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Erewhon; Or, Over the Range

by Samuel Butler · English · Gutenberg #1906 · 482,177 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Erewhon; Or, Over the Range

Author: Samuel Butler


        
Release date: September 1, 1999 [eBook #1906]
                Most recently updated: August 5, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1906

Credits: Produced by David Price


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EREWHON; OR, OVER THE RANGE ***

[Illustration]




EREWHON

OR,
OVER THE RANGE

by Samuel Butler

“Τοῦ γὰρ εἰναι δοκοῦντος ἀγαθοῦ χάριν πάντα πράττουσι πάντες.”—ARIST.
_Pol_.

“There is no action save upon a balance of
considerations.”—_Paraphrase_.


Contents


 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION
 PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION

 CHAPTER I. WASTE LANDS
 CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOL-SHED
 CHAPTER III. UP THE RIVER
 CHAPTER IV. THE SADDLE
 CHAPTER V. THE RIVER AND THE RANGE
 CHAPTER VI. INTO EREWHON
 CHAPTER VII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS
 CHAPTER VIII. IN PRISON
 CHAPTER IX. TO THE METROPOLIS
 CHAPTER X. CURRENT OPINIONS
 CHAPTER XI. SOME EREWHONIAN TRIALS
 CHAPTER XII. MALCONTENTS
 CHAPTER XIII. THE VIEWS OF THE EREWHONIANS CONCERNING DEATH
 CHAPTER XIV. MAHAINA
 CHAPTER XV. THE MUSICAL BANKS
 CHAPTER XVI. AROWHENA
 CHAPTER XVII. YDGRUN AND THE YDGRUNITES
 CHAPTER XVIII. BIRTH FORMULAE
 CHAPTER XIX. THE WORLD OF THE UNBORN
 CHAPTER XX. WHAT THEY MEAN BY IT
 CHAPTER XXI. THE COLLEGES OF UNREASON
 CHAPTER XXII. THE COLLEGES OF UNREASON—Continued
 CHAPTER XXIII. THE BOOK OF THE MACHINES
 CHAPTER XXIV. THE MACHINES—continued
 CHAPTER XXV. THE MACHINES—concluded
 CHAPTER XXVI. THE VIEWS OF AN EREWHONIAN PROPHET CONCERNING THE RIGHTS
   OF ANIMALS
 CHAPTER XXVII. THE VIEWS OF AN EREWHONIAN PHILOSOPHER CONCERNING THE
   RIGHTS OF VEGETABLES
 CHAPTER XXVIII. ESCAPE
 CHAPTER XXIX. CONCLUSION

 Footnotes




PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION


The Author wishes it to be understood that Erewhon is pronounced as a
word of three syllables, all short—thus, Ĕ-rĕ-whŏn.




PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION


Having been enabled by the kindness of the public to get through an
unusually large edition of “Erewhon” in a very short time, I have taken
the opportunity of a second edition to make some necessary corrections,
and to add a few passages where it struck me that they would be
appropriately introduced; the passages are few, and it is my fixed
intention never to touch the work again.

I may perhaps be allowed to say a word or two here in reference to “The
Coming Race,” to the success of which book “Erewhon” has been very
generally set down as due. This is a mistake, though a perfectly
natural one. The fact is that “Erewhon” was finished, with the
exception of the last twenty pages and a sentence or two inserted from
time to time here and there throughout the book, before the first
advertisement of “The Coming Race” appeared. A friend having called my
attention to one of the first of these advertisements, and suggesting
that it probably referred to a work of similar character to my own, I
took “Erewhon” to a well-known firm of publishers on the 1st of May
1871, and left it in their hands for consideration. I then went abroad,
and on learning that the publishers alluded to declined the MS., I let
it alone for six or seven months, and, being in an out-of-the-way part
of Italy, never saw a single review of “The Coming Race,” nor a copy of
the work. On my return, I purposely avoided looking into it until I had
sent back my last revises to the printer. Then I had much pleasure in
reading it, but was indeed surprised at the many little points of
similarity between the two books, in spite of their entire independence
to one another.

I regret that reviewers have in some cases been inclined to treat the
chapters on Machines as an attempt to reduce Mr. Darwin’s theory to an
absurdity. Nothing could be further from my intention, and few things
would be more distasteful to me than any attempt to laugh at Mr.
Darwin; but I must own that I have myself to thank for the
misconception, for I felt sure that my intention would be missed, but
preferred not to weaken the chapters by explanation, and knew very well
that Mr. Darwin’s theory would take no harm. The only question in my
mind was how far I could afford to be misrepresented as laughing at
that for which I have the most profound admiration. I am surprised,
however, that the book at which such an example of the specious misuse
of analogy would seem most naturally levelled should have occurred to
no reviewer; neither shall I mention the name of the book here, though
I should fancy that the hint given will suffice.

I have been held by some whose opinions I respect to have denied men’s
responsibility for their actions. He who does this is an enemy who
deserves no quarter. I should have imagined that I had been
sufficiently explicit, but have made a few additions to the chapter on
Malcontents, which will, I think, serve to render further mistake
impossible.

An anonymous correspondent (by the hand-writing presumably a clergyman)
tells me that in quoting from the Latin grammar I should at any rate
have done so correctly, and that I should have written “agricolas”
instead of “agricolae”. He added something about any boy in the fourth
form, &c., &c., which I shall not quote, but which made me very
uncomfortable. It may be said that I must have misquoted from design,
from ignorance, or by a slip of the pen; but surely in these days it
will be recognised as harsh to assign limits to the all-embracing
boundlessness of truth, and it will be more reasonably assumed that
each of the three possible causes of misquotation must have had its
share in the apparent blunder. The art of writing things that shall
sound right and yet be wrong has made so many reputations, and affords
comfort to such a large number of readers, that I could not venture to
neglect it; the Latin grammar, however, is a subject on which some of
the younger members of the community feel strongly, so I have now
written “agricolas”. I have also parted with the word “infortuniam”
(though not without regret), but have not dared to meddle with other
similar inaccuracies.

For the inconsistencies in the book, and I am aware that there are not
a few, I must ask the indulgence of the reader. The blame, however,
lies chiefly with the Erewhonians themselves, for they were really a
very difficult people to understand. The most glaring anomalies seemed
to afford them no intellectual inconvenience; neither, provided they
did not actually see the money dropping out of their pockets, nor
suffer immediate physical pain, would they listen to any arguments as
to the waste of money and happiness which their folly caused them. But
this had an effect of which I have little reason to complain, for I was
allowed almost to call them life-long self-deceivers to their faces,
and they said it was quite true, but that it did not matter.

I must not conclude without expressing my most sincere thanks to my
critics and to the public for the leniency and consideration with which
they have treated my adventures.

June 9, 1872




PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION


My publisher wishes me to say a few words about the genesis of the
work, a revised and enlarged edition of which he is herewith laying
before the public. I therefore place on record as much as I can
remember on this head after a lapse of more than thirty years.

The first part of “Erewhon” written was an article headed “Darwin among
the Machines,” and signed Cellarius. It was written in the Upper
Rangitata district of the Canterbury Province (as it then was) of New
Zealand, and appeared at Christchurch in the Press Newspaper, June 13,
1863. A copy of this article is indexed under my books in the British
Museum catalogue. In passing, I may say that the opening chapters of
“Erewhon” were also drawn from the Upper Rangitata district, with such
modifications as I found convenient.

A second article on the same subject as the one just referred to
appeared in the Press shortly after the first, but I have no copy. It
treated Machines from a different point of view, and was the basis of
pp. 270-274 of the present edition of “Erewhon.”[1] This view
ultimately led me to the theory I put forward in “Life and Habit,”
published in November 1877. I have put a bare outline of this theory
(which I believe to be quite sound) into the mouth of an Erewhonian
philosopher in Chapter XXVII. of this book.

In 1865 I rewrote and enlarged “Darwin among the Machines” for the
Reasoner, a paper published in London by Mr. G. J. Holyoake. It
appeared July 1, 1865, under the heading, “The Mechanical Creation,”
and can be seen in the British Museum. I again rewrote and enlarged it,
till it assumed the form in which it appeared in the first edition of
“Erewhon.”

The next part of “Erewhon” that I wrote was the “World of the Unborn,”
a preliminary form of which was sent to Mr. Holyoake’s paper, but as I
cannot find it among those copies of the Reasoner that are in the
British Museum, I conclude that it was not accepted. I have, however,
rather a strong fancy that it appeared in some London paper of the same
character as the Reasoner, not very long after July 1, 1865, but I have
no copy.

I also wrote about this time the substance of what ultimately became
the Musical Banks, and the trial of a man for being in a consumption.
These four detached papers were, I believe, all that was written of
“Erewhon” before 1870. Between 1865 and 1870 I wrote hardly anything,
being hopeful of attaining that success as a painter which it has not
been vouchsafed me to attain, but in the autumn of 1870, just as I was
beginning to get occasionally hung at Royal Academy exhibitions, my
friend, the late Sir F. N. (then Mr.) Broome, suggested to me that I
should add somewhat to the articles I had already written, and string
them together into a book. I was rather fired by the idea, but as I
only worked at the MS. on Sundays it was some months before I had
completed it.

I see from my second Preface that I took the book to Messrs. Chapman &
Hall May 1, 1871, and on their rejection of it, under the advice of one
who has attained the highest rank among living writers, I let it sleep,
till I took it to Mr. Trübner early in 1872. As regards its rejection
by Messrs. Chapman & Hall, I believe their reader advised them quite
wisely. They told me he reported that it was a philosophical work,
little likely to be popular with a large circle of readers. I hope that
if I had been their reader, and the book had been submitted to myself,
I should have advised them to the same effect.

“Erewhon” appeared with the last day or two of March 1872. I attribute
its unlooked-for success mainly to two early favourable reviews—the
first in the Pall Mall Gazette of April 12, and the second in the
Spectator of April 20. There was also another cause. I was complaining
once to a friend that though “Erewhon” had met with such a warm
reception, my subsequent books had been all of them practically
still-born. He said, “You forget one charm that ‘Erewhon’ had, but
which none of your other books can have.” I asked what? and was
answered, “The sound of a new voice, and of an unknown voice.”

The first edition of “Erewhon” sold in about three weeks; I had not
taken moulds, and as the demand was strong, it was set up again
immediately. I made a few unimportant alterations and additions, and
added a Preface, of which I cannot say that I am particularly proud,
but an inexperienced writer with a head somewhat turned by unexpected
success is not to be trusted with a preface. I made a few further very
trifling alterations before moulds were taken, but since the summer of
1872, as new editions were from time to time wanted, they have been
printed from stereos then made.

Having now, I fear, at too great length done what I was asked to do, I
should like to add a few words on my own account. I am still fairly
well satisfied with those parts of “Erewhon” that were repeatedly
rewritten, but from those that had only a single writing I would gladly
cut out some forty or fifty pages if I could.

This, however, may not be, for the copyright will probably expire in a
little over twelve years. It was necessary, therefore, to revise the
book throughout for literary inelegancies—of which I found many more
than I had expected—and also to make such substantial additions as
should secure a new lease of life—at any rate for the copyright. If,
then, instead of cutting out, say fifty pages, I have been compelled to
add about sixty invitâ Minervâ—the blame rests neither with my
publisher nor with me, but with the copyright laws. Nevertheless I can
assure the reader that, though I have found it an irksome task to take
up work which I thought I had got rid of thirty years ago, and much of
which I am ashamed of, I have done my best to make the new matter
savour so much of the better portions of the old, that none but the
best critics shall perceive at what places the gaps of between thirty
and forty years occur.

Lastly, if my readers note a considerable difference between the
literary technique of “Erewhon” and that of “Erewhon Revisited,” I
would remind them that, as I have just shown, “Erewhon” took something
like ten years in writing, and even so was written with great
difficulty, while “Erewhon Revisited” was written easily between
November 1900 and the end of April 1901. There is no central idea
underlying “Erewhon,” whereas the attempt to realise the effect of a
single supposed great miracle dominates the whole of its successor. In
“Erewhon” there was hardly any story, and little attempt to give life
and individuality to the characters; I hope that in “Erewhon Revisited”
both these defects have been in great measure avoided. “Erewhon” was
not an organic whole, “Erewhon Revisited” may fairly claim to be one.
Nevertheless, though in literary workmanship I do not doubt that this
last-named book is an improvement on the first, I shall be agreeably
surprised if I am not told that “Erewhon,” with all its faults, is the
better reading of the two.

SAMUEL BUTLER.
August 7, 1901




CHAPTER I. WASTE LANDS


If the reader will excuse me, I will say nothing of my antecedents, nor
of the circumstances which led me to leave my native country; the
narrative would be tedious to him and painful to myself. Suffice it,
that when I left home it was with the intention of going to some new
colony, and either finding, or even perhaps purchasing, waste crown
land suitable for cattle or sheep farming, by which means I thought
that I could better my fortunes more rapidly than in England.

It will be seen that I did not succeed in my design, and that however
much I may have met with that was new and strange, I have been unable
to reap any pecuniary advantage.

It is true, I imagine myself to have made a discovery which, if I can
be the first to profit by it, will bring me a recompense beyond all
money computation, and secure me a position such as has not been
attained by more than some fifteen or sixteen persons, since the
creation of the universe. But to this end I must possess myself of a
considerable sum of money: neither do I know how to get it, except by
interesting the public in my story, and inducing the charitable to come
forward and assist me. With this hope I now publish my adventures; but
I do so with great reluctance, for I fear that my story will be doubted
unless I tell the whole of it; and yet I dare not do so, lest others
with more means than mine should get the start of me. I prefer the risk
of being doubted to that of being anticipated, and have therefore
concealed my destination on leaving England, as also the point from
which I began my more serious and difficult journey.

My chief consolation lies in the fact that truth bears its own impress,
and that my story will carry conviction by reason of the internal
evidences for its accuracy. No one who is himself honest will doubt my
being so.

I reached my destination in one of the last months of 1868, but I
dare not mention the season, lest the reader should gather in which
hemisphere I was. The colony was one which had not been opened up even
to the most adventurous settlers for more than eight or nine years,
having been previously uninhabited, save by a few tribes of savages who
frequented the seaboard. The part known to Europeans consisted of a
coast-line about eight hundred miles in length (affording three or four
good harbours), and a tract of country extending inland for a space
varying from two to three hundred miles, until it reached the offshoots
of an exceedingly lofty range of mountains, which could be seen from
far out upon the plains, and were covered with perpetual snow. The
coast was perfectly well known both north and south of the tract to
which I have alluded, but in neither direction was there a single
harbour for five hundred miles, and the mountains, which descended
almost into the sea, were covered with thick timber, so that none would
think of settling.

With this bay of land, however, the case was different. The harbours
were sufficient; the country was timbered, but not too heavily; it was
admirably suited for agriculture; it also contained millions on
millions of acres of the most beautifully grassed country in the world,
and of the best suited for all manner of sheep and cattle. The climate
was temperate, and very healthy; there were no wild animals, nor were
the natives dangerous, being few in number and of an intelligent
tractable disposition.

It may be readily understood that when once Europeans set foot upon
this territory they were not slow to take advantage of its
capabilities. Sheep and cattle were introduced, and bred with extreme
rapidity; men took up their 50,000 or 100,000 acres of country, going
inland one behind the other, till in a few years there was not an acre
between the sea and the front ranges which was not taken up, and
stations either for sheep or cattle were spotted about at intervals of
some twenty or thirty miles over the whole country. The front ranges
stopped the tide of squatters for some little time; it was thought that
there was too much snow upon them for too many months in the year,—that
the sheep would get lost, the ground being too difficult for
shepherding,—that the expense of getting wool down to the ship’s side
would eat up the farmer’s profits,—and that the grass was too rough and
sour for sheep to thrive upon; but one after another determined to try
the experiment, and it was wonderful how successfully it turned out.
Men pushed farther and farther into the mountains, and found a very
considerable tract inside the front range, between it and another which
was loftier still, though even this was not the highest, the great
snowy one which could be seen from out upon the plains. This second
range, however, seemed to mark the extreme limits of pastoral country;
and it was here, at a small and newly founded station, that I was
received as a cadet, and soon regularly employed. I was then just
twenty-two years old.

I was delighted with the country and the manner of life. It was my
daily business to go up to the top of a certain high mountain, and down
one of its spurs on to the flat, in order to make sure that no sheep
had crossed their boundaries. I was to see the sheep, not necessarily
close at hand, nor to get them in a single mob, but to see enough of
them here and there to feel easy that nothing had gone wrong; this was
no difficult matter, for there were not above eight hundred of them;
and, being all breeding ewes, they were pretty quiet.

There were a good many sheep which I knew, as two or three black ewes,
and a black lamb or two, and several others which had some
distinguishing mark whereby I could tell them. I would try and see all
these, and if they were all there, and the mob looked large enough, I
might rest assured that all was well. It is surprising how soon the eye
becomes accustomed to missing twenty sheep out of two or three hundred.
I had a telescope and a dog, and would take bread and meat and tobacco
with me. Starting with early dawn, it would be night before I could
complete my round; for the mountain over which I had to go was very
high. In winter it was covered with snow, and the sheep needed no
watching from above. If I were to see sheep dung or tracks going down
on to the other side of the mountain (where there was a valley with a
stream—a mere _cul de sac_), I was to follow them, and look out for
sheep; but I never saw any, the sheep always descending on to their own
side, partly from habit, and partly because there was abundance of good
sweet feed, which had been burnt in the early spring, just before I
came, and was now deliciously green and rich, while that on the other
side had never been burnt, and was rank and coarse.

It was a monotonous life, but it was very healthy and one does not much
mind anything when one is well. The country was the grandest that can
be imagined. How often have I sat on the mountain side and watched the
waving downs, with the two white specks of huts in the distance, and
the little square of garden behind them; the paddock with a patch of
bright green oats above the huts, and the yards and wool-sheds down on
the flat below; all seen as through the wrong end of a telescope, so
clear and brilliant was the air, or as upon a colossal model or map
spread out beneath me. Beyond the downs was a plain, going down to a
river of great size, on the farther side of which there were other high
mountains, with the winter’s snow still not quite melted; up the river,
which ran winding in many streams over a bed some two miles broad, I
looked upon the second great chain, and could see a narrow gorge where
the river retired and was lost. I knew that there was a range still
farther back; but except from one place near the very top of my own
mountain, no part of it was visible: from this point, however, I saw,
whenever there were no clouds, a single snow-clad peak, many miles
away, and I should think about as high as any mountain in the world.
Never shall I forget the utter loneliness of the prospect—only the
little far-away homestead giving sign of human handiwork;—the vastness
of mountain and plain, of river and sky; the marvellous atmospheric
effects—sometimes black mountains against a white sky, and then again,
after cold weather, white mountains against a black sky—sometimes seen
through breaks and swirls of cloud—and sometimes, which was best of
all, I went up my mountain in a fog, and then got above the mist; going
higher and higher, I would look down upon a sea of whiteness, through
which would be thrust innumerable mountain tops that looked like
islands.

I am there now, as I write; I fancy that I can see the downs, the huts,
the plain, and the river-bed—that torrent pathway of desolation, with
its distant roar of waters. Oh, wonderful! wonderful! so lonely and so
solemn, with the sad grey clouds above, and no sound save a lost lamb
bleating upon the mountain side, as though its little heart were
breaking. Then there comes some lean and withered old ewe, with deep
gruff voice and unlovely aspect, trotting back from the seductive
pasture; now she examines this gully, and now that, and now she stands
listening with uplifted head, that she may hear the distant wailing and
obey it. Aha! they see, and rush towards each other. Alas! they are
both mistaken; the ewe is not the lamb’s ewe, they are neither kin nor
kind to one another, and part in coldness. Each must cry louder, and
wander farther yet; may luck be with them both that they may find their
own at nightfall. But this is mere dreaming, and I must proceed.

