
 

                                 Edward Bellamy

                                Looking Backward

                                        

                                   2000-1887

                                    Preface

         Historical Section Shawmut College, Boston, December 26, 2000.

Living as we do in the closing year of the twentieth century, enjoying the
blessings of a social order at once so simple and logical that it seems but the
triumph of common sense, it is no doubt difficult for those whose studies have
not been largely historical to realize that the present organization of society
is, in its completeness, less than a century old. No historical fact is,
however, better established than that till nearly the end of the nineteenth
century it was the general belief that the ancient industrial system, with all
its shocking social consequences, was destined to last, with possibly a little
patching, to the end of time. How strange and well-nigh incredible does it seem
that so prodigious a moral and material transformation as has taken place since
then could have been accomplished in so brief an interval! The readiness with
which men accustom themselves, as matters of course, to improvements in their
condition, which, when anticipated, seemed to leave nothing more to be desired,
could not be more strikingly illustrated. What reflection could be better
calculated to moderate the enthusiasm of reformers who count for their reward on
the lively gratitude of future ages!
    The object of this volume is to assist persons who, while desiring to gain a
more definite idea of the social contrasts between the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries, are daunted by the formal aspect of the histories which treat the
subject. Warned by a teacher's experience that learning is accounted a weariness
to the flesh, the author has sought to alleviate the instructive quality of the
book by casting it in the form of a romantic narrative, which he would be glad
to fancy not wholly devoid of interest on its own account.
    The reader, to whom modern social institutions and their underlying
principles are matters of course, may at times find Dr. Leete's explanations of
them rather trite, - but it must be remembered that to Dr. Leete's guest they
were not matters of course, and that this book is written for the express
purpose of inducing the reader to forget for the nonce that they are so to him.
One word more. The almost universal theme of the writers and orators who have
celebrated this bimillennial epoch has been the future rather than the past, not
the advance that has been made, but the progress that shall be made, ever onward
and upward, till the race shall achieve its ineffable destiny. This is well,
wholly well, but it seems to me that nowhere can we find more solid ground for
daring anticipations of human development during the next one thousand years,
than by »Looking Backward« upon the progress of the last one hundred.
    That this volume may be so fortunate as to find readers whose interest in
the subject shall incline them to overlook the deficiencies of the treatment is
the hope in which the author steps aside and leaves Mr. Julian West to speak for
himself.
 

                                   Chapter I

I first saw the light in the city of Boston in the year 1857. »What!« you said,
»eighteen fifty-seven? That is an odd slip. He means nineteen fifty-seven, of
course.« I beg pardon, but there is no mistake. It was about four in the
afternoon of December the 26th, one day after Christmas, in the year 1857, not
1957, that I first breathed the east wind of Boston, which, I assure the reader,
was at that remote period marked by the same penetrating quality characterizing
it in the present year of grace, 2000.
    These statements seem so absurd on their face, especially when I add that I
am a young man apparently of about thirty years of age, that no person can be
blamed for refusing to read another word of what promises to be a mere
imposition upon his credulity. Nevertheless I earnestly assure the reader that
no imposition is intended, and will undertake, if he shall follow me a few
pages, to entirely convince him of this. If I may, then, provisionally assume,
with the pledge of justifying the assumption, that I know better than the reader
when I was born, I will go on with my narrative. As every schoolboy knows, in
the latter part of the nineteenth century the civilization of to-day, or
anything like it, did not exist, although the elements which were to develop it
were already in ferment. Nothing had, however, occurred to modify the immemorial
division of society into the four classes, or nations, as they may be more fitly
called, since the differences between them were far greater than those between
any nations nowadays, of the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant. I
myself was rich and also educated, and possessed, therefore, all the elements of
happiness enjoyed by the most fortunate in that age. Living in luxury, and
occupied only with the pursuit of the pleasures and refinements of life, I
derived the means of my support from the labour of others, rendering no sort of
service in return. My parents and grand-parents had lived in the same way, and I
expected that my descendants, if I had any, would enjoy a like easy existence.
    But how could I live without service to the world? you ask. Why should the
world have supported in utter idleness one who was able to render service? The
answer is that my great-grandfather had accumulated a sum of money on which his
descendants had ever since lived. The sum, you will naturally infer, must have
been very large not to have been exhausted in supporting three generations in
idleness. This, however, was not the fact. The sum had been originally by no
means large. It was, in fact, much larger now that three generations had been
supported upon it in idleness, than it was at first. This mystery of use without
consumption, of warmth without combustion, seems like magic, but was merely an
ingenious application of the art now happily lost but carried to great
perfection by your ancestors, of shifting the burden of one's support on the
shoulders of others. The man who had accomplished this, and it was the end all
sought, was said to live on the income of his investments. To explain at this
point how the ancient methods of industry made this possible would delay us too
much. I shall only stop now to say that interest on investments was a species of
tax in perpetuity upon the product of those engaged in industry which a person
possessing or inheriting money was able to levy. It must not be supposed that an
arrangement which seems so unnatural and preposterous according to modern
notions was never criticised by your ancestors. It had been the effort of
lawgivers and prophets from the earliest ages to abolish interest, or at least
to limit it to the smallest possible rate. All these efforts had, however,
failed, as they necessarily must so long as the ancient social organizations
prevailed. At the time of which I write, the latter part of the nineteenth
century, government had generally given up trying to regulate the subject at
all.
    By way of attempting to give the reader some general impression of the way
people lived together in those days, and especially of the relations of the rich
and poor to one another, perhaps I cannot do better than to compare society as
it then was to a prodigious coach which the masses of humanity were harnessed to
and dragged toilsomely along a very hilly and sandy road. The driver was hunger,
and permitted no lagging, though the pace was necessarily very slow. Despite the
difficulty of drawing the coach at all along so hard a road, the top was covered
with passengers who never got down, even at the steepest ascents. These seats on
top were very breezy and comfortable. Well up out of the dust, their occupants
could enjoy the scenery at their leisure, or critically discuss the merits of
the straining team. Naturally such places were in great demand and the
competition for them was keen, every one seeking as the first end in life to
secure a seat on the coach for himself and to leave it to his child after him.
By the rule of the coach a man could leave his seat to whom he wished, but on
the other hand there were many accidents by which it might at any time be wholly
lost. For all that they were so easy, the seats were very insecure, and at every
sudden jolt of the coach persons were slipping out of them and falling to the
ground, where they were instantly compelled to take hold of the rope and help to
drag the coach on which they had before ridden so pleasantly. It was naturally
regarded as a terrible misfortune to lose one's seat, and the apprehension that
this might happen to them or their friends was a constant cloud upon the
happiness of those who rode.
    But did they think only of themselves? you ask. Was not their very luxury
rendered intolerable to them by comparison with the lot of their brothers and
sisters in the harness, and the knowledge that their own weight added to their
toil? Had they no compassion for fellow beings from whom fortune only
distinguished them? Oh, yes; commiseration was frequently expressed by those who
rode for those who had to pull the coach, especially when the vehicle came to a
bad place in the road, as it was constantly doing, or to a particularly steep
hill. At such times, the desperate straining of the team, their agonized leaping
and plunging under the pitiless lashing of hunger, the many who fainted at the
rope and were trampled in the mire, made a very distressing spectacle, which
often called forth highly creditable displays of feeling on the top of the
coach. At such times the passengers would call down encouragingly to the toilers
of the rope, exhorting them to patience, and holding out hopes of possible
compensation in another world for the hardness of their lot, while others
contributed to buy salves and liniments for the crippled and injured. It was
agreed that it was a great pity that the coach should be so hard to pull, and
there was a sense of general relief when the specially bad piece of road was
gotten over. This relief was not, indeed, wholly on account of the team, for
there was always some danger at these bad places of a general overturn in which
all would lose their seats.
    It must in truth be admitted that the main effect of the spectacle of the
misery of the toilers at the rope was to enhance the passengers' sense of the
value of their seats upon the coach, and to cause them to hold on to them more
desperately than before. If the passengers could only have felt assured that
neither they nor their friends would ever fall from the top, it is probable
that, beyond contributing to the funds for liniments and bandages, they would
have troubled themselves extremely little about those who dragged the coach.
    I am well aware that this will appear to the men and women of the twentieth
century an incredible inhumanity, but there are two facts, both very curious,
which partly explain it. In the first place, it was firmly and sincerely
believed that there was no other way in which Society could get along, except
the many pulled at the rope and the few rode, and not only this, but that no
very radical improvement even was possible, either in the harness, the coach,
the roadway, or the distribution of the toil. It had always been as it was, and
it always would be so. It was a pity, but it could not be helped, and philosophy
forbade wasting compassion on what was beyond remedy.
    The other fact is yet more curious, consisting in a singular hallucination
which those on the top of the coach generally shared, that they were not exactly
like their brothers and sisters who pulled at the rope, but of finer clay, in
some way belonging to a higher order of beings who might justly expect to be
drawn. This seems unaccountable, but, as I once rode on this very coach and
shared that very hallucination, I ought to be believed. The strangest thing
about the hallucination was that those who had but just climbed up from the
ground, before they had outgrown the marks of the rope upon their hands, began
to fall under its influence. As for those whose parents and grand-parents before
them had been so fortunate as to keep their seats on the top, the conviction
they cherished of the essential difference between their sort of humanity and
the common article was absolute. The effect of such a delusion in moderating
fellow feeling for the sufferings of the mass of men into a distant and
philosophical compassion is obvious. To it I refer as the only extenuation I can
offer for the indifference which, at the period I write of, marked my own
attitude toward the misery of my brothers.
    In 1887 I came to my thirtieth year. Although still unmarried, I was engaged
to wed Edith Bartlett. She, like myself, rode on the top of the coach. That is
to say, not to encumber ourselves further with an illustration which has, I
hope, served its purpose of giving the reader some general impression of how we
lived then, her family was wealthy. In that age, when money alone commanded all
that was agreeable and refined in life, it was enough for a woman to be rich to
have suitors; but Edith Bartlett was beautiful and graceful also.
    My lady readers, I am aware, will protest at this. »Handsome she might have
been,« I hear them saying, »but graceful never, in the costumes which were the
fashion at that period, when the head covering was a dizzy structure a foot
tall, and the almost incredible extension of the skirt behind by means of
artificial contrivances more thoroughly dehumanized the form than any former
device of dressmakers. Fancy any one graceful in such a costume!« The point is
certainly well taken, and I can only reply that while the ladies of the
twentieth century are lovely demonstrations of the effect of appropriate drapery
in accenting feminine graces, my recollection of their great-grandmothers
enables me to maintain that no deformity of costume can wholly disguise them.
    Our marriage only waited on the completion of the house which I was building
for our occupancy in one of the most desirable parts of the city, that is to
say, a part chiefly inhabited by the rich. For it must be understood that the
comparative desirability of different parts of Boston for residence depended
then, not on natural features, but on the character of the neighbouring
population. Each class or nation lived by itself, in quarters of its own. A rich
man living among the poor, an educated man among the uneducated, was like one
living in isolation among a jealous and alien race. When the house had been
begun, its completion by the winter of 1886 had been expected. The spring of the
following year found it, however, yet incomplete, and my marriage still a thing
of the future. The cause of a delay calculated to be particularly exasperating
to an ardent lover was a series of strikes, that is to say, concerted refusals
to work on the part of the brick-layers, masons, carpenters, painters, plumbers,
and other trades concerned in house building. What the specific causes of these
strikes were I do not remember. Strikes had become so common at that period that
people had ceased to inquire into their particular grounds. In one department of
industry or another, they had been nearly incessant ever since the great
business crisis of 1873. In fact it had come to be the exceptional thing to see
any class of labourers pursue their avocation steadily for more than a few months
at a time.
    The reader who observes the dates alluded to will of course recognize in
these disturbances of industry the first and incoherent phase of the great
movement which ended in the establishment of the modern industrial system with
all its social consequences. This is all so plain in the retrospect that a child
can understand it, but not being prophets, we of that day had no clear idea what
was happening to us. What we did see was that industrially the country was in a
very queer way. The relation between the workingman and the employer, between
labour and capital, appeared in some unaccountable manner to have become
dislocated. The working classes had quite suddenly and very generally become
infected with a profound discontent with their condition, and an idea that it
could be greatly bettered if they only knew how to go about it. On every side,
with one accord, they preferred demands for higher pay, shorter hours, better
dwellings, better educational advantages, and a share in the refinements and
luxuries of life, demands which it was impossible to see the way to granting
unless the world were to become a great deal richer than it then was. Though
they knew something of what they wanted, they knew nothing of how to accomplish
it, and the eager enthusiasm with which they thronged about any one who seemed
likely to give them any light on the subject lent sudden reputation to many
would-be leaders, some of whom had little enough light to give. However
chimerical the aspirations of the labouring classes might be deemed, the devotion
with which they supported one another in the strikes, which were their chief
weapon, and the sacrifices which they underwent to carry them out left no doubt
of their dead earnestness.
    As to the final outcome of the labour troubles, which was the phrase by which
the movement I have described was most commonly referred to, the opinions of the
people of my class differed according to individual temperament. The sanguine
argued very forcibly that it was in the very nature of things impossible that
the new hopes of the workingmen could be satisfied, simply because the world had
not the wherewithal to satisfy them. It was only because the masses worked very
hard and lived on short commons that the race did not starve outright, and no
considerable improvement in their condition was possible while the world, as a
whole, remained so poor. It was not the capitalists whom the labouring men were
contending with, these maintained, but the iron-bound environment of humanity,
and it was merely a question of the thickness of their skulls when they would
discover the fact and make up their minds to endure what they could not cure.
    The less sanguine admitted all this. Of course the workingmen's aspirations
were impossible of fulfillment for natural reasons, but there were grounds to
fear that they would not discover this fact until they had made a sad mess of
society. They had the votes and the power to do so if they pleased, and their
leaders meant they should. Some of these despondent observers went so far as to
predict an impending social cataclysm. Humanity, they argued, having climbed to
the top round of the ladder of civilization, was about to take a header into
chaos, after which it would doubtless pick itself up, turn round, and begin to
climb again. Repeated experiences of this sort in historic and prehistoric times
possibly accounted for the puzzling bumps on the human cranium. Human history,
like all great movements, was cyclical, and returned to the point of beginning.
The idea of indefinite progress in a right line was a chimera of the
imagination, with no analogue in nature. The parabola of a comet was perhaps a
yet better illustration of the career of humanity. Tending upward and sunward
from the aphelion of barbarism, the race attained the perihelion of civilization
only to plunge downward once more to its nether goal in the regions of chaos.
    This, of course, was an extreme opinion, but I remember serious men among my
acquaintances who, in discussing the signs of the times, adopted a very similar
tone. It was no doubt the common opinion of thoughtful men that society was
approaching a critical period which might result in great changes. The labour
troubles, their causes, course, and cure, took lead of all other topics in the
public prints, and in serious conversation.
    The nervous tension of the public mind could not have been more strikingly
illustrated than it was by the alarm resulting from the talk of a small band of
men who called themselves anarchists, and proposed to terrify the American
people into adopting their ideas by threats of violence, as if a mighty nation
which had but just put down a rebellion of half its own numbers, in order to
maintain its political system, were likely to adopt a new social system out of
fear.
    As one of the wealthy, with a large stake in the existing order of things, I
naturally shared the apprehensions of my class. The particular grievance I had
against the working classes at the time of which I write, on account of the
effect of their strikes in postponing my wedded bliss, no doubt lent a special
animosity to my feeling toward them.
 

                                   Chapter II

The thirtieth day of May, 1887, fell on a Monday. It was one of the annual
holidays of the nation in the latter third of the nineteenth century, being set
apart under the name of Decoration Day, for doing honour to the memory of the
soldiers of the North who took part in the war for the preservation of the union
of the States. The survivors of the war, escorted by military and civic
processions and bands of music, were wont on this occasion to visit the
cemeteries and lay wreaths of flowers upon the graves of their dead comrades,
the ceremony being a very solemn and touching one. The eldest brother of Edith
Bartlett had fallen in the war, and on Decoration Day the family was in the
habit of making a visit to Mount Auburn, where he lay.
    I had asked permission to make one of the party, and, on our return to the
city at nightfall, remained to dine with the family of my betrothed. In the
drawing-room, after dinner, I picked up an evening paper and read of a fresh
strike in the building trades, which would probably still further delay the
completion of my unlucky house. I remember distinctly how exasperated I was at
this, and the objurgations, as forcible as the presence of the ladies permitted,
which I lavished upon workmen in general, and these strikers in particular. I
had abundant sympathy from those about me, and the remarks made in the desultory
conversation which followed, upon the unprincipled conduct of the labour
agitators, were calculated to make those gentlemen's ears tingle. It was agreed
that affairs were going from bad to worse very fast, and that there was no
telling what we should come to soon. »The worst of it,« I remember Mrs.
Bartlett's saying, »is that the working classes all over the world seem to be
going crazy at once. In Europe it is far worse even than here. I'm sure I should
not dare to live there at all. I asked Mr. Bartlett the other day where we
should emigrate to if all the terrible things took place which those socialists
threaten. He said he did not know any place now where society could be called
stable except Greenland, Patagonia, and the Chinese Empire.« »Those Chinamen
knew what they were about,« somebody added, »when they refused to let in our
western civilization. They knew what it would lead to better than we did. They
saw it was nothing but dynamite in disguise.«
    After this, I remember drawing Edith apart and trying to persuade her that
it would be better to be married at once without waiting for the completion of
the house, spending the time in travel till our home was ready for us. She was
remarkably handsome that evening, the mourning costume that she wore in
recognition of the day setting off to great advantage the purity of her
complexion. I can see her even now with my mind's eye just as she looked that
night. When I took my leave she followed me into the hall and I kissed her
good-by as usual. There was no circumstance out of the common to distinguish
this parting from previous occasions when we had bade each other good-by for a
night or a day. There was absolutely no premonition in my mind, or I am sure in
hers, that this was more than an ordinary separation.
    Ah, well!
    The hour at which I had left my betrothed was a rather early one for a
lover, but the fact was no reflection on my devotion. I was a confirmed sufferer
from insomnia, and although otherwise perfectly well had been completely fagged
out that day, from having slept scarcely at all the two previous nights. Edith
knew this and had insisted on sending me home by nine o'clock, with strict
orders to go to bed at once.
    The house in which I lived had been occupied by three generations of the
family of which I was the only living representative in the direct line. It was
a large, ancient wooden mansion, very elegant in an old-fashioned way within,
but situated in a quarter that had long since become undesirable for residence,
from its invasion by tenement houses and manufactories. It was not a house to
which I could think of bringing a bride, much less so dainty a one as Edith
Bartlett. I had advertised it for sale, and meanwhile merely used it for
sleeping purposes, dining at my club. One servant, a faithful coloured man by the
name of Sawyer, lived with me and attended to my few wants. One feature of the
house I expected to miss greatly when I should leave it, and this was the
sleeping chamber which I had built under the foundations. I could not have slept
in the city at all, with its never ceasing nightly noises, if I had been obliged
to use an upstairs chamber. But to this subterranean room no murmur from the
upper world ever penetrated. When I had entered it and closed the door, I was
surrounded by the silence of the tomb. In order to prevent the dampness of the
subsoil from penetrating the chamber, the walls had been laid in hydraulic
cement and were very thick, and the floor was likewise protected. In order that
the room might serve also as a vault equally proof against violence and flames,
for the storage of valuables, I had roofed it with stone slabs hermetically
sealed, and the outer door was of iron with a thick coating of asbestos. A small
pipe, communicating with a wind-mill on the top of the house, insured the
renewal of air.
    It might seem that the tenant of such a chamber ought to be able to command
slumber, but it was rare that I slept well, even there, two nights in
succession. So accustomed was I to wakefulness that I minded little the loss of
one night's rest. A second night, however, spent in my reading chair instead of
my bed, tired me out, and I never allowed myself to go longer than that without
slumber, from fear of nervous disorder. From this statement it will be inferred
that I had at my command some artificial means for inducing sleep in the last
resort, and so in fact I had. If after two sleepless nights I found myself on
the approach of the third without sensations of drowsiness, I called in Dr.
Pillsbury.
    He was a doctor by courtesy only, what was called in those days an irregular
or quack doctor. He called himself a Professor of Animal Magnetism. I had come
across him in the course of some amateur investigations into the phenomena of
animal magnetism. I don't think he knew anything about medicine, but he was
certainly a remarkable mesmerist. It was for the purpose of being put to sleep
by his manipulations that I used to send for him when I found a third night of
sleeplessness impending. Let my nervous excitement or mental preoccupation be
however great, Dr. Pillsbury never failed, after a short time, to leave me in a
deep slumber, which continued till I was aroused by a reversal of the
mesmerizing process. The process for awaking the sleeper was much simpler than
that for putting him to sleep, and for convenience I had made Dr. Pillsbury
teach Sawyer how to do it.
    My faithful servant alone knew for what purpose Dr. Pillsbury visited me, or
that he did so at all. Of course, when Edith became my wife I should have to
tell her my secrets. I had not hitherto told her this, because there was
unquestionably a slight risk in the mesmeric sleep, and I knew she would set her
face against my practice. The risk, of course, was that it might become too
profound and pass into a trance beyond the mesmerizer's power to break, ending
in death. Repeated experiments had fully convinced me that the risk was next to
nothing if reasonable precautions were exercised, and of this I hoped, though
doubtingly, to convince Edith. I went directly home after leaving her, and at
once sent Sawyer to fetch Dr. Pillsbury. Meanwhile I sought my subterranean
sleeping chamber, and exchanging my costume for a comfortable dressing-gown, sat
down to read the letters by the evening mail which Sawyer had laid on my reading
table.
    One of them was from the builder of my new house, and confirmed what I had
inferred from the newspaper item. The new strikes, he said, had postponed
indefinitely the completion of the contract, as neither masters nor workmen
would concede the point at issue without a long struggle. Caligula wished that
the Roman people had but one neck that he might cut it off, and as I read this
letter I am afraid that for a moment I was capable of wishing the same thing
concerning the labouring classes of America. The return of Sawyer with the doctor
interrupted my gloomy meditations.
    It appeared that he had with difficulty been able to secure his services, as
he was preparing to leave the city that very night. The doctor explained that
since he had seen me last he had learned of a fine professional opening in a
distant city, and decided to take prompt advantage of it. On my asking, in some
panic, what I was to do for some one to put me to sleep, he gave me the names of
several mesmerizers in Boston who, he averred, had quite as great powers as he.
    Somewhat relieved on this point, I instructed Sawyer to rouse me at nine
o'clock next morning, and, lying down on the bed in my dressing-gown, assumed a
comfortable attitude, and surrendered myself to the manipulations of the
mesmerizer. Owing, perhaps, to my unusually nervous state, I was slower than
common in losing consciousness, but at length a delicious drowsiness stole over
me.
 

