds. Electricity was the universal motor power, as well as a stimulant to the growth of crops. The soil was pulverized, seeded and rolled by vast machines. The grain was harvested, threshed and placed in sacks by huge combined reapers and threshers, and dried by passing through evaporators on an endless belt which conveyed it to elevators, from which it reached the mills by force of gravity, if that is the right word to apply to the centrifugal force which in this moral world held everything to the surface. The standard day's labor was but two hours; and yet with the aid of machinery, ten persons harvested a strip of grain one hundred feet wide and thirty miles in length, delivering the same at the elevators in sacks, while another ten prepared the soil and put in another crop. All the other work was carried on in the same labor saving manner, and this two hours of labor was deprived of every feature of drudgery and became only agreeable exercise. One thing I noticed particularly; domestic animals seemed to be raised more as pets than for use. The only animal diet ordinarily used consisted of eggs, milk, butter and cheese. Sheep and goats were raised for the fleece which was manufactured into the finest fabrics. Fruits and nuts were produced in the greatest abundance and constituted a very large part of the diet of the people. The district was in fact a stupendous farm and in its original design the prime object had evidently been utility rather than ornament. The work of the landscape gardener had been utilized to the largest extent, but it had not been permitted to encroach upon the useful. The economy in the uniformity in which the lands were laid out, the houses constructed and the work of production carried on, gave to the whole country such an artificial appearance, especially from the airships which we need most generally in our observations, that Captain Ganoe could no longer refrain from commenting upon it. One day as we were soaring above this magnificent farming district, he asked MacNair if the entire inner world had been cut out according to the same pattern. "Not at all," replied MacNair. "You will find plenty of variety. Every person has an opportunity to gratify his or her tastes, provided that by so doing they do not deprive others of the same privilege. There is nothing compulsory about it. People who do not desire to dwell together can find plenty of opportunities to be by themselves. The rule here is freedom. People live together in communities because it secures so many advantages, but they often take an outing and find variety, and solitude if they want it, in comparatively wild and uninhabited parts of the country." "But," I said, "I am curious to learn how it was that the communal system came to be established. In the outer world I am inclined to believe that it would be impossible to find so many people who would live together in harmony." "That is doubtless true," said MacNair. "But as I now understand it, influences are at work, which will ultimately compel the producing masses to come together as one family, in order to enable them to preserve any semblance of personal liberty and economic independence." "And was it," I asked, "necessity that compelled the founders of this district to organize this system of community life?" "It certainly was," interrupted Iola. "This district was founded by a few of the more intelligent laborers in the great city which at that time existed at the mouth of the Cocytas. A time had come when the laboring masses were forced to get together in colonies and co-operate with each other in order to live. This represents the first organized revolt of the masses against landlordism and the spirit of commercial and financial cannibalism, which had reached its apex in the large cities existing in the olden time along this eastern coast. The few owned all the land, all the machinery and all the facilities for distribution while the many were often famishing for food, and always begging for an opportunity to serve some master who would feed them." "If they were indeed so poor," I asked, "how was it possible for them to break the chains by which they were bound?" "That is a long story," said Iola, "and cannot be recorded in a word. Volumes are filled with the futile efforts of the working classes to protect themselves by organization, and their education had to come through their repeated failures. But all these futile efforts at organization were on the competitive plan, and actually placed one class of workers in competition with another class. At first the skilled artisans, seemingly secured some advantages by the trade unions, but it was only a question of time when the improvement in machinery and a division of labor, placed the skilled workman, to a very large extent, in competition with the common laborer for the privilege of running the machines, which did the work better than the most skillful mechanic, and with a speed that had never before been dreamed of. From that time on to the end, the employed in every branch of production were placed in a bitter and destructive contest with the unemployed for the privilege of working for a master. "It was not until they had reached this condition by bitter experience that they began to learn just what was the matter. Among the first things that occurred to them, was, that they were at the mercy of the landlord until they had access to the soil, but how could they obtain access to the soil in their penniless condition? This was the question that racked their brains. "But conditions, which neither they, nor their oppressors could control, were forcing a solution. It had been recognized in the civilization of that time, that the poor and the physically infirm, had a just claim on society for food, shelter and raiment which must not be disregarded. All that they needed, was the fruits of their labor applied to the soil, and the money kings had to a very great extent monopolized the soil. It was worthless to them unless it was cultivated. Its possession still gave them power to oppress the landless, but not the opportunity to speculate, as no one was able to buy. So to save the expense of feeding their victims they were willing that the land should be used, by these objects of charity, to produce their food by their labor. "Thus was provided the opportunity that enabled far sighted reformers to introduce a new system of organization among the poor, which placed all their relations to each other on an ethical, instead of a selfish basis. They began by organizing exchanges among themselves, and what they saved to themselves in this way was invested in land for which there were no other purchasers. For a time this enabled the land owners to sell the lands which were useless to themselves, as a source of profit. The colonists continued to cultivate the land, sell the surplus in the cities, and buy more land, but they never sold an acre. In the course of time, the lands of this district were socialized and rent abolished. "Thus, by using the profit, which under the old competitive system left the hands of the producers, never to return, they were able to abolish landlordism, as far as they were concerned, and their wealthy oppressors congratulated themselves that they had gotten rid of a dangerous class. But the same causes continued to impoverish others, and thus create other dangerous classes, and the only way to get rid of them, was to give them an opportunity to dig their living out of the soil. It became a common thing for cities to organize movements which enabled the poor to secure subsistence by cultivating vacant lots. Indeed, this was one of the first signs that marked the decline, and presaged the early abolition of the then existing system of commercial and financial cannibalism that impoverished the people. "This community demonstrated that labor could, even under the most adverse circumstances, by co-operating in production and distribution, get control of land and the means of production, and abolish tribute to non-producers in all its forms. You will find the history of these movements most intensely interesting, and I should think from what I have learned, of inestimable value in your native land. "Since MacNair gave us the benefit of his knowledge of the economic system which exists in the outer world, our scholars have studied our own ancient histories as they never did before. Situated as we are, it is hard to believe that any people, no matter how ignorant they may be, would permit a few to take possession of the earth and starve the many, but such was the situation here in the olden times; hence, it is not strange that these conditions exist in the outer world." "Well," I remarked, "since I think of it, I am not surprised that you can hardly believe such conditions could exist in any country claiming to be civilized. But why is it that the people of this inner world, understood the nature of this evil and removed it so long ago, while the masses of the people of the outer world seem to be utterly oblivious to the fact that there is anything wrong?" "On this question I can only theorize," said Iola. "I have thought that it may have been the long continued ice age, that with its rigors, held the people of the outer world back and retarded their development until long after the inner world had made a very considerable progress toward civilization. But MacNair has a theory that may have something in it. He believes that the psychic conditions in a concave world, tend directly toward concentrated effort and co-operation, because the heads of the people all point toward each other and converge at a common center, while in the outer world they point outward, each in a direction of its own, tending directly toward individualism and the development of every selfish instinct." "Well," said Captain Ganoe, who had been an attentive listener, "I am glad, for the honor of my own country, that a fellow countryman of mine has evolved a theory that has not been previously thought out and demonstrated by this most progressive people. I think, Jack, that we had better go to work and evolve an improvement on these airships that will enable us to carry the news of these wonderful discoveries to our own people." "I have been thinking of the same thing," I replied, "and that is why I have always been insisting that we should use these airships for our short journeys that did not require speed. It is when we go slowly that I can study them best, and in my mind I have partially solved the problem of constructing a ship that would be proof against both cold and storms." "Just like my luck," said the Captain. "I always succeed in getting an idea in my head after someone else has worked it out. But still I think that I am something of a mechanic and you can depend upon me to do my best to assist you." "Thank you," I replied, "I shall certainly call upon you for assistance." "I have reason," said MacNair, "for believing that Battell and Polaris contemplate something of the same kind, and I am sure that they will call upon both of you for your co-operation." "Why," I asked, "have you had any intimation of the kind?" "Not directly from them," said MacNair, "but I have heard this, that Battell and Polaris spend much of their time in the airship factory at Lake Byblis and that they are experimenting with their private airship every day, and that they have succeeded in making some changes in the gearing that enable them to reverse the wings and run backward; also in moving the steering apparatus so they can ascend or descend without the usual spiral motion." "That is good news," I said, "but I thought that Captain Battell was giving most of his time to the study of the language and customs of the country." "So he is," said MacNair. "Polaris told me so by telephone, and what is more, she spoke in good clear English. She further said that the work of translating the library was progressing rapidly and that several volumes had been completed and furnished to Norrena, the Continental Commissioner of Education at Orbitello, for distribution to the commissioners of all the grand divisions of the Concave." "Orbitello! What is Orbitello? A country or a city?" asked Captain Ganoe. "We have no cities," said MacNair, "but Orbitello is what you would probably call the seat of government. It is the center of business for this continent, the headquarters of all the departments of the public service. The Altrurian Council meets at Orbitello every year, and the World's Parliament every four years. Here the Continental Executive Committee meets every day to transact business in which the whole people are interested. It is located on the Cocytas at the foot of the mountains." "I would indeed be pleased to visit this center of business and learning," said the Captain. "We have thought of that," said MacNair, "and as soon as Oqua returns, I think that we had better go. She is our District Commissioner of education and I am deputy and must officiate in her absence. She is attending the Quadrennial Congress of Educators in the mountains of Atlan at Lake Minerva. The sessions seldom last more than thirty days and that time has passed, so we may expect her return from the old world almost any day." "What's that? The old world!" ejaculated Captain Ganoe. "Am I to understand that you have an old world here, and is this the new, just as we have it in the outer world?" "Yes, very much the same," said MacNair. "Altruria is often spoken of as the new world because it was originally settled by colonists from the other side of the Ocean. The early history of this country is in a general way very similar to the early history of America. This similarity holds good even to the almost total destruction of a warlike race of red men. The original colonies achieved their independence of kingly rule and established a republican form of government, just as was done by our thirteen original colonies. But here the similarity ends. Altruria now extends all over the continent, and has carried out to their logical sequence, the principles set forth in our own Declaration of Independence; and more than this, these principles have extended over all parts of the inner world. This is why I often speak of the concave as the World of Truth." As MacNair ceased speaking, our airship alighted on the roof of our home, and we were informed that Battell wanted to meet us at the telephone. We went at once to the telephone room and again met Battell, but I was not dumbfounded at the sight. He addressed me in his usual familiar style, saying: "Well, Jack, we have a boat factory here and I have conceived the idea of becoming an inventor of airship attachments and I want you and Captain Ganoe to join me. I want the Captain for his mechanical skill and I want you to test our inventions, make observations and report such changes in the mechanism as you deem advisable. Polaris cannot stand the cold at the verges and I will not have time. Can you undertake the work?" "Certainly," I replied. "Just notify me whenever you are ready. I have been contemplating the same thing myself, and Captain Ganoe has offered his services as a skilled mechanic." CHAPTER IX. A HAPPY SCENE--TWO CIVILIZATIONS COMPARED--ARRIVAL OF OQUA--DISGUISE PENETRATED--HUMAN RIGHTS--"GLITTERING GENERALITIES" REDUCED TO PRACTICE--A STRANGE CUSTOM--NUMBERED, LABELED AND REGISTERED AS CITIZENS--EXIT JACK ADAMS--A NEW NAME--NEQUA--BITTER MEMORIES--OQUA'S SYMPATHY. [Illustration] THE proposed improvement of the airship, so that it could withstand the storms of the polar regions, and MacNair's report of the progress that Battell had made in that direction inspired me with the determination to prosecute my studies with more energy than ever. I saw at a glance, that if we should be able to open up a channel of communication with the outer world, the knowledge that could be acquired here would be of incalculable value to the people on the outside of the sphere, and especially to my own native America, on whose virgin soil the new and improved thought was the most likely to germinate and grow to perfection. Before this trip to the outer world was made, I felt that it was my imperative duty to glean the wisdom of the ages from these vast libraries, and from the oral lessons of these ripe scholars. My one, all-absorbing thought, was to trace the progressive evolution of these people and discover the fundamental principles and practical business methods that had enabled them to reach their present ideal civilization. Hence I determined to apply myself to study, with an earnestness of application that I had never before attempted. When I needed rest or desired to be alone, my favorite resort was the large observatory or reclining room on the top of the building. This room is octagonal in form and is detached from the roof on which it rests, and is placed upon small wheels which run around on a circular track whenever the occupants turn on the electric power. In order to enjoy a most beautiful panorama, all I had to do was to seat myself at one of the windows, with or without my glass, and set the room to revolving slowly. I never tired of the scenes thus presented to my view from this elevated position. This room is furnished in the most superb style. Its elaborate upholstery is of the finest and softest materials of the most exquisite designs. It is large and airy. The walls are adorned with many magnificent paintings and ornamented with festoons of trailing vines and flowers, while the windows are garlanded with green and fragrant foliage. Around the circumference of this luxurious retreat, are small, well furnished alcoves at each window, which can be cut off from observation by sliding doors which are upholstered with some soft material that excludes every sound that might disturb the occupant. One day, about a week after the interview with Battell in regard to the improvement of the airships, MacNair, Iola, Captain Ganoe and myself had descended to the observatory for our usual after dinner rest. I was in a meditative mood, and not caring to take part in the conversation, I had retired to one of the little alcoves, closed the doors, set the room in motion and brought my window around to a point overlooking the great boulevard, with the pleasure grounds, shrubbery, flower gardens and giant forest trees just beyond. From my lofty perch I looked down upon the scene before me. Bright, happy faces, and kind, cheerful voices, greeted eye and ear through the open window. I felt entranced by the wonderful scenes around me. I could not help but compare this great communal home, where all was abundance, elegant leisure, fascinating social enjoyment, health and happiness, with the crowded, filthy and ill-ventilated tenement houses of New York, London and other large cities of the outer world, which are pre-eminently the abodes of destitution, misery and woe. How often has my heart ached when I have found families of ten and twelve persons, huddled into one or two diminutive rooms, poorly lighted, ill-ventilated and disgustingly filthy. In the living hells of the outer world, I had witnessed every manner of deformity, degradation and filth. Children in rags, just from the arms of their mothers, creeping like cowardly wharf rats about the slums and alley ways, picking up pieces of mouldy bread or fishing in slop barrels and sewers for bits of meat, were scenes of human misery that often made my heart bleed. Then, add to this picture of the conditions into which the children are born, the abject misery of their decrepit grandsires and grandmothers. How often have I seen them, dressed in tatters and exposed to the wintry winds as they tottered off to some alley, or some rich man's ash heap, to scratch out with naked and almost freezing fingers, the little bite of unconsumed coal, so that they might have a little fire to warm their half-famished bodies, while they dined upon the garbage gathered up by the children. Such were the scenes that I had often witnessed in the poverty stricken districts of the large cities of the outer world, and with them I compared the happy scene before me. Not one deaf, dumb, blind, lame, deformed or disfigured individual among the multitudes which often gathered upon the grounds I was now contemplating. Not one ragged, bare-footed and bare-headed urchin, nor one snowy-haired, tottering and infirm old man or woman among them. What a contrast! A heaven was opening up before me, in comparison with the living hells that had been so indelibly impressed upon my memory. Why such a contrast between humanity here in this great communal home, and humanity in the tenement houses in the large cities of the outer world? There must be some cause for this extraordinary difference in the physical makeup and personal appearance of the people. Why were the people in this communal home more robust, more beautiful and more kind and cheerful than the people of the outer world? And why had the usual decrepit appearance of age disappeared from view? Here was the evidence that a physical regeneration of the race had taken place. I did not doubt that this was the logical result of improved social and economic conditions and I was determined to find if possible the scientific explanation. But here my meditations were broken in upon by the sight of an airship crossing my line of vision, in the direction of that portion of the roof used as a boat yard. I opened the sliding doors and looking out toward the landing, I saw the vessel alight and a splendid looking person step out, just as MacNair opened the door upon that side, saying: "There is Oqua!" and motioned for her to come into the reclining room. MacNair and Iola had so often spoken of this person in such eulogistic terms as a ripe scholar and experienced educator, prominent throughout the world, that I had pictured her as aged, sedate and probably careworn from the discharge of her onerous duties, showing the wear of years of careful study and attention to public affairs. But what was my surprise, as she came up to the observatory, to see a most beautiful woman, showing no signs of age or care. I could but stand spell-bound, and admire her form and features which were simply perfect. Any attempt at description would be presumptuous and I will not attempt it. As she came in and was introduced by MacNair, I noticed that she understood our language and customs, for stepping forward and extending her hand to Captain Ganoe she said in a most musical voice: "I am indeed most happy to make your acquaintance and offer you a most cordial welcome to our country and a place in our esteem. Your arrival has been heralded all over the world, and it is regarded as an event that may be pregnant with the most important results to the entire human race. The Congress of educators at Lake Minerva passed a resolution requesting that the next meeting of the World's Parliament, shall be held at the Auditorium of the Transportation Pavilion at Lake Byblis, and that this shall be the occasion of giving a world's reception to the crew of the Ice King. But Captain, how many do you have with you?" "Only one," said the Captain. "The others are at Lake Byblis. But here is Jack Adams, the scholarly artist and scientist of the expedition, and as such I have no doubt that you and he will become fast friends." She turned to me and placing one hand on my shoulder grasped my extended hand with the other. She scanned me from head to foot with an expression of amazement and inquiry playing over her smiling countenance; then with a light, musical laugh she bent forward and kissed me on the forehead, saying: "Yes, I am sure that we will become fast friends." The action was so sudden and unexpected, that I blushed, stepped back and stammered. I instinctively knew that her keen eye had penetrated my disguise, and the recognition tested my nerves. Yet it was so cordial, that I felt that my secret was safe, and my reply was a laugh, a lifting of the eyebrows and a closer pressure of her soft, warm palm as I merely responded, "Yes, I am quite sure," and from that moment I knew that she was indeed a friend. A chord of sympathy and affection had been touched, that enraptured while it bound me in bonds of friendship to this grand woman, a relationship of the most enjoyable character, as well as of incalculable value, in opening up for me a life work, as agreeable to myself as I hope to make it profitable to others. For some time we joined in general conversation when Oqua asked MacNair if we had yet been registered and enrolled as citizens. "In part," said MacNair. "They have been given numbers on the schedule of the school, but have not yet been called upon to select the names by which they desire to be known. In fact I have not yet explained this matter to them. Iola has been giving them language lessons in their room, and instructions concerning such matters as they desired to understand more fully in regard to the country, its history, customs, etc. But as they can now read and speak the language understandingly, their selection of names and registration as citizens ought not to be put off any longer, as at present their numbers only rank them as minors." We were more than a little mystified at the turn the conversation had taken and as it related to us Captain Ganoe asked: "What does this mean? It seems from your remarks that we have been numbered and that we are now to be labeled. I would be pleased to have an explanation. We highly appreciate the interest you have taken in our welfare, and anticipate much pleasure and profit to be derived from a knowledge of your language, as it will give us access to the boundless stores of wisdom which are contained in your literature. But is it really necessary for us to be numbered and labeled? I take it for granted that it is all right, but I do not understand it." "Perhaps," said MacNair, "this should have been explained to you sooner; but I was guided by my own experience when I found myself among these people. There was so much to be learned and it could not all be acquired at once. I deemed it best to give you as nearly as possible just what you asked for, and let you get somewhat acquainted with the customs of the country before asking you to take the steps necessary to become citizens of Altruria, which also makes you citizens of the inner world, entitled to all the rights of citizenship, no matter where you go. In America, you require a foreigner to declare his intentions to become a citizen, and then, after five years you permit him to be sworn in as a full-fledged citizen. We have no regulations but such as apply to all alike. The child has no choice of birthplace, but it has a natural right to food, shelter, clothing, education, etc. Hence, children are numbered, so we may know how many are to be provided for. When they reach maturity and graduate from school, they are requested to select the names by which they desire to be known. This entitles them to a voice in public affairs and makes them eligible to any public trust. When I gave you a number, the right to food, clothing and education was conferred upon you. When you select names you will be registered as citizens and will be entitled to a voice in public affairs and eligible to any public trust for which you may be selected." "Then," said the Captain, "it seems that we have no reason to be dissatisfied with either the number or the label, as the first gives us free access to wealth that we did not create, and the second confers upon us the sovereign right to be consulted as to how our benefactors should conduct their business. We seem to be the beneficiaries in all these regulations, 'reaping where we have not sown.' What right have we to the fruits of the labor of others to whom, as yet, we have been of no benefit whatever?" "The same right," said Oqua, "that you have to live. Your right to life cannot be questioned, and you cannot live unless you have access to the fruits of the earth, which are garnered by the labor of the people. The primary object of human society is to secure to each individual member the right to live and be happy, and to this end, each must be secure in the possession of the means of subsistence and the liberty to enjoy the healthy exercise of every function of mind and body. This, being the primary object for which our social organism was created, our first duty is to humanity, and all of our rules and regulations have this one object in view." "But does not this endanger the perpetuity of the social organism," asked the Captain, "by opening the door to those who would take advantage of this broad definition of rights to impose grievous burdens upon those who confer these rights?" "Not at all," responded Oqua. "When all the people enter into an organization of society, the primary object of which is to provide the best possible conditions for each of its members, the personal interests of each, will, to say nothing of the moral obligations, impel them to perpetuate such organization, by doing everything in their power to promote the best interests of all. Hence, just as soon as all have been made secure in their natural rights to life, liberty and those equitable conditions which place happiness within the reach of all, sound policy, as well as equal liberty and even-handed justice demands that all should have an equal voice in the conduct of public affairs in which all are equally interested. It would be manifestly unjust and oppressive, to ask the people to submit to regulations to which they never consented." "I admit the force of your reasoning," said the Captain. "The same ideas, expressed in different language, were adopted in my own country and have served to embellish platform utterances and sensational newspaper appeals, but in practice, they have been treated as mere 'glittering generalities.' Here, you seem to regard them in a far different light, as something to be reduced to practice in every day life; and with a people as well educated as yours this seems to be easy, but, with an ignorant and brutal populace the case would be very different." "Not so," said Oqua. "There is more good than evil in the human soul. The populace might be made ignorant and brutal by the violation of these principles, and if so, the application of these principles in all the transactions of life would inevitably produce an intellectual and refined populace. This is no 'glittering generality,' but a sober truth, and this is the lesson that your people must learn before they can ever reach their ideal of what they ought to be. When the leading minds among any people realize that there is absolutely but one way by which the masses of mankind can ever be elevated to higher and better conditions mentally and morally, and that way is, by placing them under better conditions physically, it will be found that the whole people can be lifted up to a higher plane of being as if by magic. It is on this line that the people of this country have been moving for centuries and it is to this that we desire to call your attention. We give you a number, which signifies that because you have an existence, you are entitled to the blessings of our civilization. But now we want you to register your name, as a co-worker. When you take this step, you will have given us your permission to ask your co-operation whenever it is needed. Are you willing to register and assume the duties incumbent upon citizenship?" "Certainly," said the Captain. "You have a right to command our services and all we want is to know what is required of us." "Then you will register," said Oqua. "This will make you one of us and equally responsible with us for the exalted trust which is committed to our hands of preserving intact the blessings of a humane civilization. So if you are ready we will attend to this preliminary work at once." We assented, and stepping on the elevator passed down to the lower story and into the Registry office which was made a part of the Department of Education. For school purposes it was of course necessary to register the children and as all adults were supposed to be graduates of the schools, the same department kept a registry of the entire people, so that at any time, the population of any community, district or continent could be ascertained at short notice. Oqua opened an immense volume and turning to the proper letter said: "You see here the name of your countryman, James MacNair. Just opposite, on the left, is a number. Of course his introduction to our schools was that of a child, as he had everything to learn concerning the language and people of our country while we knew nothing of his language or his country. As a pupil he was known by a number; as a citizen he is known by a name; and according to our customs that name must be one of his own choosing. There could be no objection to his taking the same name by which he was known in the outer world, and you can of course suit yourselves in the selection of names, but it must be your own signature and when recorded it becomes permanent. All that we care for is, that it shall be your own choice." "As to that," said the Captain, "I prefer to retain my original name. However, I rather like this custom of permitting people to select names to suit themselves. In the outer world, the name is selected for you, and you are not permitted to change it, except by application to the courts or the law-making power. But as I have no reason to change my name you may record it as Raphael Ganoe." "But let me suggest," interposed MacNair, "that you retain the prefix of Captain as it is familiar to your crew and also designates your relation to what I doubt not is destined to take its place in the minds of the people of the world as the only polar expedition that brought blessings to humanity. Of course the title signifies nothing here, but it does in the outer world which is to receive the greatest benefits from it, and there is no reason here that you should not retain it as part of your name." "Then so be it; Captain Raphael Ganoe will give me the regulation three names of the outer world, for the edification of a people who seem to be, as a rule, contented with only one." My turn to select a name came next, and Oqua toying with her fan between her fingers, and with a smile she could not suppress, said to me: "Well, Jack, why is it that you take no part in this discussion? You seem to have no interest in the matter of selecting names. Is it because you deem it of no importance, or do you disapprove of our custom of requiring every person to select a name in order to become a citizen?" "Oh, as for that," I replied, "I approve your custom, but as yet I have not given any thought to the name I should select for myself. But as I have always been rather indifferent in regard to names, I hardly know how to give myself a cognomen which seems to be so much more important than I have been accustomed to think it." "Oh then," interposed MacNair, "there is no hurry. You have an unquestioned right to take all the time for reflection that you require, provided that you are willing to remain a minor." "I am not trying to evade the responsibility," I replied. "This matter may just as well be attended to now as at some future time." Oqua then raising her eyes with a mischievous twinkle, asked with a comical expression of countenance: "Shall it be Jack Adams?" I pressed my finger on my lips and with a side glance at Captain Ganoe, replied: "No, not Jack Adams, if you please." MacNair caught the silent message but could not interpret its purport, and looking first at me and then at Oqua, said: "What kind of a sideshow is this being exhibited under our very eyes and we left in the dark? What have you against Jack Adams, that you should thus take the very first opportunity to put an end to his existence, so that he will not have even the poor tribute to his memory of an inscription on a marble slab?" "No mystery at all," I replied. "Jack Adams is all right for a sailor but too commonplace for this land of romance and sublimity. I intend to exercise my right to select a more euphonious title, more in harmony with the part I hope to play," and turning to Oqua I asked: "Will you please to suggest some appropriate name? Something short and significant." After a moment's reflection she said: "I have a name for you, Jack, that I think will be most appropriate. I have been told that you are a student, and our people greatly desire to obtain all the knowledge that is within reach of the outer world, its geography, history, manners and customs, and as you are inclined to be studious, we will doubtless want you as an instructor in our schools; and for that reason I select for you the name, Nequa, which signifies teacher." I was much pleased with the name and even Captain Ganoe who was quite a stickler for established usages intimated that he regarded it as much more appropriate than commonplace Jack Adams. Of course I assented and Nequa became the name by which I am known in the inner world. I was now a citizen of Altruria and had been assigned a position in the public service as a teacher which gave me the opportunities I so much coveted, to gather gems of wisdom for the benefit of my own country, which was grappling with great problems that had here been solved. I retired to my apartments to think. It had been just two months since we arrived at this great communal home, and I had recovered from the long strain to which I had been subjected for two years on the Ice King. I now discovered that it was this strain brought on by the dangers which continually beset us, that had held me up. But now that all the dangers were past and the future bright with hope, a flood of bitter memories swept in upon me like a mighty avalanche. For the first time in years I gave way to uncontrollable emotions, as I buried my face in the soft silk cushioned sofa on which I reclined and wept as seldom mortals are doomed to weep. How long I had remained thus I do not know, when I felt a gentle hand tenderly stroking my head and a voice I could not mistake said, in the most soothing tones: "Nequa, Nequa child, what troubles you? Listen to me dear. It did not take me long to discover that under the smiling exterior of Jack Adams, you carried the aching heart of a stricken woman. Do not start. I am your friend. Confide in me. I know that there is some deep secret gnawing at your heartstrings, and that it relates to Captain Ganoe, and of which he is entirely unconscious. And I know that there must have been some great wrong in days gone by from which you suffer." I could stand no more and throwing both arms around Oqua's neck and drawing her down to me as the suffering child would its affectionate, sympathetic mother, I kissed her repeatedly between my sobs as I replied: "Yes, my dear Oqua, you read me aright. But the crushing wrongs of the hideous past are irreparable and the future promises no healing balm for the wounds that have been inflicted. I must meet my fate alone. It would be wrong for me to burden you with my troubles. No! Let me bear them alone, on, on, to the bitter end. I must drain the cup of misery to its dregs absolutely alone." Here I again broke down and gave way to another flood of tears. I wept until my brain seemed a livid flame and my heart bursting with despair while Oqua sat silently by my side stroking my head until the storm of contending emotions had time to subside when she said: "Nequa, I am glad to find you in tears. They will give you relief as nothing else can. I knew you needed a friend, and I have come to constitute myself that friend. Now listen to me. I knew from the first that you were a woman and that Captain Ganoe did not suspect anything of the kind. I further discerned that there was a hidden chord which drew you to him and yet for some reason you dare not reveal yourself to him. This secret is wearing your life away. You must tell me all about it and I can, and I will, help you to bear it. When we look at things philosophically and see them on all sides, just as they are, there is no wound of body, mind or spirit that may not be healed. There is no wrong that is not too limited in its scope to effect any permanent injury. Our bounteous mother, nature, has provided a healing balm for every wound if we will but search for it with the right spirit." I could not be mistaken as to the spirit and purposes of this noble woman, nor resist her entreaties. She had penetrated my disguise and read my secret and I had every reason to respect her judgment. For years I had carried my burdens alone. Under the weight of the wrongs imposed upon me I had sought relief from the burden of grief in the exercise of an indomitable will, in a vain effort to force my heart to become, if need be, as cold as ice, and as hard as adamant. But it could not be. I was forced to realize that "There can be no philosophy Which steels the heart 'gainst ev'ry bitter woe; 'Tis not in nature, and it cannot be; We cannot rend the heart, and not a throe Of agony, tell how it feels a blow." And now this agony, which I had carried so long, concealed under the smiling countenance of an assumed character, had forced a recognition. This was nature's demand for human sympathy and the kind and loving heart of Oqua was here to respond. Much as I had desired to keep my sorrow deep buried in my own bosom. I could not repel this noble woman whose keen intuition had already divined my secret. I felt the need of just such sympathy as hers, and why should I spurn it from me? My soul went out to her and I felt impelled by some irresistible impulse to clasp her to my bosom and tell her all. My heart was breaking with the silent misery that it had carried for years, unshared by a single human being, and which I resolved should be carried unobserved to the grave. Again I resolved anew that I would not even share it with this noble, sympathizing woman, but nature's floodgates, once opened for the outpouring of long suppressed sorrow, close no more to force it back upon the surcharged heart, and before I knew what I was doing I was folded to her bosom and weeping out the long pent up load of grief that had been gnawing at my heartstrings. As I looked up into her face, I could see the cordial, heartfelt sympathy reflected from her beautiful countenance as she whispered: "Go on, dear Nequa, and tell me all about it. Do not distrust a friend who is able to help you as I can. Remember what I told you that our bounteous Mother Nature, has provided a balm for every wound. This is no fanciful exaggeration, but a well ascertained truth." "I do not distrust you," I replied, "and when I am more composed I will tell you all. I have done nothing to be ashamed of, but I cannot talk now. I am too much agitated. Call this evening and I will tell you all." "So be it," said Oqua, "and I will be here early this evening. Do not be discouraged. Compose yourself and be of good cheer and all will be well." And imprinting a kiss on my forehead, she left me to my meditations, which now began to assume a more roseate hue. Some of the blackness of despair which had overwhelmed me had begun to depart, and I felt more hopeful and became more composed. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. OQUA'S VISIT--THE REVELATION--A STORY OF PERFIDY AND WRONG--CASSIE VANNESS--RAPHAEL GANOE--RICHARD SAGE--A DESIGNING GUARDIAN--FALSE CHARGES AGAINST GANOE--A FRAUDULENT MARRIAGE--HOME ABANDONED--ON THE HIGH SEAS--JACK ADAMS--GANOE FOUND--EFFECTS OF A FALSE EDUCATION--LEGAL WRONGS VS. NATURAL JUSTICE--OQUA HOPEFUL. [Illustration] AS the sun disappeared behind the western edge of the verge, I was reclining upon my sofa awaiting the promised visit to Oqua. I was now as anxious to tell the story of my sorrows to a sympathising friend as I had formerly been to conceal it from all the world. Since my conversation with Oqua, a longing sensation had come over me to confide to her the story of my life. The hour had arrived for my meeting with her, and a minute later she was by my side. Laying her hand on my head, she said: "Nequa, I have come at the time designated, and in order to be able to assist you, I must not be left to surmise what is the matter. By the very act of telling me your troubles, you will to a certain extent obtain control over your own feelings, and thus take the first step toward finding a remedy." "Then you shall know all, from my earliest recollection," said I. "My name is Cassie VanNess. I was born and raised near New York City. My mother died when I was an infant, and I was cared for by my devoted old father, James VanNess, and a kind motherly colored woman who had been a servant in the family. My father died when I was fifteen years old, and I went to live with my guardian, Richard Sage, who was also the uncle and guardian of Raphael Ganoe, whom he had taken to raise when an infant. At this time Raphael was eighteen years of age. Our school days, of about five years, were the happiest, nay, I may say the ONLY really happy days of my life. When I was twenty and Raphael twenty-three years of age, he was offered a lucrative position on a ship engaged in the Chinese trade. During our vacations we had crossed the ocean together, and he desired to travel in the Orient. While on this voyage he expected to circumnavigate the globe, stopping at all the leading ports. On his return we were to be married. "He promised to write to me at every available opportunity, and for the first few months his letters came regularly, always couched in the most affectionate terms and often referring to our coming marriage as the beacon light of all his fondest hopes. Then his letters ceased altogether, and though I wrote repeatedly to him, I never heard from him again. "As the months rolled by, often at noontime, when the music of birds filled the air, and all was life and light, or at eventide, when the mellow twilight was over hill and dale, and the activities and light of day were giving place to the stillness and shadows of night; when the perfume of the flowers filled the air, or the yellow leaves of autumn fell about my feet, I, the forsaken, and perhaps forgotten, could have been seen seated beneath some broad-spreading tree, where we used to read and converse together. I would sit thus for hours in silent meditation, recalling the tender words and caresses of my absent lover. Then arising sad and disconsolate, I would leave the lonely spot and try to bravely wait and hope for the word that never came. "My guardian professed great sympathy, and with seemingly the most poignant grief informed me that his nephew had committed some desperate crime in foreign lands for which he had been tried, convicted and sent to prison for a long term of years. Yet, with this black shadow resting upon him, the truth of which was vouched for by his uncle, I continued to write as it had been agreed between us and many were the tear stained missives I addressed to him, hoping that comrades on the ship would see that they reached him. Though he might be a criminal and an out-cast from his kind, my affection for him never wavered for a single moment. "My guardian, in order to make his deception more complete, pretended to deplore the actions of his nephew, and even his own unthoughtfulness, in telling me of them, and thus causing me so much suffering. He seemed to be aging very fast, and I feared that he, the only friend to whom I had never looked in vain for kindly counsel and advice, was falling into a decline from the crushing weight of what I believed to be our common sorrow, and consequently, my woman's sympathy and pity went out to him in what I regarded his disconsolate lot. "He fully realized the sincere and all pervading character of my sympathy for him, and took advantage of every opportunity to impress me with the dangerous state of his health. He intimated that the chief cause of his suffering, aside from the grief caused by the wayward and criminal course of his nephew, was the agony that it gave him to leave me all alone in the world, with no one to guard and protect me from the manifold dangers that threatened an inexperienced girl when thrown upon her own resources in this cold and unfeeling world. He did not ask my affection, except as a daughter, but suggested that under the circumstances, I had better become his wife, and then my position in the world, as his widow, would be secure. I would be protected against the intrusion of society and would be alone, as he felt sure I so much desired. "'You are already in mourning,' he said, 'and yet, your grief is so indefinable that no one will be disposed to respect it as I do. Besides, situated as you now are, with no female companion, you are in some sense at the mercy of the evil-minded who never lose an opportunity to asperse the character of the good and pure, while as my wife, you would be safe, and your position honorable in the eyes of the world. I could then, even more than now, console you, and sympathize with you in your affliction.' "I told him that I had never thought of my position as being in the least compromising, in the home of my lawful guardian, and if it was so, I would go away at once, but I could not be his wife. He besought me again and again, and I continued to give him the same answer. In the meantime, I was greatly troubled by what he had intimated regarding my compromising position in his house without a female companion. I had all faith and confidence in his unselfish and paternal regard for my welfare. For years, he had treated me with marked kindness and consideration, such as a loved daughter might expect from a kind and loving father. For this, I regarded him with the filial affection of a devoted and trusting nature. To leave him now, when stricken with sorrow and apparently with one foot in the grave, was repugnant to my feelings, as it seemed to me that it would be an act of base ingratitude, and yet, it was brought to my ears that people were beginning to make flippant and disrespectful remarks concerning my position. Yet I felt that I could not be so cruel as to forsake him now. The situation was a most trying one to me, as I never for a moment suspicioned that it had been made up for the occasion to influence my feelings. "He continued his importunities under the guise of paternal counsel for my own good as a loved daughter. One day he brought me a newspaper clipping which stated that Raphael Ganoe had died in prison. He seemed to be so grief stricken and depressed, that for many days I feared that he would drop off at any moment, and he seemed so entirely dependent upon me that I dared not leave him for a moment, and yet my position was such that I must necessarily often give place to others, who had no such regard for him as I had. If I were his wife in the eyes of the world, I might do much more for him, and believing that my affianced husband was dead, I at last consented to become his legal wife and the ceremony was performed while he lay as I believed, on his dying bed. "Two hours later, feeling lonely and disconsolate, I had gone into the library and taken a seat in one of the deep windows behind the curtains, where I was hidden from view. "He seemed to have fallen asleep and my long watch was wearing upon me. I was exhausted and took this opportunity for rest and communion with my own thoughts. I soon fell into a reverie, in which the past came up before me like a panorama, and again the fancy I was with my handsome, happy lover--when suddenly I heard voices in the adjoining room where I had left my guardian asleep. A strange voice asked: "'Where is your young wife?' "'Gone to her room to rest,' said my guardian. 'She thinks I am very sick and she has watched by my side, to minister to my pains until she is worn out. I got easy and told her that she might go and rest herself, as I would, now that the pains had ceased for the time, be able to take a long nap. She remained until I was seemingly fast asleep and then she tiptoed out of the room as softly as a cat for fear she would awaken me.' "'You worked it well,' said the stranger, 'but what shall I write to Ganoe? He has written me a long letter engaging my services as his attorney to find out all about Cassie. What shall I say to him?' "'Here,' said my guardian, 'are the letters I have written to him in regard to Cassie's change of mind. You can take your cue from these and be governed accordingly.' "'But,' asked the attorney, 'what if she should suspicion something, and drop a letter to Ganoe into some street box? It might prove to be a serious matter for us if she should learn the truth.' "'I have provided for that,' said my guardian. 'There is a round million in the deal for us, after all the expenses are paid, and no mail can reach him on the ship, without being inspected by a man who has as much interest as we have in preventing him from hearing from Cassie. If a letter should not be intercepted by my agent in the postoffice, which is not likely, it would be intercepted at the ship. So rest easy in regard to this matter. There is no danger; besides she is now my wife, and I have all the legal rights of a husband. But as we want to avoid everything like friction, it is best to prevent Ganoe from returning to America, which will not be difficult if it is managed well.' "'All right,' said the lawyer, 'provided you deal squarely with me. I am the only one who could defeat the plan and of course I will not lose a million to do that.' "'Of course not,' said my guardian, 'and you know that I have even more to lose than you have--a life long reputation for integrity and purity of character, which to a man in my position is worth more than money. It would cut off my income as a favorite administrator on large estates.' "'Well, we are both in the same boat,' laughed the lawyer, 'and we can well afford to trust each other. I guess that now you have recovered from your very serious illness we may expect to hold our conferences at the proper place.' "'Oh certainly,' laughed my guardian, 'and my lovely bride will not object to my being away, as she is in widow's weeds, mourning the untimely death of her first and only love. So, good day. I must rest and take a long and very refreshing nap to account for my unexpected recovery.' "'Just so,' laughed the lawyer, and I heard the door close behind him. "The conversation that I had overheard froze the very blood in my veins. I learned that I had been deliberately deceived and not only robbed of a large fortune, but had been robbed of my affianced husband. Worse than this, I had been induced to take a step that made me false to him and at the same time precluded the possibility of our ever consummating our plighted faith without violating the marriage laws, as under the law I was his aunt and marriage with him would have been a crime, for which under the law I could be imprisoned for a long term of years. "My whole nature arose in revolt against the iniquity that had been perpetrated against me. I determined to find Raphael and explain the whole matter to him. I hastily wrote a note to my guardian and left it where he would be sure to find it, denouncing his treachery and informing him that under no circumstances would I ever enter his door again. "I made my way into the city and disguising myself in male attire I succeeded in finding a position as cabin boy on a steamer bound for Liverpool. I was determined to find Raphael. I kept up the search for nearly fifteen long years, visiting almost every part of the known world, and at last found him at San Francisco, on the eve of starting on an expedition to the north polar regions. Before revealing myself to him I wanted to ascertain beyond any doubt whatever, from his own lips, in just what light he would regard my marriage to his uncle and my subsequent long career on the high seas in male attire. So I applied for a place on the Ice King and succeeded in getting the position of scientist. I cultivated the acquaintance of the Captain, secured his confidence so far that he related to me the story of his life, which gave the opportunity I wanted to draw him out, and soon learned, what I had come to dread, that the prejudices engendered by social usages were stronger than his sense of natural justice, and I heard my own conduct denounced as perfidious and vile. But for the sudden sounding of the alarm I must have fallen at his feet and thus have in all probability revealed my identity. "But I was saved that bitter humiliation and now, after a long and perilous voyage, locked up with him on the same ship, I am at last permitted to pour my tale of woe into sympathetic ears, far away from the land where legal wrongs are honored while natural rights are regarded as disreputable." Oqua had listened to my story without a single interruption, and with a sympathetic interest which drew me closer to her than ever. When I ceased speaking, she looked at me with a puzzled curiosity, which I shall never forget as she remarked: "Your guardian certainly committed a great wrong against you, and under the operation of an awakened conscience, I can well understand that his remorse would be most excruciatingly painful, but you have not committed any wrong, and I do not understand what it is that you are feeling so badly about. The blame all rested with your guardian and the fact that you discovered his perfidy so soon, and at the same time discovered that the man to whom you were the betrothed wife, only awaiting the time set for the consummation, was still living, ought, it seems to me, to have been a source of rejoicing. While the deception practiced upon you was painful to contemplate, it brought with it a certain measure of compensation. Had you failed to make this discovery, you might have unwittingly violated the most sacred obligation, that to your betrothed husband. The wrong might have been much worse." "You have mistaken my meaning," I said. "I was not under that obligation to Raphael that you seem to think. I had only promised to become his wife but I was actually married to another man. Under the circumstances I do not see how the wrong could have been worse, and I, as its innocent victim, was certainly excusable for feeling badly about it. The wonder is how I could bear it at all." "If I was mistaken," said Oqua, "in regard to your relations to Raphael Ganoe, I fear that your explanation of the situation only makes the matter more difficult to understand. I certainly understood you to say that you loved Ganoe and that he loved you, and that you had both agreed to go through life as husband and wife. This you had a perfect right to do, and this agreement constitutes a marriage bond that cannot be set aside without sufficient cause, as long as you both live, and hence you could not become the wife of another man, without violating the most sacred of all obligations. And if by misrepresentation you were induced to enter into any such relation while Ganoe was living and true to you, such relation would be on the face of it, null and void." "But I was married to my guardian," I said. "Actually married. The clerk of the court had issued the license which was a legal permit for us to marry, and the minister pronounced us man and wife according to the solemn rites of the church. My guardian took an obligation to love, cherish and protect and I, an obligation to love, honor and obey; and then the minister invoked the blessing of heaven upon our union and pronounced the solemn warning to all who might object: 'Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.' Yes, I was actually married to Richard Sage, according to law and the sacred rites of the church." "The more you explain, my dear Nequa, the more incomprehensible your ideas of marriage become. You say that you were actually married to Richard Sage. That God joined you together, but before He could do so, a permit had to be granted by the clerk of the court. Yet, in your own soul you repudiated this fraudulent marriage, and for nearly fifteen years you searched for your betrothed husband, to whom you felt bound by the laws which God had implanted in your own soul. To me it seems that this first engagement to Raphael Ganoe was the only true marriage, in which God had joined you together and that the court and the minister united to put you asunder. Your own inner consciousness, the spark of divinity that is in you, forced you to take this view of the transaction. From all the facts, just as you relate them, I must still insist that you were not married to Richard Sage. That the ceremony was a fraud and could not annul your obligations to Raphael Ganoe. Your actions demonstrate, that your own true self, took the same view of the matter, and that when you found your betrothed husband you loyally stood by his side in the hazardous effort to reach the pole, and now you are here with him in this inner world where we regard it as our first duty to accept the true and discard the false in all of our relations to each other, and to the universal system of which we form a part." "I agree with you," I replied, "that my marriage to Richard Sage was false, and that in order to be true to myself and my higher convictions of duty to my absent lover, when I learned that he was still living, I was forced to rend these legal bonds regardless of the consequences; but still, in the eyes of the law, of society and the church, I was the wife of my guardian, the uncle of Raphael Ganoe, and hence his aunt, and as such could never become his wife. Yet I realized that I was united to Raphael in bonds of affection that never could and never should be broken. But all the powers of law, religion, and society were united to hold me to a union secured by deception, which I loathed and abhorred. It was the environments established by this world wide power that held me incarcerated, as it were, in a prison, from which there was no escape but the grave." "Thank you," said Oqua, "for the light which you have thrown on the present state of your outer world civilization. It seems almost incomprehensible that the laws and usages of any people would seek to make right wrong and wrong right, but I can readily turn to a corresponding period in our own history and trace the evolutionary forces which must now be at work among your people. The old institutional life is ever striving to preserve its forms and ceremonies while the advancing spirit of freedom is continually protesting. At first the advocates of the old order, persecute all who protest against its dictum, and this protest in the name of liberty, often only means license. Both extremes are essentially wrong. But the friction between these two elements, in the end will lead to the discovery of the truth upon which both extremes can unite, and this truth will make them indeed free. The manifest progress of the race is in the direction of the truth, and its logical culmination must be the establishment of altruistic conditions in all the relations which exist between individual members of the human family." "Well, I am glad that you have at last penetrated my meaning," I said. "The misunderstanding grew out of my inability to formulate my own thought, so as to adapt it to your Altruistic conceptions. I like the word altruism, but the thought that it expresses is so little understood in the outer world, that the word is, as far as I know, generally excluded from our common school dictionaries, while in this country I find that it forms a necessary part of your every day vocabulary. I realize that all of my troubles grew out of environments which were the legitimate product of the false premises from which we drew our conclusions. In speaking of myself as actually the wife of my guardian I only used the popular phraseology to express the conceptions of the people among whom I was raised. They regarded the license and the ceremony as the actual marriage without reference to the plighted troth of devoted lovers. I only used their language to express their conceptions, while my own were expressed by my actions." "Thank you," said Oqua. "I surmised that you spoke the language of your environments rather than your honest convictions, but I wanted you to say it yourself. You know that I insisted that you should say just what you mean and leave nothing for me to surmise. In all that you have to say, I want you to draw the line clearly between the true and the false, in thought and action, just as you understand the terms, and then we can ascertain where the trouble is and take steps to remove it. You are now in a country where truth alone is recognized as a standard for the regulation of human conduct, and it seems that there ought to be much in the way of mutual explanations between you and Captain Ganoe, and then all will be well." "I dare not risk it," I said. "I thought just as you do when I secured a position on the Ice King, but I deemed it advisable to conceal my identity until I had ascertained in just what light he would regard the course I had taken. The opportunity came as I have already told you and as yet I have discovered no indications that he has in any way modified his views in regard to such matters. I have ascertained beyond a doubt from two years' association with him, that in him all the prejudices of the popular education of the outer world, its laws, usages and religious notions have crystallized. If he knew that I had spent years, associated with men, in the character of Jack Adams, the sailor, his sense of propriety would be shocked, and I should forfeit his respect, which would be something that I could not bear." "I cannot see," said Oqua, "how he could cease to respect you. I know that as the scientist of the Ice King, he entertains the most exalted opinion of your ability, courage and refinement of character." "Yes, Oqua, I doubt not that he respects me as Jack Adams, the sailor. He has given me numerous proofs of that. But as Cassie VanNess in that garb he would regard me as unwomanly and immodest, much below the standard of propriety and respectability of the women of the outer world, with whom he would be willing to associate on terms of equality. Remember that his education, like my own was as far removed as possible from the spirit of altruism. When I left my guardian's home I was penniless, except for an allowance known as 'pin money.' By the marriage ceremony, my fortune had been transferred to Richard Sage. As a woman, I stood no show of being able to acquire a competency, besides I was liable to pursuit and arrest. I had no legal grounds for divorce, and if I had been discovered as the absconding wife of Richard Sage, the multi-millionaire, the courts would have declared me insane, and I would have been incarcerated, most likely for life, in some lunatic asylum. Hence it was from necessity, rather than choice, that I donned male attire and sought employment as a cabin boy. My education, tact and close attention to business led to more lucrative positions which required ability as well as a strict integrity and close application. By rigid economy, I succeeded in accumulating a moderate competence. As a woman I could not have even procured a comfortable subsistence; but I was in male attire, associated with men in all my relations to society, and hence in the eyes of the world my womanly character was under a cloud. For this reason I did not care to reveal my identity to Captain Ganoe until I knew that he would approve the course I had taken. As for myself I was prepared for altruistic principles. My association with the working classes gave me a knowledge of their condition, and I familiarized myself with the best thought of their leaders. But Captain Ganoe had been differently situated. He had continued to move in the narrow circle in which he was born. I had hoped that experience with the world had broadened his views. But I found that I was mistaken. I have studied his feelings and hence have resolved never to give him the opportunity to reproach me for my unwomanly disguise and associations." "How could he reproach you, Nequa, when he realized that it was all for love of him?" "You cannot, my dear Oqua, educated as you were in the most advanced thought of this altruistic civilization, realize the almost irresistible power of prejudices when they have been incorporated into the education of a people for thousands of years. They constitute a race belief, the correctness of which the people seldom, if ever, heard questioned. When I assumed male attire and associated myself with men in the ranks of labor, I knew that I invited not only social ostracism, but laid myself liable to arrest and imprisonment, if my disguise was discovered. And Captain Ganoe as a high spirited gentleman of the old school, could not unite his destinies with such a social out-cast." "But surely," said Oqua, "he will not entertain such mistaken conceptions of honor when he learns that the people of this inner world without an exception, would honor you for your heroic devotion to your bridal troth and regard Captain Ganoe as the most fortunate of men in having such a companion." "That may indeed be true, sometime," I said, "but before I reveal myself to him, I must hear from his own lips such expressions of opinion as will demonstrate that he would not regard the career of Jack Adams, under the circumstances, as unworthy, immodest and unwomanly. There is a deep seated prejudice in the outer world against 'mannish women,' and the donning of male attire is prohibited by law, and what is even worse, it is regarded as positively disgraceful. Hence I must know that he of his own option has abandoned all these prejudices, before I will consent to be known to him as Cassie VanNess." "I believe," said Oqua, "that his association with Altrurians will certainly give him a higher regard for truth and correspondingly weaken the influence of time honored errors. We can very easily ascertain his views and if we should find them adverse, do not be discouraged, for the atmosphere of truth which surrounds him is creative in its influence and will surely establish itself in his mind. An error is powerless to hold anyone in thrall very long where truth is cultivated and free to express itself in thought and action. Truth is eternal and cannot be destroyed, while error is transitory and disappears with the ignorance on which it is based." "I will leave this matter to you," I said, "with this understanding, that to Captain Ganoe I must remain simply Jack Adams, or Nequa, until I know that he approves and appreciates the sacrifices made by Cassie VanNess. I love him too well to be willing to face his disapproval, but knowing the purity of my own purposes, I will never put myself in a position that will imply even in the remotest degree that I was wrong. My self respect forbids this. My heart tells me that I was right and I will never apologize to any human being for the course I have taken, and least of all to Captain Ganoe, for love of whom I have braved the danger of social ostracism as well as the dangers incident to the life of a sailor, from the blistering heat of the tropics to the intense cold of the frigid zones. I certainly could never ask him to forgive me for loving him so well." Oqua threw her arms around my neck and kissed me most affectionately, saying: "My dear Nequa, I knew that I was not mistaken in the estimate that I had placed on your mental and spiritual character. You have a great work to do, not only in the education of our people, but a work for your own people. Intercourse between the inner and outer worlds must be re-opened. In this work much depends upon the crew of the Ice King, as you are the only people among us from the educated classes who have ever penetrated the frozen regions which surround the verges. Our people will of course assist in every way possible. But my dear Nequa, a still greater work depends upon you, more than upon any of the others, in which we can be of but little assistance." "And what is that greater work?" I asked. "And how could I get along without assistance? No matter what I undertake I want you as a tutor. To me it seems, that in this inner world, I have everything to learn, and I must have a teacher at every step." "And I, too," said Oqua, "have much to learn from you. All that I have learned of the outer world came from MacNair and the few books which he saved from the sinking ship. With the Ice King comes a well selected library of standard works and three scholarly, well read people, and from this, I anticipate a most valuable addition to our knowledge, especially of a scientific, geographical and historical character, which has been hidden from the people of the inner world. We have, it seems, made more progress along lines of a social, economic and ethical nature and in mechanical inventions. So while we need that knowledge which can be more readily acquired in the outer world, your people need the lessons taught by our progress along other lines. Our libraries are filled with these lessons and the work evidently marked out for you is to gather this knowledge for the benefit of your own people. In this you will have the cordial co-operation of the scholars of the inner world." "This," I said, "is certainly a work in which I am most anxious to engage, just as soon as I can qualify myself for the task, and I shall certainly need all the help I can get. I do indeed want the people of America, the great republic of the outer world, to learn that the highest ideals of their revolutionary sires, are not mere 'glittering generalities,' but realities, and have been carried out to their logical culmination in this country with the most beneficent results to humanity. To this end, that they should not only learn this most significant fact, but that they should have laid before them a clear and concise statement of the methods that have been used so successfully to produce these results and evolve this wonderful Altrurian civilization. I most keenly realize that it is my duty to accomplish this work for humanity, but when I think of the vast libraries, written in a strange tongue, that must not only be read but studied, in order to trace the operation of the evolutionary forces which have produced these grand results, I am overwhelmed at the contemplation of the magnitude of the task set before me." "Do not be alarmed," said Oqua, "at the multitudinous array of ponderous volumes. These records are only preserved for reference. The scholars of every age have been over them, with the special object in view of condensing and simplifying their lessons, for the benefit of students who could not afford to neglect other studies of the most pressing importance, in order to familiarize themselves with the details of so many thousands of years of history. Hence the lessons of permanent value, such for instance as relate to the social, economic and ethical progress of the people, have been carefully arranged in the form of attractive condensations, with marginal references to the authorities. With these lessons from History, designed for the use of the pupils in our schools, the students can rapidly trace every step in our progress, from the original half-civilized condition down to the present time, and if there is any matter which they wish to examine more closely, the marginal references will direct them to volume and page. So, my dear Nequa, you will find that the greater part of your work which looks so overwhelming, is ready made for you, in our School Concordances. Another thing will help you; these lessons of progress have all been treated in the shape of allegories and historical romances, in order to make them attractive. Perhaps you could not transmit them to your own people in a better shape, than by translating some of the works that bear directly upon what they need to understand. These works trace in a most attractive form the operation of every evolutionary force which has contributed to our Altrurian civilization as you find it to-day." "This, indeed, my dear Oqua, relieves my mind of a load of doubt and apprehension, which amounted almost to a dread, whenever I thought of reading so many ponderous volumes in order to get a clear idea of the forces which have contributed to your present ideal conditions. It also explains to me how it is, that your entire people have such a clear understanding of every economic, social and ethical problem. These things are taught to the children in your primary schools." "Yes," said Oqua, "the blessings of a high state of civilization can only be preserved by educating the children of a country into a comprehensive understanding of the laws of progress, by which these blessings are secured. While a very few can set the machinery in motion by which the masses may be relieved of any burdens that can be imposed upon them, yet unless the children are universally educated in regard to these matters, a few will be able to re-enslave them. These so-called 'great problems' which you inform me are puzzling the brains of your statesmen, ought to be thoroughly understood by the children. Hence we teach these things to children while the mind is the most receptive and the most capable of acquiring knowledge rapidly." "But," I remarked, "it sounds so strange to hear you speak of children thoroughly understanding these questions of world-wide importance, with which the great statesmen of the outer world have grappled for ages, without finding a solution." "Nothing strange about it," said Oqua. "The mind of the child is plastic and is remarkable for the facility with which it receives and retains impressions. When it reaches the adult stage these impressions become crystallized and are hard to change. Hence the importance of starting the child rightly, with correct habits of thought on these vital matters, upon which its future weal, and that of every other human being depends. If the impressions on the mind of the child are erroneous, they are liable to crystallize and be retained through life, no matter how absurd they may be. As an apt illustration of this tendency, I have only to refer to some of the notions which were popular in this country at the time when the old economic system had run its course and was producing widespread poverty and suffering among the people. At that period all of the exchanges among the people were on a money basis, and the few had control of the money while the many were not able to utilize their labor to produce the wealth they needed because they could not get the money to effect the necessary exchanges. The reformers of that time were loud in the demand for more money, while the controlling minds among the majority insisted that the one thing needed was less money so that the money they had would purchase more; and others were equally sure that more tax on products of foreign countries was just the thing to relieve the industrial depression by holding the home market for the products of our own labor. Keep foreign products out by a high tariff and protect home industry, was the doctrine. But we cannot help smiling as we read that these same people who wanted to exclude foreign products from our markets in order to protect our own labor, expected to get revenues from a tax on foreign goods to run the government. It is difficult to imagine at this time that any sane people ever entertained such absurd and self contradictory opinions, but it is nevertheless a fact, as demonstrated by the history of that time. These absurd notions could not have found lodgement in the human mind, if as children, the people had been trained to correct habits of reasoning." "And such," I said, "are the notions which predominate at this time in my own country and the result is, that a few are very rich while the many are hard pressed and poor. The few who protest against this system are denounced as cranks, agitators and dangerous characters." "This is just what might be expected," said Oqua. "Like causes produce like effects. The masses of mankind are always prone to deride and persecute isolated individuals who know more than the mass, which is physically so much more powerful. This is the protest of brute force against mental, moral and spiritual superiority. This was why your Jesus was crucified and this is why your reformers of the present day are denounced as cranks, agitators and dangerous characters. It is an invariable trait of human nature in a certain stage of development." "I have long entertained these same views," I replied, "but the object lessons which can be drawn from your history will cover all these questions and they ought to reach our people with the first announcement of the discovery of this inner world where all the great problems of human development have been solved. I have found your language remarkably easy to learn and from what you say, I expect to find lessons from your history equally easy, but still I need your assistance. I want to make the very best possible use of my opportunities, and to that end, I want the benefit of your experience, observation and knowledge of Altrurian civilization as it is to-day." "Then, to begin," said Oqua, "my work as counsellor, I would advise you to complete your account of the expedition which brought you into this inner world; a brief description of your reception; the civilization you found as it appeared to you at first sight, and the information that you gathered from intercourse with the people in regard to the progressive development of the country from the semi-barbarous conditions which existed in early times. This ought to be sent to the people of the outer world just as soon as possible. It will make an excellent introduction to a series of works consisting of your own observations in regard to the existing educational system, customs of the people and business methods, together with translations from our literature that will be of use to your people. In the preparation of the account of your expedition and your discoveries, you will need no assistance and when it comes to translations from our libraries and travel over the five grand divisions, you will have the help of ripe scholars wherever you go." "Concerning the work here in this inner world," I said, "among such a people, I have no doubt that it will be well done, but how are we to transmit the information across the ice barriers at the verge? I at first had great hopes from your airships, but I find that while they are all right in this serene climate, they would be worse than useless in the stormy atmosphere of the outer world and as at present constructed the occupants could not live an hour in the intense cold of the Frigid Zones." "I do not," said Oqua, "apprehend any insurmountable difficulty from this source. The inventors of the airship know nothing about storms and cold and hence made no provisions for guarding against them. The case is different with arctic explorers. Our inventors have learned how to navigate the atmosphere, with ease and safety. This is the main point. Now you people of the outer world can take up the work where our inventors left off, and construct ships which can ride the storm. I have learned since my return from the Minerva congress, that Captain Battell is working on this problem with good prospects of success. I do not believe that there is anything impossible to the human mind when it acts in harmony with nature's laws. The airship factory at lake Byblis is at your service, with every facility of material, machinery and mechanical skill. All that is needed is a comprehensive understanding of outer world atmospheric conditions, and you brought that knowledge with you. This is all that our inventors needed in order to enable them to construct an airship that would be equal to every emergency." "You give me great encouragement," I said. "Captain Battell has asked me to assist in this work by making experimental voyages to the verges, in order to test the proposed improvements and make observations." "Then all seems to be going well," said Oqua, "but there is no time to lose. You must be gathering materials for your first volume as rapidly as possible for I feel that it will soon be needed. To this end, I want you and Captain Ganoe to go with me to-morrow to Orbitello, to see how business is carried on. What do you think of it?" "Think of it!" I said. "I have been very anxious to take this trip and have only been awaiting your return so that we might have company, who could assist us in our observations." "Then," said Oqua, "we will start early, and I will telephone Polaris and Dione to meet us and bring Battell and Huston. I know that Norrena will be most happy to meet you. He is a walking encyclopedia of knowledge and I know that you will enjoy his acquaintance. But," she added after a moment's hesitation, "you need rest and I will go. Be of good cheer. All is well, and do not forget that there is a wonderful power in truth when it is left free, to remove errors from the pathway of human progress,"--and kissing me good-night, she was gone. CHAPTER XI. AN AIR VOYAGE--CHANGE OF SCENERY--HOMES FOR MOTHERS--EVOLUTION FROM COMPETITIVE INDIVIDUALISM--THE MOUNTAINS--BATTELL JOINS US--ORBITELLO--A PERPETUAL WORLD'S FAIR--DEPARTMENT OF EXCHANGE--THE BUSINESS OF A CONTINENT--NORRENA--PUBLIC PRINTING--THE COUNCIL--ALL MATTERS SUBMITTED TO THE PEOPLE--LIBRARY OF UNIVERSAL KNOWLEDGE. [Illustration] EVERY preparation had been made for our proposed voyage into the interior and as the sun appeared from behind the eastern edge of the southern verge we were embarking on the airship. Our party consisted of MacNair, Iola, Oqua, Captain Ganoe and myself. I took my place at the helm with MacNair and told him that I wanted to take lessons in aerial navigation. He kindly explained the use of the electric keyboard which controlled the machinery, and I found it so simple that I felt no need of an instructor. In this placid atmosphere all I had to do was to set the ship in the direction we wanted to go and turn on the power until we reached the speed at which we desired to travel. All the motions of the vessel were under absolute control. I found that the steering apparatus could be readily adjusted to overcome a light wind, and reasoned that the same principles would enable us to ride the storm. This first practical experience in aerial navigation gave me confidence. Our course was a little north of west, and we were soon leaving the great communal agricultural district which we now regarded as our home. According to our reckoning it was now the 1st of February and I had begun to figure whether it would be possible for us to be ready to attempt the proposed journey to the outer world during the northern summer. If we did, it would certainly require intense application. These thoughts were continually running through my mind, and they spurred me up to gather all the information possible for the book that I was preparing. The country over which we were passing was still agricultural, but the surface was more broken and the general arrangements were changed accordingly, presenting to our vision an agreeable variety. We still saw the magnificent communal homes with correspondingly large areas of cultivated lands, but we also saw cottages gathered into groups, with large public buildings which MacNair informed us were schools, public halls, homes for the aged, hospitals, and especially homes for prospective mothers who felt that the ideal conditions which these homes afforded would secure the best possible development of their offspring. I was forcibly struck by the number and grandeur of these homes for mothers. I had noticed that every communal home had its department for the care of mothers, and now I found that the grandest structures that I had ever seen were devoted exclusively to this purpose. In reply to my inquiries I was informed that this care for motherhood was a universal feature throughout the inner world. But in this, as in everything else, liberty prevails. The mother is always free to select her own conditions. Many prefer these large public homes which are exclusively under the control of women, while others, with different temperaments, prefer greater exclusiveness in their own apartments, but all alike make this period of prospective motherhood, one in which all the environments are calculated to produce the best possible pre-natal influences upon the unborn child. For this purpose, different temperaments require different surroundings. The impressions produced by beautiful scenery and social enjoyments on one, may be more readily produced by reading, lectures, music and intellectual entertainments on another. The unperverted taste of the mother is always accepted as a sure guide to what is best in each case, and the best is always provided. While the country over which we were passing did not have the same artificial appearance as if laid out by one uniform pattern, like that where we had been located since our arrival in Altruria, I still noticed the general tendency of the people to get together in large communities. We passed over large districts of wild lands which afforded ample opportunities for isolated homes but nowhere did we see anything of the kind. This induced Captain Ganoe to ask if there was any law against people getting out by themselves and cultivating these wild lands. "Nothing but the natural law," said Oqua, "which impels people to do that which is the most conducive to their happiness. The people of this country do not like drudgery and they have learned by experience that in order to avoid drudgery, they must work together on a large scale, as one family, each for all and all for each. In the olden time, people in their ignorance scattered into single families consisting of a man and wife and their children. They wasted their energies in their isolated efforts, and were at the mercy of the few who had the intelligence to work together. When the masses became more intelligent they gathered into communities and co-operated with each other to make the most out of their labor and to avoid the payment of tribute to speculators who did not work at all. They soon found that they could not possibly consume all that they were able to produce and they began to work less and enjoy more." "But," asked the Captain, "have you no arrangement by which a man and his wife could get out on these wild lands and make a home for themselves?" "We certainly have no arrangement," said Oqua, "that would prevent their doing so. But if they should try such an experiment it would not last long. As soon as they found themselves toiling incessantly to procure a bare subsistence, while the great masses in the communities were spending eleven-twelfths of their time in the enjoyment of rest and pleasurable recreations, they would seek admission into a large communal home, where all who are willing to perform their share of the labor are welcome." "But," said the Captain, "you say that the people of this country once lived in isolated homes. The people in the outer world do so now, and they feel that to be the best possible condition for the development of the highest qualities. How were the individualists of this country persuaded to give up their individual holdings and accept in lieu thereof a community interest in the products of their own labor?" "They outgrew their preconceived opinions," said Oqua. "Among the reformers of the olden time none were more earnest than a large and very intelligent class of individualists, who believed that the people ought to own the land, and that the individual holder ought to pay the community for its use, in proportion to its value as land, not counting the value of the improvements. These reformers agreed to the abolition of land titles, and in accordance with the doctrines which they had promulgated long and earnestly, they took their lands in severalty and paid the community a tax for its use. As individualists, they could not object to other people forming communities and having all things in common. But when they discovered how much more they had to work than their neighbors, they were true to their own interests and joined the communities where their labor became so much more effective. They found that instead of sacrificing any of their individual rights by so doing, they actually made those rights more valuable by being relieved of drudgery. The land tax to the community was abolished in the course of time, and then any individual might take a homestead and cultivate it in his own way without being taxed for the privilege of doing so, but this right is never exercised, as it would deprive the individuals thus setting up for themselves, of free access to the common wealth of the community, and the common advantages which belong to community life. They could only enter the communal homes as guests and strangers, and while free entertainment is never refused, proud spirited individualists would never think of securing a subsistence by visiting around. They would naturally prefer doing their share of the work to create the common stock. And hence our individualists are all in our communal homes and have no desire for individual holdings of any kind. Their community interest in the common wealth is worth vastly more to them than all the wealth that they could create by individual effort." "But," asked the Captain, "do you permit no private ownership of property at all in these communities?" "Yes, we do," said Oqua. "All persons may accumulate property which they create by personal labor, if they wish to burden themselves with the care of it. But as there is an abundance in the common stores to supply every want, there is no motive for the private ownership of anything but personal belongings which are ordinarily of no value to anyone else. Members of the community may have anything they need out of the common stock and intelligent people would not encumber themselves with the care of more than they have a use for. The greed for the accumulation of property which I am informed is so prevalent in the outer world, if manifested here would be taken as an evidence of insanity and would be treated accordingly. It is very difficult for the average Altrurian to realize that people should ever desire to hoard up wealth which it is impossible for them to consume. But when we scan the pages of our early history at the time when legal money was the medium of exchange and the standard of value, the people made a mad scramble for money, in which they disregarded every interest of humanity." We were now approaching a region where art and nature seemed to have united in one mighty and persistent effort to excel each other in the entrancing beauty and rugged grandeur that could be added to the picture. On either side was a broad expanse of cultivated lands, interspersed with parks, lawns and ornamented grounds, which revealed the work of the most artistic landscape gardeners. Beneath us the Cocytas meandered its way toward the distant ocean, between its wooded shores, like a shining pathway of silver, while before us the great continental divide with its towering mountain peaks piercing the clouds, closed our view towards the west. At one moment we were admiring the rugged grandeur of this lovely mountain chain and at another entranced by the beauty of the highly ornamented landscape, where art had improved upon nature. Take it all in all, the scenery presented to our view from the cabin of our airship, sailing at a height of several thousand feet, was sublime, beyond the power of words to describe. As we neared the mountains, MacNair took charge of the ship and made a detour toward the south, which brought into view the mighty canon through which the Cocytas reaches the plain. On either side were mountain torrents dashing over the rocks on their way to join the waters of the deep flowing river. Here, nature in all her majesty revealed her titanic powers. But suddenly another scene opened upon our vision, in which art revealed itself as master of all the forces of nature. It was more like a city than anything we had seen since leaving San Francisco. And yet it was very much unlike any city I have ever seen. I was bewildered by its sudden appearance upon this wonderful panorama of nature and art which seemed to hold us spell bound. Palatial buildings in white and silver appeared in every direction, surrounded by highly ornamented grounds. No smoke, no dust and no miserable shanties to remind us of the poverty and misery which characterized the cities of the outer world. In the distance, it presented a panorama of beauty and grandeur, more like the paintings of a gorgeous midsummer dream, than any real achievement of human skill and human taste. It was more like the fancied abode of the gods than the dwelling place of men. This was Orbitello, and as it lay spread out before us, it presented a scene beyond my powers of description. It was located on an elevated plateau and almost enclosed within a bend of the river, which flows around it on three sides, the west, south and east, like a silver highway, over which electric yachts of almost every size and description were gliding. It was a dream of beauty that once seen, could never be erased from the memory. "This," said MacNair, "is our continental headquarters. Here, was at one time a large city, but every remnant of the old structures was removed long ago. The location, however, is so central that it was selected as our chief center of business for all the departments of the public service. It is a favorite gathering place for large numbers of people from all parts of the world. Hence the number of buildings for the accommodation of visitors. It is in fact a perpetual World's Fair, a miniature picture of the world as it is to-day. There is no better place to study the civilization of the inner world in all its phases." MacNair was interrupted by a familiar voice with the well remembered "Ship Ahoy!" and as we turned around to see from whence it came, another airship came alongside, and we exchanged greetings with our old shipmates, Battell and Huston, and our saviors, as we called them, Polaris and Dione, who both addressed us in English. "Please speak Altrurian," I said. "I have abandoned English except in cases of emergency, as I am anxious to perfect myself in the use of your native tongue. Remember that I have become a citizen of Altruria, and have no desire to perpetuate the use of a foreign language." "And we," replied Polaris, "want to perfect ourselves in the use of English, as we want to visit America and talk like natives, just as soon as a ship can be constructed that will enable us to navigate the frozen regions without being frozen ourselves." "And one," I responded, "that can hold to its course with a side wind of a velocity from fifty to one hundred miles an hour." "Have no fears on that score," interposed Battell. "We have the principal parts of the machinery completed, and all that remains to be done, is for you to take a trial trip to the southern verge and see how it will work in a storm, and in the meantime we