I could not help speculating upon what might lie farther up the river
and behind the second range. I had no money, but if I could only find
workable country, I might stock it with borrowed capital, and consider
myself a made man. True, the range looked so vast, that there seemed
little chance of getting a sufficient road through it or over it; but
no one had yet explored it, and it is wonderful how one finds that one
can make a path into all sorts of places (and even get a road for
pack-horses), which from a distance appear inaccessible; the river was
so great that it must drain an inner tract—at least I thought so; and
though every one said it would be madness to attempt taking sheep
farther inland, I knew that only three years ago the same cry had been
raised against the country which my master’s flock was now overrunning.
I could not keep these thoughts out of my head as I would rest myself
upon the mountain side; they haunted me as I went my daily rounds, and
grew upon me from hour to hour, till I resolved that after shearing I
would remain in doubt no longer, but saddle my horse, take as much
provision with me as I could, and go and see for myself.

But over and above these thoughts came that of the great range itself.
What was beyond it? Ah! who could say? There was no one in the whole
world who had the smallest idea, save those who were themselves on the
other side of it—if, indeed, there was any one at all. Could I hope to
cross it? This would be the highest triumph that I could wish for; but
it was too much to think of yet. I would try the nearer range, and see
how far I could go. Even if I did not find country, might I not find
gold, or diamonds, or copper, or silver? I would sometimes lie flat
down to drink out of a stream, and could see little yellow specks among
the sand; were these gold? People said no; but then people always said
there was no gold until it was found to be abundant: there was plenty
of slate and granite, which I had always understood to accompany gold;
and even though it was not found in paying quantities here, it might be
abundant in the main ranges. These thoughts filled my head, and I could
not banish them.




CHAPTER II. IN THE WOOL-SHED


At last shearing came; and with the shearers there was an old native,
whom they had nicknamed Chowbok—though, I believe, his real name was
Kahabuka. He was a sort of chief of the natives, could speak a little
English, and was a great favourite with the missionaries. He did not do
any regular work with the shearers, but pretended to help in the yards,
his real aim being to get the grog, which is always more freely
circulated at shearing-time: he did not get much, for he was apt to be
dangerous when drunk; and very little would make him so: still he did
get it occasionally, and if one wanted to get anything out of him, it
was the best bribe to offer him. I resolved to question him, and get as
much information from him as I could. I did so. As long as I kept to
questions about the nearer ranges, he was easy to get on with—he had
never been there, but there were traditions among his tribe to the
effect that there was no sheep-country, nothing, in fact, but stunted
timber and a few river-bed flats. It was very difficult to reach; still
there were passes: one of them up our own river, though not directly
along the river-bed, the gorge of which was not practicable; he had
never seen any one who had been there: was there not enough on this
side? But when I came to the main range, his manner changed at once. He
became uneasy, and began to prevaricate and shuffle. In a very few
minutes I could see that of this too there existed traditions in his
tribe; but no efforts or coaxing could get a word from him about them.
At last I hinted about grog, and presently he feigned consent: I gave
it him; but as soon as he had drunk it he began shamming intoxication,
and then went to sleep, or pretended to do so, letting me kick him
pretty hard and never budging.

I was angry, for I had to go without my own grog and had got nothing
out of him; so the next day I determined that he should tell me before
I gave him any, or get none at all.

Accordingly, when night came and the shearers had knocked off work and
had their supper, I got my share of rum in a tin pannikin and made a
sign to Chowbok to follow me to the wool-shed, which he willingly did,
slipping out after me, and no one taking any notice of either of us.
When we got down to the wool-shed we lit a tallow candle, and having
stuck it in an old bottle we sat down upon the wool bales and began to
smoke. A wool-shed is a roomy place, built somewhat on the same plan as
a cathedral, with aisles on either side full of pens for the sheep, a
great nave, at the upper end of which the shearers work, and a further
space for wool sorters and packers. It always refreshed me with a
semblance of antiquity (precious in a new country), though I very well
knew that the oldest wool-shed in the settlement was not more than
seven years old, while this was only two. Chowbok pretended to expect
his grog at once, though we both of us knew very well what the other
was after, and that we were each playing against the other, the one for
grog the other for information.

We had a hard fight: for more than two hours he had tried to put me off
with lies but had carried no conviction; during the whole time we had
been morally wrestling with one another and had neither of us
apparently gained the least advantage; at length, however, I had become
sure that he would give in ultimately, and that with a little further
patience I should get his story out of him. As upon a cold day in
winter, when one has churned (as I had often had to do), and churned in
vain, and the butter makes no sign of coming, at last one tells by the
sound that the cream has gone to sleep, and then upon a sudden the
butter comes, so I had churned at Chowbok until I perceived that he had
arrived, as it were, at the sleepy stage, and that with a continuance
of steady quiet pressure the day was mine. On a sudden, without a word
of warning, he rolled two bales of wool (his strength was very great)
into the middle of the floor, and on the top of these he placed another
crosswise; he snatched up an empty wool-pack, threw it like a mantle
over his shoulders, jumped upon the uppermost bale, and sat upon it. In
a moment his whole form was changed. His high shoulders dropped; he set
his feet close together, heel to heel and toe to toe; he laid his arms
and hands close alongside of his body, the palms following his thighs;
he held his head high but quite straight, and his eyes stared right in
front of him; but he frowned horribly, and assumed an expression of
face that was positively fiendish. At the best of times Chowbok was
very ugly, but he now exceeded all conceivable limits of the hideous.
His mouth extended almost from ear to ear, grinning horribly and
showing all his teeth; his eyes glared, though they remained quite
fixed, and his forehead was contracted with a most malevolent scowl.

I am afraid my description will have conveyed only the ridiculous side
of his appearance; but the ridiculous and the sublime are near, and the
grotesque fiendishness of Chowbok’s face approached this last, if it
did not reach it. I tried to be amused, but I felt a sort of creeping
at the roots of my hair and over my whole body, as I looked and
wondered what he could possibly be intending to signify. He continued
thus for about a minute, sitting bolt upright, as stiff as a stone, and
making this fearful face. Then there came from his lips a low moaning
like the wind, rising and falling by infinitely small gradations till
it became almost a shriek, from which it descended and died away; after
that, he jumped down from the bale and held up the extended fingers of
both his hands, as one who should say “Ten,” though I did not then
understand him.

For myself I was open-mouthed with astonishment. Chowbok rolled the
bales rapidly into their place, and stood before me shuddering as in
great fear; horror was written upon his face—this time quite
involuntarily—as though the natural panic of one who had committed an
awful crime against unknown and superhuman agencies. He nodded his head
and gibbered, and pointed repeatedly to the mountains. He would not
touch the grog, but, after a few seconds he made a run through the
wool-shed door into the moonlight; nor did he reappear till next day at
dinner-time, when he turned up, looking very sheepish and abject in his
civility towards myself.

Of his meaning I had no conception. How could I? All I could feel sure
of was, that he had a meaning which was true and awful to himself. It
was enough for me that I believed him to have given me the best he had
and all he had. This kindled my imagination more than if he had told me
intelligible stories by the hour together. I knew not what the great
snowy ranges might conceal, but I could no longer doubt that it would
be something well worth discovering.

I kept aloof from Chowbok for the next few days, and showed no desire
to question him further; when I spoke to him I called him Kahabuka,
which gratified him greatly: he seemed to have become afraid of me, and
acted as one who was in my power. Having therefore made up my mind that
I would begin exploring as soon as shearing was over, I thought it
would be a good thing to take Chowbok with me; so I told him that I
meant going to the nearer ranges for a few days’ prospecting, and that
he was to come too. I made him promises of nightly grog, and held out
the chances of finding gold. I said nothing about the main range, for I
knew it would frighten him. I would get him as far up our own river as
I could, and trace it if possible to its source. I would then either go
on by myself, if I felt my courage equal to the attempt, or return with
Chowbok. So, as soon as ever shearing was over and the wool sent off, I
asked leave of absence, and obtained it. Also, I bought an old
pack-horse and pack-saddle, so that I might take plenty of provisions,
and blankets, and a small tent. I was to ride and find fords over the
river; Chowbok was to follow and lead the pack-horse, which would also
carry him over the fords. My master let me have tea and sugar, ship’s
biscuits, tobacco, and salt mutton, with two or three bottles of good
brandy; for, as the wool was now sent down, abundance of provisions
would come up with the empty drays.

Everything being now ready, all the hands on the station turned out to
see us off, and we started on our journey, not very long after the
summer solstice of 1870.




CHAPTER III. UP THE RIVER


The first day we had an easy time, following up the great flats by the
river side, which had already been twice burned, so that there was no
dense undergrowth to check us, though the ground was often rough, and
we had to go a good deal upon the riverbed. Towards nightfall we had
made a matter of some five-and-twenty miles, and camped at the point
where the river entered upon the gorge.

The weather was delightfully warm, considering that the valley in which
we were encamped must have been at least two thousand feet above the
level of the sea. The river-bed was here about a mile and a half broad
and entirely covered with shingle over which the river ran in many
winding channels, looking, when seen from above, like a tangled skein
of ribbon, and glistening in the sun. We knew that it was liable to
very sudden and heavy freshets; but even had we not known it, we could
have seen it by the snags of trees, which must have been carried long
distances, and by the mass of vegetable and mineral _débris_ which was
banked against their lower side, showing that at times the whole
river-bed must be covered with a roaring torrent many feet in depth and
of ungovernable fury. At present the river was low, there being but
five or six streams, too deep and rapid for even a strong man to ford
on foot, but to be crossed safely on horseback. On either side of it
there were still a few acres of flat, which grew wider and wider down
the river, till they became the large plains on which we looked from my
master’s hut. Behind us rose the lowest spurs of the second range,
leading abruptly to the range itself; and at a distance of half a mile
began the gorge, where the river narrowed and became boisterous and
terrible. The beauty of the scene cannot be conveyed in language. The
one side of the valley was blue with evening shadow, through which
loomed forest and precipice, hillside and mountain top; and the other
was still brilliant with the sunset gold. The wide and wasteful river
with its ceaseless rushing—the beautiful water-birds too, which
abounded upon the islets and were so tame that we could come close up
to them—the ineffable purity of the air—the solemn peacefulness of the
untrodden region—could there be a more delightful and exhilarating
combination?

We set about making our camp, close to some large bush which came down
from the mountains on to the flat, and tethered out our horses upon
ground as free as we could find it from anything round which they might
wind the rope and get themselves tied up. We dared not let them run
loose, lest they might stray down the river home again. We then
gathered wood and lit the fire. We filled a tin pannikin with water and
set it against the hot ashes to boil. When the water boiled we threw in
two or three large pinches of tea and let them brew.

We had caught half a dozen young ducks in the course of the day—an easy
matter, for the old birds made such a fuss in attempting to decoy us
away from them—pretending to be badly hurt as they say the plover
does—that we could always find them by going about in the opposite
direction to the old bird till we heard the young ones crying: then we
ran them down, for they could not fly though they were nearly full
grown. Chowbok plucked them a little and singed them a good deal. Then
we cut them up and boiled them in another pannikin, and this completed
our preparations.

When we had done supper it was quite dark. The silence and freshness of
the night, the occasional sharp cry of the wood-hen, the ruddy glow of
the fire, the subdued rushing of the river, the sombre forest, and the
immediate foreground of our saddles packs and blankets, made a picture
worthy of a Salvator Rosa or a Nicolas Poussin. I call it to mind and
delight in it now, but I did not notice it at the time. We next to
never know when we are well off: but this cuts two ways,—for if we did,
we should perhaps know better when we are ill off also; and I have
sometimes thought that there are as many ignorant of the one as of the
other. He who wrote, “O fortunatos nimium sua si bona nôrint
agricolas,” might have written quite as truly, “O infortunatos nimium
sua si mala nôrint”; and there are few of us who are not protected from
the keenest pain by our inability to see what it is that we have done,
what we are suffering, and what we truly are. Let us be grateful to the
mirror for revealing to us our appearance only.

We found as soft a piece of ground as we could—though it was all
stony—and having collected grass and so disposed of ourselves that we
had a little hollow for our hip-bones, we strapped our blankets around
us and went to sleep. Waking in the night I saw the stars overhead and
the moonlight bright upon the mountains. The river was ever rushing; I
heard one of our horses neigh to its companion, and was assured that
they were still at hand; I had no care of mind or body, save that I had
doubtless many difficulties to overcome; there came upon me a delicious
sense of peace, a fulness of contentment which I do not believe can be
felt by any but those who have spent days consecutively on horseback,
or at any rate in the open air.

Next morning we found our last night’s tea-leaves frozen at the bottom
of the pannikins, though it was not nearly the beginning of autumn; we
breakfasted as we had supped, and were on our way by six o’clock. In
half an hour we had entered the gorge, and turning round a corner we
bade farewell to the last sight of my master’s country.

The gorge was narrow and precipitous; the river was now only a few
yards wide, and roared and thundered against rocks of many tons in
weight; the sound was deafening, for there was a great volume of water.
We were two hours in making less than a mile, and that with danger,
sometimes in the river and sometimes on the rock. There was that damp
black smell of rocks covered with slimy vegetation, as near some huge
waterfall where spray is ever rising. The air was clammy and cold. I
cannot conceive how our horses managed to keep their footing,
especially the one with the pack, and I dreaded the having to return
almost as much as going forward. I suppose this lasted three miles, but
it was well midday when the gorge got a little wider, and a small
stream came into it from a tributary valley. Farther progress up the
main river was impossible, for the cliffs descended like walls; so we
went up the side stream, Chowbok seeming to think that here must be the
pass of which reports existed among his people. We now incurred less of
actual danger but more fatigue, and it was only after infinite trouble,
owing to the rocks and tangled vegetation, that we got ourselves and
our horses upon the saddle from which this small stream descended; by
that time clouds had descended upon us, and it was raining heavily.
Moreover, it was six o’clock and we were tired out, having made perhaps
six miles in twelve hours.

On the saddle there was some coarse grass which was in full seed, and
therefore very nourishing for the horses; also abundance of anise and
sow-thistle, of which they are extravagantly fond, so we turned them
loose and prepared to camp. Everything was soaking wet and we were
half-perished with cold; indeed we were very uncomfortable. There was
brushwood about, but we could get no fire till we had shaved off the
wet outside of some dead branches and filled our pockets with the dry
inside chips. Having done this we managed to start a fire, nor did we
allow it to go out when we had once started it; we pitched the tent and
by nine o’clock were comparatively warm and dry. Next morning it was
fine; we broke camp, and after advancing a short distance we found
that, by descending over ground less difficult than yesterday’s, we
should come again upon the river-bed, which had opened out above the
gorge; but it was plain at a glance that there was no available sheep
country, nothing but a few flats covered with scrub on either side the
river, and mountains which were perfectly worthless. But we could see
the main range. There was no mistake about this. The glaciers were
tumbling down the mountain sides like cataracts, and seemed actually to
descend upon the river-bed; there could be no serious difficulty in
reaching them by following up the river, which was wide and open; but
it seemed rather an objectless thing to do, for the main range looked
hopeless, and my curiosity about the nature of the country above the
gorge was now quite satisfied; there was no money in it whatever,
unless there should be minerals, of which I saw no more signs than
lower down.

However, I resolved that I would follow the river up, and not return
until I was compelled to do so. I would go up every branch as far as I
could, and wash well for gold. Chowbok liked seeing me do this, but it
never came to anything, for we did not even find the colour. His
dislike of the main range appeared to have worn off, and he made no
objections to approaching it. I think he thought there was no danger of
my trying to cross it, and he was not afraid of anything on this side;
besides, we might find gold. But the fact was that he had made up his
mind what to do if he saw me getting too near it.

We passed three weeks in exploring, and never did I find time go more
quickly. The weather was fine, though the nights got very cold. We
followed every stream but one, and always found it lead us to a glacier
which was plainly impassable, at any rate without a larger party and
ropes. One stream remained, which I should have followed up already,
had not Chowbok said that he had risen early one morning while I was
yet asleep, and after going up it for three or four miles, had seen
that it was impossible to go farther. I had long ago discovered that he
was a great liar, so I was bent on going up myself: in brief, I did so:
so far from being impossible, it was quite easy travelling; and after
five or six miles I saw a saddle at the end of it, which, though
covered deep in snow, was not glaciered, and which did verily appear to
be part of the main range itself. No words can express the intensity of
my delight. My blood was all on fire with hope and elation; but on
looking round for Chowbok, who was behind me, I saw to my surprise and
anger that he had turned back, and was going down the valley as hard as
he could. He had left me.




CHAPTER IV. THE SADDLE


I cooeyed to him, but he would not hear. I ran after him, but he had
got too good a start. Then I sat down on a stone and thought the matter
carefully over. It was plain that Chowbok had designedly attempted to
keep me from going up this valley, yet he had shown no unwillingness to
follow me anywhere else. What could this mean, unless that I was now
upon the route by which alone the mysteries of the great ranges could
be revealed? What then should I do? Go back at the very moment when it
had become plain that I was on the right scent? Hardly; yet to proceed
alone would be both difficult and dangerous. It would be bad enough to
return to my master’s run, and pass through the rocky gorges, with no
chance of help from another should I get into a difficulty; but to
advance for any considerable distance without a companion would be next
door to madness. Accidents which are slight when there is another at
hand (as the spraining of an ankle, or the falling into some place
whence escape would be easy by means of an outstretched hand and a bit
of rope) may be fatal to one who is alone. The more I pondered the less
I liked it; and yet, the less could I make up my mind to return when I
looked at the saddle at the head of the valley, and noted the
comparative ease with which its smooth sweep of snow might be
surmounted: I seemed to see my way almost from my present position to
the very top. After much thought, I resolved to go forward until I
should come to some place which was really dangerous, but then to
return. I should thus, I hoped, at any rate reach the top of the
saddle, and satisfy myself as to what might be on the other side.

I had no time to lose, for it was now between ten and eleven in the
morning. Fortunately I was well equipped, for on leaving the camp and
the horses at the lower end of the valley I had provided myself
(according to my custom) with everything that I was likely to want for
four or five days. Chowbok had carried half, but had dropped his whole
swag—I suppose, at the moment of his taking flight—for I came upon it
when I ran after him. I had, therefore, his provisions as well as my
own. Accordingly, I took as many biscuits as I thought I could carry,
and also some tobacco, tea, and a few matches. I rolled all these
things (together with a flask nearly full of brandy, which I had kept
in my pocket for fear lest Chowbok should get hold of it) inside my
blankets, and strapped them very tightly, making the whole into a long
roll of some seven feet in length and six inches in diameter. Then I
tied the two ends together, and put the whole round my neck and over
one shoulder. This is the easiest way of carrying a heavy swag, for one
can rest one’s self by shifting the burden from one shoulder to the
other. I strapped my pannikin and a small axe about my waist, and thus
equipped began to ascend the valley, angry at having been misled by
Chowbok, but determined not to return till I was compelled to do so.

I crossed and recrossed the stream several times without difficulty,
for there were many good fords. At one o’clock I was at the foot of the
saddle; for four hours I mounted, the last two on the snow, where the
going was easier; by five, I was within ten minutes of the top, in a
state of excitement greater, I think, than I had ever known before. Ten
minutes more, and the cold air from the other side came rushing upon
me.