                                  Chapter III

»He is going to open his eyes. He had better see but one of us at first.«
    »Promise me, then, that you will not tell him.«
    The first voice was a man's, the second a woman's, and both spoke in
whispers.
    »I will see how he seems,« replied the man.
    »No, no, promise me,« persisted the other.
    »Let her have her way,« whispered a third voice, also a woman.
    »Well, well, I promise, then,« answered the man. »Quick, go! He is coming
out of it.«
    There was a rustle of garments and I opened my eyes. A fine looking man of
perhaps sixty was bending over me, an expression of much benevolence mingled
with great curiosity upon his features. He was an utter stranger. I raised
myself on an elbow and looked around. The room was empty. I certainly had never
been in it before, or one furnished like it. I looked back at my companion. He
smiled.
    »How do you feel?« he inquired.
    »Where am I?« I demanded.
    »You are in my house,« was the reply.
    »How came I here?«
    »We will talk about that when you are stronger. Meanwhile, I beg you will
feel no anxiety. You are among friends and in good hands. How do you feel?«
    »A bit queerly,« I replied, »but I am well, I suppose. Will you tell me how
I came to be indebted to your hospitality? What has happened to me? How came I
here? It was in my own house that I went to sleep.«
    »There will be time enough for explanations later,« my unknown host replied,
with a reassuring smile. »It will be better to avoid agitating talk until you
are a little more yourself. Will you oblige me by taking a couple of swallows of
this mixture? It will do you good. I am a physician.«
    I repelled the glass with my hand and sat up on the couch, although with an
effort, for my head was strangely light.
    »I insist upon knowing at once where I am and what you have been doing with
me,« I said.
    »My dear sir,« responded my companion, »let me beg that you will not agitate
yourself. I would rather you did not insist upon explanations so soon, but if
you do, I will try to satisfy you, provided you will first take this draught,
which will strengthen you somewhat.«
    I thereupon drank what he offered me. Then he said, »It is not so simple a
matter as you evidently suppose to tell you how you came here. You can tell me
quite as much on that point as I can tell you. You have just been roused from a
deep sleep, or, more properly, trance. So much I can tell you. You say you were
in your own house when you fell into that sleep. May I ask you when that was?«
    »When?« I replied, »when? Why, last evening, of course, at about ten
o'clock. I left my man Sawyer orders to call me at nine o'clock. What has become
of Sawyer?«
    »I can't precisely tell you that,« replied my companion, regarding me with a
curious expression, »but I am sure that he is excusable for not being here. And
now can you tell me a little more explicitly when it was that you fell into that
sleep, the date, I mean?«
    »Why, last night, of course; I said so, didn't I? that is, unless I have
overslept an entire day. Great heavens! that cannot be possible; and yet I have
an odd sensation of having slept a long time. It was Decoration Day that I went
to sleep.«
    »Decoration Day?«
    »Yes, Monday, the 30th.«
    »Pardon me, the 30th of what?«
    »Why, of this month, of course, unless I have slept into June, but that
can't be.«
    »This month is September.«
    »September! You don't mean that I've slept since May! God in heaven! Why, it
is incredible.«
    »We shall see,« replied my companion; »you say that it was May 30th when you
went to sleep?«
    »Yes.«
    »May I ask of what year?«
    I stared blankly at him, incapable of speech, for some moments.
    »Of what year?« I feebly echoed at last.
    »Yes, of what year, if you please? After you have told me that I shall be
able to tell you how long you have slept.«
    »It was the year 1887,« I said.
    My companion insisted that I should take another draught from the glass, and
felt my pulse.
    »My dear sir,« he said, »your manner indicates that you are a man of
culture, which I am aware was by no means the matter of course in your day it
now is. No doubt, then, you have yourself made the observation that nothing in
this world can be truly said to be more wonderful than anything else. The causes
of all phenomena are equally adequate, and the results equally matters of
course. That you should be startled by what I shall tell you is to be expected;
but I am confident that you will not permit it to affect your equanimity unduly.
Your appearance is that of a young man of barely thirty, and your bodily
condition seems not greatly different from that of one just roused from a
somewhat too long and profound sleep, and yet this is the tenth day of September
in the year 2000, and you have slept exactly one hundred and thirteen years,
three months, and eleven days.«
    Feeling partially dazed, I drank a cup of some sort of broth at my
companion's suggestion, and, immediately afterwards becoming very drowsy, went
off into a deep sleep.
    When I awoke it was broad daylight in the room, which had been lighted
artificially when I was awake before. My mysterious host was sitting near. He
was not looking at me when I opened my eyes, and I had a good opportunity to
study him and meditate upon my extraordinary situation, before he observed that
I was awake. My giddiness was all gone, and my mind perfectly clear. The story
that I had been asleep one hundred and thirteen years, which, in my former weak
and bewildered condition, I had accepted without question, recurred to me now
only to be rejected as a preposterous attempt at an imposture, the motive of
which it was impossible remotely to surmise.
    Something extraordinary had certainly happened to account for my waking up
in this strange house with this unknown companion, but my fancy was utterly
impotent to suggest more than the wildest guess as to what that something might
have been. Could it be that I was the victim of some sort of conspiracy? It
looked so, certainly; and yet, if human lineaments ever gave true evidence, it
was certain that this man by my side, with a face so refined and ingenuous, was
no party to any scheme of crime or outrage. Then it occurred to me to question
if I might not be the butt of some elaborate practical joke on the part of
friends who had somehow learned the secret of my underground chamber and taken
this means of impressing me with the peril of mesmeric experiments. There were
great difficulties in the way of this theory; Sawyer would never have betrayed
me, nor had I any friends at all likely to undertake such an enterprise;
nevertheless the supposition that I was the victim of a practical joke seemed on
the whole the only one tenable. Half expecting to catch a glimpse of some
familiar face grinning from behind a chair or curtain, I looked carefully about
the room. When my eyes next rested on my companion, he was looking at me.
    »You have had a fine nap of twelve hours,« he said briskly, »and I can see
that it has done you good. You look much better. Your colour is good and your
eyes are bright. How do you feel?«
    »I never felt better,« I said, sitting up.
    »You remember your first waking, no doubt,« he pursued, »and your surprise
when I told you how long you had been asleep?«
    »You said, I believe, that I had slept one hundred and thirteen years.«
    »Exactly.«
    »You will admit,« I said, with an ironical smile, »that the story was rather
an improbable one.«
    »Extraordinary, I admit,« he responded, »but given the proper conditions,
not improbable nor inconsistent with what we know of the trance state. When
complete, as in your case, the vital functions are absolutely suspended, and
there is no waste of the tissues. No limit can be set to the possible duration
of a trance when the external conditions protect the body from physical injury.
This trance of yours is indeed the longest of which there is any positive
record, but there is no known reason wherefore, had you not been discovered and
had the chamber in which we found you continued intact, you might not have
remained in a state of suspended animation till, at the end of indefinite ages,
the gradual refrigeration of the earth had destroyed the bodily tissues and set
the spirit free.«
    I had to admit that, if I were indeed the victim of a practical joke, its
authors had chosen an admirable agent for carrying out their imposition. The
impressive and even eloquent manner of this man would have lent dignity to an
argument that the moon was made of cheese. The smile with which I had regarded
him as he advanced his trance hypothesis did not appear to confuse him in the
slightest degree.
    »Perhaps,« I said, »you will go on and favour me with some particulars as to
the circumstances under which you discovered this chamber of which you speak,
and its contents. I enjoy good fiction.«
    »In this case,« was the grave reply, »no fiction could be so strange as the
truth. You must know that these many years I have been cherishing the idea of
building a laboratory in the large garden beside this house, for the purpose of
chemical experiments for which I have a taste. Last Thursday the excavation for
the cellar was at last begun. It was completed by that night, and Friday the
masons were to have come. Thursday night we had a tremendous deluge of rain, and
Friday morning I found my cellar a frog-pond and the walls quite washed down. My
daughter, who had come out to view the disaster with me, called my attention to
a corner of masonry laid bare by the crumbling away of one of the walls. I
cleared a little earth from it, and, finding that it seemed part of a large
mass, determined to investigate it. The workmen I sent for unearthed an oblong
vault some eight feet below the surface, and set in the corner of what had
evidently been the fundation walls of an ancient house. A layer of ashes and
charcoal on the top of the vault showed that the house above had perished by
fire. The vault itself was perfectly intact, the cement being as good as when
first applied. It had a door, but this we could not force, and found entrance by
removing one of the flagstones which formed the roof. The air which came up was
stagnant but pure, dry and not cold. Descending with a lantern, I found myself
in an apartment fitted up as a bedroom in the style of the nineteenth century.
On the bed lay a young man. That he was dead and must have been dead a century
was of course to be taken for granted; but the extraordinary state of
preservation of the body struck me and the medical colleagues whom I had
summoned with amazement. That the art of such embalming as this had ever been
known we should not have believed, yet here seemed conclusive testimony that our
immediate ancestors had possessed it. My medical colleagues, whose curiosity was
highly excited, were at once for undertaking experiments to test the nature of
the process employed, but I withheld them. My motive in so doing, at least the
only motive I now need speak of, was the recollection of something I once had
read about the extent to which your contemporaries had cultivated the subject of
animal magnetism. It had occurred to me as just conceivable that you might be in
a trance, and that the secret of your bodily integrity after so long a time was
not the craft of an embalmer, but life. So extremely fanciful did this idea
seem, even to me, that I did not risk the ridicule of my fellow physicians by
mentioning it, but gave some other reason for postponing their experiments. No
sooner, however, had they left me, than I set on foot a systematic attempt at
resuscitation, of which you know the result.«
    Had its theme been yet more incredible, the circumstantiality of this
narrative, as well as the impressive manner and personality of the narrator,
might have staggered a listener, and I had begun to feel very strangely, when,
as he closed, I chanced to catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror hanging
on the wall of the room. I rose and went up to it. The face I saw was the face
to a hair and a line and not a day older than the one I had looked at as I tied
my cravat before going to Edith that Decoration Day, which, as this man would
have me believe, was celebrated one hundred and thirteen years before. At this,
the colossal character of the fraud which was being attempted on me, came over
me afresh. Indignation mastered my mind as I realized the outrageous liberty
that had been taken.
    »You are probably surprised,« said my companion, »to see that, although you
are a century older than when you lay down to sleep in that underground chamber,
your appearance is unchanged. That should not amaze you. It is by virtue of the
total arrest of the vital functions that you have survived this great period of
time. If your body could have undergone any change during your trance, it would
long ago have suffered dissolution.«
    »Sir,« I replied, turning to him, »what your motive can be in reciting to me
with a serious face this remarkable farrago, I am utterly unable to guess; but
you are surely yourself too intelligent to suppose that anybody but an imbecile
could be deceived by it. Spare me any more of this elaborate nonsense and once
for all tell me whether you refuse to give me an intelligible account of where I
am and how I came here. If so, I shall proceed to ascertain my whereabouts for
myself, whoever may hinder.«
    »You do not, then, believe that this is the year 2000?«
    »Do you really think it necessary to ask me that?« I returned.
    »Very well,« replied my extraordinary host. »Since I cannot convince you,
you shall convince yourself. Are you strong enough to follow me upstairs.«
    »I am as strong as I ever was,« I replied angrily, »as I may have to prove
if this jest is carried much farther.«
    »I beg, sir,« was my companion's response, »that you will not allow yourself
to be too fully persuaded that you are the victim of a trick, lest the reaction,
when you are convinced of the truth of my statements, should be too great.«
    The tone of concern, mingled with commiseration, with which he said this,
and the entire absence of any sign of resentment at my hot words, strangely
daunted me, and I followed him from the room with an extraordinary mixture of
emotions. He led the way up two flights of stairs and then up a shorter one,
which landed us upon a belvedere on the house-top. »Be pleased to look around
you,« he said, as we reached the platform, »and tell me if this is the Boston of
the nineteenth century.«
    At my feet lay a great city. Miles of broad streets, shaded by trees and
lined with fine buildings, for the most part not in continuous blocks but set in
larger or smaller inclosures, stretched in every direction. Every quarter
contained large open squares filled with trees, among which statues glistened
and fountains flashed in the late afternoon sun. Public buildings of a colossal
size and an architectural grandeur unparalleled in my day raised their stately
piles on every side. Surely I had never seen this city nor one comparable to it
before. Raising my eyes at last towards the horizon, I looked westward. That
blue ribbon winding away to the sunset, was it not the sinuous Charles? I looked
east; Boston harbour stretched before me within its headlands, not one of its
green islets missing.
    I knew then that I had been told the truth concerning the prodigious thing
which had befallen me.
 

                                   Chapter IV

I did not faint, but the effort to realize my position made me very giddy, and I
remember that my companion had to give me a strong arm as he conducted me from
the roof to a roomy apartment on the upper floor of the house, where he insisted
on my drinking a glass or two of good wine and partaking of a light repast.
    »I think you are going to be all right now,« he said cheerily. »I should not
have taken so abrupt a means to convince you of your position if your course,
while perfectly excusable under the circumstances, had not rather obliged me to
do so. I confess,« he added laughing, »I was a little apprehensive at one time
that I should undergo what I believe you used to call a knockdown in the
nineteenth century, if I did not act rather promptly. I remembered that the
Bostonians of your day were famous pugilists, and thought best to lose no time.
I take it you are now ready to acquit me of the charge of hoaxing you.«
    »If you had told me,« I replied, profoundly awed, »that a thousand years
instead of a hundred had elapsed since I last looked on this city, I should now
believe you.«
    »Only a century has passed,« he answered, »but many a millennium in the
world's history has seen changes less extraordinary.«
    »And now,« he added, extending his hand with an air of irresistible
cordiality, »let me give you a hearty welcome to the Boston of the twentieth
century and to this house. My name is Leete, Dr. Leete they call me.«
    »My name,« I said as I shook his hand, »is Julian West.«
    »I am most happy in making your acquaintance, Mr. West,« he responded.
»Seeing that this house is built on the site of your own, I hope you will find
it easy to make yourself at home in it.«
    After my refreshment Dr. Leete offered me a bath and a change of clothing,
of which I gladly availed myself.
    It did not appear that any very startling revolution in men's attire had
been among the great changes my host had spoken of, for, barring a few details,
my new habiliments did not puzzle me at all.
    Physically, I was now myself again. But mentally, how was it with me, the
reader will doubtless wonder. What were my intellectual sensations, he may wish
to know, on finding myself so suddenly dropped as it were into a new world. In
reply let me ask him to suppose himself suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye,
transported from earth, say, to Paradise or Hades. What does he fancy would be
his own experience? Would his thoughts return at once to the earth he had just
left, or would he, after the first shock, wellnigh forget his former life for a
while, albeit to be remembered later, in the interest excited by his new
surroundings? All I can say is, that if his experience were at all like mine in
the transition I am describing, the latter hypothesis would prove the correct
one. The impressions of amazement and curiosity which my new surroundings
produced occupied my mind, after the first shock, to the exclusion of all other
thoughts. For the time the memory of my former life was, as it were, in
abeyance.
    No sooner did I find myself physically rehabilitated through the kind
offices of my host, than I became eager to return to the house-top; and
presently we were comfortably established there in easy-chairs, with the city
beneath and around us. After Dr. Leete had responded to numerous questions on my
part, as to the ancient landmarks I missed and the new ones which had replaced
them, he asked me what point of the contrast between the new and the old city
struck me most forcibly.
    »To speak of small things before great,« I responded, »I really think that
the complete absence of chimneys and their smoke is the detail that first
impressed me.«
    »Ah!« ejaculated my companion with an air of much interest, »I had forgotten
the chimneys, it is so long since they went out of use. It is nearly a century
since the crude method of combustion on which you depended for heat became
obsolete.«
    »In general,« I said, »what impresses me most about the city is the material
prosperity on the part of the people which its magnificence implies.«
    »I would give a great deal for just one glimpse of the Boston of your day,«
replied Dr. Leete. »No doubt, as you imply, the cities of that period were
rather shabby affairs. If you had the taste to make them splendid, which I would
not be so rude as to question, the general poverty resulting from your
extraordinary industrial system would not have given you the means. Moreover,
the excessive individualism which then prevailed was inconsistent with much
public spirit. What little wealth you had seems almost wholly to have been
lavished in private luxury. Nowadays, on the contrary, there is no destination
of the surplus wealth so popular as the adornment of the city, which all enjoy
in equal degree.«
    The sun had been setting as we returned to the house-top, and as we talked
night descended upon the city.
    »It is growing dark,« said Dr. Leete. »Let us descend into the house; I want
to introduce my wife and daughter to you.«
    His words recalled to me the feminine voices which I had heard whispering
about me as I was coming back to conscious life; and most curious to learn what
the ladies of the year 2000 were like, I assented with alacrity to the
proposition. The apartment in which we found the wife and daughter of my host,
as well as the interior of the house, was filled with a mellow light, which I
knew must be artificial, although I could not discover the source from which it
was diffused. Mrs. Leete was an exceptionally fine looking and well preserved
woman of about her husband's age while the daughter, who was in the first blush
of womanhood, was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her face was as
bewitching as deep blue eyes, delicately tinted complexion, and perfect features
could make it, but even had her countenance lacked special charms, the faultless
luxuriance of her figure would have given her place as a beauty among the women
of the nineteenth century. Feminine softness and delicacy were in this lovely
creature deliciously combined with an appearance of health and abounding
physical vitality too often lacking in the maidens with whom alone I could
compare her. It was a coincidence trifling in comparison with the general
strangeness of the situation, but still striking, that her name should be Edith.
    The evening that followed was certainly unique in the history of social
intercourse, but to suppose that our conversation was peculiarly strained or
difficult would be a great mistake. I believe indeed that it is under what may
be called unnatural, in the sense of extraordinary, circumstances that people
behave most naturally, for the reason, no doubt, that such circumstances banish
artificiality. I know at any rate that my intercourse that evening with these
representatives of another age and world was marked by an ingenuous sincerity
and frankness such as but rarely crown long acquaintance. No doubt the exquisite
tact of my entertainers had much to do with this. Of course there was nothing we
could talk of but the strange experience by virtue of which I was there, but
they talked of it with an interest so naive and direct in its expression as to
relieve the subject to a great degree of the element of the weird and the
uncanny which might so easily have been overpowering. One would have supposed
that they were quite in the habit of entertaining waifs from another century, so
perfect was their tact.
    For my own part, never do I remember the operations of my mind to have been
more alert and acute than that evening, or my intellectual sensibilities more
keen. Of course I do not mean that the consciousness of my amazing situation was
for a moment out of mind, but its chief effect thus far was to produce a
feverish elation, a sort of mental intoxication.1
    Edith Leete took little part in the conversation, but when several times the
magnetism of her beauty drew my glance to her face, I found her eyes fixed on me
with an absorbed intensity, almost like fascination. It was evident that I had
excited her interest to an extraordinary degree, as was not astonishing,
supposing her to be a girl of imagination. Though I supposed curiosity was the
chief motive of her interest, it could but affect me as it would not have done
had she been less beautiful.
    Dr. Leete, as well as the ladies, seemed greatly interested in my account of
the circumstances under which I had gone to sleep in the underground chamber.
All had suggestions to offer to account for my having been forgotten there, and
the theory which we finally agreed on offers at least a plausible explanation,
although whether it be in its details the true one, nobody, of course, will ever
know. The layer of ashes found above the chamber indicated that the house had
been burned down. Let it be supposed that the conflagration had taken place the
night I fell asleep. It only remains to assume that Sawyer lost his life in the
fire or by some accident connected with it, and the rest follows naturally
enough. No one but he and Dr. Pillsbury either knew of the existence of the
chamber or that I was in it, and Dr. Pillsbury, who had gone that night to New
Orleans, had probably never heard of the fire at all. The conclusion of my
friends, and of the public, must have been that I had perished in the flames. An
excavation of the ruins, unless thorough, would not have disclosed the recess in
the foundation walls connecting with my chamber. To be sure, if the side had
been again built upon, at least immediately, such an excavation would have been
necessary, but the troublous times and the undesirable character of the locality
might well have prevented rebuilding. The size of the trees in the garden now
occupying the site indicated, Dr. Leete said, that for more than half a century
at least it had been open ground.
 