will try our hands at constructing one that will be proof against the cold of a polar winter. Better go to the southern verge now, while it is comparatively temperate and test our improvements in a gale." "All right," I said. "I am willing. But who will go with me? I ought to have the assistance of someone who could not only stand the exposure, but be able to make observations. It will keep one person busy to manage the ship during a storm, no matter how perfect your machinery may be." "I suggest," said Battell, "that you take Lief and Eric, who are first-class mechanics as well as scientists. This is their request, and it ought to be granted. We need both Huston and Captain Ganoe, to assist in the construction of a cold proof vessel. This is the plan of work that I suggest. How will it suit you?" "Anything suits me that looks toward success," I said. "Since you have already completed the inventions that I had contemplated, it is but fair that you dictate how they should be used until we can improve on your improvements, which, by the way I hope may not be necessary." "Oh yes, it will," said Battell. "Just as soon as there is no room for improvement, everything will be perfect, and with nothing to do, nothing to live for and no improvements to make, constituted as we are now, we would very likely be just as unhappy, as we are now anxious to improve the airship or to accomplish any other object that is dear to us. This is a working world and we are workers, and when there is no work to do, there will be no use for us on our present plane of development." "You talk like a philosopher," I said. "One would think you had graduated from an Altrurian university." "So I have," said Battell. "Were you not talking Altrurian philosophy all the time we were together on the Ice King? So I was to some extent prepared for what we have found in this highly developed country." "But what's the matter?" I asked, as Battell's airship came to a full halt, and seemingly began to fall. Before I recovered from my surprise, it had settled lightly on the top of a stupendous structure, and MacNair was evidently aiming for the same place, as he set our ship to circling around in the way I have often described. I had seen the practical workings of one of Battell's improvements, and could not help seeing that it was an undoubted success. The mechanism that would control the vessel while dropping toward the earth, seemed to me, more difficult of construction than that which would hold it on its course against contrary side winds. A minute later and we had reached the surface. Polaris, and her crew, so to speak, had disembarked and we had a cordial handshaking, and then took a stroll around the roof of this immense building. Everything about it seemed to indicate that it was especially designed for the accommodation of business on a gigantic scale. It was built of the semi-transparent material which we had found so common in the district where we had made our homes. The cornice, windows and doors were trimmed with aluminum, which gave it a peculiar grandeur of appearance. MacNair, who was ever ready to make explanations, informed us that this was the Continental Department of Exchange through which all the commercial transactions between the various districts throughout the continent were carried on. This was the chief center of distribution, and bore the same relation to the continent, that the District Exchange bore to the several communities of which it was composed. The community stores made the actual distribution of products to the people. These larger exchanges, District and Continental, did not really handle the products at all, but collected the orders from the consumers and sent them direct to the communities where the goods were wanted, in this way saving very much unnecessary labor in handling and transportation. The actual exchange of commodities was always direct between the producers and the consumers. I did not quite comprehend all this, but it prepared me for the object lesson which was to come. I was keenly alert to everything that was to be seen and heard, as it was valuable material for the book which I now felt sure I would be able to lay before the people of the outer world. It was now noon, and MacNair suggested that it was about time for dinner. "No doubt," he said, "your fifteen hundred miles of travel has given you an appetite." And suiting the action to the suggestion, we all stepped upon an elevator, and descended to the largest dining hall I had ever seen. It seemed that thousands of people were seated at the tables, quietly conversing and enjoying their midday meal. We seated ourselves at a vacant table and Oqua said: "I shall order for all, as our American visitors are not yet perfectly familiar with our customs." And manipulating a button at her side, I was surprised to see the center of the table disappear, but it reappeared before I had sufficiently recovered my equilibrium to ask questions, and it was loaded with the most tempting viands. Oqua explained that these central tables which carried the food stood on the top of an elevator that connected with the kitchen below. That when an order was received, a table was already prepared to take the place of the one which the elevator brought down. Everything moved with quiet celerity; no bustling waiters, and no waiting for orders to be filled. After dinner we passed into a large sitting room, elegantly furnished with chairs, divans, sofas, etc., splendidly upholstered. I noticed chairs and divans on wheels and asked MacNair for an explanation, and he replied: "These chairs are moved by electricity, supplied by storage batteries just under the seats. You apply the power by pressing a button on the arm by your side, and guide them with your feet. You will often find them in use, particularly in large places like Orbitello, where travelers coming in fatigued, and people on business with the various departments, having many places to go, need some easy means of locomotion. In the olden time, waiters used to push these chairs around by hand, but with the advent of electricity, electric motors were substituted, and now the people who use these chairs need no such assistance, and all the chair-men have to do is to see that the chairs are returned to their proper place." After a little instruction we found no difficulty in going where we pleased in our chairs, and regulating their direction and speed with perfect ease. This novel experience was so agreeable that we decided to visit the leading points of interest in these electric chairs. The first place to visit was the business offices of this great Continental Exchange. We took our places in a large elevator room and passed down to the office of the Commissioner of Exchange. On either side of the great hall were shelves containing large books in which we were informed, were statistics of production that are sent in from every district twice a year, at the close of each crop season. These records show just how much surplus each district has for exchange, and of what it consists. This information is for the Order and Supply Department which is on the same floor, toward which we were directing our chairs. Here we entered a long hall, on either side of which were arranged desks and electrical instruments. The clerks in attendance, each represented a district, and were selected by the districts to fill these positions because of their intimate knowledge of the wants of their several localities and of the surplus they had for exchange. The District Commissioners sent their orders to their own clerk which was written out by telautograph on his own desk. The order was at once transmitted by the same method, to the district having the surplus, through its own clerk, and a duplicate of these orders to the Record Department. These orders when received from the District Commissioners were transmitted to the communities having the surplus. The Community Department of Exchange then shipped it directly to the place where it was needed. Under this system of distribution, products passed directly from the producer to the consumer and were never handled but once. The producers held their surplus in their own possession until they had orders from consumers by whom it was needed. The Commissioner of Exchange at Orbitello had a tabulated report of the surplus held by each district, and each district had its clerks in the Order and Supply Department of the Continental Exchange. When an agricultural district wanted machinery, musical instruments, furniture, clothing, etc., the order for the same was transmitted to its own clerk in the Department of Exchange and it was at once sent to the district, or districts, having a surplus of the products needed. And when a Manufacturing District needed food supplies the orders were sent to the clerk in the Continental Exchange and the order was transmitted to the nearest agricultural district that had a surplus for exchange. Under this system of organized exchange, if any district found that it had a surplus accumulating in its warehouses for which there was no demand, this was all the notice required that a time had come to curtail production in that particular line. From what we could see of the workings of this system, by going through this department, we could readily see how the law of supply and demand, if permitted to act freely with no artificial restrictions, would be a perfect regulator in the world of commerce. Neither would there ever be, under this Altrurian system of exchange, a glut in the market at one place while there was a scarcity at another. "You see here," said MacNair, "a business house which handles the trade of a continent, containing over two hundred millions of people. All the products of the soil, the shop, the factory and the mine, are practically bought and sold in this establishment, and yet without any of the excitement and bustle, hard work and worry, which characterize the comparatively diminutive business houses of New York and London." "I see evidences," I remarked, "of a most admirable business system on a stupendous scale. But the question that will be asked in the outer world will be, How are these goods paid for and how are the prices fixed and the accounts adjusted without money? This is what the people of the outer world will want to understand. I am asking more for them than for myself." "Nothing difficult about it," said MacNair. "Product pays for product here just as it actually does in the outer world, but under co-operation, the elements of interest, profit and rent have been eliminated. The price of an article is fixed by the amount of labor expended in its production and distribution. This of course only applies to such commodities as are in demand. A great deal of labor might be expended in the production of something that no one wanted. Such labor would be wasted here as it would be anywhere else." "I had thought of this contingency," I replied, "but was not seeking a difficulty. I referred only to such articles of necessity, comfort and luxury as the consumers wish to secure. How are the prices fixed, what is the standard and how are balances settled?" "These questions," said MacNair, "are well put, to draw out a concise, as well as a comprehensive statement of our business methods. We readily ascertain by statistics, the average number of minutes, hours and days of labor invested in the production of every commodity which enters into common use. This includes the labor invested in the necessary transportation, superintendence and distribution. Hence in our accounts, the value of products of all kinds are credited and debited as given amounts of labor. This is what in the outer world would be called the price. A given number of hours of labor in one branch of useful service to society is worth just the same number of hours of labor in some other branch, and the exchange is made on that basis. The one primary object of this system of exchange is to secure equal and exact justice to all." "But how are all these numerous employes on your railroads, in your stores and the various departments of industry paid?" asked Captain Ganoe. "Very easily," said MacNair. "The people produce all the supplies and render all the service, and the people enjoy all the benefits. This is about all there is of it. We produce what we consume, and consume what we produce, without paying tribute to anyone else for the privilege of exercising these natural rights, as the people in the outer world are forced to do." "But," said the Captain, "would you have me infer that all these expert clerks and accountants, and the commissioner who superintends all this business do not receive any more than the laborers on the farms and in the shops, factories and mines?" "Why should they get more than people who are engaged in laborious occupations?" asked Iola. "They get all they can consume. If they should use a little more or less no one cares. They can have all they want without working any more hours than other people and I cannot understand how they could use any more food or clothing without ruining their health or making themselves very uncomfortable. I cannot conceive of any person wanting to eat more food or wear more clothes, because he or she is employed in some position of trust. Can you, Captain Ganoe?" "I admit," replied the Captain, "that your question is a poser. And this is not the first time that I have been puzzled by your remarks. I do not say that you are wrong; but I never heard questions handled in this way until I drifted into this inner world. I can only say that I am bewildered and while I do not comprehend your philosophy I do admire your civilization." "And," responded Iola, "I cannot comprehend how anyone can admire our civilization without accepting our philosophy. The civilization of a people is only reducing to practice, the mental and moral concepts of the people. Our civilization is the logical outcome of our philosophy. People always think first and act afterward. Our philosophy is what we think, and our civilization is the result of what it induces us to do." "Well," said the Captain, "it has certainly induced your people to do many things that would look very strange in the outer world, but which seem to work rightly here." Oqua, who had quietly dropped out of our party without being observed, now joined us, accompanied by a man of commanding appearance. He was about six feet, four inches in height, brown hair, full beard, blue eyes, fair complexion and a high intellectual forehead. Oqua introduced him as Norrena, Chief of the Continental Department of Education. His address was most gentle, pleasing and kind, but firm and decided. Turning to me he said: "I had hoped to have an opportunity to make the acquaintance of Jack Adams, the scientist of the Ice King, but Oqua tells me that I must be content with Nequa, the teacher. She informs me that you are preparing a book to be published in your own country, and to that end you are making a close study of our civilization." "That is true," I said, "and she has spoken to me of you as one who could render me great assistance, in gathering the lessons that would be of the most value, in our transition from competition to co-operation." "I shall gladly render you any assistance in my power," he said, "but what you can see here of our completed system of co-operation in every department of human endeavor, will be indispensable to a clear comprehension of the lessons to be drawn from the history of our own Transition Period." "Thank you," I said. "And I would be pleased to have you show me through the departments, and call my attention to such features as will be of the greatest advantage for me to understand just at this time." "That is the same request that was made by Oqua, as it would take a long time for you to find just what you want without the assistance of someone who is familiar with all the departments and who also understands the nature of the work in which you are engaged. To begin, we will now visit the Department of Public Printing and News Distribution." We now dispensed with our electric chairs, as we felt the need of exercise. As we emerged from the Exchange building, Norrena took the lead, and conducted us into another stupendous structure, devoted to the Public Printing and the Distribution of News to all parts of the world. The upper story was an immense auditorium, where public meetings of unusual proportions could meet and have ample room, and where the acoustic properties were so scientifically adjusted, that all could hear the speaker in ordinary tones of voice. Norrena conducted us first into the press room, where printed sheets were being turned out with a rapidity I had never before witnessed. These passed on an endless belt into the binding department and from thence in completed form to the mailing rooms for distribution. Everything seemed to move with the same quiet celerity that we had noticed in the Exchange Department. From the press rooms we ascended in an elevator to the composing department, where we found a number of machines turning out stereotype plates, but no operators were anywhere in sight. Norrena informed me that the machines were operated on the same principle as the telautograph, or writing telegraph, and with the multiplex system of transmission, an expert could operate a number of these machines in different parts of the world at the same time. The matter for publication, was thus delivered in the composing room in the shape of plates ready for the presses. But the most interesting and important feature of this great publishing house is the manner of collecting and distributing news. The News Department is connected by telegraph with news offices throughout the world and is continually receiving items of general interest, which are classified and distributed by the same means to the people in every home throughout the continent. The printed pages are of matter of a more permanent character, which is regarded as worthy of preservation. Copies of new books are sent to similar establishments in the other grand divisions and by them reproduced and placed in their local libraries where all have access to them. This free distribution of intelligence to the whole people is under the direct control of the Department of Education. During the meetings of the Altrurian Council, this department has another important duty to perform. The council, through this department, is practically, at all times, in communication with the majority of the people. When a matter of public interest has been carefully discussed pro and con, it is formulated and transmitted to every community where the people are interested, a vote is then taken at once, and the result transmitted to the council. By this means, a majority of the people can be heard from in regard to any matter of importance in a few hours. The people are at all times familiar with the matters which are being considered by the council, and are prepared to respond promptly. The communities ordinarily have decided any important question in their minds before it is submitted to them and reply at once. I could readily see how, under an advanced state of civilisation, direct government by the people is not only practicable, but remarkable for its simplicity and promptness of execution. The council acts upon all matters in which two or more districts are interested and the matter is formulated and submitted at once to the people of such districts for their approval or disapproval. But in any matter of great importance the people are not compelled to wait for the regular meeting of the council, but may by the action of the communities place the matter before the executive committee which meets every day, and it becomes their duty to submit the question to a vote of the people. In this way, under this system, the people can always secure prompt action, as it is the duty of their officials to serve, but not to govern, as they do in the outer world. If a public improvement is agreed upon, the districts and communities interested, make an appropriation of necessary material and labor, and the work is pushed forward. In all things this great council is advisory in its character and the executive committee only takes such action as the people have agreed upon, and when any matter has been agreed upon the executive power acts at once without question. The will of the people is the law which no one ever assumes to question. We passed rapidly through a large number of magnificent structures, filled with exhibits of all kinds. In Machinery Hall were samples of every conceivable mechanical device. Another vast building was devoted to textile fabrics of all kinds. Every industry had its exhibit. All the great Grand Divisions had similar buildings. Everywhere, accommodating attendants were ready to show us anything and give us any information we wished. And one remarkable thing was, that while every one seemed anxious to display the goods on exhibition, no one ever tried to sell us anything, as would have been the case in the outer world. Here, as MacNair said, was indeed a miniature picture of a world. I could write a volume on each one of these great buildings without exhausting the subject. But for the present I had seen enough and requested Norrena to conduct us next to the Library of Universal Knowledge which was the most highly finished and imposing of all these palatial structures. It was built of the usual semi-transparent material which shut out the direct rays of the sun while it admitted a mellow radiance rendering artificial light as a rule unnecessary. We took an elevator to the top where we began our survey of the contents. Elevators at frequent intervals connected every story. A description of one story would in a general way apply to all the others. Each floor is divided longitudinally into three halls or suites of rooms. The central division is ordinarily a single hall fifty feet in width by six hundred in length, and in these central halls are stored all the books, papers and relics of the past. Also specimens of ores, metals, alloys and compounds of everything that goes to make a complete museum of natural history, and scientific methods in chemistry and the mechanic arts. Different stories are given to Archeology, Ethnology, Geology, Chemistry, Electricity, etc., and constitute a most instructive feature of this Library of Universal Knowledge. The divisions on either side are given up to reading rooms, lecture halls and schools for culture in technical branches that can be studied to better advantage here in this vast library than elsewhere. In the reading rooms, which are always open to the public, full catalogues are always kept for visitors, and courteous attendants are ever ready to give any information and procure any book that may be needed. Books are all numbered and catalogued, so the visitor has but to press the number on an electric keyboard, and it is delivered at once by a pneumatic tube. The attendants return the books to their proper places in the same rapid and quiet manner. No noise, bluster, or confusion anywhere. Everything is reduced to system, and moves along like clock work. Instruction is free in any of the technical schools, to all who apply and submit to the rules. These schools embrace every specific branch of study, and are usually patronised by graduates from the public schools who desire to perfect their knowledge of some specific branch in order to be better qualified for a special calling. Here, can be studied under the most favorable conditions, the progressive development of a world, illustrated at every step by the relics indicative of its status which are carefully preserved in the museums, thus tracing in the most instructive and satisfactory manner, the progress of the people from their primitive condition of barbarians to their present high state of culture. I saw at a glance that this was the place where my contemplated work of investigation, into the practical methods which had enabled the people of this country to develop such ideals, could be prosecuted under the most favorable conditions. I determined to make good use of these facilities for gathering the ripened sheaves of human thought in every age and condition of life, for the benefit of the people of my own native land. In the lower story, we passed into the department where new publications are received and catalogued. The first thing that attracted my attention was the translations from the library of the Ice King, which seemed to have the right of way over everything else. Among these translations, I noticed the American Cyclopedia, Ridpath's History of the World, the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, histories of the United States and the leading countries of the world, together with a selection of works on polar exploration, and a number of scientific works. I was astonished at the progress that had been made, but Norrena informed me that, under their system, a work could be translated almost as fast as it could be read, and that the work had been divided between the scholars of all the grand divisions. I asked Norrena if there was much demand for these translations of outer world literature, and he replied: "Yes, the orders from each grand division, amount to millions, and they can be translated in all parts of the concave as rapidly as the presses can turn them out. This is especially true of everything pertaining to America, whose history up to date is so similar to the early stages of our own." "But," I said, "with the usual large attendance at the reading rooms, one volume will do for a number of persons, and I should think that would greatly decrease the demand." "That is true," said Norrena, "but all have an equal right to be served, and this addition to our knowledge of the outer world is in such great demand, that all want to be supplied at the same time." "Of course that is impossible," I said, "and so I suppose that with all your improved methods many will be compelled to wait." "Not so very many," said Norrena. "All may not be able to get books, but all who desire to do so can hear them read." "How," I asked, "can that be, when millions are asking to hear them read all at once?" "Not so very difficult," he replied, "when we use the multiplex phonograph. One reader can be heard all over the concave. A vast number would rather listen to a good reader, than to read themselves, and as the voice of this reader can be connected with a large number of phonograph reading rooms at the same time, in each such room, as many can listen as can be seated." "You astonish me," I said. "Will you please explain how this is done?" "I will do more than that," he said. "I will show you how it is done. Come with me." I followed him into a large room, where I found, I should think, from two to three hundred people, composedly sitting in chairs, or reclining on sofas and divans, with phonographic attachments in their ears. "These," said Norrena, "are all listening to readers at Lake Byblis who are assisting in the translation of these works. They are using these attachments in the ears because they are not all listening to the same matter. This is a fair sample of what is going on in every room of this character, throughout the concave. A large number of professional readers are employed who are connected by telephone and phonograph with every home and reading room in all parts of the country. By such means you see that we can disseminate knowledge almost simultaneously, to all who are most anxious for it. The demand for printed books is mainly from libraries and reading rooms, public and private. The masses of the people at this time are spending much of their ample leisure, in listening to the reading of this new addition to our literature. It will not be long, before the most industrious, intellectually, have absorbed, to a considerable extent this most valuable addition to our knowledge, and then a very large number will apply themselves to the study of the English language, so that they may be able to judge for themselves as to the accuracy of the translations." "I see from your admirable system of distributing knowledge that there must be an extraordinary demand to be supplied." "Nothing extraordinary for us," said Norrena. "The demand is steady with a tendency to increase. Our people are all workers who have enough physical exercise to keep their bodies in good condition, and this stimulates the mind to demand food, which it is our duty to provide." "Do you not often find this difficult?" I asked. "Not at all," he replied. "In this, as in the supply of food for the body, the quantity is always ample where the operations of natural law are not antagonized in the administration of public business. We have ample facilities for gathering news, and everyone who has a thought to express finds an opportunity to do so. There is a steady supply which we distribute alike to all. This demand for mental food is even more pressing than the demand for physical nourishment. The real man and the real woman are not their physical bodies, but the living souls which occupy these bodies, and it is the duty of this department of the public service to provide these souls with the staff of life, which is knowledge." Before leaving the library, Norrena requested us to record our names on the visitor's book. We complied, and then continued our rambles until I, for one, was utterly exhausted, and asked to be excused from further exercise. "Then," said Norrena, "we will retire to the Department of Public Comfort, where I have my private rooms, and while you are resting, we can talk over plans for the future, or other matters that may demand attention. I am much interested in this move to improve the airships with a view to opening up a line of communication with the outer world." "And," I remarked, "I am, if possible, more interested in the completion of my book in time for it to go to the United States by the first airship, for publication. And I want it to contain every lesson of importance to our people that can be gleaned from the present condition and the past history of the people of this country." As we were speaking, Norrena hailed a passing electric carriage, and in a few minutes we were landed at the grandest hotel I had ever entered in my life. I could see at a glance why it was called the Department of Public Comfort. Every facility for the comfort and enjoyment of guests was provided. But the dimensions assigned to this volume will not permit a description. I need only say that all its appointments were complete, for the accommodation of thousands of guests. While each of the department buildings had its own arrangements for accommodating its own force of employes and its own guests, this Department of Public Comfort was designed more especially for guests from other Grand Divisions. Here, the heads of departments of all the Grand Divisions held their conferences; and here the continental heads of departments very appropriately had their headquarters. After supper, Norrena informed me that on the morrow, he would devote an hour to oral lessons at the institute of district school superintendents and that his subject would be the History of the Transition Period. "This," he explained, "covers that period in the history of Altruria which marks the decline and fall of the old system of competition and the introduction of co-operative methods. It may be just what you want in the way of lessons from history. If you think that you do not yet understand our language well enough to fully comprehend all the points, I will provide you with a translation into English." I thanked him for his interest in my work and assured him that while I wanted to hear him in his own tongue, if he could provide me with the same matter in English, it would help me to a better understanding of the language of the country, and that certainly I did not want to miss any point of real value in the subject matter. CHAPTER XII. THE INSTITUTE OF SCHOOL SUPERINTENDENTS--NORRENA'S ADDRESS ON THE TRANSITION PERIOD--FROM COMPETITION TO CO-OPERATION--THE CLOSING DECADES OF MONEY SUPREMACY--THE POWER OF GOLD--ITS CONQUEST OF THE WORLD--POLITICAL GOVERNMENTS ITS TOOLS--THE PEOPLE HELPLESS--A HINT AT THE WAY OUT. AT an early hour we were up and had our breakfast. I felt that my journey to Orbitello and the hasty glance through the leading departments had been the most instructive day I had ever experienced. But I was not surfeited, and looked forward with interest to the meeting of the Institute of School Superintendents and especially to Norrena's oral lessons from the Transition Period of the great Industrial Commonwealth of Altruria. We met in the Auditorium over the Department of Public Printing. Many had already arrived and were gathered into groups in various portions of the vast hall conversing with each other. I took a seat on one side by myself to contemplate the scene before me. I was by nature a student, and here I was among, as it were, a nation of competent instructors, and in a country where everything demonstrated the power to control the great potent forces which govern the external world, and the innate force of our higher moral and spiritual concepts of what should be our relations toward each other in order to convert this earth into a heaven of blissful, happy contentment. I was among a people who universally regarded "an injury to one as the concern of all," and hence health, happiness and abundance for all was their normal condition. I could hardly realize that this country had once been the abode of poverty and all of its consequences of ignorance, vice and crime; that here where equal rights, equal opportunities and an equal share in the unlimited abundance which nature places within the easy reach of intelligent labor were the universal and unquestioned law of being, there had once been a grasping and cruel financial and commercial power that condemned the wealth-producing millions to lives of unrequited toil. But such, I was repeatedly told, had been the fact, and Norrena, at this meeting was to give an oral lesson from that period and describe the power that had oppressed and degraded the people in those early ages. But a short time had gone by since my first meeting with these people and yet I had become thoroughly absorbed in their mental, moral and spiritual life. I felt myself to be to all intents and purposes one of them. What was it that had so entirely taken possession of my consciousness? In all my life I had never felt so completely at home, and at peace with myself and all the world. I was fully satisfied. Norrena broke in upon my reverie by asking: "What is it Nequa, that so absorbs your attention that you seem to be utterly oblivious of the presence of this large assemblage of teachers from all parts of the country to talk over the history of the olden time when 'wealth accumulated and men decayed?' Have you forgotten what I told you last evening? Oqua will report the lesson from the Transition Period in English for you and you can afford to give some attention to your old friends, Iola, MacNair, Polaris, Dione and your comrades of the Ice King." I looked around and found that while I had been musing, our party had all gathered near me without attracting my attention and I said apologetically: "I must have been dreaming." "Then you were dreaming with your eyes wide open," said Oqua. "I noticed that you seemed to be unusually absorbed. What were you thinking about?" "I was pondering," I replied, "how it was possible that this country could ever have been cursed with poverty as the normal condition of the masses of the people while the few were rich beyond the dreams of avarice, and held those masses bound by fetters that they could not break." "It is now time for the exercises to commence," said Norrena. "I will explain the mystery in my address, at least so far as the leading factors are concerned, for in its entirety it is indeed a long and ghastly picture of human ignorance on one side and human greed directed by a morally perverted human intelligence on the other." The chairman called the meeting to order and stated that the first thing on the program would be an address on the Transition Period, by Norrena, the Continental Commissioner of Education. Without extended preliminary remarks, the speaker opened the discussion of the question under consideration from which I condense the following from Oqua's report in English. Yet notwithstanding my short residence in the country I believe that I could have given the gist of the address myself without any assistance. "I need not," said the speaker, "enter into any lengthy explanation before an institute of teachers, as to how our ancestors under the old civilisation exchanged the products created by their labor for products created by the labor of others, by the use of a law-created medium of exchange called money. Neither need we trace the history of many kinds of products and devices which were used in different ages as a medium of exchange, such as cattle, slaves, shells, tobacco, the skins of animals and certain stones and metals. These things are only of interest to the antiquarian. It is enough to know for our present purpose that money had originally been devised as a substitute for barter, and marked the first step towards the establishment of a system of exchanging products which required the exercise of a higher order of mental faculties. During the early part of the Transition Period, gold and silver were the exclusive materials from which money was coined, except for sums of only a few cents, when the so-called baser metals were used. As the supply of gold and silver was not equal to the demands of business, banks were established to issue notes to circulate as money with the consent of both parties to the exchange. These notes were made redeemable in gold and silver on the demand of the holders, and at frequent intervals the banks failed and the people lost the wealth which they had exchanged for the notes. This was a transfer without compensation, of the actual values created by the labor of the people, to the note issuing power, and this process, oft-repeated, laid the foundations for many colossal fortunes. "In this connection, it may be well to note that in times of great public danger when the metal coins disappeared from circulation, the government exercised the right to issue a legal tender paper money to meet the deficiency. It served all the purposes of gold, and often in the midst of adversity and disaster brought great industrial prosperity to the people. But when the danger had gone by, strange as it may appear, the government funded this legal tender paper into government bonds, payable, interest and principal, in coin. This process of converting the debt paying medium of the country into an interest bearing debt that must be paid in another kind of money which had been hidden away by the more wealthy in times of danger, was the foundation of the great bonded debt of this country which was established during the Transition Period. This bonded debt was made the basis of a national bank currency for the redemption of which, at first in legal tender paper and coin, and later in gold, the people as debtors to the banks were in the last analysis responsible. In other words the national bank currency derived its sole value as a reliable medium of exchange from the fact that it was based on the public credit, and this public credit belonged to the people, but the private banking associations got the benefit for the private gain of their stockholders, and the service rendered, cost the people many times its worth. "During the Transition Period in this country the people had three kinds of legal tender money, gold, silver, and paper, together with the national bank notes which were a legal tender as between the people and the government. At the close of this period, silver coin, and legal tender paper were made redeemable by the government in gold, on the demand of the holder; and all deferred payments were made payable in gold on the demand of the creditor. The great bulk of the business of the country among the people was transacted by the use of silver, paper and bank notes but the holders of these forms of currency could demand gold in exchange, and if for any cause the government failed to collect enough gold from the people to meet the demand it became the duty of the Secretary of the Treasury to sell interest bearing gold bonds to meet the deficiency. "Such in brief, was the complicated, cumbersome and unscientific system of exchanging, or distributing wealth, which existed under the old civilization. The means of production being fixed by natural law were the same then as now. Wealth always was and must always continue to be, the product of human labor and skill applied to natural resources, facilitated by such mechanical contrivances and business methods as human skill may devise. But the system of distribution being entirely under human control is continually changing as affected by human impulses, whether they be selfish, as in the olden time, or altruistic as they are now. "We now exchange a product for a product of equal value, for the convenience and benefit of all, without any charge except for the necessary labor expended in the production and distribution. But under the old civilization the product was first exchanged for money and the money was then exchanged with some one else for the product that was wanted in return. As a method of exchanging one value for another, this was a very awkward and unscientific process, but in and of itself it was not necessarily unjust and oppressive; yet the system such as it was, could be used by the greedy few who controlled the financial and commercial affairs of the country, for the purpose of exacting such exorbitant tribute from the many as would, and did, condemn the millions to poverty. The few, with their superior business sagacity took advantage of this semi-barbarous idea of a perpetual money token which was supposed to contain within itself an actual value, equal to the values which it was used to exchange, and they organized banking as the chief factor in the mechanism of exchange among themselves, which in its operations also gave them control of the perpetual money tokens which the people must have to carry on their ordinary business transactions with each other. "These shrewd financiers had no use for money except to pay balances, and at the time of the end, ninety-seven per cent. of the great business transactions of the country were carried on by means of organised credit through banks and clearing houses. This system of minimising the use of legal money through banking methods, as a matter of course left a large surplus in the hands of the great operators, which was loaned to the people, who in their unorganised condition were compelled to pay cash. These loans bore various rates of interest, but always much above the average increase of wealth, and very often so exorbitant that the states for very shame's sake were compelled to establish certain arbitrary rates beyond which the money lender dare not go. "It will be seen at a glance that this system of transacting the business of the country on a cash basis by the people and by organized credit through banks by large operators who controlled finance and commerce could not fail to give to the latter an enormous advantage in the aggregate business of the country. The great masses of wealth producers naturally became a debtor class. As all wealth was the product of their labor, they must necessarily create the means of paying all indebtedness, interest and principal. Hence they constituted the interest paying masses while the comparatively small number of large operators constituted a powerful creditor class who were continually receiving interest, and hence always had money to loan or invest in such a manner as to be able to receive more interest. And the larger the interest-charge against the people, the more they needed money and the more inclined they were to borrow. Cities and towns often voted a bonded debt upon themselves for improvements, for the express purpose of providing employment for the workers, so that business might derive some temporary advantage by having the wages expended in their midst. The great masses of the people did not realize that a part of the same dollars they borrowed most go back to the lender to pay interest, and that the consequent deficiency in the means of payment could only be met by transferring to the creditor a portion of the wealth created by their labor equal to the interest. And the larger the aggregate indebtedness in proportion to the volume of money available for debt paying purposes, the larger must be the deficiency to be met out of their savings, or what should have been their net income from the exercise of their producing power. "But the interest on loans, public and private was only a small fraction of the burden of usury imposed upon the wealth producing masses. All the large industrial, financial and commercial enterprises of the country were on a debt-creating basis. Stock companies owned the railroads of the country; the streetcars, waterworks, gasworks and electric light and power plants of the cities; all the great manufacturing, mining and commercial enterprises; the steamship lines, and even vast bonanza farms and stock ranches. All these interests were operated with a view to paying dividends on the stock in addition to the operating expenses, and were therefore equivalent to a perpetual interest bearing debt, the principal of which never could be paid. "This constructive indebtedness was intended to be perpetual, and its volume was not limited to the actual cost of the various enterprises that were incorporated. The railroads, for instance, sold stock to many times the cost of the roads, or as it was called, 'watered their stock,' and then they ordinarily bonded the roads for vast sums besides. These bonded debts however, were very often created for the purpose of bankrupting the companies for the enrichment of an 'inside ring.' This process was known as 'freezing out the stockholders,' and by thus reducing capitalization it was not necessary for the roads to exact so much tribute from their patrons in order to pay dividends. Other corporate enterprises also 'watered' their stock, and some of them got such a hold upon the people that they continued to pay exorbitant dividends on their fictitious valuation until they were absorbed into the larger combination of the whole people. "At the close of the Transition Period the volume of interest bearing indebtedness and dividend earning investments was estimated at fifty thousand millions, and the average cost to the people six per cent. per annum, or an aggregate of three thousand millions every year to be taken out of the wealth produced by the people. The bulk of these obligations, public, corporate and private was held by the great banking institutions which had been established by the corporation and trust magnates, who practically owned the lands and all the machinery of production and distribution. They owned not only the indebtedness against the people but they controlled the medium by which it must be paid, and on their demand under the law, this medium of final payment was gold. "As this great creditor class was the principal employer of labor and controlled both the buying and selling of products which the people must have for the purposes of consumption, thus fixing both the income and the expenses of the producer, it was not difficult to collect their tribute. A pro rata of the great annual charge of interest, dividends and profits against the people was collected from the producer in the shape of a discount on what he had to sell, whether it was his labor or its products. The remainder was charged up to consumption and constituted a part of the price that was paid for every article that was purchased. The cost to the consumer of every commodity purchased, consisted of five distinct elements: First, interest on the money supposed to be invested in its production and distribution; Second, rent upon all the buildings in which it had been stored, which would include cars or vessels used in transportation; Third, profit to all who had handled the product; Fourth, its pro rata of taxation and Fifth, the wages paid to the labor expended in its production, transportation, superintendence and distribution. This fifth element in the cost was all that went to useful labor, while the other elements went to the great financial, industrial and commercial combines which held the masses of the people in their grasp. "Of course under the operation of this system, where both the income and the expenses of the producer were determined by this great creditor class for its own selfish purposes, it is not strange that the condition of the average toiler was one of poverty, nor is it strange that a widespread spirit of unrest, and often of angry and violent discontent threatened the peace of society and the perpetuity of established institutions and a stable government. But to us, it does indeed look strange that the brawny millions whose strong arms and undaunted courage had conquered the untamed forces of nature and made the wilderness a fit dwelling place for a refined and cultured people, could have been bound, hand and foot, by such a gossamer thread as the puny power of a few owners of gold. But when we take into consideration the fundamental truth that mind controls matter, and that the few who were at the top had cultivated brains while the many who were at the bottom had only cultivated muscles, the mystery is solved. The toiling masses had no conception of their power, and on their plane of intelligence were utterly unable to hold their own against the wily schemes of the more intelligent few. "At the time of which we speak, four-fifths of the aggregate wealth of the country had passed into the hands of a small fraction of the people, and millions were landless, homeless and dependent for subsistence upon the crumbs, so to speak, that fell from the tables of their lordly masters who controlled every avenue to employment and dictated the terms upon which they were permitted to live. Being few in numbers, they could and did co-operate with each other for their mutual advantage. All they had to do in order to keep wages at a minimum was to leave a large number of applicants unemployed, and hence very poor, who at all times, would be ready to take the place of workmen who demanded more liberal wages. The self-employed farmers were but little better off than the wage workers, as they were forced to sell their products and purchase their supplies at prices fixed by the great financial, industrial and commercial combines which controlled the business of the country. Under the inequitable methods of exchange which existed at that time, the masses of the people were powerless to help themselves. The fortunate few who controlled money, dictated how much they might receive for their labor or its products and how much of the products created by the labor of others they could purchase with the proceeds. "To us the natural remedy for discriminations of this kind, so unjust and oppressive to the masses of the people seems so self-evident and easy of application that it is not strange that many have been inclined to doubt the correctness of much that is recorded in the history of the economic conditions which existed under the old civilisation, when human selfishness ruled supreme in business affairs. But when we take into consideration the fact, that at that time, the world had never had a single object lesson large enough to be seen by the great of mankind, as to what would constitute an equitable system of distribution, we are forced to the conclusion that the adverse conditions existing during the Transition Period were just what might have been expected under the circumstances. The few who had the ability to conduct the business of the world did not understand that the productive power of the earth is practically unlimited so that under an equitable system of exchange there is absolutely no possibility of any person being reduced to poverty. Then, too, the great masses were but a few generations removed from a condition of absolute serfdom, and were just what ages of drudgery had made them, and could not be expected to take broad and comprehensive views of the great economic problems by which they were confronted. The world had never known anything but the private ownership of all the means of production and distribution and the desire to lay up treasures was universally regarded as laudable and praiseworthy. Under these circumstances neither the few who had monopolized the earth nor the many who were disinherited could have been reasonably expected to be other than they were. Both alike were the product of long ages of growth. The wheat and the tares must necessarily grow up together, nurtured by the same soil, until the harvest is ready, and then the separation takes place strictly in accordance with natural law. "The gold power which established itself in this country during the Transition Period was an exotic that had been imported from the old world. Its object was to control every nation on earth, for its own gain, without being the loyal supporter of any. It had secured absolute control over the nations of the Old World before it succeeded in financially conquering the New. Whenever it succeeded in establishing the gold standard in any country, it established its local branch for controlling that country's finances. Its first object was to promote the creation of national bonded debts, payable, principal and interest, in gold. For this purpose, it was always ready to loan money to carry on wars, and each country could negotiate its loans through its own local branch, but the creditor in every case, as a matter of fact, was the international Gold Power of the world, which had no preferences between nations but sought to impose a bonded debt alike upon all. There was absolutely nothing patriotic about it. All it wanted, was a lien upon the industries of the world, that would produce a steady income in the shape of interest. "In this country, we had a Republican form of government and with our vast area of public lands the people were more independent by far than the people of any other country ever had been, notwithstanding the fact that they were robbed unmercifully by the private banks which issued notes and then suspended so that the notes which the people had accepted for their property became worthless. At frequent intervals, these bank panics reduced thousands of people to bankruptcy. But the country was new and land could be had for the asking, so when pressed to the wall, as it were, in the more populous districts along the eastern border, they came west on the public lands, made new homes and soon accumulated another competency. It is not strange that this international Gold Power of the world cast longing eyes upon a country that was so productive, and could recover so rapidly from industrial depressions and financial disasters. "For nearly one hundred years after the establishment of our Republic, notwithstanding the prevalent 'wild cat' banking system as it was called and the absurd reverence for the so-called precious metals, the people of this country were practically independent of the great Gold Power which had its headquarters in Atlan. While the founders of the Republic had made gold and silver coin the standard money of the country, they reserved the right to issue treasury notes and also to make them a legal tender, and as there was no great debt, and land could be had for the asking, the economic independence of the people could not be entirely crushed out, and therefore Altruria offered an effectual barrier to the encroachments of the gold power. Before the people could be actually subjugated financially, a vast bonded debt must be created, and in order to induce the people to agree to such a debt, the life of the Republic must be placed in jeopardy. A foreign war was not to be thought of, as it would arouse to fever heat all of the innate democratic hatred against aristocratic rule of every name and description, but a war between the states would serve the same purpose. "The conditions that made such an interstate struggle possible, had unintentionally been provided for by the founders of the Republic. At the time when the Republic was established the colored people were held as slaves in nearly all of the original colonies. This institution was regarded by the founders of the Republic, as inconsistent with the spirit of its institutions, and it was unsparingly denounced as the 'sum of all villainies' by a large number; and one state after another emancipated its slaves, and new free states were admitted, until the country was practically half slave and half free. "In the manufacturing states uncultured slave labor was not profitable and hence there was but little objection to its abolition. But in the agricultural states such labor was valuable, as the old world furnished an unfailing market for all the surplus products. The gold power of Atlan took advantage of the situation to sow the seeds of discord between the two sections. "Missionaries were sent into the manufacturing states, papers established and literature distributed appealing to the sympathies of the people in behalf of the slaves and creating a public sentiment against the slaveholding states. These anti-slavery missionaries came in the name of religion and humanity and it cannot be denied that ample grounds existed for all that could be said against chattel slavery, but the PURPOSES for which the anti-slavery agitation was used by the Gold Power were, if possible, to destroy the Republic, or failing in this, involve the country in an interstate war and induce the patriotic lovers of liberty to consent to the establishment of a vast bonded debt. "Another class of missionaries were sent into the slaveholding states and another class of literature circulated, proclaiming that 'cotton is king' and that if Free Trade with all the world was established, the planters would be the wealthiest and happiest people on earth. That all that stood in the way was the union with the anti-slavery states, which sought to abolish the 'peculiar institution' that enabled the planters to produce such a magnificent surplus, which the Old World stood ready to take in unlimited quantities, at high prices in gold, just as soon as Free Trade could be established. To secure this grand victory for agriculture, all that was needed was to dissolve the union with the anti-slavery states and their pet hobby of tariff duties on imported goods. "Both sections of the country were flooded with literature, all of which contained enough of truth to make it attractive to honest people, and enough of misrepresentation to engender the most bitter and antagonistic feelings between them. The institution of slavery was wrong, in and of itself, but the anti-slavery agitators ignored the fact that the masses of the slaves were not qualified for self-government, and that the perpetuity of free institutions depended upon the intelligence of the voters. They did not try to convert the slaveholding states to the policy of educating their slaves and preparing them for freedom, but they went to the non-slaveholding states and demanded the immediate and unconditional abolition of slavery in the other section. This was, as a matter of course, most exasperating to the people of the slave states who in their capacity as independent states felt themselves amply competent to attend to their own affairs. "In the political discussions of that time, half truths served all the purposes of full grown falsehoods as a means of deluding the people. The Free Trade agitators of the slave states were unqualifiedly right when they called attention to the fact that all import duties were a tax upon the people in proportion to their expenses instead of their incomes and were therefore unjust and oppressive to the great masses of the people; but they ignored the fact that the absolute Free Trade that did exist between all sections of the country was of vastly more importance to the slaveholding states, than Free Trade with any foreign country could possibly be. The manufacturing states of their own country were over two thousand miles nearer to them than the manufacturing countries of the Old World, and that fact, with a fair compensation to labor would have given them an assured market for their surplus products without paying transportation charges both ways across the ocean. "But the leading object of these Free Trade agitators, was to appeal to the selfish impulses of the few who owned slaves, and to the race prejudices of the masses of non-slaveholders, by telling them that the abolitionists proposed to place them on terms of political and social equality with the slaves. They were taught to believe that under the prevailing tariff regulations, they were taxed for the special benefit of the 'mudsills' of the manufacturing states, who being low down in the social scale themselves wanted to bring the proud, chivalrous people of the slave states down to the level of their chattel slaves. "As a matter of fact, neither the producing masses of the Free States or the non-slaveholders of the slave states had the remotest conception that the international gold power of Atlan was taking advantage of the discussion of slavery and free trade through its paid agents, to sow the seeds of discord between the two sections of the Great Republic of the New World. And they permitted their resentments for fancied wrongs to be fanned into a flame of fierce indignation, which, as was intended, culminated in a bloody strife and the creation of a vast bonded debt. "This fratricidal struggle lasted nearly five years, and when it ended, the people found themselves in debt, billions of dollars, to a class of people who had speculated on their necessities. The unsuspecting masses on both sides had bared their breasts to the storm of battle, endured all the privations and suffered all the losses, and were in debt for all the expenses of the war INCLUDING THEIR OWN SERVICES, to an international money power which ruled the world. "In order to carry on the war, paper money was issued and paid out to the soldiers, sailors and citizens for their services. This money performed all the functions of gold and notwithstanding the fact that the people were engaged in a most destructive war, it stimulated all branches of business and brought on an era of great industrial prosperity. But after the war was over this same paper money which had been paid to the people as the original creditors of the government, and for which they had signed receipts in full for their services, was converted into interest bearing bonds, and these same soldiers, sailors and citizens were taxed to pay to those who speculated on their necessities in the hour of danger, the same debt that had originally been due to themselves, and for which they had received legal tender paper money. "But had the process of funding the legal tender debt paying medium of the country into bonds ceased at this point, the international gold power of the world would never have been able to financially subjugate the people of this country, as under the law creating the bonds, the debt was payable in legal tender paper money. So another step must be taken. The debt had been created and a large portion of the money had been burned, but the bonds did not call for gold, except for interest. Hence a law was enacted resuming specie payments, and the bonds were made payable in coin, and now the people who had taken paper dollars for their services in saving the union, were taxed to pay gold dollars to the money kings for the paper dollars they had received. "We can scarcely conceive at this distant day, how it was possible for our ancestors to have been so stupid, as not to see through this outrage that was perpetrated upon them, but nevertheless, history records the fact that for thirty odd years after this bare faced legalised robbery had been committed, a vast majority of men were voting their approval, which was proclaimed throughout the world as the triumph of patriotic statesmanship. "As the direct result of this kind of financial legerdemain, which converted the DEBT-PAYING medium of the country into an INTEREST-BEARING DEBT, the wages of labor and the prices of products steadily declined, business enterprises were wound up in bankruptcy at the rate of more than one thousand per month and millions of workmen were forced into idleness and thronged the highways in all parts of the country, demoralized, degraded and becoming a sure menace to civilization. "As a result of the war between the states, chattel slavery had been abolished, but another form of industrial servitude, the wage system, had fallen heir to all of its worst features. The owners of the chattel slaves had the power to be oppressive and cruel, but personal interest demanded that the slave should always be provided with food, shelter and raiment, while the wage slave could be turned out to starve when from sickness, age of any other cause it was more profitable to dispense with his services. The wage slave, who must work or starve was serving a much more exacting and cruel master than the most heartless owner of chattel slaves ever could have been. In the great sphere of human servitude the tables had been completely turned. While the slave owner had always been very careful not to give his chattel slaves an opportunity to run away, the wage slave very often lived in a perpetual dread that his master would pay him off and tell him to go. "Conditions such as these could not fail to arouse a widespread feeling of dissatisfaction and as every man had a vote, political agitation was the logical result of the situation and politicians were kept busy in defending old policies and proposing new ones, all for the professed purpose of securing better conditions for the great masses of the people. A slight glance at a few of the popular economic and political ideas of that time indicates the average status of popular intelligence, and is therefore useful in tracing the evolutionary forces which were operating at that time for the elimination of selfishness and the establishment of equity in human affairs. "As the times grew harder, the politicians of the old school told the people that the over production of wealth was the cause of all their poverty and distress, and for a time the great masses seemed to be satisfied with this explanation. They did not pause to inquire how it was possible for them to produce so much food and clothing and build so many houses, and for that reason be compelled to go hungry, dress in rags and be without shelter. "Further on, this same class of politicians told the people that what they needed was to make their silver and paper money redeemable in gold and then they would have a dollar that would purchase more, and a majority of the people decided in favor of the gold standard. They did not reflect, that the larger the purchasing power of the dollar might be, the more of their labor it would require in order to get the dollar, and so without understanding what they were doing, the laboring masses of the country actually voted to decrease the money earning power of their own labor. But had they decided in favor of more money, while their wages would have gone up, their cost of living would have increased and they would not have been materially benefited except incidentally, as a part of the great debtor class, which was required to pay interest as part of the price of everything purchased for consumption. And we may add, that but for the fact that the great masses who produced wealth by their labor, constituted a debtor class, the advantages and disadvantages between a larger or smaller volume of money, would have formed a perfect equation, and the condition of the masses would neither have been better nor worse, as in either case, the banks would have determined the amount that was permitted to circulate among the people, by making or withholding loans as might at the time, best promote their own interests. "While the Gold Power was international in its character, and not loyal to any country, it always took an active interest in moulding the opinions of the dominant political parties of all countries. It was necessary for it to have at least two favorites among the dominant parties, so that by turns they might spring reforms, so-called, based on half truths, to attract the constantly increasing number of dissatisfied voters. The demand for an increased volume of money in order to raise the wages of labor and the price of farm products was a question of this character, and it was sufficient to sidetrack and head off a more searching investigation as to the real causes of poverty. This was met by the demand for a better quality of money that would purchase more goods. The arguments in favor of both, contained half truths which were dwelt upon with great force, but the success of either, still left the gold power, directly or indirectly, in a position to control the situation. "The same thing was true in regard to the tariff question which the gold power made a dominant issue between its favorite parties. The question itself could be used to call attention away from the question of finance, which had a more direct bearing upon the vital matter of EXCHANGE and was therefore more likely to educate the people to a point where they could no longer be deluded by an ingenious discussion of half truths. This question, in order to be made available for the purposes of the gold power, must necessarily have two SEEMINGLY antagonistic political parties to go before the people. One party advocated a tariff-for-revenue, with Free Trade arguments, while the other advocated a tariff-for-protection, and appealed to the laboring classes to maintain liberal wages for themselves by voting for a high tariff that would exclude foreign goods. "The positions taken by these parties were about equally delusive and neither would have in the least delayed the dangerous encroachments of the gold power. A tariff-for-revenue could in no sense be a Free Trade party, but it did propose to raise revenue by duties on imports. This duty would of course be paid by the people as part of the price of the goods which they consumed, and hence the tax would be in proportion to their expenses without any reference to their incomes. Those who expended their entire incomes in consumption would be taxed upon the whole, while those who expended only a small fraction, would be taxed only on the fraction so expended. As a system of taxation it is difficult to conceive of one that would be more unequal in its bearings, and more oppressive to people of small incomes. "On the other hand the tariff-for-protection party, proposed to make the duties on imports so high that foreign productions would be kept out, and the home market secured to the employers of home labor. This, it was claimed, would enable the employers of labor to pay higher wages, which was true; but the selfishness of the heartless employer, was always in favor of keeping wages at a minimum and the noble, generous, employer could not afford to pay any more. If he did, his heartless competitor would undersell him in the market and destroy his business. Hence we are not surprised that statistics proved the tendency of wages to be toward a minimum under both parties--that is, a sum barely sufficient to provide food, clothing and shelter, and to enable the workman to raise other toilers to take his place when he was no longer able to work. "Under this tariff-for-protection policy, the revenues raised were just as oppressive and unjust to people of small incomes as under the policy of 'a tariff for revenue only,' but with this additional burden, that the increased price of home products was assessed upon the people in the same unequal manner. But on the other side, more home labor could be employed, which benefited the workmen in protected industries at the expense of the classes which were not protected. Of course, even the tariff-for-protection party which had so much to say in favor of holding the home market for home products, never seriously intended to exclude foreign products, as that would have put an end to all revenue. "These delusive theories of a tariff for revenue and a tariff for protection, served the purposes of the Gold Power, by calling the attention of the people away from the real difficulty which stood in the way of wealth producers. All that the people needed was an opportunity to apply their labor to natural resources, and be able to exchange their products for products of equal value, produced by the labor of others. The foreign trade of the country was a matter of small importance compared with the home trade. If at almost any time during the latter part of the Transition Period, the people of this country had been guaranteed just such rations as were provided for soldiers, or even convicts, there would have been no surplus for exportation; and had the whole people been provided with all the clothing that was needed to keep them well clad, it would have taken the entire product of wool, flax, cotton and leather. But the press of that day, religious as well as secular, was to such a large extent under the control of the Gold Power, that facts such as these were kept away from the masses of the people. And it may be added in this connection, that the educational system of the country was controlled by this same power to suppress the truth on economic questions, and many eminent scholars were removed from professorships in the higher institutions of learning, because they refused to teach such sophistries as suited the purposes of the Gold Power. "In our very brief mention of the political agitations of that time we have only referred to the leading measures advocated by the dominant political parties. It is due however to even that benighted age to state, that at every step taken by the international Gold Power to financially conquer the world, a few of the more enlightened and self-sacrificing spirits, boldly exposed the financial wrongs which were being perpetrated against the people for the still further enrichment of the money kings of the Old World and their agents and co-workers in the great centers of wealth in this country. But these courageous, clear headed and humanity loving pioneers of a higher civilization were frowned down as dangerous agitators and enemies of law and order, and every foul epithet was applied to them. If in business, they were boycotted, and if belonging to the ranks of labor, they were blacklisted and in many cases imprisoned on false charges, and some were even executed for crimes which they did not commit. And yet the measures of reform they advocated along political lines were usually of such a nature that had they been enacted into law they would only have prolonged, for a few decades perhaps, the false system which pauperized and degraded the toiling millions. "So much for the political agitations which had for their ostensible object the improvement of the economic condition of the great masses of the people. Yet they did much good as a means of educating the more intelligent into a better understanding of the situation, and revealed the apparently utter hopelessness of ever being able to secure necessary reforms by political action, as no matter how pure at first might be the objects of a political party, just as soon as it was successful, and offices were in sight, the work of corruption set in and its principles became subordinate in the minds of its leaders, to the more profitable occupation of office seeking. "But other more potent factors than political agitation, were at work among the masses in the shape of great industrial organizations of farmers and wage-workers. These organizations as a rule were strictly non-political. The farmers sought to secure higher prices for the products of the farm without any regard for the interests of the millions of wage-workers and others upon whom they depended for a market. Another object of the farmers was to reduce their cost of living by securing lower prices on their implements and other supplies. By concentrating their trade and taking advantage of the competition between dealers they often succeeded in securing very much reduced prices on goods, and this furnished what was regarded as a legitimate excuse for reducing the wages of the employes engaged in their manufacture. This reduction of wages crippled the market for farm products and offended both the employer and the workmen, so in the end the farmers defeated themselves and succeeded in arraying all other classes of people against them. "But it was the wage-workers who suffered the most from the great oligarchy of wealth which had been established in the name of the people for the express purpose of exacting profits from the industrial classes. They organized Trade Unions which ultimately federated into one great national organization with a view to securing higher wages and fewer hours of labor without any regard to the interests of the consumers of their products. The number of workmen in these Trade Unions were at all times but a small fraction of the multitude which depended upon wages. As a rule the purposes and methods of these labor organizations were in practice, if not in theory, based upon the same false principles that characterized the industrial despotism against which they were protesting. Selfishness was a distinguishing characteristic and a fatal defect. The skilled workman who had employment, cared but little for the non-Union workman of his own craft except as a possible competitor for his job, and nothing whatever for the great masses of common laborers who were so numerous and so poor that organization could do them no good as a means of maintaining wages. The union workman recognized no interest in common with the unemployed outside of his own fraternity. "Instead of banding together to devise ways and means by which all could find employment, the Trade Unions sought only to secure work and maintain wages for the comparatively small number who were members in good standing. Hence in case of strikes and lockouts the unemployed workmen were actuated by the same selfish motives and did not hesitate to take their places whenever they could be protected from violence. And whenever they did so, the union workmen made war upon them. While they recognized the relation of master and servant as one that was to be perpetuated, they denied the right of the 'scabs' as they were called, to accept employment from THEIR masters, no matter how destitute they might be. "Neither did they question the right of employers, who in the days of the old civilization were principally powerful corporations, to control the enactment and the enforcement of the laws. As a rule, the workmen divided their voting power between the political parties which were controlled by their masters. With such evident inability to grasp the situation in which they were placed, it is not strange that the employers were enabled to obtain absolute control of every branch of government, state and national, legislative, executive and judicial, notwithstanding the fact that every laborer had a vote which counted just as much as that of the most wealthy corporation magnate. Conspiracy laws were enacted which could be used for their suppression as occasion required. The right of trial by jury was denied by the courts, and the champions of labor were imprisoned for long terms for disobeying the mandates of the courts. Finally the Supreme Court, in the case of a sailor who had refused to serve for the period for which he had hired, decided that his employer had a right to hold him in bondage until the expiration of the contract; that the ownership over himself had ceased for the time specified, and that the constitutional provision which prohibited involuntary servitude did not apply to such as him. One of the labor papers of that time characterized this opinion of the Court as the 'FUGITIVE SAILOR DECISION,' a name by which it is known in the history of those dark days of the Transition Period. "But unfriendly legislation and one-sided court decisions, were not the only factors in crushing the hopes of labor. This was a period of wonderful scientific discoveries of natural forces and mechanical inventions by which they could be utilized in saving labor. The grandmothers who boasted that they could spin three miles of thread in one day, from sunrise to sunset, lived to see their little granddaughters spin three thousand miles in ten hours with the aid of machinery. Similar improvements were introduced into every branch of industry. The machinery belonged to the employer and he added the saving to his profit. He did not need so many workmen to produce all that the people were able to purchase, and the workmen were dismissed to join the mighty army of the unemployed. For a time certain skilled workmen were enabled to maintain living wages by means of organization, but continued improvements in machinery ultimately enabled common laborers to take their places, and reduced the number of experts required, to such a degree, that their condition was but little better than that of the unskilled. Among the best paid organizations of the olden time was the Locomotive Engineers, but ultimately, electricity took the place of steam, and a motor-man from the ranks of common labor took the places of both an engineer and a fireman. The machine displaced three-fourths of the printers at first, and later a still larger number of what remained, by introducing the principles of multiplex telegraphy, which enabled one expert to operate machines at the same time in a number of separate offices in different parts of the world whenever the copy was the same. "Labor economists called attention to this displacement of labor by machinery, but the press and the politicians in the service of the corporations claimed, that this cheapening of production was of great benefit to the people by securing a corresponding reduction in prices. Finally, after a persistent agitation for years, the national Commissioner of Labor was required to make a careful examination, and in his report, among a multitude of similar items, we find that the labor cost of a five-dollar hat was only thirty-four cents; a ten-dollar plow, seventy-nine cents and so on to the end of a long catalogue of commodities which the people always needed. The question was, Who got the difference between the amount received by the actual producer and the price paid by the consumer? The answer was self-evident; outside of clerk hire, it must have gone to pay profits in some form to non-producers. But after this official demonstration that the 'lion's share' of the wealth created by productive labor went to nonproducing speculators, the great masses of the people still continued to use their influence to perpetuate this inequitable system which practically confiscated the wealth created by their labor to pay profits on speculative investments. "The mass of the small dealers of that time were no better off, in many respects, than the wealth producing laborers, but being in some sense a part of the profit-exacting system, they held to it longer, in the vain hope that a time might come when by some fortuitous turn in business, or lucky speculation, they could amass millions. As a class they had never devoted themselves to an earnest and careful study of economic questions, but as long as the people came and purchased goods and left a profit in their hands, they were satisfied, and paid no attention to the far reaching influences which were surely paving the way to their ultimate failure in business. Hence it was not until just before the end of the old civilization that they began to realize that something was the matter. Sharp competition among the large number of small dealers reduced the average profits below a fair compensation for the labor expended, and large combines with unlimited money capital, were able to meet the universal demand for cheap goods. The dealers were finding themselves crowded out of business. They blamed their customers for not giving them the preference, even if the large department stores could afford to sell for less. They demanded legislation against the large stores and took an active interest in the Anti-Trust agitation of the time. "This opposition to Trusts and Department stores, like the farmer's organizations and trade unions, took a very narrow view of the situation. They saw their profits decreasing and their sole object was to prevent this, without any reference to the interests of the people who as purchasers of goods must pay all the profits. The masses of the people understood their motives and did not hesitate to patronize Department stores and purchase Trust products, provided they could get them for less. They might have been able to protect themselves from the inordinate greed of the trusts and combines, by taking their customers into partnership and with their assistance organizing consumption and thus controlling distribution for the equal benefit of all. This would have been in exact accordance with the ideal that had been handed down in their system of religion, that we should always do unto others as we would have them do unto us. "The entire history of Altruria as an independent republic belongs to the Transition Period in the progress of the world and in a larger, but not so well defined a sense it extends to the discovery of the continent, and even to an earlier period, distinguished by the breaking up of the ancient religious hierarchy and the introduction of a constantly increasing number of warring sects. These were the evolutionary forces developed under the operations of natural law, in strict accordance with the constitution of the human mind, which always tends towards the utmost possible development of the race, physically, mentally and morally. These forces in the early stages of human development, work so slowly, that even the best trained intellects do not discover their existence and hence have no power to intelligently co-operate with them, with a view to accelerating their own progress upward toward the highest possible planes of development. But, it was during the last fifty years of this Transition Period, that all these forces became more apparent to the careful historian, and it is these to which I have more particularly directed your attention. "Human selfishness on the lower planes of development constitutes the first step in the development of that higher selfhood, which is the predominating characteristic on the higher planes. During the last fifty years of the Transition Period, human selfishness, in the baser sense, was making its last struggle for existence as the controlling factor in human affairs. All classes of people were inspired to action by selfish interests, and these interests could not fail to clash. Out of this clashing between forces they ultimately learned that the best and highest interest of every individual could always be secured by carefully guarding the interest of every other individual. Out of this was evolved our present universal rule, which governs our relations towards each other, of 'each for all and all for each,' and hence all are equally secure in the exercise of every natural right and in the possession of absolute economic independence. "The Gold Power sought for and secured universal dominion over all the nations of the earth and there being no other nations to conquer, in its inordinate greed, it continued to impose additional burdens upon the people. This met opposition, first from one class and then from another, but all these movements were animated by the same element of selfishness which characterized the Gold Power. The farmers organized to secure better conditions for themselves without any regard to the interests of the millions of wage workers and others upon whom they depended for a market. The workmen organized to secure better wages for the members of their unions with no regard for any other class of people, or even for other workmen who did not belong to their fraternity. At the close of the old system the small dealers and manufacturers were unanimous against the encroachments of the vast combines who could undersell them, but they ignored the interests of the great mass of consumers upon whom they depended for a market. Selfishness, in the baser sense, guaranteed the failure of all these movements. No one class of people, seeking to promote its own selfish interests was able to hold its own against the superior intelligence of the great financiers who had planned to financially conquer the world by controlling the world's supply of gold through an organized system of creating debts both actual, for borrowed money, and constructive as investments which exacted tribute from the wealth producing classes. This process of debt creating continued until in this country the entire volume of sixteen hundred millions of money of all kinds would have paid but a fraction of the annual charge for interest, dividends, etc., upon investments and all the gold in the world, about $4,000,000,000 would have paid but a fraction of the principal. "But another, and in the end the most potent evolutionary force which was destined to emancipate the people, was the arousing of the moral sense of large numbers who had never turned their attention to the study of economic science but whose souls revolted at the conditions imposed upon vast multitudes of people. The Gold Power while still a mighty factor in the control of the religious press and a large number of the leading religious teachers of the country, was not able to still the voice of the truest disciples of Krystus, and these demanded that the spirit of the founder of their religion should be exemplified in the practical every day affairs of life. They well understood that if the people were doing to each other as they would have others do to them, there could be no such thing as poverty, with all its tendencies towards vice and crime. These pioneers of a Diviner Civilization, with nothing but a theological training, were perhaps not clear in their own minds, as to just how this Golden Rule could be applied in business under the prevailing financial and commercial systems of the country, but they did believe that the ideal in every human relation could be realized, and they insisted that the effort should be made by every true follower of Krystus, to establish the dominion of good upon earth to the end that righteousness might prevail in human affairs. "For this grand culmination, the operation of the evolutionary forces for the last fifty years had been a post-graduate course for the workers who were to set the machinery in motion, on the material plane, by which all the crushing burdens imposed by Greed could be easily and speedily removed. And in this course, the mistakes made by the people had been the most potent educators. The producing classes had been induced to organize because they felt that they were not getting their just share in the distribution of wealth; but to save that which was lost in the distribution, they made the strange mistake of organizing as producers. The farmer had no need of an organization, to enable him to produce more wealth. The soil would produce just as much without such organization as with it. The same thing was true of mechanics, miners and other wage-workers, who organized in their capacity of wealth producers. But as consumers they could all stand on one platform, and being the market upon which all producers must depend, they would be masters of the situation. With an equal distribution of the benefits of such organization of consumption, it would be just as easy to pay dividends to labor, and thus increase their share in the distribution, as it was to pay dividends on capitalistic investments. "So it was, that at a time when every thing seemed hopeless, the few who never yield to disappointments, and who had made an exhaustive study of existing economic conditions reinforced the earnest followers of Krystus who were demanding the application of the Golden Rule in business by formulating methods by which this much desired result could be attained. They had studied the moral problem that confronted the religionists, from the objective side, and understood just how it must be solved along business lines. Inasmuch as all material wealth was created by labor, and distributed by being bought and sold, it followed as a logical sequence, that there was but one way by which every useful worker could secure a just share in the distribution, and that was to take charge of the business of exchange (buying and selling) and divide the benefits equally among all who united their efforts to establish the largest possible round of exchange between producers and consumers. This was simply the organization of the market for the express purpose of establishing Equity in Distribution, by paying dividends to labor. The people had at last discovered the vital truth upon which the application of the Golden Rule depends, that ORGANIZED CONSUMPTION CONTROLS DISTRIBUTION. "Organizations of consumers were effected with a view to concentrating their purchasing power through channels of their own, not to reduce prices, but to pool the net profits into a common fund for the equal benefit of all the members. A portion of this was set aside as an educational fund to extend the work, and the remainder was used to pay dividends to the members who, as customers, had paid the profits into the common treasury. This was known as the "Dividend to Labor," and it was always distributed equally, as it had been secured by the united purchasing power of all the members. And, in order to secure this fund, which belonged alike to all, no member had added one cent to his or her cost of living. It was all a saving, as between the new equitable system of exchange and the old and wasteful profit system. This was a PROFIT-SAVING BUSINESS MACHINE of which the PRODUCERS who constituted, in the main, the great markets of the world, COULD NOT BE DEPRIVED, and WITH THIS, it became a matter of indifference as to who had immediate control of the LABOR-SAVING MACHINERY of PRODUCTION. "This movement had its origin in the West where the people were more inclined to think for themselves, but the benefits were so decided and so easily secured, that it spread rapidly. The first exchanges demonstrated that the use of money could be very largely minimized, and banks were established as depositories for all the money that came into their hands, and to facilitate their financial relations with unorganized communities where money was still a necessity. These savings of money, were held as a sacred trust, to enable the members to pay taxes, and debts, in cases where the creditor could not be induced to take products at a fair price. Among themselves they used exchange certificates which were issued on the deposit of products or money, and for necessary labor. These certificates being issued on values which were seeking a market and redeemed in products needed for consumption and cancelled, constituted an ideal currency that was always just equal to the demand,--neither more nor less. "The people learned by experience how easy it was to minimize the use of money, and the tendency of this decrease in the demand for money, was to relatively increase the amount in circulation. It was easy now, for the most unfamiliar with business methods, to understand how the large operators, under the old system, had enriched themselves by making their settlements through great clearing houses where one obligation cancelled another and only two or three per cent. of money had been used to pay balances; and they could see how even this balance among wealth producers, could take the shape of a check against future production and money be entirely eliminated as a medium in the exchange of wealth. "All the people who were doing their buying and selling through these exchanges were regularly supplied with carefully prepared literature on economic questions and business methods, and of general information as to the trend of current events, the progress of the new order which placed business on an ethical basis and all matters of advantage for an independent, cultured citizenship to understand. Then for the first time, the multitudes began to realize the weakness of the fragile thread by which they had been bound to the triumphal car of Capitalism. Their experience gave them confidence. They used the same business methods for the benefit of the many that had enabled the few to concentrate in their own hands four-fifths of the wealth of the country. It was therefore no untried experiment. They were only exercising the same kind of business sagacity that had been used by the money kings to financially conquer the world. Just in proportion as they decreased the demand for money, it flowed in upon them in exchange for their products at a steadily increasing price. They had established a DEBT-PAYING instead of a DEBT-CREATING system of business, and in the course of time their debts were all paid, the necessity for legal money had disappeared, the people were free from its exactions, and all they had to do was to produce what they consumed and consume what they produced, exchanging equivalent for equivalent for the equal benefit of all. And thus the world had been saved from its thralldom to Greed by the establishment of the 'Kingdom of God and His Righteousness' as had been enjoined by Krystus at the beginning of the old religious system two thousand years before. This which was enjoined at the beginning of the Dispensation was REALIZED at its close and hence the FIRST BECAME THE LAST, because the LAST was THE FIRST REDUCED TO PRACTICE IN HUMAN AFFAIRS." CHAPTER XIII. BONA DEA--MATRON'S HOME--PRE-NATAL INFLUENCES--IMPROVING THE AIRSHIPS--BATTELL EXPLAINS--PLANS FOR THE FUTURE--MUSEUM OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY--RELICS OF THE PAST--BUILDING TOWARD OUR IDEALS--LAW OF HUMAN PROGRESS--PRESAGING THE FUTURE--PROFIT CAUSES POVERTY--EQUITABLE EXCHANGE THE REMEDY. [Illustration] AS I listened to Norrena's description of the financial and commercial system which had once existed in Altruria, I could not help but notice its close similarity to the system which prevailed in the outer world. As he elucidated the international and seemingly unlimited power that had been exercised by the owners of gold, and how it would take all the gold in the