A glance. I was _not_ on the main range.

Another glance. There was an awful river, muddy and horribly angry,
roaring over an immense riverbed, thousands of feet below me.

It went round to the westward, and I could see no farther up the
valley, save that there were enormous glaciers which must extend round
the source of the river, and from which it must spring.

Another glance, and then I remained motionless.

There was an easy pass in the mountains directly opposite to me,
through which I caught a glimpse of an immeasurable extent of blue and
distant plains.

Easy? Yes, perfectly easy; grassed nearly to the summit, which was, as
it were, an open path between two glaciers, from which an
inconsiderable stream came tumbling down over rough but very possible
hillsides, till it got down to the level of the great river, and formed
a flat where there was grass and a small bush of stunted timber.

Almost before I could believe my eyes, a cloud had come up from the
valley on the other side, and the plains were hidden. What wonderful
luck was mine! Had I arrived five minutes later, the cloud would have
been over the pass, and I should not have known of its existence. Now
that the cloud was there, I began to doubt my memory, and to be
uncertain whether it had been more than a blue line of distant vapour
that had filled up the opening. I could only be certain of this much,
namely, that the river in the valley below must be the one next to the
northward of that which flowed past my master’s station; of this there
could be no doubt. Could I, however, imagine that my luck should have
led me up a wrong river in search of a pass, and yet brought me to the
spot where I could detect the one weak place in the fortifications of a
more northern basin? This was too improbable. But even as I doubted
there came a rent in the cloud opposite, and a second time I saw blue
lines of heaving downs, growing gradually fainter, and retiring into a
far space of plain. It was substantial; there had been no mistake
whatsoever. I had hardly made myself perfectly sure of this, ere the
rent in the clouds joined up again and I could see nothing more.

What, then, should I do? The night would be upon me shortly, and I was
already chilled with standing still after the exertion of climbing. To
stay where I was would be impossible; I must either go backwards or
forwards. I found a rock which gave me shelter from the evening wind,
and took a good pull at the brandy flask, which immediately warmed and
encouraged me.

I asked myself, Could I descend upon the river-bed beneath me? It was
impossible to say what precipices might prevent my doing so. If I were
on the river-bed, dare I cross the river? I am an excellent swimmer,
yet, once in that frightful rush of waters, I should be hurled
whithersoever it willed, absolutely powerless. Moreover, there was my
swag; I should perish of cold and hunger if I left it, but I should
certainly be drowned if I attempted to carry it across the river. These
were serious considerations, but the hope of finding an immense tract
of available sheep country (which I was determined that I would
monopolise as far as I possibly could) sufficed to outweigh them; and,
in a few minutes, I felt resolved that, having made so important a
discovery as a pass into a country which was probably as valuable as
that on our own side of the ranges, I would follow it up and ascertain
its value, even though I should pay the penalty of failure with life
itself. The more I thought, the more determined I became either to win
fame and perhaps fortune, by entering upon this unknown world, or give
up life in the attempt. In fact, I felt that life would be no longer
valuable if I were to have seen so great a prize and refused to grasp
at the possible profits therefrom.

I had still an hour of good daylight during which I might begin my
descent on to some suitable camping-ground, but there was not a moment
to be lost. At first I got along rapidly, for I was on the snow, and
sank into it enough to save me from falling, though I went forward
straight down the mountain side as fast as I could; but there was less
snow on this side than on the other, and I had soon done with it,
getting on to a coomb of dangerous and very stony ground, where a slip
might have given me a disastrous fall. But I was careful with all my
speed, and got safely to the bottom, where there were patches of coarse
grass, and an attempt here and there at brushwood: what was below this
I could not see. I advanced a few hundred yards farther, and found that
I was on the brink of a frightful precipice, which no one in his senses
would attempt descending. I bethought me, however, to try the creek
which drained the coomb, and see whether it might not have made itself
a smoother way. In a few minutes I found myself at the upper end of a
chasm in the rocks, something like Twll Dhu, only on a greatly larger
scale; the creek had found its way into it, and had worn a deep channel
through a material which appeared softer than that upon the other side
of the mountain. I believe it must have been a different geological
formation, though I regret to say that I cannot tell what it was.

I looked at this rift in great doubt; then I went a little way on
either side of it, and found myself looking over the edge of horrible
precipices on to the river, which roared some four or five thousand
feet below me. I dared not think of getting down at all, unless I
committed myself to the rift, of which I was hopeful when I reflected
that the rock was soft, and that the water might have worn its channel
tolerably evenly through the whole extent. The darkness was increasing
with every minute, but I should have twilight for another half-hour, so
I went into the chasm (though by no means without fear), and resolved
to return and camp, and try some other path next day, should I come to
any serious difficulty. In about five minutes I had completely lost my
head; the side of the rift became hundreds of feet in height, and
overhung so that I could not see the sky. It was full of rocks, and I
had many falls and bruises. I was wet through from falling into the
water, of which there was no great volume, but it had such force that I
could do nothing against it; once I had to leap down a not
inconsiderable waterfall into a deep pool below, and my swag was so
heavy that I was very nearly drowned. I had indeed a hair’s-breadth
escape; but, as luck would have it, Providence was on my side. Shortly
afterwards I began to fancy that the rift was getting wider, and that
there was more brushwood. Presently I found myself on an open grassy
slope, and feeling my way a little farther along the stream, I came
upon a flat place with wood, where I could camp comfortably; which was
well, for it was now quite dark.

My first care was for my matches; were they dry? The outside of my swag
had got completely wet; but, on undoing the blankets, I found things
warm and dry within. How thankful I was! I lit a fire, and was grateful
for its warmth and company. I made myself some tea and ate two of my
biscuits: my brandy I did not touch, for I had little left, and might
want it when my courage failed me. All that I did, I did almost
mechanically, for I could not realise my situation to myself, beyond
knowing that I was alone, and that return through the chasm which I had
just descended would be impossible. It is a dreadful feeling that of
being cut off from all one’s kind. I was still full of hope, and built
golden castles for myself as soon as I was warmed with food and fire;
but I do not believe that any man could long retain his reason in such
solitude, unless he had the companionship of animals. One begins
doubting one’s own identity.

I remember deriving comfort even from the sight of my blankets, and the
sound of my watch ticking—things which seemed to link me to other
people; but the screaming of the wood-hens frightened me, as also a
chattering bird which I had never heard before, and which seemed to
laugh at me; though I soon got used to it, and before long could fancy
that it was many years since I had first heard it.

I took off my clothes, and wrapped my inside blanket about me, till my
things were dry. The night was very still, and I made a roaring fire;
so I soon got warm, and at last could put my clothes on again. Then I
strapped my blanket round me, and went to sleep as near the fire as I
could.

I dreamed that there was an organ placed in my master’s wool-shed: the
wool-shed faded away, and the organ seemed to grow and grow amid a
blaze of brilliant light, till it became like a golden city upon the
side of a mountain, with rows upon rows of pipes set in cliffs and
precipices, one above the other, and in mysterious caverns, like that
of Fingal, within whose depths I could see the burnished pillars
gleaming. In the front there was a flight of lofty terraces, at the top
of which I could see a man with his head buried forward towards a
key-board, and his body swaying from side to side amid the storm of
huge arpeggioed harmonies that came crashing overhead and round. Then
there was one who touched me on the shoulder, and said, “Do you not
see? it is Handel”;—but I had hardly apprehended, and was trying to
scale the terraces, and get near him, when I awoke, dazzled with the
vividness and distinctness of the dream.

A piece of wood had burned through, and the ends had fallen into the
ashes with a blaze: this, I supposed, had both given me my dream and
robbed me of it. I was bitterly disappointed, and sitting up on my
elbow, came back to reality and my strange surroundings as best I
could.

I was thoroughly aroused—moreover, I felt a foreshadowing as though my
attention were arrested by something more than the dream, although no
sense in particular was as yet appealed to. I held my breath and
waited, and then I heard—was it fancy? Nay; I listened again and again,
and I _did_ hear a faint and extremely distant sound of music, like
that of an AEolian harp, borne upon the wind which was blowing fresh
and chill from the opposite mountains.

The roots of my hair thrilled. I listened, but the wind had died; and,
fancying that it must have been the wind itself—no; on a sudden I
remembered the noise which Chowbok had made in the wool-shed. Yes; it
was that.

Thank Heaven, whatever it was, it was over now. I reasoned with myself,
and recovered my firmness. I became convinced that I had only been
dreaming more vividly than usual. Soon I began even to laugh, and think
what a fool I was to be frightened at nothing, reminding myself that
even if I were to come to a bad end it would be no such dreadful matter
after all. I said my prayers, a duty which I had too often neglected,
and in a little time fell into a really refreshing sleep, which lasted
till broad daylight, and restored me. I rose, and searching among the
embers of my fire, I found a few live coals and soon had a blaze again.
I got breakfast, and was delighted to have the company of several small
birds, which hopped about me and perched on my boots and hands. I felt
comparatively happy, but I can assure the reader that I had had a far
worse time of it than I have told him; and I strongly recommend him to
remain in Europe if he can; or, at any rate, in some country which has
been explored and settled, rather than go into places where others have
not been before him. Exploring is delightful to look forward to and
back upon, but it is not comfortable at the time, unless it be of such
an easy nature as not to deserve the name.




CHAPTER V. THE RIVER AND THE RANGE


My next business was to descend upon the river. I had lost sight of the
pass which I had seen from the saddle, but had made such notes of it
that I could not fail to find it. I was bruised and stiff, and my boots
had begun to give, for I had been going on rough ground for more than
three weeks; but, as the day wore on, and I found myself descending
without serious difficulty, I became easier. In a couple of hours I got
among pine forests where there was little undergrowth, and descended
quickly till I reached the edge of another precipice, which gave me a
great deal of trouble, though I eventually managed to avoid it. By
about three or four o’clock I found myself on the river-bed.

From calculations which I made as to the height of the valley on the
other side the saddle over which I had come, I concluded that the
saddle itself could not be less than nine thousand feet high; and I
should think that the river-bed, on to which I now descended, was three
thousand feet above the sea-level. The water had a terrific current,
with a fall of not less than forty to fifty feet per mile. It was
certainly the river next to the northward of that which flowed past my
master’s run, and would have to go through an impassable gorge (as is
commonly the case with the rivers of that country) before it came upon
known parts. It was reckoned to be nearly two thousand feet above the
sea-level where it came out of the gorge on to the plains.

As soon as I got to the river side I liked it even less than I thought
I should. It was muddy, being near its parent glaciers. The stream was
wide, rapid, and rough, and I could hear the smaller stones knocking
against each other under the rage of the waters, as upon a seashore.
Fording was out of the question. I could not swim and carry my swag,
and I dared not leave my swag behind me. My only chance was to make a
small raft; and that would be difficult to make, and not at all safe
when it was made,—not for one man in such a current.

As it was too late to do much that afternoon, I spent the rest of it in
going up and down the river side, and seeing where I should find the
most favourable crossing. Then I camped early, and had a quiet
comfortable night with no more music, for which I was thankful, as it
had haunted me all day, although I perfectly well knew that it had been
nothing but my own fancy, brought on by the reminiscence of what I had
heard from Chowbok and by the over-excitement of the preceding evening.

Next day I began gathering the dry bloom stalks of a kind of flag or
iris-looking plant, which was abundant, and whose leaves, when torn
into strips, were as strong as the strongest string. I brought them to
the waterside, and fell to making myself a kind of rough platform,
which should suffice for myself and my swag if I could only stick to
it. The stalks were ten or twelve feet long, and very strong, but light
and hollow. I made my raft entirely of them, binding bundles of them at
right angles to each other, neatly and strongly, with strips from the
leaves of the same plant, and tying other rods across. It took me all
day till nearly four o’clock to finish the raft, but I had still enough
daylight for crossing, and resolved on doing so at once.

I had selected a place where the river was broad and comparatively
still, some seventy or eighty yards above a furious rapid. At this spot
I had built my raft. I now launched it, made my swag fast to the
middle, and got on to it myself, keeping in my hand one of the longest
blossom stalks, so that I might punt myself across as long as the water
was shallow enough to let me do so. I got on pretty well for twenty or
thirty yards from the shore, but even in this short space I nearly
upset my raft by shifting too rapidly from one side to the other. The
water then became much deeper, and I leaned over so far in order to get
the bloom rod to the bottom that I had to stay still, leaning on the
rod for a few seconds. Then, when I lifted up the rod from the ground,
the current was too much for me and I found myself being carried down
the rapid. Everything in a second flew past me, and I had no more
control over the raft; neither can I remember anything except hurry,
and noise, and waters which in the end upset me. But it all came right,
and I found myself near the shore, not more than up to my knees in
water and pulling my raft to land, fortunately upon the left bank of
the river, which was the one I wanted. When I had landed I found that I
was about a mile, or perhaps a little less, below the point from which
I started. My swag was wet upon the outside, and I was myself dripping;
but I had gained my point, and knew that my difficulties were for a
time over. I then lit my fire and dried myself; having done so I caught
some of the young ducks and sea-gulls, which were abundant on and near
the river-bed, so that I had not only a good meal, of which I was in
great want, having had an insufficient diet from the time that Chowbok
left me, but was also well provided for the morrow.

I thought of Chowbok, and felt how useful he had been to me, and in how
many ways I was the loser by his absence, having now to do all sorts of
things for myself which he had hitherto done for me, and could do
infinitely better than I could. Moreover, I had set my heart upon
making him a real convert to the Christian religion, which he had
already embraced outwardly, though I cannot think that it had taken
deep root in his impenetrably stupid nature. I used to catechise him by
our camp fire, and explain to him the mysteries of the Trinity and of
original sin, with which I was myself familiar, having been the
grandson of an archdeacon by my mother’s side, to say nothing of the
fact that my father was a clergyman of the English Church. I was
therefore sufficiently qualified for the task, and was the more
inclined to it, over and above my real desire to save the unhappy
creature from an eternity of torture, by recollecting the promise of
St. James, that if any one converted a sinner (which Chowbok surely
was) he should hide a multitude of sins. I reflected, therefore, that
the conversion of Chowbok might in some degree compensate for
irregularities and short-comings in my own previous life, the
remembrance of which had been more than once unpleasant to me during my
recent experiences.

Indeed, on one occasion I had even gone so far as to baptize him, as
well as I could, having ascertained that he had certainly not been both
christened and baptized, and gathering (from his telling me that he had
received the name William from the missionary) that it was probably the
first-mentioned rite to which he had been subjected. I thought it great
carelessness on the part of the missionary to have omitted the second,
and certainly more important, ceremony which I have always understood
precedes christening both in the case of infants and of adult converts;
and when I thought of the risks we were both incurring I determined
that there should be no further delay. Fortunately it was not yet
twelve o’clock, so I baptized him at once from one of the pannikins
(the only vessels I had) reverently, and, I trust, efficiently. I then
set myself to work to instruct him in the deeper mysteries of our
belief, and to make him, not only in name, but in heart a Christian.

It is true that I might not have succeeded, for Chowbok was very hard
to teach. Indeed, on the evening of the same day that I baptized him he
tried for the twentieth time to steal the brandy, which made me rather
unhappy as to whether I could have baptized him rightly. He had a
prayer-book—more than twenty years old—which had been given him by the
missionaries, but the only thing in it which had taken any living hold
upon him was the title of Adelaide the Queen Dowager, which he would
repeat whenever strongly moved or touched, and which did really seem to
have some deep spiritual significance to him, though he could never
completely separate her individuality from that of Mary Magdalene,
whose name had also fascinated him, though in a less degree.

He was indeed stony ground, but by digging about him I might have at
any rate deprived him of all faith in the religion of his tribe, which
would have been half way towards making him a sincere Christian; and
now all this was cut off from me, and I could neither be of further
spiritual assistance to him nor he of bodily profit to myself: besides,
any company was better than being quite alone.

I got very melancholy as these reflections crossed me, but when I had
boiled the ducks and eaten them I was much better. I had a little tea
left and about a pound of tobacco, which should last me for another
fortnight with moderate smoking. I had also eight ship biscuits, and,
most precious of all, about six ounces of brandy, which I presently
reduced to four, for the night was cold.

I rose with early dawn, and in an hour I was on my way, feeling
strange, not to say weak, from the burden of solitude, but full of hope
when I considered how many dangers I had overcome, and that this day
should see me at the summit of the dividing range.

After a slow but steady climb of between three and four hours, during
which I met with no serious hindrance, I found myself upon a tableland,
and close to a glacier which I recognised as marking the summit of the
pass. Above it towered a succession of rugged precipices and snowy
mountain sides. The solitude was greater than I could bear; the
mountain upon my master’s sheep-run was a crowded thoroughfare in
comparison with this sombre sullen place. The air, moreover, was dark
and heavy, which made the loneliness even more oppressive. There was an
inky gloom over all that was not covered with snow and ice. Grass there
was none.

Each moment I felt increasing upon me that dreadful doubt as to my own
identity—as to the continuity of my past and present existence—which is
the first sign of that distraction which comes on those who have lost
themselves in the bush. I had fought against this feeling hitherto, and
had conquered it; but the intense silence and gloom of this rocky
wilderness were too much for me, and I felt that my power of collecting
myself was beginning to be impaired.

I rested for a little while, and then advanced over very rough ground,
until I reached the lower end of the glacier. Then I saw another
glacier, descending from the eastern side into a small lake. I passed
along the western side of the lake, where the ground was easier, and
when I had got about half way I expected that I should see the plains
which I had already seen from the opposite mountains; but it was not to
be so, for the clouds rolled up to the very summit of the pass, though
they did not overlip it on to the side from which I had come. I
therefore soon found myself enshrouded by a cold thin vapour, which
prevented my seeing more than a very few yards in front of me. Then I
came upon a large patch of old snow, in which I could distinctly trace
the half-melted tracks of goats—and in one place, as it seemed to me,
there had been a dog following them. Had I lighted upon a land of
shepherds? The ground, where not covered with snow, was so poor and
stony, and there was so little herbage, that I could see no sign of a
path or regular sheep-track. But I could not help feeling rather uneasy
as I wondered what sort of a reception I might meet with if I were to
come suddenly upon inhabitants. I was thinking of this, and proceeding
cautiously through the mist, when I began to fancy that I saw some
objects darker than the cloud looming in front of me. A few steps
brought me nearer, and a shudder of unutterable horror ran through me
when I saw a circle of gigantic forms, many times higher than myself,
upstanding grim and grey through the veil of cloud before me.

I suppose I must have fainted, for I found myself some time afterwards
sitting upon the ground, sick and deadly cold. There were the figures,
quite still and silent, seen vaguely through the thick gloom, but in
human shape indisputably.

A sudden thought occurred to me, which would have doubtless struck me
at once had I not been prepossessed with forebodings at the time that I
first saw the figures, and had not the cloud concealed them from me—I
mean that they were not living beings, but statues. I determined that I
would count fifty slowly, and was sure that the objects were not alive
if during that time I could detect no sign of motion.

How thankful was I when I came to the end of my fifty and there had
been no movement!

I counted a second time—but again all was still.