                                   Chapter V

When, in the course of the evening the ladies retired, leaving Dr. Leete and
myself alone, he sounded me as to my disposition for sleep, saying that if I
felt like it my bed was ready for me; but if I was inclined to wakefulness
nothing would please him better than to bear me company. »I am a late bird,
myself,« he said, »and, without suspicion of flattery, I may say that a
companion more interesting than yourself could scarcely be imagined. It is
decidedly not often that one has a chance to converse with a man of the
nineteenth century.«
    Now I had been looking forward all the evening with some dread to the time
when I should be alone, on retiring for the night. Surrounded by these most
friendly strangers, stimulated and supported by their sympathetic interest, I
had been able to keep my mental balance. Even then, however, in pauses of the
conversation I had had glimpses, vivid as lightning flashes, of the horror of
strangeness that was waiting to be faced when I could no longer command
diversion. I knew I could not sleep that night, and as for lying awake and
thinking, it argues no cowardice, I am sure, to confess that I was afraid of it.
When, in reply to my host's question, I frankly told him this, he replied that
it would be strange if I did not feel just so, but that I need have no anxiety
about sleeping; whenever I wanted to go to bed, he would give me a dose which
would insure me a sound night's sleep without fail. Next morning, no doubt, I
would awake with the feeling of an old citizen.
    »Before I acquire that,« I replied, »I must know a little more about the
sort of Boston I have come back to. You told me when we were upon the house-top
that though a century only had elapsed since I fell asleep, it had been marked
by greater changes in the conditions of humanity than many a previous
millennium. With the city before me I could well believe that, but I am very
curious to know what some of the changes have been. To make a beginning
somewhere, for the subject is doubtless a large one, what solution, if any, have
you found for the labour question? It was the Sphinx's riddle of the nineteenth
century, and when I dropped out the Sphinx was threatening to devour society,
because the answer was not forthcoming. It is well worth sleeping a hundred
years to learn what the right answer was, if, indeed, you have found it yet.«
    »As no such thing as the labour question is known nowadays,« replied Dr.
Leete, »and there is no way in which it could arise, I suppose we may claim to
have solved it. Society would indeed have fully deserved being devoured if it
had failed to answer a riddle so entirely simple. In fact, to speak by the book,
it was not necessary for society to solve the riddle at all. It may be said to
have solved itself. The solution came as the result of a process of industrial
evolution which could not have terminated otherwise. All that society had to do
was to recognize and coöperate with that evolution, when its tendency had become
unmistakable.«
    »I can only say,« I answered, »that at the time I fell asleep no such
evolution had been recognized.«
    »It was in 1887 that you fell into this sleep, I think you said.«
    »Yes, May 30th, 1887.«
    My companion regarded me musingly for some moments. Then he observed, »And
you tell me that even then there was no general recognition of the nature of the
crisis which society was nearing? Of course, I fully credit your statement. The
singular blindness of your contemporaries to the signs of the times is a
phenomenon commented on by many of our historians, but few facts of history are
more difficult for us to realize, so obvious and unmistakable as we look back
seem the indications, which must also have come under your eyes, of the
transformation about to come to pass. I should be interested, Mr. West, if you
would give me a little more definite idea of the view which you and men of your
grade of intellect took of the state and prospects of society in 1887. You must,
at least, have realized that the widespread industrial and social troubles, and
the underlying dissatisfaction of all classes with the inequalities of society,
and the general misery of mankind, were portents of great changes of some sort.«
    »We did, indeed, fully realize that,« I replied. »We felt that society was
dragging anchor and in danger of going adrift. Whither it would drift nobody
could say, but all feared the rocks.«
    »Nevertheless,« said Dr. Leete, »the set of the current was perfectly
perceptible if you had but taken pains to observe it, and it was not toward the
rocks, but toward a deeper channel.«
    »We had a popular proverb,« I replied, »that hindsight is better than
foresight, the force of which I shall now, no doubt, appreciate more fully than
ever. All I can say is, that the prospect was such when I went into that long
sleep that I should not have been surprised had I looked down from your
house-top to-day on a heap of charred and moss-grown ruins instead of this
glorious city.«
    Dr. Leete had listened to me with close attention and nodded thoughtfully as
I finished speaking. »What you have said,« he observed, »will be regarded as a
most valuble vindication of Storiot, whose account of your era has been
generally thought exaggerated in its picture of the gloom and confusion of men's
minds. That a period of transition like that should be full of excitement and
agitation was indeed to be looked for; but seeing how plain was the tendency of
the forces in operation, it was natural to believe that hope rather than fear
would have been the prevailing temper of the popular mind.«
    »You have not yet told me what was the answer to the riddle which you
found,« I said. »I am impatient to know by what contradiction of natural
sequence the peace and prosperity which you now seem to enjoy could have been
the outcome of an era like my own.« »Excuse me,« replied my host, »but do you
    smoke?« It was not till our cigars were lighted and drawing well that he
resumed, »Since you are in the humour to talk rather than to sleep, as I
certainly am, perhaps I cannot do better than to try to give you enough idea of
our modern industrial system to dissipate at least the impression that there is
any mystery about the process of its evolution. The Bostonians of your day had
the reputation of being great askers of questions, and I am going to show my
descent by asking you one to begin with. What should you name as the most
prominent feature of the labour troubles of your day?«
    »Why, the strikes, of course,« I replied.
    »Exactly; but what made the strikes so formidable?«
    »The great labour organizations.«
    »And what was the motive of these great organizations?«
    »The workmen claimed they had to organize to get their rights from the big
corporations,« I replied.
    »That is just it,« said Dr. Leete; »the organization of labour and the
strikes were an effect, merely, of the concentration of capital in greater
masses than had ever been known before. Before this concentration began, while
as yet commerce and industry were conducted by innumerable petty concerns with
small capital, instead of a small number of great concerns with vast capital,
the individual workman was relatively important and independent in his relations
to the employer. Moreover, when a little capital or a new idea was enough to
start a man in business for himself, workingmen were constantly becoming
employers and there was no hard and fast line between the two classes. Labor
unions were needless then, and general strikes out of the question. But when the
era of small concerns with small capital was succeeded by that of the great
aggregations of capital, all this was changed. The individual labourer, who had
been relatively important to the small employer, was reduced to insignificance
and powerlessness over against the great corporation, while at the same time the
way upward to the grade of employer was closed to him. Self-defence drove him to
union with his fellows.
    The records of the period show that the outcry against the concentration of
capital was furious. Men believed that it threatened society with a form of
tyranny more abhorrent than it had ever endured. They believed that the great
corporations were preparing for them the yoke of a baser servitude than had ever
been imposed on the race, servitude not to men but to soulless machines
incapable of any motive but insatiable greed. Looking back, we cannot wonder at
their desperation, for certainly humanity was never confronted with a fate more
sordid and hideous than would have been the era of corporate tyranny which they
anticipated.
    Meanwhile, without being in the smallest degree checked by the clamour
against it, the absorption of business by ever larger monopolies continued. In
the United States there was not, after the beginning of the last quarter of the
century, any opportunity whatever for individual enterprise in any important
field of industry, unless backed by a great capital. During the last decade of
the century, such small businesses as still remained were fast-failing survivals
of a past epoch, or mere parasites on the great corporations, or else existed in
fields too small to attract the great capitalists. Small businesses, as far as
they still remained, were reduced to the condition of rats and mice, living in
holes and corners, and counting on evading notice for the enjoyment of
existence. The railroads had gone on combining till a few great syndicates
controlled every rail in the land. In manufactories, every important staple was
controlled by a syndicate. These syndicates, pools, trusts, or whatever their
name, fixed prices and crushed all competition except when combinations as vast
as themselves arose. Then a struggle, resulting in a still greater
consolidation, ensued. The great city bazar crushed its country rivals with
branch stores, and in the city itself absorbed its smaller rivals till the
business of a whole quarter was concentrated under one roof, with a hundred
former proprietors of shops serving as clerks. Having no business of his own to
put his money in, the small capitalist, at the same time that he took service
under the corporation, found no other investment for his money but its stocks
and bonds, thus becoming doubly dependent upon it.
    The fact that the desperate popular opposition to the consolidation of
business in a few powerful hands had no effect to check it proves that there
must have been a strong economical reason for it. The small capitalists, with
their innumerable petty concerns, had in fact yielded the field to the great
aggregations of capital, because they belonged to a day of small things and were
totally incompetent to the demands of an age of steam and telegraphs and the
gigantic scale of its enterprises. To restore the former order of things, even
if possible, would have involved returning to the day of stage-coaches.
Oppressive and intolerable as was the régime of the great consolidations of
capital, even its victims, while they cursed it, were forced to admit the
prodigious increase of efficiency which had been imparted to the national
industries, the vast economies effected by concentration of management and unity
of organization, and to confess that since the new system had taken the place of
the old the wealth of the world had increased at a rate before undreamed of. To
be sure this vast increase had gone chiefly to make the rich richer, increasing
the gap between them and the poor; but the fact remained that, as a means merely
of producing wealth, capital had been proved efficient in proportion to its
consolidation. The restoration of the old system with the subdivision of
capital, if it were possible, might indeed bring back a greater equality of
conditions, with more individual dignity and freedom, but it would be at the
price of general poverty and the arrest of material progress.
    Was there, then, no way of commanding the services of the mighty
wealth-producing principle of consolidated capital without bowing down to a
plutocracy like that of Carthage? As soon as men began to ask themselves these
questions, they found the answer ready for them. The movement toward the conduct
of business by larger and larger aggregations of capital, the tendency toward
monopolies, which had been so desperately and vainly resisted, was recognized at
last, in its true significance, as a process which only needed to complete its
logical evolution to open a golden future to humanity.
    Early in the last century the evolution was completed by the final
consolidation of the entire capital of the nation. The industry and commerce of
the country, ceasing to be conducted by a set of irresponsible corporations and
syndicates of private persons at their caprice and for their profit, were
entrusted to a single syndicate representing the people, to be conducted in the
common interest for the common profit. The nation, that is to say, organized as
the one great business corporation in which all other corporations were
absorbed; it became the one capitalist in the place of all other capitalists,
the sole employer, the final monopoly in which all previous and lesser
monopolies were swallowed up, a monopoly in the profits and economies of which
all citizens shared. The epoch of trusts had ended in The Great Trust. In a
word, the people of the United States concluded to assume the conduct of their
own business, just as one hundred odd years before they had assumed the conduct
of their own government, organizing now for industrial purposes on precisely the
same grounds that they had then organized for political purposes. At last,
strangely late in the world's history, the obvious fact was perceived that no
business is so essentially the public business as the industry and commerce on
which the people's livelihood depends, and that to entrust it to private persons
to be managed for private profit is a folly similar in kind, though vastly
greater in magnitude, to that of surrendering the functions of political
government to kings and nobles to be conducted for their personal
glorification.«
    »Such a stupendous change as you describe,« said I, »did not, of course,
take place without great bloodshed and terrible convulsions.«
    »On the contrary,« replied Dr. Leete, »there was absolutely no violence. The
change had been long foreseen. Public opinion had become fully ripe for it, and
the whole mass of the people was behind it. There was no more possibility of
opposing it by force than by argument. On the other hand the popular sentiment
toward the great corporations and those identified with them had ceased to be
one of bitterness, as they came to realize their necessity as a link, a
transition phase, in the evolution of the true industrial system. The most
violent foes of the great private monopolies were now forced to recognize how
invaluable and indispensable had been their office in educating the people up to
the point of assuming control of their own business. Fifty years before, the
consolidation of the industries of the country under national control would have
seemed a very daring experiment to the most sanguine. But by a series of object
lessons, seen and studied by all men, the great corporations had taught the
people an entirely new set of ideas on this subject. They had seen for many
years syndicates handling revenues greater than those of states, and directing
the labours of hundreds of thousands of men with an efficiency and economy
unattainable in smaller operations. It had come to be recognized as an axiom
that the larger the business the simpler the principles that can be applied to
it; that, as the machine is truer than the hand, so the system, which in a great
concern does the work of the master's eye in a small business, turns out more
accurate results. Thus it came about that, thanks to the corporations
themselves, when it was proposed that the nation should assume their functions,
the suggestion implied nothing which seemed impracticable even to the timid. To
be sure it was a step beyond any yet taken, a broader generalization, but the
very fact that the nation would be the sole corporation in the field would, it
was seen, relieve the undertaking of many difficulties with which the partial
monopolies had contended.«
 

                                   Chapter VI

Dr. Leete ceased speaking, and I remained silent, endeavouring to form some
general conception of the changes in the arrangements of society implied in the
tremendous revolution which he had described.
    Finally I said, »The idea of such an extension of the functions of
government is, to say the least, rather overwhelming.«
    »Extension!« he repeated, »where is the extension?«
    »In my day,« I replied, »it was considered that the proper functions of
government, strictly speaking, were limited to keeping the peace and defending
the people against the public enemy, that is, to the military and police
powers.«
    »And, in heaven's name, who are the public enemies?« exclaimed Dr. Leete,
»Are they France, England, Germany, or hunger, cold, and nakedness? In your day
governments were accustomed, on the slightest international misunderstanding, to
seize upon the bodies of citizens and deliver them over by hundreds of thousands
to death and mutilation, wasting their treasures the while like water; and all
this oftenest for no imaginable profit to the victims. We have no wars now, and
our governments no war powers, but in order to protect every citizen against
hunger, cold, and nakedness, and provide for all his physical and mental needs,
the function is assumed of directing his industry for a term of years. No, Mr.
West, I am sure on reflection you will perceive that it was in your age, not in
ours, that the extension of the functions of governments was extraordinary. Not
even for the best ends would men now allow their governments such powers as were
then used for the most maleficent.«
    »Leaving comparisons aside,« I said, »the demagoguery and corruption of our
public men would have been considered, in my day, insuperable objections to any
assumption by government of the charge of the national industries. We should
have thought that no arrangement could be worse than to entrust the politicians
with control of the wealth-producing machinery of the country. Its material
interests were quite too much the football of parties as it was.«
    »No doubt you were right,« rejoined Dr. Leete, »but all that is changed now.
We have no parties or politicians, and as for demagoguery and corruption, they
are words having only an historical significance.«
    »Human nature itself must have changed very much,« I said.
    »Not at all,« was Dr. Leete's reply, »but the conditions of human life have
changed, and with them the motives of human action. The organization of society
with you was such that officials were under a constant temptation to misuse
their power for the private profit of themselves or others. Under such
circumstances it seems almost strange that you dared entrust them with any of
your affairs. Nowadays, on the contrary, society is so constituted that there is
absolutely no way in which an official, however ill-disposed, could possibly
make any profit for himself or any one else by a misuse of his power. Let him be
as bad an official as you please, he cannot be a corrupt one. There is no motive
to be. The social system no longer offers a premium on dishonesty. But these are
matters which you can only understand as you come, with time, to know us
better.«
    »But you have not yet told me how you have settled the labour problem. It is
the problem of capital which we have been discussing,« I said. »After the nation
had assumed conduct of the mills, machinery, railroads, farms, mines, and
capital in general of the country, the labour question still remained. In
assuming the responsibilities of capital the nation had assumed the difficulties
of the capitalist's position.«
    »The moment the nation assumed the responsibilities of capital those
difficulties vanished,« replied Dr. Leete. »The national organization of labour
under one direction was the complete solution of what was, in your day and under
your system, justly regarded as the insoluble labour problem. When the nation
became the sole employer, all the citizens, by virtue of their citizenship,
became employees, to be distributed according to the needs of industry.«
    »That is,« I suggested, »you have simply applied the principle of universal
military service, as it was understood in our day, to the labour question.«
    »Yes,« said Dr. Leete, »that was something which followed as a matter of
course as soon as the nation had become the sole capitalist. The people were
already accustomed to the idea that the obligation of every citizen, not
physically disabled, to contribute his military services to the defence of the
nation was equal and absolute. That it was equally the duty of every citizen to
contribute his quota of industrial or intellectual services to the maintenance
of the nation was equally evident, though it was not until the nation became the
employer of labour that citizens were able to render this sort of service with
any pretence either of universality or equity. No organization of labour was
possible when the employing power was divided among hundreds or thousands of
individuals and corporations, between which concert of any kind was neither
desired, nor indeed feasible. It constantly happened then that vast numbers who
desired to labour could find no opportunity, and on the other hand, those who
desired to evade a part or all of their debt could easily do so.«
    »Service, now, I suppose, is compulsory upon all,« I suggested.
    »It is rather a matter of course than of compulsion,« replied Dr. Leete. »It
is regarded as so absolutely natural and reasonable that the idea of its being
compulsory has ceased to be thought of. He would be thought to be an incredibly
contemptible person who should need compulsion in such a case. Nevertheless, to
speak of service being compulsory would be a weak way to state its absolute
inevitableness. Our entire social order is so wholly based upon and deduced from
it that if it were conceivable that a man could escape it, he would be left with
no possible way to provide for his existence. He would have excluded himself
from the world, cut himself off from his kind, in a word, committed suicide.«
    »Is the term of service in this industrial army for life?«
    »Oh, no; it both begins later and ends earlier than the average working
period in your day. Your workshops were filled with children and old men, but we
hold the period of youth sacred to education, and the period of maturity, when
the physical forces begin to flag, equally sacred to ease and agreeable
relaxation. The period of industrial service is twenty-four years, beginning at
the close of the course of education at twenty-one and terminating at
forty-five. After forty-five, while discharged from labour, the citizen still
remains liable to special calls, in case of emergencies causing a sudden great
increase in the demand for labour, till he reaches the age of fifty-five, but
such calls are rarely, in fact almost never, made. The fifteenth day of October
of every year is what we call Muster Day, because those who have reached the age
of twenty-one are then mustered into the industrial service, and at the same
time those who, after twenty-four years' service, have reached the age of
forty-five, are honourably mustered out. It is the great day of the year with us,
whence we reckon all other events, our Olympiad, save that it is annual.«
 

                                  Chapter VII

»It is after you have mustered your industrial army into service,« I said, »that
I should expect the chief difficulty to arise, for there its analogy with a
military army must cease. Soldiers have all the same thing, and a very simple
thing, to do, namely, to practice the manual of arms, to march and stand guard.
But the industrial army must learn and follow two or three hundred diverse
trades and avocations. What administrative talent can be equal to determining
wisely what trade or business every individual in a great nation shall pursue?«
    »The administration has nothing to do with determining that point.«
    »Who does determine it, then?« I asked.
    »Every man for himself in accordance with his natural aptitude, the utmost
pains being taken to enable him to find out what his natural aptitude really is.
The principle on which our industrial army is organized is that a man's natural
endowments, mental and physical, determine what he can work at most profitably
to the nation and most satisfactorily to himself. While the obligation of
service in some form is not to be evaded, voluntary election, subject only to
necessary regulation, is depended on to determine the particular sort of service
every man is to render. As an individual's satisfaction during his term of
service depends on his having an occupation to his taste, parents and teachers
watch from early years for indications of special aptitudes in children. A
thorough study of the National industrial system, with the history and rudiments
of all the great trades, is an essential part of our educational system. While
manual training is not allowed to encroach on the general intellectual culture
to which our schools are devoted, it is carried far enough to give our youth, in
addition to their theoretical knowledge of the national industries, mechanical
and agricultural, a certain familiarity with their tools and methods. Our
schools are constantly visiting our workshops, and often are taken on long
excursions to inspect particular industrial enterprises. In your day a man was
not ashamed to be grossly ignorant of all trades except his own, but such
ignorance would not be consistent with our idea of placing every one in a
position to select intelligently the occupation for which he has most taste.
Usually long before he is mustered into service a young man has found out the
pursuit he wants to follow, has acquired a great deal of knowledge about it, and
is waiting impatiently the time when he can enlist in its ranks.«
    »Surely,« I said, »it can hardly be that the number of volunteers for any
trade is exactly the number needed in that trade. It must be generally either
under or over the demand.«
    »The supply of volunteers is always expected to fully equal the demand,«
replied Dr. Leete. »It is the business of the administration to see that this is
the case. The rate of volunteering for each trade is closely watched. If there
be a noticeably greater excess of volunteers over men needed in any trade, it is
inferred that the trade offers greater attractions than others. On the other
hand, if the number of volunteers for a trade tends to drop below the demand, it
is inferred that it is thought more arduous. It is the business of the
administration to seek constantly to equalize the attractions of the trades, so
far as the conditions of labour in them are concerned, so that all trades shall
be equally attractive to persons having natural tastes for them. This is done by
making the hours of labour in different trades to differ according to their
arduousness. The lighter trades, prosecuted under the most agreeable
circumstances, have in this way the longest hours, while an arduous trade, such
as mining, has very short hours. There is no theory, no a priori rule, by which
the respective attractiveness of industries is determined. The administration,
in taking burdens off one class of workers and adding them to other classes,
simply follows the fluctuations of opinion among the workers themselves as
indicated by the rate of volunteering. The principle is that no man's work ought
to be, on the whole, harder for him than any other man's for him, the workers
themselves to be the judges. There are no limits to the application of this
rule. If any particular occupation is in itself so arduous or so oppressive
that, in order to induce volunteers, the day's work in it had to be reduced to
ten minutes, it would be done. If, even then, no man was willing to do it, it
would remain undone. But of course, in point of fact, a moderate reduction in
the hours of labour, or addition of other privileges, suffices to secure all
needed volunteers for any occupation necessary to men. If, indeed, the
unavoidable difficulties and dangers of such a necessary pursuit were so great
that no inducement of compensating advantages would overcome men's repugnance to
it, the administration would only need to take it out of the common order of
occupations by declaring it extra hazardous, and those who pursued it especially
worthy of the national gratitude, to be overrun with volunteers. Our young men
are very greedy of honour, and do not let slip such opportunities. Of course you
will see that dependence on the purely voluntary choice of avocations involves
the abolition in all of anything like unhygienic conditions or special peril to
life and limb. Health and safety are conditions common to all industries. The
nation does not maim and slaughter its workmen by thousands, as did the private
capitalists and corporations of your day.«
    »When there are more who want to enter a particular trade than there is room
for, how do you decide between the applicants?« I inquired.
    »Preference is given to those who have acquired the most knowledge of the
trade they wish to follow. No man, however, who through successive years remains
persistent in his desire to show what he can do at any particular trade, is in
the end denied an opportunity. Meanwhile, if a man cannot at first win entrance
into the business he prefers, he has usually one or more alternative
preferences, pursuits for which he has some degree of aptitude, although not the
highest. Every one, indeed, is expected to study his aptitudes so as to have not
only a first choice as to occupation, but a second or third, so that if, either
at the outset of his career or subsequently, owing to the progress of invention
or changes in demand, he is unable to follow his first vocation, he can still
find reasonably congenial employment. This principle of secondary choices as to
occupation is quite important in our system. I should add, in reference to the
counter-possibility of some sudden failure of volunteers in a particular trade,
or some sudden necessity of an increased force, that the administration, while
depending on the voluntary system for filling up the trades as a rule, holds
always in reserve the power to call for special volunteers, or draft any force
needed from any quarter. Generally, however, all needs of this sort can be met
by details from the class of unskilled or common labourers.«
    »How is this class of common labourers recruited?« I asked. »Surely nobody
voluntarily enters that.«
    »It is the grade to which all new recruits belong for the first three years
of their service. It is not till after this period, during which he is
assignable to any work at the discretion of his superiors, that the young man is
allowed to elect a special avocation. These three years of stringent discipline
none are exempt from, and very glad our young men are to pass from this severe
school into the comparative liberty of the trades. If a man were so stupid as to
have no choice as to occupation, he would simply remain a common labourer; but
such cases, as you may suppose, are not common.«
    »Having once elected and entered on a trade or occupation,« I remarked, »I
suppose he has to stick to it the rest of his life.«
    »Not necessarily,« replied Dr. Leete; »while frequent and merely capricious
changes of occupation are not encouraged or even permitted, every worker is
allowed, of course, under certain regulations and in accordance with the
exigencies of the service, to volunteer for another industry which he thinks
would suit him better than his first choice. In this case his application is
received just as if he were volunteering for the first time, and on the same
terms. Not only this, but a worker may likewise, under suitable regulations and
not too frequently, obtain a transfer to an establishment of the same industry
in another part of the country which for any reason he may prefer. Under your
system a discontented man could indeed leave his work at will, but he left his
means of support at the same time, and took his chances as to future livelihood.
We find that the number of men who wish to abandon an accustomed occupation for
a new one, and old friends and associations for strange ones, is small. It is
only the poorer sort of workmen who desire to change even as frequently as our
regulations permit. Of course transfers or discharges, when health demands them,
are always given.«
    »As an industrial system, I should think this might be extremely efficient,«
I said, »but I don't see that it makes any provision for the professional
classes, the men who serve the nation with brains instead of hands. Of course
you can't get along without the brain-workers. How, then, are they selected from
those who are to serve as farmers and mechanics? That must require a very
delicate sort of sifting process, I should say.«
    »So it does,« replied Dr. Leete; »the most delicate possible test is needed
here, and so we leave the question whether a man shall be a brain or hand worker
entirely to him to settle. At the end of the term of three years as a common
labourer, which every man must serve, it is for him to choose, in accordance to
his natural tastes, whether he will fit himself for an art or profession, or be
a farmer or mechanic. If he feels that he can do better work with his brains
than his muscles, he finds every facility provided for testing the reality of
his supposed bent, of cultivating it, and if fit, of pursuing it as his
avocation. The schools of technology, of medicine, of art, of music, of
histrionics, and of higher liberal learning are always open to aspirants without
condition.«
    »Are not the schools flooded with young men whose only motive is to avoid
work?«
    Dr. Leete smiled a little grimly.
    »No one is at all likely to enter the professional schools for the purpose
of avoiding work, I assure you,« he said. »They are intended for those with
special aptitude for the branches they teach, and any one without it would find
it easier to do double hours at his trade than try to keep up with the classes.
Of course many honestly mistake their vocation, and, finding themselves unequal
to the requirements of the schools, drop out and return to the industrial
service; no discredit attaches to such persons, for the public policy is to
encourage all to develop suspected talents which only actual tests can prove the
reality of. The professional and scientific schools of your day depended on the
patronage of their pupils for support, and the practice appears to have been
common of giving diplomas to unfit persons, who afterwards found their way into
the professions. Our schools are national institutions, and to have passed their
tests is a proof of special abilities not to be questioned.
    This opportunity for a professional training,« the doctor continued,
»remains open to every man till the age of thirty is reached, after which
students are not received, as there would remain too brief a period before the
age of discharge in which to serve the nation in their professions. In your day
young men had to choose their professions very young, and therefore, in a large
proportion of instances, wholly mistook their vocations. It is recognized
nowadays that the natural aptitudes of some are later than those of others in
developing, and therefore, while the choice of profession may be made as early
as twenty-four, it remains open for six years longer.«
    A question which had a dozen times before been on my lips now found
utterance, a question which touched upon what, in my time, had been regarded the
most vital difficulty in the way of any final settlement of the industrial
problem. »It is an extraordinary thing,« I said, »that you should not yet have
said a word about the method of adjusting wages. Since the nation is the sole
employer, the government must fix the rate of wages and determine just how much
everybody shall earn, from the doctors to the diggers. All I can say is, that
this plan would never have worked with us, and I don't see how it can now unless
human nature has changed. In my day, nobody was satisfied with his wages or
salary. Even if he felt he received enough, he was sure his neighbour had too
much, which was as bad. If the universal discontent on this subject, instead of
being dissipated in curses and strikes directed against innumerable employers,
could have been concentrated upon one, and that the government, the strongest
ever devised would not have seen two pay days.«
    Dr. Leete laughed heartily.
    »Very true, very true,« he said, »a general strike would most probably have
followed the first pay day, and a strike directed against a government is a
revolution.«
    »How, then, do you avoid a revolution every pay day?« I demanded. »Has some
prodigious philosopher devised a new system of calculus satisfactory to all for
determining the exact and comparative value of all sorts of service, whether by
brawn or brain, by hand or voice, by ear or eye? Or has human nature itself
changed, so that no man looks upon his own things but every man on the things of
his neighbour? One or the other of these events must be the explanation.«
    »Neither one nor the other, however, is,« was my host's laughing response.
»And now, Mr. West,« he continued, »you must remember that you are my patient as
well as my guest, and permit me to prescribe sleep for you before we have any
more conversation. It is after three o'clock.«
    »The prescription is, no doubt, a wise one,« I said; »I only hope it can be
filled.«
    »I will see to that,« the doctor replied, and he did, for he gave me a
wineglass of something or other which sent me to sleep as soon as my head
touched the pillow.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