world to pay a small fraction of the annual interest on the obligations held against the people, my heart sank within me at the utter hopelessness of their condition. I was expecting to hear that the people in their desperation had blotted this power from the earth with fire and sword, but the speaker finished with merely a description of a more equitable system of transacting business. Just as he had come to this most interesting place in the discussion, the Institute closed and took a recess for dinner, and MacNair began to introduce us to the superintendents of many of the large educational institutions of the country who were members. As we were leaving the hall Oqua joined us, accompanied by a magnificent looking woman whom she introduced to me as Bona Dea, the superintendent of the Matron's home at Lake Byblis, saying: "My dear Nequa, I want you to learn that in Altruria we commence the education of children before they are born. This is what these Matron's homes are established for, and Bona Dea is superintendent of one of the oldest, largest and most thoroughly equipped institutions of this kind in the world. I want you to make her acquaintance, and I doubt not that you will become fast friends." "I am indeed glad to meet you," I said, "as I want to learn all that I can about these, to me, strange educational institutions." "And I," said Bona Dea, "shall be happy to give you any information in my power. Oqua informs me that you are preparing a book descriptive of our civilization, and I am much interested as an Altrurian in what it may present to the people of the outer world." "Yes," I said. "And by all means, I want it to contain a review of these Matron's homes, and all that can be learned in regard to their origin, and the good they are designed to accomplish for humanity." "That, indeed," said Bona Dea, "would constitute a most important volume in a series, but it should not be the first one in a thorough treatment of the evolutionary forces which work for the development of the race toward higher and better conditions." "Then," I said, "would you have me ignore this, to me, most singular system of commencing the education of children before they are born?" "There is nothing singular about the system," said Bona Dea. "Even the savages of the olden time did the same thing, but they did not know it. The mothers were surrounded by the conditions of savagery, and their children were born predisposed to become savages. These pre-natal influences are in fact the commencing point in the education of every child that is born, as they pre-dispose the child to a life of usefulness, or the reverse, according to the character of the influences. The object which our Matron's homes are designed to accomplish is to provide the best possible conditions, to start the child with a strong, healthy body and mind, with a kindly disposition and elevated aspirations toward the highest possible intellectual and moral development." "If such results," I said, "can be secured by the establishment of these homes, you certainly would not dissuade me from an exhaustive review of the entire question?" "Certainly not," she said, "but as a teacher of your people I would have you follow the natural law and begin your work at the beginning. From what I can learn, your own country is now passing through its Transition Period, similar to that described in Norrena's lecture, and hence the first great duty of your people is to abolish poverty. When the fear of want is removed from every household the first effect will be to place better pre-natal conditions around the mothers, and the next generation will be placed on a higher plane physically, intellectually and morally. This is the first step that your people must take and then the Home may be introduced for the scientific adaptation of pre-natal influences to specific purposes. Then you will begin to determine in advance whether the child shall be an inventor, scientist, philosopher, poet, musician, teacher or explorer. The Homes are scientifically adapted to specific purposes, while economic independence and general education lift the entire people to a higher plane of being along every line of human effort. What your people need now, is the general, mental and moral uplifting of the victims of your present system, and to this end, my advice to you would be, to confine your first work to the solution of the problem, 'How to abolish poverty.'" "But would you," I asked, "discourage these specific measures at this time because the masses are poor?" "Of course not," said Bona Dea, "for those who are able to apply them, but I would first place these advanced scientific methods within the reach of the entire people by establishing economic independence for all. This is simply following the natural law of human development." "Will you," I asked, "please explain just what you regard as the natural law of human development?" "It is the law of growth," said Bona Dea, "and always begins at the base and works its way upward. The plant germinates in the earth and then pushes its way upward towards the light. The growth of the animal organism from conception to maturity is along the same line of progression, from the bottom of the scale, toward the top. In the growth of human civilization and the mental, moral and spiritual elevation of the race, the same general law of evolution holds good. The elevating influence must reach the people through their environments. The real man and the real woman, is the ego or spirit. The physical body is the outermost environment of the individual being. By improving the physical conditions we stimulate the mental organism into a healthy activity, and the result is intellectual growth, and spiritual unfoldment. Such is the natural law of human progress from the physical through the mental to its culmination in the spiritual or divine, which is the very highest type to which we aspire." "This," I said, "looks like a concise and logical statement of the natural law, but how do you apply it to the present conditions which exist in my own country? We have a civilization and many very intelligent, well meaning and well to do people who might be greatly benefited by a better understanding of the influences of pre-natal conditions." "Doubtless that is true," she replied, "but your duty as a teacher is to take the whole people into consideration and not a part, and in your work for their enlightenment begin at the bottom of the scale. Your present civilization was developed along the lines of unconscious growth, jest as the child grows from birth to maturity. But your work as a teacher and civilizer is to work along conscious lines and lay your plans with due deliberation. Having, as it were, reached the top, you are able to give instruction to those who are lower down and help them to climb higher. The place of the teacher is one which demands that you should understand the natural law of growth, so that you may work to the best advantage. Hence your work is to begin with the outer environment, the physical, and that which pertains to the higher will take care of itself. It is not the whole, but the sick, who need the physician, so it is not the wise, but the ignorant who need the teacher. For these reasons I advise you to confine your present work more to the economic, as that would prepare the field for the higher, and that, just where it is most needed, among the poor." "I think I comprehend your meaning," I said, "and shall act accordingly in the preparation of my first volume on Altrurian civilization. Oqua's advice was very similar, but situated as I am here, these numerous lines of thought press in upon me all at once, and there is so much to learn, that I often find it difficult to make a selection. I am sure that the people of my own native land are passing through their Transition Period, and I am anxious to give them that which will do them the most good." "Then," interposed Norrena, who had joined us, "show them how to get rid of poverty. Without economic independence, political independence and personal liberty, under the law, are a hollow mockery. There can be no progress without freedom, and there can be no freedom as long as a people are driven to their work by the stern lash of necessity." "But how is it," I asked, "that you have such a realizing sense of the horrors of poverty, when you have always had an abundance?" "Because it is the one great object," said Norrena, "of our educational training and of our Altrurian civilization to provide against want, and to relieve distress wherever found. Every student in our schools is required to make a careful study of our Transition Period, the helpless, hopeless condition of the poverty stricken masses, and the methods by which they got out, and which must be continued in order to stay out." "But why," I asked, "do you now, after centuries of abundance, still make these lessons so prominent in your educational system?" "Because," said Norrena, "we are still on the physical plane, and if we do not guard against them by every means in our power, these physical evils may again overtake us. We know for a fact that eternal vigilance is the price that we must pay for the preservation of our present blessings." "But constituted as your people are," I said, "with their readiness to relieve distress under all circumstances, I should think that you have no cause to fear a return of the old systems of oppression." "Certainly not," said Norrena, "so far as this generation is concerned, but should we neglect the education of the rising generation in regard to these matters, we would begin to go back toward those conditions. There is no danger so long as we do our duty as educators, and keep alive the finer sensibilities of the soul. We did not reach our present condition at one bound, and if we were to go back it would not be all at once; but it is the duty of our teachers, to see that we do not take a single step backwards. Hence, we educate." We had now reached the Department of Public Comfort where we were making our home during our stay in Orbitello. After dinner, Battell informed us that he intended to start within an hour to Lake Byblis, and that before he left, he desired to have some definite understanding as to our plans for future work. "Then," said Norrena, "you had better join me in my rooms and talk the matter over. I feel deeply interested in your plans for opening communication with the outer world. So if it is agreeable, come with me." We accepted the invitation, and were soon discussing what was now the leading thought in our minds--the improvement of the airships with a view to forming a connection between the inner and the outer worlds. Battell explained his plans for constructing a ship that could be moved in any direction, the power to be applied instantaneously, so as to be able to meet all the contingencies of a storm and contending currents of air. Then plans were discussed for protecting the occupants from intense cold. For this purpose, I had plans of my own which I did not divulge. Several ways were proposed for making the vessel proof against cold, but I saw at a glance, that with all of them, the freezing moisture on the inside, would so obstruct the vision as to very materially interfere with the proper guidance of the vessel. "Before I left," said Battell, "I gave plans and specifications for an entirely new ship, that I want you to test in a storm, if you can find one, and report as soon as possible. Captain Ganoe has agreed to go with me and assist in its completion. As soon as it is ready I will let you know. Will you come to Lake Byblis and start from there? or shall I send it to some other point? What will be your address?" "I have made no arrangements for the future," I said, "that will in the least interfere with the proposed trial trip to the southern verge. I think, however, I had better remain here a few days, as there are some questions that I want to study, and to that end, I shall take a look through the Museum of Universal History." "Well, get your book ready," said Battell, "and we will find the means to send it where it will do the most good." "I have sufficient material ready," I said, "for a number of books, but the question now is, How much out of the great abundance, shall I select to go with an account of our discoveries?" "Well, I should think," said Battell, "that you could not send a very large proportion of what you can find in a single one of these exhibits, to say nothing of the libraries; but do your best. I have work that must be completed, in order to make yours available, so good-bye, and may success attend you." Captain Ganoe, MacNair and Iola accompanied Battell to Lake Byblis, and Norrena, Oqua and myself went to the museum. This was a most magnificent structure, situated on the river, on a point of land where the river leaves Orbitello and makes a sharp turn toward the east. The building was a hexagon, about 600 feet in diameter, and the foundation had been excavated down to the level of the water, which gave one-half the building the appearance of extending out into the river. In the center of the building was an inlet for boats for which there was a spacious landing, enclosed by broad, marble steps on three sides. At the center, and each of the six corners, was an elevator which connected with each floor. Around what may be regarded as the main building, was a broad extension in the form of an inclined floor, that communicated at frequent intervals with the several stories, either on the level of the floors or by easy flights of steps. On the periphery of this inclined spiral floor, was a railing. The whole of the external structure was supported by massive and highly ornamented columns of aluminum which reflected the light like burnished silver. In the center, and supported from above, was a double track electric tramway, with cars moving each way at short intervals. This arrangement gave the entire floor space to pedestrians and those using electric chairs and other small vehicles. The lower stories of this immense building, up to the level of the bluff, contained supplies of all kinds, required by those engaged in river transportation. The upper stories of the building were devoted to the preservation of relics and records commemorative of past civilizations and taken altogether, presented to the eye a complete history of man's progressive development along every line from the earliest period of recorded history. This wonderful exhibit, enabled the student to trace, by means of practical illustrations, the progress of the mechanical arts, from the original crude contrivances to the present high state of development under which drudgery was unknown, and the people were in the full enjoyment of all the comforts of life with a minimum of labor. It is no part of my intention to attempt to give more than the most cursory mention of this wonderful exhibition of industrial progress. One feature, however, impressed me most and that was the striking similarity in these exhibits, to the much smaller ones, which I had visited in the outer world. The methods which had prevailed in the different stages of civilization, were almost identical with those prevailing in the corresponding stage of outer world development. In water craft for instance, the raft of logs bound together with thongs and propelled by poles came first, followed by canoes hollowed out of logs. Then smaller boats with oars, and growing in dimensions until they assumed the shape of Roman galleys and the ships of the Northmen. Then sails were introduced and later, steam became the motor power. So, of the methods of land transportation. The sledge and ox-cart were followed in time by the stage coach, this by the electric car, and last came the airship. I asked Norrena to explain this remarkable similarity. "This," said he, "only indicates that human development along every line of progress is determined by the constitution of the human mind. Knowing this, we have the key which explains all the mysteries connected with the progress of the race from lower to higher conditions. At every step it has been met by similar difficulties and hence the methods for overcoming these difficulties have been similar, because all have alike possessed the same mental constitution. This progress up to a certain point, has been along unconscious lines, and the average man and woman had no clear understanding of the influences which were impelling them forward. In every age, and in every condition of life, man has been building in the direction of his ideals, but never reaching them. In his primitive state, he felt the need of some means for crossing streams, and having observed that wood floated upon the water, he constructed a raft. From this he formed the plan of a boat, and constructed a canoe. As he improved in the direction of his ideals, these ideals became more exalted, and to-day we have the magnificent electric yacht. So it has been in every department of human effort. The higher the ideals which have been formed in the mind of man, the higher he has climbed in the scale of development. This is the fundamental law of human progress. Every one of these relics of past ages was at first an ideal that had been formed in the human mind before it was realized." "A thought strikes me," I exclaimed. "If all these ideals have been realized, is it not a promise, or a prophecy, that our ideals of to-day, will be realized in the future? And if from the constitution of the human mind we could presage the ideals of the future, we could in a general way predict what the civilization of distant ages will develop." "Certainly," said Norrena. "Your thought is strictly philosophical and applied to our immediate future it gives an infallible rule for presaging events where we are familiar with the forces impelling in a certain direction. If we can ascertain where we are to-day on any given line of progress, we can safely predict what the next step will be on the same line, for all things are possible to the human mind in its ultimate state of development. There is no such thing as actually turning back in the path of progress, much as man may seem to retrograde at times. The lessons taught by these seeming failures are essential elements in his still greater development further on. Nothing that is useful can be permanently lost to the race. What we are inclined to call evil, is fleeting and fades away, while the good, the true and the really valuable is immortal. Hence, human progress towards higher and better conditions, as applied to the race, and long periods of time, must ever be onward and upward toward the Infinite Good." "I have always," I said, "been deeply interested in everything pertaining to the progress of the race, but I have been inclined to regard it as somewhat a matter of chance. You seem to have reduced it to an exact science. I can understand how certain influences are necessarily toward improvement, but how is it that our elevation is assured when so many are unconscious of such a tendency, and in the outer world at least, multitudes seem to be bent upon getting lower instead of higher in the scale? I feel quite sure that the masses of our ancestors in the past, were no better than the masses now, and did not consciously co-operate with nature for their own improvement. It seems, however, that by some kind of a blind chance they may have contributed something, but it certainly was not intentional. I see a different influence working here and the people are evidently co-operating with nature for the good of all, but I fear that it will be a long time before the people of my own country will reach that stage of development." "Do not be discouraged," said Norrena. "The constitution of the human mind is a guarantee of human elevation. The history of human development presents two distinct stages, the unconscious and the conscious. All progress from the simple cell to the human being, is of course unconscious and is governed by fixed and immutable laws. These same laws control human development up to the point where knowledge enables the race to consciously participate in the work of its own elevation. As soon as the people are sufficiently developed to understand the operation of the laws which control their own unfoldment, they will enter upon an epoch of conscious progress by careful and well concerted measures. When at the close of the Transition Period our people reached that stage, the change for the better in every direction came suddenly upon the world, because the masses of mankind felt the need of something better. Unconscious development had prepared them for the wonderful change. The blind forces which had been slowly urging man upward toward a higher plane of existence, now had the aid of careful and well devised methods, and the long ages of darkness disappeared in the blaze of light which was let in upon the world." "And from this," I said, "am I to infer that you think America is about ready for such an uplifting of the masses? Your description this forenoon of the Transition Period of this country, would pass as an accurate delineation of the present condition in my own. The belief is widespread among thoughtful people in the United States that our country is on the eve of some great change. Persons of an optimistic turn of mind believe that we are near the beginning of a higher, nobler and purer civilization than the people have ever enjoyed before, while the pessimistic are equally sure that we are destined to go back toward barbarism. I want so very much to be able to disseminate the light that will dispel this darkness from our future." "I think," said Norrena, "that you have no cause for alarm. From what I can learn the optimists of your country are largely in the majority, and a general expectation of something better for humanity, is a powerful psychic force, to produce something better. If your people earnestly desire better things for the masses and at the same time believe that better things are in store for them, your future is most hopeful, as the people cannot fail to find out how to attain the object they are seeking." "Thank you," I said. "But where is the light, and what can I do to shed it broadcast among them?" "The light," said Norrena, "is latent in every human soul and is manifested in the readiness with which all classes of people render assistance to those who are placed in peril or are suffering from some great affliction. This is the light that is manifested in your charitable institutions and public hospitals for the relief of the poor and the physically infirm. When those who provide these institutions for the relief of suffering humanity learn how the sufferings which now appeal to their sympathies can be avoided, this latent light will be developed into a flame that will enlighten the whole earth and the darkness will disappear as if by magic." "But this," I said, "does not tell me how that latent light can be developed into such a flame. Human sympathy has always existed, but as yet in the outer world it has not succeeded in removing the suffering which appeals to our sympathies. By what means can this be accomplished?" "By the discovery and application of the principles of equity in all of our relations toward each other," said Norrena. "To assist you in this, I suggested that we take a look through this Museum. In the relics of past ages which you find here, you can trace the operation of the fundamental laws of human progress. On this floor you have the works of man in his lowest condition. On the floor above, you find relics of a higher civilization. These have been classified as nearly as possible in their natural order, from the lowest to the highest, with a view to teaching the progressive development of the race in the most effective manner." "I realize the importance," I said, "of such a collection to every student. But all this comes before your Transition Period and I do not see its bearings upon the great problem of the present day in my own country--how to secure the same conditions which I find prevailing here." "As yet," said Norrena, "you have only seen the relics of barbarism. This museum is twenty stories high above the level of the bluff on which it stands, and each story bears its record of the onward and upward progress of the race. The first were erected soon after the Transition Period, but others have been added since that time, to make room for the evidences of our progress. We will now ascend to the one devoted to the Transition Period." We stepped upon the elevator and in a moment more were ushered into one of the upper stories, and I found myself confronted by a display, such as would characterize a first-class exposition of the present day in the United States; with this difference, however; it represented the poverty and misery of the hovel as faithfully as it did the grandeur of the palace. Everything seemed familiar and I felt as if I had been suddenly transported to New York or London. Every feature of the competitive system of production and distribution was appropriately illustrated, together with the inevitable consequences to the people; wealth beyond the dreams of avarice for a favored few and hopeless poverty and degradation for the many. The clothing of the workmen in contrast with the gorgeous apparel of the fashionable bon ton; the furnishings of the hovels of the poor and the mansions of the rich placed side by side; the coarse and homely fare of the wealth producer compared with the dainty viands of the non-producer; all told more plainly than words the story of undeserved poverty, and in millions of cases, the abject want and misery of the most useful classes of society, in striking contrast with the unearned abundance of the idle, and for all practical purposes, the useless rich. The manner in which the wealth created by the toiling millions, passed through the channels of trade, into the possession of a few wealthy speculators, was illustrated by pictures and printed explanations, in almost endless variety, so that even the most obtuse observers, could not fail to get a clear idea of the practical workings of a system of commercial exchange, under the operation of which, interest, profit and rent were always added to the market price of the product, every time it changed hands. One of these illustrations was entitled, "Thirteen Usuries on One Hog." It represented a hog passing from the farmer at one end of a long bridge to the workman at the other. From the time the hog starts from the producer on the farm until it reaches its destination in the workshop of the consumer, its size (price) has become colossal. In exchange for the hog a plow starts from the shop to the farm, and the size (price) increases in the same proportion. Every time any commodity passed one of the commercial toll gates established between the producer and the consumer, the price was increased for the benefit of speculators who contributed nothing to its value. All this was of course to the manifest loss of the producers. The long bridge was labeled, THE PROFIT SYSTEM. In contrast with this was a short bridge labeled Equity, over which products were passing both ways from the producer to the consumer, without changing size. Over this Equity bridge the product passed directly from the producer to the consumer by the shortest practicable route, and was only handled one time. Over the Profit bridge, goods became shelf-worn and deteriorated in value, by the frequent changing of hands. These two bridges, Profit and Equity, were given as symbolical representations of the Cause and Cure of poverty. There was no mistaking the lessons taught by them; neither could there be a doubt of their truth. Under the Profit system of exchange the managers are self-employed and it is legitimate that they should have a profit for the service rendered, and the larger the profit, the larger the number who can make a living out of it. Under Equity, the managers are employed by their customers and it is to their interest to see that the business of exchange is carried on with the smallest possible amount of work in handling the product. Hence the Profit system necessarily entails poverty upon the masses who have no interest in the exchange, while Equity secures abundance, because the exchange is effected by their own agents at the least possible expense. Hence, under Equity, the product passes from the producer to the consumer without changing size, and the cost is fixed by the amount of labor expended in its production, superintendence and transportation; and all parties to the transaction, get the exact value of their services; but under this system there is nothing for the money king, the profit-monger and the landlord. "You see," said Oqua, who had been unusually silent and pre-occupied, "that this symbol of the two bridges, tells the whole story of the difference between the profit system of exchange and the equitable; between the old system with its widespread poverty and the new with its abundance." "I see the difference," I said, "but it is not so clear to my mind just how the people can pass from one bridge to the other; from PROFIT to EQUITY." "That is very easy," said Oqua. "Change the PURPOSE for which business is transacted. Instead of exacting profit from the producer and the consumer, conduct business for the purpose of establishing equitable relations between the producers and the consumers. When this is done the profit system will have been removed and equity will bring abundance to the household of every producer, and poverty will be abolished." "I can well understand," I said, "what the effect of a change of systems would be, and it is equally clear to my mind that the money kings, trust barons and landlords could, if they would, easily introduce the change, but how could the poverty stricken people make such a change in the business system of the world? If it is done at all, it must be done by the very poor, and under the profit system the very poor are helpless." "That, 'under the profit system,' is well put in," said Norrena, laughing. "It is undoubtedly true, that 'under the profit system,' the producers are helpless; and it is equally true that as long as they remain under this system, they will continue to be helpless. It is also true that the selfishness of the wealthy managers will never consent to the change so long as they can prevent it." "Then, indeed," I said, "to my mind the condition of the laboring millions is hopeless. They CANNOT establish equity and the rich WILL NOT." "Why hopeless?" asked Norrena. "Do you think they would refuse to make the change from profit to equity, if they had the opportunity to do so?" "Not that," I said. "But the question is, How can they make the change while bound hand and foot under the profit system?" "Whatever has been done," said Norrena, "can be done, and you have only to look around you to see that the change from profit to equity has been made in this country and can be made in yours, notwithstanding the fact that the people are bound hand and foot and will continue to be so bound as long as the profit system continues." "Please do not mock me," I said with some spirit. "How can a people who are bound hand and foot, save themselves?" "By using their heads," said Norrena. "The hands and feet may be bound while the head is left free to think. Let this freedom to think be exercised in the right direction and their physical bonds will disappear." "I am sure they do think," I responded, "and what is more, they have been thinking for a long time." "Then," said Norrena, "let them continue to think and they cannot fail in due time to find out just what is the matter." "Oh, many of them have found that out," I said, "and realize that they are impoverished by the exorbitant profits on investments which go to the wealthy classes." "Then, indeed," said Norrena, "the day of their deliverance is drawing near. They have already learned that it is the profit system that is pauperizing them. If they continue to think, they cannot fail to learn that the profit system could not continue without their constant support. That when they withdraw their patronage from profit-mongers, the profit system will disappear. If I read your literature correctly, your people are very near the hour of their deliverance." "They may," I said, "be driven to the violent overthrow of the present system, but I do not see how they can speedily break their bonds in any other manner." "They can do it," said Norrena, "by the exercise of the same spirit of manly independence, intelligently directed, that they now exercise in their worse than useless strikes. You have the competitive system which is self-destructive and hence weak. Your producing classes can organize as consumers and take advantage of the sharp competition between dealers to sell goods, and by a wise use of their combined power to purchase, introduce an equitable system of exchange." "What is that?" I asked. "Would they expect any such sweeping results from selling their trade to the firm that would give them the largest rebate on prices? Would not the tendency of such a movement be, to still further curtail the demand for labor, by depressing the the price of products?" "Yes," said Norrena, "such a system of selling their custom for a rebate, would have just such an effect. But you lose sight of the fact, that wholesale dealers are competing with each other for an opportunity to sell goods. They sell to retail dealers who can find customers for their goods. Organize your ability to purchase, select a competent business agent, and go into business for yourselves, and be sure not to undersell other dealers. Your exchange will have a decided advantage over every other dealer, because your trade will be organized and your sales will be certain. The wholesaler will be quick to see this, and will be anxious to get your trade, as his pay will be certain." "But," I said, "where would be the inducement for the people to organize their trade, with the certainty that they would pay just as much for the goods as they did before?" "The same inducement," said Norrena, "that people under the money system have for depositing their earnings in savings banks. Every time they purchase an article in their own exchange they are making a deposit to their own credit, where it will do them the most good in times of disaster. The profits will belong to the organized customers, and by leaving them in the exchange they will accumulate a sample stock of goods already paid for, from which any order can be filled. After such a stock of goods is secured, they might at regular intervals declare a dividend to the organized customers, leaving a percentage on deposit with the exchange to be used to educate the people into a comprehensive understanding of business methods and for the creation of a fund to purchase land and give employment to their members, in order to eliminate rent on land and save the profits on production." "But," I said, "I do not clearly see how starting stores and saving retail profits would enable the people to escape the demands of interest and rent." "The store by itself," said Norrena, "could not do this, but the financial power that can always be secured by wise business methods could. To the extent that the use of money can be minimized and debts paid, of course interest will be saved. And to the extent that consumption can be organized and concentrated, a smaller number of business houses will also be needed and thus rent saved to the customers who in the last analysis pay all the expenses. And just in proportion as business houses are not needed, they will be for sale to people who can use them, as landlords could not afford to pay taxes on property for which tenants could not be found. This property would all be needed by the organized consumers who, with their continually accumulating fund from pooling the savings of profit, interest and rent, even on a comparatively small scale, would always be able to buy. The profits on distribution will constitute an ample fund for socializing the land and furnishing employment for a continually increasing number of people." "But," I said, "to be able to hold our own against the world-wide profit system, would require a world-wide organization." "Do not be too sure of that," said Norrena. "The benefits of equitable exchange in a single locality, would be most decided. Of course it would be more effective if extended over a wider field. But the distribution of literature, such as the accumulating profits would enable you to make, added to the far-reaching effects of a successful object lesson, could not fail to make the organization world wide. All that is necessary for this purpose is a practical demonstration, that by this system, the productive laborer and not the money king is master of the situation." "Is this the same plan that you outlined in your address?" I asked. "Just the same," he said. "All that is required is such a business organization as will cover the entire ground demanded by absolute justice. It must look to the elimination, as rapidly as possible, of the elements of interest, profit and rent. To avoid the payment of interest it is necessary to minimize the use of money, and as soon as debts are paid, refuse to use it at all. To avoid profits, you must purchase your supplies and sell your products through your own exchanges. To get rid of rent, use the profits to socialize the land." "This is certainly sweeping enough," I said, "but it seems to me, that it would be an almost endless task to induce the masses of the people to unite their trade to such an extent as would be necessary to secure the full measure of relief demanded by absolute justice." "It certainly would be," said Norrena, "if you did not prosecute a vigorous educational work, and at the same time offer inducements that the profit system cannot afford." "I fear that this would be impossible," I said. "The dealers with millions of money could beat us in offering inducements to catch the trade of the unthinking." "Do not fear that," said Norrena. "They could not do that without abandoning the profit system, which is all that you would ask. As soon as you have organized trade and have a sufficient stock accumulated to meet its demands, you will be saving interest to the extent that you can transact business without money, and to this will be added all of the net retail profits. This will enable you to pay a little more for farm products than dealers can who are on the profit basis. You can safely continue this rise in prices until you pay as much as you can sell for. This will give you the entire trade of the farmers, and the usual profits on all they purchase will be a net gain to your exchange, less the slight advance on the price of products, equal to the profits of the speculators. The price you receive for farm products, will be exchanged for goods on which you will make a profit, and if you can always make one profit on the exchange you will be on the high road to success." "But this inducement," I said, "would only reach the farmers. It would be necessary to offer some other kind of inducement to secure the trade of the city workmen." "That is easily provided for," said Norrena. "Your farmer's trade, notwithstanding the fact that you pay as much for the product as you can sell it for, will net one profit on the goods for which you exchange it. With all this farm trade secure, you can begin to furnish employment to city workmen in various ways, converting the raw material into finished products to supply your increasing trade. This will enable you to make valuable customers out of all the workmen for whom you can find employment. Another inducement will be, to return one-half of the net profits on their trade in the shape of a check which will be good at the exchange for products. This will still leave one-half as a contribution to the educational and land purchase fund. I believe, however, that with a vigorous and comprehensive educational work, but few would ever draw anything in the shape of a dividend out of the business, but leave it as a permanent investment to enable them to secure homes, or as an insurance fund to support them in sickness and for the benefit of their families in case of death." "You seem to have unlimited faith in this plan of organizing business," I said. "And why should I not have?" asked Norrena. "These principles have been tried in this country and we know by experience that they cannot fail, wherever they are intelligently and honestly applied, on a scale large enough to constitute one good object lesson as to what can be accomplished. The system, in practice, will demonstrate that money is not a necessity. Money however, will still come into your hands, even more freely, and as long as you have debts that must be paid in money, you will have use for it. But when the debts are all paid, money might cease to circulate, as you would then have learned by actual experience, that you would get along better without it than with it." "That puts me in mind," I said, "that in your lecture you stated that the people in this country, in their movement to establish equity in business, established banks to manage their money account. If the movement here was started by the very poor, how did they get money for the necessary cash capital?" "By the accumulation from cash purchases made in their exchanges," said Norrena. "Their exchanges were a system of banking products, but they issued checks on the deposit of money as well as products. As these exchanges offered superior inducements, they received their full share of cash trade from the beginning, and nearly all of it when their exchange was complete. Hence they found no difficulty in establishing their own banks under the law, and as they never loaned their deposits, their banks could not break, and people who had money to deposit, brought it to them for safe keeping. As the tendency of this locking up of deposits was to curtail the circulation of money, the exchanges provided against any oppressive stringency, by loaning on good security, without interest, checks which were redeemable in products at the exchanges. It was estimated by the statisticians of that time, that every dollar locked up in the exchange banks, brought six dollars of trade per annum to the exchange stores on which the regular customers at these exchanges made an average of ten per cent., or sixty per cent. upon deposits." "Were these exchanges incorporated as joint stock companies?" I asked. "They were," said Norrena, "but not always. The real object of the order was to ultimately eliminate the stock corporation and substitute the equal co-partnership. Hence when incorporated, every regular customer was a stockholder to the same amount, and the stock might be paid for by turning their dividends back into the business as a permanent investment. In other words, they might pay for their stock out of what they were able to save in their cost of living by their abandonment of the profit system. And further, in order to protect themselves from the danger of a constructive indebtedness in the shape of dividend exacting stock, no certificates were issued, and the stock paid for was always redeemable in exchange certificates payable in goods at the option of the shareholders, or by order of the directors of the corporation, for failure to patronize the exchange whenever practicable. As governments were especially friendly to corporations, it was deemed best by many, to incorporate and secure these advantages." "This," I said, "was certainly the full measure of justice to be secured by a stock corporation, but how were others which were not incorporated, organized in order to secure the full measure of justice to members?" "There was," said Norrena, "no patent on the application of the Golden Rule in business, and among business men there was a large number who really wanted to see equity established in human affairs. Hence there was nothing to hinder a merchant from entering into contracts with organized consumers, to sell his business to them, and retain the management at an agreed salary, under such rules and regulations for the conduct of the business as they might adopt. By this means many were enabled to exchange a precarious profit for a permanent income. In cases of this kind, the merchant was benefited by securing a guarantee against bankruptcy and the organized consumers by securing the services of the necessary business talent to establish Equity in Distribution, by paying equal dividends out of the net income to all regular customers. As contracts for a lawful purpose were held sacred by the courts a very large number held that the contract between the customers and the manager secured greater advantages than the stock corporation in obtaining equality of dividends." "But," I asked, "why this equality of dividends? Was it fair to those who purchased large quantities of goods, to require them to share equally with those who purchased on a small scale?" "It certainly was," said Norrena, "as it took the UNITED purchasing power of ALL to establish a business that enabled them to effect any saving at all, so that there would be something to divide. The large purchaser through these exchanges got something back, while under the profit system he would have made nothing at all. To him this equal dividend was a comparatively small item, while it was a most important increase of purchasing power to one who was barely able to procure the necessaries of life. Persons in affluent circumstances were thus enabled to help their poorer neighbors, and at the same time secure a dividend themselves. This system of organized consumption with an equal distribution of the net profits, was the first introduction of the fraternal features of our altruistic civilization. It was, in its application, a system of universal insurance against poverty for all, who, as consumers, withdrew their support from the profit system. In a peaceful, just and orderly manner, it enabled the poorest to take a seat at the table which our bounteous Mother Nature has prepared alike for all, and from which they had been excluded by human greed, which the founders of the old religious system had characterized as the 'Mammon of Unrighteousness.'" "Then it seems," I said, "that this was something of a religious as well as a business organization?" "Yes," said Norrena, "it may indeed be regarded in that light as it was the practical application of the teachings of Krystus. This equality of interest in the distribution of that which had hitherto been lost to the producers of wealth under the profit system was the first recognition, on a broad scale, of the Brotherhood of Man in the business relations which existed among the people. This great business organisation appealed to the enlightened self-interest of all classes of people, and drew them into closer relations with each other as one family, and cultivated feelings of fraternal regard for each other that will be imperishable. With an abundance for all, the inordinate thirst for gain had been eliminated and the application of the Golden Rule in business had at last been established to bless mankind." "I am deeply interested in learning more about this organization," I said. "From your explanations I think that I have a tolerably clear idea of its general principles, and now I would be pleased to know more of its origin, history and experiences. As an organization it must have passed through many trying ordeals before it had accomplished its work of freeing the people from their thralldom to triumphant greed." "It did have a history," said Norrena, "but it was a history of signal and sweeping victories. Its difficulties and trying ordeals were all in its efforts to get started right. Even the leaders of the great reform movements of that time, many of whom had given years to the study and discussion of economic questions, did not comprehend its scope. The people had been so thoroughly blinded by the universal system of doing business on money basis, that they had never even tried to formulate plans for changing to the labor basis unless they could get money enough to purchase everything necessary to start up the work of production and distribution. This class of co-operators frequently put their means together, purchased lands and established colonies. Many of these proved quite successful, but they did not bring the benefits of co-operation to the millions who could not pay the necessary initiation fee to say nothing of the other millions who were forced into idleness." "This reminds me," I said, "that Iola told me the district where I had been making my home, was a community or colony of this kind, but she said that the colonists were from among the very poor." "That is true," said Norrena. "District Number One, was originally composed of that class of people in the great city Kroy, which the money kings regarded as dangerous, and hence they were permitted to go upon lands for which there was no market. The leaders were people of high culture and knew how to use their opportunities. But the colonies of which I speak were not founded by the submerged. These colonies demonstrated that co-operation contained elements of vital power that was irresistible, whenever it was fairly tested. The able literature sent out from these colonies, backed up by their experience, was a powerful educational influence which prepared the way for universal co-operation." "But this organisation of equitable exchange, as I understand it," I said, "was a business organization adapted to the general public, which enabled the people to get possession of the machinery of production and distribution. We have successful colonies in the outer world and I am familiar with their methods, but how to bring these benefits of united action to the whole people, is the question in which I am especially interested." "I have described its workings," said Norrena, "as clearly as my knowledge of your language will permit, and if there is any matter concerning which you are in doubt I will try to make it plain." "I have no doubt of the principles," I said, "and from what I have seen, I am persuaded that the methods could be successfully applied wherever a nucleus of earnest reformers could be found who would make a careful study of the situation, and adopt the same business methods which were used so successfully in this country. I want some of the particulars concerning the history of this organization and a concise statement of its purposes and business methods that would serve as a model for a similar organization in the United States." "The first organization," said Norrena, "was effected at this place which was then the site of one of the larger interior cities of that day. This was the center of business for a large population of farmers on one side and miners on the other. It started with the guaranteed trade of one hundred families and was a success from the start, as the result of the ample provision for educational work along the lines indicated. Every member was supplied with a paper which was devoted to the education of the people into a comprehensive understanding of business methods and commercial equation, as promulgated in theory and illustrated in practice by the Patrons of Equity. This paper contained the official reports of the business exchanges established under the auspices of the order. The educational work had been carried on for a long time by a few devoted workers, before it materialized into a self-supporting business. After that, the order spread rapidly. A percentage of the profits was used to employ organizers and every organization added to the trade and increased profits without any corresponding increase of expenses. When this movement was inaugurated, the number of commercial travelers in the country was estimated at about 250,000. These were persons of energy and business talent. They were quick to see the advantages which this system of commercial equity offered to men of ability, to establish themselves in business for which they were especially qualified, and they started out to find locations where they could organise business on these principles." "But was there not some danger that designing people might get control and defeat the purposes of the organization?" I asked. "Designing persons did get into positions," said Norrena, "but there could be no danger to the cause from this source, as in order to secure positions they had to adopt methods of business that could not fail to overthrow the profit system, and as fast as business was organized, the official paper of the order was sent regularly to every member. If at first they did not understand the principles well enough to protect themselves from knaves, they soon learned; and if anything was going wrong it was soon understood by the customers. As the business extended, the oppressive power of money decreased, and the power of labor increased. The enthusiasm of the people was aroused to the highest pitch, and the magnates of the old system were correspondingly depressed. The old system was essentially weak, while the new was peculiarly strong, and as the hosts of wealth producers came together, and utilised the actual values created by their labor as the medium by which exchanges were effected, prices went up as the result of the increase in the currency, and there was no use for money except to pay debts. Under this system, the purchasing power of labor and products was steadily increasing, while the purchasing power of money was decreasing. As long as money was needed to pay debts, products were exchanged for money at the increased price fixed under the labor standard, but when the debts were all paid, the purchasing power of money was gone and poverty had disappeared with it. Every debt had been paid according to contract, and in the payment of these debts the debtors had transferred their poverty to their creditors." "We have gone over this ground," I said, "until, as I understand it, the great potency of this organization, was in the fact that all its methods were especially designed to ultimately eliminate the use of money in the transaction of business, but it occurs to me, that much could be done in this direction, without the organization of business exchanges, which issue certificates on the deposit of money and products to serve the purposes of a currency." "You are right," said Norrena. "And much was done along other lines when the people came to understand that the prime factor in the overthrow of the profit system was to avoid the use of money in the transaction of business, in every manner possible. In some localities, farther east, the use of what was known as New Occasion Notes was introduced to facilitate exchange without money. The shoemaker, for instance, would give his note, payable in shoes, for groceries. The physician would give his note for groceries payable in professional services. The grocery man had no personal use for either shoes or the services of a physician, but he needed coal, and the coal dealer needed both a shoemaker and a physician, and exchanged coal for the notes. The exchange enabled the shoemaker and the physician to get groceries, the grocery man to get coal, and the coal dealer to get shoes and the services of a physician, and all without the use of a cent of money. The use of these notes became so common, that to still further facilitate exchanges, clearing houses were established where persons who held notes payable in something they did not need, could exchange them for notes that were payable in something they did need. This system of exchanging New Occasion Notes grew into a general collecting agency, and it was found that among the large number of collections placed in its hands, a great percentage cancelled each other, and balances could ordinarily be put in the shape of New Occasion Notes redeemable in some kind of products or services. As a means of enabling people to get out of debt, and at the same time facilitating exchange and decreasing the demand for money, these agencies proved to be most effective. The Patrons of Equity contemplated the persistent use of every method that could be devised to minimize the demand for money with a view to its ultimate elimination as a medium of exchange, by the establishment of equity between producers and consumers. They had learned that money of any kind could be inflated and contracted for selfish purposes, and therefore it was a false measure and could not be depended upon to mete out even handed justice to the people who used it as a medium of exchange." "I can plainly see," I said, "that the field of labor for such an organisation in the outer world is practically unlimited, and I want you to furnish me with the details of its plan of organization, as a model for a similar one for use in my book." "I have," said Norrena, "provided a translation of the Constitution and By Laws of the order, together with the rules and regulations for the government of its Exchange Department for your own use. I would advise you, however, not to publish these in your book. Only present the general principles, and let your people work out the details in their own way. Start the idea to working and I doubt not that they will discover how easy it is for them to escape from their thralldom to greed, and when they do, it will not be long until they sever the bonds that hold them." "And how," I asked, "would you state these purposes so as to include all you have given me, in the fewest possible number of words?" "For this purpose," said he, "I cannot do better than to quote the declaration of purposes from the preliminary constitution formulated by the founders of the Patrons of Equity, as follows: "'SECTION 1. The primary object of this order shall be to organize exchange on the largest scale that may be practicable, with a view to the establishment of equitable relations between producers and consumers, by eliminating as rapidly as possible, every element of cost that does not go to the producers of the wealth exchanged, less an equitable compensation to the labor, physical and mental, that is necessary to an economical management of the business. "'SEC. 2. And further, as opportunity offers, to effect such an organization of our financial relations as will enable us, as far as practicable, to hold all the money that comes into our hands, as a sacred trust, to be used only in the payment of taxes, and of debts in all cases where the creditor cannot be induced to take some other form of payment. "'SEC. 3. To accomplish these objects, the first and leading work of the Patrons of Equity shall be to educate the people into a more comprehensive understanding of business methods, that will enable them to minimize the use of money in their business relations with each other, by an organized effort to make the largest possible number of exchanges with the smallest possible amount of money. "'SEC. 4. The general policy of this order, in the conduct of all the business enterprises established under its auspices, shall be to utilize the net profits on distribution to procure lands and establish production, in order to provide the largest possible amount of employment to members in good standing.' "This declaration," continued Norrena, "when fully understood, is seen to contain every element of a speedy uplifting of any people who are oppressed by the power of wealth. Any person with a fair understanding of business methods can work out the details for the application of these principles in actual business, and any fifty families who are able to purchase and pay for supplies to the extent of five dollars per week, would provide an aggregate sale of over two thousand dollars' worth of goods per month, which would be ample to start business, pay necessary expenses and have something left. Such a business properly managed, could, by a comprehensive educational movement, be made to absorb the trade of any community for the benefit of the customers, and thus create an object lesson that would be speedily adopted by other communities, and become general. The people would be masters of the situation, and the power of money to dictate terms would have passed away forever." "I should think," I said, "that everything pertaining to the organization which won such a victory for humanity would be carefully preserved in this Museum of Universal History." "It is," said Norrena, "but it will be found in the story above and we will hardly have time to extend this visit any further to-day." "Nor to-morrow, either," interposed Oqua. "We have important work at Byblis to-morrow, or at least there may be. Huston and Dione, want to register as man and wife, and for some reason, Huston thinks that Captain Ganoe will have objections, and if so, they must be taken into account. Besides, we propose to have an excursion around the lake on the Ice King. So we had better return to our rooms, take a rest and be prepared to start early to-morrow morning." "And I propose," said Norrena, "that we extend our excursion to Kroy and complete the object lesson that records the victory of Equity over Greed." CHAPTER XIV. THROUGH THE AIR TO LAKE BYBLIS--ON THE ICE KING ONCE MORE--CAPTAIN GANOE IN COMMAND--MET BY THE VIKING, SILVER KING AND SEA ROVER--A WEDDING--HUSTON AND DIONE THE PRINCIPALS--GANOE OBJECTS--NORRENA INVESTIGATES--OBJECTION OVER-RULED--EXCURSION BENEATH THE WATERS OF THE LAKE--DOWN THE COCYTAS--THE RUINS OF KROY--ABANDONED GOLD--THE LAST RELIC OF BARBARISM. [Illustration] THE journey by airship from Orbitello to Lake Byblis was as usual most interesting. I never tired of these aerial flights. My first was from the deck of the Ice King in the middle of the Oscan ocean to the continent, and now I was returning to the Ice King from the middle of the continent. Our course was an airline, several points south of east, over the fertile valley of the Cocytas. For a distance of twelve hundred miles, we were first on one side of the river and then on the other, with a bird's eye view of this highly improved valley. We traveled at a speed of about three hundred miles an hour which brought us to the vicinity of Lake Byblis about 10 o'clock, A.M. From our elevated position of several thousand feet we had a full view of the surroundings. The lake is an expansion of the river, from five to ten miles in width and thirty in length surrounded by a magnificent boulevard, on which we could see numerous vehicles moving. The surface of the lake was dotted over with water craft of various sizes and descriptions. On the north side, Oqua pointed out the hospital to which our sailors had been sent, the Matron's Home where Bona Dea presided, the home for the aged, and the crematory. On the south side, and situated back on the bluff, was the airship factory where Battell was employed superintending the completion of his improvements on the airship, and the Transportation Headquarters, in the Auditorium of which it had been announced that the World's parliament was to meet the following December, and give us a welcome to the inner world, as citizens-at-large. Anchored in front of the Transportation building I recognized the Ice King with the stars and stripes floating from the masthead. The valley of the Cocytas had the appearance of having originally been a vast inland sea extending about twelve hundred miles from the coast range on the east to the great continental divide on the west, and from five to six hundred in width, bounded by high lands north and south. At the east end of the lake the Cocytas flows through a deep gorge on its way to the ocean, carrying the surplus waters of a vast valley of rich alluvial lands. Such is the geographical location of this favorite gathering place for pleasure seekers. As we approached the famous lake we reduced our speed and took a little time to contemplate the magnificent scene presented to our view. But we have neither time nor space for an adequate description. As we reached a point directly above the Ice King we began the usual spiral descent and in a few minutes were once more upon the familiar decks of the old ship, and exchanging cordial greetings with our old shipmates and many of our new found friends and associates. It was a happy reunion. Pat and Mike gave us a most warm hearted Irish welcome. They informed us that they had been installed as custodians of the Ice King and were faring sumptuously. I asked Mike how he liked the people and he replied laconically: "Better than I did but I don't know how much." I pressed him for an explanation of his doubtful compliment, and he replied that he could not understand their queer ways. At first he thought that they had bewitched Pat, as he got right up from his sick bed and declared that there was nothing the matter with him any more. As Pat had stayed well, it was perhaps all right, but it was queer. Then ever since they had been at Lake Byblis they had got everything they wanted but when they offered to pay for it, the shopmen would look at the money, turn it over as if they did not know what it was and hand it back. "In fact," continued Mike, "I don't understand them at all. They never work to amount to anything, and yet they have an abundance, and that of the very best. They never pay for anything and they never charge for anything. Ever since we have been here, it has been one continual coming and going and merry-making. But this free spread cannot last all the time or I miss my guess." "Well Mike," I replied, "you seem to be doing well enough, for the present at least, and ought to be satisfied. And I can safely assure you that you need have no fears for the future. These people have learned that it only takes about two hour's labor per day to produce an abundance of everything they need. In taking care of this ship, so that they can come and see what kind of vessels we have in the outer world, you are doing all that will ever be required of you, and when you want to take a furlough, you can travel wherever you please and it will not cost you anything but the evidence that you have been serving the people by taking care of this ship." "May be so," said Mike, "but I don't see how they can afford it." I had no time to explain the situation to Mike, as it had been arranged that Captain Ganoe should again take his old position on the Ice King and give its visitors an excursion on this, to them, strange craft. The steam age with these people had long since given place to electricity and compressed air, as motor powers, and so a steamship in actual use was something they had never seen. Captain Ganoe entered into the spirit of the occasion and summoned all the surviving members of the Ice King crew to take their accustomed places. When this understanding was agreed upon, Polaris and Dione came forward and invited us below for an early dinner. We found that on the same table where they had taken breakfast with us, on our first acquaintance, they had spread such a repast for us as had never before been attempted on the Ice King. A goodly number joined us in doing ample justice to the delicious viands. After dinner, Captain Ganoe invited the company present to go with him and have a look over the Ice King while she was being made ready for the excursion. The first place to which he conducted us was the engine room, but it was so neat and clean that he did not recognise it, and turning to Huston, he said: "What does this mean? I thought that you told me every thing was ready to get up steam on short notice. There is not an ounce of coal in sight and the bunkers are as neat as a lady's bandbox. How do you expect to get up steam without fuel?" "We shall burn water," said Huston. "Burn water!" exclaimed the Captain. "Have your new surroundings led you to believe that we can set aside the laws of nature?" "Nothing of the kind," said Huston, "but I am learning much concerning the laws of nature that I never before suspected. You see this little metallic cube. I drop it into this jar of water. See it effervesce. I apply this match. See how it burns! This little cube dissolving in the water, converts it into its original gases. You see now how we can burn water. This tank, connected by these pipes with the furnace under the boiler, contains water that has been charged with these metallic cubes, the constituent elements of which have been found in coal and lime. I now turn on this prepared water and apply an electric spark. See the fierce flame! We shall soon have steam without having vitiated the atmosphere with smoke, which in this country is regarded as a nuisance not to be tolerated. Dione superintended this part of the arrangements." "Wonderful! Wonderful!" was all that Captain Ganoe had to say, and he passed out leaving Huston at his post as engineer. I remained behind as I wanted to have a talk with Huston, concerning what Oqua had told us, that he and Dione intended to be registered as man and wife and that he expected Captain Ganoe would object. I asked him why he expected any opposition from the Captain. "Because," said he, "Captain Ganoe, with all his good qualities, is a living personification of every popular error which forms a part of the outer world education, law and custom." "But," I asked, "on what grounds do you expect him to object?" "He will," said Huston, "unless I have misjudged the man, raise the question that I have a living wife, from whom I have no legal grounds for divorce. This is true so far as the law goes, but false in every feature that constitutes a true marriage. Captain Ganoe is familiar with all the particulars, and still he entirely disapproves of the course I took, in taking the law into my own hands and severing the bonds, just as soon as I discovered the fraud that had been perpetrated on me." "Won't you give me the particulars?" I asked. "I am especially interested in learning all about it." "I have no objections," said Huston. "It is no secret. But steam will soon be up and our time is limited." "But please give me a brief outline," I persisted. "I am indeed vitally interested in learning the principal facts in this case." Huston regarded me for a moment with a puzzled expression of countenance and then said: "I will for your sake, Jack, try to make a long story short. My father was a planter and supposed to be wealthy. Our family was proud and aristocratic. My father had a ward in a distant state who lived with his sister. She was heir to an immense estate. Though I had never seen her I had been encouraged to correspond with her, and we had exchanged photographs. Her letters indicated remarkable talent and the highest culture, while her photograph proclaimed to my imagination, that she was a beauty. I was but a boy and I confess that I was fascinated by her letters, and the affectionate interest by which she led me to the most ardent declaration of my admiration. "Such was the relation that had been established between us when my father took me into his confidence and declared that he was a ruined man and our family irretrievably disgraced, unless I could prevent it by a marriage with his ward, Zeta Wild. The time was at hand when he must account for her estate, which had been lost through unfortunate speculations, and that the settlement would reveal a state of affairs that would send him to prison for a long term of years. "I objected to the idea of marriage with a girl I had never met, no matter how favorably I had been impressed by her photograph and her letters. But my father's special pleading and the pressing nature of the danger to the family name, overcame my objections, and the day was set for the marriage. "Everything was artfully arranged. We arrived in the evening and met the bridal party at the church. I was charmed with the appearance of my bride. We were married at once, and took carriages for the home of my aunt where a splendid wedding supper awaited us. "Within an hour, I found that I had married a beautiful idiot. I was shocked, and stole away from the guests into an upper room. I wanted to think. A lamp was burning on the table. My eyes fell upon a letter written to my father by my aunt. I recognized the handwriting. It was my aunt who had written the letters that had charmed me so much. In this one, she deplored the deception that was being practiced upon me, but justified it on the ground that it was necessary in order to save the honor of the family. "My mind was made up. I passed out into the darkness of the night, started for the nearest seaport and found employment as a sailor. I have never returned home since. I learned that my father got his ward's fortune in my name. Captain Ganoe is personally acquainted with my father and has seen his ward at his house, who was introduced as his son's wife. I explained the situation to the Captain, but he disapproved my conduct in very emphatic terms, and I should have left the ship but for the fact that I had engaged to go with Battell on the expedition. "I have also explained the situation to Dione and my part in this transaction meets her approval. We shall register as man and wife, and if the Captain objects, so much the better, as it will place my conduct in the correct light. The marriage was a fraud and no one ought to be bound by a fraud." "I can most cordially sympathize with you," I said. "It is certainly a terrible wrong to compel people to associate in such an intimate relation when their entire natures are in rebellion against it. It cannot be wrong to sever such bonds regardless of the claims of church or state. A relation that is wrong, in and of itself, cannot be made right by lawmaker or priest." "Thank you," said Huston. "I am glad that I am not alone among the crew of the Ice King. Indeed I believe that ultimately even the Captain will see this question just as I do. Our intention was to register while we were in Orbitello, but Oqua requested that we should wait until this excursion, and to please her we consented. I do not know her reasons for advising delay but I suppose it is all right." "I think I understand it," I said, "and you may rest assured that her reasons are good, and good will come out of it." "I hope so," said Huston. "But the steam gauge points to one hundred and here goes to all whom it may concern," and suiting the action to the word he pulled the rope and the steam whistle resounded far and wide, something entirely new to these people, in a country which had abandoned steam as a motor power so long ago. I hurried upon deck and joined Captain Ganoe. Captain Battell was at the wheel, and all was ready. The decks were crowded with excursionists who had never been on board a steamship, and knew nothing of steam as a motor power, except as a matter of history. All were anxious to see the vessel move and Captain Ganoe did not keep them waiting. He signalled the engineer and immediately the ponderous engines began to move and the Ice King was backing out into the water and swinging around with her bow toward the head of the lake. She obeyed her helm beautifully and started off with a speed of which we were proud. The route determined upon kept us near the larboard shore, while some miles to the starboard we could see a magnificent craft that reflected the light of the sun like burnished silver. I asked Oqua what it was. "That," said she, "is the Silver King, an electric yacht, built of aluminum. She brings a load of excursionists and expects to take us down the river. She is remarkable for her speed and her splendid accommodations. She will meet us at the head of the lake." I found too much to look at to take up much time in conversation, but cannot at this time indulge in descriptions. Suffice it to say that the scenes presented on the boulevard surrounding the lake, on the surface of the water and in the air were most animated, and all were moving as if to meet us at the head of the lake. As we approached the mouth of the upper Cocytas, we met the Silver King and while the excursionists were exchanging greetings, a strange little craft with a dragon's head and propelled by oars, shot out from under the cover of the river bank. At the bow were our Norwegian sailors, Lief and Eric plying their oars most sturdily and singing a weird song, in which I distinguished the mythological names of Odin and Thor. The oarsmen were dressed in a strange, fantastic style, and were armed with spears, crossbows, swords, and long hunting knives. This strange craft came out of the river and both the Ice King and the Silver King, as if by common impulse stopped short in their career while the Viking, for such it was, took its place between them. To say that I was astonished at the appearance of a style of vessel that had been obsolete for centuries, but feebly expresses my surprise, and I asked Norrena where it came from. "It came from the outer world," he said, "about 2,000 years ago, and brought a warlike crew, the general appearance of which, the Superintendent of Festivities, has tried to imitate. The historians of that period could gather very little information from them concerning the country from which they came. They said that the people had to leave because it was so cold. This gave rise to the false impression that the outer world had become uninhabitable and that these were the last remnants of the people." "These people," I said, "were known as Northmen, and their ships were called Vikings. They were the most daring of navigators, and penetrated every portion of the outer world, and it is not at all surprising that some of them found their way to the inside. This will probably explain why so many of your names are identical with those of the Scandinavian countries. "That is correct," he said. "Many of our people are descended from this stock and still perpetuate the names. Our records preserve the language they brought with them as carefully as our chemists have preserved this little boat." "Do you intend to say," I asked, "that this is the original boat that found its way into the inner world a thousand years ago? I thought that it was a reproduction. How was it possible to preserve it so long?" "Yes," he said, "this is the original boat, and it has been preserved by forcing a chemical solution into the wood which makes it as durable as granite." As we were speaking, two powerful metallic arms operated by machinery reached down from the deck of the Silver King and lifted this little Viking and its passengers into stocks that had been prepared for it, with the seeming tenderness of a mother lifting her babe to her bosom. So suggestive was the manner in which it was done that I turned to Norrena to ask the meaning, which he anticipated by saying: "This represents the tender care that vigorous youth ought to bestow upon age. This little boat is highly prized, as in the process of evolution, it may be regarded as the progenitor of the Silver King. If there had never been such boats as the Viking, there never would have been an Ice King or a Silver King. All things must develop from small beginnings." The Ice King and Silver King now headed toward the mouth of the lake, were lashed together, and the excursionists on both vessels passed freely from one to the other. The Ice King attracted much the largest number, but I was more anxious to inspect the Silver King. Norrena introduced us to Captain Thorfin, as visitors and seamen from the outer world. He conducted us first to the motor room and explained the workings of the machinery, and showed us a system of airtight compartments, which would, he claimed, absolutely keep the vessel from sinking, no matter how badly the hull might be injured. He stated that even the decks would float like cork. When we reached the upper deck of the Silver King we found that the oarsmen on the Viking had exchanged their warlike equipments for musical instruments and as we came up they opened with strains of the most thrilling music that I had ever heard. As if in response, both the Ice King and the Silver King seemed lifted up on the crest of some mighty wave, and what appeared to be some monster marine animal arose out of the water behind us and moved to the starboard side of the Ice King. It had a resemblance to a gigantic turtle, but was fully three times as long as it was wide. As soon as the water ceased to flow from its sides, a hatchway opened in the center and MacNair and Iola made their appearance, and began to wave their handkerchiefs to us. I was too much astonished at this strange apparition to even ask what it was. Norrena relieved my embarrassment by saying: "This is the Sea Rover, a submarine boat, that came up the middle of the lake near the bottom. The three boats will be lashed together and thus proceed down the lake while the excursionists will have the freedom of the entire flotilla, and may amuse themselves in any way they choose. See there! The Sea Rovers have brought up their dancing floor. It is plain that they propose to have a ball. But I have some business that I must attend to while the crowds enjoy themselves. As this is to be a private party of invited guests, of which you are one, I shall expect you to join us in the cabin of the Silver King." I intuitively knew what was coming. We found the cabin as exclusive as could have been desired for a private party. Battell and Polaris, Huston and Dione, Norrena and Oqua, MacNair and Iola, and Captain Ganoe and myself constituted the party on this occasion. When we were all comfortably seated, Norrena said: "I have invited you in here because we want our esteemed guests from the outer world to understand all of our usages. We are going to have what in their world is called a wedding. Ordinarily these events attract no especial attention in this country as there are but two persons interested. But there may be circumstances under which marriage is not permitted. In such cases we investigate. In this country, it is the duty of the educational department to keep a record of everything pertaining to birth, marriage and death, as all are supposed to be either pupils in school or graduates from school. Hence the school record is the record of the birth, educational attainments, name, occupation, marriage and death of every person. "We have no such marriage ceremonies as I find described in the literature of the outer world, but we keep a most perfect system of records. All persons who are allowed to marry at all, are free to make their choice. No interference on the part of others is permitted. As a notice of their intentions, they send or bring the nativity cards which they receive on leaving school, to the proper office where they are registered as citizens. If there is nothing in the record which prevents, each couple so united receives an acknowledgment and a copy of the record, enclosed in two silver lockets, which are usually worn around the neck. This is all there is of it unless some one objects. In that case, there is an inquiry and the commissioner decides according to the facts. "I have here two nativity cards. One is that of Dione of the Life Saving Service, and the other bears the name of Paul Huston, and the date of his registration on the books of the Sailor's Union of Citizens-at-large of Altruria. At the request of the applicants for registration as man and wife, I have invited you as witnesses and will ask if any one objects to their union?" "I object," said Captain Ganoe. "State your grounds of objection," said Norrena. "Because of my certain knowledge and his own admission, he has a living wife to whom he was lawfully married." "Is this true?" asked Norrena, addressing Huston. "It is," responded Huston. "I was married according to the usages of the country where I was born and I do not believe that I have any legal grounds for divorce, but as a matter of fact, the entire transaction was fraudulent." "State the facts in full," said Norrena. "I will," said Huston, and he narrated the story of his marriage, substantially in the same language that he had related it to me. Norrena turned to Captain Ganoe and asked: "Have you any reason to offer why this statement just made by Paul Huston, before these witnesses, should not be accepted as true?" "I have not," said the Captain. "He admits that he was married to Zeta Wild. That he left her without any offense on her part for which a divorce could be obtained. Hence, he is to-day a married man. Married according to law, and he has no right to marry another woman, and Dione has no right to take him as a husband." "That is your view of the matter," said Norrena. "But under our usages, the girl to whom he was married was an imbecile and had no right to be married, and on this ground the marriage was null and void. Besides, he was deceived, and hence the marriage being fraudulent, could not be binding." "A legal marriage, voluntarily entered into cannot be fraudulent, and is always binding upon the conscience of all well meaning people." "But," said Norrena, "if she was a person he could not love and respect as a wife, was it not better that he should refuse to consummate the relation?" "Certainly not," said the Captain. "When he was married to her, that ended it. I have no doubt that he could have lived agreeably enough with her if he had wanted to." "I see," said Norrena, "that you are not likely to withdraw your objection, so we will not continue the discussion. It is my duty to decide in favor of the true and against the false, and hence I must over-rule your objection to the registration of Paul Huston and Dione as husband and wife." "Do as you please," said Captain Ganoe. "It does not change the facts in the case. It is strange to me that any woman would accept a man as a husband under such circumstances. So far as I am concerned with my present light on the subject, I could not as a conscientious man, consent to marry a woman, no matter how much I loved her, who according to law, was the wife of another man. As an honorable man I would advise her to return to her husband." I had been listening intently to this inquiry. Here was a case almost identical with my own. I had married my guardian of my own free will, and like Huston, when I discovered the fraud by which my consent was secured, I had taken to the sea, and now the one whom I had loved more than life itself, and for whom I had searched for years, and with whom I had braved all the dangers of the frozen north in order to be near his person, had for the second time deliberately declared that he would not marry such a woman no matter how much he loved her. My entire being was aroused in revolt against such injustice and I arose and said: "For the second time, Captain Ganoe, I have heard you express this atrocious sentiment, which ignores love, the only thing which can sanctify the union of the sexes in the marriage relation, and place above that the debasing doctrine that man made laws are superior to the laws of God, which are implanted in the human soul. Without love, marriage is a curse, unholy and impure. Love is an inspiration and cannot be transferred by the state or the church. If you have never realized what true love signifies, of course you are excusable, but those who have felt it, will never agree with you. Huston was right, to take the law into his own hands and separate from his imbecile wife. To have consummated the union, would have been a crime against her, against himself and against humanity. And now, so far as I am concerned, I shall drop this question. No good can come of the discussion, and other questions of far-reaching import to the toiling millions of the outer world, demand my undivided attention. Let us do what we can to abolish poverty by removing time honored wrongs, and when women are economically free, they will be able to select companions who will not trample love under the heel of antiquated wrong." So saying I walked out of the cabin without waiting for reply. Oqua followed me and as she came up by my side, said: "Do not be disturbed. Your victory is won. Captain Ganoe cannot long withstand the force of truth. And he has now placed his position so plainly before our people that the truth will reach him from all sides in a way of which he never dreamed before." "Yes," I said, "I have won a victory, but it is over myself. He may come to me, when he has removed the clouds from his mind and the bitterness from his heart. I will never make any overtures. I can love humanity and work for it, and even if my work is not understood, I know that it will exercise an elevating influence on myself. My motto for the future will be, 'Plenty of room at the top where true love and a sterling devotion to the right, will be understood and appreciated.'" "You talk like a philosopher," said Oqua, "and I have no doubt that your heroism of character will come out triumphant, but do not permit your resentment of a wrong to engender a feeling of bitterness toward Captain Ganoe." "I shall not stoop to that," I said. "I cannot afford it. My love in the future shall go out to every human being and I still regard Captain Ganoe, with all of his prejudices, as one of the best. I have forgiven his weakness and want to forget. What I need now is something better to think about." "Well," said Oqua, "the excursion beneath the waters of the lake in the Sea Rover this afternoon and the one on the Silver King down the Cocytas to-morrow will give you a great many things that will doubtless, very thoroughly engage your attention." "That," I said, "is just what I need. Something to arouse my interest and exclude disquieting reflections. But what of this excursion beneath the waters of the lake? I had not heard of that." "Oh yes," said Oqua, "the Superintendent of Festivities would not think of slighting the Sea Rovers who make the navigation of our shallow lakes, bays and rivers safe for such vessels as the Silver King and their numerous passengers. They wanted to entertain our visitors from the outer world on their own vessel and of course the excursion beneath the water was made a part of the program." "Well, the arrangement," I said, "is better than I anticipated and it surely will be, to me, a novel experience to be able to see the world of marine life as the fishes see it." "And as the Sea Rovers see and improve it," said Oqua. "But see! They are signaling for us to come on board." In a few minutes we had passed out upon the dancing floor of the Rovers and descended into an elegantly furnished cabin. I was the only one present who had not become acquainted with the crew, and Oqua introduced me as the Scientist of the Ice King, to Captain Doris of the Sea Rover who gave me a cordial greeting and introduced me to a number of his comrades. In answer to my inquiries, he gave me an entertaining and instructive description of the duties of the submarine service. "Our work," he said, "is to keep a careful lookout for obstructions that might impede navigation and endanger life. This is especially necessary in rivers like the Cocytas, where huge stones are sometimes loosened from the rocky shores and fall into the channel, and sand-bars form rapidly. These are discovered and removed by the submarine patrols." "But how," I asked, "can you get at them?" "Nothing easier," said Doris, "as I will show you." At once I heard the water pouring into the hold and the Sea Rover sank to the bottom. The Captain and two of the crew passed into a little room at the rear of the cabin and immediately I noticed that the sides of the vessel were transparent and brilliantly lighted from the outside. Looking out I saw the men in diving suits leisurely walking around on the bottom, which looked like a smooth floor. Oqua explained that by means of powerful arc lights and reflectors, these submarine navigators were able to see for long distances even at great depths, and that the work of removing obstructions was carried on by means of machinery, and that the stones which fell into the channel were reduced to powder by powerful explosives, and the surface smoothed down like a well cultivated field. The air was continually renewed from stores of condensed air, while the poisonous exhalations from the lungs were absorbed by sponges having a peculiar affinity for carbon. In a few minutes Captain Doris returned and the vessel began to move rapidly through the water. I was much interested in the view of marine life which was revealed through the transparent sides, and especially in the level bottom of the lake, which, as Oqua had remarked, really looked something like a broad, smooth, cultivated field. But soon we turned toward the south and began to move slowly along the side of a brilliantly lighted boulevard on which all kinds of vehicles were passing and repassing. I was so much astonished at this unexpected scene, so realistic and seemingly uncanny, that I was utterly at a loss for words to express my feelings. Oqua seeing my embarrassment came to my relief by saying: "This is the tunnel across the lower portion of the lake and constitutes a part of the boulevard you noticed along the shores." "How is this?" I asked. "It is certainly not a tunnel excavated under the lake. If anything, we are a little below the roadway and well above the bottom of the lake with the water all around us." "We do not," said Oqua, "excavate tunnels as we did in ancient times. They are constructed in our machine shops. This is a metallic tube with supports which rest on the bottom, and has many advantages over the old fashioned, dark and dismal excavations. The material used is a compound somewhat like common glass but as strong as steel. With our submarine fleets it is not difficult to put the sections in place and when completed the water is pumped out of the cavity and the roadway is ready for use. Even across small streams, where the banks are not too high, they are frequently preferred to bridges as more safe and durable, but for long distances and in very deep water they are indispensable, and in the case of deep water tunnels, they are frequently made to span submarine gorges." "How fortunate," I exclaimed, "that this submarine excursion was on the program! I now see a most wonderful exhibition of the power of mind to overcome material difficulties, that it would have been hard for me to realize if I had received the information in some other manner." "All things," responded Oqua, "are possible to the human mind in its ultimate state of development--But we are now heading for the landing at the Transportation Headquarters and we will spend the night on the Silver King which takes us down to the ruins of Kroy in the morning." "And," I asked, "what is to hinder you from telling me something about these ruins now, and what they have to do with Norrena's economic lessons?" "They are," said Oqua, "only the relics of the great money center which held the people in bondage during the Transition Period. When Kroy was deserted by the money kings, the people determined to preserve it, subject only to the ravages of time, as a warning and a lesson to future generations." As Oqua ceased speaking, the Sea Rover arose to the surface by the side of the Silver King, the hatches were opened, and in a few minutes we were welcomed on board the electric yacht by Captain Thorfin, and invited to an elegant supper. The day had certainly been most agreeably spent but its lessons were too suggestive and far-reaching in their character to be adequately presented in this small volume. I was fatigued by the incessant activity since early morning and was glad of an opportunity to retire to my state-room and rest. I was awake early next morning and after a hearty breakfast, we were soon speeding down the Cocytas between two lofty walls of granite. There was nothing to be seen but these towering cliffs for the first few miles and Captain Thorfin gave us a specimen of the speed of the Silver King. The cliffs seemed to dart past us as if we were on board of a lightning express train, and yet we could scarcely feel the motion of the vessel. I confess that I felt a little nervous at such astonishing speed, but Captain Thorfin assured us that there was no danger, as the submarine patrols removed every obstruction and preserved a uniform depth of water. I asked the Captain what was the greatest speed of his vessel and he replied that he had never tested it. He had made one hundred miles an hour but the excursionists generally preferred to travel slowly. On this trip we would average fifty, and so reach Kroy in about three hours. During the last two hours of our journey we were passing through a densely populated country. Great communal homes appeared on either side and large manufacturing plants at frequent intervals. But our interest was centered at the mouth of the river and our attention was chiefly directed over the bow. Soon a point of land appeared where the river seemed to part in twain. This I recognized as the island I had seen from the airship which had brought us to the continent, and here is where the city of Kroy had been situated. My interest had been aroused and as the Silver King turned into the northern channel, the island became the center of attraction. On the larboard side the same scenes of sylvan beauty, palatial buildings and groups of happy, joyous people continued, but it was now the uninhabited island that absorbed my attention. I could see, in places, through the tangled brushwood and tall trees which lined the shore, glimpses of shattered walls and tumuli, over-run by vines and briers, such as in many parts of the outer world are so attractive to archeologists, as the ruins of some ancient civilization. At one point I noticed what appeared to have been costly monuments to the dead and I said to Norrena: "Surely that must have been a cemetery." "And so it was," he responded. "In those days, millions were expended in decorating the graves of the rich, while the masses of their fellow beings who had toiled to create what the few had absorbed, lived in poverty, and large numbers died in alms houses or by the wayside, and found their last resting place in a Potter's field. More was often expended on a single tomb than could possibly have been earned in any useful service to society, in a life-time. They sought to secure a sort of immortality by polished granite columns and laudatory inscriptions. This has all been changed for centuries. We cremate the dead body in the most speedy and economical manner possible, and seek to secure longevity and happiness for all, by creating the best possible conditions for the living." At another place I caught glimpses of monuments of another description, mingled with what had evidently been palatial structures adorned with the artistic work of the sculptor in great profusion. Obelisks of polished stone towered above the surrounding trees, giving the forest a peculiar appearance not easily forgotten, but difficult to describe. Noticing my interest in the scene Norrena remarked: "This was once a magnificent park, and was ornamented by works of art from