I then advanced timidly forward, and in another moment I saw that my
surmise was correct. I had come upon a sort of Stonehenge of rude and
barbaric figures, seated as Chowbok had sat when I questioned him in
the wool-shed, and with the same superhumanly malevolent expression
upon their faces. They had been all seated, but two had fallen. They
were barbarous—neither Egyptian, nor Assyrian, nor Japanese—different
from any of these, and yet akin to all. They were six or seven times
larger than life, of great antiquity, worn and lichen grown. They were
ten in number. There was snow upon their heads and wherever snow could
lodge. Each statue had been built of four or five enormous blocks, but
how these had been raised and put together is known to those alone who
raised them. Each was terrible after a different kind. One was raging
furiously, as in pain and great despair; another was lean and
cadaverous with famine; another cruel and idiotic, but with the
silliest simper that can be conceived—this one had fallen, and looked
exquisitely ludicrous in his fall—the mouths of all were more or less
open, and as I looked at them from behind, I saw that their heads had
been hollowed.

I was sick and shivering with cold. Solitude had unmanned me already,
and I was utterly unfit to have come upon such an assembly of fiends in
such a dreadful wilderness and without preparation. I would have given
everything I had in the world to have been back at my master’s station;
but that was not to be thought of: my head was failing, and I felt sure
that I could never get back alive.

Then came a gust of howling wind, accompanied with a moan from one of
the statues above me. I clasped my hands in fear. I felt like a rat
caught in a trap, as though I would have turned and bitten at whatever
thing was nearest me. The wildness of the wind increased, the moans
grew shriller, coming from several statues, and swelling into a chorus.
I almost immediately knew what it was, but the sound was so unearthly
that this was but little consolation. The inhuman beings into whose
hearts the Evil One had put it to conceive these statues, had made
their heads into a sort of organ-pipe, so that their mouths should
catch the wind and sound with its blowing. It was horrible. However
brave a man might be, he could never stand such a concert, from such
lips, and in such a place. I heaped every invective upon them that my
tongue could utter as I rushed away from them into the mist, and even
after I had lost sight of them, and turning my head round could see
nothing but the storm-wraiths driving behind me, I heard their ghostly
chanting, and felt as though one of them would rush after me and grip
me in his hand and throttle me.

I may say here that, since my return to England, I heard a friend
playing some chords upon the organ which put me very forcibly in mind
of the Erewhonian statues (for Erewhon is the name of the country upon
which I was now entering). They rose most vividly to my recollection
the moment my friend began. They are as follows, and are by the
greatest of all musicians:—[2]

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VI. INTO EREWHON


And now I found myself on a narrow path which followed a small
watercourse. I was too glad to have an easy track for my flight, to lay
hold of the full significance of its existence. The thought, however,
soon presented itself to me that I must be in an inhabited country, but
one which was yet unknown. What, then, was to be my fate at the hands
of its inhabitants? Should I be taken and offered up as a
burnt-offering to those hideous guardians of the pass? It might be so.
I shuddered at the thought, yet the horrors of solitude had now fairly
possessed me; and so dazed was I, and chilled, and woebegone, that I
could lay hold of no idea firmly amid the crowd of fancies that kept
wandering in upon my brain.

I hurried onward—down, down, down. More streams came in; then there was
a bridge, a few pine logs thrown over the water; but they gave me
comfort, for savages do not make bridges. Then I had a treat such as I
can never convey on paper—a moment, perhaps, the most striking and
unexpected in my whole life—the one I think that, with some three or
four exceptions, I would most gladly have again, were I able to recall
it. I got below the level of the clouds, into a burst of brilliant
evening sunshine, I was facing the north-west, and the sun was full
upon me. Oh, how its light cheered me! But what I saw! It was such an
expanse as was revealed to Moses when he stood upon the summit of Mount
Sinai, and beheld that promised land which it was not to be his to
enter. The beautiful sunset sky was crimson and gold; blue, silver, and
purple; exquisite and tranquillising; fading away therein were plains,
on which I could see many a town and city, with buildings that had
lofty steeples and rounded domes. Nearer beneath me lay ridge behind
ridge, outline behind outline, sunlight behind shadow, and shadow
behind sunlight, gully and serrated ravine. I saw large pine forests,
and the glitter of a noble river winding its way upon the plains; also
many villages and hamlets, some of them quite near at hand; and it was
on these that I pondered most. I sank upon the ground at the foot of a
large tree and thought what I had best do; but I could not collect
myself. I was quite tired out; and presently, feeling warmed by the
sun, and quieted, I fell off into a profound sleep.

I was awoke by the sound of tinkling bells, and looking up, I saw four
or five goats feeding near me. As soon as I moved, the creatures turned
their heads towards me with an expression of infinite wonder. They did
not run away, but stood stock still, and looked at me from every side,
as I at them. Then came the sound of chattering and laughter, and there
approached two lovely girls, of about seventeen or eighteen years old,
dressed each in a sort of linen gaberdine, with a girdle round the
waist. They saw me. I sat quite still and looked at them, dazzled with
their extreme beauty. For a moment they looked at me and at each other
in great amazement; then they gave a little frightened cry and ran off
as hard as they could.

“So that’s that,” said I to myself, as I watched them scampering. I
knew that I had better stay where I was and meet my fate, whatever it
was to be, and even if there were a better course, I had no strength
left to take it. I must come into contact with the inhabitants sooner
or later, and it might as well be sooner. Better not to seem afraid of
them, as I should do by running away and being caught with a hue and
cry to-morrow or next day. So I remained quite still and waited. In
about an hour I heard distant voices talking excitedly, and in a few
minutes I saw the two girls bringing up a party of six or seven men,
well armed with bows and arrows and pikes. There was nothing for it, so
I remained sitting quite still, even after they had seen me, until they
came close up. Then we all had a good look at one another.

Both the girls and the men were very dark in colour, but not more so
than the South Italians or Spaniards. The men wore no trousers, but
were dressed nearly the same as the Arabs whom I have seen in Algeria.
They were of the most magnificent presence, being no less strong and
handsome than the women were beautiful; and not only this, but their
expression was courteous and benign. I think they would have killed me
at once if I had made the slightest show of violence; but they gave me
no impression of their being likely to hurt me so long as I was quiet.
I am not much given to liking anybody at first sight, but these people
impressed me much more favourably than I should have thought possible,
so that I could not fear them as I scanned their faces one after
another. They were all powerful men. I might have been a match for any
one of them singly, for I have been told that I have more to glory in
the flesh than in any other respect, being over six feet and
proportionately strong; but any two could have soon mastered me, even
were I not so bereft of energy by my recent adventures. My colour
seemed to surprise them most, for I have light hair, blue eyes, and a
fresh complexion. They could not understand how these things could be;
my clothes also seemed quite beyond them. Their eyes kept wandering all
over me, and the more they looked the less they seemed able to make me
out.

At last I raised myself upon my feet, and leaning upon my stick, I
spoke whatever came into my head to the man who seemed foremost among
them. I spoke in English, though I was very sure that he would not
understand. I said that I had no idea what country I was in; that I had
stumbled upon it almost by accident, after a series of hairbreadth
escapes; and that I trusted they would not allow any evil to overtake
me now that I was completely at their mercy. All this I said quietly
and firmly, with hardly any change of expression. They could not
understand me, but they looked approvingly to one another, and seemed
pleased (so I thought) that I showed no fear nor acknowledgment of
inferiority—the fact being that I was exhausted beyond the sense of
fear. Then one of them pointed to the mountain, in the direction of the
statues, and made a grimace in imitation of one of them. I laughed and
shuddered expressively, whereon they all burst out laughing too, and
chattered hard to one another. I could make out nothing of what they
said, but I think they thought it rather a good joke that I had come
past the statues. Then one among them came forward and motioned me to
follow, which I did without hesitation, for I dared not thwart them;
moreover, I liked them well enough, and felt tolerably sure that they
had no intention of hurting me.

In about a quarter of an hour we got to a small hamlet built on the
side of a hill, with a narrow street and houses huddled up together.
The roofs were large and overhanging. Some few windows were glazed, but
not many. Altogether the village was exceedingly like one of those that
one comes upon in descending the less known passes over the Alps on to
Lombardy. I will pass over the excitement which my arrival caused.
Suffice it, that though there was abundance of curiosity, there was no
rudeness. I was taken to the principal house, which seemed to belong to
the people who had captured me. There I was hospitably entertained, and
a supper of milk and goat’s flesh with a kind of oatcake was set before
me, of which I ate heartily. But all the time I was eating I could not
help turning my eyes upon the two beautiful girls whom I had first
seen, and who seemed to consider me as their lawful prize—which indeed
I was, for I would have gone through fire and water for either of them.

Then came the inevitable surprise at seeing me smoke, which I will
spare the reader; but I noticed that when they saw me strike a match,
there was a hubbub of excitement which, it struck me, was not
altogether unmixed with disapproval: why, I could not guess. Then the
women retired, and I was left alone with the men, who tried to talk to
me in every conceivable way; but we could come to no understanding,
except that I was quite alone, and had come from a long way over the
mountains. In the course of time they grew tired, and I very sleepy. I
made signs as though I would sleep on the floor in my blankets, but
they gave me one of their bunks with plenty of dried fern and grass, on
to which I had no sooner laid myself than I fell fast asleep; nor did I
awake till well into the following day, when I found myself in the hut
with two men keeping guard over me and an old woman cooking. When I
woke the men seemed pleased, and spoke to me as though bidding me good
morning in a pleasant tone.

I went out of doors to wash in a creek which ran a few yards from the
house. My hosts were as engrossed with me as ever; they never took
their eyes off me, following every action that I did, no matter how
trifling, and each looking towards the other for his opinion at every
touch and turn. They took great interest in my ablutions, for they
seemed to have doubted whether I was in all respects human like
themselves. They even laid hold of my arms and overhauled them, and
expressed approval when they saw that they were strong and muscular.
They now examined my legs, and especially my feet. When they desisted
they nodded approvingly to each other; and when I had combed and
brushed my hair, and generally made myself as neat and well arranged as
circumstances would allow, I could see that their respect for me
increased greatly, and that they were by no means sure that they had
treated me with sufficient deference—a matter on which I am not
competent to decide. All I know is that they were very good to me, for
which I thanked them heartily, as it might well have been otherwise.

For my own part, I liked them and admired them, for their quiet
self-possession and dignified ease impressed me pleasurably at once.
Neither did their manner make me feel as though I were personally
distasteful to them—only that I was a thing utterly new and unlooked
for, which they could not comprehend. Their type was more that of the
most robust Italians than any other; their manners also were eminently
Italian, in their entire unconsciousness of self. Having travelled a
good deal in Italy, I was struck with little gestures of the hand and
shoulders, which constantly reminded me of that country. My feeling was
that my wisest plan would be to go on as I had begun, and be simply
myself for better or worse, such as I was, and take my chance
accordingly.

I thought of these things while they were waiting for me to have done
washing, and on my way back. Then they gave me breakfast—hot bread and
milk, and fried flesh of something between mutton and venison. Their
ways of cooking and eating were European, though they had only a skewer
for a fork, and a sort of butcher’s knife to cut with. The more I
looked at everything in the house, the more I was struck with its
quasi-European character; and had the walls only been pasted over with
extracts from the _Illustrated London News_ and _Punch_, I could have
almost fancied myself in a shepherd’s hut upon my master’s sheep-run.
And yet everything was slightly different. It was much the same with
the birds and flowers on the other side, as compared with the English
ones. On my arrival I had been pleased at noticing that nearly all the
plants and birds were very like common English ones: thus, there was a
robin, and a lark, and a wren, and daisies, and dandelions; not quite
the same as the English, but still very like them—quite like enough to
be called by the same name; so now, here, the ways of these two men,
and the things they had in the house, were all very nearly the same as
in Europe. It was not at all like going to China or Japan, where
everything that one sees is strange. I was, indeed, at once struck with
the primitive character of their appliances, for they seemed to be some
five or six hundred years behind Europe in their inventions; but this
is the case in many an Italian village.

All the time that I was eating my breakfast I kept speculating as to
what family of mankind they could belong to; and shortly there came an
idea into my head, which brought the blood into my cheeks with
excitement as I thought of it. Was it possible that they might be the
lost ten tribes of Israel, of whom I had heard both my grandfather and
my father make mention as existing in an unknown country, and awaiting
a final return to Palestine? Was it possible that I might have been
designed by Providence as the instrument of their conversion? Oh, what
a thought was this! I laid down my skewer and gave them a hasty survey.
There was nothing of a Jewish type about them: their noses were
distinctly Grecian, and their lips, though full, were not Jewish.

How could I settle this question? I knew neither Greek nor Hebrew, and
even if I should get to understand the language here spoken, I should
be unable to detect the roots of either of these tongues. I had not
been long enough among them to ascertain their habits, but they did not
give me the impression of being a religious people. This too was
natural: the ten tribes had been always lamentably irreligious. But
could I not make them change? To restore the lost ten tribes of Israel
to a knowledge of the only truth: here would be indeed an immortal
crown of glory! My heart beat fast and furious as I entertained the
thought. What a position would it not ensure me in the next world; or
perhaps even in this! What folly it would be to throw such a chance
away! I should rank next to the Apostles, if not as high as
they—certainly above the minor prophets, and possibly above any Old
Testament writer except Moses and Isaiah. For such a future as this I
would sacrifice all that I have without a moment’s hesitation, could I
be reasonably assured of it. I had always cordially approved of
missionary efforts, and had at times contributed my mite towards their
support and extension; but I had never hitherto felt drawn towards
becoming a missionary myself; and indeed had always admired, and
envied, and respected them, more than I had exactly liked them. But if
these people were the lost ten tribes of Israel, the case would be
widely different: the opening was too excellent to be lost, and I
resolved that should I see indications which appeared to confirm my
impression that I had indeed come upon the missing tribes, I would
certainly convert them.

I may here mention that this discovery is the one to which I alluded in
the opening pages of my story. Time strengthened the impression made
upon me at first; and, though I remained in doubt for several months, I
feel now no longer uncertain.

When I had done eating, my hosts approached, and pointed down the
valley leading to their own country, as though wanting to show that I
must go with them; at the same time they laid hold of my arms, and made
as though they would take me, but used no violence. I laughed, and
motioned my hand across my throat, pointing down the valley as though I
was afraid lest I should be killed when I got there. But they divined
me at once, and shook their heads with much decision, to show that I
was in no danger. Their manner quite reassured me; and in half an hour
or so I had packed up my swag, and was eager for the forward journey,
feeling wonderfully strengthened and refreshed by good food and sleep,
while my hope and curiosity were aroused to their very utmost by the
extraordinary position in which I found myself.

But already my excitement had begun to cool and I reflected that these
people might not be the ten tribes after all; in which case I could not
but regret that my hopes of making money, which had led me into so much
trouble and danger, were almost annihilated by the fact that the
country was full to overflowing, with a people who had probably already
developed its more available resources. Moreover, how was I to get
back? For there was something about my hosts which told me that they
had got me, and meant to keep me, in spite of all their goodness.




CHAPTER VII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS


We followed an Alpine path for some four miles, now hundreds of feet
above a brawling stream which descended from the glaciers, and now
nearly alongside it. The morning was cold and somewhat foggy, for the
autumn had made great strides latterly. Sometimes we went through
forests of pine, or rather yew trees, though they looked like pine; and
I remember that now and again we passed a little wayside shrine,
wherein there would be a statue of great beauty, representing some
figure, male or female, in the very heyday of youth, strength, and
beauty, or of the most dignified maturity and old age. My hosts always
bowed their heads as they passed one of these shrines, and it shocked
me to see statues that had no apparent object, beyond the chronicling
of some unusual individual excellence or beauty, receive so serious a
homage. However, I showed no sign of wonder or disapproval; for I
remembered that to be all things to all men was one of the injunctions
of the Gentile Apostle, which for the present I should do well to heed.
Shortly after passing one of these chapels we came suddenly upon a
village which started up out of the mist; and I was alarmed lest I
should be made an object of curiosity or dislike. But it was not so. My
guides spoke to many in passing, and those spoken to showed much
amazement. My guides, however, were well known, and the natural
politeness of the people prevented them from putting me to any
inconvenience; but they could not help eyeing me, nor I them. I may as
well say at once what my after-experience taught me—namely, that with
all their faults and extraordinary obliquity of mental vision upon many
subjects, they are the very best-bred people that I ever fell in with.

The village was just like the one we had left, only rather larger. The
streets were narrow and unpaved, but very fairly clean. The vine grew
outside many of the houses; and there were some with sign-boards, on
which was painted a bottle and a glass, that made me feel much at home.
Even on this ledge of human society there was a stunted growth of
shoplets, which had taken root and vegetated somehow, though as in an
air mercantile of the bleakest. It was here as hitherto: all things
were generically the same as in Europe, the differences being of
species only; and I was amused at seeing in a window some bottles with
barley-sugar and sweetmeats for children, as at home; but the
barley-sugar was in plates, not in twisted sticks, and was coloured
blue. Glass was plentiful in the better houses.

Lastly, I should say that the people were of a physical beauty which
was simply amazing. I never saw anything in the least comparable to
them. The women were vigorous, and had a most majestic gait, their
heads being set upon their shoulders with a grace beyond all power of
expression. Each feature was finished, eyelids, eyelashes, and ears
being almost invariably perfect. Their colour was equal to that of the
finest Italian paintings; being of the clearest olive, and yet ruddy
with a glow of perfect health. Their expression was divine; and as they
glanced at me timidly but with parted lips in great bewilderment, I
forgot all thoughts of their conversion in feelings that were far more
earthly. I was dazzled as I saw one after the other, of whom I could
only feel that each was the loveliest I had ever seen. Even in middle
age they were still comely, and the old grey-haired women at their
cottage doors had a dignity, not to say majesty, of their own.

The men were as handsome as the women beautiful. I have always
delighted in and reverenced beauty; but I felt simply abashed in the
presence of such a splendid type—a compound of all that is best in
Egyptian, Greek and Italian. The children were infinite in number, and
exceedingly merry; I need hardly say that they came in for their full
share of the prevailing beauty. I expressed by signs my admiration and
pleasure to my guides, and they were greatly pleased. I should add that
all seemed to take a pride in their personal appearance, and that even
the poorest (and none seemed rich) were well kempt and tidy. I could
fill many pages with a description of their dress and the ornaments
which they wore, and a hundred details which struck me with all the
force of novelty; but I must not stay to do so.

When we had got past the village the fog rose, and revealed magnificent
views of the snowy mountains and their nearer abutments, while in front
I could now and again catch glimpses of the great plains which I had
surveyed on the preceding evening. The country was highly cultivated,
every ledge being planted with chestnuts, walnuts, and apple-trees from
which the apples were now gathering. Goats were abundant; also a kind
of small black cattle, in the marshes near the river, which was now
fast widening, and running between larger flats from which the hills
receded more and more. I saw a few sheep with rounded noses and
enormous tails. Dogs were there in plenty, and very English; but I saw
no cats, nor indeed are these creatures known, their place being
supplied by a sort of small terrier.

In about four hours of walking from the time we started, and after
passing two or three more villages, we came upon a considerable town,
and my guides made many attempts to make me understand something, but I
gathered no inkling of their meaning, except that I need be under no
apprehension of danger. I will spare the reader any description of the
town, and would only bid him think of Domodossola or Faido. Suffice it
that I found myself taken before the chief magistrate, and by his
orders was placed in an apartment with two other people, who were the
first I had seen looking anything but well and handsome. In fact, one
of them was plainly very much out of health, and coughed violently from
time to time in spite of manifest efforts to suppress it. The other
looked pale and ill but he was marvellously self-contained, and it was
impossible to say what was the matter with him. Both of them appeared
astonished at seeing one who was evidently a stranger, but they were
too ill to come up to me, and form conclusions concerning me. These two
were first called out; and in about a quarter of an hour I was made to
follow them, which I did in some fear, and with much curiosity.