When I awoke I felt greatly refreshed, and lay a considerable time in a dozing
state, enjoying the sensation of bodily comfort. The experiences of the day
previous, my waking to find myself in the year 2000, the sight of the new
Boston, my host and his family, and the wonderful things I had heard, were a
blank in my memory. I thought I was in my bed-chamber at home, and the
half-dreaming, half-waking fancies which passed before my mind related to the
incidents and experiences of my former life. Dreamily I reviewed the incidents
of Decoration Day, my trip in company with Edith and her parents to Mount
Auburn, and my dining with them on our return to the city. I recalled how
extremely well Edith had looked, and from that fell to thinking of our marriage;
but scarcely had my imagination begun to develop this delightful theme than my
waking dream was cut short by the recollection of the letter I had received the
night before from the builder announcing that the new strikes might postpone
indefinitely the completion of the new house. The chagrin which this
recollection brought with it effectually roused me. I remembered that I had an
appointment with the builder at eleven o'clock, to discuss the strike, and
opening my eyes, looked up at the clock at the foot of my bed to see what time
it was. But no clock met my glance, and what was more, I instantly perceived
that I was not in my room. Starting up on my couch, I stared wildly round the
strange apartment.
    I think it must have been many seconds that I sat up thus in bed staring
about, without being able to regain the clew to my personal identity. I was no
more able to distinguish myself from pure being during those moments than we may
suppose a soul in the rough to be before it has received the ear-marks, the
individualizing touches which make it a person. Strange that the sense of this
inability should be such anguish! but so we are constituted. There are no words
for the mental torture I endured during this helpless, eyeless groping for
myself in a boundless void. No other experience of the mind gives probably
anything like the sense of absolute intellectual arrest from the loss of a
mental fulcrum, a starting point of thought, which comes during such a momentary
obscuration of the sense of one's identity. I trust I may never know what it is
again.
    I do not know how long this condition had lasted, - it seemed an
interminable time, - when, like a flash, the recollection of everything came
back to me. I remembered who and where I was, and how I had come here and that
these scenes as of the life of yesterday which had been passing before my mind
concerned a generation long, long ago mouldered to dust. Leaping from bed, I
stood in the middle of the room clasping my temples with all my might between my
hands to keep them from bursting. Then I fell prone on the couch, and, burying
my face in the pillow, lay without motion. The reaction which was inevitable,
from the mental elation, the fever of the intellect that had been the first
effect of my tremendous experience, had arrived. The emotional crisis which had
awaited the full realization of my actual position, and all that it implied, was
upon me, and with set teeth and labouring chest, gripping the bedstead with
frenzied strength, I lay there and fought for my sanity. In my mind, all had
broken loose, habits of feeling, associations of thought, ideas of persons and
things, all had dissolved and lost coherence and were seething together in
apparently irretrievable chaos. There were no rallying points, nothing was left
stable. There only remained the will, and was any human will strong enough to
say to such a weltering sea, »Peace, be still«? I dared not think. Every effort
to reason upon what had befallen me, and realize what it implied, set up an
intolerable swimming of the brain. The idea that I was two persons, that my
identity was double, began to fascinate me with its simple solution of my
experience.
    I knew that I was on the verge of losing my mental balance. If I lay there
thinking, I was doomed. Diversion of some sort I must have, at least the
diversion of physical exertion. I sprang up, and, hastily dressing, opened the
door of my room and went down-stairs. The hour was very early, it being not yet
fairly light, and I found no one in the lower part of the house. There was a hat
in the hall, and, opening the front door, which was fastened with a slightness
indicating that burglary was not among the perils of the modern Boston, I found
myself on the street. For two hours I walked or ran through the streets of the
city, visiting most quarters of the peninsular part of the town. None but an
antiquarian who knows something of the contrast which the Boston of to-day
offers to the Boston of the nineteenth century can begin to appreciate what a
series of bewildering surprises I underwent during that time. Viewed from the
house-top the day before, the city had indeed appeared strange to me, but that
was only in its general aspect. How complete the change had been I first
realized now that I walked the streets. The few old landmarks which still
remained only intensified this effect, for without them I might have imagined
myself in a foreign town. A man may leave his native city in childhood, and
return fifty years later, perhaps, to find it transformed in many features. He
is astonished, but he is not bewildered. He is aware of a great lapse of time,
and of changes likewise occurring in himself meanwhile. He but dimly recalls the
city as he knew it when a child. But remember that there was no sense of any
lapse of time with me. So far as my consciousness was concerned, it was but
yesterday, but a few hours, since I had walked these streets in which scarcely a
feature had escaped a complete metamorphosis. The mental image of the old city
was so fresh and strong that it did not yield to the impression of the actual
city, but contended with it, so that it was first one and then the other which
seemed the more unreal. There was nothing I saw which was not blurred in this
way, like the faces of a composite photograph.
    Finally, I stood again at the door of the house from which I had come out.
My feet must have instinctively brought me back to the site of my old home, for
I had no clear idea of returning thither. It was no more homelike to me than any
other spot in this city of a strange generation, nor were its inmates less
utterly and necessarily strangers than all the other men and women now on the
earth. Had the door of the house been locked, I should have been reminded by its
resistance that I had no object in entering, and turned away, but it yielded to
my hand, and advancing with uncertain steps through the hall, I entered one of
the apartments opening from it. Throwing myself into a chair, I covered my
burning eyeballs with my hands to shut out the horror of strangeness. My mental
confusion was so intense as to produce actual nausea. The anguish of those
moments, during which my brain seemed melting, or the abjectness of my sense of
helplessness, how can I describe? In my despair I groaned aloud. I began to feel
that unless some help should come I was about to lose my mind. And just then it
did come. I heard the rustle of drapery, and looked up. Edith Leete was standing
before me. Her beautiful face was full of the most poignant sympathy.
    »Oh, what is the matter, Mr. West?« she said. »I was here when you came in.
I saw how dreadfully distressed you looked, and when I heard you groan, I could
not keep silent. What has happened to you? Where have you been? Can't I do
something for you?«
    Perhaps she involuntarily held out her hands in a gesture of compassion as
she spoke. At any rate I had caught them in my own and was clinging to them with
an impulse as instinctive as that which prompts the drowning man to seize upon
and cling to the rope which is thrown him as he sinks for the last time. As I
looked up into her compassionate face and her eyes moist with pity, my brain
ceased to whirl. The tender human sympathy which thrilled in the soft pressure
of her fingers had brought me the support I needed. Its effect to calm and
soothe was like that of some wonderworking elixir.
    »God bless you,« I said, after a few moments. »He must have sent you to me
just now. I think I was in danger of going crazy if you had not come.« At this
the tears came into her eyes.
    »Oh, Mr. West!« she cried. »How heartless you must have thought us! How
could we leave you to yourself so long! But it is over now, is it not? You are
better, surely.«
    »Yes,« I said, »thanks to you. If you will not go away quite yet, I shall be
myself soon.«
    »Indeed I will not go away,« she said, with a little quiver of her face,
more expressive of her sympathy than a volume of words. »You must not think us
so heartless as we seemed in leaving you so by yourself. I scarcely slept last
night, for thinking how strange your waking would be this morning; but father
said you would sleep till late. He said that it would be better not to show too
much sympathy with you at first, but to try to divert your thoughts and make you
feel that you were among friends.«
    »You have indeed made me feel that,« I answered. »But you see it is a good
deal of a jolt to drop a hundred years, and although I did not seem to feel it
so much last night, I have had very odd sensations this morning.« While I held
her hands and kept my eyes on her face, I could already even jest a little at my
plight.
    »No one thought of such a thing as your going out in the city alone so early
in the morning,« she went on. »Oh, Mr. West, where have you been?«
    Then I told her of my morning's experience, from my first waking till the
moment I had looked up to see her before me, just as I have told it here. She
was overcome by distressful pity during the recital, and, though I had released
one of her hands, did not try to take from me the other, seeing, no doubt, how
much good it did me to hold it. »I can think a little what this feeling must
have been like,« she said. »It must have been terrible. And to think you were
left alone to struggle with it! Can you ever forgive us?«
    »But it is gone now. You have driven it quite away for the present,« I said.
    »You will not let it return again,« she queried anxiously.
    »I can't quite say that,« I replied. »It might be too early to say that,
considering how strange everything will still be to me.«
    »But you will not try to contend with it alone again, at least,« she
persisted. »Promise that you will come to us, and let us sympathize with you,
and try to help you. Perhaps we can't do much, but it will surely be better than
to try to bear such feelings alone.«
    »I will come to you if you will let me,« I said.
    »Oh yes, yes, I beg you will,« she said eagerly.
    »I would do anything to help you that I could.«
    »All you need do is to be sorry for me, as you seem to be now,« I replied.
    »It is understood, then,« she said, smiling with wet eyes, »that you are to
come and tell me next time, and not run all over Boston among strangers.«
    This assumption that we were not strangers seemed scarcely strange, so near
within these few minutes had my trouble and her sympathetic tears brought us.
    »I will promise, when you come to me,« she added, with an expression of
charming archness, passing, as she continued, into one of enthusiasm, »to seem
as sorry for you as you wish, but you must not for a moment suppose that I am
really sorry for you at all, or that I think you will long be sorry for
yourself. I know, as well as I know that the world now is heaven compared with
what it was in your day, that the only feeling you will have after a little
while will be one of thankfulness to God that your life in that age was so
strangely cut off, to be returned to you in this.«
 

                                   Chapter IX

Dr. and Mrs. Leete were evidently not a little startled to learn, when they
presently appeared, that I had been all over the city alone that morning, and it
was apparent that they were agreeably surprised to see that I seemed so little
agitated after the experience.
    »Your stroll could scarcely have failed to be a very interesting one,« said
Mrs. Leete, as we sat down to table soon after. »You must have seen a good many
new things.«
    »I saw very little that was not new,« I replied. »But I think what surprised
me as much as anything was not to find any stores on Washington Street, or any
banks on State. What have you done with the merchants and bankers? Hung them
all, perhaps, as the anarchists wanted to do in my day?«
    »Not so bad as that,« replied Dr. Leete. »We have simply dispensed with
them. Their functions are obsolete in the modern world.«
    »Who sells you things when you want to buy them?« I inquired.
    »There is neither selling nor buying nowadays; the distribution of goods is
effected in another way. As to the bankers, having no money we have no use for
those gentry.«
    »Miss Leete,« said I, turning to Edith, »I am afraid that your father is
making sport of me. I don't blame him, for the temptation my innocence offers
must be extraordinary. But, really, there are limits to my credulity as to
possible alterations in the social system.«
    »Father has no idea of jesting, I am sure,« she replied, with a reassuring
smile.
    The conversation took another turn then, the point of ladies' fashions in
the nineteenth century being raised, if I remember rightly, by Mrs. Leete, and
it was not till after breakfast, when the doctor had invited me up to the
house-top, which appeared to be a favourite resort of his, that he recurred to
the subject.
    »You were surprised,« he said, »at my saying that we got along without money
or trade, but a moment's reflection will show that trade existed and money was
needed in your day simply because the business of production was left in private
hands, and that, consequently, they are superfluous now.«
    »I do not at once see how that follows,« I replied.
    »It is very simple,« said Dr. Leete. »When innumerable different and
independent persons produced the various things needful to life and comfort,
endless exchanges between individuals were requisite in order that they might
supply themselves with what they desired. These exchanges constituted trade, and
money was essential as their medium. But as soon as the nation became the sole
producer of all sorts of commodities, there was no need of exchanges between
individuals that they might get what they required. Everything was procurable
from one source, and nothing could be procured anywhere else. A system of direct
distribution from the national store-houses took the place of trade, and for
this money was unnecessary.«
    »How is this distribution managed?« I asked.
    »On the simplest possible plan,« replied Dr. Leete. »A credit corresponding
to his share of the annual product of the nation is given to every citizen on
the public books at the beginning of each year, and a credit card issued him
with which he procures at the public storehouses, found in every community,
whatever he desires whenever he desires it. This arrangement, you will see,
totally obviates the necessity for business transactions of any sort between
individuals and consumers. Perhaps you would like to see what our credit-cards
are like.
    You observe,« he pursued as I was curiously examining the piece of
pasteboard he gave me, »that this card is issued for a certain number of
dollars. We have kept the old word, but not the substance. The term, as we use
it, answers to no real thing, but merely serves as an algebraical symbol for
comparing the values of products with one another. For this purpose they are all
priced in dollars and cents, just as in your day. The value of what I procure on
this card is checked off by the clerk, who pricks out of these tiers of squares
the price of what I order.«
    »If you wanted to buy something of your neighbour, could you transfer part of
your credit to him as consideration?« I inquired.
    »In the first place,« replied Dr. Leete, »our neighbours have nothing to sell
us, but in any event our credit would not be transferable, being strictly
personal. Before the nation could even think of honoring any such transfer as
you speak of, it would be bound to inquire into all the circumstances of the
transaction, so as to be able to guarantee its absolute equity. It would have
been reason enough, had there been no other, for abolishing money, that its
possession was no indication of rightful title to it. In the hand of the man who
had stolen it or murdered for it, it was as good as in those which had earned it
by industry. People nowadays interchange gifts and favours out of friendship, but
buying and selling is considered absolutely inconsistent with the mutual
benevolence and disinterestedness which should prevail between citizens and the
sense of community of interest which supports our social system. According to
our ideas, buying and selling is essentially anti-social in all its tendencies.
It is an education in self-seeking at the expense of others, and no society
whose citizens are trained in such a school can possibly rise above a very low
grade of civilization.«
    »What if you have to spend more than your card in any one year?« I asked.
    »The provision is so ample that we are more likely not to spend it all,«
replied Dr. Leete. »But if extraordinary expenses should exhaust it, we can
obtain a limited advance on the next year's credit, though this practice is not
encouraged, and a heavy discount is charged to check it. Of course if a man
showed himself a reckless spendthrift he would receive his allowance monthly or
weekly instead of yearly, or if necessary not be permitted to handle it all.«
    »If you don't spend your allowance, I suppose it accumulates?«
    »That is also permitted to a certain extent when a special outlay is
anticipated. But unless notice to the contrary is given, it is presumed that the
citizen who does not fully expend his credit did not have occasion to do so, and
the balance is turned into the general surplus.«
    »Such a system does not encourage saving habits on the part of citizens,« I
said.
    »It is not intended to,« was the reply. »The nation is rich, and does not
wish the people to deprive themselves of any good thing. In your day, men were
bound to lay up goods and money against coming failure of the means of support
and for their children. This necessity made parsimony a virtue. But now it would
have no such laudable object, and, having lost its utility, it has ceased to be
regarded as a virtue. No man any more has any care for the morrow, either for
himself or his children, for the nation guarantees the nurture, education, and
comfortable maintenance of every citizen from the cradle to the grave.«
    »That is a sweeping guarantee!« I said. »What certainty can there be that
the value of a man's labour will recompense the nation for its outlay on him? On
the whole, society may be able to support all its members, but some must earn
less than enough for their support, and others more; and that brings us back
once more to the wages question, on which you have hitherto said nothing. It was
at just this point, if you remember, that our talk ended last evening; and I say
again, as I did then, that here I should suppose a national industrial system
like yours would find its main difficulty. How, I ask once more, can you adjust
satisfactorily the comparative wages or remuneration of the multitude of
avocations, so unlike and so incommensurable, which are necessary for the
service of society? In our day the market rate determined the price of labour of
all sorts, as well as of goods. The employer paid as little as he could, and the
worker got as much. It was not a pretty system ethically, I admit; but it did,
at least, furnish us a rough and ready formula for settling a question which
must be settled ten thousand times a day if the world was ever going to get
forward. There seemed to us no other practicable way of doing it.«
    »Yes,« replied Dr. Leete, »it was the only practicable way under a system
which made the interests of every individual antagonistic to those of every
other; but it would have been a pity if humanity could never have devised a
better plan, for yours was simply the application to the mutual relations of men
of the devil's maxim, Your necessity is my opportunity. The reward of any
service depended not upon its difficulty, danger, or hardship, for throughout
the world it seems that the most perilous, severe, and repulsive labour was done
by the worst paid classes; but solely upon the strait of those who needed the
service.«
    »All that is conceded,« I said. »But, with all its defects, the plan of
settling prices by the market rate was a practical plan; and I cannot conceive
what satisfactory substitute you can have devised for it. The government being
the only possible employer, there is of course no labour market or market rate.
Wages of all sorts must be arbitrarily fixed by the government. I cannot imagine
a more complex and delicate function than that must be, or one, however
performed, more certain to breed universal dissatisfaction.«
    »I beg your pardon,« replied Dr. Leete, »but I think you exaggerate the
difficulty. Suppose a board of fairly sensible men were charged with settling
the wages for all sorts of trades under a system which, like ours, guaranteed
employment to all, while permitting the choice of avocations. Don't you see
that, however unsatisfactory the first adjustment might be, the mistakes would
soon correct themselves? The favoured trades would have too many volunteers, and
those discriminated against would lack them till the errors were set right. But
this is aside from the purpose, for, though this plan would, I fancy, be
practicable enough, it is no part of our system.«
    »How, then, do you regulate wages?« I once more asked.
    Dr. Leete did not reply till after several moments of meditative silence. »I
know, of course,« he finally said, »enough of the old order of things to
understand just what you mean by that question; and yet the present order is so
utterly different at this point that I am a little at loss how to answer you
best. You ask me how we regulate wages; I can only reply that there is no idea
in the modern social economy which at all corresponds with what was meant by
wages in your day.«
    »I suppose you mean that you have no money to pay wages in,« said I. »But
the credit given the worker at the government storehouse answers to his wages
with us. How is the amount of the credit given respectively to the workers in
different lines determined? By what title does the individual claim his
particular share? What is the basis of allotment?«
    »His title,« replied Dr. Leete, »is his humanity. The basis of his claim is
the fact that he is a man.«
    »The fact that he is a man!« I repeated, incredulously. »Do you possibly
mean that all have the same share?«
    »Most assuredly.«
    The readers of this book never having practically known any other
arrangement, or perhaps very carefully considered the historical accounts of
former epochs in which a very different system prevailed, cannot be expected to
appreciate the stupor of amazement into which Dr. Leete's simple statement
plunged me.
    »You see,« he said, smiling, »that it is not merely that we have no money to
pay wages in, but, as I said, we have nothing at all answering to your idea of
wages.«
    By this time I had pulled myself together sufficiently to voice some of the
criticisms which, man of the nineteenth century as I was, came uppermost in my
mind, upon this to me astounding arrangement. »Some men do twice the work of
others!« I exclaimed. »Are the clever workmen content with a plan that ranks
them with the indifferent?«
    »We leave no possible ground for any complaint of injustice,« replied Dr.
Leete, »by requiring precisely the same measure of service from all.«
    »How can you do that, I should like to know, when no two men's powers are
the same?«
    »Nothing could be simpler,« was Dr. Leete's reply. »We require of each that
he shall make the same effort; that is, we demand of him the best service it is
in his power to give.«
    »And supposing all do the best they can,« I answered, »the amount of the
product resulting is twice greater from one man than from another.«
    »Very true,« replied Dr. Leete; »but the amount of the resulting product has
nothing whatever to do with the question, which is one of desert. Desert is a
moral question, and the amount of the product a material quantity. It would be
an extraordinary sort of logic which should try to determine a moral question by
a material standard. The amount of the effort alone is pertinent to the question
of desert. All men who do their best, do the same. A man's endowments, however
godlike, merely fix the measure of his duty. The man of great endowments who
does not do all he might, though he may do more than a man of small endowments
who does his best, is deemed a less deserving worker than the latter, and dies a
debtor to his fellows. The Creator sets men's tasks for them by the faculties he
gives them; we simply exact their fulfillment.«
    »No doubt that is very fine philosophy,« I said; »nevertheless it seems hard
that the man who produces twice as much as another, even if both do their best,
should have only the same share.«
    »Does it, indeed, seem so to you?« responded Dr. Leete. »Now, do you know,
that seems very curious to me? The way it strikes people nowadays is, that a man
who can produce twice as much as another with the same effort, instead of being
rewarded for doing so, ought to be punished if he does not do so. In the
nineteenth century, when a horse pulled a heavier load than a goat, I suppose
you rewarded him. Now, we should have whipped him soundly if he had not, on the
ground that, being much stronger, he ought to. It is singular how ethical
standards change.« The doctor said this with such a twinkle in his eye that I
was obliged to laugh.
    »I suppose,« I said, »that the real reason that we rewarded men for their
endowments, while we considered those of horses and goats merely as fixing the
service to be severally required of them, was that the animals, not being
reasoning beings, naturally did the best they could, whereas men could only be
induced to do so by rewarding them according to the amount of their product.
That brings me to ask why, unless human nature has mightily changed in a hundred
years, you are not under the same necessity.«
    »We are,« replied Dr. Leete. »I don't think there has been any change in
human nature in that respect since your day. It is still so constituted that
special incentives in the form of prizes, and advantages to be gained, are
requisite to call out the best endeavours of the average man in any direction.«
    »But what inducement,« I asked, »can a man have to put forth his best
endeavours when, however much or little he accomplishes, his income remains the
same? High characters may be moved by devotion to the common welfare under such
a system, but does not the average man tend to rest back on his oar, reasoning
that it is of no use to make a special effort, since the effort will not
increase his income, nor its withholding diminish it?«
    »Does it then really seem to you,« answered my companion, »that human nature
is insensible to any motives save fear of want and love of luxury, that you
should expect security and equality of livelihood to leave them without possible
incentives to effort? Your contemporaries did not really think so, though they
might fancy they did. When it was a question of the grandest class of efforts,
the most absolute self-devotion, they depended on quite other incentives. Not
higher wages, but honour and the hope of men's gratitude, patriotism and the
inspiration of duty, were the motives which they set before their soldiers when
it was a question of dying for the nation, and never was there an age of the
world when those motives did not call out what is best and noblest in men. And
not only this, but when you come to analyse the love of money which was the
general impulse to effort in your day, you find that the dread of want and
desire of luxury was but one of several motives which the pursuit of money
represented; the others, and with many the more influential, being desire of
power, of social position, and reputation for ability and success. So you see
that though we have abolished poverty and the fear of it, and inordinate luxury
with the hope of it, we have not touched the greater part of the motives which
underlay the love of money in former times, or any of those which prompted the
supremer sorts of effort. The coarser motives, which no longer move us, have
been replaced by higher motives wholly unknown to the mere wage earners of your
age. Now that industry of whatever sort is no longer self-service, but service
of the nation, patriotism, passion for humanity, impel the worker as in your day
they did the soldier. The army of industry is an army, not alone by virtue of
its perfect organization, but by reason also of the ardour of self-devotion which
animates its members.
    But as you used to supplement the motives of patriotism with the love of
glory, in order to stimulate the valor of your soldiers, so do we. Based as our
industrial system is on the principle of requiring the same unit of effort from
every man, that is, the best he can do, you will see that the means by which we
spur the workers to do their best must be a very essential part of our scheme.
With us, diligence in the national service is the sole and certain way to public
repute, social distinction, and official power. The value of a man's services to
society fixes his rank in it. Compared with the effect of our social
arrangements in impelling men to be zealous in business, we deem the
object-lessons of biting poverty and wanton luxury on which you depended a
device as weak and uncertain as it was barbaric. The lust of honour even in your
sordid day notoriously impelled men to more desperate effort than the love of
money could.«
    »I should be extremely interested,« I said, »to learn something of what
these social arrangements are.«
    »The scheme in its details,« replied the doctor, »is of course very
elaborate, for it underlies the entire organization of our industrial army; but
a few words will give you a general idea of it.«
    At this moment our talk was charmingly interrupted by the emergence upon the
aerial platform where we sat of Edith Leete. She was dressed for the street, and
had come to speak to her father about some commission she was to do for him.
    »By the way, Edith,« he exclaimed, as she was about to leave us to
ourselves, »I wonder if Mr. West would not be interested in visiting the store
with you? I have been telling him something about our system of distribution,
and perhaps he might like to see it in practical operation.«
    »My daughter,« he added, turning to me, »is an indefatigable shopper, and
can tell you more about the stores than I can.«
    The proposition was naturally very agreeable to me, and Edith being good
enough to say that she should be glad to have my company, we left the house
together.
 