foreign lands representing the most ancient civilizations, as well as the most artistic products of their own sculptors and painters. One of those Obelisks dated back to pre-historic ages. It was transported from its original site in the Old World, at great expense as a monument to the wealth and munificence of the money kings. They had conquered the world then existing and held the people in subjection. To commemorate their success they sought to compel the Past to proclaim their greatness and gratify their vanity. But they had no future. They passed away. And now the descendants of the millions whom they oppressed, visit these ruins and gather lessons of wisdom from their contemplation." We were now opposite a portion of the island where the ruins assumed something of the appearance of a city. An open roadway between buildings indicated that this had been one of the principal streets in the olden time. The Silver King rounded to and made fast to a well preserved dock which forcibly called to my mind the great docks of New York, Liverpool and other seaport cities of the outer world. We disembarked and found the first restrictions on our movements that we had met in Altruria except the entrances to private apartments. Those who desired to visit the ruins on the island were required to register their names and accept an escort to see that nothing was displaced or carried away from the chief points of interest. These preliminaries arranged, the gates were opened and accompanied by our escort, we proceeded up the well-worn roadway towards what had doubtless been the chief center of wealth and power. On either side were huge masses of debris, and falling walls of what had once marked the site of lofty structures. Briers and brambles grew in the accumulated dust of ages which now covered the well-paved streets and marble sidewalks. Wild vines clambered over the shattered walls and not unfrequently tall trees grew through the tops of buildings where the walls still stood firm. We were in the midst of a deep tangled wildwood, where on every side could be seen indisputable evidence that this had once been a great center of population, wealth and luxury. Ruined churches and marble halls where once had gathered the elite of a city, the opulence of which had been the wonder of the world, now afforded a nesting place for wild fowl. My heart grew faint and my head dizzy as I pondered upon the wonderful lesson spread out before me. Here had been a city, no less magnificent in its prime than New York, the great metropolis of America, and I asked myself the question, Could this ever be the fate of my native city? Captain Battell, who was walking by my side, broke in upon my meditations by asking: "What do you think of it, Jack? I never saw you so absorbed." And Yankee like I said: "I reply by asking, what do you think, Captain? Surely you cannot be indifferent to scenes like this when you reflect that we are natives of New York City!" "I am not indifferent," said Battell, "but I have had the advantage of former visits and hence am better prepared for it. The part of the city we are now approaching has been kept in a tolerable state of repair, to make the lessons taught by these ruins more impressive. This visit has been arranged for your especial benefit, as you are the recognized historian of the Ice King. Polaris and Dione showed Huston and myself through these ruins as soon as we reached the continent, which led me to infer that they had learned enough of our money system from MacNair to understand that we needed the lesson." "Then you are not a total stranger to these scenes?" I said. "No, I have been here several times and every time I come I get some new light which applies to our own country. These ruins teach a wonderful lesson. It does seem, as Norrena claims, that human progress always leads up through similar channels of development. Here we are in what was once a city, every feature of which indicates very clearly the existence of the same conditions which now prevail in the great cities of the outer world. It had its day and passed away because it had served its purpose, and so must all great centers of pride and fashion in which a few absorb the wealth created by the people and expend it for their own pleasure without regard for others." We now entered a locality where all the buildings, pavements, etc., had been kept in a state of repair that had in a great measure withstood the ravages of time. Everywhere else the island had been left without care and was a mass of ruins which were largely concealed from view by a deep soil, composed of accumulated dust and vegetable humus from ages of luxuriant growth. Here, however, were the Sub-treasury, Stock Exchange and a number of great banking houses, still preserved, to some extent, as the money kings had left them. "These buildings," said Norrena, "were occupied by the taskmasters of the people. Here was the headquarters of the gold power in this country, and having a monopoly of money, it bore to the people the relation of a Universal Creditor and absorbed the ENTIRE SURPLUS created by their labor to meet its demand for interest, etc. Here was practically determined the amount allowed to producers on one hand, and the price charged to consumers on the other. This power was the unquestioned dictator in every sphere of human activity. But we will visit the vaults of the great money kings of that time, which were the actual head-center of this oppressive oligarchy of wealth." We entered a massive building. Its heavy bronze doors and polished granite walls gave the impression, that notwithstanding its artistic finish, the chief object in its erection had been strength and durability. The thick plate glass windows could be at once protected by heavily barred steel shutters. At a moment's notice this massive structure could have been converted into a fortress that would enable a small number to hold it against a multitude. The front room was perfectly equipped as a bank, but with a strange, and seemingly reckless display of gold coins, giving one the impression that a time had come when the owners were utterly indifferent as to what became of their accumulated hoard. Large safes were standing open literally crammed with stacks of glittering coins. Tables and shelves were crowded with the yellow metal, which the custodian informed us, was kept just as it had been left, as a relic of the ages of mental darkness, when the wealth producing millions foolishly believed that they were dependent upon this golden hoard for the privilege of converting their labor into the means of subsistence. From the public office of the bank we descended a flight of marble steps into the basement which we found brilliantly lighted by electricity. Huge steel vaults were standing open, piles of gold bricks rested upon the floors and packages of gold coins met our sight in every direction. "You see," said Norrena, "how the gold flowed in upon the creditors when the people were making their exchanges without its use. Among the people, it was only used to pay debts, and as the money kings owned, to such a large extent, the indebtedness, the gold supply of the country flowed in upon them until it was difficult to find storage for it. Additional vaults were built and these were soon filled. At first they sought to turn this glut of gold to profit by making improvements which gave employment to labor. Great trunk lines of railroad were built and the government borrowed vast sums which were expended on country roads, waterways, harbors and so forth. But the people, now fully established in business for themselves, continued, by their system of paying dividends to consumption, to increase the price of labor and its products. When these millions were paid out as wages and entered into circulation they speedily found their way into the people's banks and were returned to these vaults to pay debts. All this time the price of labor and its products was increasing, and the purchasing power of gold was decreasing, until in time all the debts were paid and the people ceased to exchange their products for money altogether. The purchasing power of gold was gone, and the money kings, who held on to the system to the last, were poor indeed. They found starvation staring them in the face. Then, they abandoned these useless hoards, went out among the people and found plenty of employment for their really valuable talents." From the gold vaults we passed into others where bonds, mortgages, stocks etc., had been kept. "Here," continued Norrena, "at regular intervals, clerks were locked in and kept close prisoners while they clipped coupons for their masters. You see by the labels, the kind of securities which each compartment contained. These vaults held a legal lien upon the great bulk of the wealth of the country, the interest, dividends, etc., on which, if paid in cash, would require each year a sum equal to, at least, one and one-half times the entire circulating medium of the country, and the principal if converted into cash would have required ten times the entire volume of gold in the world. Here, in potency, was held a lien sufficient to take every acre of land and personal property in the country." "That," I said, "calls to my mind a phase of the question which I would like to have you explain. How did the multitudes, especially in this city and on this coast, escape the grasp of these money-kings who also owned the real estate? The people had no land to go upon, and hence could not procure a subsistence by cultivating the soil without paying tribute in the shape of rent." "Your question," said Norrena, "is far-reaching and I can only hint at the reply which it naturally calls forth. The money kings over-reached themselves by encouraging people to secure loans and pledge their real estate for interest and principal, and then by contracting the circulation in order to increase the purchasing power of the money which they received as interest. As long as only a minor fraction of the land was mortgaged the interest was promptly paid, but a time came when nearly all of the lands were mortgaged and the people were compelled to force their products on the markets all at once to get money to pay interest. More and more of the debtors gave up the struggle and abandoned their farms. These lands were useless to the money-kings when no longer cultivated by a sturdy yeomanry. All along this eastern seaboard, where agriculture ought to have been most profitable, farms were abandoned because they would not pay interest on the investment. The money value of lands for actual use to producers, declined to zero, and the people crowded into the city and were regarded, in their impoverished condition, as a dangerous class. Under these circumstances the tendency of the ruling class was to encourage the homeless poor to go upon the lands and dig a subsistence out of the soil, for which there was no market." "Iola explained this to me," I said, "but I have never quite understood why it was that these colonists were not charged a rental that would keep them in perpetual poverty." "That," said Norrena, "would certainly have been the result, if there had been no great Central West, with a widespread tendency to agitate the money question and its relation to the economic condition of the wealth-producing millions. When the people began to organize as consumers with a view to minimizing the demand for money, and to equalize distribution by paying dividends to labor, the money kings were forced to change their policy in regard to labor, and many producers got a firm hold on enough land to furnish a subsistence. The unused lands had no value and the Equitists continued to increase the price of products in the west. The money kings who were not able to sell their lands could avail themselves of opportunities to exchange them for products. The leaders of the co-operative movement here in the east knew how to take advantage of these changing conditions, and by their communal system of co-operation, were able to keep the movement on peaceful lines, and thus avoid violent collisions which might have, locally, at least, set the work of industrial emancipation back for years." "Then it appears," I said, "that it was not the western organization of Equitable Exchange, singly and alone, that compelled the Gold Power to relax its grasp; but this eastern co-operative movement was also a factor in securing better conditions for labor." "That is true," said Norrena. "In the west, the people had one great advantage over the east, plenty of land. But it was the organization of equity in the west that flooded this eastern financial center with money, not as interest, but because the western people were using less money and paying debts. This made times better for the eastern workmen. Both the western and eastern co-operators were working on the same principles. They were all accumulating funds to purchase land, and just in proportion as the people acquired control over business they had more influence on legislation, and the power of money was correspondingly decreased." "So it seems," I said, "that your business organization did at last get into politics!" "Yes," said Norrena, "it did get into politics as a business influence and what may seem strange to you, its object was to prevent the repeal of laws which had been enacted in the interest of the money monopolists. These shrewd financiers, raised a great outcry against combinations among producers to increase the price of products by using interchangeable certificates of deposit instead of money, in the transaction of business. The people were using the same methods for the improvement of their own financial condition that had been used so successfully by monopolists for their impoverishment, and the Patrons demanded that all the laws that had been enacted in favor of monopoly should remain on the statute books. They further demanded that all debts should be payable in legal tender money at the option of the debtor." "I should have thought," I said, "that the people would be glad to welcome the repeal of laws from which they had suffered so much." "There was a time when they would," said Norrena, "but not after they had adjusted their business relations to the operation of monopoly laws. Their debts were legally payable in money, and as the purchasing power of money was continually decreasing, it was to their interest to pay in money, and when all their debts were paid and the people refused any longer to take money for their products, the money kings who owned these vaults and their hoards of gold had to go in search of food. Many found homes in the co-operative communities and became valuable citizens, while a larger number had taken the alarm and emigrated to the Old World, only to meet a worse fate a little later on, for in the less enlightened parts of the world, the Reign of Gold wound up in a Reign of Terror." The lesson taught by these ruins would fill volumes. Norrena's accurate historical knowledge and ever ready explanations, with the not less forcible comments of Oqua and others, covered every phase of this wonderful, speedy and peaceful evolution from the Era of Money Despotism to the Era of Man and Universal Freedom, Equality and Fraternity. No wonder, I thought, that these people had preserved the ruins of Kroy as a relic of their Dark Ages and a warning to humanity for all time to come. Here, human selfishness reigned supreme and the people of an entire continent had suffered in order to pour into this greedy maw the wealth which it had no power to consume. And now, this once great center of wealth, pride and fashion, was a solitude. Its aristocratic "four hundred" had actually been starved out by the refusal of the "clodhoppers," "greasy mechanics" and "mudsills," whom they had held in such contempt, to feed and clothe them any longer. Surely this was an object lesson well worthy of the care that had been taken to preserve it from the refining and civilizing hand of labor. Time was slowly obliterating these foot prints of a tyranny from which the people had been emancipated for ages, but it was still important that it should not be entirely forgotten, and there could be no better reminder of the evil that had impoverished and degraded the millions, as well as of the means by which it had been removed, than these ruins and the abandoned heaps of useless gold. After a day among the ruins, and full of serious reflections, we returned to the Silver King and were soon speeding down the bay. We landed at the tower, and from this point the electric cars soon transported us to our great communal home. I was fatigued and retired to my own apartment at once, to think and rest. [Illustration] CHAPTER XV. HOME AGAIN--LETTER FROM BONA DEA--ELECTRIC GARMENTS--REPORTER'S PHONOGRAPH--TESTING THE NEW AIRSHIP--A WORLD'S COUNCIL--WALLAROO ON EVOLUTION--THE IDEALS PLANTED BY MISSIONARIES--THE EOLUS--PREPARATIONS FOR RETURN TO AMERICA--EXCURSION TO THE FAR NORTH--THE WATCH TOWER--SYMBOLIC REPRESENTATION--THE FAREWELL--THE REVELATION TO GANOE--"CASSIE! CASSIE! COME BACK! COME BACK!" [Illustration] NEXT morning at the breakfast table Oqua informed me that a package and letter from Bona Dea to my address, had arrived at an early hour but that it had not been delivered, as they did not wish to disturb my rest. It had been retained in the office subject to my order when I was ready to receive it. This recalled to my mind a private conversation I had with Bona Dea at Orbitello, and I surmised that her communication might have reference to that; but I was at a loss to form any opinion in regard to the package. She had told me that one of the inmates of the Home at Lake Byblis was paying especial attention to the formation of an ideal mental picture of life and its conditions in the frozen regions. And to that end her apartments had been fitted up to represent winter scenery, and to make the impression more realistic she was provided with a refrigerator room where she subjected herself to low temperatures and was testing the heat conserving powers of various qualities of clothing. When breakfast was over I called at the office and received a large bundle, neatly wrapped and securely sealed. The address was "Jack Adams, No. 1, care Nequa." This was a poser. The communication was in the official envelope of the Home and I hastened to my room, so that if need be I could have the aid of a lexicon in the translation. But when I opened it, somewhat to my surprise, I found it was written in English. Being appropriate as a part of this narrative, I insert it in full. MATRONS' HOME, LAKE BYBLIS, March 1, 6894, A.M. MY DEAR NEQUA:--On returning to the Home, I related to Meidra, the "Arctic pupil" of whom I told you, the substance of our conversation, and explained to her what you suggested in regard to electric garments as a means of conserving the natural heat of the body when exposed to severe cold. She informed me that she had been experimenting on that line and had succeeded in making a suit that proved to be an ample protection from the greatest cold that her refrigerator is capable of producing. She sends you this electric suit, with the request that you test it in your proposed voyage to the southern verge. She further requests me to tell you that she does not intend to permit you to deprive this inner world of the honor of having a Jack Adams among its great navigators and explorers by your simply taking advantage of one of our customs to change your name to such a feminine cognomen as Nequa. Both she and Tanqua are anxious to make your acquaintance. Meidra says that your image is indelibly impressed on her mind by your photograph. She has an enlarged reproduction of your picture as a prominent feature in her room, and from this she reads a most admirable character. The people of the entire concave are aroused to the importance of your efforts to open up a channel of communication with the outer world. All the Grand Divisions want to participate in the honor and to that end each one has appointed a member to act with a representative from Altruria, and constitute an Inner-World Council to assist in every way possible. It has been agreed that Norrena shall represent this country and I am authorized to request you to make a date for the first meeting of the Council, as soon as possible after your trial voyage "in search of a storm," as Battell expressed it. Please advise me as soon as you return, when it will suit you best to have these Inner-World Representatives call upon you, and oblige Your many friends, BONA DEA. I opened the bundle and found a beautifully quilted silk suit, soft and pliable, but of firm texture, with sandals, gloves, head-dress and visor to match. It also contained a small inlaid jewel case with a key in the lock. I opened this and found, as I supposed a beautiful locket in which I expected to see a picture of the donor, but it proved to be a delicate piece of machinery with printed instructions, which informed me that it was a phonograph for the especial use of reporters. When wound up it recorded on silver foil every word spoken. This was something new and I recalled to mind that I had frequently talked to people who wore similar lockets. Now I had found put that they probably preserved a record of every word I said, and I wondered if I had said anything that I would not like to have repeated. With people wearing lockets of this description, I realized how important it was for all to be very careful what they said; and certainly the people of this country are the most circumspect and exact in their statements, of any people with whom I have ever met. Just as I had finished the examination of the phonograph, the bell called my attention to my private telephone, and I was requested to meet Battell at the boatyard on the roof, prepared for a flight through the air on his new airship and to take some lessons in its management. This was just what I wanted, and in a minute the elevator had landed me on the roof. I found Battell, Huston, Polaris and Dione, together with Iola, MacNair and Oqua, ready for a ride in the new airship. It was beautifully finished but much more substantial than the light airy vessels to which I had become accustomed. I complimented Battell upon its appearance, but he was too matter-of-fact to appreciate anything that might look like flattery and said with his usual honest bluntness: "It is not the appearance that we care anything about, but the sailing qualities. And so far as this climate is concerned we have made decided improvements in this particular. The sailing qualities are such, that everyone wants an improved airship, all at the same time. The demand is so pressing that Captain Ganoe and myself are in honor bound to these people, to give our entire attention to supplying the world with these improvements for at least a year to come. So we have concluded to turn the whole matter over to you, of constructing a vessel that will meet the requirements of an Arctic storm." "But," I asked, "why should you give up this work, now that you have it so far completed, into my inexperienced hands? I should think that your improvements could be duplicated by native mechanics." "So they might," said Battell, "but they want all their factories readjusted, and the same improved methods of manufacture which have been introduced at Lake Byblis. Besides we could not have completed the work without your assistance. It was just as important that you should test our improvements in the conditions existing at the verges, as it was for us to manufacture them. These EXTERNAL WORLD METHODS of testing everything by ACTUAL EXPERIMENT are absolutely necessary when we come to deal with EXTERNAL WORLD CONDITIONS. A department of the factory at Byblis has been set apart for you, where your plans and specifications will be speedily worked out." "But," I asked, "how can they be worked out as they should be by mechanics who know absolutely nothing about EXTERNAL WORLD CONDITIONS, such as Polar waves, Arctic storms, hurricanes and cyclones which are produced by EXTERNAL influences not existing in this INTERNAL WORLD? Will Captain Ganoe and yourself, with your external world experience and observation be there to superintend the work?" "Yes, I will be there," said Battell, "but I want to thank you now for so forcibly presenting the reasons why the people of the inner world are anxious to avail themselves of our outer world experience in adapting their airships to outer world conditions. You certainly would not deprive them of this when they have given us so much that is indispensable to the physical, mental and moral uplifting of the people who live in the external world? It is these considerations which have influenced our decision to yield to their wishes. Whenever these people who live in this Internal World of Truth, as MacNair calls it, where an Altruistic love for humanity is the controlling impulse, see an improvement, they all want it immediately because it will enable them to do more good to others and of course we could not honorably refuse to assist them to the fullest extent of our ability." "Certainly not," I said. "That puts the matter in an entirely new light; but it also leaves to me, with my comparative inexperience, the whole responsibility of constructing a storm and cold proof ship. For this, I have no experience as a mechanic, and am but poorly qualified. My duties on shipboard have always been in some capacity that did not stimulate my mechanical faculties, if I have any. As an assistant to Captain Ganoe and yourself I thought there might be a place for me, but as to my ability to take the lead, I have my doubts. I do not see how I am to get along without your co-operation and counsel." "You will certainly have that," said Battell "This is a country of rapid transit and we shall get together at regular intervals to compare notes. Besides, we will have the assistance of an Inner-World Association, whose representatives will constitute an Inner-World Council of the most earnest spirits, who are anxious to unite the INTERNAL and EXTERNAL worlds by opening a channel of INTER-COMMUNICATION and cultivating a mutual spirit of fraternal regard and co-operation between the two. I have thought much along these lines and realize how necessary these two great worlds are to each other and how important that the leading spirits of both should come together and work with one accord for the highest possible development of both." "And that is just what they must do," said Oqua. "But let us test your new ship at once and confer in regard to the work we have in hand at the same time." Thus prompted, we embarked, Battell applied the power and we began to ascend. Every required motion of the vessel had its appropriate propelling power which was under perfect control. No turning around was necessary. The new ship could dart in any given direction, at the will of the operator. I took my place at the helm with Battell and after a little practice found that I could handle it without difficulty. To me its management was much more simple than the old style which could only move in one direction. This facility with which the direction could be changed was the essential feature in order to be able to ride the storms and nullify the influence of the contending air currents which would be a constant source of danger in the outer world. In fancy, I pictured myself in a storm with sudden changes in the direction of the wind, and suiting the action to the thought I set the vessel to dodging and gyrating in every direction to the no little alarm of our Altrurian friends who had no conception of the conditions of an external world bluster. "Hold on Jack!" exclaimed Battell. "Don't shake the life out of us. Wait until you get into an actual storm and then dodge as rapidly as may be necessary, but there is no need of it here." "I was just thinking," I said, "what motions might be necessary in a regular bluster, to hold the ship steady on her course. I really feel anxious to try it, and believe that I can literally ride the storm like the petrel in such a ship as I fully believe can be made." "Well, you can try as soon as you like," said Battell. "I see you understand the management and I leave you to test it to your heart's content. Find all the deficiencies you can and let us know what changes may be needed, and they will be made to the best of our ability. We will now return to your home, borrow one of your old fashioned ships and return to our work at Byblis." "Well, do not send it back," said Oqua, "until it is remodeled according to the latest improvements." "Your Department of Exchange," said Battell, "has already sent in a general order for improved airships to replace those of the old style, which in effect means, that they shall all be remodeled on application. So we will send you an improved ship as soon as it can be made." It was now the second day of March and I had set my heart on getting ready to start for the outer world by the latter part of May or the first of June, so there was no time to be wasted. I determined to leave at once on my experimental voyage to the southern verge and announced my intentions to Oqua, requesting her to represent me during my absence and any arrangements that she made in my name would be satisfactory. "What!" she exclaimed. "Do you propose to go alone? I thought Battell intended that two of your sailors should go with you?" "So he did," I replied, "and at that time I thought I would need them, but since I have tried the vessel, I have come to the conclusion that I had better go alone. As Battell left without referring to the matter, I shall act upon the presumption that he had changed his mind, just as he did in regard to completing a storm and cold proof airship." "But," said Oqua, "your journey will take a week or ten day's travel at the least, and how can you stand the constant attention to the helm without rest?" "No fears on that score," I said. "Very much of the time will be spent in this serene atmosphere. I need only set the helm in the right direction and I can rest until I find stormy conditions. Then I will surely be able to experiment with the ship for a few hours." Oqua, seeing that I was determined, helped me to get ready. I took sufficient supplies for three weeks, although I did not expect to be gone half of that time. The trip was most interesting but I have no room to describe the voyage. Sufficient to say that I found storm conditions and intense cold much sooner than I expected. My electric garments proved to be a perfect success, but I discovered a number of deficiencies in the ship. I returned in just eight days and presented a written report, and specifications for necessary changes. Battell assured me that the new vessel should be ready for another trial journey as soon as possible. I had notified Norrena, that I would be pleased to meet the World Council at my own apartments on the fifteenth, and I was back from the southern verge on the tenth, ready to place my discoveries before them. Promptly at the time indicated, Captains Ganoe and Battell with our usual circle of Altrurian friends were present in the Council Chamber of the home, ready to receive our guests, and in a few minutes Norrena arrived with the representatives from the other Grand Divisions. He introduced them as Hylas of Atlan, Lal Roy of Budistan, Wallaroo of Noxuania and LeFroy of the Austral Isles. Coming as they did from all the Grand Divisions of the world, I expected to see people of widely different physical appearance and mental characteristics, but in this I was mistaken. While they showed marked differences, there were no such contrasts as we find between different races in the outer world. In complexion they ranged from blonde to a dark brunette, all spoke the same language, expressed similar sentiments and in features and general deportment seemed to be building toward a common type. I made a report of my trial trip to the southern verge and also of our plans and specifications for the further improvement of the airship, that we believed would make it storm and cold proof. As these people knew practically nothing of the conditions of the frigid zones they accepted what we had to offer without criticism. They expressed themselves as highly gratified that they had with them experienced navigators who were familiar with the frozen regions and who knew what was needed in order to open up a channel of communication. At this meeting it was definitely determined that we should meet again on April 15th, which interval Battell assured us would give me an opportunity to report on another trial trip, to test the additional improvements which had been found desirable. That I should go ahead with the work of preparation in my own way, and when I was satisfied that the time had come to cross the Ice Barriers I should fix the date, so that the Council could arrange for an excursion to the most northern point of the continent of Altruria where the Life Saving Service had a signal station at an ancient watch tower that had been erected in pre-historic times. After our business meeting had closed, the representatives from the Old World plied us with questions concerning the outer world which we answered to the best of our ability. Finding that they were not a bit backward about questioning I was emboldened to ask, how it was that all the representatives from the different countries seemed to have been selected from the same race of people, while I had learned from Altrurian history that the same races of men had existed here that existed in the outer world. "That was the case in ancient times," said Wallaroo of Noxuania, "but at this time we have practically only one race of people in the inner world." "Here is a mystery," I said, "that I would like very much to have explained. How is it that they have all merged into one type, ranging in complexion from blonde to brunette?" "My own explanation," said Wallaroo, "is, that identity of ideals and similarity of conditions naturally lead to similarity of development, as in accordance with natural law the race is always building in the direction of its ideals." "That is certainly," I said, "a scientific proposition, but it does not explain why blonde, for instance, should ever become an ideal complexion among the dark races. How do you account for it?" "Your question," said Wallaroo, "is one that should be carefully studied in the light of science and history, in order to be understood. One thing is certain, that the early inhabitants of my own country, Noxuania, were very dark, ranging from brown to black, while at present, brunette is the rule and blonde is not uncommon." "But how," I asked, "do you account for the change?" "My opinion," said Wallaroo, "is that the influence of the white missionaries created a new ideal in the minds of the people and especially in the minds of the mothers, who almost worshiped them." "But how is this?" I asked. "In the outer world, the dark races very often persecute and destroy the white missionaries." "And so they did here," said Wallaroo, "before Equity was established in Altruria among white people, and another class of white missionaries were sent to the dark races. These came not to promulgate metaphysical creeds, but to bring material blessings, and establish freedom, equality and fraternity. They practiced just what they preached and wherever they went, they bestowed blessings. The people, especially the women, soon came to worship them as Saviors because they sought only to do them good on the material plane which they could appreciate, and left them to free their minds from superstition in the natural way by increasing their knowledge. It is not strange, under these circumstances, that with these children of nature, white became the ideal color. Improved material conditions, together with a scientific education, higher ideals and ample time for development have produced all the changes which have been wrought out." I found the members of the Council from the other Grand Divisions to be highly cultured people and I looked forward to meeting them in the future with pleasure. I was especially, interested in Wallaroo and LeFroy because they represented peoples which at the introduction of the present Altruistic civilization would correspond to the people now occupying Central Africa and the South Sea Islands. Wallaroo had attributed their remarkable development as physical, mental and moral beings to the higher civilization derived from the religion of humanity regardless of creeds, that had been brought to them by the Altrurian missionaries. The more I thought of these things the more I was impressed that I must visit these countries, mingle with the people and make a close study of their history. LeFroy told me that their written history commenced with the work of the missionaries of the new civilization, but much additional knowledge had been gained from archeological and ethnological researches in the light of such pre-historic traditions as had been preserved. These missionaries did not come to promulgate doctrines of a FUTURE life but to establish conditions which would confer blessings in THIS life, such as could be appreciated on the animal plane. For this reason they were welcomed as superior beings to lead them morally and spiritually. By these glimpses of a new field of discovery that was opening up before me, I was more than ever stimulated to complete the work I had in hand which was directly applicable to the solution of the great economic problem confronting the people of the outer world. As had been promised by Battell, at the Council which met on April 15th, I was able to report the deficiencies that had been discovered in the airship by my second trial trip to the southern verge during its winter season. At this meeting it was determined to name the new vessel the Eolus, though I preferred to call it the Petrel because I had demonstrated that it could ride the storm. The time for the excursion to the Watch Tower at the northern extremity of the continent and my departure for the outer world was fixed for the twentieth of May and the next meeting of the Council on board the Silver King on the fifteenth, while enroute. This gave me really less than one month to complete my manuscript and get everything in readiness for what I regarded as the most momentous voyage of my life. While I was enrolled as a teacher of English, and the geography, history and institutions of the outer world, I had really given all of my attention to the study of the Altrurian language, and of the manner in which the great problems now confronting my own country had been solved. Every day revealed something new or presented the old in a new light. The arts and sciences had been developed to a degree that had scarcely been dreamed of in the outer world. Psychic powers such as clairvoyance, clairaudience and telepathy, which in the outer world were classed as occult by believers, and as baseless assumptions by the multitudes, were here well understood by the many, as revealed in the fact that my disguise had been so readily penetrated by native Altrurians. But at the same time they respected my right to conceal my identity. This was a marked peculiarity of these people. The right of persons to keep a secret in their own bosoms was never questioned, and when it was discovered, as I take it for granted was usually the case, it was never alluded to. Here, my assumed character of Jack Adams, the sailor, was held in the highest esteem by the few to whom I had explained the reason for it, because it had been necessary, in order to enable me to be true to my own higher sense of right. In the outer world this would have branded me as disreputable and I would have been ostracized as something vile by the so called better classes of society. After years of wandering, exposed to the perils and hardships of a sailor's life, I had found my lost lover, only to learn from his oft expressed sentiments, that he regarded such a course of life as I had pursued as so grossly disreputable that no honorable man could afford to contract a matrimonial alliance with such a woman. For this reason I had not revealed myself to him, and now that I was soon to leave him, the question often presented itself to my mind as to whether I ought to let him remain any longer in ignorance of the fact that Cassie VanNess had stood by his side in so many dangers. The time was at hand when this question must be decided and I determined to confer with my most intimate Altrurian friends of my own sex. Bona Dea had arrived at our Home at my invitation and Oqua and Iola were present to assist in making out a program for the excursion and my departure for the outer world. My proposed journey was of course the subject of conversation, but I wanted to draw them out in regard to the personal matter that was uppermost in my mind. I wanted their advice but did not want to be too abrupt in raising a question that was calculated to call the attention of these public spirited people away from an important public question in which they were deeply interested, to the consideration of my own private affairs. Oqua, however, soon gave me the opportunity I wanted by asking: "What does Captain Ganoe think of the decision of the Council and the general consensus of the opinions of those most interested, that you should have your own way about the journey and go alone if you thought best? While he did not object, I felt quite sure that he did not approve." "His heart," I said, "was very much set on going himself and he expresses grave fears as to my safety, notwithstanding my excursions into the stormy regions in the vicinity of the southern verge. He knows however that it was with his consent and advice that the entire matter of opening communication with the outer world was placed in my hands and I accepted the responsibility under protest. The Council regarded my proposed expedition as too perilous to risk more than one life in the attempt. But this you know is just what I wanted for reasons of my own. As a matter of fact there is less danger than in my excursions to the southern verge. I wonder sometimes what the Captain would think if he knew that it was the little girl playmate of his boyhood days and the affianced bride of his early manhood who was bidding him adieu!" "And do you not intend," asked Oqua, "to reveal your identity to him in some way so that when you return, no concealments will be necessary? You know that we penetrated your disguise at once but we respected your natural right to conceal your identity, and we shall continue to do so until you are willing for us to do otherwise. But I would suggest, as an act of justice to Captain Ganoe as well as to yourself, that you ought to let him know who you are. It will doubtless awaken in his mind a train of thought that will be very beneficial to him, while it will protect you from the deteriorating effects of leading a double life." "But," I said, "this double life was forced upon me by causes over which I had no control and hence I do not see how it can have any deteriorating effects." "That was no doubt true," interrupted Bona Dea, "in the present stage of your outer world civilization, but there is no necessity for it here. And the necessity being past, the continuance of the deception might be interpreted to mean that deep down in your soul you doubted the propriety of your conduct. Disguise is perfectly legitimate as a means of self protection, but when it is unnecessary, its tendency is to cultivate duplicity, a characteristic to be carefully avoided. Hence I would advise you to adopt some method of revealing your identity to Captain Ganoe at the moment of your departure; and the more open and frank you are about it, the better will be the effect on him as well as your self. Better not wait until he penetrates your disguise for himself, something he would have done long ago, but for the fact that from his education, he is guided by external appearances instead of those more subtle impressions from which there can be no concealments." I saw the force of this kind of reasoning and determined to act accordingly, and the more I thought of it, the more determined I became to be frank, honest and kind, but strong, independent and inflexible in the assertion of my natural right to think and act for myself without having my integrity and purity of character called in question, because I preferred truth to falsehood. At first I dreaded the denouement; but the more I reflected upon it, the more necessary it appeared, and the better I was prepared for the ordeal. The hour of my departure was near. It had been arranged that the Silver King with the delegations from the other Grand Divisions should meet the Altrurian delegation at the ruins of Kroy, and I had agreed to give Pat and Mike a ride on the Eolus, from the Ice King on Lake Byblis, and land them on the Silver King while enroute for the northern extremity of the continent. I started to the Lake early on the morning of May 15th and within an hour from my departure I was on the deck of the Ice King. I found Lief and Eric, as well as Pat and Mike, ready for the journey. As soon as I had secured some scientific instruments I wanted from the equipment of the Ice King and some personal belongings which I regarded as important, I invited the sailors ON BOARD THE EOLUS, and in a moment more we were mounting into the air. We sailed around the lake and gave the people an opportunity of seeing the airship that was destined for the outer world. The Eolus was not built with a view to securing greater speed but for holding its course regardless of contrary winds. In speed, however, it was capable of making considerable progress against a head wind of two hundred miles an hour. I put the ship through the various movements that it was capable of making, such as stopping suddenly, moving backward, moving sidewise and suddenly rising and falling, for the benefit of the sailors and of the numerous spectators. Mike was quick to see the advantage that the Eolus had over other airships and he remarked with enthusiasm: "Well Jack, it will take a lively hurricane to drive you much from your course, but how in the world will you keep from freezing?" "Nothing easier," I said, as I touched a button and lighted the electric burners that were placed between the inner and outer walls. In a minute the walls were hot to the touch and the air inside became sultry. "Gracious!" exclaimed Mike. "You can never stand this. It will roast you." "Then we will cool it," I said, as I shut off part of the burners, "or if this is not enough, I will shut them all off." "But," said Mike, "you have it so hot now that it will take an hour to cool off." "Not so," I replied. "I will open the doors and start the electric fans," and suiting the action to the word, a cool breeze took the place of the sultry air. "But if you want it cooler," I continued, "I will bring the temperature down a point or two more," and closing the doors, I opened the refrigerator compartment and in a moment we were shivering with the cold. "Well!" exclaimed Mike, "I never knew climate to change so rapidly. I think you have not been dodging up to the Pole and back for nothing. You seem to have provided for every emergency but one, and that is the freezing of the moisture which is already obscuring your lookouts by this manufactured dose of winter." "That is provided for," I said, as I started the circular lookout glasses into motion under a specially prepared brush which absorbed the moisture. Mike noticed the disappearance of the clouds on the lookouts but did not observe the cause and looked at me inquiringly. "Put your hand on the glass," I said, "and it will explain itself." "Well I should think it would!" he exclaimed as he jerked back his hand. "The whole window is just a whizzing; and now I see that the cross bar is a brush that seems to have drank up the moisture." "I have tried to provide for every contingency," I said, as I turned the prow of the Eolus down the valley of the Cocytas, and put her at full speed. "I regard it as a matter of the first importance that a full account of our discoveries shall be transmitted to our own country. We must join the excursion on board the Silver King as soon as we can. I want to interview as many of the representatives from other countries as possible. I must gather all the useful knowledge I can for the benefit of the external world." "That is right," said Mike, "and I would be far from stopping you, but I want you to be after going slow a bit." "Why what is the matter?" I asked, as I checked our speed. "Just this," said Mike, producing a box, "it will take money in the outer world to secure the publication of your book and here is our wages from the Ice King. It is of no use to us in this country, and we want it to be used to send your book broadcast. You will see that it is divided into two parcels, one belongs to Lief and Eric and the other to Pat and myself." Here Lief broke into our conversation, speaking the Altrurian language like a native, saying: "We want your book to be translated into all languages,--and it will be, just as soon as our wonderful discoveries are known in any civilised country. We particularly want our own people to hear about this country, and that we are not the first Norsemen who came here. Tell them about the old Viking, and also of the Norwegian names which are found everywhere." "I have noted these things," I said, "as well as the part you have taken in the expedition. How you saved the Ice King by your prompt action when we were caught in the ice, and how your ability as seamen enabled us to get through after the larger part of the crew had deserted." "Oh! we ask no credit for that," said Eric. "We shipped for a purpose, and have in a measure found what we were looking for. When the right time comes our people will hear from us, and when they do, we may be able to add something of value to the great work for humanity which you have undertaken. All we ask for now is, that your account of our discoveries shall be given to the outside world." "And I promise you," I said, "that your money shall be used for that purpose, and I fully believe that what we have learned, will be the greatest boon that could be conferred upon the people of the outer world. In the name of humanity I accept the trust you place in my hands and I shall see that your gold shall be used to emancipate your fellow workmen from the tyranny now imposed upon them by human greed." As we sped down the valley a glass of small magnifying power brought the Silver King into view gliding northward on the bay like a thing of life. I timed the Eolus so as to join the excursion on this floating crystal palace when it passed out upon the ocean. As we slowly settled in the place that had been set apart for us, the crowds gathered around and I was kept busy answering questions and explaining the use of the various attachments which experience had demonstrated to be essential to the successful navigation of the air in the external world. This was an excursion long to be remembered. The crowds of elegantly dressed people who thronged the decks of the Silver King had gathered from every part of the concave to accompany us to the northern extremity of Altruria, a distance of about 7,000 miles from the mouth of the Cocytas. It was intended that we should cover this distance in seven days, which would make the actual time of my departure on my aerial voyage, the morning of the twenty-third of May. As the excursion was to last one full week a series of entertainments was provided to make the time pass pleasantly and profitably. Music, dancing and theatrical performances were interspersed with lectures and social converse touching upon leading subjects of thought and action. The program made this journey one ceaseless round of enjoyment. The records of the conversations preserved by my locket phonograph, I regard as the most instructive and valuable historical, scientific and ethical lessons I have ever listened to, and which I hope to be able to give to the world when the occasion requires. On the evening of the twenty-second, Oqua called my attention to the kaleidoscopic lights on the Watch Tower which was to be the point where I would bid farewell to my Altrurian friends as well as my comrades of the Ice King. In the pitch dark nights of the outer world such an exhibition would have been beautiful and grand beyond description but even here, with the reflected light which made the darkest nights comparatively light, the scene through our glasses, of the ever changing views was such, that I never tired of observing them. These lights presented all the prismatic hues of the rainbow with the intermediate shades, continually changing from one geometrical figure to another, but always coming around to a five pointed star which is the symbol and sign manual of the material civilization of this inner world; the changing colors kept pace with the changing geometrical figures, always returning to the five pointed star, until it had been reproduced in each of the seven prismatic colors. This seemed to be the regular order, but suddenly it was broken, by giving only the stars in the seven different colors in a rapid succession, until they resolved themselves into a circle, revolving swiftly on its axis. Seeing my interest in this change, Oqua said: "The keeper has just noticed our approach and is operating the keys to send us a welcome in the name of the entire concave. This welcome will be repeated by every signal station on this parallel around the world. The principal use of these lights is to send messages by means of the changing figures, which are well understood by the people of this country, and especially those who navigate these northern waters. The one great drawback to their use, is, that they must be observed through glasses which are especially adapted to this purpose. Here in this inner world where it is never absolutely dark we cannot take the full advantage of these light signals, without the use of external appliances." As she spoke she set the great telescope through which I was looking to revolving so as to take in a zone all around the concave, and I observed other signal lights responding in regular order along this zone. "These signal stations," continued Oqua, "are under the control of the Life Saving Service, and the keepers with these glasses are always on the lookout for mariners who may be in danger, and their signal messages notify any patrols that may observe them of the nature of the danger as well as the locality of the endangered. Had the Ice King come within the radius of any of these Signal Stations at almost any other time, you would certainly have been discovered and rescued. But at the time you came into these waters the fog had effectually checkmated our observations. For this reason we are agitating for the extension of this system to medial and equatorial latitudes, as a time has come when it seems likely that other ships like the Ice King, may drift into these placid waters where sails are useless, and hence be powerless to save themselves from certain destruction by being carried into the southern verge on ocean currents which never touch the land." On the morning of the twenty-third when I awoke, the Silver King was lying at the wharf and I had a close view of the Watch Tower and its ever changing signal lights. It was more like a lofty building than a mere tower. It was a hexagon in shape, two hundred and fifty feet in height with a large platform on top, in the center of which was a huge column like the body of a tall tree branching out into numerous arms, each supporting a series of electric lights. The mechanical contrivance by which these lights were controlled was automatic, but as occasion required could be changed by the watchman in the observatory to signal any message required to all whom it might concern. This building from outside to outside was one hundred feet at the base and fifty feet at the top, while the inside diameter was the same from top to bottom. On the outside was a spiral stairway reaching from the ground to the platform at the top and in the center was an electric elevator, connected with each of the twenty stories. The hour of my departure had come. According to the program I was to bid farewell to the members of the Inner World Council and my old comrades of the Ice King and some personal friends at the top of the tower where they had already assembled. The crew of the Silver King and her throngs of excursionists had gathered on the deck and the wharf to see me take my flight. When all was ready, I took my place on the Eolus and rising a few feet sailed slowly around this magnificent ship, coming to a halt on the starboard quarter where Captain Thorfin, acting as spokesman, said: "In the name of the people here assembled from all parts of the world who have accompanied you thus far on your daring expedition, I am requested to express to you our exalted opinion of your courage, your ability and worth, and to thank you for the inestimable service which you have undertaken to render to our people, by extending their sphere of knowledge in regard to the external world. You are now engaged in a work for which our people are powerless. We realize that we are to profit by your perils. You will ever occupy a warm place in our affections. Accept our thanks for your heroic efforts to open a channel of communication with our fellow beings of the external world. Hoping for your speedy return we bid you a loving farewell." "And through you," I responded, "I desire to extend my heartfelt thanks to those who are beyond the reach of my voice, for this demonstration of their interest, and may the channel of communication, which we hope to establish between the internal and the external worlds never again be closed. But as yet I have not accomplished anything to merit your thanks. I am the one who ought to be grateful to your people. I came among you a stranger and you received me as a brother. Everywhere I have met the kindest consideration and all my wants have been supplied without even the formality of asking. I have here found the living soul of humanity developed as it has never been believed to be possible in the external world. I carry with me to my own native land THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE, the knowledge that HUMANITY CAN BE REDEEMED FROM SELFISHNESS AND ALL OF ITS CONSEQUENCES. In the external world, from whence I came, we have only cultivated the external, and hence have developed physical hardihood while you have developed the finer attributes of the soul which we have neglected. My ambition is to bring these two worlds together. You need our physical hardihood while we need your higher development of soul. When the leading characteristics of both are united into one common brotherhood, both worlds will have a perfected humanity. If I can help humanity to reach this grand culmination, where both soul and body shall be developed to their utmost capacity, I shall be happy. To me, with my training, it does not seem like a daring undertaking now that I am enabled to utilize your grand discovery of the means by which the air can be navigated. Thanking you for this mark of your consideration, and promising to return as soon as possible, I bid you adieu." As I ceased speaking, I set the Eolus to moving directly to the top of the tower. This demonstrated at once to the multitudes, its superiority over the old style of airship and they gave a cheer, which was the more expressive and significant as these people are not given to anything like loud demonstrations of applause. At the platform I received cordial words of cheer from the committee, my old comrades of the Ice King and my most intimate Altrurian friends. Speaking for the committee, Lal Roy, of Budistan said: "On behalf of the members of this committee, and especially of the members from the eastern hemisphere, I congratulate you upon the marked improvements you have made in our methods of aerial navigation. The construction of the Eolus marks an era in our progress that will be a monument to your memory. You will be honored and appreciated for generations to come." "Excuse me," I responded. "I am not entitled to the honor you would bestow upon me. Captain Battell made the first move toward the improvements that were consummated in the Eolus, and Captain Ganoe and Huston have both contributed their mechanical skill. Without them there would have been no Eolus." "Hold on Jack," said Battell. "In the consummation, we only carried out your suggestions. The improvements I started, were completed in accordance with your plans." "Yes," said Captain Ganoe, as he clasped my hand. "You were the first person I ever heard suggest the construction of an airship that could ride the storm, and but for your suggestions every one of which was tested in your experimental journeys to the verges, we never could have succeeded. And but for your intimate knowledge of the difficulties to be overcome, I never would have consented for you to go alone. Even as it is, notwithstanding the unanimous decision of the committee, I find it very hard to reconcile myself to the thought that you are to be exposed all alone, to the cold and the storms of the polar regions. Such dangers ought to be reserved for those who have nothing to live for, and not for the young, the refined and the educated who have a bright future before them." "Have no fears for me," I said. "You must not forget that it is now warm weather in the north frigid zone and I will not be exposed to intense cold, and the probability is that I will have no severe storms to contend with. But I will promise this: To be careful, and if I discover any defect in the Eolus that would make the journey too hazardous, I will return at once, rather than take any chances of defeating our purpose of communicating with the outer world when we have mastered the problem of riding the storm. No doubt my observations on this voyage, will open the way for other improvements. Keep up your courage. This is but the beginning of our work. We must have airships that will enable the most sensitive, to visit the outer world, and teach our countrymen the importance of cultivating the higher attributes of the soul, which can only be developed in their fullness under the benign influence of an Altruistic civilization." Oqua here stepped forward and took me by the hand, saying: "Nequa, my more than friend, go, and the blessings of our people go with you. May you reach your native land in safety and accomplish your mission. By so doing you will leave footprints on the sands of time that can never be effaced. As soon as your work is placed in the proper hands return with all speed to the many loving hearts which await you." Scarcely had she ceased speaking when Polaris, as if to continue her remarks, raising her hand and pointing to the north, said: "Yes, loving hearts will await you. And when your form has faded from our vision, in yonder deep cerulean blue, the mystic symbol of purity and truth, remember that in spirit we are with you. And I will continue to keep watch over these waters, patiently awaiting your return, as in the past I have kept watch for any of your people that might drift in here, and be left to the mercy of the currents which never touch the land. I hope to be the first to greet you on your return, but if perchance you should be lost in your perilous undertaking, I will still be flitting, to and fro, over these northern seas, awaiting the coming of your people, to assist and welcome them in the true spirit of our civilization." MacNair gave a new turn and spirit to this closing interview, by saying in his usual cheery manner: "In the name of humanity I protest against preparing for the funeral before the corpse is ready. Neither am I willing to contemplate the possibility of Jack Adams ever requiring any such a service at our hands. You do not understand the kind of material of which he is composed. I know that Jack is going to make the round trip, no matter what we may be doing, and so far as I am concerned, I do not intend to give myself any uneasiness about him; and instead of bobbing around up here in this chilly atmosphere, I will go home and be ready to give Jack the cordial greeting of a fellow countryman, when he returns from this last polar expedition." "MacNair is right," I said. "I am not starting out to fall by the wayside, and do not forget that the Eolus will sail far above the ice-fields, and that during the high-noon of the long arctic day of six months duration. I apprehend no danger, but anticipate a pleasant excursion to my native land. But I will not go any further this time, than is absolutely necessary. I hope to meet the right persons at some of the many stations in Alaska, and if so I will return several days earlier than I have promised. I shall return as soon as possible. My life work is here, for it will take a life-time to complete the work that I have laid out for myself to do for the benefit of my countrymen who live in the external world." As I was speaking, Captain Ganoe stood with his hand on the door of the Eolus, at if it was by right his place to have the last parting word. Captain Battell and the other comrades of the Ice King drew near. Upon their faces, I read the affectionate regard they had for me. It was a trying moment. I wanted a last word with Captain Ganoe. I wanted it impressive, kind but inflexible. I shook hands with all who stood near, and then as I held Captain Ganoe's hand I said to Oqua: "Step on board, I want you to assist me a moment," and to the Captain, "Wait here a moment, I have something to say to you." Oqua did as directed, and we ascended and made the circuit of the lights, while I prepared myself for the revelation I intended. Oqua handled the ship while I hastily donned the attire which characterised my sex in the outer world. I arrayed myself in the same rich satin dress that I had worn on the last evening I had spent with Raphael, at his uncle's home in New York. My golden locks made into a neat fitting wig, and put up in the game style which he had so much admired, now covered my short cropped hair. Around my neck I had the same gold chain and locket of peculiar workmanship, and the same ring on my hand, which had been his parting presents to his affianced bride. Over all I wore a cloak that came down to my feet. My toilet complete, we dropped to the level of the platform, but just outside, and Oqua with a parting pressure of the hand, and with a last injunction: "Nequa, be strong, be true, but do not forget to be kind and considerate," passed from the Eolus to the platform, and moving back a few feet, I stepped to the door and throwing aside my cloak, stood arrayed before Captain Ganoe, just as I had been when I bade him adieu at our guardian's home just fifteen years before. The crowd stood spell-bound. None but Oqua, MacNair, and the crew of the Ice King had ever seen any one dressed in the costume which is peculiar to women in the outer world. Captain Ganoe stood rooted to the spot, and gazed at me with a look of consternation, as if I was one who had just arisen from the grave, as I said: "Captain Ganoe, you doubtless recognize me and I ask your attention for a moment. You will probably remember, that on the Ice King you confidently related to your scientist, Jack Adams, the story of your engagement to Cassie VanNess, and asked him if he had ever loved. He made an evasive reply. If you care to have an explicit answer to that question, ask my trusted friend Oqua. I do not wish to have that story again pass my lips. I have done with it forever. I have now taken up a new life and henceforth I am wedded to a new lover, and the wealth of my affections shall be bestowed upon humanity. "The memory of the old life, and the old love, carries with it the martyrdom of all that is noblest, purest and most sacred in the soul of woman, her devotion to the chosen idol of her girlhood days. These outer world conditions so foreign to all that is good and true, make me wonder that I should ever have been so weak as to be victimized by them. But such are the consequences of a false education, which belongs to a benighted past and cannot be helped. For many long years, in my assumed character of Jack Adams, the sailor, I roamed over the high seas to find you, and during all of our perils in the ice, I stood by your side. I worshiped you with an idolatrous devotion. And all this, only to hear again and again from your lips, the expression of sentiments, that condemned all that I had done, as disreputable, unworthy and immoral. You have repeatedly declared that as an honorable man, you could never unite yourself with such a woman in the holy bonds of matrimony, no matter how much you loved her. "It was for this reason, that my own self respect forbade that I should reveal my identity to you. The case of Huston was almost identical with my own, and in condemning the course which he had taken you condemned me. I took it for granted, that as an honorable man, you expressed your honest sentiments, and there was nothing for me to do but to submit to your verdict--" The Captain raised his hand as if to speak, but I checked him, saying: "Hear me through. It is in no spirit of unkindness that I speak. I have waited patiently for you to so modify your views, that I could make myself known to you in the full assurance of your approval of my fidelity to our plighted troth. But you gave me no such opportunity. Oqua penetrated my disguise at first sight and many others of my inner world friends with whom I have been associated, intuitively understood that Jack Adams, the sailor, was an assumed character and why it had been adopted; but you, blinded by the crystallized errors of a false education, were ignorant of my identity. "I now reveal myself to you, because I do not wish to continue this assumed character, even to escape the pain that would be inflicted by your disapproval. I do not regret the course I have taken. Under the same circumstances I would be compelled to do the same thing again, rather than be false to the higher laws of my own nature. It is true that I have repudiated, and still repudiate, any legal obligation that may be secured by fraud, misrepresentation or coercion. I now know that human laws, human customs and legal ceremonies may be the cover for the violation of God's laws which are implanted in the human soul. I have been true to these higher, God made laws of my own being, and disregard all man made laws and customs which violate the most sacred rights of the human soul. "If I cannot meet you as an equal, free to think and act for myself, regardless of the arbitrary rulings of either church or state, then it will be far better for both of us, that we remain apart. I will never be bound by any ceremony that does not meet my own approval. When it comes to matters of this kind, I, Cassie VanNess, am the lawmaker. "You have repeatedly expressed sentiments, which could have no other meaning, than that you regarded legal and popular ceremonies, as of more worth in your estimation, than the 'unpurchased, and unpurchasable devotion of a loving woman.' If you prefer a companion who cares more for what Mother Grundy might say, than she does for Captain Ganoe, then I could not possibly be that companion. When I return, let all this be forgotten. Let us meet as friends, forget if we can, the past, and let each of us live our own life, true to our own convictions of what is noble, good and true. I have had one lover and lost him because I loved him too devotedly. I shall never make that mistake again. But as the widow of such a lover, I shall henceforth continue to labor for the upbuilding of all humanity, as I would gladly have lived for him, and him only. "And now, farewell Raphael. I regret, not that I loved you so devotedly, but that I did not learn sooner, that it was only love with certain restrictions, and within certain specific bounds, that you wanted. Excuse my mistake and farewell." While I maintained my equilibrium, I felt that my heart would break. With my hand I waved a farewell to all, and set the Eolus in motion. As I closed the door, Captain Ganoe sprang forward and would have dashed himself from the tower but for those who stood by him. His last words have been ringing in my ears ever since as they were wafted to me on the balmy air. In a voice of agonizing entreaty, he cried out: "Oh Cassie! Cassie! For God's sake, Come back! Come back!" THE END. 
6037	----	This eBook was produced by Charles Aldarondo and Carrie Fellman. THE ONE WOMAN A STORY OF MODERN UTOPIA BY THOMAS DIXON, JR. ILLUSTRATED BY B. WEST CLINEDINST DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF MY MOTHER (1834-1902) TO WHOSE SCOTCH LOVE OF ROMANTIC LITERATURE I OWE THE HERITAGE OF ETERNAL YOUTH CONTENTS I. The Man and the Woman II. Visions in the Night III. The Banker and His Fad IV. The Shorthorn Deacon V. The Cry of the City VI. The Puddle and the Tadpole VII. A Stolen Kiss VIII. Sweet Danger IX. The Spider X. The Black Cat XI. An Answer to Prayer XII. Out of the Shadows XIII. A Broken Heart-String XIV. The Voice of the Siren XV. Goest Thou to See a Woman? XVI. The Parting XVII. The Thought That Sweeps the Century XVIII. A Voice from the Past XIX. The Wedding of the Annunciation XX. An Old Sweetheart XXI. Freedom and Fellowship XXII. A Scarlet Flame in the Sky XXIII. The New Heaven XXIV. Courtier and Queen XXV. The Irony of Fate XXVI. At Close Quarters XXVII. Venus Victrix XXVIII. The Growl of the Animal XXIX. Bulldog and Mastiff XXX. The Cloud's Silver Lining XXXI. A Lace Handkerchief XXXII. A Lifetime in a Day XXXIII. The Verdict XXXIV. The Appeal XXXV. Between Two Fires XXXVI. Swift and Beautiful Feet XXXVII. The Kiss of the Bride List of Illustrations "Her tapering fingers rested on his broad foot." "About her personality there was a haunting charm, the breath of a soul capable of the highest heroism." "Little ringlets of hair curling about her face as though scorched by the warmth of the red blood below." "Ripped it open, tore it from his arms, and threw it on the floor." "Her arms stole around his neck." "A faint cry came from the full lips." "Driving his great fingers into his throat." "A cheer suddenly burst from the crowd and echoed through the court-room." Leading Characters of the Story Scene: New York-Time: The Present RUTH GORDON . . . The One Woman REV. FRANK GORDON . . A Social Dreamer KATE RANSOM . . . The Other Woman MARK OVERMAN . . . .A Banker MORRIS KING . . Ruth's Old Sweetheart ARNOLD VAN METER . . A Shorthorn Deacon BARRINGER . . Assistant District Attorney CHAPTER I THE MAN AND THE WOMAN "Quick--a glass of water!" A man sprang to his feet, beckoning to an usher. When he reached the seat, the woman had recovered by a supreme effort of will and sat erect, her face flushed with anger at her own weakness. "Thank you, I am quite well now," she said with dignity. The man settled back and the usher returned to his place and stood watching her out of the corners of his eyes, fascinated by her beauty. The church was packed that night with more than two thousand people. The air was hot and foul. The old brick building, jammed in the middle of a block, faced the street with its big bare gable. The ushers were so used to people fainting that they kept water and smelling-salts handy in the anterooms. The Reverend Frank Gordon no longer paused or noticed these interruptions. He had accepted the truth that, while God builds the churches, the devil gets the job to heat, light and ventilate them. The preacher had not noticed this excitement under the gallery, but had gone steadily on in an even monotone very unusual to his fiery temperament. A half-dozen reporters yawned and drummed on their fingers with their pencils. The rumour of a brewing church trouble had been published, but he had not referred to it in the morning, and evidently was not going to do so to-night. Toward the close of his sermon he recovered from the stupor with which he had been struggling and ended with something of his usual fervour. He was a man of powerful physique, wide chest and broad shoulders, a tall athlete, six feet four, of Viking mould, hair blond and waving, steel-gray eyes, a strong aquiline nose and frank, serious face. He had been called from a town in southern Indiana to the Pilgrim Congregational Church in New York when, on its last legs, it was about to sell out and move uptown. He had created a sensation, and in six months the building could not hold the crowds which struggled to hear him. His voice was one of great range and its direct personal tone put him in touch with every hearer. Before they knew it his accents quivered with emotion that swept the heart. Emotional thinking was his trait. He could thrill his crowd with a sudden burst of eloquence, but he loved to use the deep vibrant subtones of his voice so charged with feeling that he melted the people into tears. His face, flashing and trembling, smiling and clouding with hidden fires of passion, held every eye riveted. His gestures were few and seemed the resistless burst of enormous reserve power--an impression made stronger by his great hairy blue-veined hands and the way he stood on his big, broad feet. He spoke in impassioned moments with the rush of lightning, and yet each word fell clean-cut and penetrating. An idealist and dreamer, in love with life, colour, form, music and beauty, he had the dash and brilliancy, the warmth and enthusiasm of a born leader of men. The impulsive champion of the people, the friend of the weak, he had become the patriot prophet of a larger democracy. A passion for music, and a fad for precious stones, especially pearls and opals, which he carried in his pockets and handled with the tenderness of a lover, were his hobbies. He had in a marked degree the peculiar power of attracting children and animals, and all women liked him instinctively from the first. But to-night he was not himself. After a brief prayer at the close of the sermon he dismissed the crowd with the announcement of an after-meeting for those personally interested in religion. As the people poured out through the open doors the unceasing roar of the great city's life swept in drowning the soft strains of the organ--the jar and whir of wheels, the wheeze of brakes, the tremor of machinery, the rumble of cab, the clatter of hoof-beat, the cry of child and hackman, the haunting murmur of millions like the moan of the sea borne on breezes winged with the odours of saloon and kitchen, stable and sewer--the crash of a storm of brute forces on the senses, tearing the nerves, crushing the spirit, bruising the soul, and strangling the memory of a sane life. Gordon frowned and shivered as he sat waiting for the crowd to go, and a look of depression swept his face. These after-meetings for personal appeal were a regular feature of his ministry. He held them every Sunday evening, no matter how tired he was or how hopeless the effort might seem. When the doors were closed about a hundred people had gathered in the centre of the church near the front. He rose from his chair behind the altar-rail with an evident effort to throw off his weariness. He had laid aside his pulpit robe, a tribute to ritualism that this church had dragooned him into accepting. "My friends," he began slowly and softly, with his hands folded behind him, "first a few words of testimony from any who can witness to the miracle of the Spirit in our daily life. We are crushed sometimes with the brutal weight of matter, and yet over all the Spirit broods and gives light and life. Who can bear witness to this miracle?" "I can!" cried a man, who rose trembling with deep feeling. His high, well-moulded forehead showed the heritage of intellectual power. His eyes, soft and tender as a woman's, had in their depths the record of a great sorrow. Taking his watch out of his pocket, he looked at it a moment, and, as the tears began to steal down his face, spoke in a tremulous voice. "Seven years, four months, three days and six hours ago the Spirit of God came to my poor lost soul and found it in a dirty saloon on the East Side. I was dead--dead to shame, dead to honour, dead to love, dead to the memory of life. I was so low I found scant welcome in hell's own port, the saloon. They knew me and dreaded to see me. I had served time in prison, and when I drank I was an ugly customer for the bravest policeman to meet alone. "Ragged, dirty, blear-eyed, besotted, I was seated on a whisky barrel wondering how I could beat the barkeeper out of a drink, when a sweet-faced boy came up and handed me a card of this church's services. "I don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden it came over me--where I was, and what I was, and what I once had been--a boy with a face like that, with a Christian father and mother who loved me as their own life, and then how I had gone down, down in drink from ditch to ditch and gutter to gutter to the bottomless pit. "I jumped down off that whisky barrel and washed my face. That night I found this church, and the Spirit of God, here in one of these after-meetings, led my soul to the foot of the cross of Jesus Christ. I looked up into His beautiful face--the fairest among ten thousand--the one altogether lovable, and I heard Him say, as to the thief of old, 'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.' "From that day, hour and minute I've been a living man, a miracle of grace and love. I have not touched a drop of liquor since, and these hands, which had not earned an honest cent for years, have handled thousands of dollars of other people's money and not one penny has ever stuck to them. I am the living witness that God's spirit can raise man from the dead, and Jesus Christ keep him unto life!" He sat down, crying. Gordon lifted his hand and said, "Let us bow our heads a moment in silent prayer while every heart opens the door to the Spirit." At the close of the service he passed the man who had spoken and pressed his hand. "Ah, Edwards, old boy, you knew I needed that to-night. God bless you!" Jerry Edwards smiled and nodded. "A lady wishes to speak to you in the study, sir," the sexton said to him. He looked around for his wife to tell her to wait, but she had gone. His study opened immediately into the auditorium at the foot of the pulpit stairs. As he entered, a young woman of extraordinary beauty, elegantly and quietly dressed, advanced to meet him and shook his hand in a friendly, earnest way. "Doctor, I've waited patiently to-night to see you," she said. "I've been coming to hear you for six months, and yet I have never told you how much good you have done me; and I specially wish to tell you how sorry I am that my stupid weakness to-night interrupted you. I think I came near fainting. It was so close and hot--and, pardon me if I say it--I suddenly got the insane idea that you were about to faint in the pulpit." "Well, that is strange," interrupted Gordon, looking at her with deepening interest. "You have the gift of the sympathetic listener. I noticed no disturbance, but I did come near fainting. I have had a hard day--one of fierce nerve-strain." She looked at him curiously. "Then I don't feel so badly, now that I know my idea was not incipient insanity," she said, smiling. "I've quite made up my mind to send back to Kentucky for my forgotten church-letter. I've seen all fashionable society in New York can offer and I am weary of its vacuity. I've been disillusioned of a girl's silly dreams, but there are some beautiful ones in my heart I've held. I can't tell you how your church and work have thrilled and interested me. I have never heard such sermons and prayers as yours. You give to the old faiths new and beautiful meaning. Every word you have spoken has seemed to me a divine call." "And you cannot know how cheering such a message is to me to-night," he thoughtfully replied, studying her carefully. "I never could summon courage to come up and speak to you before, but your sermon this morning swept me off my feet. It was so simple, so heartfelt, so sincere, and yet so close in its touch of life, I felt that you had opened your very soul for me to see my own in its experiences. It will be a turning point in my life." She spoke with a quiet seriousness, and Gordon felt that he had never seen a face of such exquisite grace. With a promise that he would call to see her within the week, she left. He stood for a moment gazing at her name, "Miss Kate Ransom," on the card she gave him, his mind aglow with the consciousness of her remarkable beauty, the famous Kentucky type, and yet a distinct variation. Her figure was full and magnificent in the ripe glory of youth, a delicate face, the blonde's colour, thick, waving auburn hair that seemed brown till the light blazed through its deep red tints, violet-blue eyes, cordial and smiling, at once mysterious, magic, friendly, gravely candid. Her skin was smooth as a babe's, with the delicate creamy satin of the blonde flashing the scarlet tints of every emotion. Her lips were cherry-red, and as she listened they half parted with a lazy suggestion of tenderness and love; while the face was one of refined mentality, as unconscious as a child's of its splendid beauty. Her gait was proud and careless, telling of perfect health and stores of untouched vital powers, a movement of the body at once strong, luxurious, insolently languid, rhythmic and full of dumb music. It was when she moved that she expressed the consciousness of power, a gleam of cruelty, a challenge that was to man an added charm. "What a woman!" he exclaimed aloud, as he drew on his coat. "The kind of a woman who enraptures the senses, drugs the brain and conscience of the man who responds to her call--the woman about whom men have never been able to compromise, but have always killed one another!" His wife opened the door for him in silence. "Who was that woman, Frank?" she asked at length, her long, dark lashes blinking rapidly. "What woman, Ruth?" "The beauty I saw glide softly into your study." Gordon smiled as he sank into a chair in the library. "Miss Kate Ransom, a stranger I never met before." "You seem a magnet for strange women, and your church their Mecca." "Yes, and strange men. God knows New York, with its dead and deserted churches, needs such a Mecca." "You promised to call, of course?" "Certainly; it's my business. The Church needs every friend and every dollar to be had on Manhattan Island." "And the distinguished young pastor of the Pilgrim Church needs the smiles of all beautiful women. His wife is a little faded with worry and care for his children, while crowds hang on his eloquence and silly women sigh into his handsome face. Ah, Frank, before we came to New York you had eyes only for me. The city, the crowd and the flattery of fools have turned your head. You are letting go of all things you once held. Now the Bible is 'literature.' You are sighing for the freedom of a 'larger life.' Where will it end? I wonder if you have weighed marriage in the balances and found it wanting?" Gordon rose with a sigh, walked slowly to the window and looked down on the city lying below. Their little home was perched on the cliffs of Washington Heights. The smile had died from his handsome face and his tall figure was stooped with exhaustion. He raised one hand and brushed back a stray lock from his forehead, across which a frown had slowly settled. "By all means keep your hair adjusted," his wife continued sarcastically. "The women are all in love with that blond hair. And it is so effective in the pulpit. If you were not six feet four it might be effeminate, but I assure you it is the secret of your strength. I trust you will be wiser than Samson." Gordon smiled. "You have quit the old faiths," she continued rapidly, "and gone to preaching Christian Socialism. You have driven the best members of the church away, and made the press your enemy. That mob which hails you a god will turn and curse you. You will never build your marble dream out of such stuff. Both your sermons to-day will make your trustees more hostile. There was no Bible in them--only personalities and rank Socialism. I saw that woman in front of me drinking it all in as the inspired gospel." Gordon winced and his brow clouded. "I gave up everything for you--home, talents, friends," she went on. "Now that I am thirty-one, it is the new face that charms." "You did give up a very particular friend for me," Gordon remarked teasingly. "I only learned recently that you were once engaged to Mr. Morris King, your faithful attorney, and that you threw him over for an athletic parson with blond hair and a smile, yet I have never chided you about this little secret. Mr. King is still a romantic bachelor. He has not been initiated into the joys of a Sunday sermon at 10 P. M., with his wife in the pulpit. He has much to live for." Her lips quivered and her eyes grew dim. "Come, come, my dear; you know that I love you and that I am faithful to you. But such words and scenes as these may destroy the tenderest love at last. Words, even, are deeds." "How philosophical! Quite like one of the epigrams of your chum, Mark Overman, of whose cruel tongue you're so fond. I wonder you don't make Mr. Overman a deacon in the new order of your church." Gordon sank back into the chair and thoughtfully shaded his brow with his hand, his face drawn into deep lines of weariness. When she saw the look of pain in his face her eyes softened. "What I fear of you, Frank, is not your intention, but your performance. You mean well, but you never could resist a pretty woman." "In a sense, no. If I could, I never would have married." The faintest suggestion of a smile played about her eyes and then faded. "I wonder what pretty speeches you said to the stranger to-night? You have such charming manners with a woman." He looked at her appealingly and she stared at him without reply. "For God's sake, Ruth, end this scene. If you only knew how tired I am to-night--tired in body, in heart and soul. I think the past week has been the most trying of my whole life. It opened with a newspaper attack on me inspired by Van Meter. You know how sensitive I am to such criticism. "Saturday came without a moment for preparation for the great crowds I knew would be present to-day after that attack on me. Instead of work yesterday, a procession of people, hungry and suffering, were at the door from morning until night. All their burdens they poured out to me; All their wrongs and grievances against God and man became mine. "On Saturday night the trustee meeting was held to discuss our building project. Van Meter led the opposition with skill. When I poured out my soul's dream to them of a great temple of marble, a flaming centre of Christian Democracy instead of the old brick barn we call a church--a temple that would flash its glory from the sky above the sordid materialism that is crushing the lives and hearts of men, telling in marble song of God, of immortality, of faith and hope and love--they stared at me in contempt until I felt the blood freeze in my veins. When I drew a picture of its great auditorium thronged with thousands of eager faces, Van Meter coolly interrupted me with the remark: "'We don't want such trash elbowing our old parishioners out of their pews. We've had too much of it already. With all your mob, the pew-rents have fallen off.' "My first impulse was that of Christ when he took a whip in the temple. I wanted to knock him down. Instead, I rushed out of the house and left him victorious. "I waked this morning with the burden of all this week's horror choking me, waked to the consciousness that in a few hours thousands of faces would be looking up to me with hungry souls to be fed. Well, I had nothing to give them except my own heart's blood, and so to-day I tore my heart open for them to devour it. True, I didn't preach the Bible except as its truth had passed into my own soul's experiences. When I preach such sermons I always quit with the sense of utter helplessness, exhaustion and failure. Could my bitterest enemy read my heart in that hour he would cry out for pity. "I never so felt the crushing burden of all that crowd of people as to-day. I've heard so much of their sorrows and struggles the past week. I felt that the city was a great beast in some vast arena of time, that I was alone, naked and unarmed, on the sands, struggling with it for the life of the people, while my enemies looked on. As never before, I heard the rush of its half-crazed millions, its crash and roar, saw its fierce brutality, its lust, its cruelty, its senseless scramble for pleasure, its indifference to truth, its millions of to-day but a symbol of the millions gone before and the trampling millions to come, and I felt I was a failure. I felt that I was pitching straws against a hurricane, only to find them blown back into my face. I came down out of that pulpit with the weariness of a thousand years crushing my tired body and soul, feeling that I could never speak again, or struggle against the tide any more--that I was broken, bruised and done for all time, and I came home feeling so--" He paused a moment and a sigh caught his voice. His wife's face had softened and a tear was quivering on her long eyelashes. "I came home thus worn out to-night hoping for a word of cheer, yet knowing it would be days before I could recover from the sheer nerve-agony I had endured. What a reception you have given me! And for what? A beautiful woman stopped to tell me my message had not been in vain, that it had made for her a light on life's way, and that the prayers in which I had tried to realise as my own, the people's thoughts and hopes and fears had been a revelation to her, and because I smiled--" His wife was again staring at him with the glitter of jealousy. He saw it and ceased to speak. He suddenly sprang to his feet and walked to the door. Taking down his hat and light overcoat from the rack, he said, as though to himself: "We will spend the night under different roofs." As he passed toward the door there was a faint cry fiom within scarcely louder than a whisper, tense with agony and pitiful in its pleading accents; "Frank, dear, please come back!" But when she summoned strength to rush to the door, crying with terror she had never known before "Frank! Frank!" he had turned the corner and disappeared. CHAPTER II VISIONS IN THE NIGHT Gordon walked rapidly with the quick stride of the trained athlete. Walking was a pet exercise. His mind was now in a whirl of fury. He had never before given away to passion in a quarrel with his wife. They had been married twelve years, and, up to the birth of their boy, four years before, had lived as happily as possible for two people of strong wills. Discord had slowly grown as his fame increased. His wife was now jealous of almost every woman who spoke to him. They had quarreled before, but he had always kept a clear head and laughed her out of countenance. These quarrels had ended with tears and kisses and were forgotten until the next. To-night somehow every thrust found his most sensitive spots. He wondered why? Dimly conscious of a curious interest in the woman who had spoken so sweetly to him at the close of his service, he wondered if his wife divined the fact by some subtle power their long association had developed and sharpened. His enthusiasm for the Socialistic ideal was fast becoming an absorbing passion, and was destined to lead him into strange company. His wife felt this, resented it, and, becoming more and more conservative, the gulf between them daily widened and deepened. He cared nothing for her ridicule of his blond locks. He wore them half in defiance of conventionality and half in whimsical love for the picture of a beautiful mother from whom he had inherited them. "What could have possessed her to-night?" he slowly muttered as he emerged from Central Park and swung into Fifth Avenue. "Am I really losing my grasp of truth because I am giving up traditional dogmas? Has God given to her soul the power to look inside my heart and find its secret thoughts? Why does she keep asking me if I have lost faith in marriage? Never in word or deed have I hinted at such a thing." And yet the memory of that beautiful woman, with a voice like liquid music, friendly, soothing, reassuring, kept echoing through his soul. As the tumult of passion died in the glow of the walk in the open air he became conscious of the life of the city again. The avenue was a blaze of light. Its miles of electric torches flashed like stars in the milky way. He passed under dozens of awnings before palatial homes in front of which stood lines of carriages. The old Dutch and English ancestors of these people were once faithful observers of the Sabbath. Now they went to church in the mornings as a form of good society and held their receptions in the evenings. Some of them employed professional vaudeville artists to enliven their Sunday social bouts. New York, proud imperial Queen of the Night, seemed just waking to her real life, a strange new life in human history--a life that had put darkness to flight, snuffed out the light of moon and star, laughed at sleep, twin sister of Death, and challenged the soul of man to live without one refuge of silence or shadow. And yet the warmth and glow, the splendour and beauty of it all stirred his imagination and appealed to his love. At length he stood before the old church that had been the arena of his struggles and triumphs for the past ten years, and was destined to be for him the scene of a drama more thrilling than any he had known or dreamed in the past. He passed into the auditorium, ascended the pulpit, and sat down in the armchair where but a few hours before he had held the gaze of thousands. The electric lights glimmering through the windows of the gable showed the empty pews in sharp outline. "I wonder if they know when they go they sometimes leave my soul as empty and as lonely as those vacant pews? I give, give, give forever of thought, sympathy and life and never receive, until sometimes my heart cries to a passing dog for help! "I'd build here to God a temple whose sheer beauty and glory would stop every huckster on the street, lift his eyes to heaven and melt his soul into tears. It must--it shall come to pass!" He sat there for nearly two hours, dreaming of his plans of uplifting the city, and through the city as a centre reaching the Nation and its millions with pen and tongue of fire. Gradually the sense of isolation from self enveloped him, and the thought of human service challenged the highest reach of his powers. He opened the face of his watch and felt the hands, a habit he had formed of telling the time in the dark. It was one o'clock. He thought