The chief magistrate was a venerable-looking man, with white hair and
beard and a face of great sagacity. He looked me all over for about
five minutes, letting his eyes wander from the crown of my head to the
soles of my feet, up and down, and down and up; neither did his mind
seem in the least clearer when he had done looking than when he began.
He at length asked me a single short question, which I supposed meant
“Who are you?” I answered in English quite composedly as though he
would understand me, and endeavoured to be my very most natural self as
well as I could. He appeared more and more puzzled, and then retired,
returning with two others much like himself. Then they took me into an
inner room, and the two fresh arrivals stripped me, while the chief
looked on. They felt my pulse, they looked at my tongue, they listened
at my chest, they felt all my muscles; and at the end of each operation
they looked at the chief and nodded, and said something in a tone quite
pleasant, as though I were all right. They even pulled down my eyelids,
and looked, I suppose, to see if they were bloodshot; but it was not
so. At length they gave up; and I think that all were satisfied of my
being in the most perfect health, and very robust to boot. At last the
old magistrate made me a speech of about five minutes long, which the
other two appeared to think greatly to the point, but from which I
gathered nothing. As soon as it was ended, they proceeded to overhaul
my swag and the contents of my pockets. This gave me little uneasiness,
for I had no money with me, nor anything which they were at all likely
to want, or which I cared about losing. At least I fancied so, but I
soon found my mistake.

They got on comfortably at first, though they were much puzzled with my
tobacco-pipe and insisted on seeing me use it. When I had shown them
what I did with it, they were astonished but not displeased, and seemed
to like the smell. But by and by they came to my watch, which I had
hidden away in the inmost pocket that I had, and had forgotten when
they began their search. They seemed concerned and uneasy as soon as
they got hold of it. They then made me open it and show the works; and
when I had done so they gave signs of very grave displeasure, which
disturbed me all the more because I could not conceive wherein it could
have offended them.

I remember that when they first found it I had thought of Paley, and
how he tells us that a savage on seeing a watch would at once conclude
that it was designed. True, these people were not savages, but I none
the less felt sure that this was the conclusion they would arrive at;
and I was thinking what a wonderfully wise man Archbishop Paley must
have been, when I was aroused by a look of horror and dismay upon the
face of the magistrate, a look which conveyed to me the impression that
he regarded my watch not as having been designed, but rather as the
designer of himself and of the universe; or as at any rate one of the
great first causes of all things.

Then it struck me that this view was quite as likely to be taken as the
other by a people who had no experience of European civilisation, and I
was a little piqued with Paley for having led me so much astray; but I
soon discovered that I had misinterpreted the expression on the
magistrate’s face, and that it was one not of fear, but hatred. He
spoke to me solemnly and sternly for two or three minutes. Then,
reflecting that this was of no use, he caused me to be conducted
through several passages into a large room, which I afterwards found
was the museum of the town, and wherein I beheld a sight which
astonished me more than anything that I had yet seen.

It was filled with cases containing all manner of curiosities—such as
skeletons, stuffed birds and animals, carvings in stone (whereof I saw
several that were like those on the saddle, only smaller), but the
greater part of the room was occupied by broken machinery of all
descriptions. The larger specimens had a case to themselves, and
tickets with writing on them in a character which I could not
understand. There were fragments of steam engines, all broken and
rusted; among them I saw a cylinder and piston, a broken fly-wheel, and
part of a crank, which was laid on the ground by their side. Again,
there was a very old carriage whose wheels in spite of rust and decay,
I could see, had been designed originally for iron rails. Indeed, there
were fragments of a great many of our own most advanced inventions; but
they seemed all to be several hundred years old, and to be placed where
they were, not for instruction, but curiosity. As I said before, all
were marred and broken.

We passed many cases, and at last came to one in which there were
several clocks and two or three old watches. Here the magistrate
stopped, and opening the case began comparing my watch with the others.
The design was different, but the thing was clearly the same. On this
he turned to me and made me a speech in a severe and injured tone of
voice, pointing repeatedly to the watches in the case, and to my own;
neither did he seem in the least appeased until I made signs to him
that he had better take my watch and put it with the others. This had
some effect in calming him. I said in English (trusting to tone and
manner to convey my meaning) that I was exceedingly sorry if I had been
found to have anything contraband in my possession; that I had had no
intention of evading the ordinary tolls, and that I would gladly
forfeit the watch if my doing so would atone for an unintentional
violation of the law. He began presently to relent, and spoke to me in
a kinder manner. I think he saw that I had offended without knowledge;
but I believe the chief thing that brought him round was my not seeming
to be afraid of him, although I was quite respectful; this, and my
having light hair and complexion, on which he had remarked previously
by signs, as every one else had done.

I afterwards found that it was reckoned a very great merit to have fair
hair, this being a thing of the rarest possible occurrence, and greatly
admired and envied in all who were possessed of it. However that might
be, my watch was taken from me; but our peace was made, and I was
conducted back to the room where I had been examined. The magistrate
then made me another speech, whereon I was taken to a building hard by,
which I soon discovered to be the common prison of the town, but in
which an apartment was assigned me separate from the other prisoners.
The room contained a bed, table, and chairs, also a fireplace and a
washing-stand. There was another door, which opened on to a balcony,
with a flight of steps descending into a walled garden of some size.
The man who conducted me into this room made signs to me that I might
go down and walk in the garden whenever I pleased, and intimated that I
should shortly have something brought me to eat. I was allowed to
retain my blankets, and the few things which I had wrapped inside them,
but it was plain that I was to consider myself a prisoner—for how long
a period I could not by any means determine. He then left me alone.




CHAPTER VIII. IN PRISON


And now for the first time my courage completely failed me. It is
enough to say that I was penniless, and a prisoner in a foreign
country, where I had no friend, nor any knowledge of the customs or
language of the people. I was at the mercy of men with whom I had
little in common. And yet, engrossed as I was with my extremely
difficult and doubtful position, I could not help feeling deeply
interested in the people among whom I had fallen. What was the meaning
of that room full of old machinery which I had just seen, and of the
displeasure with which the magistrate had regarded my watch? The people
had very little machinery now. I had been struck with this over and
over again, though I had not been more than four-and-twenty hours in
the country. They were about as far advanced as Europeans of the
twelfth or thirteenth century; certainly not more so. And yet they must
have had at one time the fullest knowledge of our own most recent
inventions. How could it have happened that having been once so far in
advance they were now as much behind us? It was evident that it was not
from ignorance. They knew my watch as a watch when they saw it; and the
care with which the broken machines were preserved and ticketed, proved
that they had not lost the recollection of their former civilisation.
The more I thought, the less I could understand it; but at last I
concluded that they must have worked out their mines of coal and iron,
till either none were left, or so few, that the use of these metals was
restricted to the very highest nobility. This was the only solution I
could think of; and, though I afterwards found how entirely mistaken it
was, I felt quite sure then that it must be the right one.

I had hardly arrived at this opinion for above four or five minutes,
when the door opened, and a young woman made her appearance with a
tray, and a very appetising smell of dinner. I gazed upon her with
admiration as she laid a cloth and set a savoury-looking dish upon the
table. As I beheld her I felt as though my position was already much
ameliorated, for the very sight of her carried great comfort. She was
not more than twenty, rather above the middle height, active and
strong, but yet most delicately featured; her lips were full and sweet;
her eyes were of a deep hazel, and fringed with long and springing
eyelashes; her hair was neatly braided from off her forehead; her
complexion was simply exquisite; her figure as robust as was consistent
with the most perfect female beauty, yet not more so; her hands and
feet might have served as models to a sculptor. Having set the stew
upon the table, she retired with a glance of pity, whereon (remembering
pity’s kinsman) I decided that she should pity me a little more. She
returned with a bottle and a glass, and found me sitting on the bed
with my hands over my face, looking the very picture of abject misery,
and, like all pictures, rather untruthful. As I watched her, through my
fingers, out of the room again, I felt sure that she was exceedingly
sorry for me. Her back being turned, I set to work and ate my dinner,
which was excellent.

She returned in about an hour to take away; and there came with her a
man who had a great bunch of keys at his waist, and whose manner
convinced me that he was the jailor. I afterwards found that he was
father to the beautiful creature who had brought me my dinner. I am not
a much greater hypocrite than other people, and do what I would, I
could not look so very miserable. I had already recovered from my
dejection, and felt in a most genial humour both with my jailor and his
daughter. I thanked them for their attention towards me; and, though
they could not understand, they looked at one another and laughed and
chattered till the old man said something or other which I suppose was
a joke; for the girl laughed merrily and ran away, leaving her father
to take away the dinner things. Then I had another visitor, who was not
so prepossessing, and who seemed to have a great idea of himself and a
small one of me. He brought a book with him, and pens and paper—all
very English; and yet, neither paper, nor printing, nor binding, nor
pen, nor ink, were quite the same as ours.

He gave me to understand that he was to teach me the language and that
we were to begin at once. This delighted me, both because I should be
more comfortable when I could understand and make myself understood,
and because I supposed that the authorities would hardly teach me the
language if they intended any cruel usage towards me afterwards. We
began at once, and I learnt the names of everything in the room, and
also the numerals and personal pronouns. I found to my sorrow that the
resemblance to European things, which I had so frequently observed
hitherto, did not hold good in the matter of language; for I could
detect no analogy whatever between this and any tongue of which I have
the slightest knowledge,—a thing which made me think it possible that I
might be learning Hebrew.

I must detail no longer; from this time my days were spent with a
monotony which would have been tedious but for the society of Yram, the
jailor’s daughter, who had taken a great fancy for me and treated me
with the utmost kindness. The man came every day to teach me the
language, but my real dictionary and grammar were Yram; and I consulted
them to such purpose that I made the most extraordinary progress, being
able at the end of a month to understand a great deal of the
conversation which I overheard between Yram and her father. My teacher
professed himself well satisfied, and said he should make a favourable
report of me to the authorities. I then questioned him as to what would
probably be done with me. He told me that my arrival had caused great
excitement throughout the country, and that I was to be detained a
close prisoner until the receipt of advices from the Government. My
having had a watch, he said, was the only damaging feature in the case.
And then, in answer to my asking why this should be so, he gave me a
long story of which with my imperfect knowledge of the language I could
make nothing whatever, except that it was a very heinous offence,
almost as bad (at least, so I thought I understood him) as having
typhus fever. But he said he thought my light hair would save me.

I was allowed to walk in the garden; there was a high wall so that I
managed to play a sort of hand fives, which prevented my feeling the
bad effects of my confinement, though it was stupid work playing alone.
In the course of time people from the town and neighbourhood began to
pester the jailor to be allowed to see me, and on receiving handsome
fees he let them do so. The people were good to me; almost too good,
for they were inclined to make a lion of me, which I hated—at least the
women were; only they had to beware of Yram, who was a young lady of a
jealous temperament, and kept a sharp eye both on me and on my lady
visitors. However, I felt so kindly towards her, and was so entirely
dependent upon her for almost all that made my life a blessing and a
comfort to me, that I took good care not to vex her, and we remained
excellent friends. The men were far less inquisitive, and would not, I
believe, have come near me of their own accord; but the women made them
come as escorts. I was delighted with their handsome mien, and pleasant
genial manners.

My food was plain, but always varied and wholesome, and the good red
wine was admirable. I had found a sort of wort in the garden, which I
sweated in heaps and then dried, obtaining thus a substitute for
tobacco; so that what with Yram, the language, visitors, fives in the
garden, smoking, and bed, my time slipped by more rapidly and
pleasantly than might have been expected. I also made myself a small
flute; and being a tolerable player, amused myself at times with
playing snatches from operas, and airs such as “O where and oh where,”
and “Home, sweet home.” This was of great advantage to me, for the
people of the country were ignorant of the diatonic scale and could
hardly believe their ears on hearing some of our most common melodies.
Often, too, they would make me sing; and I could at any time make
Yram’s eyes swim with tears by singing “Wilkins and his Dinah,” “Billy
Taylor,” “The Ratcatcher’s Daughter,” or as much of them as I could
remember.

I had one or two discussions with them because I never would sing on
Sunday (of which I kept count in my pocket-book), except chants and
hymn tunes; of these I regret to say that I had forgotten the words, so
that I could only sing the tune. They appeared to have little or no
religious feeling, and to have never so much as heard of the divine
institution of the Sabbath, so they ascribed my observance of it to a
fit of sulkiness, which they remarked as coming over me upon every
seventh day. But they were very tolerant, and one of them said to me
quite kindly that she knew how impossible it was to help being sulky at
times, only she thought I ought to see some one if it became more
serious—a piece of advice which I then failed to understand, though I
pretended to take it quite as a matter of course.

Once only did Yram treat me in a way that was unkind and
unreasonable,—at least so I thought it at the time. It happened thus. I
had been playing fives in the garden and got much heated. Although the
day was cold, for autumn was now advancing, and Cold Harbour (as the
name of the town in which my prison was should be translated) stood
fully 3000 feet above the sea, I had played without my coat and
waistcoat, and took a sharp chill on resting myself too long in the
open air without protection. The next day I had a severe cold and felt
really poorly. Being little used even to the lightest ailments, and
thinking that it would be rather nice to be petted and cossetted by
Yram, I certainly did not make myself out to be any better than I was;
in fact, I remember that I made the worst of things, and took it into
my head to consider myself upon the sick list. When Yram brought me my
breakfast I complained somewhat dolefully of my indisposition,
expecting the sympathy and humouring which I should have received from
my mother and sisters at home. Not a bit of it. She fired up in an
instant, and asked me what I meant by it, and how I dared to presume to
mention such a thing, especially when I considered in what place I was.
She had the best mind to tell her father, only that she was afraid the
consequences would be so very serious for me. Her manner was so injured
and decided, and her anger so evidently unfeigned, that I forgot my
cold upon the spot, begging her by all means to tell her father if she
wished to do so, and telling her that I had no idea of being shielded
by her from anything whatever; presently mollifying, after having said
as many biting things as I could, I asked her what it was that I had
done amiss, and promised amendment as soon as ever I became aware of
it. She saw that I was really ignorant, and had had no intention of
being rude to her; whereon it came out that illness of any sort was
considered in Erewhon to be highly criminal and immoral; and that I was
liable, even for catching cold, to be had up before the magistrates and
imprisoned for a considerable period—an announcement which struck me
dumb with astonishment.

I followed up the conversation as well as my imperfect knowledge of the
language would allow, and caught a glimmering of her position with
regard to ill-health; but I did not even then fully comprehend it, nor
had I as yet any idea of the other extraordinary perversions of thought
which existed among the Erewhonians, but with which I was soon to
become familiar. I propose, therefore, to make no mention of what
passed between us on this occasion, save that we were reconciled, and
that she brought me surreptitiously a hot glass of spirits and water
before I went to bed, as also a pile of extra blankets, and that next
morning I was quite well. I never remember to have lost a cold so
rapidly.

This little affair explained much which had hitherto puzzled me. It
seemed that the two men who were examined before the magistrates on the
day of my arrival in the country, had been given in charge on account
of ill health, and were both condemned to a long term of imprisonment
with hard labour; they were now expiating their offence in this very
prison, and their exercise ground was a yard separated by my fives wall
from the garden in which I walked. This accounted for the sounds of
coughing and groaning which I had often noticed as coming from the
other side of the wall: it was high, and I had not dared to climb it
for fear the jailor should see me and think that I was trying to
escape; but I had often wondered what sort of people they could be on
the other side, and had resolved on asking the jailor; but I seldom saw
him, and Yram and I generally found other things to talk about.

Another month flew by, during which I made such progress in the
language that I could understand all that was said to me, and express
myself with tolerable fluency. My instructor professed to be astonished
with the progress I had made; I was careful to attribute it to the
pains he had taken with me and to his admirable method of explaining my
difficulties, so we became excellent friends.

My visitors became more and more frequent. Among them there were some,
both men and women, who delighted me entirely by their simplicity,
unconsciousness of self, kindly genial manners, and last, but not
least, by their exquisite beauty; there came others less well-bred, but
still comely and agreeable people, while some were snobs pure and
simple.

At the end of the third month the jailor and my instructor came
together to visit me and told me that communications had been received
from the Government to the effect that if I had behaved well and seemed
generally reasonable, and if there could be no suspicion at all about
my bodily health and vigour, and if my hair was really light, and my
eyes blue and complexion fresh, I was to be sent up at once to the
metropolis in order that the King and Queen might see me and converse
with me; but that when I arrived there I should be set at liberty, and
a suitable allowance would be made me. My teacher also told me that one
of the leading merchants had sent me an invitation to repair to his
house and to consider myself his guest for as long a time as I chose.
“He is a delightful man,” continued the interpreter, “but has suffered
terribly from” (here there came a long word which I could not quite
catch, only it was much longer than kleptomania), “and has but lately
recovered from embezzling a large sum of money under singularly
distressing circumstances; but he has quite got over it, and the
straighteners say that he has made a really wonderful recovery; you are
sure to like him.”




CHAPTER IX. TO THE METROPOLIS


With the above words the good man left the room before I had time to
express my astonishment at hearing such extraordinary language from the
lips of one who seemed to be a reputable member of society. “Embezzle a
large sum of money under singularly distressing circumstances!” I
exclaimed to myself, “and ask _me_ to go and stay with him! I shall do
nothing of the sort—compromise myself at the very outset in the eyes of
all decent people, and give the death-blow to my chances of either
converting them if they are the lost tribes of Israel, or making money
out of them if they are not! No. I will do anything rather than that.”
And when I next saw my teacher I told him that I did not at all like
the sound of what had been proposed for me, and that I would have
nothing to do with it. For by my education and the example of my own
parents, and I trust also in some degree from inborn instinct, I have a
very genuine dislike for all unhandsome dealings in money matters,
though none can have a greater regard for money than I have, if it be
got fairly.

The interpreter was much surprised by my answer, and said that I should
be very foolish if I persisted in my refusal.

Mr. Nosnibor, he continued, “is a man of at least 500,000 horse-power”
(for their way of reckoning and classifying men is by the number of
foot pounds which they have money enough to raise, or more roughly by
their horse-power), “and keeps a capital table; besides, his two
daughters are among the most beautiful women in Erewhon.”

When I heard all this, I confess that I was much shaken, and inquired
whether he was favourably considered in the best society.

“Certainly,” was the answer; “no man in the country stands higher.”

He then went on to say that one would have thought from my manner that
my proposed host had had jaundice or pleurisy or been generally
unfortunate, and that I was in fear of infection.

“I am not much afraid of infection,” said I, impatiently, “but I have
some regard for my character; and if I know a man to be an embezzler of
other people’s money, be sure of it, I will give him as wide a berth as
I can. If he were ill or poor—”

“Ill or poor!” interrupted the interpreter, with a face of great alarm.
“So that’s your notion of propriety! You would consort with the basest
criminals, and yet deem simple embezzlement a bar to friendly
intercourse. I cannot understand you.”

“But I am poor myself,” cried I.

“You were,” said he; “and you were liable to be severely punished for
it,—indeed, at the council which was held concerning you, this fact was
very nearly consigning you to what I should myself consider a
well-deserved chastisement” (for he was getting angry, and so was I);
“but the Queen was so inquisitive, and wanted so much to see you, that
she petitioned the King and made him give you his pardon, and assign
you a pension in consideration of your meritorious complexion. It is
lucky for you that he has not heard what you have been saying now, or
he would be sure to cancel it.”