                                   Chapter X

»If I am going to explain our way of shopping to you,« said my companion, as we
walked along the street, »you must explain your way to me. I have never been
able to understand it from all I have read on the subject. For example, when you
had such a vast number of shops, each with its different assortment, how could a
lady ever settle upon any purchase till she had visited all the shops? for,
until she had, she could not know what there was to choose from.«
    »It was as you suppose; that was the only way she could know,« I replied.
    »Father calls me an indefatigable shopper, but I should soon be a very
fatigued one if I had to do as they did,« was Edith's laughing comment.
    »The loss of time in going from shop to shop was indeed a waste which the
busy bitterly complained of,« I said; »but as for the ladies of the idle class,
though they complained also, I think the system was really a godsend by
furnishing a device to kill time.«
    »But say there were a thousand shops in a city, hundreds, perhaps, of the
same sort, how could even the idlest find time to make their rounds?«
    »They really could not visit all, of course,« I replied. »Those who did a
great deal of buying, learned in time where they might expect to find what they
wanted. This class had made a science of the specialties of the shops, and
bought at advantage, always getting the most and best for the least money. It
required, however, long experience to acquire this knowledge. Those who were too
busy, or bought too little to gain it, took their chances and were generally
unfortunate, getting the least and worst for the most money. It was the merest
chance if persons not experienced in shopping received the value of their
money.«
    »But why did you put up with such a shockingly inconvenient arrangement when
you saw its faults so plainly?« Edith asked me.
    »It was like all our social arrangements,« I replied. »You can see their
faults scarcely more plainly than we did, but we saw no remedy for them.«
    »Here we are at the store of our ward,« said Edith, as we turned in at the
great portal of one of the magnificent public buildings I had observed in my
morning walk. There was nothing in the exterior aspect of the edifice to suggest
a store to a representative of the nineteenth century. There was no display of
goods in the great windows, or any device to advertise wares, or attract custom.
Nor was there any sort of sign or legend on the front of the building to
indicate the character of the business carried on there; but instead, above the
portal, standing out from the front of the building, a majestic life-size group
of statuary, the central figure of which was a female ideal of Plenty, with her
cornucopia. Judging from the composition of the throng passing in and out, about
the same proportion of the sexes among shoppers obtained as in the nineteenth
century. As we entered, Edith said that there was one of these great
distributing establishments in each ward of the city, so that no residence was
more than five or ten minutes' walk from one of them. It was the first interior
of a twentieth-century public building that I had ever beheld, and the spectacle
naturally impressed me deeply. I was in a vast hall full of light, received not
alone from the windows on all sides, but from the dome, the point of which was a
hundred feet above. Beneath it, in the centre of the hall, a magnificent
fountain played, cooling the atmosphere to a delicious freshness with its spray.
The walls and ceiling were frescoed in mellow tints, calculated to soften
without absorbing the light which flooded the interior. Around the fountain was
a space occupied with chairs and sofas, on which many persons were seated
conversing. Legends on the walls all about the hall indicated to what classes of
commodities the counters below were devoted. Edith directed her steps towards
one of these, where samples of muslin of a bewildering variety were displayed,
and proceeded to inspect them.
    »Where is the clerk?« I asked, for there was no one behind the counter, and
no one seemed coming to attend to the customer.
    »I have no need of the clerk yet,« said Edith; »I have not made my
selection.«
    »It was the principal business of clerks to help people to make their
selections in my day,« I replied.
    »What! To tell people what they wanted?«
    »Yes; and oftener to induce them to buy what they didn't want.«
    »But did not ladies find that very impertinent?« Edith asked, wonderingly.
»What concern could it possibly be to the clerks whether people bought or not?«
    »It was their sole concern,« I answered. »They were hired for the purpose of
getting rid of the goods, and were expected to do their utmost, short of the use
of force, to compass that end.«
    »Ah, yes! How stupid I am to forget!« said Edith. »The storekeeper and his
clerks depended for their livelihood on selling the goods in your day. Of course
that is all different now. The goods are the nation's. They are here for those
who want them, and it is the business of the clerks to wait on people and take
their orders; but it is not the interest of the clerk or the nation to dispose
of a yard or a pound of anything to anybody who does not want it.« She smiled as
she added, »How exceedingly odd it must have seemed to have clerks trying to
induce one to take what one did not want, or was doubtful about!«
    »But even a twentieth-century clerk might make himself useful in giving you
information about the goods, though he did not tease you to buy them,« I
suggested.
    »No,« said Edith, »that is not the business of the clerk. These printed
cards, for which the government authorities are responsible, give us all the
information we can possibly need.«
    I saw then that there was fastened to each sample a card containing in
succinct form a complete statement of the make and materials of the goods and
all its qualities, as well as price, leaving absolutely no point to hang a
question on.
    »The clerk has, then, nothing to say about the goods he sells?« I said.
    »Nothing at all. It is not necessary that he should know or profess to know
anything about them. Courtesy and accuracy in taking orders are all that are
required of him.«
    »What a prodigious amount of lying that simple arrangement saves!« I
ejaculated.
    »Do you mean that all the clerks misrepresented their goods in your day?«
Edith asked.
    »God forbid that I should say so!« I replied, »for there were many who did
not, and they were entitled to especial credit, for when one's livelihood and
that of his wife and babies depended on the amount of goods he could dispose of,
the temptation to deceive the customer - or let him deceive himself - was
wellnigh overwhelming. But, Miss Leete, I am distracting you from your task with
my talk.«
    »Not at all. I have made my selections.« With that she touched a button, and
in a moment a clerk appeared. He took down her order on a tablet with a pencil
which made two copies, of which he gave one to her, and enclosing the
counterpart in a small receptacle, dropped it into a transmitting tube.
    »The duplicate of the order,« said Edith as she turned away from the
counter, after the clerk had punched the value of her purchase out of the credit
card she gave him, »is given to the purchaser, so that any mistakes in filling
it can be easily traced and rectified.«
    »You were very quick about your selections,« I said. »May I ask how you knew
that you might not have found something to suit you better in some of the other
stores? But probably you are required to buy in your own district.«
    »Oh, no,« she replied. »We buy where we please, though naturally most often
near home. But I should have gained nothing by visiting other stores. The
assortment in all is exactly the same, representing as it does in each case
samples of all the varieties produced or imported by the United States. That is
why one can decide quickly, and never need visit two stores.«
    »And is this merely a sample store? I see no clerks cutting off goods or
marking bundles.«
    »All our stores are sample stores, except as to a few classes of articles.
The goods, with these exceptions, are all at the great central warehouse of the
city, to which they are shipped directly from the producers. We order from the
sample and the printed statement of texture, make, and qualities. The orders are
sent to the warehouse, and the goods distributed from there.«
    »That must be a tremendous saving of handling,« I said. »By our system, the
manufacturer sold to the wholesaler, the wholesaler to the retailer, and the
retailer to the consumer, and the goods had to be handled each time. You avoid
one handling of the goods, and eliminate the retailer altogether, with his big
profit and the army of clerks it goes to support. Why, Miss Leete, this store is
merely the order department of a wholesale house, with no more than a
wholesaler's complement of clerks. Under our system of handling the goods,
persuading the customer to buy them, cutting them off, and packing them, ten
clerks would not do what one does here. The saving must be enormous.«
    »I suppose so,« said Edith, »but of course we have never known any other
way. But, Mr. West, you must not fail to ask father to take you to the central
warehouse some day, where they receive the orders from the different sample
houses all over the city and parcel out and send the goods to their
destinations. He took me there not long ago, and it was a wonderful sight. The
system is certainly perfect; for example, over yonder in that sort of cage is
the dispatching clerk. The orders, as they are taken by the different
departments in the store, are sent by transmitters to him. His assistants sort
them and enclose each class in a carrier-box by itself. The dispatching clerk
has a dozen pneumatic transmitters before him answering to the general classes
of goods, each communicating with the corresponding department at the warehouse.
He drops the box of orders into the tube it calls for, and in a few moments
later it drops on the proper desk in the warehouse, together with all the orders
of the same sort from the other sample stores. The orders are read off,
recorded, and sent to be filled, like lightning. The filling I thought the most
interesting part. Bales of cloth are placed on spindles and turned by machinery,
and the cutter, who also has a machine, works right through one bale after
another till exhausted, when another man takes his place; and it is the same
with those who fill the orders in any other staple. The packages are then
delivered by larger tubes to the city districts, and thence distributed to the
houses. You may understand how quickly it is all done when I tell you that my
order will probably be at home sooner than I could have carried it from here.«
    »How do you manage in the thinly settled rural districts?« I asked.
    »The system is the same,« Edith explained, »the village sample shops are
connected by transmitters with the central county warehouse, which may be twenty
miles away. The transmission is so swift, though, that the time lost on the way
is trifling. But, to save expense, in many counties one set of tubes connect
several villages with the warehouse, and then there is time lost waiting for one
another. Sometimes it is two or three hours before goods ordered are received.
It was so where I was staying last summer, and I found it quite inconvenient.«2
    »There must be many other respects also, no doubt, in which the country
stores are inferior to the city stores,« I suggested.
    »No,« Edith answered, »they are otherwise precisely as good. The sample shop
of the smallest village, just like this one, gives you your choice of all the
varieties of goods the nation has, for the county warehouse draws on the same
source as the city warehouse.«
    As we walked home I commented on the great variety in the size and cost of
the houses. »How is it,« I asked, »that this difference is consistent with the
fact that all citizens have the same income?«
    »Because,« Edith explained, »although the income is the same, personal taste
determines how the individual shall spend it. Some like fine horses; others,
like myself, prefer pretty clothes; and still others want an elaborate table.
The rents which the nation receives for these houses vary, according to size,
elegance, and location, so that everybody can find something to suit. The larger
houses are usually occupied by large families, in which there are several to
contribute to the rent; while small families, like ours, find smaller houses
more convenient and economical. It is a matter of taste and convenience wholly.
I have read that in old times people often kept up establishments and did other
things which they could not afford for ostentation, to make people think them
richer than they were. Was it really so, Mr. West?«
    »I shall have to admit that it was,« I replied.
    »Well, you see, it could not be so nowadays; for everybody's income is
known, and it is known that what is spent one way must be saved another.«
 