of his wife and their quarrel. He had forgotten it in larger thoughts, and his heart suddenly went out in pity to her. He had not meant what he said. He loved her in spite of all harsh words and bitter scenes. She was the mother of his two lovely children, a girl of ten and a boy of four. The idea of a night apart from her, he, and theirs came with a painful shock. He felt his strength and was ashamed that he had left her so cruelly. He hurried to the Twenty-third Street elevated station and boarded a car for his home. When his wife recovered from the first horror of his leaving, she was angry. With a nervous laugh she went into the nursery, kissed the sleeping chil-dren and went to bed. She tossed the first hour, thinking of the quarrel and many sharp thrusts she might have given him. Perhaps she would renew the attack when he came in and attempted to make up. The clock struck eleven and she sprang up, walked to her window and looked out. A great new fear began to brood over her soul. "No, no, he could not have meant it--he is not a brute!" she cried, as she began to nervously clasp her hands and turn her wedding ring over and over again on her tapering finger, until it seemed a band of fire to her fevered nerves. As she stood by the window in her scarlet silk robe she made a sharp contrast in person to the woman whose shadow had fallen to-night across her life. She was a petite brunette of distant Spanish ancestry, a Spottswood from old Tidewater Virginia. To the tenderest motherhood she combined a passionate temper with intense jealousy. The anxious face was crowned with raven hair. Her eyes were dark and stormy, and so large that in their shining surface the shadows of the long lashes could be seen. Her nature, for all its fiery passions, was refined, shy and tremulous. A dimple in her chin and a small sensitive mouth gave her an expression at once timid and childlike. Her footstep had feline grace, delicacy and distinction. She had a figure almost perfect, erect, lithe, with small hands and feet and tiny wrists. Her voice was a soft contralto, caress-ing and full of feeling, with a touch of the languor and delicate sensuousness of the Old South. About her personality there was a haunting charm, vivid and spiritual, the breath of a soul capable of the highest heroism if once aroused. At twelve o'clock she relighted the gas and went downstairs to stand at the parlour window to scan more clearly every face that might pass, and--yes, she would be honest with herself now--to spring into his arms the moment he entered, smother him with kisses and beg him to forgive the bitter words she had spoken in anger. She was sure he would come in a moment. He must have gone on one of his long walks. She could see the elevated cars on their long trestle, count the stations, and guess how many minutes it would take him to climb the hill and rush up the steps. Over and over she did this, and now it was one o'clock and he had not come. What if he had been stricken suddenly with mortal illness! His face had looked so weary and drawn. She began to cry incoherently, and sank on her knees. "Lord, forgive me. I am weak and selfish, and I was wicked to-night. Hear the cry of my heart. Bring him to me quickly, or I shall die!" As the sobs choked her into silence, she sprang to her feet, both hands on her lips to keep back a scream of joy, for she had heard his footstep on the stoop. The latch clicked, and he was in the hall. There was a flash of red silk and two white arms were around his neck, her form convulsed with a joy she could not control or try to conceal. He soothed her as a child, and, as he kissed her tenderly, felt her lips swollen and wet with the salt tears of hours of weeping. "You will not remember the foolish things I said to-night, dear?" she pleaded. "There, there, I'll blot them out with kisses--one for every harsh word, and one more for love's own sake. But you must promise me, Frank, never to leave me like that again." A sob caught her voice, and her head drooped. "You may curse me, strike me, do anything but that. Oh, the loneliness, the agony and horror of those hours when I realised you were gone in anger and might not come back to-night--dear, it was too cruel. Such wild thoughts swept my heart! You do forgive me?" He stooped and kissed her. "Why ask it, Ruth?" "I know I am selfish and fretful and wilful," she said, with a sigh. "I was only a spoiled child of nineteen when you took me by storm, body and soul. You remember, on our wedding day, when I looked up into your handsome face and the sense of responsibility and joy crushed me for a moment, I cried and begged you, who were so brave and strong, to teach me if I should fail in the least thing? And you promised, dear, so sweetly and tenderly. Do you remember?" "Yes, I remember," he slowly answered. "And now, somehow, you seem to have drawn away from me as though the task had wearied you. Come back closer! When I am foolish you must be wise. You can make of me what you will. You know I am afraid of this Socialism. It seems to open gulfs between us. You read and read, while I can only wait and love. You cannot know the silent agony of that waiting for I know not what tragedy in our lives. Frank, teach and lead me--I will follow. I love you with a love that is deathless. If you will be a Socialist, make me one. Show me there is nothing to fear. I've thought marriage meant only self-sacrifice for one's beloved. I've tried to give my very life to you and the children. If I'm making a mistake, show me." "I will try, Ruth." She ran her tapering fingers through his hair, smiled and sighed. "How beautiful you are, my dear! I know it is a sin to love any man so. One should only love God like this." CHAPTER III THE BANKER AND HIS FAD When Gordon woke next morning from a fitful sleep he was stupid and blue and had a headache. His wife had not slept at all, but was cheerful, tender and solicitous. "Ruth, I can't go down to the ministers' meeting this morning," he said wearily. "I must take a day off in the country. I'll lose both soul and body if I don't take one day's rest in seven. I didn't tell you last night that I came near fainting in the pulpit during the evening sermon." She slipped her hand in his, looking up reproachfully at him out of her dark eyes. "Why didn't you tell me that, Frank?" "I thought you had enough troubles last night. I'll run out on Long Island and spend the day with Overman. You needn't frown. You are strangely mistaken in him. I know you hate his brutal frankness, and he is anything but a Christian, but we are old college chums, and he's the clearest-headed personal friend I have. I need his advice about my fight with Van Meter. Overman is a venomous critic of my Social dreams. I've often wondered at your dislike of him, when he so thoroughly echoes your feelings." She was silent a moment, and gravely said: "Take a good day's rest, then, and come back refreshed. I'll try to like even Mr. Overman, if he will help you. I'm going to turn over a new leaf this morning." He laughed, kissed her, and hurried to catch the train for Babylon, where Overman lived in his great country home. Mark Overman was a bacholer of forty, noted for the fact that he had but one eye and was so homely it was a joke. His friends said he was so ugly it was fascinating, and he was constantly laughing about it himself. He was a Wall Street banker, several times a millionaire, famed for his wit, his wide reading, his brutally cynical views of society, and his ridicule of modern philanthropy and Socialistic dreams. He was a man of average height with the heavy-set, bulldog body, face and neck, broad, powerful hands and big feet. He had an enormous nose, shaggy eyebrows and a bristling black moustache. But the one striking peculiarity about him was his missing right eye. The large heavy eyelid was drooped and closed tightly over the sightless socket, which seemed to have sunk deep into his head. This cavern on one side of his face gave to the other eye a strange power. When he looked at you, it gleamed a fierce steady blaze like the electric headlight of an engine. How he lost that eye was a secret he guarded with grim silence, and no one was ever known to ask him twice. Though five years older, he was Gordon's classmate at Wabash College. Overman had always scorned the suggestion of an artificial eye. He swore he would never stick a piece of glass in his head to deceive fools. He used to tell Gordon that he was the only one-eyed man in New York who had the money to buy a glass eye and didn't do it. "I prefer life's grim little joke to stand as it is," he said, as he snapped his big jaws together and twisted the muscles of his mouth into a sneer. He had a habit, when he closed an emphatic speech, of twisting the muscles of his mouth in that way. When animated in talk, he was the incarnation of disobedience, defiance, scorn, success. Two things he held in special pride--hatred for women and a passionate love for game-cocks. He allowed no woman on his place in any capacity, and, by the sounds day and night, he kept at least a thousand roosters. He would drop the profoundest discussion of philosophy or economics at the mention of a chicken, and with a tender smile plunge into an endless eulogy of his pets. Gordon found him in a chicken yard fitting gaffs on two cocks. "Caught in the act!" he cried. "Well, who cares? They've got to fight it out. It's in 'em. They're full brothers, too. Hatched the same day. They never scrapped in their lives till yesterday, when I brought a new pullet and put her in the neighbouring yard. They both tried to make love to her through the wire fence at the same time, and they were so busy crowing and strutting and showing off to this pullet they ran into each other and began to fight. Now one must die, and I'm just fixing these little steel points on for them so the function can be performed decently. I'm a man of fine feelings." "You're a brute when you let them kill one another with gaffs." "Nonsense. The fighting instinct is elemental in all animal life--two-legged and four-legged. Animals fight as inevitably as they breathe. You can trace the progress of man by the evolution of his weapons--the stone, the spear, the bow and arrow, the sword, the gun." "Well, you're not going to have the fight this morning. Put up those inventions of the devil and come into the house." "All right. You're a parson; I'll not allow them to fight. I'll just chop the head off of one and let you eat him for dinner." Overman grinned, and pierced Gordon with his gleaming eye. "It would be more sensible than the exhibition of brutality you were preparing." "Not from the rooster's point of view, or mine. I love chickens. If I tried to eat one it would choke me. But I can see your mouth watering now, looking at that fat young pullet over there, dreaming of the dinner hour when you expect to smash her beautiful white breast between your cannibal jaws. Funny men, preachers!" Gordon laughed. "After all, you may be right. Our deepest culture is about skin deep. Scratch any of us with the right tool and you'll find a savage." They strolled into the library and sat down. It was the largest and best-furnished room in the house. Its lofty ceiling was frescoed in sectional panels by a great artist. Its walls were covered as high as the arm could reach with loaded bookshelves, and alcove doors opened every ten feet into rooms stored with special treasures of subjects on which he was interested. Masterpieces of painting hung on the walls over the cases, while luxurious chairs and lounges in heavy leather were scattered about the room among the tables, desks and filing cabinets. At one end of the room blazed an open wood fire of cord wood full four feet in length. Beside the chimney windows opened with entrancing views of the Great South Bay and the distant beaches of Fire Island. Across the huge oak mantel he had carved the sentence: "I AM AN OLD MAN NOW; I'VE HAD LOTS OF TROUBLE, AND MOST OF IT NEVER HAPPENED." "Frank, old boy, you look as though you had been pulled through a small-sized auger hole yesterday. How is the work going?" "All right. But Van Meter puzzles me. I want your advice about him. You've come in contact with him in Wall Street and know him. He is the one man power in my church--the senior deacon and chairman of the Board of Trustees of the Society. In spite of all my eloquence and the crowds that throng the building, he has set the whole Board against me. He is really trying to oust me from the pastorate of the church. Shall I take the bull by the horns now and throw him and his Mammon-worshiping satellites out, or try to work such material into my future plans? Give me your advice as a cool-headed outsider." Overman was silent a moment. "Well, Frank, now you've put the question squarely, I'm going to be candid. I'm alarmed about you. The strain on your nerves is too great. This maggot of Socialism in your brain is the trouble. It is the mark of mental and moral breakdown, the fleeing from self-reliant individual life into the herd for help. You call it 'brotherhood,' the 'solidarity of the race.' Sentimental mush. It's a stampede back to the animal herd out of which a powerful manhood has been evolved. This idea is destroying your will, your brain, your religion, and will finally sap the moral fiber of your character. It is the greatest sentimentalist." Gordon grunted. "It's funny how you have the faculty of putting the opposition in terms of its last absurdity." "Grunt if you like; I'm in dead earnest. You want to put on the brakes. You've struck the down grade. Socialism takes the temper out of the steel fiber of character. It makes a man flabby. It is the earmark of racial degeneracy. The man of letters who is poisoned by it never writes another line worth reading; the preacher who tampers with it ends a materialist or atheist; the philanthropist bitten by it, from just a plain fool, develops a madman; while the home-builder turns free-lover and rake under its teachings." "You're a beauty to grieve over the loss to the world of home-builders!" Gordon cried, with scorn. "Maybe my grief is a little strained--but really, Frank, I hate women, not because I don't feel the need of their love--" He drew the muscles of his big mouth together and looked thoughtfully out of the window with his single piercing eye. "No; for the first time on that point I'll make an honest, clean confession to you. I hate women because I'm afraid of them. I have a face that can stop an eight-day clock if I look at it hard enough; and yet beneath this hideous mask there's a poor coward's soul that worships beauty and hungers for love! I don't allow women in this house because I can't stand the rustle of their drapery. I don't want one of them to get her claws into me. They can see through me in a minute. Women have an X-ray in their eyes. They can look through a brick wall, without going to see what's on the other side. A man learns a thing is true by a painful process of reasoning. A woman knows a thing is so--because! She knows it thoroughly, too, from top to bottom. Whenever a woman looks at me I can feel her taking an X-ray photograph of the marrow of my bones." He wheeled suddenly and fixed his eye on Gordon. "I'll bet you had another quarrel with your wife last night?" "How do you know?" "Tell by your hangdog look. You look like an old Shanghai rooster that a little game-cock has knocked down and trampled on for half an hour before letting him up." "We did have some words." "Exactly; and I can tell you what about. Your wife is growing more nervous over the tendency of your religion and your thinking. You can't fool her about it. She knows you are drifting where she can never follow. She knows instinctively that Socialism is the return to the animal herd and that the family will be trampled to death beneath its hoofs." "Come, Mark, you're crazy. The Brotherhood of Man and the Solidarity of the Race can have such meaning only to a lunatic." "Don't you know that the triumph of Socialism will destroy the monogamic family?" Overman asked sharply. "Rubbish." "Strange, how you sentimentalists slop over things. You have allowed second-hand Socialistic catch words to change your methods of work and thought and revolutionize your character, and yet you have never seriously tried to go to the bottom of it. Come into this room a minute." They went into an alcove room. "Here I have more than a thousand volumes of Socialistic literature. I've read it all with more or less thoroughness. When I look at the titles of these books I feel as though I've eaten tons of sawdust. You are preaching this stuff as the gospel, and yet you don't know what your masters are really trying to do." "I know that there can be no true home life until the shadow of want has been lifted," said the preacher emphatically. "The aim of Socialism is to bring to pass this dream of heaven on earth." "Just so. But you've never defined what the dream will be like when it comes. Your masters have. Let me read some choice bits to you from these big-brained, clear-eyed men who created your movement. I like these men because they scorn humbug. Defiance, disobedience, contempt for thing that is, consumes them." He drew from the shelves a lot of books, threw them on a table, and took up a volume. "This from Fourier: 'Monogamy and private property are the main characteristics of Civilisation. They are the breastworks behind which the army of the rich crouch and from which they sally to rob the poor. The individual family is the unit of all faulty societies divided by opposing interests.' "And this choice bit from William Morris: 'Marriage under existing conditions is absurd. The family, about which so much twaddle is talked, is hateful. A new development of the family will take place, as the basis not of a predetermined lifelong business arrangement to be formally held to irrespective of conditions, but on mutual inclination and affection, an association terminable at the will of either party.'" Overman fixed his eye on Gordon for a moment, laid his hand on his arm and asked: "Now, honestly, Frank, confess to me you never read one of those sentences in your life?" "No, I never did." "I was sure of it. Listen again; this from Robert Owen: 'In the new Moral World the irrational names of husband, wife, parent and child will be heard no more. Children will undoubtedly be the property of the whole community.' "But perhaps the idea has been best expressed by Mr. Grant Allen. Hear his clean-cut statement: 'No man, indeed, is truly civilised till he can say in all sincerity to every woman of all the women he loves, to every woman of all the women who love him: "Give me what you can of your love and yourself; but never strive for my sake to deny any love, to strangle any impulse that pants for breath within you. Give me what you can, while you can, without grudging, but the moment you feel you love me no more, don't do injustice to your own prospective children by giving them a father whom you no longer respect, or admire, or yearn for." When men and women can both alike say this, the world will be civilised. Until they can say it truly, the world will be as now, a jarring battle-field of monopolist instincts.' "Then this gem from another of the frousy-headed--Karl Pearson: 'In a Socialist form of government the sex relation would vary according to the feelings and wants of individuals.' "Observe in all these long-haired philosophers how closely the idea of private property is linked with the family. That is why the moment you attack private property in your pulpit your wife knows instinctively that you are attacking the basis of her life and home. Private property had its origin in the family. The family is the source of all monopolistic instincts, and your reign of moonshine brotherhood can never be brought to pass until you destroy monogamic marriage." "But my dream is of an ideal marriage and home life," cried the preacher. "Yes, and that is why you make me furious. You don't know the origin or meaning of this Socialistic dream and yet you are preaching it every Sunday, inflaming the minds of that crowd. I don't blame your wife. She sees in her soul the rock on which you must wreck your ship sooner or later. The herd and the mating pair cannot co-exist as dominant forces. This is why Socialism never converts a woman except through some--individual man. Woman's maternal instinct created monogamic marriage. The only women who become Socialists directly are the sexless, the defectives and the oversexed, who can always be depended on to make the herd a lively place for its fighting male members. What have you to say to this?" Overman turned his head sideways and pierced Gordon again with his single eye. "Well, I confess you've given me something to think about, and I'm going to the bottom of the subject. You've opened vistas of great ideas. It's the question of the century, the thought that is sweeping life before it. While I've been listening to you, more and more I've seen the need of consecration to the leading and teaching of the people who are being swept by millions into this movement. But you haven't told me what to do with Van Meter." "Yes, I have, The trouble, I tell you, is with you, not Van Meter. He's a little man, but he's just the size of a deacon in a modern church in New York. Win him over and work with him. He's your only hope. Van Meter knows his business as a deacon and trustee. You are off the track." "But how can I ever reconcile Van Meter's commercialism with any living religion?" Overman frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "Religion? Man, you haven't religion! Religion is the worship of a Superior Being, fear of His power, submission to His commands, inability to discuss theoretically the formulas of faith, the desire to spread the faith, and the habit of considering as enemies all who do not accept it. You can't pass examination on any of these points. Your idea of God is the First Cause. You do not really worship or fear anything. You submit blindly to nothing. You have written an interrogation point before every dogma. You have ceased to be missionary and become humanitarian. As a priest you're a joke. Van Meter is a better deacon than you are a priest. I don't blame him. He must put you out, or be put out of business sooner or later. Your passion for reforming the world, your 'enthusiasm for humanity,' are things apart from worship and absolutely antagonistic to it." "But not antagonistic to the mission of Christ." "Granted. But the Christianity of Christ is one thing and modern Christianity another thing. The ancient Church, you must remember, absorbed Paganism. Van Meter's religion is, I grant you, a pretty stiff mixture of Paganism and Christianity, but historically he is in line with the Church and you are out of line with it. I'd do one of two things--use Van Meter for all he is worth, or get out of his church and let him alone. It's his. He and his kind built it. You are an interloper." "Perhaps so," Gordon mused. "You know my opinion of your dream of social salvation. I say let the fit survive and the weak go to the wall. If you could save all the floating trash that so moves your pity, you would only lower the standard of humanity. Hell is the furnace made to consume such worthless rubbish. You are even apologising for hell because you can't stand the odour of burning flesh. I like the old God of Israel better than the ghost you moderns have set up. Honestly, Frank, you have never treated Van Meter decently. He's a small man, but he is in dead earnest, and he is historically a Christian. I don't know what the devil you are, and I don't believe you know yourself. Go to Van Meter, have a plain business talk with him, and see if you can't come to an understanding." "That's the only sensible thing you've said to me." "And the only immoral thing; for if you and Van Meter ever agree you will both do some tall lying." "I think I'll take your advice and see him, anyhow." CHAPTER IV THE SHORTHORN DEACON Gordon and Overman came into town on the four o'clock express. They sat down in opposite seats near the centre of the car. Neither of them noticed Van Meter, who also lived at Babylon in the summer, board the train as it pulled out of the station. He was a pompous little man, short and red-faced, with gray side whiskers and bald head. His eyes were sharp and beady and shined like shoe-buttons. Piety and thrift were written all over him. As a deacon he passed the bread and wine at the Lord's Table on Sunday, with his black eyes half closed, dreaming of cornering the bread market of the world on Monday. For him New York was the centre of the universe, and the Stock Exchange was the centre of New York. The rest of this earth was provincial, tributary soil. He had gone abroad, but rarely ventured beyond Philadelphia or Coney Island on this side. He was the presiding officer of the Stock Exchange and the President of the Metropolitan Bible and Tract Society. He took himself very seriously. As they got out of the car at Long Island City, Gordon said to him: "Deacon, I wish to have a talk with you tomorrow. Shall I call at your home or office?" "Come down to the office at two o'clock; I'll be out at night," Van Meter answered briskly. The next day Gordon walked from the church down Fourth Avenue to Union Square and down Broadway to the Battery. It was a glorious day in early spring. The air had in it yet the cool breath of winter, but the electric thrill of coming life was in the soft breezes that came from the South, where flowers were already blooming and birds singing. The hucksters were selling sweet violets and the cry of the strawberry man echoed along the side streets. Fourth Avenue was piled with builders' material. The old brick homes were crumbling and steel-ribbed monsters climbing into the sky from their sites. "Progress everywhere but in the churches," muttered Gordon. "The Church alone seems dead in New York." Broadway was one vast river of humanity. As far as the eye could reach the throng engulfed the pavements and overflowed into the streets between the curbs, mingling with the mass of cars, cabs, trucks and wagons. On either side towered the interminable miles of business houses whose nerves and arteries reach to the limits of the known world, savage and civilised. Behind those fronts sat the engineers of industry with their hands on the throttles of the world's machinery, their keen eyes and ears alert to every sound of danger in the ceaseless roar around them. Shadowy and far away seemed the Spirit world from those hurrying, rushing, cursing, struggling men. And yet the earth was quivering beneath them with the shock of spiritual forces. The age of miracles was only dawning. He felt like climbing to the tower of one of those great temples of trade and shouting to the throng to lift up their heads from the stones below and beyond the line of towering steel and granite see the Glory of God. And as he thought how little that crowd would heed it if he did, he felt himself in the grip of Titanic forces of Nature sweeping through time and eternity, and that he was but an atom tossed by their fury. As he passed the City Hall his eye rested on the towering castles of the metropolitan newspapers. He could feel in the air the throb of their presses, the whir of their wheels within wheels telling the story of a day's life, wet with tears of hope and love, or poisoned with slander and falsehood, their minarets and domes the flaming signs in the sky of a new power in history, a menace to the life of the ancient Church and its priesthood. Was this power a threat to human liberty, or the highest expression of its hope? Only the future would reveal. What silent forces crouched behind those towers with their throbbing cylinders the world could only guess as yet. He walked past old Castle Garden where so many weary feet have landed and found hope. His heart filled with patriotic pride. Far out in the harbour stood Liberty Enlightening the World, lifting her torch among the stars, her face calm and majestic, gazing serenely out to sea. "Land of faith and hope--my country!" he exclaimed. "Here the commonest man has risen from the dust and proved himself a king. Home of the broken-hearted, the tyrant-cursed, the bruised, the oppressed, within thy magic gates the miracle of life has been renewed!" He looked out on the great emerald harbour gleaming in the sunlight, its sky-line white with clouds and penciled with the pennant-tipped masts of a thousand ships flying the flags of every nation of the earth. His soul was flooded again with the sense of the city's imperial splendour, stretching out her hand to grasp the financial scepter of the world, already the second city of the earth, a kingdom mightier than Caesar ruled and richer than Croesus dreamed. He came back to Wall Street, and, as he turned into the narrow lane, felt its power shadow his imagination. "After all," he muttered, "Van Meter is not far wrong in his idea of the omnipotence of this street." The Deacon's office was plainly furnished. He was seated at an old-fashioned mahogany desk, evidently a relic of his Knickerbocker past. Born in New York sixty years before, he was popularly reckoned a multimillionaire, though his wealth was overestimated. Compared to the big-brained, eagle-eyed men who had come from the West and mastered Wall Street, Van Meter was really a pygmy. He greeted Gordon politely. "Delighted to welcome you, Doctor, to my office. This is the first call you have ever honoured me with downtown." "I've been to your home often, Deacon." "But somehow you've always been shy of Wall Street," said Van Meter, expansively. "I suppose you look on us down here somewhat as the old-time preacher regarded the saloon-keeper. You should know us better. This alley is the jugular vein of the nation, and the Stock Exchange its heart. We have a President and Congress at Washington, and some very handsome buildings there. It is supposed to be the capital of the republic. A political myth! Here is the capital. The money centre is the seat of government. The Southern Confederacy failed, not for lack of soldiers or generals of military genius, but because it had no money." Van Meter's stature grew taller and his eyes larger as Gordon felt the truth of his words. "Well, Deacon, I wish to know you better. I'm afraid I've not always been fair to you as the senior officer of the church and one of its oldest members." "I haven't worried over it," he replied quickly. "I know you in your home life," Gordon continued. "You are a faithful and tender husband and father. If you were to die to-morrow, your servants would stand sobbing at the doorway when I entered. You are one of the kindest men in your individual life." "Thanks. I hardly thought you would say so much." "Then you have misjudged me. The only criticism I've ever made of you has been as a part of our social and economic order. This is a question, it seems to me, we might differ about and still be friends. Now, I wish you to tell me honestly, face to face, why you object to me as the pastor of your church?" "You wish me to be perfectly frank?" he asked, with his black eyes twinkling. "Perfectly so. You couldn't say anything that would anger me. I am too much in earnest." "Well, to begin with, you don't preach the simple gospel." "No; but I do preach the gospel of Christ." "Your reference to the strike amongst the women shirt-makers in New York drove one of the richest men out of our church." "Yes; I saw him jump up and go out during the service. The women were making shirts for his house at thirty-five cents a dozen, finding their own thread and using their own machines. I said if I found one of those shirts in my house I'd put it in the fire with a pair of tongs, and I would. I'd be afraid to touch a seam lest I felt the throb of a woman's bruised fingers in it." The Deacon softly stroked his whiskers. "It was an unfortunate remark. He contributed $500 a year to the church. He has gone where the simple gospel of Christ is preached." "Yes, so simple that he can sleep through it and know that it will never touch his life," Gordon said with a sneer. "What's the use to talk about mustard plaster? I say apply it to the place that hurts." "You preach Evolution. I don't like the idea that man is descended from a monkey." "The weight of scholarship sustains the theory." "Well, my idea is, if it's true, the less said about it the better. And then you lack dignity out of the pulpit." "Even so, Deacon, the most dignified man I ever saw was a dead man--a dead New Yorker. What we need in the church is life." "But you have departed from the faith of our fathers." "Perhaps," Gordon said, with a twinkle in his eye, "if you mean our famous fathers who 'landed first on their knees and then on the aborigines.'" Van Meter ignored the remark. "You said one day that in America we had but two classes, the masses and the asses. That sentence cost the church a thousand dollars in pew-rents. I think such assertions blasphemous." "Well, it's true." "I don't think so; and if it were, it don't pay to say such things." "Am I only to preach the truths that pay?" "We hired you to preach the simple gospel of Christ." "Pardon me, Deacon; I am not your hired man. I chose this church as the instrument through which I could best give my message to the world. I answer to God, not to you. The salary you pay me is not the wage of a hireling. My support comes from the free offerings laid on God's altar." "We call them pew-rents. You are trying to abolish this system, as old as our life, and allow a mob of strangers to push and crowd our old members out of their pews." "I believe the system of renting pews un-Christian and immoral-a mark of social caste." "And that's why I think you're a little crazy. Even your best friends say you're daft on some things." "So did Christ's." The Deacon's face clouded and his black eyes flashed. "From denouncing private pews you have begun to denounce private property. Our church is becoming a Socialist rendezvous and you a firebrand." "Deacon, you have allowed your commercial habits to master your thinking, your religion and your character. In your home, you are a good man. In Wall Street," he smiled, "pardon me, you are a highwayman, and you carry the ideals and methods of the Street into your duties as a churchman." "Pretty far apart for a pastor and deacon, then, don't you think?" "You ran the preacher away who preceded me, too," mused Gordon. The Deacon's eyes danced at this acknowledgment of his power. "He was a little slow for New York. You are rather swift." Gordon rose and looked down good-naturedly on the shining bald head as he took his leave. "I suppose we will have to fight it out?" "It looks that way. My kindest regards to Mrs. Gordon." CHAPTER V THE CRY OF THE CITY Kate Ransom entered the church with enthusiasm. Even Van Meter, learning that she lived on Gramercy Park and was a woman of wealth, congratulated Gordon on the event. She organized a working-girls' club and became its presiding genius. Her beauty and genial ways won every girl with whom she came in contact. Her club became at once a force in Gordon's work, absolutely loyal to his slightest wish. She formed a corps of visitors and asked to be allowed to help in his pastoral work. "Before we begin," she said, "let me be your assistant for a day. I wish to see the city as you see it, that I can direct my girls with intelligence." On the day fixed, she acted as usher for his callers at the church. The President of his boys' club was admitted first to tell him a saloon had been opened next door to their building in spite of their protest to the Board of Excise. Gordon frowned. "It's no use to waste breath on the Board. They know that saloon is within the forbidden number of feet from our church. But as the Governor of New York has recently said, 'Give me the vote of the saloons; I don't mind the churches,' go down to this lawyer and tell him to insist on an indictment of Crook, the Chairman of the Board, for the violation of his oath of office." "It's no use, sir," said Anderson, his assistant. "I've been to see him. He tells me there were three indictments for penitentiary offenses pending against Crook when the Mayor promoted him to be Chairman of the Board. Three courts have pronounced him guilty, but the new Legislature is going to pass an ex-post facto law to relieve him of his term in prison." "Then try him with one more indictment and include the whole Board of Excise this time. We will let them know we are alive." Kate ushered in a slatternly little woman, dirty, ugly, cross-eyed and her face red from weeping. "Please, Doctor, come quick. They've got Dan. They knocked him in the head, dragged him down the stairs and flung him in the wagon. He's in jail, and they say they'll have him in Sing Sing in a week. He ain't done a thing. You're the only friend we've got in the world." "On what charge did they arrest him, Mrs. Hogan?" "Just a lot o' policemen charged on him with billies!" "But why did they do it?" "It's the policeman on the beat who's got a grudge agin him. He swore he'd land him in Sing Sing. And if you can't stop him, he'll do it." Gordon wrote a note to a lawyer and handed it to her. "Go to this lawyer and tell him to take the case." "Dan's a friend of mine," he explained to Kate. "I've taken him out of the hospital three times from delirium tremens, and found work for him a dozen times. But he can't hold his job. Everything seems against him. "'It's me face, Doctor,' he tells me in despair. 'When they see me they won't stand me. Me wife's cross-eyed, or she'd 'a' never married me. I was tin years prowlin' up an' down the earth seekin' a woman. But I couldn't catch one. She'd 'a' got away from me if she could 'a' seed straight.'" Kate laughed and ushered in a young woman with blond hair and an ill-fitting dress. She walked as in a dream, and there was a strange look in her eye. "I hope you are feeling better to-day, Miss Alice." She made no reply, but seated herself wearily, while Gordon drew a cheque for fifty dollars and handed it to her. She placed it mechanically in her purse. "I hope you are making progress in your art now that you have a comfortable studio," he said kindly. "I want to see him," she replied in a low voice. "But I can't give you his address, When he came to me, conscience stricken, and told me that you were wandering about the streets of New York ill and half starved, and placed this fund at my disposal, he stipulated that he would pay it only so long as you let him alone. You promised me last month to stop writing letters to the general post-office." "I can't help it. I love him. I don't want this money; I want him." "But you know he is married." "He said he'd get a divorce. I love him. I'll be his servant, his dog--if he will only see me and speak to me. Tell me where to find him. I believe all men are friends to one another." Kate, waiting behind the curtain which cut off Gordon's desk, could hear distinctly. When the young woman emerged she led her into the adjoining room, and there was the sound of a kiss at the door as she left. An aged father and mother came, dressed in their best clothes, and very timid. "We have a great sorrow, Doctor," the father began tremulously. "We are strangers in New York. We hate to trouble you. But we heard you preach, and you seemed to get so close to our hearts we felt we had known you all our lives." He paused and the mother began to brush the tears from her eyes. "Our boy is a medical student here. We were proud of him--all we had dreamed and never seen, all we had hoped to be and never been in life, we expected to see in him. We skimped and saved and gave him an education. Sometimes we didn't have much to eat at home, but we didn't care. Did we, Ma?" The mother shook her head. "Then we mortgaged the farm and sent him here to study three years and be a great doctor." He paused, bent low and covered his face with his hands. "And now, sir, he's taken to drink, and they tell us at the college he won't get his diploma! And we thought, after we heard you, maybe you could see him, get hold of him, and help us save him. He's all we've got. The rest are dead." Gordon looked away and his lips quivered. "You'll help us, Doctor?" "I'll do the best I can for you, my friends. It's such a sad old story in this town that one gets hardened to it till we see it in some fresh revelation of anguish like yours." He took the name and address and the old man and woman went out, softly crying. A widow came to tell him of an assault on her twelve-year-old daughter. "And because the brute is a rich man on an avenue," she sobbed, "they've turned him loose with a fine. I'm poor and ignorant, and I'm not a member of your church, but all the people are talking about you in our neighbourhood, and told me you were a friend of the weak, and I'm here." He called his assistant in. "Anderson, do you know anything of this case? How could such a thing be?" "I've looked into it. It's just as she tells you. The man was arraigned before a police magistrate, who had no power to try such a case. He was allowed to plead under an assumed name-John Stevens, of Newark, New Jersey, fined and discharged. I informed the city editor of the Herald of the case; he detailed a reporter, who wrote it up. He left out the man's real name. Nothing has come of it. Our courts have become so debased, God only knows what they will do next. We have a police judge now who is the owner of five disreputable dives, which he runs every day and Sunday. He sits down on the bench on Monday and discharges the cases against his saloons. We've another, who was drunk in the gutter, with two warrants out for his arrest, when the Boss made him a judge. What can we expect from such courts?" He sent her away with the premise to consult the best legal talent. A little frousle-headed woman, carrying a bag full of documents, then explained to him that she was the inventor of a process for preserving dead bodies, meats and eggs by treating them with the purifying ozone of the air, and wished him to organise a company, make her president, and act as her secretary. "It's the greatest invention ever conceived by the human mind," she explained, as she spread out scores of letters and testimonials from men who had tested it, and many who had signed anything to get rid of her. "Madam, if your process can only be applied to the city government of New York you will deserve a monument higher than the Statue of Liberty. But I'm afraid there's not enough ozone in the atmosphere." He had to call help to get her out, and then she only went after she got the loan of five dollars to tide her over the week. A theological student with an open hatchet face, from the western plains, on his way to Moody's school at Northfield, asked for money to get there. "I had a-plenty," he explained, "but I met a man who asked me to change a bill for him. He got the change, but I'm looking for him to get the bill. I don't know, to save my life, how he got away. I still have his umbrella that he asked me to hold." Gordon smiled and loaned him the money. "I don't ask you for any references. You are the real thing, my boy." A woman in mourning, whom he recognised immediately from her published pictures, asked him to champion the cause of her son, who was under sentence of death. Gordon readily recalled the case as a famous one. He had followed it with some care and was sure from the evidence that the young man was guilty. For a half hour she poured out her mother's soul to him in piteous accents. "My dear madam," he said at last, "I cannot possibly undertake such work." "Then who will save him? I've tramped the streets of New York for six months and appealed to every man of power. Your voice raised in protest against this shameful and unjust death will turn the tide of public opinion and save him. You can't refuse me!" "I must refuse," he answered firmly. She turned pale, and her mouth twitched nervously. He looked into her white face with a great pity and a feeling of horror swept his heart. The pathos and the agony of the tragedy filled him with strange foreboding. In his imagination he could hear the click of handcuffs on his own wrists and feel the steel of prison bars on his own hands as he peered through the grating toward the gate of Death. But he was firm in his refusal, and she left with words of bitterness and reproach. After a long procession of people, sick, and most of them out of work, he was surprised to see one of his own deacons approach with a look of dejection. "Why, Ludlow, what ails you?" "Sorry to trouble you, Pastor, but I've lost my place. You see, I'm more than fifty years old, and though I've worked for my firm twenty years, they laid me off for a younger man. I'm ruined unless I can get work. I've four people dependent on me. I've come to ask you to see the Manager of the new department store and get me a place. I've been there three times, but I can't get to the Manager." "I'll do it to-day, Deacon. Let me know when you need anything." After two hours of this work, he left, with Kate Ransom, for his round of visits. She looked at him as he started smilingly from the church. "And you have gone through with this every day for ten years?" "Of course." "While I have been around the corner laughing and dancing with a lot of idiots. And you seem as cheerful as though you had been listening to ravishing music!" "Yes, I must be cheerful." "How do you endure it? Yet it fascinates me, this life--in touch with drama more thrilling than poets dream. It seems to me I'm just beginning to live. I am very grateful to you." He looked into her face, smiling. "The gratitude is on my side. You are going to be more popular than the pastor." "I'm sure you will not be jealous." "Hardly, as long as I hear the extravagant things you are telling your girls about loyalty to the leader." She blushed and turned her violet eyes frankly on him. "I believe in loyalty." He answered with a look of gratitude. "We must go first to that store for Ludlow. He's the best deacon in the church, a staunch friend, a loyal, tireless worker." Gordon waited patiently at the store a half hour and succeeded in reaching the Manager. As they left, he said to Kate: "Did you see that crowd of two hundred men waiting at his door?" "Yes; what were they doing there?" "Waiting their turn to see the Manager. They will come back to-morrow, and next day and next day, just like that. I felt mean to sneak in ahead of them by a private door because my card could open it. The Manager gave me a note to the head of the department Ludlow wishes to enter and asked him to suspend the rule against men fifty years of age and give my man a trial. In return for this favour he coolly asked me to deliver a lecture before his employees that will cost me a week's work. I had to do it. The head of the department who read the note told me to send Ludlow to see him, but he scowled at me as though he would like to tear my eyes out. He will put him on and discharge him in a month for some frivolous offense." They boarded a Broadway car and got off at City Hall Park. "Where are you going down here?" she asked. "To a building that collapsed yesterday and killed thirty working people. That house was condemned fifteen years ago by the Inspector. But its owner was a friend of the Boss, and it stood till it fell and killed those people." The street was blocked by the fire department playing their streams on the smouldering ruins, while gangs of men worked cleaning away the rubbish and searching for dead bodies. A crowd of relatives and friends were pressing close to the ropes. Many of them had stood there all night, crazed with grief, wringing their hands, hoping and praying they might find some token of love left of those dear to them, and yet hoping against hope that they might find nothing and that their beloved would appear, saved by some miracle. Gordon had promised a mother whose daughter was missing to help her in the search. She did not know where her own child worked. She only knew it was downtown near the City Hall. A building had fallen in, and she had not come home. Just as they approached the ruins a body was found and brought to the enclosure for identification. The mother recognized her daughter by an earring. She flung herself across the black-charred trunk with a shriek that rang clear and soul-piercing above the roar and thunder of the city's life at high tide. Above the rumble of car, the rattle of wagon, the jar of machinery, the tramp and murmur of millions the awful cry pierced the sky. Kate put her hand on Gordon's arm and pressed her red lips together, shivering. "O dear! O dear! what a cry! I can't go any closer. I'll wait for you out at the edge of the crowd." He pushed into the throng, lifted the woman, spoke a few words of tenderness to her, and told her he would call at her home later. As he was about to leave, a tall, delicate man working among the ruins reeled and sank in a faint. When he revived, he quit his job and went home without a word. "What was the matter with that man?" Gordon asked the foreman of the wrecking company. "Starved, to tell you the truth. He came here yesterday and begged for a job. He looked so pale and sick I couldn't refuse him. He fainted the first hour and went home. He came back this morning and begged me to try him again. I did, but you see he is too weak. He told me his family was starving." He joined Kate and they crossed the City Hall Square and walked down Centre Street to the Tombs prison. She was pale and quiet, glancing at him now and then. "I've an engagement at the Tombs," he told her, "with a lady to whom I used to make innocent love in our youth in a college town. I got a note from her yesterday, written in the clear, beautiful hand I recognised from the memory of little perfumed things she used to send me. You don't know what a queer sick feeling came over me when I recognised from the street number that she was in prison. I haven't seen her in fifteen years. She was the village belle and made what was supposed to be a brilliant marriage." They entered the grim old prison, that looked like an Egyptian temple, with its huge slanting walls of granite squatting low on Centre Street like a big pot-bellied spider, watching with one eye the brilliant insects of wealth on Broadway and with the other the gray vermin swarming under the Bridge and along the river. Kate put her hand on Gordon's arm and drew closer as they passed down its gloomy corridor to the warden's office. She tried to smile, but by the twitching at the corners of her full lips he could see she was nearer to crying. Again, as her body touched his, he felt the warmth and glow of her beauty, her blue eyes, cordial and grave, her waving auburn hair with its glowing fires, her step luxurious and rhythmic, and. now as her hand trembled, instead of the gleam of cruelty and conscious power, the timid appeal to the strength of the man. She looked at him and lowered her eyes, and then flashed them up straight into his face with a smile. "I'm not afraid!" she said impulsively. "Of course not." His steel-gray eyes looked into hers, and they both laughed. Gordon asked the warden's permission to see the woman whose letter had brought him and also the young man who had returned from Sing Sing for a new trial. "What is the charge against the woman?" he asked. "Shoplifting, sir. She's been here before and begged off. But they are going to send her up this time. I'll allow her to see you in the reception room." She came in, with a poor attempt at dignity, and then collapsed into whining but hopeful lying. She was dressed in an old sunburnt frock. Her hair was tousled, her shoes untied, and a corset-string was hanging outside her skirt. Her front teeth were out, and the red blotches on her face told the story of drink and drugs. "Doctor, it's all a mistake. I swear to you I am innocent. You don't know how it humiliates me for you to see me like this--you, who knew me in the old days at home, when I was rich and petted and loved. And now I haven't a friend in the world. My husband left me. If you will tell them to let me off, they will do it for your sake. I swear to you I will leave New York, go back to my old home and try to begin life over again." She buried her face in her hands. "What shall I do?" he whispered to Kate. "She is lying. She will never leave New York." "Promise her--promise her; I'll try to do something for her." They passed inside, along Murderers' Row, and stopped before the cell in which stood the man waiting his new trial. He poured out his story again, and as Gordon looked sadly through the bars at his face the certainty of his guilt gave the lie to every fair word. As his glib tongue rattled on, Gordon's mind was farther and farther away. He was thinking of that grim sentence from the old Bible, "Sin when it is full grown bringeth forth death." And again this problem of sin, the wilful and persistent violation of known law, threw its shadow for a moment over his dream of social brotherhood. The voice of the man angered him. He frowned, bade him good-by and left. And as he passed out, he felt, in spite of the charm of Kate's companionship, the shadow of that veiled mother by his side, and heard the bitter cries of her broken heart, until the sin and shame of the man seemed his own. The pity and pathos of it all haunted and filled him with vague forebodings.--"Now for something more cheerful," he said, as they passed out of the Tombs and boarded an uptown car. "A derrick at work in that wreck yesterday fell on a working-man. He has a wife and four children. We must see how he is getting on." They got off on the Bowery, turned down a cross street toward the East River, threading their way through the masses of people jamming the sidewalks, and dodging missiles from dirty children screaming and romping at play. "Mercy!" exclaimed Kate, "I thought Broadway and Fifth Avenue and the shopping districts crowded--but this is beyond belief! I didn't know there were so many people in the world." "And what you see, just a drop in the ocean of humanity. There are miles and miles of these tenements in New York--square mile after square mile, packed from cellar to attic. We have a million and a half crowded behind these grim walls on this island alone." "Surely not all so ugly and wretched as these?" "Many worse. But don't let the outside deceive you. Back of these nightmares of scorched mud, festooned with shabby clothes, are thousands of brave loving men and women, living their lives cheerfully, not asking us for pity. Even in this squalor grow beautiful, innocent girls like flowers in a muck-heap. When I see these children growing up thus into fair men and women with such sur-roundings, I know that every babe is born a child of God, not of the devil." They climbed a dark stairway and knocked at the back door of a double-decker tenement. A stout woman opened it, and they entered the tiny kitchen, so small that the table had to be pushed against the wall to pass it and the family of six could not all eat at one time because the table could not be pulled out into the room. "How is John this afternoon, Mrs. McDonald?" "We don't know, sir. The doctor's in there now. If he dies, God knows what we will do; and if he lives, a cripple, it'll be worse." The doctor called them into the front room and whispered to Gordon: "He's got to die, and I'm going to tell him. I'm glad you are here." He took the man by the hand. "Well, John, I'm sorry to say so to you, but you must know it. You can't live beyond the day." The man drew himself upon his elbow, looked at the doctor in a dazed sort of way and then at his wife holding his crying baby in her arms, the other little ones clinging to her dress, and gasped: "Did you say die? Here--now--to-day--die? And if I do, I leave my helpless ones to starve." He paused, fingering the covering nervously, shut his jaws firmly and looked at the doctor. "Almighty God! I can't die!" he growled through his teeth. "I will not die!" "No, no, you sha'n't die, John. We'll help you to live!" his wife cried. "Very well; if you keep on feeling that way you may live," said the doctor cheerfully. "We will hope for the best." Kate's eyelids drooped as she stood watching this scene as in a dream. She took the woman by the hand as she left: "I do hope he will live for your sake. I believe he will." When they reached the street, the doctor said to her: "Glad to welcome you, Miss Ransom, from the little world into the great one." "Thank you. I begin to feel I have not been in the world at all before. Will he live, do you think?" "If he holds that iron will with the grip he has on it now he'll pull through--and be a hopeless invalid for life. He will join the great army of industrial cripples--a havoc that makes war seem harmless. The wrecking corporation have already sent their lawyer and settled his case for eighty-five dollars cash: not enough to bury him. He thought it better than nothing." The doctor hurried on to another patient. It had grown quite dark. Gordon took Kate by the arm after the modern fashion, and they threaded their way through the crowds made denser by the return of the working people. She had removed her right glove in the house and did not replace it immediately. His big hand clasped her rounded, beautiful arm, and a thrill of emotion swept him at the consciousness of her nearness, her sympathy, her open admiration and sweet companionship in his work. Again, as she walked with the quick, sinuous and graceful swing of her body, he was impressed with her perfect health and vital power. She had recovered her balance now, and when she spoke it was with contagious enthusiasm. "I can never thank you enough for opening the door of a real world to me, Doctor," she declared, looking up at him soberly. "And you have no idea what inspiration you have given the church--just at a time I need it, too," he answered warmly. "I've been wondering what I did here for nine years, unconscious of this wonderful drama of love and shame, joy and sorrow about me. But what did he mean by an army of cripples greater than the havoc of war?" "Victims of machinery. It's incredible to those who do not come in contact with it. The railroads alone kill and wound thirty-five thousand working-men every year: this is a small percentage of the grand total. More men are killed and wounded by machinery in America than were killed and wounded any year in the great Civil War, the bloodiest and most fatal struggle in history. We pay billions in pensions to our soldiers, but nothing is done about this. The social order that permits such atrocity must go down before the rising consciousness of human brotherhood. The employers ask, 'Am I my brother's keeper?' and forget that they are echoing the shriek of the first murderer over his victim's body." "And I never thought of it before. How strange that so many people are in the world and never a part of it." "You can begin to see the outlines of the problems before us. It will be years before you can realise the height and depth of need that calls here to-day for deeds more heroic than knights of old ever dreamed." Again she looked at him with frank admiration. "But the most wonderful thing I have seen to-day has been a man," she boldly said. "Your faith, your optimism, your dreams in the face of the awful facts of life, and with it a tenderness of sympathy I never thought in you, have been a revelation to me. I feel more and more ashamed of the years I have wasted." She said this very tenderly, while Gordon unconsciously tightened the grip of his big hand on her arm, and then went on as though she had not spoken. "What a call to an earnest life! New York City furnishes two-thirds of the convicts of the state. We have one murder and ten suicides every week. More than eighty thousand men and women are arrested here every year. Fifty thousand pass through that basilisk's den we saw to-day. We have a hundred thousand child workers out of whose tender flesh we are coining gold. Three hundred thousand of our women are hewers of wood and drawers of water, robbed of their divine right of love and motherhood. There are twenty thousand children and fifty thousand men and women homeless in our streets. I have seen more than five hundred of them fighting for the chance of sleeping on the bare planks of a dirty police lodging-house." He felt her nerves quiver with sympathy and surprise. "I never dreamed such things took place in New York." "Yes, and those homeless children are the saddest tragedy. We haven't orphanages for them. When a house burns down that has a coal shute or an opening in it where a child can crawl, the firemen thrust their hooks in and pull out a bundle of charred rags and flesh--one of these homeless waifs. No father or mother that ever bent over a cradle, looked into a baby's face and felt its warm breath can realise that horror and not go mad. We don't realise it. We ignore it. We have four hundred churches. We open them a few hours every week. We have nine thousand saloons opened all day, most of the night, and Sunday too. We haven't orphanages, but we have these nine thousand factories where orphans are made. When our country friends come to see us we take them to see the saloons! Our shame is our glory. You have to-day seen some of the fruits." "And yet you have faith?" "Yes; I have eyes that see the invisible. In all this crash of brute forces I see beauty in ugliness, innocence in filth. Here one is put to the test. Here the great powers of Nature have gathered for their last assault and have challenged man's soul to answer for its life. Dark spiritual forces shriek their battle-cries over the din of matter. The swiftness of progress, crushing and enriching, the mad greed for gold, the worship of success--a success that sneers at duty, honour, love and patriotism--the filth and frivolity of our upper strata, the growth of hate and envy below, the restlessness of the masses, the waning of faith, the growth of despair, the triumph of brute force, the reign of the liar and huckster--all these are more real and threatening here, as beasts and reptiles increase in size as we near the tropics. We are nearing the tropics of civilisation. We must not forget that the flowers will be richer, wilder, more beautiful, and life capable of higher things." They had reached her door, and he released her arm, soft, round and warm, with a sense of loss and regret. "Yet with all its shadows and sorrows," he cried with enthusiasm, "I love this imperial city. It is the centre of our national life--its very beating heart. If we can make it clean, its bright blood will go back to the farthest village and country seat with life. I shall live to see its black tenements swept away, and homes for the people, clean, white and beautiful, rise in their places. I have a vision of its streets swept and garnished, of green parks full of happy children, of working-men coming to their homes with songs at night as men once sang because their work was glad. I haven't much to depend on just now in the church. But God lives. I have a growing group of loyal young dreamers, and you have come as an omen of greater things." She smiled. "I'll do my best not to disappoint you." He shook hands with her, declining to go in, and, as she sprang swiftly and gracefully up the steps, his eyes lingered a moment on the rhythm of her movement and the glory of her splendid figure in sheer rapture for its perfect beauty. As he turned homeward, he thrust his hand, yet warm with the touch of her bare arm, into his pocket, drew out two pearls, looked tenderly at them and felt their smooth, rounded forms. A longing for such companionship in work with his wife swept his soul. CHAPTER VI THE PUDDLE AND THE TADPOLE When Gordon started home from his round of visits with Kate the wind had hauled to the north and it began to spit drops of snow. The cars were still crowded, the aisles full and the platforms jammed, though it was seven o'clock. He buttoned his coat about his neck and paced the station, waiting for a train in which he could find a seat. "Bad omen for my trustee meeting to-night," he muttered. "This air feels like Van Meter's breath." He allowed four trains to pass, and at last boarded one worse crowded than the first. With a sigh for the end of chivalry, he pushed his way through the dense mass packed at the doors, wedging his big form roughly among the women, to the centre of the car, and mechanically seized a strap. He was so used to this leather-strap habit that he held on with one hand and, while reading, unfolded and folded his paper with the other. He climbed the hill to his home in the face of a howling snow-storm. Ruth looked at him intently. "I am sorry I couldn't get home earlier," he said, "I've had a hard day." "But such pleasant help that you didn't mind it, I'm sure. I heard Miss Ransom was assisting you. I went to the church and found you had gone out with her. I hear she is becoming indispensable in your work." "Come, Ruth, let's not have another silly quarrel." "No; it's a waste of breath," she replied bitterly. He slipped quietly out of the house after supper and hurried back to his study to collect his thoughts for the battle he knew he must wage with Van Meter. This one man had ruled the church with his rod of gold for twenty years. He had established a mission station on the East Side and gathered into it the undesirable people. He was the watchdog of the Prudential Committee guarding the door to membership. This trustee meeting had for him a double interest. A panic in Wall Street had all but ruined Van Meter. He had attempted to corner the bread market. The wheat crop had been ruined by a hard winter, and the little black eyes, watching, believed the coup could be made. The attempt was in concerted action through his associate houses in Chicago and St. Louis, and he had plunged as never before. The corner had failed. It was reported that he had made an assignment. This had proved a mistake. His long-established credit and his high personal standing in Wall Street had rallied money to his support and he had pulled out with the loss of three-fourths of his fortune. Gordon wondered what the effect of this blow would be on his character and attitude toward the church's work. He was specially anxious to know the effect of the reverse on the imagination of the other members of the Board, who merely revolved in worshipful admiration around his millions. He asked Van Meter to come to his study for a personal interview before the meeting. The Deacon was cool and polite, and his little eyes were shining with a distant luster. "I was sorry, Deacon, to learn of your personal misfortunes." Van Meter wet his dry lips with his tongue, looked Gordon squarely in the face and snapped: "Were you the clergyman who made the statement concerning that corner reported yesterday in an evening paper?" Gordon flushed, turned uneasily in his chair, and boldly replied: "Yes, I was, and I repeat it to you. On every such attempt to coin money out of hunger and despair, I pray God's everlasting curse to fall. I am glad your corner failed. The world is larger than New York, and New York is larger than the Stock Exchange. Am I clear?" "Quite so. With your permission I will return to the trustee meeting." "Very well. I wish to make a statement to the Board when you are ready." Gordon frowned, sat down and made some notes of the points he wished to urge. He had often wondered at the impotence of the average preacher in New York. But as he felt the forces of materialism closing about him, and their steel grip on his heart, he began to know why New York is the preacher's graveyard. He had won his great audience. His voice had not been drowned in the roar of the breakers of this ocean of flesh, but he had met bitter disillusioning. As he looked into the faces of his Board of Trustees, dominated by that little bald-headed man, he felt the cruel force of Overman's sneer at the modern church as the home of the mean and the crippled and the sick. The appeal to the ideal seemed to stick in his throat. He had thrilled at the struggle with the big city's rushing millions. Their stupendous indifference dared him to conquer or die, and he had conquered. He had seen these indifferent millions swallow cabinets, presidents, princes and kings, and rush on their way without a thought whether they lived or died. He had made himself heard. But this power that worshiped a dollar and called it God, that controlled the finances of the church and sought to control its pastor and strangle his soul--this was the force slowly choking him to death unless he could conquer it. The average preacher, when he landed in New York and faced the roar of its advancing ocean of materialism, fluttered hopelessly about for a year or two like a frightened sand-fiddler in the edge of the surf of a cyclone, was engulfed, and disappeared. To conquer this sea and lift his voice in power above its thunder, and then be strangled in a little yellow puddle full of tadpoles, was more than his soul could endure. "I'll not submit to it," he growled, with clenched fist. When he entered the meeting, the dozen men were hanging on Van Meter's lips as on the inspired word of Moses. "I was just telling the Board," he suavely explained, "that Mr. Wellford, on whom we must depend for such a building enterprise involving millions, has declared his hostility to the scheme. He is out of sympathy with the sensational methods of the Pilgrim Church." "I'll inform the Board," said Gordon, as he advanced toward Van Meter and thrust his hands in his pockets, "that it's not true. I have seen Mr. Wellford, by his invitation, this week at his home. I laid our great plan before him. I found him a big man, a man who thinks big thoughts, and does big things. He told me frankly he was heartily in favour of it and would do his part the moment we were ready and other men of wealth would join in the movement. He simply declares that we must act first." Van Meter pursed his lips and tried to lift his nose into a sneer. "May I ask, Doctor, if it is your intention to demand a vote to-night on this building scheme?" "It is." "Then I suggest that we vote first and hear your speech afterward. Some of us may wish to go before you're done." Gordon turned red with rage and started to sit down, but, wheeling, he again faced the chairman and glared at him. "Pardon my business methods, Doctor," he went on, "but your visions are rather tiresome. We are old New Yorkers. We know what you are going to tell us of the dark problem of the city's corruption, the poverty of the poor, and so on. Every now and then we see such sacred fires burning in the heart of a country parson called to town. Yet, in spite of the splendour of these little fizzling pinwheels that light the cruelty and darkness of metropolitan life for a moment, New York has managed somehow to jog along." Gordon's anger melted into a laugh as he watched the Deacon's face grow purple with fury as he fairly hissed the last sentence of his speech. He was not an impressive man in an attempted flight of eloquence, and the preacher's laughter quite unhorsed him. "Gentlemen," Gordon said with quiet dignity, "I came here to-night to make an appeal. But, I'm no longer in the mood. I see in your faces the folly of it. I make an announcement to you. The Temple will be built, with or without you. I prefer your cooperation. I can do it with your united opposition. God lives, and the age of miracles is not passed." "In behalf of the Board, I accept your challenge and await the miracle," retorted Van Meter. "You can pray till you're blue in the face and you will never get money enough to buy a lot on Fifth Avenue big enough to bury yourself, to say nothing of rearing a Solomon's Temple on it." "We shall see," the young giant replied. "This Board is tired of the circus business," Van Meter went on angrily. "You have transformed the church already into a menagerie. We don't want any more of your Soup-House Sarahs, Hallelujah Johns nor decorative bums testifying here to the power of miracles, while we wonder whether our overcoats will be on the rack when we recover from the spell of their eloquence. It's a big world, there's room for us all, but there's not room for any more new wrinkles in this church." "Yes, it is a big world, Deacon, but there are some small potatoes in it. There's hope for a fool, he may be turned from his folly, but God Almighty can't put a gallon into a pint cup." "We'll see who the small potato is before the day is done," Van Meter snorted. Gordon continued, meditatively, without noticing the interruption: "Of all the little things on this earth a little New Yorker is the smallest. I've met ignorance in the South, sullen pigheadedness in New England; I've measured the boundless cheek of the West, my native heath; but for self-satisfied stupidity, for littleness in the world of morals, I have seen nothing on earth, or under it, quite so small as a well-to-do New Yorker. He has little brains, or culture, and only the rudiments of common sense, but, being from New York, he assumes everything. Of God's big world, outside Wall Street, Broadway, Fifth Avenue, Central Park and Coney Island, he knows nothing; for he neither reads nor travels; and yet pronounces instant judgment on world movements of human thought and society." And deliberately he put on his hat and left the room. The net result of the meeting was a vote to reduce the pastor's salary a thousand dollars and add it to the music fund; and Van Meter hired two detectives to watch the minister. CHAPTER VII A STOLEN KISS For several weeks after Gordon flung down the gauntlet to his Board of Trustees and began his battle for supremacy, his wife maintained a strange attitude of silence and reserve. She had hired a nurse and resumed her study of music. Her contralto voice, one of great depth and sweetness, he had admired extravagantly in the days of their courtship, but she had ceased to sing of late years. He always listened to her lullaby to the children with fascination. The soft round notes from her delicate throat seemed full of magic and held him in a spell. Before he left for his study one morning, she looked up into his face with yearning in her dark eyes. "Come into the parlour, Frank; I will sing for you." She took her seat at the piano, and her white tapering fingers ran lightly over the keys with deft, sure touch. "What would you like to hear?" she asked timidly, from beneath her long lashes, with the old haunting charm in her manner. "Tennyson's 'Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O Sea!' No poet ever dreamed that song as you have sung it, Ruth." Never did he hear her sing with such feeling. Her Voice, low, soft and caressing with the languid sensuousness of the South, quivered with tenderness, and then rose with the storm and broke in round, deep peals of passion until he could hear the roar of the surf and feel its white spray in his face. Her erect lithe figure, with the small white hands and wrists flashing over the keys, the petite anxious face with stormy eyes and raven hair, seemed the incarnate soul of the storm. "Glorious, Ruth!" he cried, with boylike wonder. And then she bent over the piano and burst into tears. "Why, what ails you, my dear?" "Oh, Frank, I'm selfish to leave the children to a nurse and study music." "Nonsense. Self-sacrifice is rational only as it is the highest form of self-development. It is your duty to develop yourself. Self is the source of all knowledge and strength; books are its record; the world exists only through its eyes." "I'm afraid of it. I wish to give all to you and the children, not to myself. I want you all to myself, and you are growing away from me. I know it, and it is breaking my heart." He laughed at her fears, kissed her and went to his study. Since his break with his Board, he had grown daily in power--power in himself and over his people. Conflict was always to him the trumpet call to heroic deeds. The knowledge that Van Meter was now his open enemy and that he was attempting to build a hostile faction within the church roused his soul to its depths. Thrown back thus upon himself and his appeal to the greater tribunal of the people, he preached as never before in his life. His sermons had the vigour and prophetic fire of the crusader. His crowds increased until it was necessary to ask for police aid to control the exits and entrances to the building. Long before the hour of service, a dense mass of men and women were packed against the doors. Van Meter watched this growth of influence with wonder and disgust. He determined to leave no stone unturned that might put a stumbling-block in his way. His detectives had failed as yet to find any clue that might compromise him. Once they rushed to his office with the information that they had tracked him to a questionable house. The Deacon called up his son-in-law and asked excitedly for a reporter to write a thrilling piece of news. The reporter found that Gordon had called at the house, but in answer to a summons to see a dying girl. Van Meter insisted upon the item being printed, but the young city editor scowled and threw it in the waste basket. The Deacon at length discovered Ruth's jealousy and located the woman who was its object. A costly bouquet of flowers was placed on Gordon's desk in the study every morning, and an enormous one blossomed every Sunday morning and evening on the little table beside his chair in the pulpit. The sexton could not tell who paid the bills. A florist sent them. The Deacon had been bitterly chagrined at the outcome of his movement in reducing the salary. At first the people heard it with amazement, and then, when Gordon informed a reporter of the fight in progress and it was published, they laughed, and a cheque was sent him for two thousand dollars to make good the deficit and add one thousand more. The day after this advent he had a hard day's work. A procession of people drained him of every cent of money he could spare and every ounce of sympathy and shred of nerve force in his body. He had tried the year before to establish a free employment bureau to relieve him of this strain. But the bureau added to his work. He had to close it. It had required the employment of five assistants, and even these could make little impression on the list of applicants who crowded the rooms and blocked the pavements from morning until night. When the sick and hungry and out-of-works had been disposed of after a fashion, the miscellaneous crowd filed in. An old college mate came in shivering in a dirty suit. He fumbled at his hat nervously until he caught Gordon's eye and saw him smile. "Well, by the great hornspoon, Ned, you look like you've fallen into a well!" "Worse'n that, Frank; I slipped clean into hell. I got with some fellows, went on a drunk, stayed a month and lost my place. I want you to loan me money to get to Baltimore, buy a decent suit of clothes, and I'll get another position. Yes, and I'll lift my head up and be a man." Gordon sent out to the bank and got the money for him. Another seedy one softly explained to him that he was a fellow countryman from Indiana. Gordon gave him a quarter. A sobbing woman closely veiled he recognised as a bride he had married in the church after prayer meeting two weeks before. "Doctor," she said in a whisper, "I've called to beg you please not to allow any one to know of my marriage. My husband turned out to be a burglar. He stole ten thousand dollars from an old lady who is one of our boarders, and skipped. He married me to get the run of the house. He tried to marry her first, though she was seventy-five years old, got in her room last night, stole the money, and now he's gone. I'm heartbroken!" "What! because he's gone?" "No; because I was a fool. I know he has a dozen wives. He was so handsome." "Madam, I'm not very sorry for you. I tried to prevent you marrying him that night. I begged you to go back to Jersey City to your own church." "You will keep it secret, Doctor?" she begged. "I'll not publish it. But the certificate is on file in the Hall of Records. Any one can see it who wishes. It is beyond my control." An old woman with bedraggled skirt, reddened eyes and a fat, motherly face timidly approached. She had been overlooked. "Doctor, you're my last chance. I come up to New York to see my son-in-law, as grand a rascal as ever lived. He owes me a thousand dollars and won't pay it. We lost our crop down in Old Virginia. So I scraped up the money and got here to squeeze what he owed out of that rascal. Now he's turned me out into the street and moved where I can't find him. I'm starvin' to death. I ain't got a cent to go home; an' what's worse'n all, I got a letter this mornin' tellin' me my idiot boy's down sick an' cryin' for me. I'm the only one can do anything for him. He can't understand nobody else." Her voice broke and she bit her lips to keep back the tears. "I've begged all day. Everybody laughs at me. I heard you preach one Sunday. I knowed you wouldn't laugh at me. I want you to loan me twenty dollars to get home quick. I'll start the minute I can get to the train, an' I'll pay you back if I have to sell my feather beds. Now, will you do it?" "Well, a more improbable story was never told a New Yorker, but something whispers to me you're telling the truth." "You'll do it?" "Yes." She drew a deep breath, and cried with streaming eyes: "Oh, Lord, have mercy on my poor soul, that I doubted You, and thought You had forsaken me!" Gordon handed her the cheque. "I'm going to kiss you!" she fairly screamed. Before he could lift his hand or protest, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. As he took her hands down from his shoulders and drew his face away from the mouldy-smelling old shawl, he looked toward the door, and Ruth stood in the entrance. Her eyes blazed with wrath, but as she saw the faded and bedraggled dress and moth-eaten shawl and looked into the tear-stained motherly old face she burst into hysterical laughter. Gordon rose and escorted the woman to the door with courtesy. "You will find the bank at the corner of Sixth Avenue and Twenty-third Street--the Garfield National. Write me how your son is when you reach home, and send me the money when you are able." "I will. God bless you, sir," she answered with fervour. When he returned to his study, Ruth was still hysterical, and he sat down without a word and began to write. "Frank, I'm sorry to have been so rude," she said at length. "Is that all?" "No; I'm sorry I humiliated myself by spying on you." She sat twisting her handkerchief, glancing at him timidly. "And you can't understand how deeply you have wounded me by such an act, Ruth. I hope you have heard all that passed here this morning." "It's strange how I always seem to be in the wrong. Frank, I am very sorry. You must forgive me. And I have another confession. I've been receiving anonymous letters about you for the past three weeks. I was too weak and cowardly to show them to you. It was one of these letters which caused me to come here this morning. And now I've wounded you, and alienated your heart from me more than ever. I feel I shall die." She began to sob. "Come, Ruth, you must conquer this insanity. Naturally you are bright, witty, cheerful and altogether charming. Jealousy reduces you to a lump of stupidity." "You do forgive me?" "Yes; and don't, for heaven's sake, do such a thing again. Ask me what you wish to know. I am not a liar; I will tell you the truth." "But I don't want to hear it if it's cruel," she protested. "The truth is best, gentle or cruel." She kissed him impulsively and left. He sat for an hour, tired, sore and brooding over this scene with his wife. He caught the perfume of the flowers on his desk, and in the tints of the roses saw the warm blushes of the woman who had sent them. Her voice was friendly and caressing and her speech, words of sweetest flattery--flattery that cleared the stupor from his brain and gave life and new faith in himself and his work; flattery that had in it a mysterious personal flavour that piqued his curiosity and fed his vanity. How clearly he recalled her--the superb figure, with rounded bust and arms full and magnificent, in the ripe glory of youth, her waving auburn hair so thick and long it could envelop half her body. Often he had watched the light blaze through its red tints while he talked to her of his dreams, her lips half parted with lazy tenderness and ready with gentle words. He recalled the rhythmic music of her walk, strong and insolent in its luxury of health. And he was grateful for the cheer she had brought into his life. CHAPTER VIII SWEET DANGER Kate Ransom had attempted no close analysis of her absorbing interest in Gordon's work. The change in her life from weariness to thrilling interest had been its own justification. Wealth had robbed her of the mystery and charm of accident. The future was fixed; there could be no unknown. The men she had met in society were mere fops, or expert butlers who wrote books on etiquette. Life was a problem for them of what the tailors could do. She had been isolated from humanity. Now she felt the red blood tingling to her finger tips. Her days were full of sweet surprises or sudden revelations of drama and tragedy, and her woman's soul responded with eager interest. She had never loved. Such a woman could not love a tailor's dummy. Her nature was warm, rich and passionate, and she was consumed with longing for the moment of bliss when her whole being would so burn with sacrificial fire for her beloved that she could walk with him naked in winter snows, unconscious of cold. Dress, the great mania of the empty minded, she had outgrown. She knew instinctively the colour and the style most becoming to her beauty, and she used these with the ease and assurance of an expert. She was proud of her beautiful face and figure and held them as divine gifts, the surest tokens of the fulfilment of her desires. Her heart, rich in the ripened treasures of unspent motherhood, brooded in tenderness over her new work--the tortures of half-starved mothers, their doomed babes, their idle fathers, and the misery of the poor and the fallen. This yearning to help she knew to be the cry within her own soul for peace. How to express this fullness of life Gordon was teaching her. Slowly and unconsciously she was clothing this powerful, athletic man with every attribute of her ideal. His steel-gray eyes seemed to pierce her very soul and say, "I understand you; come with me." His eloquence and emotional thinking were more and more to her the voice of a prophet seer. His face, that flashed and trembled, smiled and clouded with fires of smouldering passion, held her as in a spell. She knew this power was slowly tightening about her heart, yet she rejoiced in its very pain. When she greeted him, and he unconsciously held her soft hand in his big blue-veined grasp, a sense of restful joy came she knew not whence nor why. Her enthusiasm in his work, her faith and cheering flattery were drawing him with resistless magnetism. As the summer advanced the heat became so terrific and the suffering in the city so great that Gordon determined to stay at his post and take his vacation in the fall. Mrs. Ransom fussed and fumed over Kate's determination to stay, but there was no help for it. July broke the record of forty years for heat. Scores were prostrated daily and dead horses blocked traffic at almost every hour. A drought threatened the water-supply, and night brought no relief to the millions who sweltered in the tenements. The babies began to die by thousands--more than two thousand a week on Manhattan. Island alone. The city's wagons raked the little black coffins up and dumped them into the Potters' Field, one on top of the other, like so many dead flies. Down every tenement-walled street the white ribbons fluttered their tragic story from cellar to attic. At night tired mothers walked the pavements, hot and radiating heat, till the sun rose again, carrying their sick babies, or crowded the housetops, fanning them as they lay on their pallets, pale and still, fighting with Death the grim, silent battle. Kate Ransom finally gave her entire time to these children. She fitted up a hotel in the mountains of Pennsylvania and kept it full. She chartered a steamer and took a thousand of them for a day up the Hudson as an experiment, and asked Gordon to go with them. They would have music, and a dinner spread under the trees of the park which stretched back from the water's edge into the towering hills. He met them at the ferry slip from which the steamer sailed. Kate was already there, and the throng filled every inch of the floor space. She was moving about among them, while they gazed at her in admiration no words in their vocabulary could express. Her face was flushed with excitement, and her violet eyes, wide open, were sparkling with pleasure. The man's eyes lingered on the scene, feeling that, for all her magnificently human body, no angel ever made a fairer vision. He was struck with the silence of these children. As he looked closer it was only too plain they were not children. They were only little wizen-faced men and women, who had never learned to laugh or smile or play; little pinched faces with weak eyes that had never seen God's green fields; little dirty ears that had been bruised with a thousand beastly noises, but had never heard the murmur of beautiful waters in the depths of a forest. His heart went out to them in a great yearning pity as he recalled his own enchanted childhood. His voice was soft with tears as he greeted Kate. "A more pathetic sight than this crowd of silent children old earth never saw. But the shining figure in the centre lights the shadows with a touch of divine beauty." "It does break one's heart to see such children, doesn't it?" she answered, looking at them tenderly and ignoring his pointed tribute to her beauty. "Are we all ready?" Gordon cried. "If you are. Is Mrs. Gordon not coming?" "No; I couldn't persuade her. She took our chicks to the seashore." As the boat moved swiftly up the great river in the fresh morning air and the breeze blowing down its channel strengthened, they sat together on the after deck and watched the dead souls of the little ones stir with life under the kiss of the wind and the caress of the music. In the park they spread out in the whispering stillness of the woods. Nature breathed the sweet breath of her life into their hearts again and they began to twist their queer little faces and try to laugh. They called to one another and listened with mute wonder at the echo among the rock-ribbed hills. Gordon watched curiously in their faces the flash of the inherited memory of forest habits, choked and stunted and dormant in all city folks, and yet alive as long as the human heart beats. Within two hours they had grown noisy with play after a timid, clumsy fashion. "Give them a week and they would learn to laugh!" Kate exclaimed. But the man was now more interested in watching the woman than the children, as he saw her satin skin flush with pleasure and the creamy lace on her full bosom rise and fall. They sat down on a rock beside a brook. "What an inspiration to see this old yet ever new miracle of regeneration unfold under the magic touch of a woman's hand!" "You mean a man's hand," she replied. "This would never have interested me except that you led me to see it." "Then we've helped one another. I'm beginning to feel you are indispensable. I wonder if you, too, will leave us after awhile as so many pass on." "No; this has become my very life," she soberly answered, looking down at the ground and then into his face with frank, open-eyed pleasure. He was silent for several minutes and then softly laughed. "What is it?" she cried. "You could never guess." She lifted her superb arms, showing bare to the elbow, and felt of the mass of auburn hair. "That load of red hay about to fall?" "Don't be sacrilegious. No." "Harness broken anywhere?" She felt of her belt, and ran her hands down the lines of her beautiful figure, eyeing him laughingly. "I'll tell you," he said, sinking his voice to its lowest note of expressive feeling, while a whimsical smile played round the corners of his eyes. "Sitting here in the woods by your side on this glorious summer day, your eyes looked so blue in the creamy satin of your face, I suddenly thought I smelled the violets with which God mixed their colours." "You think of such silly things," she said with mock severity. "There's nothing silly about it. Beauty is an attribute of the divine. I worship it for its own sweet sake wherever I find it, in pearl or opal, dewdrop or flower, the stars, or a woman's face or form or eyes." She lowered her head. "Do you know the old legend of the opal?" he asked. He took some stones from his pocket and held in the light an opal of rare luster. "Isn't it beautiful?" she cried. "And its story is as beautiful as its face. Listen: A sunbeam lingered under a leaf in the forest at sunset, loath to leave so fair a spot, until the moon suddenly rose. Enraptured with the shimmering beauty of a moonbeam, he stood entranced and trembling and could not go. In ecstasy they met, embraced and kissed. The sun sank and left him in her arms. The opal is the child of their love. In its fair face is forever mingled the silver of the rising moon and the golden glory of the sunset." "I believe you made that up," she laughed. "I wish I were poet enough." "I had no idea you dreamed of such romantic nonsense." "Yes, I dream many things. I had a funny dream about you the other night." "Tell me what it was," she begged. "I dare not." "I thought you would dare anything." "No; you see, dreams are such intimate, unconventional mysteries. Dreams have no regard for law or custom The soul and the body seem equally free and without sin or shame. I have a curious feeling of awe about sleep and dreams. It's the surest evidence I have of immortality and the reality of a spiritual life. It is to me the prophecy of the ideal world, too, in which we will dare to live some day what we really are, without pretence or hypocrisy--live that deep secret inner life we try sometimes to hide from the eye of God." "And you will not even give me a hint of this dream?" "No. It was very foolish, but very charming and beautiful. It was in part a picture from that dream which made me laugh awhile ago about your eyes." "I think it mean in you to tell me that much and no more." "I would tell you if I dared. I may dare some day." She was afraid to ask him after that, and yet something within cried for joy. They rose, gathered the children for dinner, ands after three hours in the woods, returned to the city as the twilight softly fell over its ragged steel and granite sky-line. "You must take tea with us to-night," she said, as they stepped from the boat. His wife would not return for supper and he consented. It was not the first time he had spent an hour at the table of the Ransom household. Mrs. Ransom deemed herself honoured by his visits, and his chats with the invalid father about books were bright spots in his life. Kate had sent the stringed band from the boat to the house and stationed them in the conservatory opening into the dining-room. The tender strains of the music, the splash of a fountain mingled with the songs of birds in their cages, the gleam of silver and diamond flash of cut glass, gave Gordon's senses a soothing contrast to the wild beauty of the woods. His nature responded to art and luxury as quickly as to the sensuous voice of Nature in the glory of her summer's splendour. There was something in this glittering beauty, cold and cruel, that appealed to him. He always felt at home in such surroundings. Beneath his idealism and love of humanity there was still hidden somewhere the nerve of an Epicurean. When Kate appeared, dressed for tea, simply but richly, with her splendid neck and shoulders bare and little ringlets of hair curling about her face as though scorched by the warmth of the red blood below, he felt the picture complete. She chatted with him before entering the dining-room. Her manner was always flattering and frankly gracious, but to-night there was an added note of warmth and familiar comradeship. Never had he seen her so charming and so resistless. Always intensely conscious of her sex, she seemed to have the power to-night of communicating to the man before her that consciousness so intimately, so directly and yet so delicately that he was led captive. With scarcely a spoken word their relationship leaped the space of years. The quiver of her eyelid, the dilation of a nostril, little inarticulate exclamations, the turn of her head, the rising and falling of her bosom, the flash of her violet eyes, the subtle perfume of her hair or the graceful movement of her magnificent form spoke the language of life deep and rhythmic which no words have ever expressed. He went home, on fire with the dream of an ideal life and work with such a woman of supreme beauty. CHAPTER IX THE SPIDER The passing of a year added immensely to the fame of the pastor of the Pilgrim Church. His sermons now reached twenty millions of people through the daily press every Monday morning. It had become necessary to issue tickets of admission to the members and admit them by a small door that was cut beside the large ones. Van Meter had ceased to be of sufficient importance for serious notice. The growth of Gordon's influence within the year had been so rapid, he found he had set out to fight a flea with artillery. The old man felt his eclipse with bitterness. He had quit talking much, but writhed in silent fury at the sight of this tall athlete with his conquering gray eyes and smooth, serious face. Yet he was a regular attendant. The preacher's eloquence, the vibrant tones of his voice, full of passion, or trembling with prophetic zeal, and the whole drama of a living militant church with this daring revolutionist at its head, risen from the grave of the old, fascinated him in spite of his hatred. In the local development of the church Kate Ransom had become, next to the pastor, the most important factor. She had shown strong administrative talent, had organized kindergartens, night-schools for teaching domestic science to girls, established a reading-room, and opened a coffee house on the corner near the church, fitting it up with the magnificence of a saloon, with free lunch counter, music and singing. It was crowded with working-men and women every night. Her work had brought her in daily contact with Gordon, and their comradeship had become so constant and so sweet that neither of them dared face the problem of its meaning. To the woman the man had become little less than her God. Their daily life, its