As I heard these words my heart sank within me. I felt the extreme
difficulty of my position, and how wicked I should be in running
counter to established usage. I remained silent for several minutes,
and then said that I should be happy to accept the embezzler’s
invitation,—on which my instructor brightened and said I was a sensible
fellow. But I felt very uncomfortable. When he had left the room, I
mused over the conversation which had just taken place between us, but
I could make nothing out of it, except that it argued an even greater
perversity of mental vision than I had been yet prepared for. And this
made me wretched; for I cannot bear having much to do with people who
think differently from myself. All sorts of wandering thoughts kept
coming into my head. I thought of my master’s hut, and my seat upon the
mountain side, where I had first conceived the insane idea of
exploring. What years and years seemed to have passed since I had begun
my journey!

I thought of my adventures in the gorge, and on the journey hither, and
of Chowbok. I wondered what Chowbok told them about me when he got
back,—he had done well in going back, Chowbok had. He was not
handsome—nay, he was hideous; and it would have gone hardly with him.
Twilight drew on, and rain pattered against the windows. Never yet had
I felt so unhappy, except during three days of sea-sickness at the
beginning of my voyage from England. I sat musing and in great
melancholy, until Yram made her appearance with light and supper. She
too, poor girl, was miserable; for she had heard that I was to leave
them. She had made up her mind that I was to remain always in the town,
even after my imprisonment was over; and I fancy had resolved to marry
me though I had never so much as hinted at her doing so. So what with
the distressingly strange conversation with my teacher, my own
friendless condition, and Yram’s melancholy, I felt more unhappy than I
can describe, and remained so till I got to bed, and sleep sealed my
eyelids.

On awaking next morning I was much better. It was settled that I was to
make my start in a conveyance which was to be in waiting for me at
about eleven o’clock; and the anticipation of change put me in good
spirits, which even the tearful face of Yram could hardly altogether
derange. I kissed her again and again, assured her that we should meet
hereafter, and that in the meanwhile I should be ever mindful of her
kindness. I gave her two of the buttons off my coat and a lock of my
hair as a keepsake, taking a goodly curl from her own beautiful head in
return: and so, having said good-bye a hundred times, till I was fairly
overcome with her great sweetness and her sorrow, I tore myself away
from her and got down-stairs to the calèche which was in waiting. How
thankful I was when it was all over, and I was driven away and out of
sight. Would that I could have felt that it was out of mind also! Pray
heaven that it is so now, and that she is married happily among her own
people, and has forgotten me!

And now began a long and tedious journey with which I should hardly
trouble the reader if I could. He is safe, however, for the simple
reason that I was blindfolded during the greater part of the time. A
bandage was put upon my eyes every morning, and was only removed at
night when I reached the inn at which we were to pass the night. We
travelled slowly, although the roads were good. We drove but one horse,
which took us our day’s journey from morning till evening, about six
hours, exclusive of two hours’ rest in the middle of the day. I do not
suppose we made above thirty or thirty-five miles on an average. Each
day we had a fresh horse. As I have said already, I could see nothing
of the country. I only know that it was level, and that several times
we had to cross large rivers in ferry-boats. The inns were clean and
comfortable. In one or two of the larger towns they were quite
sumptuous, and the food was good and well cooked. The same wonderful
health and grace and beauty prevailed everywhere.

I found myself an object of great interest; so much so, that the driver
told me he had to keep our route secret, and at times to go to places
that were not directly on our road, in order to avoid the press that
would otherwise have awaited us. Every evening I had a reception, and
grew heartily tired of having to say the same things over and over
again in answer to the same questions, but it was impossible to be
angry with people whose manners were so delightful. They never once
asked after my health, or even whether I was fatigued with my journey;
but their first question was almost invariably an inquiry after my
temper, the _naiveté_ of which astonished me till I became used to it.
One day, being tired and cold, and weary of saying the same thing over
and over again, I turned a little brusquely on my questioner and said
that I was exceedingly cross, and that I could hardly feel in a worse
humour with myself and every one else than at that moment. To my
surprise, I was met with the kindest expressions of condolence, and
heard it buzzed about the room that I was in an ill temper; whereon
people began to give me nice things to smell and to eat, which really
did seem to have some temper-mending quality about them, for I soon
felt pleased and was at once congratulated upon being better. The next
morning two or three people sent their servants to the hotel with
sweetmeats, and inquiries whether I had quite recovered from my ill
humour. On receiving the good things I felt in half a mind to be
ill-tempered every evening; but I disliked the condolences and the
inquiries, and found it most comfortable to keep my natural temper,
which is smooth enough generally.

Among those who came to visit me were some who had received a liberal
education at the Colleges of Unreason, and taken the highest degrees in
hypothetics, which are their principal study. These gentlemen had now
settled down to various employments in the country, as straighteners,
managers and cashiers of the Musical Banks, priests of religion, or
what not, and carrying their education with them they diffused a leaven
of culture throughout the country. I naturally questioned them about
many of the things which had puzzled me since my arrival. I inquired
what was the object and meaning of the statues which I had seen upon
the plateau of the pass. I was told that they dated from a very remote
period, and that there were several other such groups in the country,
but none so remarkable as the one which I had seen. They had a
religious origin, having been designed to propitiate the gods of
deformity and disease. In former times it had been the custom to make
expeditions over the ranges, and capture the ugliest of Chowbok’s
ancestors whom they could find, in order to sacrifice them in the
presence of these deities, and thus avert ugliness and disease from the
Erewhonians themselves. It had been whispered (but my informant assured
me untruly) that centuries ago they had even offered up some of their
own people who were ugly or out of health, in order to make examples of
them; these detestable customs, however, had been long discontinued;
neither was there any present observance of the statues.

I had the curiosity to inquire what would be done to any of Chowbok’s
tribe if they crossed over into Erewhon. I was told that nobody knew,
inasmuch as such a thing had not happened for ages. They would be too
ugly to be allowed to go at large, but not so much so as to be
criminally liable. Their offence in having come would be a moral one;
but they would be beyond the straightener’s art. Possibly they would be
consigned to the Hospital for Incurable Bores, and made to work at
being bored for so many hours a day by the Erewhonian inhabitants of
the hospital, who are extremely impatient of one another’s boredom, but
would soon die if they had no one whom they might bore—in fact, that
they would be kept as professional borees. When I heard this, it
occurred to me that some rumours of its substance might perhaps have
become current among Chowbok’s people; for the agony of his fear had
been too great to have been inspired by the mere dread of being burnt
alive before the statues.

I also questioned them about the museum of old machines, and the cause
of the apparent retrogression in all arts, sciences, and inventions. I
learnt that about four hundred years previously, the state of
mechanical knowledge was far beyond our own, and was advancing with
prodigious rapidity, until one of the most learned professors of
hypothetics wrote an extraordinary book (from which I propose to give
extracts later on), proving that the machines were ultimately destined
to supplant the race of man, and to become instinct with a vitality as
different from, and superior to, that of animals, as animal to
vegetable life. So convincing was his reasoning, or unreasoning, to
this effect, that he carried the country with him; and they made a
clean sweep of all machinery that had not been in use for more than two
hundred and seventy-one years (which period was arrived at after a
series of compromises), and strictly forbade all further improvements
and inventions under pain of being considered in the eye of the law to
be labouring under typhus fever, which they regard as one of the worst
of all crimes.

This is the only case in which they have confounded mental and physical
diseases, and they do it even here as by an avowed legal fiction. I
became uneasy when I remembered about my watch; but they comforted me
with the assurance that transgression in this matter was now so unheard
of, that the law could afford to be lenient towards an utter stranger,
especially towards one who had such a good character (they meant
physique), and such beautiful light hair. Moreover the watch was a real
curiosity, and would be a welcome addition to the metropolitan
collection; so they did not think I need let it trouble me seriously.

I will write, however, more fully upon this subject when I deal with
the Colleges of Unreason, and the Book of the Machines.

In about a month from the time of our starting I was told that our
journey was nearly over. The bandage was now dispensed with, for it
seemed impossible that I should ever be able to find my way back
without being captured. Then we rolled merrily along through the
streets of a handsome town, and got on to a long, broad, and level
road, with poplar trees on either side. The road was raised slightly
above the surrounding country, and had formerly been a railway; the
fields on either side were in the highest conceivable cultivation, but
the harvest and also the vintage had been already gathered. The weather
had got cooler more rapidly than could be quite accounted for by the
progress of the season; so I rather thought that we must have been
making away from the sun, and were some degrees farther from the
equator than when we started. Even here the vegetation showed that the
climate was a hot one, yet there was no lack of vigour among the
people; on the contrary, they were a very hardy race, and capable of
great endurance. For the hundredth time I thought that, take them all
round, I had never seen their equals in respect of physique, and they
looked as good-natured as they were robust. The flowers were for the
most part over, but their absence was in some measure compensated for
by a profusion of delicious fruit, closely resembling the figs,
peaches, and pears of Italy and France. I saw no wild animals, but
birds were plentiful and much as in Europe, but not tame as they had
been on the other side the ranges. They were shot at with the cross-bow
and with arrows, gunpowder being unknown, or at any rate not in use.

We were now nearing the metropolis and I could see great towers and
fortifications, and lofty buildings that looked like palaces. I began
to be nervous as to my reception; but I had got on very well so far,
and resolved to continue upon the same plan as hitherto—namely, to
behave just as though I were in England until I saw that I was making a
blunder, and then to say nothing till I could gather how the land lay.
We drew nearer and nearer. The news of my approach had got abroad, and
there was a great crowd collected on either side the road, who greeted
me with marks of most respectful curiosity, keeping me bowing
constantly in acknowledgement from side to side.

When we were about a mile off, we were met by the Mayor and several
Councillors, among whom was a venerable old man, who was introduced to
me by the Mayor (for so I suppose I should call him) as the gentleman
who had invited me to his house. I bowed deeply and told him how
grateful I felt to him, and how gladly I would accept his hospitality.
He forbade me to say more, and pointing to his carriage, which was
close at hand, he motioned me to a seat therein. I again bowed
profoundly to the Mayor and Councillors, and drove off with my
entertainer, whose name was Senoj Nosnibor. After about half a mile the
carriage turned off the main road, and we drove under the walls of the
town till we reached a _palazzo_ on a slight eminence, and just on the
outskirts of the city. This was Senoj Nosnibor’s house, and nothing can
be imagined finer. It was situated near the magnificent and venerable
ruins of the old railway station, which formed an imposing feature from
the gardens of the house. The grounds, some ten or a dozen acres in
extent, were laid out in terraced gardens, one above the other, with
flights of broad steps ascending and descending the declivity of the
garden. On these steps there were statues of most exquisite
workmanship. Besides the statues there were vases filled with various
shrubs that were new to me; and on either side the flights of steps
there were rows of old cypresses and cedars, with grassy alleys between
them. Then came choice vineyards and orchards of fruit-trees in full
bearing.

The house itself was approached by a court-yard, and round it was a
corridor on to which rooms opened, as at Pompeii. In the middle of the
court there was a bath and a fountain. Having passed the court we came
to the main body of the house, which was two stories in height. The
rooms were large and lofty; perhaps at first they looked rather bare of
furniture, but in hot climates people generally keep their rooms more
bare than they do in colder ones. I missed also the sight of a grand
piano or some similar instrument, there being no means of producing
music in any of the rooms save the larger drawing-room, where there
were half a dozen large bronze gongs, which the ladies used
occasionally to beat about at random. It was not pleasant to hear them,
but I have heard quite as unpleasant music both before and since.

Mr. Nosnibor took me through several spacious rooms till we reached a
boudoir where were his wife and daughters, of whom I had heard from the
interpreter. Mrs. Nosnibor was about forty years old, and still
handsome, but she had grown very stout: her daughters were in the prime
of youth and exquisitely beautiful. I gave the preference almost at
once to the younger, whose name was Arowhena; for the elder sister was
haughty, while the younger had a very winning manner. Mrs. Nosnibor
received me with the perfection of courtesy, so that I must have indeed
been shy and nervous if I had not at once felt welcome. Scarcely was
the ceremony of my introduction well completed before a servant
announced that dinner was ready in the next room. I was exceedingly
hungry, and the dinner was beyond all praise. Can the reader wonder
that I began to consider myself in excellent quarters? “That man
embezzle money?” thought I to myself; “impossible.”

But I noticed that my host was uneasy during the whole meal, and that
he ate nothing but a little bread and milk; towards the end of dinner
there came a tall lean man with a black beard, to whom Mr. Nosnibor and
the whole family paid great attention: he was the family straightener.
With this gentleman Mr. Nosnibor retired into another room, from which
there presently proceeded a sound of weeping and wailing. I could
hardly believe my ears, but in a few minutes I got to know for a
certainty that they came from Mr. Nosnibor himself.

“Poor papa,” said Arowhena, as she helped herself composedly to the
salt, “how terribly he has suffered.”

“Yes,” answered her mother; “but I think he is quite out of danger
now.”

Then they went on to explain to me the circumstances of the case, and
the treatment which the straightener had prescribed, and how successful
he had been—all which I will reserve for another chapter, and put
rather in the form of a general summary of the opinions current upon
these subjects than in the exact words in which the facts were
delivered to me; the reader, however, is earnestly requested to believe
that both in this next chapter and in those that follow it I have
endeavoured to adhere most conscientiously to the strictest accuracy,
and that I have never willingly misrepresented, though I may have
sometimes failed to understand all the bearings of an opinion or
custom.




CHAPTER X. CURRENT OPINIONS


This is what I gathered. That in that country if a man falls into ill
health, or catches any disorder, or fails bodily in any way before he
is seventy years old, he is tried before a jury of his countrymen, and
if convicted is held up to public scorn and sentenced more or less
severely as the case may be. There are subdivisions of illnesses into
crimes and misdemeanours as with offences amongst ourselves—a man being
punished very heavily for serious illness, while failure of eyes or
hearing in one over sixty-five, who has had good health hitherto, is
dealt with by fine only, or imprisonment in default of payment. But if
a man forges a cheque, or sets his house on fire, or robs with violence
from the person, or does any other such things as are criminal in our
own country, he is either taken to a hospital and most carefully tended
at the public expense, or if he is in good circumstances, he lets it be
known to all his friends that he is suffering from a severe fit of
immorality, just as we do when we are ill, and they come and visit him
with great solicitude, and inquire with interest how it all came about,
what symptoms first showed themselves, and so forth,—questions which he
will answer with perfect unreserve; for bad conduct, though considered
no less deplorable than illness with ourselves, and as unquestionably
indicating something seriously wrong with the individual who
misbehaves, is nevertheless held to be the result of either pre-natal
or post-natal misfortune.

The strange part of the story, however, is that though they ascribe
moral defects to the effect of misfortune either in character or
surroundings, they will not listen to the plea of misfortune in cases
that in England meet with sympathy and commiseration only. Ill luck of
any kind, or even ill treatment at the hands of others, is considered
an offence against society, inasmuch as it makes people uncomfortable
to hear of it. Loss of fortune, therefore, or loss of some dear friend
on whom another was much dependent, is punished hardly less severely
than physical delinquency.

Foreign, indeed, as such ideas are to our own, traces of somewhat
similar opinions can be found even in nineteenth-century England. If a
person has an abscess, the medical man will say that it contains
“peccant” matter, and people say that they have a “bad” arm or finger,
or that they are very “bad” all over, when they only mean “diseased.”
Among foreign nations Erewhonian opinions may be still more clearly
noted. The Mahommedans, for example, to this day, send their female
prisoners to hospitals, and the New Zealand Maories visit any
misfortune with forcible entry into the house of the offender, and the
breaking up and burning of all his goods. The Italians, again, use the
same word for “disgrace” and “misfortune.” I once heard an Italian lady
speak of a young friend whom she described as endowed with every virtue
under heaven, “ma,” she exclaimed, “povero disgraziato, ha ammazzato
suo zio.” (“Poor unfortunate fellow, he has murdered his uncle.”)

On mentioning this, which I heard when taken to Italy as a boy by my
father, the person to whom I told it showed no surprise. He said that
he had been driven for two or three years in a certain city by a young
Sicilian cabdriver of prepossessing manners and appearance, but then
lost sight of him. On asking what had become of him, he was told that
he was in prison for having shot at his father with intent to kill
him—happily without serious result. Some years later my informant again
found himself warmly accosted by the prepossessing young cabdriver.
“Ah, caro signore,” he exclaimed, “sono cinque anni che non lo vedo—tre
anni di militare, e due anni di disgrazia,” &c. (“My dear sir, it is
five years since I saw you—three years of military service, and two of
misfortune”)—during which last the poor fellow had been in prison. Of
moral sense he showed not so much as a trace. He and his father were
now on excellent terms, and were likely to remain so unless either of
them should again have the misfortune mortally to offend the other.

In the following chapter I will give a few examples of the way in which
what we should call misfortune, hardship, or disease are dealt with by
the Erewhonians, but for the moment will return to their treatment of
cases that with us are criminal. As I have already said, these, though
not judicially punishable, are recognised as requiring correction.
Accordingly, there exists a class of men trained in soul-craft, whom
they call straighteners, as nearly as I can translate a word which
literally means “one who bends back the crooked.” These men practise
much as medical men in England, and receive a quasi-surreptitious fee
on every visit. They are treated with the same unreserve, and obeyed as
readily, as our own doctors—that is to say, on the whole
sufficiently—because people know that it is their interest to get well
as soon as they can, and that they will not be scouted as they would be
if their bodies were out of order, even though they may have to undergo
a very painful course of treatment.

When I say that they will not be scouted, I do not mean that an
Erewhonian will suffer no social inconvenience in consequence, we will
say, of having committed fraud. Friends will fall away from him because
of his being less pleasant company, just as we ourselves are
disinclined to make companions of those who are either poor or poorly.
No one with any sense of self-respect will place himself on an equality
in the matter of affection with those who are less lucky than himself
in birth, health, money, good looks, capacity, or anything else.
Indeed, that dislike and even disgust should be felt by the fortunate
for the unfortunate, or at any rate for those who have been discovered
to have met with any of the more serious and less familiar misfortunes,
is not only natural, but desirable for any society, whether of man or
brute.

The fact, therefore, that the Erewhonians attach none of that guilt to
crime which they do to physical ailments, does not prevent the more
selfish among them from neglecting a friend who has robbed a bank, for
instance, till he has fully recovered; but it does prevent them from
even thinking of treating criminals with that contemptuous tone which
would seem to say, “I, if I were you, should be a better man than you
are,” a tone which is held quite reasonable in regard to physical
ailment. Hence, though they conceal ill health by every cunning and
hypocrisy and artifice which they can devise, they are quite open about
the most flagrant mental diseases, should they happen to exist, which
to do the people justice is not often. Indeed, there are some who are,
so to speak, spiritual valetudinarians, and who make themselves
exceedingly ridiculous by their nervous supposition that they are
wicked, while they are very tolerable people all the time. This however
is exceptional; and on the whole they use much the same reserve or
unreserve about the state of their moral welfare as we do about our
health.

Hence all the ordinary greetings among ourselves, such as, How do you
do? and the like, are considered signs of gross ill-breeding; nor do
the politer classes tolerate even such a common complimentary remark as
telling a man that he is looking well. They salute each other with, “I
hope you are good this morning;” or “I hope you have recovered from the
snappishness from which you were suffering when I last saw you;” and if
the person saluted has not been good, or is still snappish, he says so
at once and is condoled with accordingly. Indeed, the straighteners
have gone so far as to give names from the hypothetical language (as
taught at the Colleges of Unreason), to all known forms of mental
indisposition, and to classify them according to a system of their own,
which, though I could not understand it, seemed to work well in
practice; for they are always able to tell a man what is the matter
with him as soon as they have heard his story, and their familiarity
with the long names assures him that they thoroughly understand his
case.