                                   Chapter XI

When we arrived home, Dr. Leete had not yet returned, and Mrs. Leete was not
visible. »Are you fond of music, Mr. West?« Edith asked.
    I assured her that it was half of life, according to my notion.
    »I ought to apologize for inquiring,« she said. »It is not a question that
we ask one another nowadays; but I have read that in your day, even among the
cultured class, there were some who did not care for music.«
    »You must remember, in excuse,« I said, »that we had some rather absurd
kinds of music.«
    »Yes,« she said, »I know that; I am afraid I should not have fancied it all
myself. Would you like to hear some of ours now, Mr. West?«
    »Nothing would delight me so much as to listen to you,« I said.
    »To me!« she exclaimed, laughing. »Did you think I was going to play or sing
to you?«
    »I hoped so, certainly,« I replied.
    Seeing that I was a little abashed, she subdued her merriment and explained.
»Of course, we all sing nowadays as a matter of course in the training of the
voice, and some learn to play instruments for their private amusement; but the
professional music is so much grander and more perfect than any performance of
ours, and so easily commanded when we wish to hear it, that we don't think of
calling our singing or playing music at all. All the really fine singers and
players are in the musical service, and the rest of us hold our peace for the
main part. But would you really like to hear some music?«
    I assured her once more that I would.
    »Come, then, into the music room,« she said, and I followed her into an
apartment finished, without hangings, in wood, with a floor of polished wood. I
was prepared for new devices in musical instruments, but I saw nothing in the
room which by any stretch of imagination could be conceived as such. It was
evident that my puzzled appearance was affording intense amusement to Edith.
    »Please look at to-day's music,« she said, handing me a card, »and tell me
what you would prefer. It is now five o'clock, you will remember.«
    The card bore the date September 12, 2000, and contained the longest
programme of music I had ever seen. It was as various as it was long, including
a most extraordinary range of vocal and instrumental solos, duets, quartettes,
and various orchestral combinations. I remained bewildered by the prodigious
list until Edith's pink finger-tip indicated a particular section of it, where
several selections were bracketed, with the words 5 P.M. against them; then I
observed that this prodigious programme was an all-day one, divided into
twenty-four sections answering to the hours. There were but a few pieces of
music in the 5 P.M. section, and I indicated an organ piece as my preference.
    »I am so glad you like the organ,« said she. »I think there is scarcely any
music that suits my mood oftener.«
    She made me sit down comfortably, and, crossing the room, so far as I could
see, merely touched one or two screws, and at once the room was filled with the
music of a grand organ anthem; filled, not flooded, for, by some means, the
volume of melody had been perfectly graduated to the size of the apartment. I
listened, scarcely breathing, to the close. Such music, so perfectly rendered, I
had never expected to hear.
    »Grand!« I cried, as the last great wave of sound broke and ebbed away into
silence. »Bach must be at the keys of that organ; but where is the organ?«
    »Wait a moment, please,« said Edith; »I want to have you listen to this
waltz before you ask any questions. I think it is perfectly charming;« and as
she spoke the sound of violins filled the room with the witchery of a summer
night. When this had also ceased, she said: »There is nothing in the least
mysterious about the music, as you seem to imagine. It is not made by fairies or
genii, but by good, honest, and exceedingly clever human hands. We have simply
carried the idea of labour-saving by coöperation into our musical service as into
everything else. There are a number of music rooms in the city, perfectly
adapted acoustically to the different sorts of music. These halls are connected
by telephone with all the houses of the city whose people care to pay the small
fee, and there are none, you may be sure, who do not. The corps of musicians
attached to each hall is so large that, although no individual performer, or
group of performers, has more than a brief part, each day's programme lasts
through the twenty-four hours. There are on that card for to-day, as you will
see if you observe closely, distinct programmes of four of these concerts, each
of a different order of music from the others, being now simultaneously
performed, and any one of the four pieces now going on that you prefer, yon can
hear by merely pressing the button which will connect your house-wire with the
hall where it is being rendered. The programmes are so coördinated that the
pieces at any one time simultaneously proceeding in the different halls usually
offer a choice, not only between instrumental and vocal, and between different
sorts of instruments; but also between different motives from grave to gay, so
that all tastes and moods can be suited.«
    »It appears to me, Miss Leete,« I said, »that if we could have devised an
arrangement for providing everybody with music in their homes, perfect in
quality, unlimited in quantity, suited to every mood, and beginning and ceasing
at will, we should have considered the limit of human felicity already attained,
and ceased to strive for further improvements.«
    »I am sure I never could imagine how those among you who depended at all on
music managed to endure the old-fashioned system for providing it,« replied
Edith. »Music really worth hearing must have been, I suppose, wholly out of the
reach of the masses, and attainable by the most favoured only occasionally, at
great trouble, prodigious expense, and then for brief periods arbitrarily fixed
by somebody else, and in connection with all sorts of undesirable circumstances.
Your concerts, for instance, and operas! How perfectly exasperating it must have
been, for the sake of a piece or two of music that suited you, to have to sit
for hours listening to what you did not care for! Now, at a dinner one can skip
the courses one does not care for. Who would ever dine, however hungry, if
required to eat everything brought on the table? and I am sure one's hearing is
quite as sensitive as one's taste. I suppose it was these difficulties in the
way of commanding really good music which made you endure so much playing and
singing in your homes by people who had only the rudiments of the art.«
    »Yes,« I replied, »it was that sort of music or none for most of us.«
    »Ah, well,« Edith sighed, »when one really considers, it is not so strange
that people in those days so often did not care for music. I dare say I should
have detested it, too.«
    »Did I understand you rightly,« I inquired, »that this musical programme
covers the entire twenty-four hours? It seems to on this card, certainly; but
who is there to listen to music between say midnight and morning?«
    »Oh, many,« Edith replied. »Our people keep all hours; but if the music were
provided from midnight to morning for no others, it still would be for the
sleepless, the sick, and the dying. All our bedchambers have a telephone
attachment at the head of the bed by which any person who may be sleepless can
command music at pleasure, of the sort suited to the mood.«
    »Is there such an arrangement in the room assigned to me?«
    »Why, certainly; and how stupid, how very stupid, of me not to think to tell
you of that last night! Father will show you about the adjustment before you go
to bed to-night, however; and with the receiver at your ear, I am quite sure you
will be able to snap your fingers at all sorts of uncanny feelings if they
trouble you again.«
    That evening Dr. Leete asked us about our visit to the store, and in the
course of the desultory comparison of the ways of the nineteenth century and the
twentieth, which followed, something raised the question of inheritance. »I
suppose,« I said, »the inheritance of property is not now allowed.«
    »On the contrary,« replied Dr. Leete, »there is no interference with it. In
fact, you will find, Mr. West, as you come to know us, that there is far less
interference of any sort with personal liberty nowadays than you were accustomed
to. We require, indeed, by law that every man shall serve the nation for a fixed
period, instead of leaving him his choice, as you did, between working,
stealing, or starving. With the exception of this fundamental law, which is,
indeed, merely a codification of the law of nature - the edict of Eden - by
which it is made equal in its pressure on men, our system depends in no
particular upon legislation, but is entirely voluntary, the logical outcome of
the operation of human nature under rational conditions. This question of
inheritance illustrates just that point. The fact that the nation is the sole
capitalist and land-owner of course restricts the individual's possessions to
his annual credit, and what personal and household belongings he may have
procured with it. His credit, like an annuity in your day, ceases on his death,
with the allowance of a fixed sum for funeral expenses. His other possessions he
leaves as he pleases.«
    »What is to prevent, in course of time, such accumulations of valuable goods
and chattels in the hands of individuals as might seriously interfere with
equality in the circumstances of citizens?« I asked.
    »That matter arranges itself very simply,« was the reply. »Under the present
organization of society, accumulations of personal property are merely burden
some the moment they exceed what adds to the real comfort. In your day, if a man
had a house crammed full with gold and silver plate, rare china, expensive
furniture, and such things, he was considered rich, for these things represented
money, and could at any time be turned into it. Nowadays a man whom the legacies
of a hundred relatives, simultaneously dying, should place in a similar
position, would be considered very unlucky. The articles, not being salable,
would be of no value to him except for their actual use or the enjoyment of
their beauty. On the other hand, his income remaining the same, he would have to
deplete his credit to hire houses to store the goods in, and still further to
pay for the service of those who took care of them. You may be very sure that
such a man would lose no time in scattering among his friends possessions which
only made him the poorer, and that none of those friends would accept more of
them than they could easily spare room for and time to attend to. You see, then,
that to prohibit the inheritance of personal property with a view to prevent
great accumulations would be a superfluous precaution for the nation. The
individual citizen can be trusted to see that he is not overburdened. So careful
is he in this respect, that the relatives usually waive claim to most of the
effects of deceased friends, reserving only particular objects. The nation takes
charge of the resigned chattels, and turns such as are of value into the common
stock once more.«
    »You spoke of paying for service to take care of your houses,« said I; »that
suggests a question I have several times been on the point of asking. How have
you disposed of the problem of domestic service? Who are willing to be domestic
servants in a community where all are social equals? Our ladies found it hard
enough to find such even when there was little pretence of social equality.«
    »It is precisely because we are all social equals whose equality nothing can
compromise, and because service is honourable, in a society whose fundamental
principle is that all in turn shall serve the rest, that we could easily provide
a corps of domestic servants such as you never dreamed of, if we needed them,«
replied Dr. Leete. »But we do not need them.«
    »Who does your house-work, then?« I asked.
    »There is none to do,« said Mrs. Leete, to whom I had addressed this
question. »Our washing is all done at public laundries at excessively cheap
rates, and our cooking at public kitchens. The making and repairing of all we
wear are done outside in public shops. Electricity, of course, takes the place
of all fires and lighting. We choose houses no larger than we need, and furnish
them so as to involve the minimum of trouble to keep them in order. We have no
use for domestic servants.«
    »The fact,« said Dr. Leete, »that you had in the poorer classes a boundless
supply of serfs on whom you could impose all sorts of painful and disagreeable
tasks, made you indifferent to devices to avoid the necessity for them. But now
that we all have to do in turn whatever work is done for society, every
individual in the nation has the same interest, and a personal one, in devices
for lightening the burden. This fact has given a prodigious impulse to
labour-saving inventions in all sorts of industry, of which the combination of
the maximum of trouble in household arrangements was one of the earliest
results.
    In case of special emergencies in the household,« pursued Dr. Leete, »such
as extensive cleaning or renovation, or sickness in the family, we can always
secure assistance from the industrial force.«
    »But how do you recompense these assistants, since you have no money?«
    »We do not pay them, of course, but the nation for them. Their services can
be obtained by application at the proper bureau, and their value is pricked off
the credit card of the applicant.«
    »What a paradise for womankind the world must be now!« I exclaimed. »In my
day, even wealth and unlimited servants did not enfranchise their possessors
from household cares, while the women of the merely well-to-do and poorer
classes lived and died martyrs to them.«
    »Yes,« said Mrs. Leete, »I have read something of that; enough to convince
me that, badly off as the men, too, were in your day, they were more fortunate
than their mothers and wives.«
    »The broad shoulders of the nation,« said Dr. Leete, »bear now like a
feather the burden that broke the backs of the women of your day. Their misery
came, with all your other miseries, from that incapacity for coöperation which
followed from the individualism on which your social system was founded, from
your inability to perceive that you could make ten times more profit out of your
fellow men by uniting with them than by contending with them. The wonder is, not
that you did not live more comfortably, but that you were able to live together
at all, who were all confessedly bent on making one another your servants, and
securing possession of one another's goods.«
    »There, there, father, if yon are so vehement, Mr. West will think you are
scolding him,« laughingly interposed Edith.
    »When you want a doctor,« I asked, »do you simply apply to the proper bureau
and take any one that may be sent?«
    »That rule would not work well in the case of physicians,« replied Dr.
Leete. »The good a physician can do a patient depends largely on his
acquaintance with his constitutional tendencies and condition. The patient must
be able, therefore, to call in a particular doctor, and he does so just as
patients did in your day. The only difference is that, instead of collecting his
fee for himself, the doctor collects it for the nation by pricking off the
amount, according to a regular scale for medical attendance, from the patient's
credit card.«
    »I can imagine,« I said, »that if the fee is always the same, and a doctor
may not turn away patients, as I suppose he may not, the good doctors are called
constantly and the poor doctors left in idleness.«
    »In the first place, if you will overlook the apparent conceit of the remark
from a retired physician,« replied Dr. Leete, with a smile, »we have no poor
doctors. Anybody who pleases to get a little smattering of medical terms is not
now at liberty to practice on the bodies of citizens, as in your day. None but
students who have passed the severe tests of the schools, and clearly proved
their vocation, are permitted to practice. Then, too, you will observe that
there is nowadays no attempt of doctors to build up their practice at the
expense of other doctors. There would be no motive for that. For the rest, the
doctor has to render regular reports of his work to the medical bureau, and if
he is not reasonably well employed, work is found for him.«
 

                                  Chapter XII

The questions which I needed to ask before I could acquire even an outline
acquaintance with the institutions of the twentieth century being endless, and
Dr. Leete's good-nature appearing equally so, we sat up talking for several
hours after the ladies left us. Reminding my host of the point at which our talk
had broken off that morning, I expressed my curiosity to learn how the
organization of the industrial army was made to afford a sufficient stimulus to
diligence in the lack of any anxiety on the worker's part as to his livelihood.
    »You must understand in the first place,« replied the doctor, »that the
supply of incentives to effort is but one of the objects sought in the
organization we have adopted for the army. The other, and equally important, is
to secure for the file-leaders and captains of the force, and the great officers
of the nation, men of proven abilities, who are pledged by their own careers to
hold their followers up to their highest standard of performance and permit no
lagging. With a view to these two ends the industrial army is organized. First
comes the unclassified grade of common labourers, men of all work, to which all
recruits during their first three years belong. This grade is a sort of school,
and a very strict one, in which the young men are taught habits of obedience,
subordination, and devotion to duty. While the miscellaneous nature of the work
done by this force prevents the systematic grading of the workers which is
afterwards possible, yet individual records are kept, and excellence receives
distinction corresponding with the penalties that negligence incurs. It is not,
however, policy with us to permit youthful recklessness or indiscretion, when
not deeply culpable, to handicap the future careers of young men, and all who
have passed through the unclassified grade without serious disgrace have an
equal opportunity to choose the life employment they have most liking for.
Having selected this, they enter upon it as apprentices. The length of the
apprenticeship naturally differs in different occupations. At the end of it the
apprentice becomes a full workman, and a member of his trade or guild. Now not
only are the individual records of the apprentices for ability and industry
strictly kept, and excellence distinguished by suitable distinctions, but upon
the average of his record during apprenticeship the standing given the
apprentice among the full workmen depends.
    While the internal organizations of different industries, mechanical and
agricultural, differ according to their peculiar conditions, they agree in a
general division of their workers into first, second, and third grades,
according to ability, and these grades are in many cases subdivided into first
and second classes. According to his standing as an apprentice a young man is
assigned his place as a first, second, or third grade worker. Of course only
young men of unusual ability pass directly from apprenticeship into the first
grade of the workers. The most fall into the lower grades, working up as they
grow more experienced, at the periodical regradings. These regradings take place
in each industry at intervals corresponding with the length of the
apprenticeship to that industry, so that merit never need wait long to rise, nor
can any rest on past achievements unless they would drop into a lower rank. One
of the notable advantages of a high grading is the privilege it gives the worker
in electing which of the various branches or processes of his industry he will
follow as his specialty. Of course it is not intended that any of these
processes shall be disproportionately arduous, but there is often much
difference between them, and the privilege of election is accordingly highly
prized. So far as possible, indeed, the preferences even of the poorest workmen
are considered in assigning them their line of work, because not only their
happiness but their usefulness is thus enhanced. While, however, the wish of the
lower grade man is consulted so far as the exigencies of the service permit, he
is considered only after the upper grade men have been provided for, and often
he has to put up with second or third choice, or even with an arbitrary
assignment when help is needed. This privilege of election attends every
regrading, and when a man loses his grade he also risks having to exchange the
sort of work he likes for some other less to his taste. The results of each
regrading, giving the standing of every man in his industry, are gazetted in the
public prints, and those who have won promotion since the last regrading receive
the nation's thanks and are publicly invested with the badge of their new rank.«
    »What may this badge be?« I asked.
    »Every industry has its emblematic device,« replied Dr. Leete, »and this, in
the shape of a metallic badge so small that you might not see it unless you knew
where to look, is all the insignia which the men of the army wear, except where
public convenience demands a distinctive uniform. This badge is the same in form
for all grades of industry, but while the badge of the third grade is iron, that
of the second grade, is silver, and that of the first is gilt.
    Apart from the grand incentive to endeavour afforded by the fact that the
high places in the nation are open only to the highest class men, and that rank
in the army constitutes the only mode of social distinction for the vast
majority who are not aspirants in art, literature, and the professions, various
incitements of a minor, but perhaps equally effective, sort are provided in the
form of special privileges and immunities in the way of discipline, which the
superior class men enjoy. These, while intended to be as little as possible
invidious to the less successful, have the effect of keeping constantly before
every man's mind the great desirability of attaining the grade next above his
own.
    It is obviously important that not only the good but also the indifferent
and poor workmen should be able to cherish the ambition of rising. Indeed, the
number of the latter being so much greater, it is even more essential that the
ranking system should not operate to discourage them than that it should
stimulate the others. It is to this end that the grades are divided into
classes. The grades as well as the classes being made numerically equal at each
regrading, there is not at any time, counting out the officers and the
unclassified and apprentice grades, over one-ninth of the industrial army in the
lowest class, and most of this number are recent apprentices, all of whom expect
to rise. Those who remain during the entire term of service in the lowest class
are but a trifling fraction of the industrial army, and likely to be as
deficient in sensibility to their position as in ability to better it.
    It is not even necessary that a worker should win promotion to a higher
grade to have at least a taste of glory. While promotion requires a general
excellence of record as a worker, honourable mention and various sorts of prizes
are awarded for excellence less than sufficient for promotion, and also for
special feats and single performances in the various industries. There are many
minor distinctions of standing, not only within the grades but within the
classes, each of which acts as a spur to the efforts of a group. It is intended
that no form of merit shall wholly fail of recognition.
    As for actual neglect of work, positively bad work, or other overt
remissness on the part of men incapable of generous motives, the discipline of
the industrial army is far too strict to allow anything whatever of the sort. A
man able to do duty, and persistently refusing, is sentenced to solitary
imprisonment on bread and water till he consents.
    The lowest grade of the officers of the industrial army, that of assistant
foremen or lieutenants, is appointed out of men who have held their place for
two years in the first class of the first grade. Where this leaves too large a
range of choice, only the first group of this class are eligible. No one thus
comes to the point of commanding men until he is about thirty years old. After a
man becomes an officer, his rating of course no longer depends on the efficiency
of his own work, but on that of his men. The foremen are appointed from among
the assistant foremen, by the same exercise of discretion limited to a small
eligible class. In the appointments to the still higher grades another principle
is introduced, which it would take too much time to explain now.
    Of course such a system of grading as I have described would have been
impracticable applied to the small industrial concerns of your day, in some of
which there were hardly enough employees to have left one apiece for the
classes. You must remember that, under the national organization of labour, all
industries are carried on by great bodies of men, many of your farms or shops
being combined as one. It is also owing solely to the vast scale on which each
industry is organized, with coördinate establishments in every part of the
country, that we are able by exchanges and transfers to fit every man so nearly
with the sort of work he can do best.
    And now, Mr. West, I will leave it to you, on the bare outline of its
features which I have given, if those who need special incentives to do their
best are likely to lack them under our system. Does it not seem to you that men
who found themselves obliged, whether they wished or not, to work, would under
such a system be strongly impelled to do their best?«
    I replied that it seemed to me the incentives offered were, if any objection
were to be made, too strong; that the pace set for the young men was too hot;
and such, indeed, I would add with deference, still remains my opinion, now that
by longer residence among you I have become better acquainted with the whole
subject.
    Dr. Leete, however, desired me to reflect, and I am ready to say that it is
perhaps a sufficient reply to my objection, that the worker's livelihood is in
no way dependent on his ranking, and anxiety for that never embitters his
disappointments; that the working hours are short, the vacations regular, and
that all emulation ceases at forty-five, with the attainment of middle life.
    »There are two or three other points I ought to refer to,« he added, »to
prevent your getting mistaken impressions. In the first place, you must
understand that this system of preferment given the more efficient workers over
the less so, in no way contravenes the fundamental idea of our social system,
that all who do their best are equally deserving, whether that best be great or
small. I have shown that the system is arranged to encourage the weaker as well
as the stronger with the hope of rising, while the fact that the stronger are
selected for the leaders is in no way a reflection upon the weaker, but in the
interest of the common weal.
    Do not imagine, either, because emulation is given free play as an incentive
under our system, that we deem it a motive likely to appeal to the nobler sort
of men, or worthy of them. Such as these find their motives within, not without,
and measure their duty by their own endowments, not by those of others. So long
as their achievement is proportioned to their powers, they would consider it
preposterous to expect praise or blame because it chanced to be great or small.
To such natures emulation appears philosophically absurd, and despicable in a
moral aspect by its substitution of envy for admiration, and exultation for
regret, in one's attitude toward the successes and the failures of others.
    But all men, even in the last year of the twentieth century, are not of this
high order, and the incentives to endeavour requisite for those who are not must
be of a sort adapted to their inferior natures. For these, then, emulation of
the keenest edge is provided as a constant spur. Those who need this motive will
feel it. Those who are above its influence do not need it.
    I should not fail to mention,« resumed the doctor, »that for those too
deficient in mental or bodily strength to be fairly graded with the main body of
workers, we have a separate grade, unconnected with the others, - a sort of
invalid corps, the members of which are provided with a light class of tasks
fitted to their strength. All our sick in mind and body, all our deaf and dumb,
and lame and blind and crippled, and even our insane, belong to this invalid
corps, and bear its insignia. The strongest often do nearly a man's work, the
feeblest, of course, nothing; but none who can do anything are willing quite to
give up. In their lucid intervals, even our insane are eager to do what they
can.«
    »That is a pretty idea of the invalid corps,« I said. »Even a barbarian from
the nineteenth century can appreciate that. It is a very graceful way of
disguising charity, and must be grateful to the feelings of its recipients.«
    »Charity!« repeated Dr. Leete. »Did you suppose that we consider the
incapable class we are talking of objects of charity?«
    »Why, naturally,« I said, »inasmuch as they are incapable of self-support.«
    But here the doctor took me up quickly.
    »Who is capable of self-support?« he demanded. »There is no such thing in a
civilized society as self-support. In a state of society so barbarous as not
even to know family coöperation, each individual may possibly support himself,
though even then for a part of his life only; but from the moment that men begin
to live together, and constitute even the rudest sort of society, self-support
becomes impossible. As men grow more civilized, and the subdivision of
occupations and services is carried out, a complex mutual dependence becomes the
universal rule. Every man, however solitary may seem his occupation, is a member
of a vast industrial partnership, as large as the nation, as large as humanity.
The necessity of mutual dependence should imply the duty and guarantee of mutual
support; and that it did not in your day constituted the essential cruelty and
unreason of your system.«
    »That may all be so,« I replied, »but it does not touch the case of those
who are unable to contribute anything to the product of industry.«
    »Surely I told you this morning, at least I thought I did,« replied Dr.
Leete, »that the right of a man to maintenance at the nation's table depends on
the fact that he is a man, and not on the amount of health and strength he may
have, so long as he does his best.«
    »You said so,« I answered, »but I supposed the rule applied only to the
workers of different ability. Does it also hold of those who can do nothing at
all?«
    »Are they not also men?«
    »I am to understand, then, that the lame, the blind, the sick, and the
impotent, are as well off as the most efficient, and have the same income?«
    »Certainly,« was the reply.
    »The idea of charity on such a scale,« I answered, »would have made our most
enthusiastic philanthropists gasp.«
    »If you had a sick brother at home,« replied Dr. Leete, »unable to work,
would you feed him on less dainty food, and lodge and clothe him more poorly,
than yourself? More likely far, you would give him the preference; nor would you
think of calling it charity. Would not the word, in that connection, fill you
with indignation?«
    »Of course,« I replied; »but the cases are not parallel. There is a sense,
no doubt, in which all men are brothers; but this general sort of brotherhood is
not to be compared, except for rhetorical purposes, to the brotherhood of blood,
either as to its sentiment or its obligations.«
    »There speaks the nineteenth century!« exclaimed Dr. Leete. »Ah, Mr. West,
there is no doubt as to the length of time that you slept. If I were to give
you, in one sentence, a key to what may seem the mysteries of our civilization
as compared with that of your age, I should say that it is the fact that the
solidarity of the race and the brotherhood of man, which to you were but fine
phrases, are, to our thinking and feeling, ties as real and as vital as physical
fraternity.
    But even setting that consideration aside, I do not see why it so surprises
you that those who cannot work are conceded the full right to live on the
produce of those who can. Even in your day, the duty of military service for the
protection of the nation, to which our industrial service corresponds, while
obligatory on those able to discharge it, did not operate to deprive of the
privileges of citizenship those who were unable. They stayed at home, and were
protected by those who fought, and nobody questioned their right to be, or
thought less of them. So, now, the requirement of industrial service from those
able to render it does not operate to deprive of the privileges of citizenship,
which now implies the citizen's maintenance, him who cannot work. The worker is
not a citizen because he works, but works because he is a citizen. As you
recognize the duty of the strong to fight for the weak, we, now that fighting is
gone by, recognize his duty to work for him.
    A solution which leaves an unaccounted-for residuum is no solution at all;
and our solution of the problem of human society would have been none at all had
it left the lame, the sick, and the blind outside with the beasts, to fare as
they might. Better far have left the strong and well unprovided for than these
burdened ones, toward whom every heart must yearn, and for whom ease of mind and
body should be provided, if for no others. Therefore it is, as I told you this
morning, that the title of every man, woman, and child to the means of existence
rests on no basis less plain, broad, and simple than the fact that they are
fellows of one race - members of one human family. The only coin current is the
image of God, and that is good for all we have.
    I think there is no feature of the civilization of your epoch so repugnant
to modern ideas as the neglect with which you treated your dependent classes.
Even if you had no pity, no feeling of brotherhood, how was it that you did not
see that you were robbing the incapable class of their plain right in leaving
them unprovided for?«
    »I don't quite follow you there,« I said. »I admit the claim of this class
to our pity, but how could they who produced nothing claim a share of the
product as a right?«
    »How happened it,« was Dr. Leete's reply, »that your workers were able to
produce more than so many savages would have done? Was it not wholly on account
of their heritage of the past knowledge and achievements of the race, the
machinery of society, thousands of years in contriving, found by you ready-made
to your hand? How did you come to be possessors of this knowledge and this
machinery, which represent nine parts to one contributed by yourself in the
value of your product? You inherited it, did you not? And were not these others,
these unfortunate and crippled brothers whom you cast out, joint inheritors,
co-heirs with you? What did you do with their share? Did you not rob them when
you put them off with crusts, who were entitled to sit with the heirs, and did
you not add insult to robbery when you called the crusts charity?
    Ah, Mr. West,« Dr. Leete continued, as I did not respond, »what I do not
understand is, setting aside all considerations either of justice or brotherly
feeling toward the crippled and defective, how the workers of your day could
have had any heart for their work, knowing that their children, or
grand-children, if unfortunate, would be deprived of the comforts and even
necessities of life. It is a mystery how men with children could favour a system
under which they were rewarded beyond those less endowed with bodily strength or
mental power. For, by the same discrimination by which the father profited, the
son, for whom he would give his life, being perchance weaker than others, might
be reduced to crusts and beggary. How men dared leave children behind them, I
have never been able to understand.«
 