hopes, its poetry, its dreams of social and civic salvation, were enough in themselves: she did not analyse or question. For the man, this fair woman, beautiful in face and form beyond the flight of his fancy, and loyal in the worship of his strength, as the soul of the strong man ever desires of his ideal woman, she had become a daily inspiration. And yet he had not acknowledged this even in a whisper of his soul. In the meanwhile, his wife's interest in music had ceased, and she was rarely seen at the church on Sundays or at its weekday functions. She had withdrawn from its life and had settled into a state of somber resentment. She would frequently sit through a meal eating little, speaking in monosyllables, her black eyes staring, wide open, and yet seeing nothing, looking past the things that bound her, back into the sunlit years of girlhood, or forward into the future whose shadow's chill she felt already on her soul. Often he found her at night seated by the window in the dark alone, looking down on the city below. She had ceased to ask him of his work or plans and he no longer troubled her with their discussion. Their lives were separated by an ever-widening gulf. Stimulated by a sermon he had preached in August of the previous summer, when the death-rate was at its highest, a wave of reform had swept over New York. In his sermon he had arraigned the city government in terms so trenchant and terrible the people had rallied as to a trumpet call to battle. A resistless movement for the overthrow of a corrupt administration took the city by storm. Day and night with voice and pen, with all the fire and passion of his magnetic personality, he had led these assaults. Complete success crowned the movement. The reform Mayor was elected by a large majority. Ten months had passed and the net results were discouraging. Police scandals ran riot as of yore; gambling, drinking and the social evil flourished as before; and the press, that had valiantly and almost unanimously championed Reform, now exhausted upon it the vocabulary of abuse. Gordon was disgusted and sickened and felt that one of his fairest dreams had been shattered forever. The reaction from this reform programme had thrown him more than ever back upon his ideas of a Socialistic revolution which should destroy Commercialism itself, and he had become its enthusiastic champion. Kate Ransom had followed his change of views with keenest sympathy. She had read every book after him and had responded to his every mood. "No; we're on the wrong tack, with our half-way measures and our fitful charities," he said to her. "We must go deeper. We must make the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man our daily life, not merely a poetic theory. "We have hundreds of beautiful-souled men and women giving their lives in sacrifice for the city's poor and fallen. They seem to make little impression on its ocean of misery. We are bailing out the sea with teaspoons." "I feel you are right, as you always are," she responded, unconscious of the contradiction. "The Brotherhood of Man and the Solidarity of the Race we must make vital realities. Greed, commercialism, competition and the monopolistic instincts are the cause of all this crime and misery and confusion. Love, not force, must rule the world." "And you are the prophet to lead humanity into this Kingdom of Love," she said, her eyes enfolding him with their soft blue light. "I fear I'm too great a coward for such a task. The man who does it must break with the past, become accursed for the truth's sake, defy social law and convention, breast the storm of the world's hate, die despised, and wait for a nobler generation to place his name on the roll of the world's heroes." "It is your work," she cried with elation. "It's a lonely way for the soul to travel." "You will have one loyal follower the blackest hour of the darkest night that comes." A curious smile played around her full lips, and he looked away, afraid to say anything. "Yes, I know that," he softly answered. "And I'm more afraid for that very reason." "I'm not afraid." Her voice rang clear and thrilling. "I wonder if you know the meaning of such words; or if you are thinking of one thing and I of another?" he slowly asked. "I dare to think many things I've never dared to say," she replied. "A break must come sooner or later," he went on. "No man of my temperament and brain can live under the conditions here, feel the grip of this cruelty on the throat of humanity, read and think, and endure it." "It seems to me a social revolution must come quickly." "I wondered if you had felt that?" Gordon asked, as he leaned back in his chair and locked his powerful hands behind his head. "This presentiment of overwhelming change haunts me day and night and makes many things seem childish and futile. "Ill and feverish from overwork one day last week, I stood by my window, looking down on the city, dreaming and listening to its cries for help, watching the sweep of the elevated trains coming and going, and I was overwhelmed with the immensity of its complex life. Our hurrying cars carry within the corporate limits daily more passengers than all the railroads of the western hemisphere. I thought of the rivers of human flesh that flow unceasingly through its streets and flood its market places. And these millions are but one wave of the ocean forever breaking on the shores of time, its tides everlasting, insistent, resistless, never pausing, behind them the pressure of the heaped centuries, and over them the lowering clouds of fresh storms soon to burst and add their tons." He paused and closed his eyes as though to shut out the roar, while she listened with half-parted lips. "And as I looked out the window I had a startling experience. I saw a huge dragon-like beast begin to crawl slowly down from the hills and stretch his big claws over the housetops of the city below. I was not asleep or in a trance, but wide awake, only a little feverish. With increasing horror I watched this monster stretch his enormous body, covered with scales, and short hair growing between the scales, on and on, until he covered the city and gathered its thousands of houses within his huge paws. His eyes were enormous and blood-red, his breath hot. "I moved back, gasping with surprise and horror, to find it was only a spider crawling down his slender thread on the window close to my eye. It was a fevered delusion, but it haunted me for days, and haunts me still. "I am growing in the conviction that the very foundations of morals are shifting, and that Religion, Society and Civilisation must readjust themselves or humanity sink into unspeakable degradation. "Belief in the old religious authority is gone. Our church is thronged because of a peculiar personal power with which I am endowed. I could wield that power without a church, society, creed or Bible. Esthetic forces now draw people to non-ritualistic churches that once came for prayer and preaching. The preacher must secularise his sermon or talk to vacant pews. Historic Christianity has been destroyed by Criticism. A thousand wild Isms nourish in the twilight of this eclipse of Faith, while Materialism and the Pursuit of Pleasure strangle out spiritual hopes." "And you are the seer called to lead out of this chaos," the woman whispered. "I know this from my own life. But for you I would be listening to idiotic platitudes, cultivating sham, my very soul 'crucified between a whimper and a smile.' I owe it to you that I am a woman--not a cross between an angel and an idiot." The passion with which she said this, bending her beautiful face, flushed with emotion, so close to his that he caught the perfume of her mass of waving hair, went to the man's head like wine. "Why not spring our building scheme on the people at once, without authority from the Board of Trustees, and make it the rallying cry of the new Humanity?" he cried eagerly. "I believe it will succeed," she answered, her heart glowing with the consciousness of the intimacy of that little word "our" he had used. She got pad and pencil, and Gordon dictated to her a plan for engaging every force of the church and its congregation and various societies in the project. He fixed the Sunday on which to make the effort of his life in his appeal to the people of his congregation and the world for the million-dollar fund needed. It was eleven o'clock before they finished the discussion of the scheme, and aglow with enthusiasm he left for his home. As he sat down in the car and lived over again his happiness of the past hours in this woman's companionship the paradox of his return in a few minutes to the arms of his wife struck him squarely in the face for the first time. He could not plead a mistake in his first love. His romance was genuine. He had loved with all the fire of his youth. The passion which drew him to Ruth was mutual and resistless. Yet its ardour had cooled. He could not say it was his fault, not altogether hers. It seemed as inevitable in its decline as its onrush was resistless. Yet at the thought of this new woman he felt his heart beat with quicker stroke. He was older and stronger than the youth of the past, and the woman more mature in the ripened glory of beauty. Yet he began to recall with infinite tenderness the love life with Ruth. Its memories were very real and very sweet. And the faces of his children haunted him with strange power. The idea of a divorce from Ruth and the loss of these children cut him with sharp pain. Had he outgrown his first love? Could he continue to live with one woman if he loved another? Was not this the one unpardonable sin and shame? And yet to break that bond and form the other if he could meant the end of associations in which the fibers of his very life were wrought. But was not this one of the burning problems of the new humanity, this freedom of the soul and body, this new birth into the liberty and love of a great Brotherhood? Was not sham and hypocrisy now the law of life, and was not Society perishing because of it? Thus wrestling with the tragic dilemma he felt closing about him, he went past his station to the end of the line and had to take the down train back. It was past midnight when he reached his home. CHAPTER X THE BLACK CAT When Van Meter heard of the scheme to appeal directly to the people to build the temple in defiance of the Board of Trustees, who were the legal managers of the church's property, he was thunderstruck. When the Sunday arrived he came half an hour earlier than usual to watch every incident of the day with his little black eyes open their widest. It was a crisp November morning. Recent rains had washed the streets clean, the wind was blowing fresh, the sky was cloudless and the sun lit in cool gleaming splendour every avenue and park of the great city. The people had returned from their country places and the hotels were thronged with merchants and visitors from the four quarters of the earth. An enormous crowd squeezed into every inch of space the police would allow to be filled in the church, and hundreds were turned away, unable to gain admission. Gordon had spent the entire day and night before in an agony of preparation, and he had not left his study until two o'clock Sunday morning. He took his seat in the pulpit trembling with anxiety. The organ burst into the strains of the Doxology and the crowd rose. He stood with folded hands looking over the sea of faces, and his heart began to ache with an agony of suspense and fear of failure. The singing ceased, and every head bent as he lifted his big hand, with its blue veins standing out like a net of steel wires, and pronounced a brief invocation. When he read the hymn, the people felt in his voice the shock of a storm of pent-up emotion. He read it slowly, beautifully, and with exquisite tenderness. While they sang he sat with his elbow on the little table on which stood a vase of roses, his face resting thoughtfully on his left hand, studying the people, his soul on fire with the sense of their infinite needs. Crouching low in his seat under the left gallery, he saw a man who had confessed a great wrong and was searching for peace. At a post on the right, in a seat where he had been accustomed to see a working-girl for the past two years, a stranger sat. The girl was found dead in her room the week before. She had lost her place because she wore shabby clothes, and she wore shabby clothes because she had been sending her earnings to her home in Connecticut, supporting an aged father, mother and a worthless brother. The rich, the poor, the old, the young, the outcast, the publican and sinner, the strange woman and the sweet face of innocent girlhood were there looking up at him for guidance and help. But outnumbering all were massed rows of clean-faced young men whom his enthusiasm had drawn resistlessly. His heart went out to them in yearning sympathy, fighting their battles in the morning of life with the powers and princes of the spirit world for the mastery of the soul. He felt the sledge-hammer blow of their united heart-beat strike his brain with the pain of a bludgeon. The agony of fear was now upon him. He saw Van Meter sitting in the central tier of seats watching him sharply out of his little half-closed eyes, the incarnate sign of the mortal enmity of organised wealth, and he must appeal for money. His great crowd had infinite needs, but much money they did not have. He thought with hope of the twenty millions of people who read his sermons on Monday morning, and of a dozen big-hearted men of wealth he knew in the city, and he was cheered. He had prepared a most powerful sermon on the text, "The common people heard Him gladly." He felt they could not resist his appeal. And yet in spite of himself his gaze would wander back to Van Meter, drawn by his black eyes as by the charm of an adder. The Deacon was wondering, as he watched him, what could possibly be the outcome of this daring insanity. He had been fooled so often by the power of this athletic dreamer, he feared to predict the end, though he felt certain what it would be. The services were unusually impressive. Special music had been prepared by the choir and rendered magnificently. Gordon read the hymns and Scripture with a feeling so intense the people were thrilled. His prayer had been simple and heartfelt, and had melted scores of people to tears. He rose and faced the crowd with the keenest sense of solemnity. The hour was propitious; he could feel the hearts of the people beat responsive to his slightest tone, word or gesture. As he swept rapidly through his introduction and into his theme he knew he was holding these thousands of breathless listeners in the hollow of his hand. He could feel their heartstrings quiver as he touched them with tenderness or struck them with some mighty thought. His soul was singing with triumph, when suddenly a ripple of laughter ran along the front tier of the gallery, and a hundred heads were turned upward to see what the disturbance meant. Had a bolt of lightning struck his spinal column he could not have been more shocked. He repeated mechanically the last sentence in a dazed sort of way, and a louder ripple of laughter ran the entire length of both galleries and echoed through the main floor. He stopped, fumbled at his notes, and turned red. The people before him were smiling and craning their necks to see more plainly something on the wide platform of the pulpit. He suddenly got the insane idea that a fiend had thrust his head in the door behind him and was mocking and grinning. He turned and looked, and there sat an impudent little black cat with big yellow eyes. She had been sitting on her haunches blinking at him when he raised his voice or gestured, and the crowd has never yet gathered on this earth in the temple of Baal or Jehovah that can resist a cat accompaniment to the functions of a priest. When Gordon looked the little cat full in the face, she liked him at once, and in the softest, friendliest treble said: "Meow!" And the crowd burst into incontrollable laughter. At first the full import of the situation did not reach his mind, he was so stunned with surprise. He stood looking at the cat in helpless stupor, and blushing red. And then the sickening certainty crushed him that the day was lost; that it was beyond the power of human genius, or the reach of the spirit of God, to remove that cat and regain control of his audience. He turned sick with anger and humiliation, and his big bear-like hands clasped his sheet of notes and slowly crushed them. He continued to look at the cat and she cocked her head to one side, opened her yellow eyes wider and, slowly, in grieved accents said: "M-e-o-w!" Which unmistakably meant, "I'm very sorry you don't like me as well as I do you." Again the crowd laughed. Gordon stepped backward and bent slowly over the cat. She did not look very bright, but she was too shrewd for that movement. The crowd watched breathlessly. He grasped at her. She sprang quickly to one side, bowed her back, bushed her tail, and scampered across the platform crying: "Pist! pist!" and ran up the column that supported the end of the gallery. The preacher's empty hand struck the bare floor, and the crowd was convulsed. A young man sitting in the gallery near the column caught the cat as she climbed over the rail, ran to a window and was about to throw her down to the pavement twenty feet below. Gordon lifted his hand and cried: "Don't do that, young man--don't hurt her; bring her here." It had, suddenly occurred to the preacher as he watched Van Meter bending low in his pew overcome with laughter, that he had stooped to this contemptible trick to defeat him and make the solemnest hour of life ridiculous. He knew the Deacon had come to the church earlier than usual. He was sure he had done it. A curious smile began to play about his lips, and a cold glitter came into his steel-gray eyes. He took the cat in his arms and stroked her gently. She purred and rubbed her face against his and moved her feet up and down, sheathing and unsheathing her claws in his robe with evident delight. The crowd grew still. Instinctively they knew that something big was happening in the soul of the man they were watching. "This little cat, my friends," he said, "is an innocent actor in a tragedy this morning, but she is the agent of one who is not innocent." He fixed his gaze on Van Meter, who stirred with uneasy amazement. "They say that cats sometimes incarnate the souls of dead men. This one is the soul of a living man, my good friend, Deacon Arnold Van Meter, who had her brought here this morning." The Deacon turned red, drew his head down as though he would pull it within his shoulders, and shrank from the gaze of the crowd. Gordon handed the cat back to the young man, whispered something to him, and he disappeared. Then, walking up to the pulpit, he snatched off its crimson cloth and threw it behind him. He ran his big muscular hands into the throat of his robe, ripped it open, tore it from his arms, crushed it into a shapeless mass and threw it on the floor. He snatched up the golden lectern pulpit, hurled it back into the comer, and moved the little table with its vase of roses into its place. He did this quickly, without a word or an exclamation to break the awful stillness with which the crowd watched him. They knew that a tremendous drama was being enacted before them. So intense was the excitement the people on the back tiers of the galleries sprang impulsively to their feet and stood on the pews. Van Meter's eyes danced with wild amazement as he straightened himself up, sure Gordon had gone mad. But when he advanced to the edge of the platform, looking a foot taller in his long black Prince Albert coat, folded his giant arms across his breast, the nostrils of his great aquiline nose dilated, his lips quivering, and looked straight into Van Meter's face, the Deacon saw there was dangerous method in his madness. His eyes blazing with pent-up passion, he began in deliberate tones an extempore address. In a moment the air was charged with the thrill of his powerful personality wrought to the highest tension of emotional power. [Illustration: "Ripped it open, tore it from his arms, and threw it on the floor."] "My friends," he began, "there are moments in our experience when we live a lifetime--moments when the hair of our heads turns gray, a soul dies within a laving body, or a dead one rises, shakes off its grave clothes, and lifts its head in the sunlight. "From this hour I am a free man. I will live what I am, and speak what I feel to be the truth. The truth shall be its own justification. I will wear no robes, mumble no ceremonies, call no man Rabbi, and permit no man to call me Rabbi. I proclaim the universal priesthood of believers. "While I am your pastor the Kitchen Mission in which we have gathered the poor on the East Side will be closed at the hour of service, and all God's children shall enter this house because it is their Father's!" Van Meter shrank back in his pew as a ripple of applause ran round the galleries. "If men ask a sign to-day whether the Church of the living God exists in New York, what is our answer? "Look about you. New York is the centre of the commerce, society, art, literature and politics of the Western World. Her port, in which fly the flags of every nation, is the gateway of two worlds. The feet of four millions daily press her pavements. Her walls frame the furnace in which are being tried by fire the faiths, hopes and dreams of the centuries past and to come. In mere volume of population she is the equal of three great Atlantic states: Virginia, North and South Carolina. One man alone of her millions of citizens possesses wealth greater than the valuation of all the property of the State of North Carolina, the cradle of American democracy, containing fifty thousand square miles and supporting a population of a million six hundred thousand. "In the roar of this modern Babylon beats the fevered heart of modern civilisation. He who wins that heart holds the key to the century. Imperial Rome, mistress of the world, was a pygmy compared to this. "And what are we doing? "Our Protestant churches have thirty-five thousand men and one hundred thousand women enrolled out of two millions on Manhattan Island. Our invested capital is one hundred million dollars, our annual gifts four millions, and we fail to hold one-half the children born in our own homes. "As a remedy for this the Trustees proposed to me to sell out and move uptown to vacant lots! They say the people have gone. They have come--come in such numbers and with such problems, churches have fled before the avalanche of humanity. "Within a stone's throw of this church are districts in which ten men and women sleep in one room twelve feet square. New York is the most crowded city in the world. London has seven people to a house; we have sixteen. In two houses were found the other day one hundred and thirty-six children. Death stalks through these crowded alleys with scythe ever swinging. "Shall we, too, desert? "I hear the tread of coming thousands from these shadows who will laugh at your flag, who know not the name of your President, or your God, whose heavy hands upon your doors will summon you before the tribunal of the knife, the torch, the bomb to make good your right to live. "When your population shall number ten millions, and the gulf between the rich and poor shall have become impassable, some gigantic corner shall have doubled the price of bread, starvation spread her black wings, and idle thousands sullen and desperate begin to look with darkening brows on your unprotected wealth, then will come the test of modern society. "This growth of the city is as resistless and inevitable as the movement of time. Why people continue to turn their backs upon the open fields and crowd into this great foul, rattling, crawling, smoking, stinking, ghastly heap of fermenting brickwork, oozing poison at every pore, is beyond my ken, but they come. They come each year in hundreds, thousands and tens of thousands, crowding the crowded trades, crowding closer the crowded dens in which human beings whelp and stable as beasts. They leave friends and neighbours who love them, leave earth for hell, and still they come. The tenement, huge monster of modern greed, engulfs them, and the word home is stricken from their tongue. "They tell us that yesterday a man in a fit of insanity murdered his wife and two daughters. Insanity? Love has its hours when death becomes beautiful. Poets sing of old Virginius who slew his daughter to save her from dishonour. May it not be better to die a man than live a beast? "There are conditions about us where suicide is a luxury and the death of a child a joy. They are gathered to the Potters' Field, but they rest. We pile them one on top of the other in big black trenches, but the dawn does not call them to beastly toil. Their little forms moulder, but they no longer cry for bread and their pinched faces no longer try to smile. They are safe in Death's land-locked harbour. "Last year the deaths on this island numbered forty thousand. Ten thousand--one in four--were buried from hospitals, jails, almshouses, asylums and workhouses. I have been assailed by a deacon of this church because I no longer preach hell. Why preach hell to people who expect to better their condition in the next world whether they go up or down? "I am here henceforth to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, the healing of the bruised, the release of the captive, and to preach the Gospel to the poor. "Let snobs and apes hear me. Democracy is the goal of the race, the destiny of the world. American Democracy is but a hundred years old, yet not one crowned head is left on the western hemisphere. Crowns, thrones, scepters, titles, privileges belong to the past; they are doomed. The people already rule the world. Emperors, kings and presidents exist, not by the grace of God, but by the consent of the people, to whom they give account of their stewardship. Empires are the dungheaps out of which democracies grow. "The historian writes of the common people. Once of kings and princes were their stories. The eyes of the world are on the masses. Science toils to make Nature their servant. Art portrays their life. Literature, once a clown at the feet of Fortune's fools, now writes of the people. Wealth lays its tribute at their feet. The millionaire, who dies to-day grasping his millions as his own, is hissed while he lives, openly cursed while he lies cold in death, and forgotten in contempt. "Outside the history of the common people there is nothing worth recording. They are mankind. As a half-million miles make no difference in the vast distance to the sun in figuring an eclipse, so the classes may be disregarded. "Jesus Christ was the carpenter's son. His home was humble, His birth lowly. He was born poor, lived and died poor. The foxes had holes, the birds of the air nests, but He had not where to lay His head. Our robes and altar cloths, our tin and tinsel, were not His. "When John Wesley raised his voice for the people the Church of England had the opportunity to become the Church of the Anglo-Saxon race, that is now conquering the world. They called him a liar, a hypocrite, a Jesuit, a devil, cast him out, and the opportunity passed forever. "I see a man before me who hates this big crowd and yet expects to go to heaven. Heaven is the home of millions--'a great multitude which no man could number,' says the seer. Hell is the home of swell society." The words leaped from Gordon's lips a rushing torrent and swept the crowd. Growing each moment more and more conscious of his strength, he attained the heights of eloquence. Intoxicated with the reflex action from the sea of eager listeners, he outdid himself with each succeeding climax of feeling. Never had his voice been so deep, so full, so clear, so penetrating, so thrilling, and never had he been so conscious of its control. Not once did it break. Its loudest trumpet note echoed with sure roundness. When he turned his eyes from Van Meter after his first assault they rested on the face of Kate Ransom, her magnificent figure tense, rigid, her cheeks scarlet, her blue eyes flashing with tears of excitement. She was stirred to her soul's depths, and no figure in all the throbbing crowd gave to the speaker such inspiring response. Her face flashed back as from a mirror every throb of thought and stroke of his heart. Van Meter gazed on him hypnotised by the violence of his onrush. When Gordon would suddenly lift his enormous blue-veined hand high over his head in an impassioned gesture the Deacon cowered unconsciously beneath his towering figure. Pausing a moment, while the crowd held its' breath, watching every movement and every twitch of a muscle of his face, he pointed his long finger at the Deacon and continued: "And, as if to mock intelligence, Tradition raises the feeble cry of reminiscent senility, 'Back to the old paths!' "Protestantism is the rebellion of reason against the shackles of authority. Our conscience fettered by tradition stultifies its own life. We must go forward or die. "Theology is a science, religion a life. The one is a fact, the other an analysis after the fact. The stage-coach yielded to the limited, the sailing craft to the ocean greyhound, but we are told that the only age that ever knew the truth, or had the right to express it, was the age which burned witches, executed dumb animals as criminals, whipped church bells for heresy, held chemistry a black art and electricity a manifestation of the devil or the Shekina of God. "The men to whom I speak have seen New York grow from a town of three hundred thousand on the lower end of Manhattan Island to be the imperial metropolis of the New World with four millions within her golden gates. "Within a generation, the Brooklyn Bridge, a dream in the brain of a man, has spun its spider web of steel across the river, our buildings grown from four stories to towering castles of steel with their flag-staffs in the clouds. "Our nation has been baptised in blood and a new Constitution established. "The German Empire has been created, and a new map of the world made. "Steam and electricity have been applied to travel and speech, and the earth transformed into a whispering gallery. The cylinder press has proclaimed universal education, and the dynamo crowned the brow of humanity with a coronet of light. "But our churches in New York have merely moved uptown! Their methods are the methods of their fathers--a solecism, stupid, irrational, immoral. "The superstition that seeks to limit the horizon of the soul to the bounds of ancestral tradition has ever been the deadliest foe of human hope. Doubt is the vestibule of knowledge. They who doubt, rebel and disobey have ever led the shining way of progress and of life. "Your Traditionalists crucified the Christ. They declared him to be the friend of publicans and harlots. "Since then they have covered the Church with the infamy of cruelty and blood, flame, sword, thumb-screw, rack and torch. The blackest pages in the story of the martyrdom of man have been written by their hands. They sent Alva into the Netherlands to sweep it with fire. They revoked the edict of Nantes until the soil of France was drunk with the blood of her children. They led the trembling sons and daughters of faith, barefoot and blindfolded, over burning plowshares, stretched them on wheel and rack, tore them limb from limb, sparing not for the groan of age, the lisp of childhood, or the piteous cry of expectant motherhood. "The Bible they made a bludgeon with which to brain heretics, forged its word into chains, and with its leaves kindled martyr fires. "They have arraigned the reason, the heart and the knowledge of the race against Jesus Christ and His religion. They stretched Galileo on the rack for inventing a telescope which gave new beauty to the psalm, 'The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth His handiwork.' "They are driving manhood from the modern Church. Your New York congregations average four women to one man. Of forty-three Governors of our states, only seventeen are members of any church; yet all profess allegiance to the religion of Jesus. The men have formed secret societies outside the Church. "The Church triumphant will be a social power. Man to-day is more than an individual. The individual has played his role in the growth of the centuries. This is the age of federation, organisation, society, humanity. Man can no longer live to himself or die to himself. "I proclaim again the universal priesthood of believers. I call for those mighty forces among the unordained which thrilled the Waldenses, the Franciscans, the Puritan and early Methodists and sent them on their glorious careers. I preach a holy crusade for man as man, in the name of God, whose image he bears. I ask you to join with me as man, not as priest, and build here a 'Temple of Humanity' that shall be for a sign of hope and faith and freedom." As he closed, a spontaneous burst of applause shook the building, and instead of the usual prayer which ended his sermons he lifted both his big hands high above his head and the audience rose. "Let us sing the national hymn, 'My Country, 'Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty,'" he cried, his voice still throbbing with emotion. "And while we sing the ushers will pass the subscription cards that you may join with us in our enterprise." He dismissed the crowd with the Benediction, and the whole mass lingered, discussing with flushed faces the extraordinary scene they had witnessed and speculating on its outcome. It was evident his action and speech had produced a moral earthquake in the church. The older and more conservative members slipped out one by one and went home dazed. The younger and more sensitive crowded about Gordon in hundreds, wrung his hand and pledged their support. For half an hour he could not move, so dense was this struggling mass around him. He did not see Kate among them. He knew the scene had cut too deeply into her life for such poor expression. The ushers at last handed him a bundle of subscription cards and he hurried to his study to read their verdict. CHAPTER XI AN ANSWER TO PRAYER When Gordon reached his study and locked the door, he turned the bundle of cards over nervously, afraid to look at them. He untied the package, read the first, and ran rapidly through the pile. The total subscriptions reached only twenty thousand dollars. He had asked for a million. A sickening sense of failure crushed him. How weak and puerile the eloquence of words or the beat of the human heart against that mysterious force gleaming at him through Van Meter's black eyes! He sat brooding over the power wielded by a dozen men whose names were linked with the Deacon's in Wall Street. This group of men had personal fortunes of more than eight hundred millions and controlled as much more. He believed that they dictated the policy of railroads, banks, trade, the State, the Nation, and that no king or emperor of the world wielded such despotism over men as these uncrowned monarchs of money. He felt as though he had collided with the stars in their courses and been crushed to dust. An Answer to Prayer 129 In the middle of the pile of cards he found one signed by Kate Ransom. She had written across the printed form in her smooth, flowing hand: "Please call after the service and let me know the result. I will send you my subscription to-morrow." He knew that she would make a liberal gift, but her fortune could not be more than a million, perhaps not half so large. Her generosity could not save the day even if she gave half of all she possessed, a supposition of course preposterous. He could not summon courage to go in the bitterness of his defeat. He scrawled a note and sent it by the sexton. "Feeling too blue to call. Failure complete and pitiful. The subscriptions reach only twenty thousand dollars. GORDON." There was but one forlorn hope left. He had written personal letters to several millionaires he knew in town. They might respond. He sat in his study in the afternoon, dull, stupid and sick, feeling an iron band around his brain. He could not think. Ho gave up the work on his evening sermon and determined to repeat an old one. As he sat in an aching stupor the sexton announced a gentleman who insisted on seeing him on important business. "I told him you would see no one at this hour, but he says he must see you." "Show him in," Gordon said, with a frown. The man entered, gazed at the preacher with curious interest, and stood with his silk hat in hand, smiling. "This is Doctor Gordon?" "Leave off the doctor and you have it right." "I am the bearer of good news. A client of mine has instructed me to call and say that the sum of one million dollars will be placed to your credit in the Garfield National Bank within two years, and that you will be its sole trustee for the building of your projected Temple. One-third of it will be available within three months. I am sorry, I am forbidden to disclose the name." Gordon sprang to his feet, pale as death, overwhelmed with awe. To have the answer of his prayers, the agonising of his soul for years, answered in the hour of utter defeat thrilled him with a sense of solemnity he had never felt. The man was not a man. He was the messenger swift and beautiful from the courts of heaven, for whose coming his eyes had long strained and his ears listened. Not a doubt of its truth shadowed his mind. He knew it was true. It was the fulfilment of life. It had been ordained from eternity. He had seen it always. Now he saw with his eyes. A paean of exaltation welled within him. With dimmed eyes he grasped the lawyer's hand and fairly crushed it in his iron grip. "My friend, your face will always be beautiful to me, and your name a song of joy. You have come to lift me from the gulf of despair and renew my faith." "With all my heart I congratulate you," he warmly responded. He left his card, and Gordon locked his door, walked back to his desk and fell on his knees. In transports of childlike gratitude he poured out his soul. All the old faith in prayer was in him again, the breath he breathed. He talked to God as to a loving father, promising in broken accents to cleanse his heart of every selfish thought and consecrate anew every energy to his work. And then he caught the perfume of flowers, and saw the face of a woman, and she was not the wife of his youth or the mother of his children. "God forgive me for the drifting of the past," he cried. "I will tear this madness out of my heart and love only Thee. I will be true to the vows taken at Thy altar. I have been wayward and sinned in Thy sight in heart and thought. Wash me in Thy love and I shall be clean, and though my sins be as scarlet they shall be like wool." He rose from his knees determined to go immediately to Kate Ransom, tell her the news, make a clean breast of his love for her, beg her to put the ocean between them, and for all time end their dangerous relationship. She greeted him with reserve, and seemed embarrassed. With impetuous rush he told her the tidings. "I've been lifted from the depths of Sheol to the highest heaven. Every hope and dream of my struggle is a living reality. An unknown millionaire has given the whole sum needed--a million dollars--and our Temple will rise in grandeur!" She smiled timidly, and said: "I knew it would be so. You were glorious this morning." He felt her embarrassment and wondered if she could have divined his grim purpose of separation. "You do not seem so glad as I thought you would be," he said, with something of reproach in his voice. "Some joys are too intense for speech. The scene this morning and your burning message went too deep for words." "I understand," he said softly. "I wonder if you do?" she asked, dropping her eyes. "Yes, and I have come to the hardest task of my life, one of the bitterest and one of the sweetest," he said, with deliberation. She glanced at him quickly and began to tremble. "Not another hour must pass without a confession to you." He moved across the room and sat down as if by an effort to put distance between them. "What is it?" she asked, colouring. He was silent a moment and then said with low, deliberate tenderness: "I love you." She sobbed, and he looked steadily out of the window. "I dare not sit by your side when I tell you this," he continued passionately. "I have felt it growing in spite of reason or will. I know it's tragedy and sealed my lips with bolts of steel. I have been too weak to keep away from you, strong enough to keep silent. But God has sent his messenger to-day to recall me to duty. There is truth in the old faith. He has heard and answered the prayer of my heart. Somewhere in this Mammon-cursed city there is one beautiful disinterested soul that gives and asks nothing. I have seen, as in a flash of lightning, my danger. I must tear this passion out of my life, though it kill me. I must be true to my vows. I must live without scandal or shame. And you," he paused and his voice sank to a tense whisper--"my beautiful darling, glorious love of my manhood--you must help me!" He buried his face in his great hands, convulsed with emotion. "I will, my dearest," she tenderly answered. "If I had failed to-day," he went on tremblingly, "perhaps in reckless fury I might have forgotten duty, dashed the cup of this martyrdom from my lips, and drowned conscience in the sweetness of your kiss. But God sent success, not failure. And I must be worthy. I have sinned a thousand times as I have gloated over your beauty, heard the music of your voice, touched your soft hand and looked into your soul through those dear blue eyes. It must end. One hour thus face to face we will speak, and never again by word or deed recall that we are aught to one another. I have not asked if you love me. How well I know the tragic truth! But you will tell me once, that my ears may never forget the words on your lips." "I love you, I love you, I-love-you!" she sobbed in anguish. "We must never be together alone again," he sighed. "No." "We must not see each other any more." "It is best," she said, with despair. "I dare not touch your hand--good-by!" he cried, staggering to his feet. "Good-by, Frank, my hero, my love--my God!" He took one step toward the door, but his feet carried him to her side. He trembled, hesitated, and then slowly drew her to his heart. Her arms stole around his neck and her head drooped on his breast, the perfume of her hair was in his nostrils, and their lips met in burning kisses. "God forgive us! It was more than mortal flesh could bear to go without one moment of love's sweet life!" he cried. "And now we must part." He took her hands in his and gently kissed them, while she looked away seeing only his face, for it had long since filled the world. He turned abruptly into the hall, and, moving to the door with swift step, he saw lying on the silver tray the card of the lawyer he had met an hour ago. In a moment it flashed over him that Kate was the unknown messenger. He had not dreamed her fortune of such magnitude. He seized the card and rushed back into the room. "Is that your lawyer's name?" he gasped. She smiled and nodded her head in assent. "And I never dreamed it possible!" He looked at her as though in a trance. "Yes, I will confess now. You have confessed to me. My fortune came direct from my grandmother, who willed me her farm on which the oil was discovered. My father's fortune is worth perhaps five hundred thousand dollars. Mine was worth about two million dollars. I have given one to you. I may give you the other if you ask it. One was all you asked." Again he took her to his heart. "I have misread the message. Such love is in itself divine, and its own defense. You are mine by the higher law of life. I will not give you up--you are mine, mine! I will defy the world. I loved my child-wife. I was honest then. I will be honest now. I loved as a boy loves. Now I am a man, with a man's fierce passions, and you are the answer--strength calling to strength, deep answering unto deep! Your eyes, my darling, flash the beauty of every flower that blooms and every star of the sky; in your hair is the rose's breath and the golden glory of the sun! I will not live with one woman and love another." And the twilight deepened into night while they held each other's hands and smiled into each other's faces. CHAPTER XII OUT OF THE SHADOWS When Gordon announced at the evening service that a million dollars had been subscribed to the new "Temple of Man," and that he had been constituted its sole trustee, the crowd burst into a storm of applause. In vain he raised his big muscular hand over the tumult. Troops of young men and women with flushed faces, some laughing, some crying, sprang from their seats, rushed to the platform and seized his hand. The strains of the national hymn suddenly burst from the crowd, and they rose en masse singing it with triumphant peal. As its last note died away a woman's voice started "Nearer, My God, to Thee," the people caught it instantly and its mighty chorus rolled heavenward. The singing had in it the spontaneous rhythm of hearts transported by resistless feeling. For half an hour they stood and sang the old familiar hymns whose sentences were wet with the tears and winged with the hopes and mysteries of their lives. Instead of a sermon, Gordon read his resignation as pastor of the Pilgrim Church. And then, folding his hands behind him, in trumpet tones he cried: "Next Sunday morning will be the last service I will ever conduct in this church; the Sunday morning following, at eleven o'clock, the first services of the 'Church of the Son of Man' will be held in the old Grand Opera House. It will seat four thousand people. All who wish to join this independent society are cordially invited to be present and bring your friends. The work of building the 'Temple of Man' will begin at once. Within six months we hope to lay its corner-stone." The meeting was closed at once with the Doxology and Benediction. The reporters crowded around him for fuller details. He refused to give any further information. They interviewed every officer of the church and congregation from whom any news might be secured, and it was nine o'clock before the excitement had subsided and the crowd left. The organist and quartet choir lingered to rehearse their music for the following Sunday. Gordon retired to his study, where he had asked Kate to meet him for an important conference. The church opened on the cross street and stretched its barn shape through the entire block. The study was beside the pulpit platform, a little beyond the centre of the building. Behind it was the Sunday-school and reading-room, opening on the rear. Kate had the keys to the reading-room, which was under her direction, and Gordon asked her to come to his study from the rear entrance through the Sunday-school room that she might avoid the suspicion of the reporters. For the same reason he did not wish to be seen at her house. He had left the door of his study unlocked for her, and she entered before the crowd had left the church. Within a few moments from the time she unlocked the door of the reading-room, Van Meter's detectives informed him that she was in the pastor's study and that he had left the rear door open for her to secretly enter. The Deacon despatched one of his men with an anonymous note to Ruth informing her that Gordon was in his study alone by secret appointment with Kate Ransom, and giving to her duplicate keys to every door in the church building. The detective did not see Ruth, but the maid said she was at home, and he handed her the package. Gordon had telephoned to her briefly the facts of the excitement of the morning, and told her he was so exhausted that he would not return for dinner, but would take his meals at a hotel and come home after the evening service. When Ruth received the note and keys she was brooding over his absence and peering in the depths of the widening gulf which separated them in such a crisis of his life. The note threw her into the wildest excitement. All the old fiery temper and jealousy which she had kept smouldering in restraint now burst its bounds. Flushed and trembling she rushed from the house and soon reached the church. She opened the door gently, and with soft feline step was about to enter the Sunday-school room to reach his study, when through the glass sliding partition she heard the voice of Van Meter talking in the dark to a detective and a reporter. She listened intently. "I wish you had a flashlight camera," he was saying. "His wife will be here in a few minutes and the scene in that room would be worth ten thousand dollars. I have a good photograph of the woman you can use. You can get his anywhere." "It will be a great scoop on the other fellows who will write up the Temple without the Priestess!" the reporter whispered. "I'd give a thousand dollars to see his face in the morning when he picks up your paper and reads its headlines," chuckled the Deacon. "His eloquence, his bullfrog voice, his curling locks, his splendid eyes, will all be needed, and will all of them be inadequate to the occasion." "It will be tough on that beautiful woman, the scandal--by George, it's a pity," the reporter sighed. "But it will be a great day for the little black-eyed spitfire wife of his he's been neglecting for the past year. Her revenge will be sweet. I've been sorry enough for her." "I wonder if she will promptly sue for a divorce?" "Yes; you can write that down without an interview," the Deacon replied. Ruth had come raging in anger against her husband. But the cold words of these men, whispering in the dark their joy over his downfall, stopped the beat of her heart. She could see the big cruel headlines in the morning paper, holding her beloved up to shame in the hour of his triumph. Surely this would be what he deserved. But she loved him--yes, good or bad, she loved him. He was the hero of her girl's soul, the father of her beautiful children, and in spite of all his coldness and neglect he was her heart's desire. And the feeling came crushing down upon her that perhaps she had failed somehow to do her whole duty. She had been wilful and fretful and had not kept in touch and sympathy with his work. She had demanded a perfect love and loyalty, and in agony she asked herself if she had given as much as she had demanded. Had she not thought too much of her own rights and wrongs and too little of his hopes and burdens? And perhaps because of this he was to be crushed at a blow, and his enemies laugh at his calamity and give to her their maudlin pity. She could hear the sweet strains of the organ in the church and the soprano singing the Gloria. She held her hand on her heart for a moment, as though it were breaking, and suddenly her soul was born anew. Out of the shadows of self and self-seeking she lifted up her head into the sunlight of a perfect love, a love that suffereth long and is kind, vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, seeketh not its own, believeth all things, endureth all things--love that never faileth. "Lord, have mercy on me, and help me--I must save him!" she cried in agony. Rapidly retracing her steps, she passed back into the street and around the block to the front of the church. To her joy she encountered no one. The Deacon was so sure of his triumph he had withdrawn his detectives from the street and had them massed as witnesses in the Sunday-school room. He was sure they would emerge by that way, for it was Gordon's usual way of exit, and the choir was still singing in the church. With feverish haste she applied the key to the spring lock of the door for the members' entrance and passed noiselessly down the aisle in the shadows under the gallery, unobserved by the choir. Only the lights about the organ were burning. When she reached the door of the study she paused. What if she found him with his arms about her and his lips on hers? Could she control herself? Would she not spring on the woman, with all the tiger of her hot Southern blood from centuries of proud ancestry tingling in her tapering fingers, and tear those blue eyes from her head? She must be sure. No; it was over now. She had conquered self. She would save him. Slipping the key softly into the lock, she entered and stood a moment, her stormy eyes burning a deep, steady fire. They were studying a map of the city with eager interest in the location of the Temple and did not see or hear her. As she saw them thus, a sense of gratitude soothed her excitement and gave perfect control of her voice. "Frank," she said quietly. "Ruth!" he exclaimed in amazement, striding toward her, while Kate blushed and, with dilated eyes, stared at her, dumb with fear of a scene of violence. "Yes," she continued in even, rapid tones, "I have come, in love, not anger, to save you both from shame and disgrace. That room behind you is full of detectives and reporters. They are waiting for the choir to leave to find you here alone. They sent for me to give a fitting climax to the scene. They have your photograph already, Miss Ransom, and the reporter is preparing his article on the hidden Priestess of the new Temple." "Oh, I thank you!" Kate cried, trembling. "Keep your thanks. I do this from no regard for you. Frankly, I hate you--hate and envy yoi your terrible beauty that has robbed me of that which I hold dearer than life." "But I do not hate you, Mrs. Gordon. I have for you only the kindliest feelings," Kate protested. "I prefer your hatred. But we have no time for talk." Ruth quickly removed her hat and cloak and handed them to Kate. "Exchange with me and pass quickly out of the church by the little front door. Keep under the shadows of the gallery and the choir cannot see you." In a moment it was done, and Gordon faced his wife alone. "My dear, that was a beautiful deed you have just done." "Don't say 'my dear' to me again until we have come to an understanding of this meeting," his wife said, closing her lips firmly. "As you will," he gravely answered. "When we are at home to-night alone I will hear your explanation." "What you have told me is of such importance I cannot go home to-night. I must see friends who will reach that newspaper in time to know what Van Meter can have printed. It may keep me the whole night." "Very well; it will not be the first night I have spent alone," she answered bitterly. "I will go with you to the elevated station, and will be home certainly early in the morning." They stepped from the study, and Gordon turned the electric switch, filling the room with a blaze of light. Van Meter and his men blinked in amazement at the sight of the preacher and his wife quietly walking toward them. "You contemptible old sneak!" he hissed. "How dare you crawl into this room to spy on me?" "I thought I had good reasons for being here," he spluttered, nervously clearing his throat. "Well, you thought a lie as your father, the devil, did before you." "Apparently a mistake somewhere," stammered the Deacon, looking sheepishly at Mrs. Gordon. "And I'd like to explain to you, sir, that I didn't bring that cat." "Well, cat or no cat, I give you a parting warning. We will not meet again in this church, and if I ever catch you sneaking around me I'll take a whip and thrash you as I would a cur, you little ferret-eyed imp of hell!" The Deacon cowered beneath the furious giant figure and beckoned to the detectives. Gordon and his wife passed by them and out into the night. CHAPTER XIII A BROKEN HEART-STRING The press next morning devoted entire pages to the sensation in the Pilgrim Church. Portraits of Gordon, his life and theories, sketches of the extraordinary scene in his pulpit, a full stenographic report of his address which he had carefully corrected at midnight, portraits of his wife and children, pictures of the old church, its reading-rooms, clubhouses and coffee-house, were exploited. His letter of resignation and the gift of a millon dollars for building a vast Temple of Humanity, that would be a forum of free thought in the heart of the metropolis, were the subject of separate editorials in every paper. Speculation as to the identity of this mysterious millionaire, who had apparently deserted the army of entrenched wealth to support this daring young revolutionist, filled columns. But it was all the wildest guessing. Many of the greater magnates hastened to deny with emphasis that they were in any way connected with the scheme. Several of them denounced the preacher as a dangerous man whose wild theories threatened social order. Gordon breathed a sigh of relief when he found not a line hinting at Kate Ransom's part in the drama or linking his name with hers. After two o'clock, when he finished his last conference with the reporters and his friends, he went to a hotel where he was not known. He spent the rest of the night pacing the floor fighting to a finish the battle between the memory of Ruth and his children and his fierce new passion. Just before dawn he lay down and fell asleep, dreaming of Kate. The battle between the flesh and the spirit had ended. He slept until noon, ate a hasty breakfast, called at the Ransom house a moment, and hurried to his home. His wife had read the morning papers with increasing amazement at the sensation created, and a sense of impending tragedy began to crush her. For hours she had been walking back and forth from her window watching for his approach, until now she dreaded to see him. At the sound of his footstep she recalled the fact that she was the judge and he the culprit in the scene to be enacted. She had demanded an explanation of the meaning of the meeting with this woman, and she would have it. If his excuse were good she would be generous in her love and beg him to begin once more their old life, even if she threw the last shred of pride to the winds and made herself his veriest slave. And yet her heart misgave her. She felt herself lost and ruined before the battle began, but determined to play her part bravely. She watched him over the banisters as he stepped into the hall and greeted the children with unusual tenderness. He took Lucy's little form up and placed her arms around his neck. "Now hug me long, and hard, and kiss me sweet," he whispered. The child squeezed his neck and, placing her hands on his cheeks, softly kissed his lips and eyes as she had often seen her mother do. He ran his hand gently through her brown curls that seemed a perfect mixture of her mother's and his own, and Ruth thought his hand trembled as he kissed her again. "I never saw you quite so beautiful, my baby, as this morning," he said, as he placed her on the floor. When he entered the room upstairs Ruth had recovered her composure and stood waiting, her petite figure drawn to its full height, her anxious face unusually thin, her eyes, set in the dark rings of a sleepless night, looking blacker and stormier than ever in the shadows of her disheveled hair. "Sorry I could not come sooner, Ruth," he began, with evident embarrassment. "But I did not get to sleep until just before day, and I was so exhausted I slept until noon." "Let us waste no words," said the soft, round voice. "I have waited long; I am waiting still for ycur explanation. Why was that woman in your study alone with you last night at half-past ten o'clock?" "You wish to know the whole truth?" "I demand it." "Very well," he replied deliberately. "The immediate reason is a secret of great importance, I must ask you to guard it sacredly." "I've kept a dark one in my soul. You have had no cause to complain." "The morning papers are full of wild speculation as to the millionaire who gave that immense sum to build the Temple. Miss Ransom gave the money." "Impossible!" she gasped. "So I thought at first. A lawyer came in the afternoon and told me of the gift without a hint of its author. In answer to a request on a card asking that I inform her of the results of my appeal, I called at her house---" "Before you called at your own or informed your wife," she interrupted with bitterness. "Yes; you have ceased to care about rny work. But there was another and more urgent reason why I called," "Doubtless!" she cried impatiently. "When the import of this gift fully dawned on me, the fulfilment of my grandest hopes in the very moment of defeat (for the popular subscription was a failure), I was overwhelmed with gratitude to God. I fell on my knees and thanked Him. And then, Ruth--" He paused and looked at her wistfully in pity for the little weak figure that would reel beneath the blow of his words. "And then what?" she asked quickly. Gordon lowered his chin and rested it on his hand, while a dreamy tone came into his voice, softening it to its lowest notes, and a trance-like look overspread his face. "And then I recalled that I had been deceiving you and myself and another. I faced for the first time honestly the fact that I was madly in love with a woman not my wife--" Ruth went white, gave an inarticulate groan, staggered and sank into a chair near him, sobbing in agony. "Oh! Frank, for the sake of Jesus, the friend of the weak, who loved little children, whose name you have so often spoken, have mercy on me! Do not tell me any more. I am only a woman--I cannot bear it!" "But the truth is best, Ruth. You must hear it," he went on rapidly. "I asked God to forgive me for the wrong I had done you and her. I said I would tear that love out of my soul if it killed me, and be true to my marriage vow. I went there to tell her this and ask her to put the ocean between us. I found that she loved me even as I loved her, and she promised. As I started to leave the house, never to enter it again, I saw the card of the lawyer on her table, and the truth flashed over me that she had made this sacrifice of her fortune--greater than I had dreamed--for me and my work, and that because of this I was leaving her forever. It was more than I could bear or ask her to bear. I faced anew the facts. Our love has grown cold. We are no longer congenial. Your ways have ceased to be mine. It is wrong to love one woman and live with another. We must separate." "No, no, no, no, Frank, dear, my husband, my love, my own. Not this. You do not mean it!" she groaned, as she sank to the floor, buried her face in her arms and stretched out her hand until her tapering fingers rested on his broad foot. He bent and took her hand as though to lift her. Suddenly the fever of her hot fingers trembling with overpowering passion, the moisture of her hand, and the tremor of her convulsed body swept his memory with the pain and rapture of his hour with Kate. Still holding her fingers, he slipped his watch from his pocket with the other hand and glanced quickly at its face to see if it were time for his return to the Ransom house. "Come, Ruth, this is very painful to me. You must not humiliate yourself so. You have pride and the heritage of noble blood." She sprang to her feet and stared at him, with infinite yearning in her eyes, gave a faint cry, half anguish, half despair, and threw herself into his arms, holding him with passionate violence while she smothered his lips and eyes with kisses. He attempted gently to draw her arms from his neck. "No, you shall not," she cried, holding him convulsively. "I will not let you go. You are my husband--my own, my love, the hero of my girl's dreams, the father of my babies. I have no pride. I will do anything for you if you will only love me." "But, Ruth, if I have ceased to love you--" "Don't, don't say it!" she shrieked, placing her hand on his lips. "I will not hear it. You do love me. This woman has lured you with her devil's beauty, and thrown her spell over your baser nature. Ah, Frank, dear, tell me that you love me! Lie to me as meaner men lie to their women. Such a lie I'll hold an honour before the awful shame of desertion. You cannot humiliate me so. See, dear, I am at your feet. Have mercy on me. Do not ask me to bear more than I can endure. Am I not the mother of your children?" Gordon frowned and withdrew her arms from his neck. "All this is very painful, Ruth. You cannot mean it. You know I have tried to be honest. I hate a lie. I could not tell one if I tried. You cannot love me and ask this infamy. I could never lift up my head again as a leader and teacher of men and know I was a wilful liar." The little figure shivered. "But, Frank, I can't give you up. It was the touch of your hand, the music of your voice that first awoke my woman's soul. You are my mate. You cannot know the young mother-wonder, pain and joy that thrilled my heart as I first bent over Lucy's face, your dear eyes in hers smiling at me. Our very flesh became one in Nature's miracle of love." "And yet our lives have somehow drifted apart, Ruth." "But not so far, dear, as this woman has made you believe," she answered tenderly. "I have been selfish and resentful, but I will make it all up. I will lift up my head and be cheerful--live for you, work for you, think only of you, ask nothing for myself but only your presence and your love." "But if I have given it to another--" Again she put her hand on his lips. "But you have not. It is madness. You could not forget our life. Last night I lay alone in silence, with wide-open eyes, dreaming it all over again. This woman I know is more beautiful than I--three years younger; her hair is gold, mine the raven's. She is fair and full and tall, and I am dark and small; but, Frank, dear, love is more than eyes and hair and lips and form. We have been made one in our flesh and blood and inmost soul. There is no other man than you for me. There is no music save your voice." "Yet, if you feel this for me, and I thus wait in love on another, how can I live the lie?" "Can you forget the sunlit days of our past?" she pleaded wistfully. "When you lay on the sands of the beach in old Virginia and held my hand while I read to you, idly dreaming through that wonderful summer before our first-born came sailing into port from God's blue sea! You said I was beautiful then. And you were so tender and gracious in your strength. No other woman can ever be to you this first girl-mother." Her voice melted into a sob. She tried to go on and bit her swollen lips. Then she rose quietly, and walked to the window and looked down at the city below, whose roar had drowned the music of her life. He sat silent, waiting for her to regain her strength. He knew that he had the power of hypnotic suggestion over her in his iron will, and that she was beginning to recognise the inevitable. She turned and faced him again, the hungry fires in her eyes burning with mystic radiance. A tiny stream of blood ran down from her lip and stood in the dimple of her chin. She drew a delicate lace handkerchief from her bosom and wiped the blood away until it ceased to flow. And then in low accents she said: "You are going to leave me, my love. I feel the cold chill on my heart. It is God's will; I bow to it. One look into your dear eyes, one last embrace, one farewell kiss, and you will be gone. A little gift I will make you in this, the saddest, lowliest hour my soul has ever known. This handkerchief, stained with blood from lips you have kissed so tenderly in the past--that bled to-day because I tried to keep back the cries of a broken heart. I ask that you keep this as a token of my love." She handed it to him and Gordon placed it in his pocket with a sigh, brushing a tear from his own eyes. CHAPTER XIV THE VOICE OF THE SIREN Gordon left the house with a lingering look at Ruth's window and turned his face toward Gramercy Park, where another woman was waiting for his footstep. He had suffered intensely in the scene with his wife. He did not believe it possible that she retained such power over him. He drew a deep breath of relief that it was over. Her pride would come to the rescue; for he knew that with her tenderness she combined strength, and with her delicacy, supreme energy. The exaltation of his great victory of yesterday welled within him and drowned the sense of pain. It had been the most momentous day of his life. Visions of his Temple with gorgeous dome of gold--rising in the sky from its pile of gleaming marble rose before his fancy. He could hear the peal of the grand organ, the swell of the chorus choir, and the response from five thousand eager faces before him. He was speaking with inspiration as never before. He was leading not a forlorn hope against overwhelming odds, but a triumphant host of free, godlike men and women to certain victory. He thought of the love that filled the heart of the woman to whom he was hurrying, that she should do this unheard of thing while yet breathing the breath of the capital of Mammon. And then there stole over him, as oil on slumbering fires, the memory of her kisses, the melting languor of her eyes, the odour of her hair, the fever of her creamy flesh, until his senses reeled as drunk with wine. A smile played about his lips; he quickened his pace, lifted his head high, his nostrils dilated wide; he looked dreamily over the housetops into the sky and saw only the face of a woman. He was in the grip of superhuman impulses. In the quickened throb of his heart and the rush of his blood was the sweep of subconscious forces of nature playing their role in the cosmic drama of all sentient life, laughing at man's laws, making and unmaking the history of races and worlds. He was justifying his desires now in his new-found Social philosophy, which he had studied closely since Overman's suggestion of its scope. He knew instinctively that between these elemental impulses and the Moral Law there was war. He would reconcile them by leading a revolution that should decree a new basis for the Moral Law itself. He would make these very subconscious forces the expression of the highest Moral Law. It suddenly flashed over him that this was the key to the paradox of life. He would be the prophet of the new era, and this beautiful woman his comrade in leadership in the Social Revolution it must bring. His face flushed with the new enthusiasm, and the glorious autumn day about him seemed one with his spirit. The sky was cloudless with fresh breezes sweeping over the seas from the south. When he stepped to the downtown platform his eye wandered up and down Twenty-third Street and Sixth Avenue and lingered on rivers of women, below. His own drama, his million-dollar gift, the enormous sensation it had made in the morning press, had not produced a ripple on this swirling tide of flesh. They crowded the windows filled with feathers and hats, elbowed and jostled one another on the pavements, pushed and squeezed and trampled each other's feet and skirts fighting for standing room around the Monday bargain counters, oblivious of the existence of the spiritual world, church, God, or devil. Again the ceaseless roar of the city, calm and fierce as the sea, one with its eternity of life, stunned him with its immensity and its indifference. He felt himself once more but an atom lost in the surging tides that beat on these stone pavements, worn by the surge of myriads dead and waiting for the throb of hosts unborn. What did they care? If he were to drop dead that moment, in the morning of his manhood, with the shout of victory on his lips, they would not lift an eye from their gaze on hat or ribbon to watch his funeral cortege trot to the cemetery. A brief obituary and he would be forgotten. "After all," he mused, "Nature will have her way about this old world and its destiny. Self-development is the first law of life, not self-effacement." His brow clouded for a moment as he recalled Kate's strange reserve and shrinking at his morning visit. Would she, womanlike, at the last moment contradict herself and withhold the full surrender of life? It was impossible, and yet he felt a vague fear. At any rate, he had burned the bridges behind. His way was clear. He would bring to bear every power he possessed to win her, and in the vanity of his powerful manhood he laughed with the certainty of victory. When he greeted Kate and bent to kiss her she drew back, blushed and firmly said: "No; we have had our moments of madness." And the man smiled. "I mean it," she said, shaking her head. "You will change your mind. It's a woman's way. Those moments of bliss, so intense it was pain, when our souls and bodies met in a kiss, have made a new world for you and me." "But we will keep ourselves pure and unspotted," she answered slowly. "All night I fought this battle alone. Our love is a hopeless tragedy." "It shall not be so for you, my shining one." "There are others," she said, nervously clasping her hands, "whose lives are linked with ours. The face of your wife I saw last night will forever haunt me with its pathos. I've seen your children once--so like you, and yet so like her." "Even so. Life has no meaning now except that you are mine and I am yours." "But may you not be mine in a nobler way than the cheap surrender to our senses? We can love and suffer and wait. You love me. It is enough." "But, Kate, my dear, there can be no middle course between right and wrong, a lie and the truth." She fixed on him an intense look. "Have you told her?" "Yes, and we have separated as man and wife. She leaves for Florida for the winter. She has agreed at my request to secure a divorce, and you and I will marry under the new forms of Social freedom. Our union will be a prophecy of the revolution that shall redeem society." "You are doing a great wrong," she protested, her full red lips drawn with pain. "When I think of your wife and children, of her tears and reproaches, I am sick with fear." "Perfect love will cast out fear. The world is large. The soul is large. Lift up your head and be yourself. You said to me in this room once you were not afraid." "Yes; I had not kissed you then, or felt the bliss and agony of your strong arms about me. Now, I am afraid of you"--her voice sank to a tense whisper--"and I am afraid of myself!" He seized her hand. "You will take the risk. You are cast in such a mould," he said, with ringing assurance. "You are the chosen one, my dauntless comrade in a holy crusade. We will call womanhood from enslavement to form, ceremony and tradition, in which the brute nature of man has bound her, out and up into her larger self, the mate and equal of man." She shook her head, and her hair began to fall in waving ringlets about her forehead, temples and neck. "I am afraid. I cannot permit this sacrifice on your part. You must break with society, your friends, your father, your past, your wife and children. I must brave the sneers of gossip and the tongue of slander. It will destroy your work and end your career." "It will give it grander scope. Back of the dead forms of the age, the living heart of a new life is beating. It will burst its bounds as surely as the dead limbs in that park will in spring put on their shimmering satin which Nature is now weaving in her mills beneath the sod. You and I will open the doors of the soul and body to a new and wider life. And, after all, the body is the soul. I know it as I drink the madness of your beauty." "I do not fear the world so much, I shrink from striking a woman a mortal blow. I know what it is to love now," she insisted sadly. "Ruth and I have grown out of each other's life. Besides, you do not know her. Beneath her little form are caged powers you have not guessed," he replied, with a curious smile. "I groan and bellow in pain until you can hear me a mile. It is my way. She can take her place on the cold slab of a surgeon's table, feel the crash of steel through nerve and muscle and artery without a groan. I might rave, commit suicide or murder in a tempest of passion, but mark my word, she will lift her lithe figure erect and, with soft, even footstep, go her way." He said this with a ring of tender pride, as though she were his child about whom he was boasting. "I believe you love her still," Kate said, flushing with a look of surprise. "You know her love could not live in the fires with which my eyes are consuming you," he said with intensity. She lowered her gaze and glanced uneasily about as though afraid of him. "Must the strength of manhood be forever throttled by the impulses and mistakes of youth? Great changes in society are impending. You have felt it. The whole world is trembling at their coming. Changes in the forms of marriage must come that shall give scope for our highest development. I ask you to enter with me into this new world as a comrade pioneer and priestess. We will enter into a marriage so free, so spontaneous no chains shall gall it; and yet in the breadth of its freedom so sweet, so strong, so harmonious it will be a sublime revelation to the world." "And you think me fit for such priesthood?" she asked. "There are hidden fires beneath this form you deem so fair. I have never known restraint except in the willing slavery of your love. You do not know me--I warn you. I did not know myself until I felt the mad rush of blood from my heart in your arms yesterday. I am afraid of this woman I met for the first time in the wild joy of your kiss." "I'm not afraid of you," he laughed, springing to his feet and striding toward her. She trembled at his approach, but did not protest except with a helpless look in her violet eyes. He stood for a moment towering over her, his feet braced apart, his big hands fiercely locked, his wide chest heaving with the exultant joy of the mastery of her life, his steel-gray eyes sparkling with the insolence of strength. "We were born for one another," he said, in low, burning tones. "It was for me you were waiting. Lo! I am here, and you are mine. In you I have seen the ideal that haunts every full-grown man's soul, of comradeship in every work, sympathy with every hope, the glory of a perfect body, and perfect faith with perfect freedom." "And you see all this in me?" she asked earnestly. "Yes. You are my affinity, nerve answering nerve, thought echoing thought. In our union I see a love so strong, of such utter surrender, of such devotion of intellect, such mystic enthusiasm and physical joy, its waves must break in ecstasy on our souls forever." She arose with a sigh, looked appealingly at him, and her lips mechanically said: "It is wrong." But the man saw the flash of unutterable love in her eyes and the tender smile about her full lips; and laughing aloud, he took her deliberately in his arms. He kissed a tear from her lashes. A tremor shook her splendid form, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, slipped her arms around his neck and sighed: "My darling!" CHAPTER XV GOEST THOU TO SEE A WOMAN? Again Gordon was seated in Overman's library and his single eye was asking some uncomfortable questions. "I sent for you, Frank, because I discovered by accident, in the office of a newspaper of which I am a stockholder, that some curious things are going on between you and a young woman of your congregation. I put two and two together, and I've guessed the secret of your Temple. There's more behind all this than religious enthusiasm. That gift was not laid on God's altar, but on the altar of one of his little images here below. Out with it. You can't fool me." "Well, your guess is correct. She gave the money. I love her and she loves me. Ruth will go South for the winter, and we have separated. A divorce will be obtained in due time, and I will marry Miss Ransom under the new forms of Social Freedom, and you will be my best man." "Not on your life," Overman slowly growled, bringing his enormous jaws together and twisting the muscles of his mouth upward as though he smelled something. "Can't stand the rustle of a woman's dress?" "Oh, I might survive. You know they say the only really happy people at a wedding are the old bachelors." "Then why not?" "I draw the line at the progressive harem idea." "And a bachelor?" Gordon sneered. Overman nodded. "Many things may be forgiven sinners, but a bishop must be the husband of one wife." "I'm not a bishop. I'm a man. I ask no quarter of my enemies." "You have but one enemy. You can see him in the mirror any time." "It's funny to hear you preach!" The banker bent forward. "Frank, you're joking. You don't mean to tell me that your Socialist poppy plant has borne its opium fruit so soon? That you are going to desert that charming little woman, shy, timid and tremulous, with her great soulful eyes, the bride of your youth, the mother of your babes, and take up with another woman, just as any ordinary cur has done now and then for the past four thousand years?" Gordon winced. "No. I am going to form a union with this beautiful woman which shall be a prophecy and a propaganda of the freedom of the race, when comrade life shall forget the ancient fears, each shall be free to find and love his own, love be loosed from tragedy, doubt or moan, each life be its own, original and masterful, each man a god, arrayed and beautiful!" Overman laughed softly. "So fine as that? You're great on the frills. You have dressed it up nicely. But when two of your man-gods, arrayed and beautiful, get their eyes, set on the same woman-god, still more beautiful, arrayed or unarrayed, you'll hear the rattle of the police wagon in the streets of Heaven, with the ambulance close behind." The banker grinned and fixed his eye on his friend with a quizzical look. "Don't be a monkey," Gordon scowled. "Why not? You propose to go back to forest life." "I propose to make human society a vast brotherhood," the preacher cried, with a wave of his arm. "Well, don't forget that Cain killed his brother Abel for less than a woman's smile." "Society is lost unless some great upheaval shall clear the rubbish and we build new foundations on truth and fellowship and freedom." Overman put his hand on Gordon's knee. "Frank, I'm a godless, crusty bachelor, but I read history. Destroy the integrity of the family and the salt of the earth is lost. The whole thing will rot." "But I propose to purify and glorify the home its life by building it on love." "Your dream's a fake and its world peopled with fools." "Love must conquer all," the dreamer insisted. "And to do it, Frank, it must begin at home. You are blinded by a woman's beauty." "No; I love her with the one master passion of manhood. Such love is itself the highest expression of life." "Confound you," snapped Overman, "love as many women as you please, but don't desert your wife and children. It's too vulgar. I'm ashamed of you." "I will not live a lie," Gordon said, with emphasis. "Strange madness. I urge you to tell a tiny little polite lie and save your wife and children. You're too good to lie, so you kill your wife, proclaim an insane crusade of lust, and call it a religion!" "We can't control the beat of our hearts," was the dreamy reply. "No, you can't; but you can control the stroke of your big, blue-veined fist! You have struck the mother of your children with your brute claws. It's a mean, low thing to do, call it by as many high names as you please. Love as many women as you like, but for decency's sake--can't you honour your wife with a polite lie?" "It's not in me to lie, or to love but one woman." The banker's massive shoulders went up and his bushy brows lifted. "You'll end with a dozen, and it's such a stupid old story. You think the performance an original drama in which you are playing a star role. It's as old as the brute beneath the skin of your big hairy hand. Alexander could conquer the world, but he died in drunken revelry with a worthless woman. Caesar and Mark Antony forgot the Roman Empire for the smile of Cleopatra. Frederick the Great became a puppet in the hands of a ballet dancer. She spoke and he obeyed. Conde, in the meridian of his splendid manhood, the pride and glory of France, sacrificed his family, his fortune and his friends for an adventuress, who murdered him. Charles Stewart Parnell, the uncrowned king of Ireland, forgot his people and stumbled into death and oblivion over the form of a woman. The hills and valleys of the centuries are white with the bones of these fools." "There was never a case just like mine." "So every fool thought." "But you have not seen this woman. You do not know her," Gordon protested, hotly. "No; and I don't want to know her. 