The reader will have no difficulty in believing that the laws regarding
ill health were frequently evaded by the help of recognised fictions,
which every one understood, but which it would be considered gross
ill-breeding to even seem to understand. Thus, a day or two after my
arrival at the Nosnibors’, one of the many ladies who called on me made
excuses for her husband’s only sending his card, on the ground that
when going through the public market-place that morning he had stolen a
pair of socks. I had already been warned that I should never show
surprise, so I merely expressed my sympathy, and said that though I had
only been in the capital so short a time, I had already had a very
narrow escape from stealing a clothes-brush, and that though I had
resisted temptation so far, I was sadly afraid that if I saw any object
of special interest that was neither too hot nor too heavy, I should
have to put myself in the straightener’s hands.

Mrs. Nosnibor, who had been keeping an ear on all that I had been
saying, praised me when the lady had gone. Nothing, she said, could
have been more polite according to Erewhonian etiquette. She then
explained that to have stolen a pair of socks, or “to have the socks”
(in more colloquial language), was a recognised way of saying that the
person in question was slightly indisposed.

In spite of all this they have a keen sense of the enjoyment consequent
upon what they call being “well.” They admire mental health and love it
in other people, and take all the pains they can (consistently with
their other duties) to secure it for themselves. They have an extreme
dislike to marrying into what they consider unhealthy families. They
send for the straightener at once whenever they have been guilty of
anything seriously flagitious—often even if they think that they are on
the point of committing it; and though his remedies are sometimes
exceedingly painful, involving close confinement for weeks, and in some
cases the most cruel physical tortures, I never heard of a reasonable
Erewhonian refusing to do what his straightener told him, any more than
of a reasonable Englishman refusing to undergo even the most frightful
operation, if his doctors told him it was necessary.

We in England never shrink from telling our doctor what is the matter
with us merely through the fear that he will hurt us. We let him do his
worst upon us, and stand it without a murmur, because we are not
scouted for being ill, and because we know that the doctor is doing his
best to cure us, and that he can judge of our case better than we can;
but we should conceal all illness if we were treated as the Erewhonians
are when they have anything the matter with them; we should do the same
as with moral and intellectual diseases,—we should feign health with
the most consummate art, till we were found out, and should hate a
single flogging given in the way of mere punishment more than the
amputation of a limb, if it were kindly and courteously performed from
a wish to help us out of our difficulty, and with the full
consciousness on the part of the doctor that it was only by an accident
of constitution that he was not in the like plight himself. So the
Erewhonians take a flogging once a week, and a diet of bread and water
for two or three months together, whenever their straightener
recommends it.

I do not suppose that even my host, on having swindled a confiding
widow out of the whole of her property, was put to more actual
suffering than a man will readily undergo at the hands of an English
doctor. And yet he must have had a very bad time of it. The sounds I
heard were sufficient to show that his pain was exquisite, but he never
shrank from undergoing it. He was quite sure that it did him good; and
I think he was right. I cannot believe that that man will ever embezzle
money again. He may—but it will be a long time before he does so.

During my confinement in prison, and on my journey, I had already
discovered a great deal of the above; but it still seemed surpassingly
strange, and I was in constant fear of committing some piece of
rudeness, through my inability to look at things from the same
stand-point as my neighbours; but after a few weeks’ stay with the
Nosnibors, I got to understand things better, especially on having
heard all about my host’s illness, of which he told me fully and
repeatedly.

It seemed that he had been on the Stock Exchange of the city for many
years and had amassed enormous wealth, without exceeding the limits of
what was generally considered justifiable, or at any rate, permissible
dealing; but at length on several occasions he had become aware of a
desire to make money by fraudulent representations, and had actually
dealt with two or three sums in a way which had made him rather
uncomfortable. He had unfortunately made light of it and pooh-poohed
the ailment, until circumstances eventually presented themselves which
enabled him to cheat upon a very considerable scale;—he told me what
they were, and they were about as bad as anything could be, but I need
not detail them;—he seized the opportunity, and became aware, when it
was too late, that he must be seriously out of order. He had neglected
himself too long.

He drove home at once, broke the news to his wife and daughters as
gently as he could, and sent off for one of the most celebrated
straighteners of the kingdom to a consultation with the family
practitioner, for the case was plainly serious. On the arrival of the
straightener he told his story, and expressed his fear that his morals
must be permanently impaired.

The eminent man reassured him with a few cheering words, and then
proceeded to make a more careful diagnosis of the case. He inquired
concerning Mr. Nosnibor’s parents—had their moral health been good? He
was answered that there had not been anything seriously amiss with
them, but that his maternal grandfather, whom he was supposed to
resemble somewhat in person, had been a consummate scoundrel and had
ended his days in a hospital,—while a brother of his father’s, after
having led a most flagitious life for many years, had been at last
cured by a philosopher of a new school, which as far as I could
understand it bore much the same relation to the old as homoeopathy to
allopathy. The straightener shook his head at this, and laughingly
replied that the cure must have been due to nature. After a few more
questions he wrote a prescription and departed.

I saw the prescription. It ordered a fine to the State of double the
money embezzled; no food but bread and milk for six months, and a
severe flogging once a month for twelve. I was surprised to see that no
part of the fine was to be paid to the poor woman whose money had been
embezzled, but on inquiry I learned that she would have been prosecuted
in the Misplaced Confidence Court, if she had not escaped its clutches
by dying shortly after she had discovered her loss.

As for Mr. Nosnibor, he had received his eleventh flogging on the day
of my arrival. I saw him later on the same afternoon, and he was still
twinged; but there had been no escape from following out the
straightener’s prescription, for the so-called sanitary laws of Erewhon
are very rigorous, and unless the straightener was satisfied that his
orders had been obeyed, the patient would have been taken to a hospital
(as the poor are), and would have been much worse off. Such at least is
the law, but it is never necessary to enforce it.

On a subsequent occasion I was present at an interview between Mr.
Nosnibor and the family straightener, who was considered competent to
watch the completion of the cure. I was struck with the delicacy with
which he avoided even the remotest semblance of inquiry after the
physical well-being of his patient, though there was a certain
yellowness about my host’s eyes which argued a bilious habit of body.
To have taken notice of this would have been a gross breach of
professional etiquette. I was told, however, that a straightener
sometimes thinks it right to glance at the possibility of some slight
physical disorder if he finds it important in order to assist him in
his diagnosis; but the answers which he gets are generally untrue or
evasive, and he forms his own conclusions upon the matter as well as he
can. Sensible men have been known to say that the straightener should
in strict confidence be told of every physical ailment that is likely
to bear upon the case; but people are naturally shy of doing this, for
they do not like lowering themselves in the opinion of the
straightener, and his ignorance of medical science is supreme. I heard
of one lady, indeed, who had the hardihood to confess that a furious
outbreak of ill-humour and extravagant fancies for which she was
seeking advice was possibly the result of indisposition. “You should
resist that,” said the straightener, in a kind, but grave voice; “we
can do nothing for the bodies of our patients; such matters are beyond
our province, and I desire that I may hear no further particulars.” The
lady burst into tears, and promised faithfully that she would never be
unwell again.

But to return to Mr. Nosnibor. As the afternoon wore on many carriages
drove up with callers to inquire how he had stood his flogging. It had
been very severe, but the kind inquiries upon every side gave him great
pleasure, and he assured me that he felt almost tempted to do wrong
again by the solicitude with which his friends had treated him during
his recovery: in this I need hardly say that he was not serious.

During the remainder of my stay in the country Mr. Nosnibor was
constantly attentive to his business, and largely increased his already
great possessions; but I never heard a whisper to the effect of his
having been indisposed a second time, or made money by other than the
most strictly honourable means. I did hear afterwards in confidence
that there had been reason to believe that his health had been not a
little affected by the straightener’s treatment, but his friends did
not choose to be over-curious upon the subject, and on his return to
his affairs it was by common consent passed over as hardly criminal in
one who was otherwise so much afflicted. For they regard bodily
ailments as the more venial in proportion as they have been produced by
causes independent of the constitution. Thus if a person ruin his
health by excessive indulgence at the table or by drinking, they count
it to be almost a part of the mental disease which brought it about,
and so it goes for little, but they have no mercy on such illnesses as
fevers or catarrhs or lung diseases, which to us appear to be beyond
the control of the individual. They are only more lenient towards the
diseases of the young—such as measles, which they think to be like
sowing one’s wild oats—and look over them as pardonable indiscretions
if they have not been too serious, and if they are atoned for by
complete subsequent recovery.

It is hardly necessary to say that the office of straightener is one
which requires long and special training. It stands to reason that he
who would cure a moral ailment must be practically acquainted with it
in all its bearings. The student for the profession of straightener is
required to set apart certain seasons for the practice of each vice in
turn, as a religious duty. These seasons are called “fasts,” and are
continued by the student until he finds that he really can subdue all
the more usual vices in his own person, and hence can advise his
patients from the results of his own experience.

Those who intend to be specialists, rather than general practitioners,
devote themselves more particularly to the branch in which their
practice will mainly lie. Some students have been obliged to continue
their exercises during their whole lives, and some devoted men have
actually died as martyrs to the drink, or gluttony, or whatever branch
of vice they may have chosen for their especial study. The greater
number, however, take no harm by the excursions into the various
departments of vice which it is incumbent upon them to study.

For the Erewhonians hold that unalloyed virtue is not a thing to be
immoderately indulged in. I was shown more than one case in which the
real or supposed virtues of parents were visited upon the children to
the third and fourth generation. The straighteners say that the most
that can be truly said for virtue is that there is a considerable
balance in its favour, and that it is on the whole a good deal better
to be on its side than against it; but they urge that there is much
pseudo-virtue going about, which is apt to let people in very badly
before they find it out. Those men, they say, are best who are not
remarkable either for vice or virtue. I told them about Hogarth’s idle
and industrious apprentices, but they did not seem to think that the
industrious apprentice was a very nice person.




CHAPTER XI. SOME EREWHONIAN TRIALS


In Erewhon as in other countries there are some courts of justice that
deal with special subjects. Misfortune generally, as I have above
explained, is considered more or less criminal, but it admits of
classification, and a court is assigned to each of the main heads under
which it can be supposed to fall. Not very long after I had reached the
capital I strolled into the Personal Bereavement Court, and was much
both interested and pained by listening to the trial of a man who was
accused of having just lost a wife to whom he had been tenderly
attached, and who had left him with three little children, of whom the
eldest was only three years old.

The defence which the prisoner’s counsel endeavoured to establish was,
that the prisoner had never really loved his wife; but it broke down
completely, for the public prosecutor called witness after witness who
deposed to the fact that the couple had been devoted to one another,
and the prisoner repeatedly wept as incidents were put in evidence that
reminded him of the irreparable nature of the loss he had sustained.
The jury returned a verdict of guilty after very little deliberation,
but recommended the prisoner to mercy on the ground that he had but
recently insured his wife’s life for a considerable sum, and might be
deemed lucky inasmuch as he had received the money without demur from
the insurance company, though he had only paid two premiums.

I have just said that the jury found the prisoner guilty. When the
judge passed sentence, I was struck with the way in which the
prisoner’s counsel was rebuked for having referred to a work in which
the guilt of such misfortunes as the prisoner’s was extenuated to a
degree that roused the indignation of the court.

“We shall have,” said the judge, “these crude and subversionary books
from time to time until it is recognised as an axiom of morality that
luck is the only fit object of human veneration. How far a man has any
right to be more lucky and hence more venerable than his neighbours, is
a point that always has been, and always will be, settled proximately
by a kind of higgling and haggling of the market, and ultimately by
brute force; but however this may be, it stands to reason that no man
should be allowed to be unlucky to more than a very moderate extent.”

Then, turning to the prisoner, the judge continued:—“You have suffered
a great loss. Nature attaches a severe penalty to such offences, and
human law must emphasise the decrees of nature. But for the
recommendation of the jury I should have given you six months’ hard
labour. I will, however, commute your sentence to one of three months,
with the option of a fine of twenty-five per cent. of the money you
have received from the insurance company.”

The prisoner thanked the judge, and said that as he had no one to look
after his children if he was sent to prison, he would embrace the
option mercifully permitted him by his lordship, and pay the sum he had
named. He was then removed from the dock.

The next case was that of a youth barely arrived at man’s estate, who
was charged with having been swindled out of large property during his
minority by his guardian, who was also one of his nearest relations.
His father had been long dead, and it was for this reason that his
offence came on for trial in the Personal Bereavement Court. The lad,
who was undefended, pleaded that he was young, inexperienced, greatly
in awe of his guardian, and without independent professional advice.
“Young man,” said the judge sternly, “do not talk nonsense. People have
no right to be young, inexperienced, greatly in awe of their guardians,
and without independent professional advice. If by such indiscretions
they outrage the moral sense of their friends, they must expect to
suffer accordingly.” He then ordered the prisoner to apologise to his
guardian, and to receive twelve strokes with a cat-of-nine-tails.

But I shall perhaps best convey to the reader an idea of the entire
perversion of thought which exists among this extraordinary people, by
describing the public trial of a man who was accused of pulmonary
consumption—an offence which was punished with death until quite
recently. It did not occur till I had been some months in the country,
and I am deviating from chronological order in giving it here; but I
had perhaps better do so in order that I may exhaust this subject
before proceeding to others. Moreover I should never come to an end
were I to keep to a strictly narrative form, and detail the infinite
absurdities with which I daily came in contact.

The prisoner was placed in the dock, and the jury were sworn much as in
Europe; almost all our own modes of procedure were reproduced, even to
the requiring the prisoner to plead guilty or not guilty. He pleaded
not guilty, and the case proceeded. The evidence for the prosecution
was very strong; but I must do the court the justice to observe that
the trial was absolutely impartial. Counsel for the prisoner was
allowed to urge everything that could be said in his defence: the line
taken was that the prisoner was simulating consumption in order to
defraud an insurance company, from which he was about to buy an
annuity, and that he hoped thus to obtain it on more advantageous
terms. If this could have been shown to be the case he would have
escaped a criminal prosecution, and been sent to a hospital as for a
moral ailment. The view, however, was one which could not be reasonably
sustained, in spite of all the ingenuity and eloquence of one of the
most celebrated advocates of the country. The case was only too clear,
for the prisoner was almost at the point of death, and it was
astonishing that he had not been tried and convicted long previously.
His coughing was incessant during the whole trial, and it was all that
the two jailors in charge of him could do to keep him on his legs until
it was over.

The summing up of the judge was admirable. He dwelt upon every point
that could be construed in favour of the prisoner, but as he proceeded
it became clear that the evidence was too convincing to admit of doubt,
and there was but one opinion in the court as to the impending verdict
when the jury retired from the box. They were absent for about ten
minutes, and on their return the foreman pronounced the prisoner
guilty. There was a faint murmur of applause, but it was instantly
repressed. The judge then proceeded to pronounce sentence in words
which I can never forget, and which I copied out into a note-book next
day from the report that was published in the leading newspaper. I must
condense it somewhat, and nothing which I could say would give more
than a faint idea of the solemn, not to say majestic, severity with
which it was delivered. The sentence was as follows:-

“Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of the great crime of
labouring under pulmonary consumption, and after an impartial trial
before a jury of your countrymen, you have been found guilty. Against
the justice of the verdict I can say nothing: the evidence against you
was conclusive, and it only remains for me to pass such a sentence upon
you, as shall satisfy the ends of the law. That sentence must be a very
severe one. It pains me much to see one who is yet so young, and whose
prospects in life were otherwise so excellent, brought to this
distressing condition by a constitution which I can only regard as
radically vicious; but yours is no case for compassion: this is not
your first offence: you have led a career of crime, and have only
profited by the leniency shown you upon past occasions, to offend yet
more seriously against the laws and institutions of your country. You
were convicted of aggravated bronchitis last year: and I find that
though you are now only twenty-three years old, you have been
imprisoned on no less than fourteen occasions for illnesses of a more
or less hateful character; in fact, it is not too much to say that you
have spent the greater part of your life in a jail.

“It is all very well for you to say that you came of unhealthy parents,
and had a severe accident in your childhood which permanently
undermined your constitution; excuses such as these are the ordinary
refuge of the criminal; but they cannot for one moment be listened to
by the ear of justice. I am not here to enter upon curious metaphysical
questions as to the origin of this or that—questions to which there
would be no end were their introduction once tolerated, and which would
result in throwing the only guilt on the tissues of the primordial
cell, or on the elementary gases. There is no question of how you came
to be wicked, but only this—namely, are you wicked or not? This has
been decided in the affirmative, neither can I hesitate for a single
moment to say that it has been decided justly. You are a bad and
dangerous person, and stand branded in the eyes of your
fellow-countrymen with one of the most heinous known offences.

“It is not my business to justify the law: the law may in some cases
have its inevitable hardships, and I may feel regret at times that I
have not the option of passing a less severe sentence than I am
compelled to do. But yours is no such case; on the contrary, had not
the capital punishment for consumption been abolished, I should
certainly inflict it now.

“It is intolerable that an example of such terrible enormity should be
allowed to go at large unpunished. Your presence in the society of
respectable people would lead the less able-bodied to think more
lightly of all forms of illness; neither can it be permitted that you
should have the chance of corrupting unborn beings who might hereafter
pester you. The unborn must not be allowed to come near you: and this
not so much for their protection (for they are our natural enemies), as
for our own; for since they will not be utterly gainsaid, it must be
seen to that they shall be quartered upon those who are least likely to
corrupt them.

“But independently of this consideration, and independently of the
physical guilt which attaches itself to a crime so great as yours,
there is yet another reason why we should be unable to show you mercy,
even if we were inclined to do so. I refer to the existence of a class
of men who lie hidden among us, and who are called physicians. Were the
severity of the law or the current feeling of the country to be relaxed
never so slightly, these abandoned persons, who are now compelled to
practise secretly and who can be consulted only at the greatest risk,
would become frequent visitors in every household; their organisation
and their intimate acquaintance with all family secrets would give them
a power, both social and political, which nothing could resist. The
head of the household would become subordinate to the family doctor,
who would interfere between man and wife, between master and servant,
until the doctors should be the only depositaries of power in the
nation, and have all that we hold precious at their mercy. A time of
universal dephysicalisation would ensue; medicine-vendors of all kinds
would abound in our streets and advertise in all our newspapers. There
is one remedy for this, and one only. It is that which the laws of this
country have long received and acted upon, and consists in the sternest
repression of all diseases whatsoever, as soon as their existence is
made manifest to the eye of the law. Would that that eye were far more
piercing than it is.

“But I will enlarge no further upon things that are themselves so
obvious. You may say that it is not your fault. The answer is ready
enough at hand, and it amounts to this—that if you had been born of
healthy and well-to-do parents, and been well taken care of when you
were a child, you would never have offended against the laws of your
country, nor found yourself in your present disgraceful position. If
you tell me that you had no hand in your parentage and education, and
that it is therefore unjust to lay these things to your charge, I
answer that whether your being in a consumption is your fault or no, it
is a fault in you, and it is my duty to see that against such faults as
this the commonwealth shall be protected. You may say that it is your
misfortune to be criminal; I answer that it is your crime to be
unfortunate.

“Lastly, I should point out that even though the jury had acquitted
you—a supposition that I cannot seriously entertain—I should have felt
it my duty to inflict a sentence hardly less severe than that which I
must pass at present; for the more you had been found guiltless of the
crime imputed to you, the more you would have been found guilty of one
hardly less heinous—I mean the crime of having been maligned unjustly.