NOTE. - Although in his talk on the previous evening Dr. Leete had emphasized
the pains taken to enable every man to ascertain and follow his natural bent in
choosing an occupation, it was not till I learned that the worker's income is
the same in all occupations that I realized how absolutely he may be counted on
to do so, and thus, by selecting the harness which sets most lightly on himself,
find that in which he can pull best. The failure of my age in any systematic or
effective way to develop and utilize the natural aptitudes of men for the
industries and intellectual avocations was one of the great wastes, as well as
one of the most common causes of unhappiness in that time. The vast majority of
my contemporaries, though nominally free to do so, never really chose their
occupations at all, but were forced by circumstances into work for which they
were relatively inefficient, because not naturally fitted for it. The rich, in
this respect, had little advantage over the poor. The latter, indeed, being
generally deprived of education, had no opportunity even to ascertain the
natural aptitudes they might have, and on account of their poverty were unable
to develop them by cultivation even when ascertained. The liberal and technical
professions, except by favourable accident, were shut to them, to their own great
loss and that of the nation. On the other hand, the well-to-do, although they
could command education and opportunity, were scarcely less hampered by social
prejudice, which forbade them to pursue manual avocations, even when adapted to
them, and destined them, whether fit or unfit, to the professions, thus wasting
many an excellent handicraftsman. Mercenary considerations, tempting men to
pursue money-making occupations for which they were unfit, instead of less
remunerative employments for which they were fit, were responsible for another
vast perversion of talent. All these things now are changed. Equal education and
opportunity must needs bring to light whatever aptitudes a man has, and neither
social prejudices nor mercenary considerations hamper him in the choice of his
life work.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

As Edith had promised he should do, Dr. Leete accompanied me to my bedroom when
I retired, to instruct me as to the adjustment of the musical telephone. He
showed how, by turning a screw, the volume of the music could be made to fill
the room, or die away to an echo so faint and far that one could scarcely be
sure whether he heard or imagined it. If, of two persons side by side, one
desired to listen to music and the other to sleep, it could be made audible to
one and inaudible to another.
    »I should strongly advise you to sleep if you can to night, Mr. West, in
preference to listening to the finest tunes in the world,« the doctor said,
after explaining these points. »In the trying experience you are just now
passing through, sleep is a nerve tonic for which there is no substitute.«
    Mindful of what had happened to me that very morning, I promised to heed his
counsel.
    »Very well,« he said, »then I will set the telephone at eight o'clock.«
    »What do you mean?« I asked.
    He explained that, by a clock-work combination, a person could arrange to be
awakened at any hour by the music.
    It began to appear, as has since fully proved to be the case, that I had
left my tendency to insomnia behind me with the other discomforts of existence
in the nineteenth century; for though I took no sleeping draught this time, yet,
as the night before, I had no sooner touched the pillow than I was asleep.
    I dreamed that I sat on the throne of the Abencerrages in the banqueting
hall of the Alhambra, feasting my lords and generals, who next day were to
follow the crescent against the Christian dogs of Spain. The air, cooled by the
spray of fountains, was heavy with the scent of flowers. A band of Nautch girls,
round-limbed and luscious-lipped, danced with voluptuous grace to the music of
brazen and stringed instruments. Looking up to the latticed galleries, one
caught a gleam now and then from the eye of some beauty of the royal harem,
looking down upon the assembled flower of Moorish chivalry. Louder and louder
clashed the cymbals, wilder and wilder grew the strain, till the blood of the
desert race could no longer resist the martial delirium, and the swart nobles
leaped to their feet; a thousand scimetars were bared, and the cry, »Allah il
Allah!« shook the hall and awoke me, to find it broad daylight, and the room
tingling with the electric music of the »Turkish Reveille.«
    At the breakfast-table, when I told my host of my morning's experience, I
learned that it was not a mere chance that the piece of music which awakened me
was a reveille. The airs played at one of the halls during the waking hours of
the morning were always of an inspiring type.
    »By the way,« I said, »I have not thought to ask you anything about the
state of Europe. Have the societies of the Old World also been remodeled?«
    »Yes,« replied Dr. Leete, »the great nations of Europe as well as Australia,
Mexico, and parts of South America, are now organized industrially like the
United States, which was the pioneer of the evolution. The peaceful relations of
these nations are assured by a loose form of federal union of world-wide extent.
An international council regulates the mutual intercourse and commerce of the
members of the union and their joint policy toward the more backward races,
which are gradually being educated up to civilized institutions. Complete
autonomy within its own limits is enjoyed by every nation.«
    »How do you carry on commerce without money?« I said. »In trading with other
nations, you must use some sort of money, although you dispense with it in the
internal affairs of the nation.«
    »Oh, no; money is as superfluous in our foreign as in our internal
relations. When foreign commerce was conducted by private enterprise, money was
necessary to adjust it on account of the multifarious complexity of the
transactions; but nowadays it is a function of the nations as units. There are
thus only a dozen or so merchants in the world, and their business being
supervised by the international council, a simple system of book accounts serves
perfectly to regulate their dealings. Customs duties of every sort are of course
superfluous. A nation simply does not import what its government does not think
requisite for the general interest. Each nation has a bureau of foreign
exchange, which manages its trading. For example, the American bureau,
estimating such and such quantities of French goods necessary to America for a
given year, sends the order to the French bureau, which in turn sends its order
to our bureau. The same is done mutually by all the nations.«
    »But how are the prices of foreign goods settled, since there is no
competition?«
    »The price at which one nation supplies another with goods,« replied Dr.
Leete, »must be that at which it supplies its own citizens. So you see there is
no danger of misunderstanding. Of course no nation is theoretically bound to
supply another with the product of its own labour, but it is for the interest of
all to exchange some commodities. If a nation is regularly supplying another
with certain goods, notice is required from either side of any important change
in the relation.«
    »But what if a nation, having a monopoly of some natural product, should
refuse to supply it to the others, or to one of them?«
    »Such a case has never occurred, and could not without doing the refusing
party vastly more harm than the others,« replied Dr. Leete. »In the first place,
no favoritism could be legally shown. The law requires that each nation shall
deal with the others, in all respects, on exactly the same footing. Such a
course as you suggest would cut off the nation adopting it from the remainder of
the earth for all purposes whatever. The contingency is one that need not give
us much anxiety.«
    »But,« said I, »supposing a nation, having a natural monopoly in some
product of which it exports more than it consumes, should put the price away up,
and thus, without cutting off the supply, make a profit out of its neighbours'
necessities? Its own citizens would of course have to pay the higher price on
that commodity, but as a body would make more out of foreigners than they would
be out of pocket themselves.«
    »When you come to know how prices of all commodities are determined
nowadays, you will perceive how impossible it is that they could be altered,
except with reference to the amount or arduousness of the work required
respectively to produce them,« was Dr. Leete's reply. »This principle is an
international as well as a national guarantee; but even without it the sense of
community of interest, international as well as national, and the conviction of
the folly of selfishness, are too deep nowadays to render possible such a piece
of sharp practice as you apprehend. You must understand that we all look forward
to an eventual unification of the world as one nation. That, no doubt, will be
the ultimate form of society, and will realize certain economic advantages over
the present federal system of autonomous nations. Meanwhile, however, the
present system works so nearly perfectly that we are quite content to leave to
posterity the completion of the scheme. There are, indeed, some who hold that it
never will be completed, on the ground that the federal plan is not merely a
provisional solution of the problem of human society, but the best ultimate
solution.«
    »How do you manage,« I asked, »when the books of any two nations do not
balance? Supposing we import more from France than we export to her.«
    »At the end of each year,« replied the doctor, »the books of every nation
are examined. If France is found in our debt, probably we are in the debt of
some nation which owes France, and so on with all the nations. The balances that
remain after the accounts have been cleared by the international council should
not be large under our system. Whatever they may be, the council requires them
to be settled every few years, and may require their settlement at any time if
they are getting too large; for it is not intended that any nation shall run
largely in debt to another, lest feelings unfavourable to amity should be
engendered. To guard further against this, the international council inspects
the commodities interchanged by the nations, to see that they are of perfect
quality.«
    »But what are the balances finally settled with, seeing that you have no
money?«
    »In national staples; a basis of agreement as to what staples shall be
accepted, and in what proportions, for settlement of accounts, being a
preliminary to trade relations.«
    »Emigration is another point I want to ask you about,« said I. »With every
nation organized as a close industrial partnership, monopolizing all means of
production in the country, the emigrant, even if he were permitted to land,
would starve. I suppose there is no emigration nowadays.«
    »On the contrary, there is constant emigration, by which I suppose you mean
removal to foreign countries for permanent residence,« replied Dr. Leete. »It is
arranged on a simple international arrangement of indemnities. For example, if a
man at twenty-one emigrates from England to America, England loses all the
expense of his maintenance and education, and America gets a workman for
nothing. America accordingly makes England an allowance. The same principle,
varied to suit the case, applies generally. If the man is near the term of his
labour when he emigrates, the country receiving him has the allowance. As to
imbecile persons, it is deemed best that each nation should be responsible for
its own, and the emigration of such must be under full guarantees of support by
his own nation. Subject to these regulations, the right of any man to emigrate
at any time is unrestricted.«
    »But how about mere pleasure trips; tours of observation? How can a stranger
travel in a country whose people do not receive money, and are themselves
supplied with the means of life on a basis not extended to him? His own credit
card cannot, of course, be good in other lands. How does he pay his way?«
    »An American credit card,« replied Dr. Leete, »is just as good in Europe as
American gold used to be, and on precisely the same condition, namely, that it
be exchanged into the currency of the country you are travelling in. An American
in Berlin takes his credit card to the local office of the international
council, and receives in exchange for the whole or part of it a German credit
card, the amount being charged against the United States in favour of Germany on
the international account.«
 
»Perhaps Mr. West would like to dine at the Elephant to-day,« said Edith, as we
left the table.
    »That is the name we give to the general dining-house of our ward,«
explained her father. »Not only is our cooking done at the public kitchens, as I
told you last night, but the service and quality of the meals are much more
satisfactory if taken at the dining-house. The two minor meals of the day are
usually taken at home, as not worth the trouble of going out; but it is general
to go out to dine. We have not done so since you have been with us, from a
notion that it would be better to wait till you had become a little more
familiar with our ways. What do you think? Shall we take dinner at the
dining-house to-day?«
    I said that I should be very much pleased to do so.
    Not long after, Edith came to me, smiling, and said: -
    »Last night, as I was thinking what I could do to make you feel at home
until you came to be a little more used to us and our ways, an idea occurred to
me. What would you say if I were to introduce you to some very nice people of
your own times, whom I am sure you used to be well acquainted with?«
    I replied, rather vaguely, that it would certainly be very agreeable, but I
did not see how she was going to manage it.
    »Come with me,« was her smiling reply, »and see if I am not as good as my
word.«
    My susceptibility to surprise had been pretty well exhausted by the numerous
shocks it had received, but it was with some wonderment that I followed her into
a room which I had not before entered. It was a small, cosy apartment, walled
with cases filled with books.
    »Here are your friends,« said Edith, indicating one of the cases, and as my
eye glanced over the names on the backs of the volumes, Shakespeare, Milton,
Wordsworth, Shelley, Tennyson, Defoe, Dickens, Thackeray, Hugo, Hawthorne,
Irving, and a score of other great writers of my time and all time, I understood
her meaning. She had indeed made good her promise in a sense compared with which
its literal fulfillment would have been a disappointment. She had introduced me
to a circle of friends whom the century that had elapsed since last I communed
with them had aged as little as it had myself. Their spirit was as high, their
wit as keen, their laughter and their tears as contagious, as when their speech
had whiled away the hours of a former century. Lonely I was not and could not be
more, with this goodly companionship, however wide the gulf of years that gaped
between me and my old life.
    »You are glad I brought you here,« exclaimed Edith, radiant, as she read in
my face the success of her experiment. »It was a good idea, was it not, Mr.
West? How stupid in me not to think of it before! I will leave you now with your
old friends, for I know there will be no company for you like them just now; but
remember you must not let old friends make you quite forget new ones!« and with
that smiling caution she left me.
    Attracted by the most familiar of the names before me, I laid my hand on a
volume of Dickens, and sat down to read. He had been my prime favourite among the
book-writers of the century, - I mean the nineteenth century, - and a week had
rarely passed in my old life during which I had not taken up some volume of his
works to while away an idle hour. Any volume with which I had been familiar
would have produced an extraordinary impression, read under my present
circumstances, but my exceptional familiarity with Dickens, and his consequent
power to call up the associations of my former life, gave to his writings an
effect no others could have had, to intensify, by force of contrast, my
appreciation of the strangeness of my present environment. However new and
astonishing one's surroundings, the tendency is to become a part of them so soon
that almost from the first the power to see them objectively and fully measure
their strangeness, is lost. That power, already dulled in my case, the pages of
Dickens restored by carrying me back through their associations to the
standpoint of my former life. With a clearness which I had not been able before
to attain, I saw now the past and present, like contrasting pictures, side by
side.
    The genius of the great novelist of the nineteenth century, like that of
Homer, might indeed defy time; but the setting of his pathetic tales, the misery
of the poor, the wrongs of power, the pitiless cruelty of the system of society,
had passed away as utterly as Circe and the sirens, Charybdis and Cyclops.
    During the hour or two that I sat there with Dickens open before me, I did
not actually read more than a couple of pages. Every paragraph, every phrase,
brought up some new aspect of the world-transformation which had taken place,
and led my thoughts on long and widely ramifying excursions. As meditating thus
in Dr. Leete's library I gradually attained a more clear and coherent idea of
the prodigious spectacle which I had been so strangely enabled to view, I was
filled with a deepening wonder at the seeming capriciousness of the fate that
had given to one who so little deserved it, or seemed in any way set apart for
it, the power alone among his contemporaries to stand upon the earth in this
latter day. I had neither foreseen the new world nor toiled for it, as many
about me had done regardless of the scorn of fools or the misconstruction of the
good. Surely it would have been more in accordance with the fitness of things
had one of those prophetic and strenuous souls been enabled to see the travail
of his soul and be satisfied; he, for example, a thousand times rather than I,
who, having beheld in a vision the world I looked on, sang of it in words that
again and again, during these last wondrous days, had rung in my mind: -
 
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;
 
Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled
In the Parliament of man, the federation of the world.
 
Then the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.
 
For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.
 
What though, in his old age, he momentarily lost faith in his own prediction, as
prophets in their hours of depression and doubt generally do; the words had
remained eternal testimony to the seership of a poet's heart, the insight that
is given to faith.
    I was still in the library when some hours later Dr. Leete sought me there.
»Edith told me of her idea,« he said, »and I thought it an excellent one. I had
a little curiosity what writer yon would first turn to. Ah, Dickens! You admired
him, then! That is where we moderns agree with you. Judged by our standards, he
overtops all the writers of his age, not because his literary genius was
highest, but because his great heart beat for the poor, because he made the
cause of the victims of society his own, and devoted his pen to exposing its
cruelties and shams. No man of his time did so much as he to turn men's minds to
the wrong and wretchedness of the old order of things, and open their eyes to
the necessity of the great change that was coming, although he himself did not
clearly foresee it.«
 

                                  Chapter XIV

A heavy rainstorm came up during the day, and I had concluded that the condition
of the streets would be such that my hosts would have to give up the idea of
going out to dinner, although the dining-hall I had understood to be quite near.
I was much surprised when at the dinner hour the ladies appeared prepared to go
out, but without either rubbers or umbrellas.
    The mystery was explained when we found ourselves on the street, for a
continuous waterproof covering had been let down so as to enclose the sidewalk
and turn it into a well lighted and perfectly dry corridor, which was filled
with a stream of ladies and gentlemen dressed for dinner. At the corners the
entire open space was similarly roofed in. Edith Leete, with whom I walked,
seemed much interested in learning what appeared to be entirely new to her, that
in the stormy weather the streets of the Boston of my day had been impassable,
except to persons protected by umbrellas, boots, and heavy clothing. »Were
sidewalk coverings not used at all?« she asked. They were used, I explained, but
in a scattered and utterly unsystematic way, being private enterprises. She said
to me that at the present time all the streets were provided against inclement
weather in the manner I saw, the apparatus being rolled out of the way when it
was unnecessary. She intimated that it would be considered an extraordinary
imbecility to permit the weather to have any effect on the social movements of
the people.
    Dr. Leete, who was walking ahead, overhearing something of our talk, turned
to say that the difference between the age of individualism and that of concert
was well characterized by the fact that, in the nineteenth century, when it
rained, the people of Boston put up three hundred thousand umbrellas over as
many heads, and in the twentieth century they put up one umbrella over all the
heads.
    As we walked on, Edith said, »The private umbrella is father's favourite
figure to illustrate the old way when everybody lived for himself and his
family. There is a nineteenth century painting at the Art Gallery representing a
crowd of people in the rain, each one holding his umbrella over himself and his
wife, and giving his neighbours the drippings, which he claims must have been
meant by the artist as a satire on his times.«
    We now entered a large building into which a stream of people was pouring. I
could not see the front, owing to the awning, but, if in correspondence with the
interior, which was even finer than the store I visited the day before, it would
have been magnificent. My companion said that at the sculptured group over the
entrance was especially admired. Going up a grand staircase we walked some
distance along a broad corridor with many doors opening upon it. At one of
these, which bore my host's name, we turned in, and I found myself in an elegant
dining-room containing a table for four. Windows opened on a courtyard where a
fountain played to a great height and music made the air electric.
    »You seem at home here,« I said, as we seated ourselves at table, and Dr.
Leete touched an annunciator.
    »This is, in fact, a part of our house, slightly detached from the rest,« he
replied. »Every family in the ward has a room set apart in this great building
for its permanent and exclusive use for a small annual rental. For transient
guests and individuals there is accommodation on another floor. If we expect to
dine here, we put in our orders the night before, selecting anything in market,
according to the daily reports in the papers. The meal is as expensive or as
simple as we please, though of course everything is vastly cheaper as well as
better than it would be if prepared at home. There is actually nothing which our
people take more interest in than the perfection of the catering and cooking
done for them, and I admit that we are a little vain of the success that has
been attained by this branch of the service. Ah, my dear Mr. West, though other
aspects of your civilization were more tragical, I can imagine that none could
have been more depressing than the poor dinners you had to eat, that is, all of
you who had not great wealth.«
    »You would have found none of us disposed to disagree with you on that
point,« I said.
    The waiter, a fine-looking young fellow, wearing a slightly distinctive
uniform, now made his appearance. I observed him closely, as it was the first
time I had been able to study particularly the bearing of one of the enlisted
members of the industrial army. This young man, I knew from what I had been
told, must be highly educated, and the equal, socially and in all respects, of
those he served. But it was perfectly evident that to neither side was the
situation in the slightest degree embarrassing. Dr. Leete addressed the young
man in a tone devoid, of course, as any gentleman's would be, of
superciliousness, but at the same time not in any way deprecatory, while the
manner of the young man was simply that of a person intent on discharging
correctly the task he was engaged in, equally without familiarity or
obsequiousness. It was, in fact, the manner of a soldier on duty, but without
the military stiffness. As the youth left the room, I said, »I cannot get over
my wonder at seeing a young man like that serving so contentedly in a menial
position.«
    »What is that word menial? I never heard it,« said Edith.
    »It is obsolete now,« remarked her father. »If I understand it rightly, it
applied to persons who performed particularly disagreeable and unpleasant tasks
for others, and carried with it an implication of contempt. Was it not so, Mr.
West?«
    »That is about it,« I said. »Personal service, such as waiting on tables,
was considered menial, and held in such contempt, in my day, that persons of
culture and refinement would suffer hardship before condescending to it.«
    »What a strangely artificial idea,« exclaimed Mrs. Leete, wonderingly.
    »And yet these services had to be rendered,« said Edith.
    »Of course,« I replied. »But we imposed them on the poor, and those who had
no alternative but starvation.«
    »And increased the burden you imposed on them by adding your contempt,«
remarked Dr. Leete.
    »I don't think I clearly understand,« said Edith. »Do you mean that you
permitted people to do things for you which you despised them for doing, or that
you accepted services from them which you would have been unwilling to render
them? You can't surely mean that, Mr. West?«
    I was obliged to tell her that the fact was just as she had stated. Dr.
Leete, however, came to my relief.
    »To understand why Edith is surprised,« he said, »you must know that
nowadays it is an axiom of ethics that to accept a service from another which we
would be unwilling to return in kind, if need were, is like borrowing with the
intention of not repaying, while to enforce such a service by taking advantage
of the poverty or necessity of a person would be an outrage like forcible
robbery. It is the worst thing about any system which divides men, or allows
them to be divided, into classes and castes, that it weakens the sense of a
common humanity. Unequal distribution of wealth, and, still more effectually,
unequal opportunities of education and culture, divided society in your day into
classes which in many respects regarded each other as distinct races. There is
not, after all, such a difference as might appear between our ways of looking at
this question of service. Ladies and gentlemen of the cultured class in your day
would no more have permitted persons of their own class to render them services
they would scorn to return than we would permit anybody to do so. The poor and
the uncultured, however, they looked upon as of another kind from themselves.
The equal wealth and equal opportunities of culture which all persons now enjoy
have simply made us all members of one class, which corresponds to the most
fortunate class with you. Until this equality of condition had come to pass, the
idea of the solidarity of humanity, the brotherhood of all men, could never have
become the real conviction and practical principle of action it is nowadays. In
your day the same phrases were indeed used, but they were phrases merely.«
    »Do the waiters, also, volunteer?«
    »No,« replied Dr. Leete. »The waiters are young men in the unclassified
grade of the industrial army who are assignable to all sorts of miscellaneous
occupations not requiring special skill. Waiting on table is one of these, and
every young recruit is given a taste of it. I myself served as a waiter for
several months in this very dining-house some forty years ago. Once more you
must remember that there is recognized no sort of difference between the dignity
of the different sorts of work required by the nation. The individual is never
regarded, nor regards himself, as the servant of those he serves, nor is he in
any way dependent upon them. It is always the nation which he is serving. No
difference is recognized between a waiter's functions and those of any other
worker. The fact that his is a personal service is indifferent from our point of
view. So is a doctor's. I should as soon expect our waiter to-day to look down
on me because I served him as a doctor, as think of looking down on him because
he serves me as a waiter.«
    After dinner my entertainers conducted me about the building, of which the
extent, the magnificent architecture and richness of embellishment, astonished
me. It seemed that it was not merely a dining-hall, but likewise a great
pleasure-house and social rendezvous of the quarter, and no appliance of
entertainment or recreation seemed lacking.
    »You find illustrated here,« said Dr. Leete, when I had expressed my
admiration, »what I said to you in our first conversation, when you were looking
out over the city, as to the splendour of our public and common life as compared
with the simplicity of our private and home life, and the contrast which, in
this respect, the twentieth bears to the nineteenth century. To save ourselves
useless burdens, we have as little gear about us at home as is consistent with
comfort, but the social side of our life is ornate and luxurious beyond anything
the world ever knew before. All the industrial and professional guilds have
club-houses as extensive as this, as well as country, mountain, and seaside
houses for sport and rest in vacations.«
 
NOTE. In the latter part of the nineteenth century it became a practice of needy
young men at some of the colleges of the country to earn a little money for
their term bills by serving as waiters on tables at hotels during the long
summer vacation. It was claimed, in reply to critics who expressed the
prejudices of the time in asserting that persons voluntarily following such an
occupation could not be gentlemen, that they were entitled to praise for
vindicating, by their example, the dignity of all honest and necessary labour.
The use of this argument illustrates a common confusion in thought on the part
of my former contemporaries. The business of waiting on tables was in no more
need of defence than most of the other ways of getting a living in that day, but
to talk of dignity attaching to labour of any sort under the system then
prevailing was absurd. There is no way in which selling labour for the highest
price it will fetch is more dignified than selling goods for what can be got.
Both were commercial transactions to be judged by the commercial standard. By
setting a price in money on his service, the worker accepted the money measure
for it, and renounced all clear claim to be judged by any other. The sordid
taint which this necessity imparted to the noblest and the highest sorts of
service was bitterly resented by generous souls, but there was no evading it.
There was no exemption, however transcendent the quality of one's service, from
the necessity of haggling for its price in the market-place. The physician must
sell his healing and the apostle his preaching like the rest. The prophet, who
had guessed the meaning of God, must dicker for the price of the revelation, and
the poet hawk his visions in printers' row. If I were asked the name the most
distinguishing felicity of this age, as compared to that in which I first saw
the light, I should say that to me it seems to consist in the dignity you have
given to labour by refusing to set a price upon it and abolishing the
market-place forever. By requiring of every man his best you have made God his
task-master, and by making honour the sole reward of achievement you have
imparted to all service the distinction peculiar in my day to the soldier's.
 