'Goest thou to see a woman? Take thy whip!' Women, savages and children are inferior and immature forms of evolution. But they are going to prove more than a match for you, my boy." "Yes; I've heard you talk such rubbish before," Gordon replied, dreamily. "Mark, I'm sorry for the poverty of your life. The man who has not loved is not a man. He is a monstrosity out of touch of sympathy with the race. You cannot understand me when I tell you that our love is so pure, so wonderful, so perfect, it is its own defense." "Indeed! Which love? For Ruth or Kate? Frank, I marvel at the childlike simplicity of your folly and your mental antics to justify it. It's enough to make that cat laugh that broke up your sermon." "We are going to bear in our union and life the flaming standard of a revolution that will yet redeem society." "I admire your ingenuity. Just a plain rooster-fighting sinner like me would never have thought of making his sin a holy religion. You haven't studied theology for nothing. I'll bet you could argue the devil or the Archangel Michael to a standstill on any proposition you'd set your heart on." The preacher smiled. "I never saw my course with greater clearness." "Yes; but a nail in the pilot-house will draw the needle and drive the mightiest ocean greyhound on the rocks with the captain at the wheel dead sure of his course." "Mark, it's utterly useless to talk. You and I are miles apart at our starting-point and we get farther with every step. You look at it from the vulgar point of view of the world. What I am doing is a great act of the soul, a breaking of bonds and chains. You see only the body. I am going to lead a crusade that shall so purify and exalt the body that it shall become one with the soul. The freedom of man can only be attained in unfettered fellowship, and this beautiful woman will be with me a comrade priestess to teach the world this sublime truth." "And will you be the only priest with her in the Temple of Humanity?" asked the banker, quizzically. Gordon laughed with insolent assurance. "In her eyes, yes." "But other men have eyes." "Their gaze will not disturb the serenity of our love, because it will be built on oneness of ideal, hope, faith, taste and work." "And yet dark hair loves the blond, and blue eyes hunger for the brown. It's an old trick Nature has played before, Frank." "Well, we are going to show you a miracle, and you are coming with us by and by and be a deacon in this Church of the Son of Man." Overman drew his straight bushy brow down over his one eye until it looked like the gleam of a lighthouse through the woods, turned his head sideways, peered at his friend and growled: "Well, you are a fool!" "I have faith that will remove mountains." "You'll need it. I've been waiting for a church in New York broad enough to invite the devil to join. I'll come when it's ready." "Good. We'll give you a welcome." Overman grunted, and gazed into the fire with his single eye, frowning and twisting the muscles of his mouth into a sneer. CHAPTER XVI THE PARTING The night before the day Gordon had fixed for their final parting Ruth slept but little. The task of gathering his things scattered about the house was harder than she had hoped. Over each little trinket that spoke its message of the tender intimacy of married life she had lingered and cried. She wished to keep everything. At last she placed the clothes in his trunk, his collars, cuffs, cravats and such odds and ends as he would need at once, and the rest she packed away carefully in bureau drawers and locked them up. His slippers and dressing-gowns she knew he would want, but she made up her mind she would keep them. The slippers were an old-fashioned pattern with quaint Spanish embroidery worked around the edges. She had made the first pair before they were married, with her girl's heart fluttering with new-found happiness. She had allowed him no other kind since their marriage. This bit of sentiment she had guarded even in the darkest days of the past year's estrangement. She had worked each pair with her own hand. His dressing-gowns, in which he often studied at home in her room late on Saturday nights, she had always made for him, changing their designs from time to time as her fancy had led her. Around these two articles of his wardrobe her very heart-strings seemed woven. She placed them in his trunk once, telling herself through her tears: "He may think of me when he sees them." Then the lightning flashed across the clouds in her eyes. "She might touch them! Let her make them for him after her own devil's fancy!" She took them out, kissed them and packed them away. His picture she took down carefully from the walls, his photographs from her mantel and bureau and dresser. The life-sized one she locked in a closet and packed the others with his belongings she meant to keep. On a wedding certificate, set in a quaint old gold frame, she looked long and tenderly. She took it down from its place over her bureau, where it had hung for years, and brushed the dust from the back. On its broad white margins he had written a poem to her on the birth of their first baby. He had sent her yards of rhymes during their courtship, but this was a poem. Every line was wet with his tears, and every thought throbbed with the sweetest music of his soul wrought to its highest tension of feeling. She read it over and over again and cried as though her heart would break as a thousand tender memories came stealing back from their early married life. "Oh, dear God!" she sobbed. "How could he have felt that--and he did feel it--and now desert me!" She sat for an hour with this framed emblem of her happiness and her sorrow in her hands, dreaming of their past. She was a girl again in old Hampton, Virginia, her heart all a-quiver over a ball at the Hygeia, where she was to meet a guest, a distinguished young preacher resting for the summer just from his divinity course. He had seen her in the crowd at the hotel and begged a friend to introduce him. She was going to meet him in the parlours, dressed in the splendour of her ballroom dress that night, and conquer this handsome young giant. And from the moment they met, she was the conquered, and he the conqueror. The incense of their honeymoon in a village of southern Indiana during his first pastorate, when the wonder of love made storm days bright with splendour and clothed in beauty the meanest clod of earth, stole over her soul--each memory added to her pain, and yet they were sweet. She hugged them to her heart. "They are all mine at least!" she sighed. "And I am glad I have lived them." At two o'clock she went into the nursery and looked at the sleeping children. She bent over the cradle of the boy. He was dreaming, and a smile was playing about the corners of his lips. He was so like Gordon, with his little mouth twitching in dreamy laughter, she fell on her knees, and buried her face in her delicate tapering hands, crying: "How can I bear it!" She placed her arms on the rail of the cradle and gazed at him tenderly. "Lord, keep him clean and pure, and whatever he may do in life, may he never break a woman's heart!" she softly prayed. Into her first-born's face she looked long and in silence. How like her, and how like him, and how marvelous the miracle of this union of flesh and blood and spirit in a living soul! Lucy was growing more like her every day. She could see and hear herself in her ways and voice, until she would laugh aloud sometimes at the memory of her own childhood. And yet to see her very self growing into the startling image of her lover who was deserting her cut anew with stinging power. Again she was softly praying: "Dear Lord, whatever shall come to her, poverty or riches, joy or pain, honour or shame, sunshine or shadow, save her from this. My feet will climb this Calvary, and my lips drink its gall, but may the cup pass from her!" After a few hours of fitful sleep, she rose and looked out her window on another radiant November morning. So clear was the sky she could see the flag-staffs of the great downtown buildings and back of them in the distant bay the pennant masts of ships at anchor. The trees in Central Park seemed to glow with the splendour of the dying autumn's sun. The glory of the day mocked her sorrow. "What does Nature care?" she sighed. "And yet who knows, it may be a token! I must bravely play my part and leave the rest with God." Watching at the window she saw Gordon coming, his broad feet measuring a giant's stride, his wide shoulders and magnificent head high with unconscious strength. She wondered if he would stop in the parlour as a visitor or come to her room as was his custom, and a sharp pain cut her with the thought of their changed relationship. He stopped in the hall, asked the maid to send the children down at once, and stepped into the parlour. He felt a strange embarrassment in his own home. This house he had bought for Ruth soon after their arrival in New York. It had just been built in the wide-open space of the cliffs on Washington Heights. The Pilgrim Church's members were long since scattered over every quarter of the city, and, by arranging his study in the church, he was able to have his home so far removed from the noise of the downtown district. He had thus fulfilled Ruth's passionate desire for a home of her own within their moderate means. He recalled now with tender melancholy how happy they had been decorating this little nest, and how far from his wildest dream had been such an ending of it all. But he had come with important news, and he hoped her pain would be softened by its announcement. The children entered with shouts of delight. First one would hug him, and then the other, and then both would try at the same time. Lucy put her hands on his smooth ruddy cheeks and kissed his lips and eyes with the quaintest imitation of her mother's trick of gesture. "Where have you been, Papa? We thought you were never coming? Mama said you were gone for a trip and would come to-day, but"--her voice sank--"she's been crying, and crying, and we don't know what's the matter. I'm so glad you've come." "Well, you and brother run upstairs to play and tell her Papa wishes to see her." The children left and Ruth came down at once. As she entered the room, he was struck by the change in her face and manner. She seemed transfigured by a strange, spiritual elation. She was gracious, natural and friendly. The anxiety had passed from her face, and the storm in her dark eyes seemed stilled by a steady radiance from the soul. "I'm glad to see you looking better, Ruth," he said, with feeling. "Yes, I have a new standard now of measuring life, its pain and its joy. The soul can only pass once through such a moment as that I lived, prostrate on the floor at your feet last Monday. I have looked Death in the face. I am no longer afraid." "I am very, very sorry to give you such pain. I did not think you cared so deeply," he said, gently. "Yes, I know I have seemed indifferent and resentful for the past year. I thought you would come back to your old self by and by. In my poor proud soul I thought I was punishing you. How little, dear, I dreamed of this! The thought of really losing you never once entered my heart. It was unthinkable. I do not believe it yet. Such love as ours, such tenderness and devotion as you gave to me once, the delirium of love's joy that found itself in my motherhood and wrought itself in the forms of our babies--no, Frank, it cannot die, unless God dies! And I shall not lose you at last, unless God forgets me, and He will not." Her face, even through her tears, was illumined by an assurance so strong, so prophetic, the man was startled. "I need not tell you, Ruth, that I desire your happiness. And, strange as it may seem to you, Miss Ransom regards you with tenderness." The dark eyes flashed a gleam of lightning from their depths. "Thanks. I can live without her maudlin pity." "You misjudge her," he cried, raising his hand. "Perhaps; but I'll ask you, Frank, not to dishonour me, or this little home you were once good enough to give to me, by mentioning that woman's name within its doors again." The sensitive mouth closed with an emphasis he could not mistake. "But I am the bearer from her to-day of a token of her regard. She has determined to turn over to you as quickly as possible a half-million dollars of her remaining fortune." Ruth sprang to her feet, her face scarlet, her breast heaving, her lithe figure erect and trembling. "And you dare bring this message to me? This offer to sell my husband and my love!" "Come, come, Ruth, a woman has no need to sacrifice a great fortune in New York for a husband. They are cheaper than that." "They do seem cheap," she answered, bitterly. "You should have common sense. The spirit of sacrifice in this great gift to you and the children is too deep and honest to be met with a sneer. It is my desire and hers that you shall be forever beyond want." Ruth's face softened and a tender smile lit it once more. "Frank, my darling, you cannot think me so base? You know there is not a drop of mean blood in me. Can gold pay for my heart's desire? The price for my beloved? Pile the earth with diamonds to the stars, I'd hold it trash for the touch of your hand!" The man moved nervously. "You must have some sense, Ruth. Surely, I'm not worth all this if I leave you so. You must take this money." She moved closer to him and held up her delicate hands, with the sunlight gleaming through the red blood of her tapering fingers. "You see these hands? They have only known the gentle tasks of love. Well, I'll scrub, sew and wash the clothes of working-men before one dollar of her gold shall stain them!" "You cannot be so foolish," he protested, impatiently. "Besides, she has given me this money to give to you." "Ah, my love," she went on, as though she had not heard his last words, "if you were frankly evil as other men, I might bear this shame with better grace. Others before me, as good as I, have borne its burden. But when I think that you are making your sin a religion, and that you are going to preach with the zeal of a prophet this gospel of the brute and call it freedom, how can I bear it?" They were both silent for a moment. "Let us change this disgusting subject, Frank," she said at length. "I wish you to leave with something kindlier to remember in my face than this shadow. You see, I have taken your pictures all down and locked them up. I have placed your clothes, all I could spare, in your trunk--for even these little things to me are heart treasures now. I could not let you take the slippers I have made for you with my own hands, or your dressing-gowns. That woman shall never touch them. The marriage certificate, with the little poem written to me on the birth of Lucy, I've packed up, too, with your pictures. I've put them away, because, just now, it would break my heart to look at them after this parting with you. When I come back from the South I will be stronger, and I will bring them out again. Your ring is mine until God's hand shall take it. I'll teach our babies always to love you." Her voice broke, and he looked away. "I will tell them that you have gone on a long journey into a strange country, and that you will come back again because you love them." He stirred uneasily in his chair, crossed his legs and frowned. "And I wish you to leave me to-day with the certainty--you can read it in my eyes, if you doubt my lips--that I will love you to the end, though you kill me. You can go on no journey so long, in no world so strange, that I shall not follow. My soul will envelop you. For better, for worse, through evil report and good report, I am yours." Again a convulsive sob shook her, and she was silent. Gordon felt an almost resistless impulse to take her in his arms and kiss and soothe her. Through her tears she smiled at him. "How beautiful you are, my dear! You will not forget that I love you? The spring, the summer, the autumn, the winter will only bring to me messages from our past. The way will be lonely, but the memory of the touch of your hand, our hours of perfect peace and trustfulness, the sweetness of your kisses on my lips, the living pictures of your face in our children, I will cherish." He stooped to kiss her as he left, but she drew back trembling. "No, Frank, not while your lips are warm with the touch of another and your flesh on fire with desire for her. It will be sweet to remember that you wished it--for I know, what you do not, that deep down in your soul of souls you love me. I will abide God's time." He left her with a smile playing around her sensitive mouth and lighting the shadows of her great dark eyes. CHAPTER XVII THE THOUGHT THAT SWEEPS THE CENTURY On the Saturday following Gordon's drama with Kate and his wife, his dream of secrecy was rudely shattered. Van Meter's ferret eyes, by the aid of his detectives, had fathomed the mystery of Kate Ransom's appearance in the study and her more mysterious disappearance. They found that Gordon had separated from his wife, after a terrific scene; that he was a daily visitor to the Ransom house; and that his great patron was none other than the young mistress of the Gramercy Park mansion. All day long he was beseiged by reporters. Ruth was compelled to hire a man to stand on the doorstep to keep them out. The Ransom house was barred, but Gordon could not escape. He saw at once that they knew so much it was useless to make denials, and he prepared a statement for the press, giving the facts and his plans for the future in a ringing address. He submitted it to Kate for her approval, and at three o'clock gave it out for publication. Their love secret had not been fathomed, but it had been guessed. He feared the reports would be so written that it would be read between the lines and a great deal more implied. His revolutionary views on marriage and divorce and the fact that he was from Indiana, a state that had granted the year before nearly five thousand divorces, one for every five marriages celebrated,--were made the subject of special treatment by one paper. They submitted to him proofs of a six-column article on the subject, and asked for his comments. He was compelled to either deny or repeat his utterances advocating freedom of divorce, and finally was badgered into admitting that this feature was one of the fundamental tenets of Socialism. He was not ready for the full public avowal of this principle, but he was driven to the wall and was forced to own it or lie. He boldly gave his position, and declared that marriage was a fetish, and that its basis on a union for life without regard to the feelings of the parties was a fountain of corruption, and was the source of the monopolistic instincts that now cursed the human race. "Yes, and you can say," he cried, "that I propose to lead a crusade for the emancipation of women from the degradation of its slavery. Love bound by chains is not love. Love can only be a reality in Freedom and Fellowship." This single sentence had changed the colouring of the whole story as it appeared in the press on Sunday morning, and was the key to the tremendous sensation it produced. The next day long before the hour of service the street in front of the Pilgrim Church was packed with a dense crowd. The police could scarcely clear the way for the members' entrance. Within ten minutes from the time the large doors were opened every seat was filled and hundreds stood on the pavements outside, waiting developments, unable to gain admission. So many statements had been made, and so many vicious insinuations hinted, Gordon was compelled to lay aside his sermon and devote the entire hour to a defense of his position. The crowd listened in breathless stillness, but he knew from the first he had lost their sympathies and that he was on trial. Unable to tell the whole truth, his address was as lame and ineffective as his outburst the Sunday before had been resistless. When he dismissed the crowd he noticed that some of his warmest friends were crying. As he came down from the pulpit, Ludlow took him by the hand and, with trembling voice, said: "Pastor, you know how I love you?" What he did not say was more eloquent than a thousand words, and it cut Gordon to his inmost soul. He knew his failure had been pathetic, and that his enemies were laughing over the certainty of his ruin. It angered him for a moment as he looked over the silent crowd filing out of his presence and out of his life. He cursed their stolid conservatism. "The average man does not aspire to liberty of thought," he mused with bitterness, "but slavery of thought. The mob must have its fixed formulas easy to read, requiring no thought. Well, let them go." Suddenly a confused murmur, with loud voices mingled, came through the doors of the vestibules. The exits were blocked, and the moving crowd halted and recoiled on itself as if hurled back by the charge of an opposing army, and a cheer echoed over their heads. The people inside, who had been halted, stretched their necks to see over the heads of those in front, crying: "What is it?" "What's the matter?" "It sounds like a riot," some one answered near doors. Gordon wedged himself through the mass that had been thrown back on the advancing stream and reached the doorway. He was astonished to find packed in the street more than five thousand men, evidently working-men and Socialists. They had been quick to recognise his position in the vigorous statement he had given to the press. When Gordon's giant figure appeared between the two opposing forces a wild cheer rent the air. A Socialist leaped on the steps beside him and, lifting his hat above his head, cried: "Now again, men, three times three for a dauntless leader, a free man in the image of God, who dares to think and speak the truth!" Three times the storm rolled over the sea of faces, and every hat was in the air. Gordon lifted his big hand and the tumult hushed. "My friends, I thank you for this mark of your fellowship. At the old Grand Opera House, next Sunday morning, the seats will be yours. You will get a comrade's welcome. I will have something to say to you that may be worth your while to hear." The crowd, who had never seen or heard him, were impressed by his magnificent presence and his trumpet voice. They liked its clear ringing tones and its consciousness of power. The unexpected demonstration restored his self-respect and blotted out the aching sense of failure. His few words were greeted with tumultuous applause, renewed again and again. The air was charged with the electric thrill of their enthusiasm. Gordon looked over the seething mass of excited men with exultant response. He flushed and his big fists involuntarily closed. He had felt in his face the breath of the spirit that is driving the century before it. CHAPTER XVIII A VOICE FROM THE PAST From a college town in Indiana the aged father, William Gordon, Professor Emeritus of History and Belles Lettres, hurried to New York to see his son. When he read the Sunday morning papers, which reached him about three o'clock, he pooh-poohed the wild reports the Associated Press had sent out from New York announcing the separation from Ruth and linking his son's name in vulgar insinuations with another woman. He hastened to find the telegraph operator, and got him to open the office. He sent a long telegram to Frank, urging on him the importance of correcting these slanderous reports immediately. He walked about the town to see his friends and explain to them. "It's all a base slander," he said, drawing himself up proudly. "My son's success has been so phenomenal, he has made bitter enemies. The press has published these lies out of malice. His popularity is the cause of it. I have wired him. He will correct it immediately." But when he failed to receive a denial, and the Monday's press confirmed the facts with embellishments, he quietly left home and hastened to New York. He was a man of striking personality, a little taller than his distinguished son, six feet four and a half inches in height. Now, in his eighty-fifth year, he still walked with quick, nervous step, and held himself erect with military bearing. His face was smooth and ruddy, and his voice, in contrast with his enormous body, was keen and penetrating. When he rose in a church assembly his commanding figure, with its high nervous voice, caught every eye and ear and held them to the last word. He was the most popular man that had ever occupied a chair in the faculty of Wabash College. He taught his classes regularly until he was eighty years old, and when he quit his active work he was still the youngest man in spirit in the institution. He read with avidity every new book on serious themes, and he was not only the best read man in the college town--he was the best informed man on history and philosophy in the state, if not in the entire West. He had the gift of sympathy with the mind of youth that fascinated every boy who came in contact with him. His genial and beautiful manners, his high sense of honour, the knightly deference he paid his students, his enthusiasm in the pursuit of knowledge, his quenchless thirst for truth, were to them a source of boundless admiration and loyalty. The one supreme passion of his age was love for his handsome son and pride in his achievements. He had married late in life, and Frank's mother had died in giving him birth. The tragedy had crushed him for a year and he went abroad, leaving the child with a nurse. But on his return he gave to the laughing baby, with the blond curling hair of his mother, all the tenderness of his love for the dead, and his sorrow tinged his whole after life with sweetness and romance. The only evidence of advancing age was his absentmindedness from boylike brooding over the days of his courtship and marriage and his day dreams about his long-lost love. He recognised it at once and laid down his class work. Gordon met him at the Grand Central Depot with keenest dread and embarrassment. Hurrying out of the crowd, they boarded a downtown car on Fourth Avenue. The old man glanced uneasily about and said: "Son, isn't this car going down the avenue?" "Yes, father. We are going to my hotel." "Hotel? I don't want to go to a hotel. I want to go to your house. I want to see Ruth and the children at once." "We'll go to my study at the church first, then, and I'll explain to you." The old man's brow wrinkled, and he pressed his lips tightly together to keep them from trembling. Gordon was glad he had not yet given orders for the removal of his study, and when they entered he drew the lid of his roll-top desk down quickly, that his father might not see Kate's picture where he had once seen Ruth's. "Of course, my boy," the old man began, "I know there is some terrible mistake about this. I told my friends so at the College. But I couldn't wait for a letter, and I couldn't somehow understand your telegram. I'm getting a little old now, so I hurried on to see you. I'm sure if you and Ruth have quarreled you can make up and begin over again. Lovers' quarrels are not so serious." "No, father, our separation is final." The old man raised his hand in protest. "Nonsense, boy, you have an iron will and Ruth a fiery temper, but a more lovable and beautiful spirit was never born than your wife. I was so proud of her when you brought her home! Of all the women in the world, I felt she was The One Woman God had meant for the mother of your children. In every way, mentally and physically, she is your complement and mate. Your differences only make the needed contrast for perfect happiness." "But we have drifted hopelessly apart, father," "My son, the man and woman whom God hath made one in the beat of a child's heart cannot get hopelessly apart. It's a physical and moral impossibility. Do you mean to tell me that if your mother had lived after your birth, and we had bowed together over your cradle, height or depth, things past, present or to come, or any other creature, could have torn us asunder? You must make up this foolish quarrel. You must be patient with her little jealousies. It's natural she should feel them when you are the centre of so many flattering eyes." Gordon saw it was useless to avoid the heart of the difficulty. So with all the earnestness and eloquence he could command he told his father the history of Kate Ransom's work in the church, the growth of their love, the drifting apart from Ruth, and the final dramatic climax of the day that she gave the money to build the Temple. The old man with fine courtesy listened attentively, now and then brushing away a tear, and sighing. "And so, father," he concluded, "a divorce is the only possible end of it all." "And what has Ruth to say?" he asked, pathetically. "She has accepted the situation, and at my request will bring the suit." "And you will marry this other woman while Ruth lives?" "Yes, father, and our union will be a prophecy of a redeemed society in which love, fellowship, Comradeship and brotherhood shall become the laws of life." The old man's brow wrinkled in pain. "But the family at which you aim this blow, my son, is the basis of all law, state, national, and international. It is the unit of society, the basis of civilisation itself. To destroy it is to return to the beast of the field." "It must be modified in the evolution of human freedom, father." "But, my son, it is the law of the Lord, and the law of the Lord is perfect!" the old man cried, with his voice quivering with anguish and yet in it the triumphant ring of the prophet and seer. "Yes, father, your view of the law," the younger man quietly answered. "My boy, since man has written the story of his life, saint and seer, statesman and chieftain, philosopher and poet have all agreed on this. There can be nothing more certain than that my view is true." "Just as men have agreed on delusions and traditions in theology, but you now see as clearly as I how foolish many of these things are." "But, my son, new theology or old theology, Bible or no Bible, Heaven or no Heaven, Hell or no Hell, God or no God, it is right to do right!" Again his high nervous voice rang like a silver trumpet. "I am trying to do right." "Yet greater wrong than this can no man do on earth--lead, captivate the soul and body of a gracious and innocent girl, teach her the miracle of love in motherhood, and then desert her for a fairer and younger face." "But, father, I cannot live a lie." "Then you will cherish, honour, love and protect your wife until death; and the old marriage ceremony read, 'until death us depart.' Your vow is eternal and goes beyond the physical incident of death itself." "Yet how can I control the beat of my heart? We must go back to the reality of Nature and her eternal laws, in spite of illusions and theories," maintained the younger man. "Ah, my boy, these things you call illusions I call the great faiths of our fathers, the revelation of God. Call them what you will, even if we say they are illusions, they are blessed illusions. They are the steel bars behind which we have caged the crouching, blind and silent forces of nature, fierce, savage and cruel as death." His voice sank to a whisper, he leaned over and placed his trembling hand on Gordon's arm and added: "I once felt the impulse to kill a man. It was natural, elemental and all but overpowering. Remember that civilisation itself is impossible without tradition. I know that progress is made only by its modification in growth. But growth is not destruction, and progress is never backward to beast or savage. Marriage is not a mere convention between a man and a woman, subject to the whim of either party. It is a divine social ordinance on which the structure of human civilisation has been reared. It cannot be broken without two people's consent and the consent of society, and then only for great causes which have destroyed its meaning." "But I have begun to question, father, whether our civilisation is civilised and worth preserving?" "And would you civilise it by giving free rein to impulses of nature that are subconscious, that lead direct to the reign of lust and murder? Is not man more than brute? Has he not a soul? Is the spirit a delusion? Ah, my boy, do you doubt my love?" "I know that you love me." "Yes, with a love you cannot understand. You can touch no depths to which I will not follow with that love. But I'd rather a thousand times see you cold in death than hear from your lips the awful words you have spoken in this room here this morning with the face of Jesus looking down upon us from your walls." He seemed to sink into a stupor for several moments, and was silent as he gazed into the glowing grate. At length he said: "You must take me to your house. I will spend a few days with Ruth and the children." Gordon could not face the meeting between his father and Ruth. He accompanied him to the door and gently bade him good-by, promising to call the next day. A singularly beautiful love the old man had bestowed on Ruth, and she on him; for he was resistless to all the young. When he kissed her as Frank's bride he seemed to have first fully recovered his spirits from the shadows of his own tragedy. In her great soft eyes with the lashes mirrored in their depths, her dimpled chin and sensitive mouth, her refined and timid nature, the grace and delicacy of her footsteps, he saw come back into life his own lost love. Above all, he was fascinated by her spiritual charm, haunting and vivid. He had never tired of boasting of his son's charming little wife, and he loved her with a devotion as deep as that he gave his own flesh and blood. When she entered the room, in spite of his efforts at control, he burst into tears as he kissed her tenderly and slipped his arm softly around her. "Ruth, my sweet daughter!" he sobbed. "Father, dear!" "You must cheer up, my little one; I've come to help you." "You must not take it so hard, father. It will all come out for the best. God is not dead; He will not forget me. I'm a tiny mite in body, but you know I've a valiant soul. You must cheer up." She led him gently to a seat. "I'll bring the children now; they'll be wild with joy when I tell them grandfather is here." But at the sight of the children the old man broke completely down and sat with his great head sunk on his breast. He drew Ruth down and whispered: "Take them away, dear. It's too much. I--can't see them now." When she returned from the nursery, he said: "Come, Ruth, sit beside me and tell me about it, and I'll see my way clearer how to help you." She drew a stool beside his chair, leaned her head against his knee, took one of his hands in hers, and, while his other stroked her raven hair, she gently and without reproach told him all. When she had finished, his eyes were heavy with grief beyond the power of tears. "And my boy told you to--take--this--money, Ruth?" he slowly and sorrowfully asked. "Yes, father." "Do you know an honest lawyer, dear?" "Yes; an old friend of mine, Morris King." "Call him over your telephone immediately, and take me to your desk. My fortune is not large, as the world reckons wealth--perhaps fifty thousand dollars carefully saved during the past thirty years of frugal living. It shall be yours, my dear." "But, father, you must not take it from yourself in your age!" "Are you not my beloved daughter? And do not your babies call me grandfather? It's such a poor little thing I can do. I've enough in bank to last me to the journey's end, and I'll stay near to watch over you. I can have no other home now." The lawyer came within an hour, and the will was duly witnessed. He handed it to Ruth and she kissed and thanked him. He wandered about the house in a helpless sort of way for half an hour, sighing. His great shoulders for the first time in his long life lost their military bearing and drooped heavily. Ruth watched him pace slowly back and forth with his hands folded behind him, his head sunk in a stupor of dull pain, wondering what she could do or say to cheer him, when he suddenly stopped and sank into a heap on the floor. The doctor came and shook his head. "He may regain consciousness, Mrs. Gordon, but he cannot live." Ruth called the hotel and summoned Frank. He was out and did not get the message until five o'clock. When he reached the house, she was by the bedside. The old man was holding her hand and talking in a half-delirious way to his friends, explaining to them how impossible that these wild reports could be true about his son. Soon after Gordon came he regained consciousness. Taking him by the hand he said: "Well, my boy, my work is done. I have fought a good fight. I have kept the faith. I love you always. You will not forget--right or wrong, you are my heart's blood and your mother's, dearer to me than life. When I go from this lump of clay, if you will open my breast you will find an old man's broken heart, and across the rent your name will be written in the ragged edges. How handsome you are to-night! How fair a lad you were! Such face and form and high-strung soul, the heart of an ancient knight come back to earth, I used to boast! God's grace is wonderful, His ways past finding out. When we seem forsaken, He is but preparing larger blessings on some grander plan whose end we do not see. He is my shepherd; I shall not want. He leadeth me--I rest in Him." As the twilight wrapped the great city in its gray shadows, slowly deepening into night, he fell asleep. CHAPTER XIX THE WEDDING OF THE ANNUNCIATION At the end of a year from the death of Gordon's father the divorce was granted, and Ruth elected to retain her married name. The Temple of Man was rapidly rising. The building fronted three hundred feet on each cross street. Its great steel-ribbed dome, modeled on the capitol at Washington, was slowly climbing into the sky from the centre to dominate the architecture of the Metropolitan district. The success of Gordon's meetings in the old Grand Opera House had been enormous. Its four thousand seats were filled and every inch of standing-room the police would allow. The religious element in Socialism had found in him its high priest. His eloquence, his magnetism, his daring, his aggressive and radical instinct for leadership made him at once their idol. The prestige given him by the rapid building of his magnificent Temple in the heart of the wealth and splendour of the Metropolis, and the crush for admission by strangers who had read of him and his work, were adding daily to his power. His bold avowal of love for Kate Ransom, and his determination to win and marry her by a new ceremony of "announcement," which should challenge the forms of civilisation, had stilled the tongue of gossip and made him the hero of the sentimental. At the same time it had made him the object of bitter attack by the conservative forces of society, and the violence of these attacks daily added importance to his every act. His triumphant appeal to the masses against the classes was making him a master spirit of the modern mob that has humbled king, emperor and pope, at whose breath statesmen tremble, and at whose feet coward and sycophant of every cult cringe and fawn. With fierce enthusiasm he proclaimed, "Now is Eternity. To reach Heaven we must build a new earth, and lo! we are in Heaven." The response from sullen working-men who had hitherto held aloof from Socialism and its leaders was remarkable. With the fiery zeal of the pioneer of a religious movement he preached in season and out of season his new faith, and proselyted with success even among those who scoffed. He gave a new emphasis to the dogma of the Immanence of God, the charming Pantheism of which appealed to the childlike minds of the people. With mystic fervour he proclaimed the unity of life, and in all and over all and working through all--God! In bud and flower, in sun and storm, in dewdrop and star, in man and beast, in soul and body, the divine everywhere. As never before he glorified the body and its beauty as the incarnation of God, His veritable image. The advent of every child he hailed as great a miracle as the birth of the Babe of Bethlehem. Life itself became an ever-growing wonder, and existence an infinite joy. Gradually he began to ridicule the theology of "Sin." "Sin" he declared a figment of the human mind. The sin which is the wilful and persistent violation of known law he ignored. He proclaimed the advent of the Kingdom of Love universal, all embracing, all conquering. His marriage to Kate Ransom by the new ceremony he had devised commanded the attention of the world. Its romance, and the tragedy of a broken heart behind it, at once interested the average mind; and its social and religious challenge appealed to the thoughtful. It was announced to be a marriage without form or ceremony. It was celebrated on a Saturday evening, that his friends among the working-men might attend. It was early in May. The grass was green behind the high iron bars of Gramercy Park, and the trees were putting on their new satin robes. The air was warm with the sensuous languor of spring. The rain poured in torrents, but the Ransom mansion was a blaze of light, and a canopy with rubber roof stretched down the high brownstone steps across the sidewalk to the curbing. It was past the appointed time, the last carriage had long since snapped its silver lock beside the awning, and still the bride and groom tarried. The guests were assembled in the great parlours, and a band in the conservatory, from which floated the perfume of flowers in full bloom, was softly playing primitive love melodies, simple, tender and full of. mysterious beauty. Besides the personal friends of the bride, the. guests assembled were a remarkable group. A churchless clergyman who had become a Socialist, and whose church building was for sale, was on hand to make the "Announcement." A handsome poet, a disciple of William Morris and a man of international fame, was there. Socialists, Anarchists, Theosophists, Spiritualists, Buddhists, Communists, Single-Taxers, Walking Delegates, Presidents of Labour-Unions, editors of Radical papers, Ethical gymnasts, and lecturers mingled in the throng. Kate refused to allow Gordon to see or speak to her before her entrance. They had agreed to make no elaborate preparations. She was to prepare no traditional wedding trousseau. They were simply to stand by each other's side before their friends, greet them with the announcement of their love and unity of life, and receive their congratulations. When she at length summoned Gordon, he was amazed to see her arrayed in the most magnificent conventional bridal dress he had ever seen. A frown clouded his brow for an instant, and then melted into a smile as his eyes feasted on the barbaric splendour of her beauty. She stood silent and thoughtful, with her arms folded in front across the lines of her voluptuous form, her head poised high, erect as an arrow. Her mass of dark red hair rolled upward in a great curling wave from her face. From its crest a bunch of orange blossoms gleamed, clasping the filmy veil which fell, a white cascade, over the wilderness of delicate lace forming her train. She had turned half around, and this great train of shimmering stuff enveloped her feet and swept out in graceful curve into the room. The collar, which completely covered her rounded neck, was made of rows of linked opals, and a necklace of pearls rested on her beautiful breast, spreading out in heart shape, with a single strand encircling the neck. Her face was tragic in its seriousness. A new and charming melancholy shadowed her violet eyes, causing the heavy lashes to droop till their shadows showed on the creamy velvet of her cheek. Her mouth, with scarlet lips drawn close, was earnest and solemn as he had never seen it. With the regal bearing of a queen she looked at him thoughtfully without a word. She was giving him his first lesson in perfect freedom and perfect equality of will. She had changed her mind at the last moment and determined to be the bride her girlhood dreams had pictured. But the man saw only the ripened, luscious woman in the hour of supreme surrender, and gazed in rapture. So superb was her health, so rich and vital the splendid figure, no conventional art of bridal costumer could confine or conceal the glory of its beauty. "You see, my beloved," she said. "I am not going to promise to obey, so I have chosen with this old conceit to disobey your first expressed wish. Do you like me thus?" "You are glorious!" he answered, smiling. "And my father will give me away, and you will place a ring on my hand when you make your little speech, before I respond." He bowed gracefully. "As you will, my dear." He would have promised anything. As they entered the hall leading to the crowded parlours, the organ in the music-room suddenly burst into the strains of the Wedding March, and again she looked seriously into his face, and he laughed. "My beautiful rebel, I'll tame you in due time, never fear!" "And you're not angry?" "Angry? I am more madly in love than ever." And she flushed in triumph. When they had entered the room, the invalid father rose, pale and trembling, and, in accordance with Kate's wishes, declared: "My friends, I announce to you that I have given my daughter to be married unto this man." Gordon took her hot hand in his massive grasp and said: "We believe, friends, in fellowship. We have asked you to-night to share with us the sacrament of the unity of our lives which we thus announce. For years this unity has made us one. We thus make it manifest unto the world. In the woman I have chosen as my comrade, behold the living soul of serene-browed Grecian goddess and German seeress of old, whose untamed eyes of primeval womanhood, the equal and the mate of man, proclaim the end of slave-marriage and the dawn of perfect love." He placed the ring on her hand, and Kate responded: "This is the day and the hour that we have chosen to announce to you our union." The Socialist preacher said: "We are here to-day, called by a sacrament, not in the conventional sense, but in the elemental meaning of the word which reflects the mind and the being of the Eternal. Human life incarnates God. We are not met here to inaugurate a marriage. Words can add nothing to the sublime fact of the union of two souls. This is the supreme sacrament of human experience. It proclaims its inherent divinity. This oneness no more begins to-day than God does. Time loses its meaning, but there is no yesterday or to-morrow in the harmony and rhythm of two such souls. Love holds all the years that have been and are to be. "This is a day of joy--overflowing, unsullied, serene, a day of hope, a day of faith. It is a day of courage and of cheer, and to the world it speaks a gospel of freedom and fellowship. It proclaims the dawn of a higher life for all, the sanctity and omnipotence of love. It asserts the elemental rights of man. These friends of ours announce to-day their marriage. "Inasmuch as Frank Gordon and Kate Ransom are thus united in love, I announce that they are husband and wife by every law of right and truth, and pray for them the abiding gladness that dwells in the heart of God forever." Kate's mother kissed her and cried in the old-fashioned way, and they sailed next day for a bridal tour abroad. CHAPTER XX AN OLD SWEETHEART Ruth had fulfilled Gordon's prediction. She had lifted up her head and serenely entered her new and trying life. The year had brought many bitter days, but she had bravely met each crisis. She had hoped to maintain her membership in the Pilgrim Church, and with humility and earnestness returned to her duties. The new pastor had given her a hearty greeting, but the task was beyond her strength. She found that she no longer held her former social position--in fact, that she had no social status. The best people of the church were coolly polite and clumsily sympathetic. She preferred their coolness. The poorer people were frankly afraid of her. The innocent victim of a tragedy, the world held that she was somehow to blame--perhaps was equally guilty with the man. She suddenly found herself outside the pale of polite society. She was stunned at first by this brutal attitude of the world. To women of weaker character such a blow had often proved fatal in this defenseless hour. To her it was a stimulus to higher things. She fled to the solitude of her home and found refuge in the laughter of her children. She cried an hour or two over it, and then swept the thought from her heart, lifted up her proud little head and moved on the even tenor of her way. But greater troubles awaited. She had no business training and met with misfortune in the management of her property. Morris King had been her attorney, since she first came to New York, in the management of a small trust estate. He had always refused any fee, and she had accepted this mark of his faithfulness to their youthful romance simply and graciously. Secure in Gordon's love, she had long since ceased to consider the existence of any other man as a being capable of love. Marriage had engulfed her whole being and life, past, present, future. But the tender light in King's eyes when he called to see her on her arrival from the South was unmistakable. She was startled and annoyed, curtly dismissed him as her attorney and undertook the management of her own business affairs. Within six months she had invested her estate in stocks that had ceased to pay an income and were daily depreciating. When her support failed, she advertised for pupils to teach in her home, obtained two scholars, and they were from parents whose ability to pay was a matter of doubt. But she had bravely begun and hoped to succeed. When King saw her pathetic little advertisement he threw aside his pride and called promptly to see her. He was a muscular young bachelor of thirty-seven. A heavy shock of black hair covered his head, and his upper lip was adorned by a handsome black moustache. He was a leader of the Tammany Democracy, a member of a firm of lawyers, and had served one term in Congress. He had made himself famous in a speech in the National Convention in which he had attacked the reform element of his own party seeking admission with such violence, such insolent and fierce invective, he had captured the imagination of his party in New York. He was slated as the machine candidate for Governor of the Empire State and was almost certain of election. Visions of the White House, ghosts which ever haunt the Executive Mansion at Albany, were already keeping him awake at night. He was a man of strong will, of boundless personal ambitions, and in politics he was regarded as the most astute, powerful and unscrupulous leader in the state. His personal habits were simple and clean to the point of aceticism. His political enemies declared in disgust that he had no redeeming vices. He was a teetotaler, and yet the champion of the saloon and the idol of the saloon-keepers' association. He did not smoke or gamble, and was never known to call on a woman except as a business duty. In his profession he was honest, dignified, purposeful and successful. He had landed in New York fourteen years before with ten cents in his pocket, and his income now was never less than twenty thousand dollars a year. He had received a single fee of fifty thousand dollars in a celebrated case. Before coming to New York he was a poor young lawyer in the village of Hampton, Virginia, just admitted to the bar. But the law did not seriously disturb his mind. His real occupation was making love to Ruth Spottswood, who lived across the street in a quaint old Colonial cottage. If any client ever attempted to get into his office, it was more than he knew. He was too busy with Ruth to allow other people's troubles to interfere with the work of his life. He had taken her to the ball at the Hygeia the night she met Gordon, little dreaming that this long-legged Yankee parson from the West, who did not even know how to dance, would hang around the edges of the ballroom and take her from him. They were engaged after the child fashion of Southern girls and boys--always with the tacit understanding that if they saw anybody they liked better it could be broken at an hour's notice. The next day when he called Ruth said with a laugh: "Well, Morris, our engagement ends at three o'clock this afternoon. A handsomer man is going to call. You must clear out and attend to your business." "Oh, hang the law, Ruth. I'll sit out under the trees and write you a poem till this Yankee goes." "No, I don't propose to be handicapped. We are not engaged any more, and you can't come till I tell you." He put up a brave fight, selling his law books to buy candy and pay the livery bill for buggy rides, but it was all in vain. At last, when she told him she was going to marry Gordon and the day had been fixed, he turned pale, looked at her long and tenderly and stammered: "I hope you will be very happy, Ruth. But you've killed me." "Don't be silly," she cried. "Go to work and be a great man." He closed his law office and went over to Norfolk, debating the question of suicide or murder. He walked along the river-front to pick out a place to jump overboard, but the water looked too black and filthy and cold. He saw a steamer loading, boarded her, and landed in New York with ten cents in his pocket and not a friend on earth that he knew. He had never spoken a word of love to a woman since. Ambition was his god, and yet, mingled with its fierce cult, its conflicts and turmoil, he had cherished a boyish loyalty to Ruth's last words as she dismissed him. "Be a great man," she had said. He would--and he had dreamed that some day, perhaps, he might say to her: "Behold, I am your knight of youthful chivalry. Your command has been my law. It is all yours." The day she had curtly dismissed him as her attorney he was elated with the first assurance his associates had given him that he would be the next Governor of New York. Her unexpected rebuff had cut his pride to the quick. The old hurt was bruised again, and by a woman who had been deserted by a cavalier husband. He had sworn in the wrath of a strong man he would go this time and never return. And now he was hurrying back to her side and cursing himself for being a fool. She greeted him cordially. "I'm glad to see you, Morris," she frankly said--she had always called him by his first name. "I've gotten into deep waters since I sent you away so foolishly. I would have sent for you, but I was afraid you were angry and would not come. I've had about as many humiliations as I can bear for awhile." He looked at her reproachfully. "You did treat me shamefully, Ruth, after years of faithful service. I don't know why. I might guess if I tried. When I saw that pitiful card this morning, I knew what it meant. So I've come back to take charge of your business. And you can't run me away with a stick. I am going to look after your property and make it earn you a living." "It is very good of you, and I am grateful," she replied, gently. "How much are your stocks worth?" "About forty thousand dollars, I'm told. But I can't sell them. They are not listed on the Exchange." "I'll sell them for you, and by the end of the week have your money paying you an income of two hundred dollars a month. Send those two children home. You were not made for a school-teacher." He looked at her with intensity, and she lowered her eyes in embarrassment. He sprang to his feet and walked swiftly to the window, and then came back and sat down beside her. "Ruth," he said, impulsively, "it's no use in my trying to lie to you. We might as well understand one another at once. Of course, I know why you sent me away." "Please, Morris, don't say any more," she pleaded. "Yes, I will," he cried. "I love you. How could I keep you from seeing it in my eyes, when you were free at last, and I knew you might be mine?" "You must not say this to me!" she protested. He scowled and pursed his lips. "I will. I am coming to this house when I please. I am going to give you the protection of my life. Every dollar I have, every moment of my time shall be yours if you need it. Ah, Ruth, how I have loved you through the desolate years since you sent me away! Men have called me cold and selfish and ambitious, when I was lying awake at night eating my heart out dreaming of you. Every hour of work, every step I've climbed in the struggle of life, was with your face smiling on me from the past. All my hopes and ambitions I owe to you. The last message you spoke to me has been my guiding star. And when this man threw you from him as a cast-off garment--you, the beautiful queen of my soul--I would have killed him but for the fierce joy that now I could win you!" She shook her head and a look of pain overspread her face. "I know what you will say," he went on rapidly. "You need not protest. I will be patient. I will wait, but I will win you. I've sworn it by every oath that can bind the soul. I have no other purpose in life. I'm going to be the Governor of New York simply because I'm going to lift you from the shame this man has heaped upon you and make you the mistress of the Governor's mansion of this mighty state. Washington is but one step from Albany. My dream is for you. I will be to you the soul of deference and of tender honour. Your slightest wish will be my law, I will be silent if you command. But you cannot keep me away. If you leave me, I will follow you to the ends of the earth." Ruth was softly crying. "You must not cry, my love. I will make your life glorious, and light every shadow with the tenderness of a strong man's worship." "And you love me like this when another has robbed my soul and body of their treasures and cast me aside?" she asked, wistfully. His mouth suddenly tightened and his eyes flashed. "Yes, and I'd love you so if you were broken and every trace of beauty gone. My love would be so warm and tender and true it would bring back the light into your eyes, the roses to your cheeks, and life even to your dead soul." "How strange the ways of God!" she exclaimed, through her tears. He looked at her with yearning tenderness. "But you are not old or broken, Ruth. You have grown more beautiful. This great sorrow has smoothed from your face every line of fretfulness and worry, and lighted it with the mystery and pathos of an unearthly beauty. It shines from your heroic soul until your whole being has come into harmony with it. I loved you in the past; I worship you now." She turned on him a look of gratitude. "Worry and jealousy did exhaust me. I am glad you see in my face and form the change reflected from within. It is very sweet to me, this flattery you pour on my broken heart. I thank you, Morris. You have restored my self-respect and given me strength. It is an honour to receive such love from an honest man. You must not think ill of me if I tell you I cannot love you." "I'll make you!" he cried, fiercely. "You cannot cling to the memory of a man so base and false." "He is my husband. I love him." King flushed with anger. "He is not your husband. He has deserted you, lured by the beauty of another woman." A gleam of fire flashed from her eyes, melting into a soft light. "Yes, I know, marriage is an ideal, the noblest, most beautiful. We have not yet attained its purity in life. Man is only struggling toward its perfection. We will not attain it by lowering the ideal, but by lifting up those who are struggling toward it. Another marriage while Frank lives would be possible for me only when I ceased to feel the meaning of sin and shame. I will never regret my life. I have cast all bitterness out of my heart. Better the happiness and pain of a glorious love than never to have known its joy. I have lived." "And I will yet teach you to live more deeply," he firmly said. She shook her head and looked at him sadly out of her dark eyes from which the storm had cleared at last. They beamed now with the steady light of a deep spiritual tenderness. CHAPTER XXI FREEDOM AND FELLOWSHIP The six months abroad which Gordon and Kate had spent in love's dreaming and drifting had been the fulfilment to the man of the long-felt yearnings of his fierce subconscious nature. To the woman it had been the revelation of a new heaven and a new earth. She had found herself, the real self, at whose first meeting in the kiss of a man she had trembled. She was no longer afraid. The elemental clear-eyed goddess had taken possession. She had claimed her own, the throne of a queen, and the man who had dreamed of kingship was her courtier. She was smiling at him in conscious power, her violet eyes flashing with mystery and magic, the sunlight of Italy gleaming through her dark red hair, her full lips half parted with dreamy tenderness, and her sinuous body moving with indolent grace. "To be your slave is crown enough for man," he cried. "And I am in heaven," she answered, proudly. "Only, thus, in perfect freedom," he said, in rapture, "is the fulness of life. Beauty and harmony and love are of God. Surely this is communion with Him--the joy of embraces, the touch of sunlight, the glory of form and colour, the magic of music, the poetry of love, the ecstacy of passion, the kiss of the senses--He is in all and over all." "Can such happiness be eternal?" she asked, under her breath. He kissed her softly. "If God be infinite." They reached New York the first week in November, and Gordon returned to his work with renewed zeal. The success of his movement was a source of continued surprise and fear to the more thoughtful students of social and religious life. But Gordon had found on his return an increasing amount of friction between opposing groups in his church which was a source of intense surprise and annoyance. Two factions had broken into an open quarrel in his absence. He found it necessary to devote a large part of his time to smoothing out these quarrels between men who had come together with the principles of unity and fellowship as the foundation of their association. He saw with disgust that he was gathering a crowd of cranks, conceited and stupid, vain and ambitious for fame and leadership. It was all he could do to prevent a battle of Kilkenny cats. He discovered that many things glittered at a banquet to celebrate universal brotherhood which did not pan out pure gold in the experiment of life. He had heard at such a love feast an aristocratic poet extoll in harangue the unwashed Democracy, a Walking Delegate read a poem, a Jew quote the Koran with unction, a Mohammedan eulogise Monogamy, a Single-Taxer declare himself a Democrat, a Socialist glorify Individualism, and an Anarchist express his love for Order. But he found next day that as a rule the Egyptian resumed the use of garlic and the hog went back to his wallow. He found to his chagrin that mental freedom could be made a cloak for the basest mental slavery, and that the most hide-bound dogmatist on earth is the modern crank who boasts his freedom from all dogmas. He found the Liberal to be the most illiberal and narrow man he had ever met. The absurdity of allowing this mob of Kilkenny cats any authority in his church he saw at once. His dream of triumphant Democracy faded. He seized the helm at once. Without a moment's hesitation he threw out twenty ringleaders of as many factions and restored order. Under such conditions he dared not even incorporate his society under the laws of the state as a religious body lest these incongruous elements control its property and wreck its work. He continued to expend the vast funds needed for his Temple in his wife's name, leaving its legal ownership vested in her as before. Within a few months the extraordinary beauty and vivacity of his wife made their house on Gramercy Park the rendezvous of a brilliant group of free-lances and Bohemians. Her mother and father had moved to a house on the opposite side of the park. Men and women of genius in the world of Art and Letters who cared nought for conventions had crowded her receptions. She was nattered with the pleasant fiction that she had restored the ancient Salon of France on a nobler basis. The increase of her social duties required more and more of her time at the dressmaker's, and left less and less for work in Gordon's congregation. At first he had watched this social success with surprise and pride, and then with an increasing sense of uneasiness for its significance in the development of her character. The sight of half a dozen handsome men bending over her, enchanted by her beauty, and the ring of her laughter at their wit, irritated him. He had not been actor enough to conceal from her the gleam of, worry in his eyes and the accent of fret in his voice at these functions. She observed, too, that he attended them with regularity, however important might be the work which called him outside. He was anxious for her to cultivate a few of his intimate friends, but this crowd of strange men and women bored him. He was especially anxious that she should meet Overman, and by her magnetism and beauty crush him into the acknowledgment of the sanity and right of his course. But Overman had promised without coming. Gordon was at his bank on Wall Street again urging him to call. "It's no use to talk, Frank," he said, testily. "All I ask of women is to be let alone." "But, you fool, I want you to meet my wife. She's not a woman merely. She's the wife of an old college chum, the better half by far." Overman pulled his moustache, a humorous twinkle in his eye. "Well, how many halves are there to you? I've met the other half once before. This makes one and a half," he said, peering at his friend with his single eye. Gordon laughed. "Yes, I am large." "I've my doubts whether you're quite large enough for the job you've undertaken." "You're a pessimist." Overman's face brightened and his mouth twisted. "Yes, the more I see of men, the more stock I take in chickens. I've a rooster at home now that can whip anything that ever wore feathers, and he's so ugly I love him like a brother." "Shut up about roosters," Gordon growled. "Will you come to see me and meet my wife?" Overman turned his eye on his friend, frowning. "Frank, I'm afraid of the atmosphere. There's enough dynamite in 'Freedom and Fellowship' to blow up several houses. I don't like to get mixed up with women in any sort of fellowship--to say nothing about freedom and fellowship." "Well, I've asked my wife to call by the bank here for me to-day and I'm going to introduce you." Overman did not hear this statement, for his head was turned to one side and he was peering out of his window on Broad Street with excited interest. He sprang to his feet, suddenly exclaiming: "Well, what the devil is the matter?" "What is it?" Gordon asked, stepping to the window. It had begun to snow on an inch of ice which was still clinging to the stone pavements. At the corner of Broad and Wall Streets the ground dips sharply, forming a difficult crossing. Gordon saw his wife approaching the bank, laughing. She was dressed in a sealskin cloak which reached to the ground. Its great rolling collar of ermine covered her full breast and stretched upward almost to her hat, rearing its snowy background about her heavy auburn hair, which seemed about to fall and envelop her form. She wore an enormous hat of white fur bent in graceful curves. She was close to the building now, and her blue eyes were dancing and her cheeks flushed with laughter. The perfect grace and rhythm of movement could be seen even through the heavy seal cloak, whose sheen changed with each touch of her figure. "Look at the idiots!" cried Overman, excitedly. "So busy stretching their necks to see a woman, there's five piled up on the ice. They're ringing for the ambulance. She's fractured one man's skull, broken another's leg, and, by the pale-faced moon, I believe she's killed one. And you're after me to meet another woman--great Scott, look, she's coming in here!" "Well, she won't hurt you." "I don't know!" Overman made a break to reach his inner office when Gordon seized his arm. "Stop, you fool," he thundered; "it's my wife. She's calling by for me, and you're going to meet her, if I have to knock you down and sit on you." There was no help for it. He heard the rustle of the silk lining of her cloak and she was at the door. She shook Overman's hand heartily, her violet eyes smiling in such a friendly candid way he was at once put at ease. "I am so glad to see you," she said, earnestly. "I've heard Frank speak of you so often and laugh over your college ups and downs. I feel I've known you all my life. And then he says you're such a woman-hater--" "He's a grand liar, Mrs. Gordon," he interrupted, suddenly colouring. "I never said anything of the kind in my life. I'm a great admirer of the fair sex!" "Then you must prove it by coming to dinner with us to-night and admiring me the whole evening." "Nothing could give me greater pleasure," he answered, bowing his big neck with an ease and grace Gordon noted with amazement. When they left, Overman walked to the window and watched them thread their way through the crowd. "Holy Moses and the angels--what a woman!" he said, softly whistling. "By the beard of the prophet, no wonder!" Long after they disappeared he stood, looking without seeing, as if in a dream. CHAPTER XXII A SCARLET FLAME IN THE SKY From the night Overman had taken dinner at the Gramercy Park house he became a constant visitor. For six months he had usually spent two or three evenings each week in his friend's library, rehearsing their boyhood days, discussing new books, art and politics, Socialism and religion. Overman's cynicism had piqued Kate's curiosity and opened new views of things she had accepted as moral finalities. At these battles of wit she was always a charmed listener. She seemed never to tire watching the sparks fly in the rapier thrust of mind in these two men of steel and listening with a shiver to the deep growl of the animal behind their words. The one, so homely he was fascinating, with massive neck, and enormous mouth pursing and twisting under excitement into a sneer that pushed his big nose upward, the incarnation of a battle-scarred bulldog; the other, with his giant figure, hands and feet, his leonine face and locks, his deep voice, handsome and insolent in his conscious strength, the picture of a thoroughbred mastiff. With the grace of a goddess she would sit and watch this battle to the death in the arena of thought. Overman had keenly interested her from the first, and she stimulated him to unusual brilliancy. His remorseless logic, his thorough scholarship, his grasp of history, his savage common sense presented so sharp a contrast to the idealism of Gordon, she was shocked and startled. He fell into the habit of calling on Sunday mornings and walking with them to the Opera House. They would leave Gordon at the stage entrance and sit together during the services. He would comment softly to her on many of the little absurdities of the preacher's flights of sentiment, and often convulsed her with laughter by a single word or phrase which made ridiculous his mysticism. He did this with his single eye fixed on Gordon without the quiver of a nerve or the movement of a muscle to indicate ought but profound rapture in the speaker and his message. Overman's business ability had been of great service in the Temple enterprise, which had involved difficulties with contractors, and Gordon had opened an account in Kate's name with his banking house. Her signature to legal documents had made her a frequent visitor to the bank, and she often took lunch with him. Alone with her at these impromptu lunches, without the restraint of Gordon's presence, he had revealed to her a new phase of his character which had interested her still more deeply. It was here that she discovered the secret of his real attitude toward women, his deep hunger for love, tenderness and sympathy, and his terror lest his ugliness and the loss of his eye might entrap him into hopeless suffering. She laughed at his fears. "Ridiculous," she cried, closing her red lips. "You ought to have sense enough to know that a woman of character past the schoolgirl age is often fascinated by the ruggedness of such a man. Savage strength is sometimes resistless to women of rare beauty." "You think so?" he asked, pathetically. "Certainly; I know it," she answered, her lips twitching playfully. Overman looked at her steadily. "Sort of beauty-and-beast idea, I suppose. There may be something in it. It never struck me before." "I'll put you in training for a handsome woman I know," she said, with a curious smile playing about her eyes. "No, thank you," he quickly replied. "I'm just beginning to feel at home with you. I am content." The opening of the Temple was an event which commanded the attention of the world. Leaders of Socialism from every quarter of the globe poured into New York. The building was one of imposing grandeur. The auditorium filled the entire space of the first-four stories. It seated five thousand people within easy reach of the speaker's voice. The line of its ceiling was marked outside by the serried capitals of Greek columns springing from their massive bases on the ground. The grand stairway was of polished marble, its wainscoting and walls of onyx. Resting on the capitals of the columns, the outer walls of rough marble rose twenty stories to the first offset. Dropping back fifty feet, another structure, crowned by Greek facades, sprang ten stories higher, forming the base of the central dome. From each corner rose a tower of bronze supporting the figures of Faith, Hope, Love and Truth, while scores of minarets flamed upward, flying the flags of every nation. From the centre of this pile of marble, the huge dome, finished in gold, solemnly loomed among the clouds, higher than its model in Washington, dominating the city from every point of the compass. The magnificent sweep of Jefferson Avenue, stretching through miles of palatial homes, terminating at its base, seemed a tiny pathway leading through its grand arched and pillared entrance. The dome was crowned by a statue of Liberty holding aloft a steel staff, from which flew the solid red battle-flag of Socialism, flinging into the heavens its challenge to civilisation, rising, falling, waving, fluttering, quivering, rippling in the wind, a scarlet blaze sweeping a hundred feet across the sky far above the cross on the Cathedral spire. The cost of the building had exceeded the estimate, and it had been finished by a loan of two million dollars secured by a mortgage held by the banking house of Overman & Company. It could have commanded a larger loan, as the entire structure, except the two stories below ground and the auditorium, was devoted to business offices occupied by the best class of tenants. The auditorium was for rent at a nominal sum during the week, and was designed to be the forum of free thought for the nation. The dedication programme began on Monday, lasting through an entire week, day and night, and culminated on Sunday with Gordon's address at eleven o'clock. The elaborate ceremonials and speeches had worn out Kate's body by Saturday, and the praise of pygmies had long before worn out her soul. Ruth had read with interest the accounts of these meetings, and Morris King tried in vain to dissuade her from attending the Sunday exercises at which Gordon was to speak. "It's useless to talk, Morris," she said, firmly. "I am going. I'd as well tell you I've been slipping into the gallery of the Opera House the past six months. I've tried to keep away, but I had to go. I am going to-day. I've heard him talk and dream and plan so much of this, it seems my own." "Well, I'm going with you. You shall not enter that den of Anarchists alone again." She hesitated. "You may go if you'll agree to sit behind a pillar in the gallery where we will not be seen." When they were seated he whispered to Ruth: "But for you, I wouldn't be caught dead in this place. I'll soon be the Governor, and it will be my duty to see that some of these gentlemen are carefully packed in quicklime at Sing Sing." She started suddenly, her brow clouded, and she placed a trembling hand on his arm. "Hush, Morris." "It'll be so, mark my word." "Hush!" she repeated, with such a shudder of pain he hastened to whisper. "I beg your pardon, Ruth. You know I was joking." Gordon rose and gazed for a moment over the sea of faces. His quick sympathies and brilliant imagination were stirred to their depths. When the beautifully modulated voice first filled the room, Ruth felt with quick sympathy, beneath the tremor of his tones, the storm of suppressed feeling. Her eyes filled, and she bent forward, following him breathlessly. He held the crowd spellbound. Even the foreign Socialists, unable to understand a word of English, hung on every gesture, held by the magnetism of his powerful personality. As he reached an impassioned climax, Ruth was startled to hear a note of suppressed laughter from a woman sitting in the same row behind the next pillar. She looked quickly, and saw Overman's massive head cocked to one side, his face an immovable mask, and his single gleaming eye fixed on Gordon, with Kate beside him. Overman stayed to dinner and congratulated his friend on his effort. "Frank, you surpassed yourself," he said. "You made the grandest defense of an indefensible absurdity I ever heard." "H'm, that's saying a good deal for you." Overman pulled his moustache thoughtfully. "But I couldn't help wishing I were an orator to jaw back at you. A preacher has such an easy thing, with no back talk except the sonorous echo of his own voice." "Think you could have talked back to-day?" There was a moment's silence. Overman leaned back and locked his hands behind his massive neck. "If you hit a man with a brick, he may hurt you. Drop a millstone on him, he'll not even reply. If I could have gotten at you to-day, your wife would have lost her insurance policy, because there wouldn't have been anything to identify." "Nothing like a good opinion of oneself," Gordon replied, good-naturedly. Overman nodded. "I never heard you explain so beautifully that 'Back to Nature' idea. I went West once and lived a year with some red folks who have been so fortunate as to never get away from Nature. They have been doing business at the same stand for several thousand years. Their women are old hags at your wife's age, and their men die at mine--forty-five. Their social institutions are an exact reflection of their personal attainments." "But we propose," Gordon flashed, "to make institutions an advance on man's attainments and so lead him onward and upward." "Exactly," he answered, dryly. "Make human nature divine by writing it on paper that it is so, pile water into a pyramid upside down, and repeal the law of gravitation by the vote of a mob. I don't like the law of gravitation myself, but I haven't time to repeal it." "You are a hopeless materialist." "Yet you, who preach the Spirit, propose to build a heaven here out of mud." "Socialism may be the great delusion, but it's coming. It sweeps the imagination of the world," Gordon cried, with enthusiasm. "There you go! Every time I pin you down, you sail off into space with prophecy or poetry. If it does conquer the world, the world will not be worth conquering. The one thing worth while is character, and your Socialistic pig-pen cannot produce it. In this herd of swine to which you hope to reduce society an Edison or a Darwin is rewarded with the pay of a hod-carrier. The hod-carrier gets all he's worth now. This instinct for the herd, which you call Solidarity and Brotherhood, is not a prophecy of progress; it is a memory--a memory of the dirt out of which humanity has slowly grown." Gordon grunted contemptuously. "Yet only a brute can be content with the cruelty and infamy of our present society." "All our ills can be met by careful legislation. You propose to pull the tree up by the roots because you see bugs crawling on a limb." Kate rose and left the room, saying she would return in a moment, and Overman leaned back in his chair again, gazing at the ceiling. Suddenly straightening himself, he drew his brow down close over his eye, half closing its lid, bent toward Gordon, and in a low tone slowly asked: "But I would like to know, Frank, what in the devil you really meant by that 'Freedom and Fellowship' in marriage?" "Just what I said." "Bah! You don't mean to apply such tommyrot to your own wife now that she's yours?" "Certainly." "It's beyond belief that you're such a fool. You say to your wife and to the world, 'This peerless woman is my comrade, but she is free; take her if you can.'" Gordon laughed. "Yes; but, Mark, old boy, God has not yet made the man who can take her from me." The one eye dreamily closed, the banker whistled softly, and said: "I see." CHAPTER XXIII THE NEW HEAVEN Overman had appeared on the scene of Kate's life in a peculiar crisis. Married two years, she had passed through the period of love's ecstacy which woman finds first in self-surrender. She had just reached the point of sex growth when a revolt against man's dominion became inevitable. This mood of revolt was made stronger by Gordon's fret over her social gatherings. In the dim light of the pulpit, preaching with mystic elation, he had seemed to her a god. Now, in the full blaze of physical possession, the divine glow had paled about his brow. She had found him only a man, self-conscious, egotistic and domineering. He had many personal habits she did not like. He was overfastidious in his dress, and critical and fussy about her lack of order in housekeeping. He was finicky about his food. He hated tea, declaring the odour made him sick. She felt this a covert thrust at her five-o'clocks. To his criticisms she at last coolly replied: "I claim the perfect freedom you preach. I will do as I please. You can do the same." He laughed in a weak sort of way and declared he liked her independence. At this moment of reaction, satiety, and the beginning of friction he had introduced her to Overman. His candour, his brutal realism, his defiance and scorn for poetic theories, presented to her the sharp contrast which made him doubly fascinating. Just at the moment Gordon was growing peevishly dogmatic in the reiteration of his ideals, she had suffered a physical disillusioning and begun to tire of poetry. The sheer brute power of the other man, the incarnation of the thing that is, with a cynic's contempt for dreams and dreamers, had given voice to her own rebellion and drawn her resistlessly. The boyish tenderness underlying Overman's nature, which she discovered later, had made his ugliness and brute strength added charms. He had a pathetic way of looking at her with a doglike worship, as though conscious of his defects, which pleased and nattered her own sense of the perfection of beauty. They were seated in his box at the Metropolitan Opera House while Gordon was at the farewell banquet to his foreign delegates. "I feel," he said, bitterly, "every time I see this play of 'Faust,' and hear Edouard De Reszke's deep bass speak for His Majesty the Devil, that His Majesty really made this world. I'd know it but for the paradox of such divine perfection before my eyes in the living reality of a woman like you." His voice throbbed with earnestness. "I'm growing to love the world. It's a beautiful old place," she answered, with a lazy smile. "Well, it's the only one I'm likely to travel in, so I'm going to make the best of it, work with its mighty forces, dare and defy the fools who cross my purposes. If the future has for me only pain, I'll not complain. I'll grin and bear it, but I'll confess to you I get a little lonely sometimes." Her eyes lifted with surprise. "I never heard you admit that before." "No; and what's more, no one else ever did or ever will." He looked at her pathetically, and a deeper colour flooded her cheeks. When they reached home Gordon had just returned from the banquet and was bubbling over with enthusiasm. "Mark, we have had a grand time to-night--organised a movement that will put out a sign 'To Let' on every den of thieves in Wall Street." "What? Founded another church already?" "A new Brotherhood within the Church Universal." Overman shrugged his shoulders. "Talk plain English. What will be its name at Police Headquarters?" Gordon smilingly and proudly replied, "The Federated Democracy of the World." "H'm; what are you going to do? Federate the hobos of all tongues and demand better straw in empty freight cars and shorter stops at sidings for express trains to pass?" "Our purpose will be to inaugurate the Cooperative Commonwealth of Man. The movement will bring into harmonious action the insurgent forces of the world. Within ten years an earthquake will shake the social fabric. Within twenty years profound political and social revolutions will lift the human race over centuries of plodding into a new world of real liberty, equality, and fraternity." Overman growled cynically. "That has a French accent. I hear there are fifty thousand active Socialists in France divided into exactly fifty thousand factions. Which division of this grand army will lead the movement in Gaul?" Gordon ignored his interruption, and his voice thrilled with passionate eloquence. "We have abolished crowns and scepters. It is a moral and physical absurdity that, in a democracy, a whiskered babe, whose labour value to society is just ten dollars a week, should inherit millions of dollars that give him the power over men more terrible, absolute and irresponsible than a Caesar ever wielded over the empire of the world. No wonder our papers shiver when these babes sneeze, and report their daily life with servile pride." "And would the oil of anointment of your new king, the walking delegate, be strong enough to temper the onion in his breath? I'd like to know that before drawing too near the throne." The banker's mouth twisted into a sneer with the last word. "This new Democracy will itself be the highest nobility, an ethical aristocracy, and when it comes the Kingdom of Heaven will be at hand." The one eye glanced quickly at the speaker and blinked. "Let me know before it gets here," said Overman, a reminiscent look overspreading his rugged face, while Kate leaned closer with eager interest. "Why?" "Because I'm going somewhere. When I was a boy I had to go to church. Our old preacher faithfully urged us for hours at a time to get ready for heaven, a glorious place away up in space where all wore crowns and there wasn't a Democrat in town, everybody played psalms on big gold harps, and every day was Sunday. I early learned to hate heaven and look on hell as my only home. Now you come along, rub hell off the map, and threaten me with a heaven here on earth worse than the old one. Hell would be a summer resort to this thing you've conjured up. If it comes, I'll get off the earth." "Get your flying machine ready." "Oh, ten cents' worth of 'rough on rats' will do me." Gordon shook his head thoughtfully. "It's a strange thing to me you conservatives are blind to the coming of this revolution. It will be the grimmest joke Fate ever played on the pride of man. Within the generation now living a Cooperative Commonwealth will supplant the whole system of slave wages." The banker suddenly straightened his massive neck and his eye flashed. "You mean establish a system of universal slavery. Suppose under your maudlin cry of brotherhood you set up your fool's paradise, where would reside the authority of your Commonwealth?" "In the State, of course." "And who would be the State? You talk about the State as though it were some mysterious Ark of the Covenant of God, let down out of heaven and enshrined in capitals of marble. The State is simply made out of common dirt called Tom, Dick and Harry, whom a lot of other plain Toms, Dicks and Harrys set up in power. Will not your pig-pen you call the Cooperative Commonwealth have men in charge with authority to call the pigs to dinner and drive them to the fields to root?" "Certainly, there must be authority," Gordon snapped. Overman mused a moment. "Yet your patron saint, William Morris, proclaims a heaven here below without law, where man kills his fellow man and answers only to his own conscience; where we will tear up the railroads and walk, blow up our steamships and use rowboats, in our harvest fields the whetstone on the old hand-scythe will still the music of the McCormick reaper. With his delicate tastes he fears the hoof-beat of your herd. But you all agree that to go backward means to go forward, and that the way to save civilisation is to lapse into barbarism. Whether you call yourselves Socialist or Anarchist--that is, whether you long for the herd or the solitude of the forest, you mean the same thing and don't know it, that your mind has not been able to adjust itself to the speed of modern progress, and has broken down under the strain. You preach 'Fellowship,' herd-life, as the cure. You believe in law and authority." "Yes," Gordon cried, with pride. "Our ideal is constructive in the largest and noblest sense." "And if a man can work and will not work?" "He will be made to work." "Very well. Suppose your pig heaven established and the herd duly penned. The Labour Master of your local pen would naturally be a man after the heart of the herd. He would be a greasy Labour agitator. No other man could be elected. Suppose he should become interested in the extraordinary beauty of your wife. Suppose you were presumptuous enough to resent this, and, in revenge for your insolence, your Master transferred you, the scholar, idealist and orator, to the task of cleaning the spittoons in the City Hall, and ordered your wife to scrub the floor of his office. You both refuse, you who walk with your head among the stars, What then? The dirty-fingered one, your Labour Master, sends you to prison for the first offense. For the second, you would be stripped, placed in the public stocks and flogged, man and woman alike in this kingdom of equality. For, mark you, enforced labour is the only possible foundation of such a society." Gordon listened with dreamy disgust. "You've set up a man of straw. In this new world each would choose his work and labour would be a joy," he answered, with lofty scorn. The banker chuckled. "No doubt they would all choose joyous jobs. But there would be a surplus of joyous labourers hunting for joyful tasks, and a dearth of fools looking for disagreeable work. In your pig paradise everything must be fixed. There could be no uncertainty about the future--no worry, or fret, or anxiety--hence no hopes or fears. Man would be guaranteed food, clothes, shelter and children, just as the chattel slave. There could be no inducement to work unless compelled to, and no man except an idiot would do a disagreeable task unless forced to do it. You must remember there could be no lawyers or bankers, preachers or orators. The chief occupation of your Labour Master would be the assignment of people he didn't like to the hard, dirty jobs, and the granting of favourite tasks to such people as made themselves agreeable to His Majesty. Witness the master of the Russian Commune, who is notoriously the lord of all the wives of the village." Overman was still a moment, and then growled from the depths of his being: "I call this the lowest, the most degrading, the most bestial nightmare the human mind ever dreamed!" Gordon waved him off with an eloquent gesture. "You have assumed that a free commonwealth of godlike men and women would choose their worst units for their leaders." "Nothing of the sort," he snapped. "I've supposed they would do the inevitable--choose the strongest man who looks like the majority and smells like the majority." "A bad man would be removed," the dreamer quickly replied. "What difference if your master be changed by an election now and then? All the worse. If I am to be a slave, I prefer the old chattel system with a master whose favour I could win and hold for life by faithful service. The old slaves often loved their masters. Could you love the Executive Officer of a Bureau for the Enforcement of Labour? Do convicts become infatuated with their keepers? To assassinate such a man would become a positive joy. How many years of such life would it take to crush out of the human soul the last spark of hope and aspiration and reduce man to a beast?" "But we affirm the inherent divinity of man. You assume him to be a child of the devil." There was another silence, and then the banker's brow wrinkled. "Affirm. Yes, you fellows are all orators. You must affirm else the crowd will leave you. You never have doubts and fears. You always know. Only affirm a thing enough and never try to prove it, and thousands of fools will accept it at last as the word of God. That is the secret of the power of all demagogues and emotional orators. The slickest horse-thief that ever operated in the West was a revivalist who migrated there with a tent. While he held the crowd spellbound with his eloquence, his confederates loosed the horses in the woods and got them to a safe place. Oratory is one of the cheapest tricks ever played on man, but an everlastingly effective one, because it is based on affirmation. Any man who is too hard-headed and honest to affirm a thing he don't know and can't know never leads a mob. They will only follow a man who speaks with the sublime authority of knowledge he does not possess." While Overman was talking Gordon's brow clouded as he watched Kate's face flash with interest and a smile now and then play between her eyes and lips. "We seem to be developing another orator," he slowly answered. Overman pursed his lips. "I haven't wasted so much breath in a long time. Your French programme stirred me. I wonder if you recalled the decline of the French nation in modern times, and its causes, in arranging for your conquest of France? A little while ago the Anglo-Saxon race numbered but a few millions, and the Latin ruled the world. Now the flag of the Anglo-Saxon flies over one-fourth the inhabitants of the globe, his army can withstand the combined armies of the world, his navy rules the sea, and his wealth is so great he could buy the entire possessions of the rest of mankind. Why? Because he developed the most powerful individual man in history, while other races have sought refuge in the herd idea of communal interests. I noticed you never preach now from the old text, 'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and forfeit his life?' Why save the world if you destroy man?" But Gordon had ceased to listen to Overman. With his great blue-veined fist clenched on his chin and a new gleam of light in his steel-gray eyes he was watching his wife's face. CHAPTER XXIV COURTIER AND QUEEN Overman was quick to detect the hostility of his friend's unusual silence, and hastily rose. "Excuse me, old boy," he said, apologetically, "if I've hit too hard. I think the world of you in spite of your fool theories. You know that." "Don't worry, Mark," he answered, carelessly. "I haven't been listening to you at all. I've been thinking of something else. Life's too short to pay any attention to your big Philistine jaw." The banker smiled. "Well, you have the instrument handy with which Samson slew the Philistine." "Yes, if you would only loan it to me. Goodnight." When he had gone, Kate leaned back on the lounge and said with evident amusement: "You forgot something in parting with your old schoolmate." "Yes, I thought it quite unnecessary to tell him to drop in any time, unless you wish to let the front room." A tremor of catlike fun slyly played about her mouth. "And yet women have been called fickle. Mr. Overman was no college chum of mine." "No; but he is evidently trying to make up for it now." A low musical laugh seemed to come from the depth of Kate's spirit. "And I thought I was pleasing you by neglecting my Bohemians and cultivating your powerful friend." "Still it is not necessary to hang on his words with such melting interest," he said, with quiet emphasis. She looked up sharply and a gleam of cruelty flashed from her blue eyes and struck the steel-gray in his. Beneath the quiet words of the man and woman there was raging the mortal struggle of will and personality, the woman in fierce rebellion, his iron egotism demanding submission. "'Oh, I see," she purred, softly. "There is to be but one man-god, arrayed and beautiful, if I may quote your formula. There may be many women-gods in paradise. I saw Ruth in the Temple the first Sunday you spoke, hanging on your words as the voice of the Lord." Gordon flushed and turned uneasily in his chair. "I'd as well be frank with you, Kate. Overman is coming to this house too often. I was shocked beyond measure when I failed to find you in your accastomed seat on the Sunday of the dedication of the Temple. I was told you were in the gallery with him." She straightened herself up suddenly. "You took the pains to find that out?" "Yes." She fixed on him a look of scorn. "And stooped to ask an usher instead of asking me? You, who boldly say to the world that I am your free comrade, the mate and equal of man?" "An odd way you took to show comradeship in such an hour," he answered, doggedly. "Am I a slave, to sit in solemn rapture at your feet and await your nod?" "You seemed to eagerly await the nod of another man to-night." She laughed. "Am I not your serene-browed Grecian goddess whose untamed eyes of primeval womanhood proclaim the end of slave marriage?" Gorden winced, scowled and was silent. "I like the beautiful ceremony you invented. I've memorised every word of it," she said, teasingly. He sat for several minutes sullenly looking at her with a strange fire in his eyes, now and then moistening his lips as though they burned. At length he said: "It will be necessary for you to go to his office to-morrow to sign papers in the transfer of the deed of the Temple to me. The lawyers informed me to-day that everything was in readiness for your signature. After this event there will be no business requiring your further attendance at his bank." She closed her eyes lazily. "I am not going to sign any such deed," came the firm answer. Gordon turned pale, nervously fumbled at his watch-chain and stammered: "Kate, you don't mean this?" "I do." The man hesitated, as though stunned. "After your announcement to the world, and all that has passed between us, would you humiliate me by the withdrawal of your gift?" She lifted her beautiful brows. "Humiliate you? Surely I have honoured you with the richest gift woman can bestow on man: myself. The ownership of property can have no meaning after this. I claim my rights as your equal. Your eloquence and genius give you power. This money is scarcely its equivalent. You have your Temple, and I still have my fortune. Its investment in this building has enhanced its value. What more can you ask?" "The fulfilment of your word of honour to the cause of truth," he firmly answered. She smiled. "Nonsense! You were my cause, my truth--the god I worshiped. I desired you. Now at closer range the aureole has slightly faded, though you are as handsome as ever, Frank, dear. What is money between us? We are equals. I will take the worry of financial details off your shoulders and leave you free for your inspiring work." Gordon's eyes grew soft; he went over to the lounge on which she was resting, sat down and slipped his arm about her. The full lips smiled with conscious cruelty. He bent and kissed her passionately. "You are my priceless treasure, my dear. I am honoured in your beauty and love. Money is nothing to me, so long as you are mine." She drew his head down and kissed him in a sudden burst of intensity. "You know I love you, Frank!" "And we must not quarrel," he said, wistfully, slipping to his knees with one arm still encircling her waist. "You and I have gone through too much for harsh words or thoughts to ever shadow our life. But you must give me more of your time, and other men less. A growing uneasiness and the loss of the sense of finality in life are robbing me of my capacity for thought and work." "Not so bad as that surely," she cried, with teasing laughter. "You're not afraid of losing me?" "No; but you will promise?" he asked, tenderly. She placed one of her arms about his neck, a soft warm hand under his chin, and, still laughing, slowly kissed him and murmured: "I'll do just what I please, and you may do the same." CHAPTER XXV THE IRONY OF FATE Morris King had ended a brilliant campaign for the Governorship of New York with victory. The entire ticket was elected by large pluralities. The campaign had given scope to his ability, and he more than fulfilled the hopes of his friends. From the moment of his election, he became the leader of the party in the nation, and began at once the work of strengthening his position as a Presidential possibility. Yet in the din and clash of this battle in which his personal fortunes, his future career, and perhaps the destiny of a great national party hung, he had not forgotten Ruth. He made it a point every day, wherever he was, or whatever the task or excitement of the hour, to write her a love letter. Sometimes it was only a few lines hastily scrawled while on the train between stations where he addressed the crowds at each stop. Sometimes he sent a dainty box of flowers. She never replied to his letters or little gifts. But it made no difference. He kept steadily on the course he had mapped out, dogged, purposeful, persistent. The night of the election, when he received the first assurance of his success, before he spoke to any of his lieutenants or received a single congratulation, he closed his door, locked it, and called Ruth over his telephone, which he had connected with her house by special secret arrangement that afternoon. He recognised her soft contralto voice, and his hand trembled with the joy of the triumph which he felt brought him nearer to his heart's desire. He was so excited he could not speak for a moment, and again the low soft voice called, "What is it? Who is it?" "This is Morris, Ruth. My door is locked, and this is a private wire connected with your house; I am alone with you and God. I am the Governor-elect of New York. I have spoken to no one until I tell you. One word from you I will prize more than all the shouts of the world with which the streets will ring in a moment." There was a movement of the phone at the other end. "With all my heart I congratulate you, Morris. You are a great man. I can never tell you how deeply I feel the delicate honour you pay me." The man sighed and his voice was husky with emotion. "Ah! Ruth, if you only meant that conventional phrase, 'with all my heart,' I'd be the happiest man in the world to-night. But I must go; the boys are trying to beat the door down. My success I lay at your feet, my love. When you hear the shouts of hosts and see the sky red to-night with illuminations, remember that it is all for you. I am yours.