“I do not hesitate therefore to sentence you to imprisonment, with hard
labour, for the rest of your miserable existence. During that period I
would earnestly entreat you to repent of the wrongs you have done
already, and to entirely reform the constitution of your whole body. I
entertain but little hope that you will pay attention to my advice; you
are already far too abandoned. Did it rest with myself, I should add
nothing in mitigation of the sentence which I have passed, but it is
the merciful provision of the law that even the most hardened criminal
shall be allowed some one of the three official remedies, which is to
be prescribed at the time of his conviction. I shall therefore order
that you receive two tablespoonfuls of castor oil daily, until the
pleasure of the court be further known.”

When the sentence was concluded the prisoner acknowledged in a few
scarcely audible words that he was justly punished, and that he had had
a fair trial. He was then removed to the prison from which he was never
to return. There was a second attempt at applause when the judge had
finished speaking, but as before it was at once repressed; and though
the feeling of the court was strongly against the prisoner, there was
no show of any violence against him, if one may except a little hooting
from the bystanders when he was being removed in the prisoners’ van.
Indeed, nothing struck me more during my whole sojourn in the country,
than the general respect for law and order.




CHAPTER XII. MALCONTENTS


I confess that I felt rather unhappy when I got home, and thought more
closely over the trial that I had just witnessed. For the time I was
carried away by the opinion of those among whom I was. They had no
misgivings about what they were doing. There did not seem to be a
person in the whole court who had the smallest doubt but that all was
exactly as it should be. This universal unsuspecting confidence was
imparted by sympathy to myself, in spite of all my training in opinions
so widely different. So it is with most of us: that which we observe to
be taken as a matter of course by those around us, we take as a matter
of course ourselves. And after all, it is our duty to do this, save
upon grave occasion.

But when I was alone, and began to think the trial over, it certainly
did strike me as betraying a strange and untenable position. Had the
judge said that he acknowledged the probable truth, namely, that the
prisoner was born of unhealthy parents, or had been starved in infancy,
or had met with some accidents which had developed consumption; and had
he then gone on to say that though he knew all this, and bitterly
regretted that the protection of society obliged him to inflict
additional pain on one who had suffered so much already, yet that there
was no help for it, I could have understood the position, however
mistaken I might have thought it. The judge was fully persuaded that
the infliction of pain upon the weak and sickly was the only means of
preventing weakness and sickliness from spreading, and that ten times
the suffering now inflicted upon the accused was eventually warded off
from others by the present apparent severity. I could therefore
perfectly understand his inflicting whatever pain he might consider
necessary in order to prevent so bad an example from spreading further
and lowering the Erewhonian standard; but it seemed almost childish to
tell the prisoner that he could have been in good health, if he had
been more fortunate in his constitution, and been exposed to less
hardships when he was a boy.

I write with great diffidence, but it seems to me that there is no
unfairness in punishing people for their misfortunes, or rewarding them
for their sheer good luck: it is the normal condition of human life
that this should be done, and no right-minded person will complain of
being subjected to the common treatment. There is no alternative open
to us. It is idle to say that men are not responsible for their
misfortunes. What is responsibility? Surely to be responsible means to
be liable to have to give an answer should it be demanded, and all
things which live are responsible for their lives and actions should
society see fit to question them through the mouth of its authorised
agent.

What is the offence of a lamb that we should rear it, and tend it, and
lull it into security, for the express purpose of killing it? Its
offence is the misfortune of being something which society wants to
eat, and which cannot defend itself. This is ample. Who shall limit the
right of society except society itself? And what consideration for the
individual is tolerable unless society be the gainer thereby? Wherefore
should a man be so richly rewarded for having been son to a
millionaire, were it not clearly provable that the common welfare is
thus better furthered? We cannot seriously detract from a man’s merit
in having been the son of a rich father without imperilling our own
tenure of things which we do not wish to jeopardise; if this were
otherwise we should not let him keep his money for a single hour; we
would have it ourselves at once. For property is robbery, but then, we
are all robbers or would-be robbers together, and have found it
essential to organise our thieving, as we have found it necessary to
organise our lust and our revenge. Property, marriage, the law; as the
bed to the river, so rule and convention to the instinct; and woe to
him who tampers with the banks while the flood is flowing.

But to return. Even in England a man on board a ship with yellow fever
is held responsible for his mischance, no matter what his being kept in
quarantine may cost him. He may catch the fever and die; we cannot help
it; he must take his chance as other people do; but surely it would be
desperate unkindness to add contumely to our self-protection, unless,
indeed, we believe that contumely is one of our best means of
self-protection. Again, take the case of maniacs. We say that they are
irresponsible for their actions, but we take good care, or ought to
take good care, that they shall answer to us for their insanity, and we
imprison them in what we call an asylum (that modern sanctuary!) if we
do not like their answers. This is a strange kind of irresponsibility.
What we ought to say is that we can afford to be satisfied with a less
satisfactory answer from a lunatic than from one who is not mad,
because lunacy is less infectious than crime.

We kill a serpent if we go in danger by it, simply for being such and
such a serpent in such and such a place; but we never say that the
serpent has only itself to blame for not having been a harmless
creature. Its crime is that of being the thing which it is: but this is
a capital offence, and we are right in killing it out of the way,
unless we think it more danger to do so than to let it escape;
nevertheless we pity the creature, even though we kill it.

But in the case of him whose trial I have described above, it was
impossible that any one in the court should not have known that it was
but by an accident of birth and circumstances that he was not himself
also in a consumption; and yet none thought that it disgraced them to
hear the judge give vent to the most cruel truisms about him. The judge
himself was a kind and thoughtful person. He was a man of magnificent
and benign presence. He was evidently of an iron constitution, and his
face wore an expression of the maturest wisdom and experience; yet for
all this, old and learned as he was, he could not see things which one
would have thought would have been apparent even to a child. He could
not emancipate himself from, nay, it did not even occur to him to feel,
the bondage of the ideas in which he had been born and bred.

So was it also with the jury and bystanders; and—most wonderful of
all—so was it even with the prisoner. Throughout he seemed fully
impressed with the notion that he was being dealt with justly: he saw
nothing wanton in his being told by the judge that he was to be
punished, not so much as a necessary protection to society (although
this was not entirely lost sight of), as because he had not been better
born and bred than he was. But this led me to hope that he suffered
less than he would have done if he had seen the matter in the same
light that I did. And, after all, justice is relative.

I may here mention that only a few years before my arrival in the
country, the treatment of all convicted invalids had been much more
barbarous than now, for no physical remedy was provided, and prisoners
were put to the severest labour in all sorts of weather, so that most
of them soon succumbed to the extreme hardships which they suffered;
this was supposed to be beneficial in some ways, inasmuch as it put the
country to less expense for the maintenance of its criminal class; but
the growth of luxury had induced a relaxation of the old severity, and
a sensitive age would no longer tolerate what appeared to be an excess
of rigour, even towards the most guilty; moreover, it was found that
juries were less willing to convict, and justice was often cheated
because there was no alternative between virtually condemning a man to
death and letting him go free; it was also held that the country paid
in recommittals for its over-severity; for those who had been
imprisoned even for trifling ailments were often permanently disabled
by their imprisonment; and when a man had been once convicted, it was
probable that he would seldom afterwards be off the hands of the
country.

These evils had long been apparent and recognised; yet people were too
indolent, and too indifferent to suffering not their own, to bestir
themselves about putting an end to them, until at last a benevolent
reformer devoted his whole life to effecting the necessary changes. He
divided all illnesses into three classes—those affecting the head, the
trunk, and the lower limbs—and obtained an enactment that all diseases
of the head, whether internal or external, should be treated with
laudanum, those of the body with castor-oil, and those of the lower
limbs with an embrocation of strong sulphuric acid and water.

It may be said that the classification was not sufficiently careful,
and that the remedies were ill chosen; but it is a hard thing to
initiate any reform, and it was necessary to familiarise the public
mind with the principle, by inserting the thin end of the wedge first:
it is not, therefore, to be wondered at that among so practical a
people there should still be some room for improvement. The mass of the
nation are well pleased with existing arrangements, and believe that
their treatment of criminals leaves little or nothing to be desired;
but there is an energetic minority who hold what are considered to be
extreme opinions, and who are not at all disposed to rest contented
until the principle lately admitted has been carried further.

I was at some pains to discover the opinions of these men, and their
reasons for entertaining them. They are held in great odium by the
generality of the public, and are considered as subverters of all
morality whatever. The malcontents, on the other hand, assert that
illness is the inevitable result of certain antecedent causes, which,
in the great majority of cases, were beyond the control of the
individual, and that therefore a man is only guilty for being in a
consumption in the same way as rotten fruit is guilty for having gone
rotten. True, the fruit must be thrown on one side as unfit for man’s
use, and the man in a consumption must be put in prison for the
protection of his fellow-citizens; but these radicals would not punish
him further than by loss of liberty and a strict surveillance. So long
as he was prevented from injuring society, they would allow him to make
himself useful by supplying whatever of society’s wants he could
supply. If he succeeded in thus earning money, they would have him made
as comfortable in prison as possible, and would in no way interfere
with his liberty more than was necessary to prevent him from escaping,
or from becoming more severely indisposed within the prison walls; but
they would deduct from his earnings the expenses of his board, lodging,
surveillance, and half those of his conviction. If he was too ill to do
anything for his support in prison, they would allow him nothing but
bread and water, and very little of that.

They say that society is foolish in refusing to allow itself to be
benefited by a man merely because he has done it harm hitherto, and
that objection to the labour of the diseased classes is only protection
in another form. It is an attempt to raise the natural price of a
commodity by saying that such and such persons, who are able and
willing to produce it, shall not do so, whereby every one has to pay
more for it.

Besides, so long as a man has not been actually killed he is our
fellow-creature, though perhaps a very unpleasant one. It is in a great
degree the doing of others that he is what he is, or in other words,
the society which now condemns him is partly answerable concerning him.
They say that there is no fear of any increase of disease under these
circumstances; for the loss of liberty, the surveillance, the
considerable and compulsory deduction from the prisoner’s earnings, the
very sparing use of stimulants (of which they would allow but little to
any, and none to those who did not earn them), the enforced celibacy,
and above all, the loss of reputation among friends, are in their
opinion as ample safeguards to society against a general neglect of
health as those now resorted to. A man, therefore, (so they say) should
carry his profession or trade into prison with him if possible; if not,
he must earn his living by the nearest thing to it that he can; but if
he be a gentleman born and bred to no profession, he must pick oakum,
or write art criticisms for a newspaper.

These people say further, that the greater part of the illness which
exists in their country is brought about by the insane manner in which
it is treated.

They believe that illness is in many cases just as curable as the moral
diseases which they see daily cured around them, but that a great
reform is impossible till men learn to take a juster view of what
physical obliquity proceeds from. Men will hide their illnesses as long
as they are scouted on its becoming known that they are ill; it is the
scouting, not the physic, which produces the concealment; and if a man
felt that the news of his being in ill-health would be received by his
neighbours as a deplorable fact, but one as much the result of
necessary antecedent causes as though he had broken into a jeweller’s
shop and stolen a valuable diamond necklace—as a fact which might just
as easily have happened to themselves, only that they had the luck to
be better born or reared; and if they also felt that they would not be
made more uncomfortable in the prison than the protection of society
against infection and the proper treatment of their own disease
actually demanded, men would give themselves up to the police as
readily on perceiving that they had taken small-pox, as they go now to
the straightener when they feel that they are on the point of forging a
will, or running away with somebody else’s wife.

But the main argument on which they rely is that of economy: for they
know that they will sooner gain their end by appealing to men’s
pockets, in which they have generally something of their own, than to
their heads, which contain for the most part little but borrowed or
stolen property; and also, they believe it to be the readiest test and
the one which has most to show for itself. If a course of conduct can
be shown to cost a country less, and this by no dishonourable saving
and with no indirectly increased expenditure in other ways, they hold
that it requires a good deal to upset the arguments in favour of its
being adopted, and whether rightly or wrongly I cannot pretend to say,
they think that the more medicinal and humane treatment of the diseased
of which they are the advocates would in the long run be much cheaper
to the country: but I did not gather that these reformers were opposed
to meeting some of the more violent forms of illness with the
cat-of-nine-tails, or with death; for they saw no so effectual way of
checking them; they would therefore both flog and hang, but they would
do so pitifully.

I have perhaps dwelt too long upon opinions which can have no possible
bearing upon our own, but I have not said the tenth part of what these
would-be reformers urged upon me. I feel, however, that I have
sufficiently trespassed upon the attention of the reader.




CHAPTER XIII. THE VIEWS OF THE EREWHONIANS CONCERNING DEATH


The Erewhonians regard death with less abhorrence than disease. If it
is an offence at all, it is one beyond the reach of the law, which is
therefore silent on the subject; but they insist that the greater
number of those who are commonly said to die, have never yet been
born—not, at least, into that unseen world which is alone worthy of
consideration. As regards this unseen world I understand them to say
that some miscarry in respect to it before they have even reached the
seen, and some after, while few are ever truly born into it at all—the
greater part of all the men and women over the whole country
miscarrying before they reach it. And they say that this does not
matter so much as we think it does.

As for what we call death, they argue that too much has been made of
it. The mere knowledge that we shall one day die does not make us very
unhappy; no one thinks that he or she will escape, so that none are
disappointed. We do not care greatly even though we know that we have
not long to live; the only thing that would seriously affect us would
be the knowing—or rather thinking that we know—the precise moment at
which the blow will fall. Happily no one can ever certainly know this,
though many try to make themselves miserable by endeavouring to find it
out. It seems as though there were some power somewhere which
mercifully stays us from putting that sting into the tail of death,
which we would put there if we could, and which ensures that though
death must always be a bugbear, it shall never under any conceivable
circumstances be more than a bugbear.

For even though a man is condemned to die in a week’s time and is shut
up in a prison from which it is certain that he cannot escape, he will
always hope that a reprieve may come before the week is over. Besides,
the prison may catch fire, and he may be suffocated not with a rope,
but with common ordinary smoke; or he may be struck dead by lightning
while exercising in the prison yards. When the morning is come on which
the poor wretch is to be hanged, he may choke at his breakfast, or die
from failure of the heart’s action before the drop has fallen; and even
though it has fallen, he cannot be quite certain that he is going to
die, for he cannot know this till his death has actually taken place,
and it will be too late then for him to discover that he was going to
die at the appointed hour after all. The Erewhonians, therefore, hold
that death, like life, is an affair of being more frightened than hurt.

They burn their dead, and the ashes are presently scattered over any
piece of ground which the deceased may himself have chosen. No one is
permitted to refuse this hospitality to the dead: people, therefore,
generally choose some garden or orchard which they may have known and
been fond of when they were young. The superstitious hold that those
whose ashes are scattered over any land become its jealous guardians
from that time forward; and the living like to think that they shall
become identified with this or that locality where they have once been
happy.

They do not put up monuments, nor write epitaphs, for their dead,
though in former ages their practice was much as ours, but they have a
custom which comes to much the same thing, for the instinct of
preserving the name alive after the death of the body seems to be
common to all mankind. They have statues of themselves made while they
are still alive (those, that is, who can afford it), and write
inscriptions under them, which are often quite as untruthful as are our
own epitaphs—only in another way. For they do not hesitate to describe
themselves as victims to ill temper, jealousy, covetousness, and the
like, but almost always lay claim to personal beauty, whether they have
it or not, and, often, to the possession of a large sum in the funded
debt of the country. If a person is ugly he does not sit as a model for
his own statue, although it bears his name. He gets the handsomest of
his friends to sit for him, and one of the ways of paying a compliment
to another is to ask him to sit for such a statue. Women generally sit
for their own statues, from a natural disinclination to admit the
superior beauty of a friend, but they expect to be idealised. I
understood that the multitude of these statues was beginning to be felt
as an encumbrance in almost every family, and that the custom would
probably before long fall into desuetude.

Indeed, this has already come about to the satisfaction of every one,
as regards the statues of public men—not more than three of which can
be found in the whole capital. I expressed my surprise at this, and was
told that some five hundred years before my visit, the city had been so
overrun with these pests, that there was no getting about, and people
were worried beyond endurance by having their attention called at every
touch and turn to something, which, when they had attended to it, they
found not to concern them. Most of these statues were mere attempts to
do for some man or woman what an animal-stuffer does more successfully
for a dog, or bird, or pike. They were generally foisted on the public
by some côterie that was trying to exalt itself in exalting some one
else, and not unfrequently they had no other inception than desire on
the part of some member of the côterie to find a job for a young
sculptor to whom his daughter was engaged. Statues so begotten could
never be anything but deformities, and this is the way in which they
are sure to be begotten, as soon as the art of making them at all has
become widely practised.

I know not why, but all the noblest arts hold in perfection but for a
very little moment. They soon reach a height from which they begin to
decline, and when they have begun to decline it is a pity that they
cannot be knocked on the head; for an art is like a living
organism—better dead than dying. There is no way of making an aged art
young again; it must be born anew and grow up from infancy as a new
thing, working out its own salvation from effort to effort in all fear
and trembling.

The Erewhonians five hundred years ago understood nothing of all this—I
doubt whether they even do so now. They wanted to get the nearest thing
they could to a stuffed man whose stuffing should not grow mouldy. They
should have had some such an establishment as our Madame Tussaud’s,
where the figures wear real clothes, and are painted up to nature. Such
an institution might have been made self-supporting, for people might
have been made to pay before going in. As it was, they had let their
poor cold grimy colourless heroes and heroines loaf about in squares
and in corners of streets in all weathers, without any attempt at
artistic sanitation—for there was no provision for burying their dead
works of art out of their sight—no drainage, so to speak, whereby
statues that had been sufficiently assimilated, so as to form part of
the residuary impression of the country, might be carried away out of
the system. Hence they put them up with a light heart on the cackling
of their côteries, and they and their children had to live, often
enough, with some wordy windbag whose cowardice had cost the country
untold loss in blood and money.

At last the evil reached such a pitch that the people rose, and with
indiscriminate fury destroyed good and bad alike. Most of what was
destroyed was bad, but some few works were good, and the sculptors of
to-day wring their hands over some of the fragments that have been
preserved in museums up and down the country. For a couple of hundred
years or so, not a statue was made from one end of the kingdom to the
other, but the instinct for having stuffed men and women was so strong,
that people at length again began to try to make them. Not knowing how
to make them, and having no academics to mislead them, the earliest
sculptors of this period thought things out for themselves, and again
produced works that were full of interest, so that in three or four
generations they reached a perfection hardly if at all inferior to that
of several hundred years earlier.

On this the same evils recurred. Sculptors obtained high prices—the art
became a trade—schools arose which professed to sell the holy spirit of
art for money; pupils flocked from far and near to buy it, in the hopes
of selling it later on, and were struck purblind as a punishment for
the sin of those who sent them. Before long a second iconoclastic fury
would infallibly have followed, but for the prescience of a statesman
who succeeded in passing an Act to the effect that no statue of any
public man or woman should be allowed to remain unbroken for more than
fifty years, unless at the end of that time a jury of twenty-four men
taken at random from the street pronounced in favour of its being
allowed a second fifty years of life. Every fifty years this
reconsideration was to be repeated, and unless there was a majority of
eighteen in favour of the retention of the statue, it was to be
destroyed.

Perhaps a simpler plan would have been to forbid the erection of a
statue to any public man or woman till he or she had been dead at least
one hundred years, and even then to insist on reconsideration of the
claims of the deceased and the merit of the statue every fifty
years—but the working of

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