--Good-by." She sat at her window long past the hour of midnight and watched the blaze of rockets from end to end of Manhattan, over Brooklyn, and from the farthest sand-beaches of Coney Island, dreaming with open eyes, soft with tears, of the mystery of love and life. The unterrified Democracy of the great city had gone mad with joy over their daring young leader's success. She could hear the distant murmur of the tumult of thousands of shouting, screaming men packed around Tammany Hall, filling Fourteenth Street in solid mass, jamming Union Square and Madison Square and surging round the Madison Square Garden, where a jollification meeting of twenty thousand cheering, excited men was in progress. It sounded like the boom and roar of some far-off sea breaking on the rocks and echoing among the cliffs. All Harlem was ablaze with bonfires now, and the tumult of horns and shouting boys filled the streets on Washington Heights. She sighed and rested her dimpled chin in her hand. "Surely, I must be a foolish woman to cling to Frank and reject the glory and strength of this old sweetheart's chivalrous love! I cannot help it. He is my husband. I love him. Perhaps he may need me some dark night in life. Who knows? If he calls, I will be ready." The year had proved a trying one to Ruth. The sensation of the completion of the Temple and the stir made by its dedication had increased Gordon's fame, and the story of her sorrow had been repeated again and again. A hundred petty details, utterly false, had been added as the story had passed from paper to paper, until she was afraid to look in a public print lest she find her own name staring her in the face. From the Socialist point of view, she was attacked as a blatant scold who had made her husband's life intolerable, until he had been rescued by the beautiful woman who was now his wife. By the conservative press, she was timidly defended, damned by faint praise and humiliated by pity. The children, growing rapidly, were beginning to feel the mother's position. In the public schools, the story of her life and desertion by her husband had tipped the tongues of the spiteful with poison, and Lucy had come home more than once trying to conceal from her mother the hurt of her sensitive child's soul. Morris King, now the distinguished Governor-elect, hastened to press his suit. Her faithful knight, he was now laying lovingly at her feet the tribute of a powerful man's life. To every worldly view of her position and future his suit was a temptation well nigh resistless. His love had stood the test of years. He would worship her as his wife as he had worshiped her as his ideal. She knew this by an intuition as unerring as that by which she knew she could never love him as she loved Gordon. And yet she felt a singular dependence on him, and a tender gratitude for the protection he had given her life. He knew his position was strong, and pressed it with quiet intensity. He was careful that his attentions should not become the subject of public comment, and the tongue of gossip cause her pain. Not for one moment did he doubt that he would win. The Sunday before his inauguration he spent with her, and, much to his disgust, she insisted on going to the Pilgrim Church. "Of all churches, Ruth, for heaven's sake don't go there," he pleaded, with impatience. "Yes," she quietly answered. "I've tried the others. I don't seem at home. I've ceased to mind what any one there thinks. The congregation has changed completely in the past two years, Deacon Van Meter tells me. He called to see us the other day to ask after the children and my financial welfare, offering to help me in any way his experience could serve me. He has aged very much lately, and the death of his wife seems to have completely broken the old man's heart. He has withdrawn from business entirely. My sorrow seems to have touched him in a very tender spot. He begged me in such an earnest way to come back to the church and join in its work, I've made up my mind to go." King rubbed his hand over his head hopelessly. "Well, if you've made up your mind, you will go. Ruth, you are the hardest-headed woman to have such a beautiful spirit I ever knew." The dark eyes smiled into his face. "You may go with me, Morris." He took up his cane and coat. "I'll grudge the minutes I can't talk, but I'll sit and look at you. You are growing more beautiful every day, Ruth. I am grateful for the honour you are going to do me in attending the inauguration. I'll agree to anything you say to-day." They slipped into a seat under the gallery unobserved. The new usher did not recognise either Ruth or her distinguished escort. The services moved her with a strange power. In every hymn she heard the deep rich voice of Gordon as she had seen him so often stand in that pulpit. The swell of the organ's full notes throbbed with his memory. The man she heard was no longer the new pastor, but her beloved, and she was living over again the sweet days of the past when he was her own and she had filled his life. The preacher was reading the most beautiful psalm in the language of man: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul." A strange peace came over her as the music of these grand old sentences, throbbing with the passionate faith of centuries, swept her heart. He was reading from the old Bible that rested on the same golden lectern pulpit Gordon had hurled behind him that awful day in their history. The same crimson cloth he had twisted into a shapeless mass and thrown aside once more hung from its front. She could see a ragged break in the gold of the cross where his enormous hand had crushed it that day. The thought of God's eternal life and unchanging purpose, binding all time within His mighty plan, soothed her spirit. Men might come and go behind that pulpit and from its pews, but the Church of God, symbol of the eternal, would go on forever. In the deep rhythm of the psalm to which she listened she felt the heart-beat of its continuous unbroken life stretching back to creation's dawn and on until Time shall roll into the ocean of Eternity. Suddenly the red blood leaped from her heart with a thought, "What God hath joined together man cannot put asunder!" King's face grew somber as he saw her elation. He knew that some mysterious spirit had suddenly dropped a veil between them. When they returned home she was very quiet and her dark eyes shone with unusual brilliance. "Ruth, you are thinking of that man," he said, with a scowl. She nodded gently. King trembled and his fists clenched. "I could kill him, the great egotistical brute! How strange the madness that binds a woman to the man to whom she first surrenders! I sometimes think it is the most blind, pathetic and tragic instinct that ever shadowed the soul of a human being. It is degrading. You are a woman of character and intelligence. You must shake off this peasant's mania." She shook her head with a yearning, mystic look. "I believe God had a great purpose when He made a woman's heart like that. I love him. My very soul and body have become in some mysterious way one with him." King's eyes blazed. "Yet he flaunts his love for another woman in your face." She flinched as from a blow, but answered tenderly. "Yes; he is mad now. The flesh has mastered the spirit in its struggle for the moment. She holds his body"--a pause and a smile--"but his soul is mine. He may not know it now. He will some day. I know it, and I abide God's time." "How long can you hold such a delusion, I wonder?" he asked, with angry amazement. "Forever." she softly whispered. He drew himself up with grim force. "I am going to win you, Ruth," he said, slowly lingering with his lips over her name as though he could taste its sweetness. He looked at her beautiful face and figure tenderly and with an intensity that gave to his eyes a strange glitter. She turned from him with a sigh and gazed on Gordon's portrait hanging over the mantel. "No, Morris. I have made up my mind to play my part in harmony with Love's eternal law. If the world is full of discord, I will still make the sweetest music my soul can sing. I will not try to drown the din, but in my own way sing in perfect time with the beat of God's heart. Perhaps some soul beside me on life's way will catch the note, and it will not be in vain. This may be a blind instinct, but it is not degrading. He who counts the beat of a sparrow's wing, teaches the stork her appointed time, and whispers his call to the swallow in the autumn wind, will not lead me astray." The man shaded his eyes with his hand as though to hide their misery. "You are throwing your sweet life away," he said, reproachfully. "But I shall find it again. When I see the fury of murder in your eyes, and gaze into the gulf of fierce passions into which Frank has descended, I cannot seek my own happiness. The sense of motherhood, the feeling of kinship to all women, brings to me again the certainty that I am right, that one great love unto death can alone give the soul peace and strength, and give to man and the world happiness." He bent forward quickly. "But if he were dead you might love me?" "Not as I love him." "He is dead a thousand times to you and your life," he cried, bitterly. "He is your wilful murderer. You will see this by and by, and I will win you. I will be content with such love as you can give me. Mine will be so full, so tender, so warm it will be resistless." She shook his hand kindly and bade him good-by. "I will send a carriage for you and the children to-morrow. You will go to the capital with me in my private car." "I'd rather not, Morris, but I have promised you, and it shall be so." The ceremony of the inauguration was the most elaborate seen at Albany in years. Tammany came to the capital thirty thousand strong, and thirty thousand strong they marched through the streets, with their shining silk hats glistening in the sun and their lusty throats shouting for their leader. They had voted the ticket faithfully, and sometimes too often the same day, unkind critics had said, in the years of the past, but for the first time in generations they had placed a full-fledged Grand Sachem of their own Great Wigwam in the Governor's chair, and they made the welkin ring. In the joy of their faces, the steady hoof-beat of their big feet on the pavement and the stalwart pride with which they marched, one saw the secret of their victory. They were in dead earnest. Politics was the breath they breathed and the blood that fed their hearts. King felt the contagion of their loyalty and enthusiasm, and his inaugural address was inspired and inspiring. He placed Ruth and the children in choice seats near the speaker's stand, and in every movement of his body, every word and accent, from the moment he appeared till the last shout of his victorious henchmen died away, he was conscious of her presence. She could feel the intensity of his powerful will pressing upon her in this triumph he was deliberately laying at her feet. When the ceremonies were over, and his address was being flashed over a thousand wires, he sent the children for a drive, and showed Ruth over the stately executive mansion. He knew the hour was propitious, and he had planned to make a desperate attempt to win some sort of promise from her for their future. "Now, Ruth," he said, softly, "sit here on this sofa by the open fire. We will be alone for awhile. I've something to show you." His face was still aglow from the excitement of his triumph. He drew from his inner pocket an official envelope tied with a piece of ribbon. She leaned over with interest, thinking he was going to read to her some scheme of legislation on which he had been at work. Instead he drew out a package of her old letters and a lot of faded flowers--every scrap of paper and trinket she had ever given him in her life. He showed her each one, and gave the history of every flower, when she had given it to him, and what she had said. Ruth buried her face in her hands, and he silently watched her. "This one," he cried, with a tremor in his voice and a tightening about his eyes, "you gave me the night I took you to that ball at the Hygeia. How soft and delicate your hand felt as you placed it in the lapel of my coat! I could see myself, as in a mirror, in your great dark laughing eyes. I never saw that picture again, Ruth, and the laughter went out of them forever. They were always full of storm and shadows for me after that night." Her lips were trembling as she turned these leaves from the story of the sunlit days of her girlhood. The man went on steadily and passionately. "I could show you messages to-day from scores of national leaders offering me their support for the Presidency. This token I am going to show you now has no value to the world or at a bank, but there is not money enough on this earth to buy it." He drew from his pocketbook a little pink-covered tintype of a boy and girl. The tapering fingers shook as she held it. "This is the one priceless treasure I own--this little old tintype we had taken together in fun one day in the tent of the strolling photograph man. You remember he guessed we were sweethearts, and grouped us by the old rules he knew so well. You see, he placed me solemnly in his single chair, with my legs crossed, and made you stand close beside and put your beautiful hand with its slender fingers on my shoulder. You laughed and took it down. He scowled, and put it back, and told you to behave. It was your birthday. You were just seventeen. I was not half as proud to-day, when those thousands who love me shouted and hailed me as their chief, as I was that moment with your dear soft hand on my shoulder. I have felt it there every hour since. You see, I have kissed it until I've worn your face almost away, but the smile is still there." He took her hand gently. "Ruth, dear, let me bring the smile back to your living face. These great rooms will be empty and lonely. I wish to hear the patter of your children's feet in them, and the echo of your soft footsteps behind them. You are just thirty-five, in the full glory of perfect womanhood, far more beautiful than this girl of seventeen. Promise me that at the end of a year you will be mine, and let me make your life as glorious to the world as the beauty of your soul and body is to me--you, the forsaken, whom fools pity or blame." Looking away through her tears, she gently withdrew her hand, bent low and burst into sobs. "No, no, no! I love him. He is my husband!" CHAPTER XXVI AT CLOSE QUARTERS Ruth had been deeply shaken by the events of the inauguration. She returned to New York in the Governor's private car in a dazed stupor, from which she did not recover for several days. Morris King's appeal had stirred elements of her character she had long ignored or suppressed. The old pride of blood from races who had been the conquerors and rulers of the world began to beat its wings against the bars of love. The special swept along the banks of the majestic Hudson, roaring through cities where she saw crowded express trains held on the side tracks for her to pass. She drew herself up proudly, and a wave of fierce resentment against the man who had deserted her came like a blast of icy wind from the snow-tipped mountains beyond the western shore of the river. The splendour of the stately mansion on the hill, the enthusiasm of the people for her old lover, his tenderness and deathless loyalty, and the memories that linked him to her in a cloudless girlhood, began to draw her with terrible fascination. There was something so old-fashioned and chival-rous about King and his love, she felt a strange melting within her heart. This element of romance she knew he had inherited from her own medieval, home-loving South which she loved. It appealed to her now with a peculiar force--this old-fashioned people and their ways, and a sense of alienation and hostility to Gordon and his radicalism swept once more the storm-clouds across her dark eyes. She began to question her position and the sanity of her course. She felt the stirrings of social instincts from the high-bred women of old Virginia, the Mother of Presidents and the home of the great constructive minds which had created the Republic. She knew instinctively that she could preside over the White House at Washington with the ease and distinction of the proudest woman who had ever graced it. Her old lover seemed certain to be the nominee of his party, and his chance of election was one in two. Whatever the outcome, he was young and already a figure of national importance. He was sure to play a greater role in the future than he had ever played in the past. The idea that she ruled his life and made him what he was, and might be, brought a smile to her lips and the red blood to her cheeks. His fame as a man of cold and selfish ambitions made her knowledge of the secret of his inner life the more sacred and charming. For two months this battle of pride and blood with the one great passion silently raged in her soul, until she became afraid to hear the ring of her doorbell lest it should be the Governor. She determined to go to Florida for two weeks on a visit to an old schoolmate in Tampa. There, amid the sunshine and the soft breezes from the gulf, she hoped to see her life and duty in clearer outline. It was the first week in March which found her seated in the centre of a Pullman car of the Florida Limited of the Atlantic Coast Line. The train had passed Richmond and was sweeping through the desolate broom-sedge fields still furrowed by those mortal trenches around Petersburg. Her father had been killed in one of those trenches, a gallant colonel cheering a ragged handful of half-starved men in gray, unmindful of the order of retreat until engulfed by the grand army that swept over them like a tidal wave. She took the children into the dining-car and found every table full except one, and two seats at that one already reserved. Lucy was placed next to the window, Frank next to the aisle, and the mother crowded between them with an arm encircling each. She had given the order to the waiter, and was pointing out to Lucy the lines of the battle-field on which her father had died. "There, dear, it is," she said, with a tremor in her voice, pointing to an angle in the trench on the crest of a ridge. "There is where grandfather was killed." While Lucy looked and Frank climbed into her lap and was peering out the window, the conductor placed a beautiful woman and tall, distinguished-looking man in the reserved seats at the same table, opposite. The boy turned, still on his knees, in his mother's lap, and faced the newcomers, whom Ruth had not been able to see for the child's movements. He stared for a moment at the man with wide-dilated eyes, his body suddenly stiffened, and with a half sob, half cry, he sprang to the floor. "Look! Mama, dear--look! It's Papa!" He threw himself on Gordon, and his little arms held his neck convulsively. The man blushed like a girl as his great trembling fingers smoothed the boy's hair. Kate's face was scarlet, Ruth turned pink and white, and Lucy, trembling and sobbing, began to scramble across her mother's lap. The boy's hands tenderly framed his father's crimson cheeks, he kissed him, and again and again his arms clung in passionate clasp about his neck. "Oh, Papa, we've got you at last! Why didn't you come? We've been praying, Lucy and me, every night for you, and we thought you'd never come back. Mama said you'd gone a long, long way--" Ruth was choking with emotion, and yet she smiled through her tears. She knew those tiny hands were deep down in the man's soul sweeping his heart-strings with wild, sweet music. The brunette looked across the table into the trembling face of the fair one. The dark eyes were now tranquil, whatever the storm within. A faint sinile suffused her face with mantling blushes. Lucy pulled the boy's arms from around her father's neck and slipped her own softer, slender ones there. She kissed him, and laid her brown curls on his breast. Her little hands patted his broad shoulder, and she murmured: "Papa, dear, I love you!" Kate attempted to rise, bit her lip, and fairly hissed in Gordon's ear: "End this scene! Find another table!" Gordon drew Lucy's arm from his neck and whispered: "They are all filled, my dear." The blue eyes blazed with fury as she cried under her breath: "Get up and let me out!" Gordon gently drew the children's arms away, placed them back in their seats, rose, still blushing, and accompanied Kate back into their car. At first the boy was too astonished to speak or protest. When he found his voice he whispered in wonder: "Mama, who is she?" Ruth placed a finger on her trembling lips and shook her head. "Will she let him come back?" he asked, anxiously. "Hush, dear," the mother said, softly. The boy put his arms on the table and burst into tears. Lucy sat very quiet, glancing into her mother's face wistfully. And then she felt under the table, found one of her hands and began to stroke it gently. When Gordon returned to his car, immediately behind the one in which Ruth was riding, Kate sat for half an hour in furious silence, refusing to speak or answer a question. He had never seen her so beside herself with anger. She turned on him in a sudden flash and asked with frowning emphasis: "I wonder why you dragged me off on this idiotic trip?" "I was worn out and needed the rest," he answered, quietly. She looked at him with defiance. "I don't believe a word of it," she said, indignantly. "You wish to get me out of New York. You were too much of a coward to tell Overman your suspicions that he was trying to win your wife." Gordon looked out of the window in silence. "We will stop at the next station and go back. I don't care for any more free vaudeville shows in the dining-car." "Don't be absurd, my dear; you need not meet again." Gordon smiled in spite of himself. Tears of vexation filled the violet eyes. "For all of your loud talk of freedom, I believe you still love that first wife of yours! And I am beginning to despise you." "Come, Kate, this is too absurd. How could I help the accident of such a meeting? I had not seen the children since our separation. She has always taught them to love me. How could I prevent it if I wished?" "Yes; and you love her, too," she insisted stubbornly, and the full red lips trembled and parted, and then softened into a--smile. "But don't flatter yourself I care, or am jealous, because this scene has humiliated and angered me. You're not worth a moment's jealousy, you great hulking baby!" Gordon pressed the button and ordered a lunch served in their seat, and smilingly refused to continue the quarrel. When the train crossed the North Carolina line it ran into the belt of the advancing spring rains from the South. At Wilson, it was pouring in torrents and had been raining steadily for two days. At Fayetteville, the train was an hour late, delayed by a washout. Lucy had gone to sleep with her arm around her mother's neck and one hand resting softly on her cheek. Ruth's heart had been deeply touched by this gentle and silent sympathy of the dawning sex consciousness of her daughter's soul. The quick little eyes had seen the tragedy, and a voice within whispered its soft words of new, mysterious kinship. Soon after the train pulled out of Fayetteville it struck the long, straight run of the South Carolina low country. For thirty miles the track is as straight as an arrow, and before the gleaming headlight of the engine shows on the track the watchers at the stations can see the trembling light in the distant sky beyond the sixteen-mile line of the horizon. The dark eyes were dozing in fitful sleep with the old spell of love once more enveloping the soul. She was dreaming of him, laughing at some boyish prank. Over the straight track, down grade, the Limited was sweeping at full speed through the black storm. Suddenly Ruth was awakened by a sickening crash as though the earth had collided with a star and been crushed as an egg-shell. The car seemed to leap a hundred feet into the air, plunge through space, and strike the ground with a dull smash that sent dust and splinters flying through every inch of space. She instinctively seized the children, trembling and dazed, and hugged them close. Merciful God, would it never stop! Now the car was plowing through the earth--now falling end over end, straining, grinding, roaring, smashing into death and eternity! At last--it had seemed an hour--it stopped with a shivering crash. And then the blackness of night, the swash of gusts of rain overhead, and the moan of the wind. Not another sound. Not a groan or a cry or a human voice. Was she dead or alive? Ruth felt she must scream this awful question or faint. The children began to sob and she gasped in gratitude: "Thank God, they are not dead!" She attempted to get out of her berth and found she must climb. The car was lying on its side. She looked out into the aisle through her curtains and everything was dark. The air choked her with dust, and she caught the odour of burning wool. Deep down below somewhere she could hear, in the lull of the wind, the roar of waters, and feel the car sway as though it were hanging on the edge of an embankment or trestle and about to topple into a torrent. She pulled the children out into the aisle and tried to crawl toward the end of the car, only to find it crushed into a shapeless mass and the way piled with debris. A light suddenly flashed up and the steady crackle of flames began. From the debris below came the scream of a woman for help. She drew back her slender fist and tried to smash the double plate glass windows and only bruised her tapering fingers. She found a step-ladder and broke the windows out. Lifting herself on the seat, and peering through, she saw by the glare of the buring wreck the swirling waters of the river twenty feet below. She rushed back to her berth, on the lower side, smashed the windows, and found the car resting on another sleeper. The blow had broken through both sets of windows. She lightly sprang through and drew the children after her. A stifled groan, as from one straining the last muscle in some desperate effort, came from a berth. Rushing forward, still dragging the children, she found Kate pinned on her back, with the flames leaping closer each moment. The violet eyes turned pitifully on Ruth, staring wide with the set agony of speechless fear and searched her face for the verdict of life. A faint cry came from the full lips, white at the thought of death: "Help me, for God's sake; I'll be burning in a moment!" Did the dark eyes waver with an instant's hesitation as she thought of her children imperiled by the delay and of the shame this woman's life meant to her? If so, she who cried did not see it. Swiftly the lithe form sprang to the rescue. She ran her hands over Kate's magnificent figure and tore her robe loose where it was pinioned between the timbers, loosed the wealth of auburn hair caught in the snap of the folding rack of the berth, and she was free. She took Ruth's hand and kissed it impulsively. "Thank you. You are an angel." "Come, we will be burned to death if we don't get out of here in a minute," Ruth cried, excitedly. She found the berth ladder she had thrown through the window and broke the windows out on the lower side of the car, and called: "Is any one down there?" Only the roar of the water and crackling flames answered. She looked and saw a strip of ground on the bank of the river some eight feet below. They might slide down the trestle if no one could help. The black eyes flashed into the blue for a moment and the little brunette face went white. "Where is Frank?" she gasped. Kate shivered and glanced at the flames. "I don't know. He was in the berth in front of mine. I hope he is gone for help." Ruth handed her the children and leaped back to the berth. It was smashed upward and a great hole torn through the roof. She hurried back and again peered down through the broken window at the narrow strip of ground on the river's brink lit by the rising flames. And then she gave a cry of joy at the sound of a voice somewhere amid the mass beneath, "Ruth! Ruth! Is that you and the children in that car?" "Yes, Frank," came back the steady answer. "Are you hurt?" he cried, with breathless intensity. "I think not," she replied, cheerfully. "Thank God!" she heard his deep voice burst out with trembling fervour. "Have you seen Kate?" he called. "Yes; she is here." "Come, get out of there quick. You will be burned to death!" he shouted. "Hand the children to me and then swing down--I can catch you, one at a time." She held the boy's hands and dropped him in his father's arms, then swung Lucy through and saw her clasp his neck and kiss him. She helped Kate hold and swing down into his arms. And when she felt him tremble at the touch of her own petite figure her arms tightened about his neck, she kissed him and whispered: "My own dear love!" They climbed up the river bank and walked around in the pouring rain, barefoot and treading on broken glass at every step. Neither the conductor of the train or Pullman cars were anywhere to be seen. Only one porter appeared to have survived, and he sat moaning on a piece of debris. The great engine, like a huge living monster that had seen with its single eye the abyss of the broken bridge in time, had leaped the chasm and gone plunging and faring over the ties and rails a half mile beyond the wreck, with the engineer and fireman clinging to it. The lighter portion of the train had struck the embankment of the narrow river. The day cars were piled across the track beyond; the threes Pullmans, smashed and heaped on top of one another, hung on the edge of the broken bridge. Gordon, with the two women and children, finally found a man who had some sense--a fat drummer seated on his sample-cases calmly putting on his shoes by the light of the burning cars. He was talking to a younger drummer sitting near, who fidgeted and kept looking about nervously. "Take it easy, sonny. Put on your shoes," he said, soothingly. "This is awful!" the young one sighed. "Well, we're all right, top side up, marked 'with care.' Don't worry. Put on your shoes. You can't walk in this glass barefoot." When he saw Gordon and his party he stopped tying his shoes and laughed. "Well, partner, you look like a patriarch who's lost his way. Ain't none of your family got shoes?" He looked at Gordon's bleeding feet and at Kate and Ruth shivering behind him in the rain. Gordon smiled and shook his head. The fat man hastily pulled off his own shoes, snatched off those of the younger man beside him and offered them to the ladies. "They won't be what you might call a stylish fit, madam," he said gallantly to Ruth, "but they'll beat broken glass for comfort." Paying no attention to their protests, he made them sit down on the sample-cases and put them on. Turning to Gordon and his companion, he called cheerfully: "Come, men, that Pullman's full of blankets; we must get them out for the women and children before it's too late. It's too dark to find our umbrellas. I believe that fool conductor's got mine anyhow and gone home with it. I haven't seen him anywhere." In a few minutes, he had blankets for all the passengers who had lost their clothes. By daybreak he had found the conductor, counted his tickets, and discovered that out of fifty passengers on the train twenty had been wounded, none fatally, and that thirty had escaped without a scratch. The train had dropped most of its passengers during the day and had only an average of ten people to a coach, and they were seated and sleeping near the centres of each car. By what seemed a miracle, none were killed. Just as the sun rose, the drummer formed the passengers in line, with the conductor bringing up the rear, and marched them to a cabin where he saw smoke curling up from the edge of a field. The relief train from Florence, four miles away, arrived at eight, just four hours from the time the accident occurred, bringing the surgeons and new officers to take charge, and the drummer resigned his command. The new conductor took the name and address of each passenger as they sat in grim array swathed in blankets in the cabin. Gordon gave the name of "Mr. and Mrs. Frank Gordon, New York," for himself and Kate, who sat beside him. Ruth, not hearing him, with an absent look gave the address, "Mrs. Frank Gordon, New York." The conductor looked from one to the other, puzzled, and the drummer grinned. "A Mormon Elder, by the Lord--and he lives in Gotham!" he whispered to the youngster he had in tow. Lucy lay in her mother's lap suffering from an ugly gash across her forehead. Gordon had bathed her forehead as soon as he had discovered it, and carried her to the cabin, with her soft arms clinging around his neck. He was watching her lips twitch. She had grown in the three years out of all resemblance to the child he had left. Her eyes now looked at him with the timid light of a maiden. As she had clung to him while he carried her to the house, he had felt her lips soft and warm with the dawn of sex when she kissed him and murmured: "Papa, dear, it's so good to have you carry me. I love you." For the first time there came into his soul the sweet and terrible realisation that his own flesh and blood had become one with Ruth's in the greatest miracle of earth, the heart of a woman--a woman who could live and suffer and whose heart could break even as her mother's! Her eyes were all his, her hair a perfect mixture of the pigments with which theirs had been coloured. The strength of the man trembled with tender pride and wonder as he looked at her--his living marriage vow, written out before his eyes in a beautiful poem of flesh and blood. In the gentle beauty of her face he saw reflected himself blended with the young vision of Ruth as he had first met her a laughing girl--the little stranger a growing woman, himself and his first love dream in one. Her face held him fascinated. Kate watched him furtively. The doctor examined and dressed Lucy's wound, and told Ruth it must be sewed up at once if the child were saved from an ugly scar that would disfigure her for life. He pronounced the heart action too weak from the shock to use an anesthetic. "It can only be done, madam," he gravely said to her, "if you can get her consent to endure the pain." "Will you bear it, dear?" the mother asked. She raised herself up and beckoned to her father. Gordon had heard the doctor's remark, came at once and bent over her. "I can if Papa will hold me in his arms and you take one hand and he the other," she said, eagerly. Gordon took her and told the surgeon to take the stitches without delay. The first one she bore bravely. But when the steel needle cut the flesh the second time, and the sharp pain sent its chill to her heart, the little face went white and she gasped: "Kiss me, Papa--Mama, quick--" They both bent at once, and the blond locks of the man mingled with the dark hair of the woman as their lips touched her face. The doctor paused, and Lucy smiled faintly. "I'm better now. I can stand it." Gordon felt a strange thrill to the last depths of his soul as he sat there holding one of his daughter's hands while Ruth held the other. A sense of mysterious unity with their life came over him. The little woman saw his emotion and knew its meaning. She bent close and, while a smile played around her eyes, whispered softly and triumphantly: "Frank, I'd go through another wreck for this." And the man was silent. At Florence, clothes were brought to the train, and those who had none were rigged out after a fashion for the return home. Not a passenger on the train wished to continue his journey except the fat drummer. He went on to the next station where he had intended to stop, as though nothing worth talking about had happened, and sold a bill of goods before dinner. Ruth and the children returned to New York on the first train, and Gordon and Kate followed on the next. Kate had scarcely spoken a word since he had lifted her from the wreck. She was in a deep reverie, but from the occasional gleam of her eyes Gordon knew she was passing through some great crisis. He wondered what the effects of this hour face to face with death would be on her character. He was amazed at the changes in Ruth since he had last seen her. She had blossomed into the perfect beauty of womanhood. Not a trace of anxiety was left on her face. Her great dark eyes were calm and soft. Her lips were fuller, and her complexion white and pink, wreathed in its raven hair. Her figure was now the perfection of the petite Spanish type, in full, voluptuous lines, yet erect, lithe, with small hands and feet and tiny wrists, her whole being breathing a spiritual charm. Grace, delicacy, and distinction were in every movement of her body, and over it all, an unconscious and winning dignity. After several hours of silence, as they sped back toward New York, Kate looked at him curiously and laughed. "You're not quite so handsome, Frank, in those trousers that stop at the top of your shoes and that coat that pauses just below your elbow." He held up his long, powerful arms and said, meditatively: "No. Gestures arrayed like that could hardly move an audience." The shadows fell across the blue eyes again and they swept him with a critical expression. "I didn't tell you that Ruth saved my life." Gordon turned suddenly. "Yes, and it was a shock to me I'll never get over. I don't know whether I could have done as much for her under similar circumstances, with two children clinging to me and life depending on a moment's time perhaps. But she did it, swiftly and beautifully. To tell you the truth, I've quite fallen in love with her. She is a wonderful little woman. I've been sitting here for hours wondering at the meanness of a man who could desert her. Those great soulful eyes of hers! When I looked up into them, crying like a poor coward for life--I, who had robbed her of what she held dearer than life--I saw only a tender mother's soul looking down at me. Frank, I fear your spell over me is broken. You're a poor piece of clay. The blaze in that car lit up some corners of my soul I never saw before. I think I'll despise all men and love all women after to-day. What fools and puppets we are!" The man made no reply. He only looked out the window at the flying landscape and saw the sweet face of a little girl. CHAPTER XXVII VENUS VICTRIX The flames of those burning cars, leaping into the skies above the tops of the storm-tossed trees, had lighted some dark places in Gordon's soul, and he was sobered by the revelation. The clasp of Ruth's arms about his neck, the warm touch of her plump figure, the pressure of her lips on his, and the passionate murmur of the low contralto voice in his ears, "My own dear love!" thrilled him with tenderest memories. He sat by Kate's side brooding over the days and nights of their married life. Baffled and puzzled, his mind would come back with everlasting persistence to the strange feeling that held him to Ruth--a subtle and sweet mystery, the most intimate relation the soul and body can ever bear on earth, the union in love in the morning of life and its tender blossoming into a living babe. He began to ask himself had not their being mingled somehow in essence? Had they not been really united by that vital process which sometimes makes married people grow to look alike, and often to die on the same day? Intimately he knew this little woman, to her deepest soul secrets, and yet she had still eluded him, and now revealed subtle spiritual and physical charms he had never seen nor felt before. He was conscious at the same time of a new feeling of repulsion on Kate's part, and the thought filled him with nervous foreboding. Whatever change her disillusion had brought, his own physical infatuation for her was, if possible, deeper and more unreasonable. She could not make him quarrel, but he would sit doggedly gloating over her beauty, his gray eyes flashing and gleaming with the fever for possession that is the soul of murder. He was not long left in doubt as to the turn her thoughts had taken from the crisis through which she had passed. Her drawing-room was crowded. These receptions were protracted until long past midnight, and he had never seen her so gay or reckless in manner. She dressed with a splendour never affected before, and received the attentions of Overman with a favour so marked it could not escape the eye of the most casual observer. She made not the slightest effort to conceal it, and her manner was so plain a challenge to Gordon he was stunned by its audacity. Overman felt this challenge in her mood, and, alarmed, withdrew from the scene. He did not return to the house during the week, and on Saturday he received a dainty perfumed note from her by messenger. It was the first missive he had ever received from a woman. He turned it over in his broad hand, touched it nervously, and opened it with his fingers trembling as he recognised her handwriting. "My Dear Mr. Overman: I have been sorely disappointed in not seeing you again this week. I write to command your presence Sunday morning at ten o'clock to accompany me to the Temple, if I choose to go, and to dine with me. Sincerely, KATE RANSOM GORDON." He wrote an answer accepting and then sat holding this note in his hand as though it were something alive. For an hour he paced back and forth in his office alone, screening his eye behind his bushy brows, wrinkling his forehead, twisting his mouth, and now and then thrusting his hand into his collar and tugging at it, as though he were choking. Gordon's new study was in the dome of the Temple commanding a wonderful view of the great city, its rivers and bays, and the long dim line of the open sea beyond the towers of Coney Island. It was his habit to take an early breakfast on Sunday mornings and spend the three hours before his services there. When Overman reached the house at ten o'clock, clouds had obscured the sun, The air was wet and penetrating, and charged with the premonition of storm. He felt nervous, excited and irritable. The maid showed him into the spacious library, where a cheerful fire of red-hot coals glowed, and his spirits rose. He stood before the fire without removing his top coat, and the maid said: "Mrs. Gordon says to make yourself comfortable. The day is so raw she will not go out. She will be down in a moment." He removed his coat, sank into an easy chair, and began to wonder what could be the meaning of that note. He knew intuitively that he was approaching a crisis in his life. He felt a sense of anxiety and discomfort at the idea of spending the morning alone with his friend's wife. Yet he told himself he had no choice--it was fate. A woman had arranged it. When Kate entered the room, he sprang to his feet with a cry of amazement at the vision of radiant beauty sweeping with sinuous step to meet him. He had never seen her so conscious of power or with better reason for it. She was dressed in a gown of pink-and-white filmy stuff, which clung to her form, revealing its beautiful lines from the rounded shoulders to the tips of her dainty slippers. The sleeves were open to the elbow, showing the magnificent bare arms. From the shoulders, soft diaphanous draperies hung straight down the length of her figure, revealing by contrast more sharply the graceful curves of the body. The throat was bare, and her smooth ivory neck glowed in round fulness against the background of her hair falling in waves of fiery splendour. Around her shapely waist hung a double cord of silver, knotted low in front and drawn below the knee by heavy tassels. The effect of the dress was simplicity itself. There was not a superfluous ruffle or ribbon. Its sole design was not to attract attention to itself, but to reveal the superb charms of the woman who wore it, with every breath she breathed, every step, and every gesture. The rhythmic music of her walk--quick, strong, luxurious--breathed an excess of vitality. The full lips were smiling and her cheeks aflame with pleasure at his admiration. Her eyes spoke straight into his with a candour that was unmistakable. They knew what they desired and said so aloud. They had thrown scruples to the winds, and in untamed, primeval strength gazed on life with daring freedom. Overman stammered and cleared his throat, bowed, and blushed. She took both his hands cordially and smiled into his face. "Why didn't you come back to see me this week?" He hesitated, disconcerted. "I know," she went on rapidly, leading him to a lounge by the fire. "You saw the jealousy in Frank's big baby face and you stayed away--now, honestly!" He pulled nervously at his moustache and his eye twinkled. "That's about the size of it." "Well, I'm not a child and you are not. We are both full grown. I am thirty-one years old. I am not Frank Gordon's slave, nor his property. I am a free woman by his own words. And I am going to be free." Overman glanced at the door. "Oh! You needn't try to run," she laughed. "I've got you to-day. You can't get away, and I'm going to tell you something. Can you guess what it is?" The banker began to tremble. Kate paused, leaned back in the easy chair she had drawn close in front of him, placed both of her dazzling arms behind her head, burying them in the mass of auburn hair, a picture of lazy tenderness and dreamy languor. "Can't you guess?" she repeated. "I'm not so bold as to dare," he answered, gravely. "I will dare," she said, eagerly leaning forward and bending so close he caught the perfume of her hair. The blood rushed in surging tumult to his face. "When I found myself caught in that wreck," she began in slow, mellow tones, "it flashed over me that I had been leading a sham life. I, who profess freedom, had been living a slave to form. One desire, the most intense, the most passionate, the most wilful I had ever known was ungratified. Do you know the one thing I asked when the past and present and future flashed before me in a moment?" She paused, caught her breath, and gave him a look of passionate intensity. "I only asked for one hour face to face with a great masterful man I know, that I might say the unsaid things, dare, and live the utmost reach of my heart's desire." Her voice wavered and hesitated. Then, with calm, laughing audacity, she said in sweet, sensuous tones: "I love you, and you love me--loved me from the first moment you looked into my eyes! Is it not so?" Overman rose awkwardly, pale as death, his great breast heaving with emotion, and looked again helplessly toward the door. Kate leaped forward with a laugh, seized his hand, and felt it tremble in her grasp. "Is it not so?" she repeated, beneath her breath. He looked down into her shining eyes, sighed, and suddenly swept her to his heart. Her arms circled his massive neck and their lips met. "Kiss me again," she whispered. "Again! Crush me--kill me if you like! I could die in your arms! Tell me that you love me!" "I've loved you always," he said slowly. "But why did you do this thing? Frank is my best friend. I would have died sooner than betray him." "Yes, I know," she cried, impetuously; "that's why I told you. I have no scruples. I am free. It is our compact. I'm done with his maudlin sentiment. I have chosen you. You are my master, my king. I am yours." "Tragedy to me as it is," he said, with a smile, "it seems too sweet and wonderful to be true, that the most beautiful woman on this earth should love a gnarled brute like me. How is it possible?" She smoothed his rugged face with her soft hand, drew his head down and kissed tenderly the sightless eye that had caused him so many bitter hours of anguish in life. The strong man's body for the first time shook with sobs. And the woman soothed him as a child. "You are my soul's mate," she cried, in a transport of tenderness. "Frank Gordon is no longer my husband. You are my beloved, my chosen one. I will never recognise him again. We will separate from this hour. I am yours and you are mine." Overman took her hand and, still trembling, said: "Do you know what that means?" "Yes," she answered, eagerly. "I know you will be my lord and master, and I desire it. I am sick of sentimentalism." "It means exactly that," he said, with emphasis. "Out of this bog of fool's dreams I will lift you forever, my own, the one priceless treasure around which I will draw the circle of life and death." "Yes, yes, I know," she cried, in a glow of ecstatic feeling. "I desire it so. I wish you to be my master. Your service will be sweet; your savage strength will be my joy." And while they sat planning their future life, Gordon's footstep echoed in the hall. CHAPTER XXVIII THE GROWL OF THE ANIMAL When Gordon entered the library he glanced uneasily at his wife and she smiled in insolent composure. Overman rose hastily. "Sorry the weather was so threatening I couldn't persuade your wife to go to the Temple, Frank." "Yes, the rain is pouring in torrents and it's getting colder," he answered, rubbing his hands before the fire. "I'll not stay to dinner; I've an engagement at my club," the banker said, briskly. The one eye ran from the man to the woman in embarrassment at the threatening silence. Kate walked with him to the door. "You will return at seven o'clock," she said, in even tones. "If you command it," he coolly answered. "I do. We will have our parting this afternoon. He can remove to his old quarters at the hotel. I will receive you alone, and we will arrange for the divorce and our marriage." "Promptly at seven," he said, crushing her hand in his parting grasp. Gordon ate his dinner in obstinate quiet, now and then looking at his wife's dazzling beauty with fevered yearning in his eyes. When she rose from the table he said: "I wish to speak with you in the library, my dear." "Very well, I'll be down directly," she carelessly replied. He paced the floor for half an hour, and rang for the maid. "Tell your mistress I am waiting," he said, abruptly. The maid did not return, and his anger grew with each lengthening minute. At the end of an hour, Kate appeared. He fixed her with a look of angry amazement. "Well, what is it?" she asked, impatiently. "Why did you keep your maid and send no answer to me?" "I was writing a letter. Are you a king? What is it?" she repeated, coldly. "I wish to say something of the utmost importance both to you and to me, and to another man," he said slowly, in a voice pulsing with a storm of emotion. The violet eyes danced and laughed in his face. "So tragic?" she asked, mockingly. He locked his big hands nervously behind him, stood before the fire, and a scowl settled over his face. "Yes," he said, with quiet force. "More than you understand, I fear. I have had enough of Mark Overman in this house." The fair face flushed with excitement. She walked quickly up to him, paused, and slowly pointed to the door. "Very well. This is my house. You know the way to the hotel, or shall I ring for my maid to show you?" He stared at her in a stupor, and a sense of sickening terror choked him. "Kate, are you crazy?" he stammered. "Never was more myself than in this moment of perfect freedom," she replied, defiantly. His great jaws snapped in silent ferocity, and his hairy hands closed slowly like the claws of a bear. He planted his big feet apart, and the sparks flew from the gray eyes that seemed to crouch now behind his brows. "What do you mean?" he sullenly asked. The woman drew back with uncertainty, chilled by the tone of his voice. "Just what I said," she answered, with returning courage. "This is my house. I am a free woman. I mean to do what I please. Permit me to repeat your own words from the ceremony of Emancipation, and lest I shock you later, announce that I love Mr. Overman--" "Kate!" he cried, in bitter reproach. "Yes, and he loves me. I announce to you this unity of our Eves. For months it has made us one. May I repeat your ceremony? I have memorised it perfectly. 'Human life incarnates God. Words can add nothing to the sublime fact of the union of two souls. This is the supreme sacrament of human experience. It proclaims its inherent divinity. There is no yesterday or to-day in the harmony and rhythm of two such souls. Love holds all the years that have been and are to be.'" She paused, smiled, and went on: "'This is a day of joy--overflowing, unsullied, serene; a day of hope, a day of faith. It is a day of courage and of cheer, and to the world it speaks a gospel of freedom and fellowship. It proclaims the dawn of a higher life for all, the sanctity and omnipotence of love. It asserts the elemental rights of man,' With joy I announce to you my approaching marriage to your friend and schoolmate, Mark Overman, a man in whose strength I glory, whom I shall delight to call my lord and master." Trembling from head to foot, the veins on his neck and hands standing out like steel cords, Gordon said in a hoarse whisper: "Kate, darling, this is a cruel joke! You are teasing me." Again she laughed, sat down lazily, and threw her arms behind her head. "I never was more serious in my life," she quietly replied. He hesitated a moment, his eyes devouring her beauty, stepped quickly to her side, knelt and took her hand. She snatched it roughly, pushed him from her, and cried angrily: "Don't touch me!" He attempted to take her hand and place his arm about her. She sprang up, repulsing him with rage. "It is all over between us. You are not my husband. I love another." He arose, walked back to the fireplace and leaned his elbow on the mantel. A wave of agony and blind rage swept him. And then the memory of the hour he spent in such a scene with Ruth caught him by the throat. He could feel the soft touch of her tapering fingers on his big foot as she lay prostrate on the floor before him. He turned with a shiver toward Kate, who was still gazing at him with insolent languor. Again his eyes swept the lines of her superb form with the wild thirst for possession that means murder. Two bright red spots appeared on his cheeks. With slow vehemence he said: "And do you think the man lives who will dare to take you from me?" "Dare? I will dare to turn you out of this house. I have chosen the man, and made love to him as his equal. His scruples as your friend bound him. They do not bind me. Thank yourself if this means a tragedy. You challenged the world in your strength. You proclaimed freedom in comradeship. Under the old laws of life, this man would have cut his right arm off rather than betray you. You invited him here. Has he no rights--have I no rights you must respect under such conditions?" He ignored her question and continued to look at her in stubborn, curious silence. "Do you know what you are saying?" he asked, brusquely. "Certainly. Repeating to you the secrets you have taught me." "Well, I'll teach you something more before this drama has ended, young woman," he said, with a touch of ice in his tones. She gave an angry toss of her head and cried with sneering emphasis: "Indeed!" "Yes. I'll show you, if you push me to it, what a return to the freedom of nature really means. I, too, have had some illuminations in the past months." She laughed again. "Ah, Frank, you are a born preacher, and your threats are scarcely melodramatic; they are merely idiotic." The gray eyes grew somber. He drew his right arm up until its muscles stood a huge twisted knot, fairly bursting through his sleeve, seized her hand roughly and held it with iron violence on his arm. "It's worth your while to take note of that," he said, steadily disregarding her angry effort to withdraw her hand. "It's made out of threads of steel--that muscle. Few men are my equal. I am talking to you in the insolence of physical strength that proclaims me a king--a savage viking, if you like, but none the less a king." She attempted again to free her arm from his brutal grip. "Be still," he growled. "I feel throbbing in my veins to-day the blood of a thousand savage ancestors who made love to their women with a club and dragged them to their caves by the hair--yes, and more, the beat of impulses that surged there with wild power before man became a man." With a sob of rage, she tore herself from his grasp. "Oh, you brute!" she cried, stiffening her figure to its full height, her dark-red hair falling in ruffling ringlets about her ears and neck, as she rubbed her arm where his hand had left the blue finger-prints. "I warn you," he said, his voice sinking lower and lower into a mere growl. "I am your husband. You are my wife. Whatever may have been my dreams, I'm awake now. Man once aroused is an animal with teeth and claws and Titanic impulses, huge and fateful forces that crush and kill all that comes between him and his two fierce elemental desires, hunger and love." The splendid form of the woman shook with anger. Her eyes ablaze, her cheeks scarlet, her voice sobbing and breaking with wrath, she said: "And did you call it that when you threw your little wife into the street for me? Is this your boasted freedom--freedom for man's desires alone?" "I warn you," he repeated, ignoring her question. "You will bring that man into this house again at the peril of his life and yours." "Yes, you are talking to a woman now," she hissed. "Babbler, preacher, parson, coward! Why did you not say this to him?" "I'll say it in due time," he answered, deliberately folding his arms. "In the meantime, I will inform you, as you are in search of a master, that I am your master and the master of this house." With a stamp of her foot, she swept from the room, throwing over her shoulder the challenge: "We shall see!" CHAPTER XXIX BULLDOG AND MASTIFF Gordon remained in the house during the entire afternoon. Kate called a boy and sent two messages. One of them summoned her lawyer, the same polite gentleman who had brought the wonderful message from that house a few years before. At 6:30 Gordon went to his study. The wind had risen steadily and was blowing now a gale from the northwest, and he could feel the cut of hail mixed with the raindrops. It was fearful under foot, and he knew his crowd would be small. His mind was in a whirl of nervous rage. "Bah! It's this infernal storm in the air," he cried, in disgust. A feeling of suffocation at last mastered him. He turned the service over to an assistant, left the Temple, and returned to Gramercy Park with feverish step. Overman was in the library in earnest consultation with Kate. They both sprang to their feet as he hurriedly entered, and he could see that Kate was trembling with excitement and dread. The banker was cool and insolent. Gordon walked quickly to Kate's side and spoke in icy tones of command. "Go to your room. I have something to say to this gentleman it will not be necessary for you to hear." She hesitated and glanced inquiringly at Overman. "Certainly; it's best," came his low, quick answer. The hesitation and appeal to the new master were not lost on Gordon. He squared his gigantic shoulders, and wet his lips as if to cool them. "Very well," she said, facing Gordon. "Before I go I wish to announce to you that it will not be convenient for you to spend another night in this house. If you do not go, I will." He bowed politely and waved her away with a graceful gesture. "That will do. I do not care to hear any more." Kate turned and quickly left the room. "Won't you sit down?" Gordon said, offering Overman a chair with excessive courtesy. "Thanks; I prefer to stand," he answered, gruffly. The single eye was fixed on the man opposite in a steady blaze, following every step and every movement in silence. Gordon took his place by Overman's side, thrust his big thumbs into his vest at the armpits, and looked off into space. "It's no use, Mark, for us to mince words," he began, in even, clear tones. "I understand the situation perfectly." "Then the solution should be easy under your code," the banker dryly remarked. "All I ask of you now," Gordon continued, quietly, "as my best friend, is to let my wife alone. Is that a reasonable request?" "No," was the emphatic answer. "Did I seek your wife? Yet nothing could have wrung from me the secret of my love had you not flung the challenge in my face again and again; and even then my love for you sealed my lips until she broke the spell to-day with words that cannot be unsaid." Gordon's face and voice softened. "Granted, Mark, I've been a fool. I know better now. I appeal to your sense of honour and our long friendship. Let this scene end it. Let us return to the old life and its standards." The big neck straightened. "Then go back," he flashed, in tones that cut like steel, "to the wife of your youth and the mother of your children!" Gordon's fist clenched; he was still a moment, and when he spoke his voice was like velvet. "It's useless to bandy epithets, or to argue, Mark. I don't reason about this thing. I only feel. My passion is very simple, very elemental. It flouts logic and reason. This woman is mine. I have paid the price, and I will kill the man who dares to take her. Do you understand?" The banker gave a sneering laugh, and twisted the muscles of his mouth. "Yes, I understand, and I'm not fainting with alarm. You will be a preacher and a poser to the end." "I have appealed to your principles and your sense of honour first," Gordon repeated, in a subdued voice. The one eye was closed with a smile. "Principles! Sense of honour! What principles? What sense of honour? I agree that, under the old view of marriage as a divine sacrament and a great social ordinance, sacrifice of one's desires for the sake of humanity might be noble. But in this paradise into which you have thrust me, with an invitation on your own door for all the world to enter and contest your position, and with you yourself shouting from the housetop freedom and fellowship---Sense of honour? Rubbish!" "I can see," snapped Gordon, "that one such beast as you is enough to transform heaven into hell." Overman slowly pulled his moustache, and a grin pushed his nose upward. "Exactly. I am the one odd individual your scheme overlooked--a normal human being with the simplest rational instincts, a clear brain and the muscle big enough to enforce a desire." "The muscle test is yet to come," Gordon coldly interrupted. The banker shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose so. And you know, Frank, the fear of man is an emotion I have never experienced." Gordon bent quickly toward him, his face quiet and pale, and said in muffled accents: "Well, you who have never feared man, listen. Get out of this house to-night, give up my wife, never speak to her again or cross my path, or else--" a pause--"I am going to disarm you, bend your bulldog's body across my knee by an art of which I am master, close your jaw with this fist on your throat, and break your back inch by inch. Will you go?" Overman surveyed the questioner with scorn. "When the woman who loves me tells me to go. This is her house!" he coolly sneered. Again the voice opposite sank to velvet tones. "Very well, we are face to face without disguise, beast to beast. You haven't the muscle to take her. She is mine. I gave for her the deathless love of a wife, two beautiful children, a name, a career, a character, and the life of the man who gave me being, who died with a broken heart. For her I turned my back upon the poor who looked to me for help, forgot the great city I loved, overturned God's altars, scorned heaven and dared the terrors of hell. Do you think that I will give her up? I own her, body and soul. I've paid the price." [Illustration: "Driving his great fingers into his throat."] He paused a moment, quivering with passion. "I know," he went on, "I was a fool floundering in a bog of sentiment. But you--one-eyed brute--you were never deceived about anything. You set your lecherous eye on her from the first and determined to poison her mind and take her from me." "And I will take her," came the fierce growl from the depths of his throat, "and lift her from the mire into which you have dragged her peerless being." The man opposite gave a quick, nervous laugh. "Well, I, who have dreamed the salvation of the world and lost my own soul, may sink to-night, but, old boy"--he paused and laughed hysterically--"I'll pull down with me into hell as I go one Wall Street banker!" "Talk is cheap," Overman hissed. "Make the experiment. You're keeping a lady waiting." Gordon stepped quickly to the desk and picked up two ivory-handled daggers with keen ten-inch blades, used as paper knives, and handed one to Overman. "These little toys," he said, playfully, "were a wedding present from my wife on our second anniversary." "Which wife?" snarled the big, sneering mouth. Gordon went on meditatively. "They are the finest Italian steel--sharp medicine for friends to take and give, but it will cure our ills. I never quite understood before what you meant by the fighting instinct when I used to watch you fasten those little devilish points on your Game chickens. I know now. I feel it throb in every nerve and muscle. The impulse to kill you is so simple and so sweet, it would be a crime against nature to deny it." Overman threw his head to one side, frowned and peered at the man before him curiously. "Do you ever get tired of preaching? The articulation of wind is a strange mania!" "Pardon me if I've tired you," came the answer in mellow tones. "You'll need a long rest after to-night, and you'll get it." Gordon locked the doors, placed the blower over the flickering embers in the grate, and put his hand on the electric switch. "I am going to put this light out for the sake of the comradeship and chivalry we once held in common. I could kill you at one blow from that blind side of your head. I'll fight you fair. That is a bow to the higher law in the preliminary ritual of nature. But down below, in these muscles, throb forces older than the soul, that link us in kinship to the tiger and the wolf"--his voice sank to a dreamy monotone. "You sneaked into my home in the dark to rob me of my own. In the dark, we will settle on the price. I paid for this treasure an immortal soul. It's worth as much to you." He turned the switch, and then darkness and silence that could be felt and tasted--only the thrash of the storm against the blinds without. With catlike tread they began to move around the room on the velvet carpet. They made the circuit twice, and found they were following each other. They both stopped, apparently at the same moment, wheeled, and again made the round in a circle without meeting, now and then stumbling against a piece of furniture. Gordon suddenly stopped, held his breath, and waited for his enemy to overtake him. He could hear Overman's heavy breathing at each muffled step. When he approached so close he could feel the movement of his body in the air, he suddenly sprang on him, plunging the dagger in his body, and bore him to the floor, knocking the blower from the grate in the struggle. Over and over on the velvet carpet, dimly lighted now from the glowing coals, they rolled, growling, snarling, cursing in low, half-articulate gasps, thrusting the steel into flesh and bone, nerve and vein and artery. Gordon suddenly plunged his dagger with a crash in Overman's shoulder, snatched at it, and broke it smooth at the hilt. Throwing his opponent to one side by a quick movement, he sprang to his feet, and as Overman rose, fastened his enormous hairy left hand on his throat and closed it with the clutch of a bear. His enemy writhed and plunged the steel twice to the hilt in Gordon's breast before his big right hand found the knife and wrenched it from his grasp. Then slowly, silently, inch by inch, he bent the banker's body over his knee, driving his great fingers into his throat, until the spinal column snapped with a dull crack. The limp form sank to the floor, and the two big hands clutched the throat until every finger left its black print as if branded red hot into the massive neck. A quick knock, and Kate's excited voice called: "Open this door!" Throwing the body behind the desk in the centre of the room, he felt for the switch, turned on the light, unlocked the door, stepped back and said: "Come in." Kate quickly opened the door and rushed into the room. He locked it and put the key in his pocket without a word. She turned on him a face blanched with speechless horror as he slowly advanced on her in silence, his eyes wide open, cold and set. The blood was running down across his cheek in a stream from a wound in the upper edge of his high forehead. She stood dumb with physical fear. He came close, in laboured breath, his face still sick and white with the desire to kill. The voice was hard and metallic with the vibrant ring of steel. "Say your prayers, young woman," he said, slowly. "You are going on a long journey from whence no traveler has yet returned." She staggered and caught a chair, trembling and shivering. "Frank, dear, have you gone mad?" she gasped. "Yes, I went mad in this house one day at the sight of your devil's beauty, and I have been mad from that hour. Now we have come to the end." "You will not kill me?" she begged, in piteous fear. "I cannot die; I am afraid. Surely you love me; you cannot--" He seized her wrists and she cowered with a scream. He held them in one hand and with the other swept her magnificent hair around her throat, grasped it in his iron fist, and thus choking her, thrust the shivering figure backward into the chair. She managed to free her hands, threw her arms around his neck, and tried to smother him with kisses. "Frank, dear, I'll love you. Surely you will not kill me. Have pity for all that I have been to you in the past--" "Hush," he said softly, putting his big hand over her full lips. "Why such childish terror? Love has its moments of sublime cruelty. This impulse to kill is only the awful desire for utter possession, the climax of love. I'll go with you. Neither life nor death shall take you from me." With a tremulous moan, she sank into a swoon in his arms. He loosed the hair from her throat, paused, and looked tenderly at the still white face. Then he sighed, groaned and kissed her. "No, no, no, no; not that!" he cried, beneath his breath. "How beautiful she is! I brought her to this. Yes, I was the master of her heart and life. I could have made her anything, angel or devil. I have made her what she is--One last kiss"--he bent and gently touched her lips--"and this the end." With tenderness he laid her on the lounge, loosed her corsage, smoothed gently the tangled hair from her white face, closed the door, and went to his room. He bathed the blood from his forehead and bound it with a piece of plaster. His head began to swim. A sharp pang shot through his breast, and he felt he was suffocating. He began to shiver with the instinctive desire to escape, threw some things into a bag he usually carried, stopped and scowled with uncertainty. "What's the use? What is there to live for?" Yet the big muscular hands kept on at their task. An hour later he struggled and staggered up the hill through the black, roaring storm and rang Ruth's doorbell. CHAPTER XXX THE CLOUD'S SILVER LINING Ruth had spent the Sunday in a desperate struggle with the Governor. Long and tenderly he had pleaded for a pledge that would bind her. He had been sure of the note of hesitation and uncertainty in her voice when she left Albany on the day of his inauguration. He finally left her with the firm avowal: "I am going to win, Ruth. You might as well make up your mind to it." She smiled and said "Good-night." When she went upstairs a low sob came from the nursery and she tipped into the room. For the past year Lucy would often sit for an hour at a time in reverie, and then lift her little face to her mother with the question: "Where is Papa?" Since their return from the railway accident she had never asked again. She only sat now and looked into her mother's face with dumb pain. Ruth soothed her to sleep, and was standing by her window trying to look out into the storm, which was lashing great sheets of wet snow against the glass. The bell in the kitchen rang feebly. She listened. Some one was fumbling at the front door, but the roar of the wind drowned the noise. The bell rang loud and clear. She sprang to the stairs and went down with quick, nervous step. She fastened the chain-latch, opened the door an inch, and the dim light of the hall flashed on Gordon's haggard, blood-stained face. She flung the door open, drew him quickly within, slammed and bolted it. Throwing her arms around his dripping form, she drew him down and kissed his cold lips. "Frank, my darling, what is it?" she cried, in breathless amazement. "You must help me, Ruth, dear," he gasped. "We had a fight. I have killed Overman. If you can hide me for a few days, I can escape. I don't deserve it--but I know that you love me--" "Yes, yes," she sobbed, kissing his hand, "through life and death, through evil report and good report!" She put him to bed, washed and dressed his wounds. One of them, an ugly hole over his left lung, kept spouting bruised blood as he breathed. The dark eyes grew dim as she watched it. "Oh! Frank, I must have a doctor," she said, tremulously. "No, Ruth; I can sleep now. I'll be better in the morning. A doctor will know me." "But I have one I can trust," she replied, pressing his hand. He shook his head, closing his eyes. "You can't stand up against the wind and sleet. It's awful. You can't walk a block. Don't try it." She watched his mouth twitch with pain. "I will try it," she answered, firmly. "Lucy will watch with you till I get back." When Ruth called and told her, the little hands clasped, a cry burst from her heart, and she kissed her mother impulsively. While his daughter sat by the bedside gently stroking his big blue-veined hand, Gordon dozed in sleep and Ruth crept out into the wild night on her mission of love. She was half an hour going and coming four blocks. Three times the wind threw her on the freezing pavements. When she climbed up her own steps her clothing was shrouded in an inch of snow and ice, her cheeks were red and swollen, and her hands were bleeding, but a smile played about her lips. The doctor was coming. He assured her that the wounds were not fatal, and left instructions for dressing them. A few days of rest and all danger would be past. Through the night, while the wind howled and moaned and roared, the mother and daughter sat by the bedside and smiled into each other's faces. The meaning of the tragedy had not yet dawned on Ruth. She only knew that her beloved had come, that she was soothing and ministering to him, and her heart was singing its song of triumphant love. The long night of the soul was over. The morning had come. The storm without was on another planet. As they watched he began to talk in fevered half-dream, half-delirium words, phrases and broken sentences that revealed the inner yearnings and conflicts of his soul. "Silly fool," he muttered. "Beauty-marvelous--Ruth-dear dark eyes-I-love-her." As day approached, Ruth began to dread its message. Already she could see the officers at the door. When day broke she tried to look out of the window, and could only see across the street. The park and the city below were blotted out. The whole world seemed one white, swirling, howling smother of snow. The wind came in long gusts of shrieking fury. She could count its pulse-beats in the lulls which were growing shorter. And, child of the sea that she was, she knew that the advancing cyclone had not reached its climax. She breathed a prayer of relief. They could not find him to-day. The cook did not come. Not a milk-wagon or bread-cart echoed through the street. Not a call of newsboy, whistle of postman, or cry of a schoolboy. The house-girl had not come. Ruth descended to the kitchen, made a fire, and cooked breakfasts. With her own hands she was serving her Love, and her heart was singing. At ten o'clock, she looked out of her window, and the snow was piled to the second story of the houses opposite, which were receiving the full fury of the blast. The wind was visible. It blew in white, roaring sheets of snow, howling, whistling, screaming, shrieking. Tin roofs, signs, battered chimney-tops, blinds, awnings, brackets, flagpoles, sheet-iron eaves and every odd and end began to crash and rain in the streets and bury themselves in the drifts. The woman's heart rode on the wings of the storm. Her beloved was hiding safe beneath its white feathers. She wondered if any one else in all the world were singing for joy with its wild music. For three hours of the morning, struggling men had braved the storm and fought to reach their places of business. Shouts, curses, calls, laughter, the screams of boys, at first; and then defeat, silence and the roar of the wind. Street-cars were piled on their sides, and the tracks jammed with debris and mountains of snow. At eleven o'clock, from Manhattan there was no Jersey or Brooklyn. The ferries were still. The great dead Bridge hung swaying in the dark sky, a white festoon of ice and snow, like a jeweled garland swung from heaven to soften the terrible beauty of a frozen world. The waters below were lashed into a white smother of spray. The air cut like a knife with the sand blown from the flying waves of the distant beaches. Policemen crouched and shivered in barred doorways. The storm had caged every thief, burglar and murderer, as it had sheathed the claws of every bear and wolf on the distant mountain-side. The snow was piled over the tops of the doors of the City Hall and Court House. There was no Mayor, no court, no jury. The Stock Exchange was closed, the Custom House and Sub-Treasury silent, and every school without teacher or scholar. Every depot was placarded, and not a wheel was moving. Not a newspaper found its way to a home, or a single piece of mail arrived in New York, or was sent from it, or delivered within its gates. Every telegraph and telephone office was silent and the fire department was paralysed. The elevated trains crawled and slipped and stalled and fought on their steel trestles till ten o'clock, and the last wheel stopped and froze. At three o'clock a Staten Island ferry-boat ventured her nose out of her slip. The wind snapped off both flag-staffs and smokestack, hurled them into space, caught her in its mighty claws, dragged her helpless across the bay and flung her on the Staten Island shore. Wherever men could gather they talked in low, helpless and bewildered tones. The storm signal, set by the Weather Bureau, was torn to shreds and the wind-gage hurled into the sky as it registered eighty-two miles an hour. On the mountains of Colorado and over the plains of Dakota it had begun, a fine, misty rain sweeping eastward, throwing out its soft skirmish-line of breezes, drawn by the summons of the Storm King far out on the waste of the sea. And then the king had blown his frozen breath on the earth and the mighty city had been blotted from the map and its tumult stilled in soft white death. Ruth drew Gordon to the window against which the sparrows crouched and shivered, that he might watch the storm's wild pranks. "After all," the wounded man cried, "it has been conquered, the rushing, tumultuous city! Beyond the rim of man's map of the world broods in silence the One to whom its noise is the rustle of a leaf and this wind but a sigh of His breath! What can endure?" His eyes rested on the smiling, lovelit face of Ruth, and he forgot the storm in the deeper wonder of a pure woman's love. CHAPTER XXXI A LACE HANDKERCHIEF The next morning the lulls between the gusts of wind grew longer and the wind-waves shorter. The snow ceased to fall and the shadows on the clouds began to brighten with the glow of the sun behind them. The city stirred and shook off its white robe of death. The woman looked at the wounded man with a stifled moan. "It's no use, Ruth," he said, feebly. "I can't escape. I've got to face it." "What will they do to you, Frank?" she asked, in misery. "I don't know," he answered, brokenly. "I killed him in the heat of passion in a fight. But I'll be tried for murder." The officers came and read the warrant of arrest. The dark, tense figure, erect, with defiant face wreathed in midnight hair, stood by his bedside and held his hand. Her great eyes glowed and gleamed as though a young lioness stood guard over a wounded cub. Behind the bars in murderers' row the weeks and months were dragging slowly to the day of trial. The rush and roar and fever of the city were now a memory as he sat in brooding silence. The press was hostile, and reporters worked daily with an army of detectives to find every scrap of evidence against him, and as the day fixed for his arraignment drew near, story after story appeared in the more sensational journals, written with the clearest purpose of influencing the mind of every possible juryman. Ruth's heart sank with anguish as she read these stories, but they stirred her to more vigorous action. She read every newspaper carefully and followed every clue of reporter and detective to anticipate its influence. Not a day passed but that she carried to the man behind the bars a message of courage and cheer. Gordon would sit and watch for that one face whose light was hope until it became the only reality in a universe of silence and darkness. His whole life seemed to focus now on the little face with its dimpled chin and shy, tremulous lips smiling into his cell. The soft contralto voice, even when it sank to the lowest notes of melancholy, was full of tenderness and caressing feeling. As he touched her tapering fingers on the steel bars and watched the red blood mount until her delicate ears shone like transparent shells in the dark mass of her hair, visions of their life together would rise until the past few years seemed the memory of a delirium. He studied her with increasing fascination. The illuminating power of restraint had developed new forces in his sensitive mind. How marvelous she seemed, walking toward his cell with gentle yet triumphant footfall, her face aglow with tenderness and love, and how his soul leaped those bars and embraced her! Many friends on whom he had counted had failed. She had never failed. Her resources were endless, her energy infinite. She would have fought all earth combined without a tremor. And yet those who came in contact with her felt a gentleness that touched with the softness of a caress. The day before the trial her face glowed with hope. "Frank, our lawyers are sure we will win!" she cried, with joy. "Barringer has determined to rest the case on the charge of wilful murder. And if he does the jury will acquit you. There is only one shadow of uncertainty." The dark eyes clouded and a gleam of fire flashed from their depths. "I know," he said, sorrowfully. "We can't find whether that woman is going on the witness stand against you. I've tried in vain to get one word from her lips." She brushed a tear from her eyes with a lace handkerchief. The man saw it was the mate to the one she had given him stained with her blood the day he had deserted her. When, she turned to go, he felt for the cot behind him as though blind, fell on his face and burst into sobs. CHAPTER XXXII A LIFETIME IN A DAY The court-room was crowded to suffocation. The corridors were jammed, the pavements, park and street outside a solid mass of humanity. The prison van plowed its way through the throng. Gordon stepped out, with handcuffs jingling on his wrists, and straightened his giant figure between the two officers who led him. A cheer suddenly burst from the crowd and echoed through the court-room. There was no mistaking that cry. He had heard it before. He knew. He had killed a banker. They were glad of it and proud of him. In muttered curses and cheers they said so. He was the champion of a class, and the murder of an enemy had made him a hero. No matter the right or wrong. Down with every banker--what did they care! Ruth met him in the anteroom, followed him into the prisoner's dock and took her place by his side. The bill of indictment was read. "The People against Frank Gordon." With terrible memories the title rang through his soul. The people, for whom he had fought, for whom he had suffered, worked and dreamed, had put him on trial for his life. What a strange fate! The faces grew dim, and a sense of illimitable and awful ruin crushed him. A soft hand stole gently into his, and its warmth cleared his brain. He looked around the room and, to his surprise, saw dozens of people he had helped in his ministry of the Pilgrim Church. Just in front of him sat a woman who, under the inspiration of his preaching, had given her fortune to found an orphanage for homeless girls, and was spending her life in happy service as its presiding genius. She nodded and smiled, and her eyes filled with tears. There was a stir in the group of lawyers behind him, and the old woman who had kissed him the day Ruth was watching pushed to his side, seized his hand, choked, and could say nothing. She had come all the way from Virginia to cheer him. Ludlow, his faithful deacon, he saw, and near him sat Van Meter. The little black eyes were solemn and the mouth drawn with sorrow. Over against the wall, jammed in the crowd, he saw Jerry Edwards, who was still telling the story of his life with reverent wonder and love. He clasped both hands together, shook them over the heads of the crowd, and smiled. A feeling of awe came over him as he thought of the eternity of man's deeds, going on and on forever, whatever might be his own fate. He looked curiously at Barringer, the young Assistant District Attorney, who was conducting the case against him. In the dark-brown eyes, keen and piercing, there was deadly hostility. He had become famous as a relentless public prosecutor. He came of a long line of great lawyers of the old South, and the breath of a court-room was born in his nostrils. Gordon was chilled by the cold, clear ring of his penetrating voice. While the jury was being impaneled, Ruth sat by Gordon, eagerly trying to see the invisible secrets of every juror's soul who faced the man she loved. The court ruled that Socialists were disqualified to sit on the case. When the twelve men were selected she scanned their faces with searching gaze for the signs of life or death. Their names all seemed strange. She could make nothing out of them. The opening address of Barringer choked her with fear. In cold-blooded words he told the jury of the certainty of the guilt of the prisoner. His manner was earnest, dignified and terrible in its persuasive assurance. For days his awful closing sentence rang like a death knell in her ears. Four days of the week were consumed by the witnesses for the prosecution. On Friday morning Ruth and her lawyers were elated over the unimportant character of the testimony. Suddenly Barringer looked at the prisoner, frowned, and said: "Call Kate Ransom Gordon to the witness stand." The prisoner went white and lowered his eyes. There was a stir at the side door. With quick, firm step the magnificent figure crossed the room, with every eye save one riveted on her beautiful face. She took her seat, and in cool, clear tones told her story. The prisoner looked up once, and she met his gaze with a glance of fierce resentment. She gave the long history of his suspicions of Overman, of their quarrels about him, of his jealousy and his threat to kill him. With minute detail she explained the events of the fatal Sunday, described his entrapping Overman in the library unarmed, and of his murder in the dark. She told how she had rushed to the door and found no light within, and how he had enticed her into the room and attempted to choke her to death. Finally she explained to the jury that the wounds Gordon had received were not from Overman in a fight, but that he had tried to kill her and commit suicide and had failed. For five hours she sat in the witness chair and coolly swore his life away, baffling with keenest wit at every turn the shrewd lawyer who baited, harassed and cross-questioned her with merciless vigour. When she declared that Gordon's wounds were self-inflicted, he stared at her in dazed wonder and gasped to Ruth: "Merciful God, is she deliberately lying, or does she believe it?" Ruth did not answer, but slipped her warm little hand in his and pressed it. His fingers were like icicles. Gordon seemed to sink into a stupor and take no further note of what was going on in the room. He turned around, placed his arm on the chair, and fixed his eyes on Ruth, looking, looking! As he felt her hot hand trying to warm the chill of death in his own, he followed every movement of a muscle of her face with hypnotic intensity. When they led him back to the prison van his shoulders drooped with mortal weariness. He had lived a lifetime in a day, and his hair had turned gray. CHAPTER XXXIII THE VERDICT Gordon seemed to take no further interest in the trial. He only sat day after day and watched Ruth. Now and then a faint flush tinged the prison pallor of his cheeks as from some thought passing in his memory. Barringer's speech to the jury was one of fierce and terrible eloquence. Every art of persuasion, every trick of oratory, every force of personality he used with pitiless power. In ridicule, sarcasm, invective, pathos and logic, his voice rose and fell, pulsed and quivered, or rang with the peal of a trumpet. He held the jury in the hollow of his hand for four hours, while Ruth stared at him with her heart in her throat, every word cutting her flesh like a knife or smashing the tissues of her brain with the force of a bludgeon. The jury retired. Through the dreary hours of the afternoon Ruth sat in the anteroom by Gordon's side waiting for the verdict. Minutes lengthened into hours, and hours into days and years, until time and eternity were one, and she lived a life of despair or hope within the second between the ticks of the clock on the wall. She tried to say a word of cheer to Gordon, and choked. The little chin drooped, showing the white teeth, and she sat in dumb misery like a sick child. The man looked at her tenderly and said: "You must be calm, Ruth, dear. Death is a physical incident that no longer interests me, except as it affects you. You are the one miracle of life and death to me." She pressed his hand and could not answer. At five o'clock the jury returned for instructions, and she listened with agony to their awful questions. At six o'clock there was a hurried stir in the court-room. The crowd surged into its doors and packed every inch of space. The jury were filing in with their verdict. The judge solemnly took his seat, and the clerk summoned Gordon to stand up. The giant figure rose with dignity and his steel-gray eyes pierced the jury. The foreman's lips moved: "Guilty of murder in the first degree!" A long breath, a stir, a murmur, and then a broken sob from a woman's heart. Her arms were around his neck, her head on his breast, and her swollen lips in low, piteous tones cried: "My darling!" CHAPTER XXXIV THE APPEAL Two weeks later the judge pronounced the sentence of death. Again the dark figure was by the prisoner's side, alert, erect, every faculty of mind and body at its highest tension, her cheeks aflame with defiance, her eyes gleaming with hidden fire. She was sure the Court of Appeals would grant a new trial. She bade her beloved good-by at the gates of Sing Sing, and the door of the Chamber of Death closed upon him. Day and night she worked with tireless energy. She systematically laid siege to the editors and owners of the papers in New York, and at last won every hostile critic by her patience, her beauty of character, and the infinite pathos of her love. The moment sentence of death was pronounced on Gordon, Kate sued for a divorce from him as a convicted felon, and it was granted. The little dark woman became the toast of every hardened newspaper reporter who came in contact with her. The newsboys learned to recognise her from her pictures, and as she went in and out of the court-rooms and the lawyers' offices they would watch and wait for her, doff their dirty caps, smile, hand her a flower, and cry: "She's de queen!" When Ruth saw the notice of Kate's divorce, she asked her lawyers to arrange at once for her to remarry Gordon at Sing Sing. The senior counsel shook his head. "You must not dare, madam," he gravely said. "If we should not get a new trial, or fail on the second trial, the Governor at Albany is our only hope." A wave of sickening terror swept Ruth's soul. She recalled King's strange reserve of the past months. His letters were kind and sympathetic, but there was something hidden between their lines that chilled her. "We must not lose!" she answered, bitterly. "I don't think we will," the lawyer hastened to assure her. "But we must reserve every weapon." The Court of Appeals decided in Gordon's favour and ordered a new trial. As the day approached, Ruth's nervousness increased. His chances were better, but she could hear the awful words of Kate Ransom swearing away his life. Their echoes rang in her soul until she could no longer endure it. She was at Gramercy Park at last. When Kate swept proudly and coldly into the room, and extended her hand, she held it in her grasp timidly and nervously. "I've come to beg you," she said, piteously, "not to say he made those wounds in his own breast. They fought a duel as men have often done. You were in a swoon. You thought he did it himself because he told you he was going to die with you. He did not hurt you. He only laid you tenderly on the lounge, smoothed your hair, kissed and left you. Surely you have brought me enough sorrow. Have pity on me!" Kate led her to a seat and spoke with quiet decision. "I said what I believed to be the truth. I shall repeat it. I can feel his wild beast's claws on my throat now in the night sometimes and wake with a scream." "Ah, but he was mad," she cried, through her tears. "He is tender and gentle as a child. Surely you"--she paused and caught her breath--"who have slept with your head on his dear breast know this!" "It is useless to talk to me," she answered, with anger. "He deserves to die. And it will be a good riddance for you, and for the world. He was stirring the passions of mobs that will yet make work for hangmen." "But he is not on trial for this," she pleaded, "You should be the last to reproach him with it. Think of all the sacrifices for you--his career, his wife and children, his father, his friends. Surely there is yet one spark of love for him in your heart?" Kate shook her head. "Then for my sake, I beg of you--you are a woman. You have loved. Have mercy on me! You asked me once for help--did I fail you?" The blond face softened. "No, you didn't. I'm sorry for you. If it were your life, I'd save it if I swore a thousand lies--but for him, the brute--I can feel him strangling me now--you have not felt his hands on your throat." "No," said the soft contralto voice, "not on my throat; it would have been a relief to have felt them there. They were on my soul. But I love him---" Kate was relentless, and Ruth left, shivering with anguish and angry pride. The new trial dragged its length to the second jury. Ruth spent and pledged the last dollar of her fortune. Once more she heard the foreman, in tones that seemed far off in space, say the fatal word-- "Guilty!" She stood by his side again before the judge and heard the words of death fall from his lips, this time with blanched face and cold little fingers locked in agony. Again the gates at Sing Sing closed, and a woman turned her footsteps toward the Governor's Mansion at Albany. CHAPTER XXXV BETWEEN TWO FIRES Ruth trembled at the thought of her appeal to King. She knew his iron will, his intense love, and the certainty with which he had long regarded their coming union. His ambitions were still mounting, and daily with better assurances of success. His party had chosen another man their candidate for the Presidency, and had been overwhelmed in defeat, while he had been re-elected Governor by a larger plurality. He received her with grave tenderness. "Morris," she cried, pathetically, seizing his hand and holding it, "he is not guilty of murder. Everything has been against him in these trials. They were not fair. He killed that man in what men have always called a fair fight. You are a manly man. You believe in justice. You will not let them kill him!" She could feel the strong man's hand tremble in hers, looked up into his face, and saw a tear quiver on his lashes. "Oh! Ruth," he cried, bitterly, "why do you cling to this man? He is regarded as the most dangerous firebrand in America. I could show you hundreds of letters piled on that desk begging me in the name of law and order and all the forces of civilised society not to interfere with his sentence. Come, you know how I love you. This is horrible cruelty to me. The doors of the White House are opening. You know that what I have, am now, and ever may be, is yours. It will all be ashes without you. I offer you a deathless love, honour and glory, and you come here to tell me you prefer a convicted felon in his cell. My God, it is too much!" The Governor leaned on his desk and shaded his face with his hands. "How can I help it, Morris, if I love him?" she asked, piteously. He raised his head, looked away, and softly said: "Ruth, could you never love me?" She was silent a moment and her lips trembled. "If he dies, I cannot live," she gasped. He leaned close, took her hand, and said: "I'll order a stay of sentence for three months." She kissed his hand, and murmured: "Thank you." From the telegraph office at Albany over the wires to Sing Sing's house of death flew the message: "Sentence stayed for three months while the Governor considers your pardon. Faith and hope eternal. RUTH." The next express carried her to him with the copy of the Governor's order in her bosom. The warden smiled and congratulated her. She had long before won his heart, and there was no favour within the limits of law that he had not granted to the man she loved. Ruth looked at Gordon tenderly through the barred opening of his cell. Her heart ached as she saw the ashen pallor of his face and the skin beginning to draw tight and slick across the protruding cheek-bones of his once magnificent face. Three years of prison had bent his shoulders and reduced his giant frame to a mere shadow of his former self. Only the eyes had grown larger and softer, and their gaze now seemed turned within. They burned with a feverish mystic beauty. Ruth fixed on him a look of melting tenderness and asked: "Do you not long for the open fields, the sky and sea, my dear?" He gazed at her hungrily. "No. Sometimes I've felt a queer homesickness in these dying muscles that thirst for the open world, but I've no time to think of mountain or lake, or hear the call of field or sea---Ruth, I can only think of you! I have but one interest, but one desire of soul and body--that you may be happy. I would be free, not because I fear death or covet life"--his voice sank to a broken whisper--"but that I might crawl around the earth on my hands and knees and confess my shame and sorrow that I deserted you." "Hush, hush, my love; I forgive you," she moaned. "Yes, I know; but all time and eternity will be too short for my repentance." The woman was sobbing bitterly. "These prison bars," he went on with strange elation, "are nothing. The old queer instinct of asceticism within me, that made a preacher of an Epicurean and an athlete, has come back to its kingship. Its sublime authority is now supreme. I despise life, and have learned to live. There is no task so hard but that the king within demands a harder. There can be no pain so fierce and cruel but that it calls my soul to laughter. As for Death--" His voice sank to dreamy notes. "She who comes at last with velvet feet and the tender touch of a pure woman's hand--her face is radiant, her voice low music. She will speak the end of strife and doubt, and loose these bars. With friendly smile she will show me the path among the stars, until I find the face of God. I'll tell Him I'm a son of His who lost the way on life's great plain, and that I am sorry for all the pain I've caused to those who loved me." [Illustration: A cheer suddenly burst from the crowd and echoed through the court-room.] Ruth felt through the bars and grasped his hand, sobbing. "Don't, don't, don't, Frank! Stop! I cannot endure it!" The warden turned away to hide his face. CHAPTER XXXVI SWIFT AND BEAUTIFUL FEET For three months Ruth went back and forth from Sing Sing to Albany, battling with the Governor for Gordon's life and cheering the condemned man with her courage and love. The fatal day of the execution had come, and she was to wage the last battle of her soul for the life of her love with the man who loved her. It was a day of storm. The spring rains had been pouring in torrents for a week and the wind was now dashing against the windows blinding sheets of water. A carriage stopped before the Governor's Mansion, and two women wrapped in long cloaks leaped quickly out. The Governor was at his desk in his office. There was the rustle of a woman's dress at his door. He looked and sprang to his feet, trembling. He threw one hand to his forehead as though to clear his brain, and caught a chair with the other. Advancing swiftly toward him, he saw the white vision of Ruth Spottswood the night of the ball when he had lost her. The same dress, the same rounded throat, only the bust a little fuller, and the same beautiful bare arms with the delicate wrists and tapering fingers. The great soulful eyes, with just a gleam of young sunshine in their depths, and the same flowers on her breast. She walked with lithe, quick grace, and now she was talking in the low sweet contralto music that had echoed in his soul through the years. "Please, Governor," she was saying, as her hot hand held his, "save my father!" The man's eyes were blinking, and he put one hand to his throat as though he were about to choke. He looked past the white figure of the girl and saw her mother kneeling in the corner of the room, the tears streaming down her face and her lips moving in prayer. In quick tones he called: "Ruth!" She leaped to her feet and was before him in a moment, with scarlet face, dilated eyes and disheveled hair. "You've won. I give it up." Ruth pressed both hands to her breast and caught her breath to keep from screaming. He pressed the button on his desk. The clerk appeared. "Write out a full pardon for Frank Gordon, and call the warden of Sing Sing!" Ruth dropped to her knees, crying: "O Lord God, unto thee I give praise!" In a moment the clerk hurried back to the Governor's side and in startling tones whispered: "The wires are down, sir. I can't get the warden." The Governor snatched his watch from his pocket. "There is no train for two hours. Order me a special!" The despatcher flashed his command for a clear track as far as the wires would work, and within fifteen minutes the great engine with its single coach dashed across the bridge and plunged down the grade toward Sing Sing, roaring, hissing, screaming its warnings above the splash and howl of the storm. The Governor sat silent with his head resting on his hand, shading his eyes. Ruth, still and pale, gazed out the car window, and, shivering, closed her eyes now and then over the vision of a cold dead face she feared to see at the journey's end. They had made fifty miles in fifty minutes, and not a word had been spoken. The Governor looked at his watch and leaned over: "Cheer up, Ruth. We are making a mile a minute through the storm, over slippery rails. We will make it in time." Suddenly the emergency brakes came down with a crash, every wheel was locked, and the train slid heavily on the track, hissing, grinding, swaying, the steel rails blazing with sparks. The Governor sprang from the car. "We're blocked by a wreck, sir," the conductor said, touching his cap. "The high water has undermined the track on the river bank." Within twenty minutes the engine in front of the wreck was secured, Ruth and Lucy were in the cab, and the engineer and fireman stood reading their orders. "Gentlemen, I am the Governor," said a voice by their side. They looked up. "This is a matter of life and death. The life of a man--and the life of the little pale woman I helped into your cab. Put this engine into Sing Sing by five minutes to two o'clock and I'll give you a thousand dollars. Five hundred for each of you." The engineer smiled. "We'll do it for you, sir, without money. We voted for you." The Governor pressed their hands. Down the storm-clouded track the engine flew with throbbing heart of steel and breath of fire like a panting demon. Back and forth over the spongy rails she swayed, her mighty ribs cracking as she lurched and jumped and plunged. But the fireman in his flannel shirt, dripping with perspiration, never paused, as with steady stroke he fed her roaring mouth; and the engineer, with his hand on her pulse, leaned far out of the cab with his eyes fixed on the flying track. The hour for the condemned man was at hand. He had asked the warden as a special favour to do his duty without delay at the appointed time. Gordon was ready, dressed with his old fastidious distinction to the last detail of his toilet. He had spent the entire night before writing to Ruth the last chapter in a secret diary he had kept and given to the warden for her. The warden read the death warrant with halting lips. He had been strangely drawn to this tall young giant with his premature gray hairs. Gordon's words of lyric fire to him of the mysteries of life and death had thrown a spell over his imagination. He was going to kill him now with the horrible feeling that he was his own brother. "Come, my friend," Gordon said to him, cheerfully, "you promised me there should be no delay. I've a child's eagerness now to push the black curtains aside and see what lies beyond. I've often dreamed and wondered. In a few minutes I shall know. I hear it calling me, that unknown world of silence, beauty and mystery. Let us make haste." But the feet of the jailer were of lead. He would stop and hold his lower lip tightly under his teeth, as though in pain. At last they were in the dim chamber that is the vestibule of death. The cap had been drawn over his face and the leather straps buckled on his wrists legs, The warden put his hand on the electric switch. There was a shout and a stir without, the thump of hurrying feet, and the butt of a guard's gun thundered against the door. The warden sprang forward. "Stop! The Governor!" he heard faintly shouted through the deep-padded panels. CHAPTER XXXVII THE KISS OF THE BRIDE For a quarter of an hour the Governor sat and talked with Lucy, waiting the arrival of Gordon and Ruth. The warden arranged that they should meet in the adjoining room alone. No eye save God's saw their meeting. Those who waited only heard through the heavy curtains half articulate cries like the soft crooning of a mother over her babe. When they entered the room and Lucy had clung passionately for a moment to the neck of the tall, gaunt figure, the Governor took his hand. "I have accepted Ruth's word and yours for the truth in this case, Frank Gordon. I have grown to know that she is the soul of truth. I heard you preach once from the text, 'He saved others, himself he could not save.' I did not know then what you were talking about. I know now--" "Oh, Morris," Ruth broke in, "we will always love you as the nearest and dearest friend on earth." "As for you, Frank Gordon," he went on. "I could no longer hate you if I tried. In the presence of a love so pure, so divine as that which hallows your life, I uncover my head. I am on holy ground--I am in the presence of the living God." He turned away, and Ruth broke into a sob, while the man by her side hung his head and sat down as though too weak to stand. The Governor lifted Gordon from the seat, seized Ruth's hand and placed it in his. "I know your heart's desire, Ruth," he said, slowly, "I have an officer of the law here to perform a marriage ceremony. Holding your first marriage a divine sacrament, you once planned a civil one in this grim prison. No matter how I learned this: it shall be so to-day." The magistrate advanced and pronounced them husband and wife, sat down by a desk, and made out the record. The Governor rose and handed the official pardon to Gordon. "To you I give life." He tore the other paper into two parts by its dotted lines, handed Ruth one half and held the other in his trembling fingers. "This, Ruth, is your marriage certificate"--he paused--"and my death warrant. Frank Gordon, we have changed places." Again the woman sobbed. "You have forgotten something, Morris," she answered, wistfully. "Yes, I know: myself." "It is your right to kiss the bride," she said, softly, "and I wish it." He stooped and reverently touched her forehead. And when he turned away Lucy stood before him, her soft young bosom, neck and face crimson, her eyes dancing, and the sweet little mouth quivering. "May I kiss you, Governor?" she cried, tremblingly. "You are my hero!" Her bare arms flashed around his neck, and her warm lips met his. In the mansion on the hill at Albany, the Governor sat that night in his magnificent room alone until the dawn of day, holding in his hand an old battered tintype picture of a laughing girl standing beside a poor young lawyer. THE END