                                   Chapter XV

When, in the course of our tour of inspection, we came to the library, we
succumbed to the temptation of the luxurious leather chairs with which it was
furnished, and sat down in one of the book-lined alcoves to rest and chat
awhile.3
    »Edith tells me that you have been in the library all the morning,« said
Mrs. Leete. »Do you know, it seems to me, Mr. West, that you are the most
enviable: of mortals.«
    »I should like to know just why,« I replied.
    »Because the books of the last hundred years will be new to you,« she
answered. »You will have so much of the most absorbing literature to read as to
leave you scarcely time for meals these five years to come. Ah, what would I
give if I had not already read Berrian's novels.«
    »Or Nesmyth's, mamma,« added Edith.
    »Yes, or Oates' poems, or Past and Present, or, In the Beginning, or, - oh,
I could name a dozen books, each worth a year of one's life,« declared Mrs.
Leete, enthusiastically.
    »I judge, then, that there has been some notable literature produced in this
century.«
    »Yes,« said Dr. Leete. »It has been an era of unexampled intellectual
splendour. Probably humanity never before passed through a moral and material
evolution, at once so vast in its scope and brief in its time of accomplishment,
as that from the old order to the new in the early part of this century. When
men came to realize the greatness of the felicity which had befallen them, and
that the change through which they had passed was not merely an improvement in
details of their condition, but the rise of the race to a new plane of existence
with an illimitable vista of progress, their minds were affected in all their
faculties with a stimulus, of which the outburst of the medieval renaissance
offers a suggestion but faint indeed. There ensued an era of mechanical
invention, scientific discovery, art, musical and literary productiveness to
which no previous age of the world offers anything comparable.«
    »By the way,« said I, »talking of literature, how are books published now?
Is that also done by the nation?«
    »Certainly.«
    »But how do you manage it? Does the government publish everything that is
brought it as a matter of course, at the public expense, or does it exercise a
censorship and print only what it approves?«
    »Neither way. The printing department has no censorial powers. It is bound
to print all that is offered it, but prints it only on condition that the author
defray the first cost out of his credit. He must pay for the privilege of the
public ear, and if he has any message worth hearing we consider that he will be
glad to do it. Of course, if incomes were unequal, as in the old times, this
rule would enable only the rich to be authors, but the resources of citizens
being equal, it merely measures the strength of the author's motive. The cost of
an edition of an average book can be saved out of a year's credit by the
practice of economy and some sacrifices. The book, on being published, is placed
on sale by the nation.«
    »The author receiving a royalty on the sales as with us, I suppose,« I
suggested.
    »Not as with you, certainly,« replied Dr. Leete, »but nevertheless in one
way. The price of every book is made up of the cost of its publication with a
royalty for the author. The author fixes this royalty at any figure he pleases.
Of course if he puts it unreasonably high it is his own loss, for the book will
not sell. The amount of this royalty is set to his credit and he is discharged
from other service to the nation for so long a period as this credit at the rate
of allowance for the support of citizens shall suffice to support him. If his
book be moderately successful, he has thus a furlough for several months, a
year, two or three years, and if he in the mean time produces other successful
work, the remission of service is extended so far as the sale of that may
justify. An author of much acceptance succeeds in supporting himself by his pen
during the entire period of service, and the degree of any writer's literary
ability, as determined by the popular voice, is thus the measure of the
opportunity given him to devote his time to literature. In this respect the
outcome of our system is not very dissimilar to that of yours, but there are two
notable differences. In the first place, the universally high level of education
nowadays gives the popular verdict a conclusiveness on the real merit of
literary work which in your day it was as far as possible from having. In the
second place, there is no such thing now as favoritism of any sort to interfere
with the recognition of true merit. Every author has precisely the same
facilities for bringing his work before the popular tribunal. To judge from the
complaints of the writers of your day, this absolute equality of opportunity
would have been greately prized.«
    »In the recognition of merit in other fields of original genius, such as
music, art, invention, design,« I said, »I suppose you follow a similar
principle.«
    »Yes,« he replied, »although the details differ. In art, for example, as in
literature, the people are the sole judges. They vote upon the acceptance of
statues and paintings for the public buildings, and their favourable verdict
carries with it in the artist's remission from other tasks to devote himself to
his vocation. On copies of his work disposed of, he also derives the same
advantages as the author on sales of his books. In all these lines of original
genius the plan pursued is the same, - to offer a free field to aspirants, and
as soon as exceptional talent is recognized to release it from all trammels and
let it have free course. The remission of other service in these cases is not
intended as a gift or reward, but as the means of obtaining more and higher
service. Of course there are various literary, art, and scientific institutes to
which membership comes to the famous and is greatly prized. The highest of all
honours in the nation, higher than the presidency, which calls merely for good
sense and devotion to duty, is the red ribbon awarded by the vote of the people
to the great authors, artists, engineers, physicians, and inventors of the
generation. Not over a certain number wear it at any one time, though every
bright, young fellow in the country loses innumerable nights' sleep dreaming of
it. I even did myself.«
    »Just as if mamma and I would have thought any more of you with it,«
exclaimed Edith; »not that it is n't, of course, a very fine thing to have.«
    »You had no choice, my dear, but to take your father as you found him and
make the best of him,« Dr. Leete replied; »but as for your mother, there, she
would never have had me if I had not assured her that I was bound to get the red
ribbon or at least the blue.«
    On this extravagance Mrs. Leete's only comment was a smile.
    »How about periodicals and newspaper?« I said. »I won't deny that your book
publishing system is a considerable improvement on ours, both as to its tendency
to encourage a real literary vocation, and quite as important, to discourage
mere scribblers; but I don't see how it can be made to apply to magazines and
newspapers. It is very well to make a man pay for publishing a book, because the
expense will be only occasional; but no man could afford the expense of
publishing a newspaper every day in the year. It took the deep pockets of our
private capitalists to do that, and often exhausted even them before the returns
came in. If you have newspapers at all, they must, I fancy, be published by the
government at the public expense, with government editors, reflecting government
opinions. Now, if your system is so perfect that there is never anything to
criticise in the conduct of affairs, this arrangement may answer. Otherwise I
should think the lack of an independent unofficial medium for the expression of
public opinion would have most unfortunate results. Confess, Dr. Leete, that a
free newspaper press, with all that it implies, was a redeeming incident of the
old system when capital was in private hands, and that you have to set off the
loss of that against your gains in other respects.«
    »I am afraid I can't give you even that consolation,« replied Dr. Leete,
laughing. »In the first place, Mr. West, the newspaper press is by no means the
only or, as we look at it, the best vehicle for serious criticism of public
affairs. To us, the judgments of your newspapers on such themes seem generally
to have been crude and flippant, as well as deeply tinctured with prejudice and
bitterness. In so far as they may be taken as expressing public opinion, they
give un unfavourable impression of the popular intelligence, while so far as they
may have formed public opinion, the nation was not to be felicitated. Nowadays,
when a citizen desires to make a serious impression upon the public mind as to
any aspect of public affairs, he comes out with a book or pamphlet, published as
other books are. But this is not because we lack newspapers and magazines, or
that they lack the most absolute freedom. The newspaper press is organised so as
to be a more perfect expression of public opinion than it possibly could be in
your day, when private capital controlled and managed it primarily as a
money-making business, and secondarily only as a mouthpiece for the people.«
    »But,« said I, »if the government prints the papers at the public expense,
how can it fail to control their policy? Who appoints the editors, if not the
government?«
    »The government does not pay the expense of the papers, nor appoint their
editors, nor in any way exert the slightest influence on their policy,« replied
Dr. Leete. »The people who take the paper pay the expense of its publication,
choose its editor, and remove him when unsatisfactory. You will scarcely say, I
think, that such a newspaper press is not a free organ of popular opinion.«
    »Decidedly I shall not,« I replied, »but how is it practicable?«
    »Nothing could be simpler. Supposing some of my neighbours or myself think we
ought to have a newspaper reflecting our opinions, and devoted especially to our
locality, trade, or profession. We go about among the people till we get the
names of such a number that their annual subscriptions will meet the cost of the
paper, which is little or big according to the largeness of its constituency.
The amount of the subscriptions marked off the credits of the citizens
guarantees the nation against loss in publishing the paper, its business, you
understand, being that of a publisher purely, with no option to refuse the duty
required. The subscribers to the paper now elect somebody as editor, who, if he
accepts the office, is discharged from other service during his incumbency.
Instead of paying a salary to him, as in your day, the subscribers pay the
nation an indemnity equal to the cost of his support for taking him away from
the general service. He manages the paper just as one of your editors did,
except that he has no counting-room to obey, or interests of private capital as
against the public good to defend. At the end of the first year, the subscribers
for the next either reëlect the former editor or choose any one else to his
place. An able editor, of course, keeps his place indefinitely. As the
subscription list enlarges, the funds of the paper increase, and it is improved
by the securing of more and better contributors, just as your papers were.«
    »How is the staff of contributors recompensed, since they cannot be paid in
money.«
    »The editor settles with them the price of their wares. The amount is
transferred to their individual credit from the guarantee credit of the paper,
and a remission of service is granted the contributor for a length of time
corresponding to the amount credited him, just as to other authors. As to
magazines, the system is the same. Those interested in the prospectus of a new
periodical pledge enough subscriptions to run it for a year; select their
editor, who recompenses his contributors just as in the other case, the printing
bureau furnishing the necessary force and material for publication, as a matter
of course. When an editor's services are no longer desired, if he cannot earn
the right to his time by other literary work, he simply resumes his place in the
industrial army. I should add that, though ordinarily the editor is elected only
at the end of the year, and as a rule is continued in office for a term of
years, in case of any sudden change he should give to the tone of the paper,
provision is made for taking the sense of the subscribers as to his removal at
any time.«
    »However earnestly a man may long for leisure for purposes of study or
meditation,« I remarked, »he cannot get out of the harness, if I understand you
rightly, except in these two ways you have mentioned. He must either by
literary, artistic, or inventive productiveness indemnify the nation for the
loss of his services, or must get a sufficient number of other people to
contribute to such an indemnity.«
    »It is most certain,« replied Dr. Leete, »that no able-bodied man nowadays
can evade his share of work and live on the toil of others, whether he calls
himself by the fine name of student or confesses to being simply lazy. At the
same time our system is elastic enough to give free play to every instinct of
human nature which does not aim at dominating others or living on the fruit of
others' labour. There is not only the remission by indemnification but the
remission by abnegation. Any man in his thirty-third year, his term of service
being then half done, can obtain an honourable discharge from the army, provided
he accepts for the rest of his life one half the rate of maintenance other
citizens receive. It is quite possible to live on this amount, though one must
forego the luxuries and elegancies of life, with some, perhaps, of its
comforts.«
    When the ladies retired that evening, Edith brought me a book and said: -
    »If you should be wakeful to-night, Mr. West, you might be interested in
looking over this story by Berrian. It is considered his masterpiece, and will
at least give you an idea what the stories nowadays are like.«
    I sat up in my room that night reading »Penthesilia« till it grew gray in
the east, and did not lay it down till I had finished it. And yet let no admirer
of the great romancer of the twentieth century resent my saying that at the
first reading what most impressed me was not so much what was in the book as
what was left out of it. The story-writers of my day would have deemed the
making of bricks without straw a light task compared with the construction of a
romance from which should be excluded all effects drawn from the contrasts of
wealth and poverty, education and ignorance, coarseness and refinement, high and
low, all motives drawn from social pride and ambition, the desire of being
richer or the fear of being poorer, together with sordid anxieties of any sort
for one's self or others; a romance in which there should, indeed, be love
galore, but love unfretted by artificial barriers created by differences of
station or possessions, owning no other law but that of the heart. The reading
of »Penthesilia« was of more value than almost any amount of explanation would
have been in giving me something like a general impression of the social aspect
of the twentieth century. The information Dr. Leete had imparted was indeed
extensive as to facts, but they had affected my mind as so many separate
impressions, which I had as yet succeeded but imperfectly in making cohere.
Berrian put them together for me in a picture.
 

                                  Chapter XVI

Next morning I rose somewhat before the breakfast hour. As I descended the
stairs, Edith stepped into the hall from the room which had been the scene of
the morning interview between us described some chapters back.
    »Ah!« she exclaimed, with a charmingly arch expression, »you thought to slip
out unbeknown for another of those solitary morning rambles which have such nice
effects on you. But you see I am up too early for you this time. You are fairly
caught.«
    »You discredit the efficacy of your own cure,« I said, »by supposing that
such a ramble would now be attended with bad consequences.«
    »I am very glad to hear that,« she said. »I was in here arranging some
flowers for the breakfast table when I heard you come down, and fancied I
detected something surreptitious in your step on the stairs.«
    »You did me injustice,« I replied. »I had no idea of going out at all.«
    Despite her effort to convey an impression that my interception was purely
accidental, I had at the time a dim suspicion of what I afterwards learned to be
the fact, namely, that this sweet creature, in pursuance of her self-assumed
guardianship over me, had risen for the last two or three mornings at an
unheard-of hour, to insure against the possibility of my wandering off alone in
case I should be affected as on the former occasion. Receiving permission to
assist her in making up the breakfast bouquet, I followed her into the room from
which she had emerged.
    »Are you sure,« she asked, »that you are quite done with those terrible
sensations you had that morning?«
    »I can't say that I do not have times of feeling decidedly queer,« I
replied, »moments when my personal identity seems an open question. It would be
too much to expect after my experience that I should not have such sensations
occasionally, but as for being carried entirely off my feet, as I was on the
point of being that morning, I think the danger is past.«
    »I shall never forget how you looked that morning,« she said.
    »If you had merely saved my life,« I continued, »I might, perhaps, find
words to express my gratitude, but it was my reason you saved, and there are no
words that would not belittle my debt to you.« I spoke with emotion, and her
eyes grew suddenly moist.
    »It is too much to believe all this,« she said, »but it is very delightful
to hear you say it. What I did was very little. I was very much distressed for
you, I know. Father never thinks anything ought to astonish us when it can be
explained scientifically, as I suppose this long sleep of yours can be, but even
to fancy myself in your place makes my head swim. I know that I could not have
borne it at all.«
    »That would depend,« I replied, »on whether an angel came to support you
with her sympathy in the crisis of your condition, as one came to me.« If my
face at all expressed the feelings I had a right to have toward this sweet and
lovely young girl, who had played so angelic a rôle toward me its expression
must have been very worshipful just then. The expression or the words, or both
together, caused her now to drop her eyes with a charming blush.
    »For the matter of that,« I said, »if your experience has not been as
startling as mine, it must have been rather overwhelming to see a man belonging
to a strange century, and apparently a hundred years dead, raised to life.«
    »It seemed indeed strange beyond any describing at first,« she said, »but
when we began to put ourselves in your place, and realize how much stranger it
must seem to you, I fancy we forgot our own feelings a good deal, at least I
know I did. It seemed then not so much astounding as interesting and touching
beyond anything ever heard of before.«
    »But does it not come over you as astounding to sit at table with me, seeing
who I am?«
    »You must remember that you do not seem so strange to us as we must to you,«
she answered. »We belong to a future of which you could not form an idea, a
generation of which you knew nothing until you saw us. But you belong to a
generation of which our forefathers were a part. We know all about it; the names
of many of its members are household words with us. We have made a study of your
ways of living and thinking; nothing you say or do surprises us, while we say
and do nothing which does not seem strange to you. So you see, Mr. West, that if
you feel that you can, in time, get accustomed to us, you must not be surprised
that from the first we have scarcely found you strange at all.«
    »I had not thought of it in that way,« I replied. »There is indeed much in
what you say. One can look back a thousand years easier than forward fifty. A
century is not so very long a retrospect. I might have known your
great-grand-parents. Possibly I did. Did they live in Boston?«
    »I believe so.«
    »You are not sure, then?«
    »Yes,« she replied. »Now I think, they did.«
    »I had a very large circle of acquaintances in the city,« I said. »It is not
unlikely that I knew or knew of some of them. Perhaps I may have known them
well. Wouldn't it be interesting if I should chance to be able to tell you all
about your great-grandfather, for instance?«
    »Very interesting.«
    »Do you know your genealogy well enough to tell me who your forbears were in
the Boston of my day?«
    »Oh, yes.«
    »Perhaps, then, you will some time tell me what some of their names were.«
    She was engrossed in arranging a troublesome spray of green, and did not
reply at once. Steps upon the stairway indicated that the other members of the
family were descending.
    »Perhaps, some time,« she said.
    After breakfast, Dr. Leete suggested taking me to inspect the central
werehouse and observe actually in operation the machinery of distribution, which
Edith had described to me. As we walked away from the house I said, »It is now
several days that I have been living in your household on a most extraordinary
footing, or rather on none at all. I have not spoken of this aspect of my
position before because there were so many other aspects yet more extraordinary.
But now that I am beginning a little to feel my feet under me, and to realize
that, however I came here, I am here, and must make the best of it, I must speak
to you on this point.«
    »As for your being a guest in my house,« replied Dr. Leete, »I pray you not
to begin to be uneasy on that point, for I mean to keep you a long time yet.
With all your modesty, you can but realize that such a guest as yourself is an
acquisition not willingly to be parted with.«
    »Thanks, doctor,« I said. »It would be absurd, certainly, for me to affect
any oversensitiveness about accepting the temporary hospitality of one to whom I
owe it that I am not still awaiting the end of the world in a living tomb. But
if I am to be a permanent citizen of this century I must have some standing in
it. Now, in my time a person more or less entering the world, however he got in,
would not be noticed in the unorganized throng of men, and might make a place
for himself anywhere he chose if he were strong enough. But nowadays everybody
is a part of a system with a distinct place and function. I am outside the
system, and don't see how I can get in; there seems no way to get in, except to
be born in or to come in as an emigrant from some other system.«
    Dr. Leete laughed heartily.
    »I admit,« he said, »that our system is defective in lacking provision for
cases like yours, but you see nobody anticipated additions to the world except
by the usual process. You need, however, have no fear that we shall be unable to
provide both a place and occupation for you in due time. You have as yet been
brought in contact only with the members of my family, but you must not suppose
that I have kept your secret. On the contrary, your case, even before your
resuscitation and vastly more since, has excited the profoundest interest in the
nation. In view of your precarious nervous condition, it was thought best that I
should take exclusive charge of you at first, and that you should, through me
and my family, receive some general idea of the sort of world you had come back
to before you began to make the acquaintance generally of its inhabitants. As to
finding a function for you in society, there was no hesitation as to what that
would be. Few of us have it in our power to confer so great a service on the
nation as you will be able to when you leave my roof, which, however, you must
not think of doing for a good time yet.«
    »What can I possibly do?« I asked. »Perhaps you imagine I have some trade,
or art, or special skill. I assure you I have none whatever. I never earned a
dollar in my life, or did an hour's work. I am strong, and might be a common
labourer, but nothing more.«
    »If that were the most efficient service you were able to render the nation,
you would find that avocation considered quite as respectable as any other,«
replied Dr. Leete, »but you can do something else better. You are easily the
master of all our historians on questions relating to the social condition of
the latter part of the nineteenth century, to us one of the most absorbingly
interesting periods of history; and whenever in due time you have sufficiently
familiarized yourself with our institutions, and are willing to teach us
something concerning those of your day, you will find an historical lectureship
in one of our colleges awaiting you.«
    »Very good! very good indeed,« I said, much relieved by so practical a
suggestion on a point which had begun to trouble me. »If your people are really
so much interested in the nineteenth century, there will indeed be an occupation
ready-made for me. I don't think there is anything else that I could possibly
earn my salt at, but I certainly may claim without conceit to have some special
qualifications for such a post as you describe.«
 

                                  Chapter XVII

I found the processes at the warehouse quite as interesting as Edith had
described them, and became even enthusiastic over the truly remarkable
illustration which is seen there of the prodigiously multiplied efficiency which
perfect organization can give to labour. It is like a gigantic mill, into the
hopper of which goods are being constantly poured by the train-load and
shipload, to issue at the other end in packages of pounds and ounces, yards and
inches, pints and gallons, corresponding to the infinitely complex personal
needs of half a million people. Dr. Leete, with the assistance of data furnished
by me as to the way goods were sold in my day, figured out some astounding
results in the way of the economies effected by the modern system.
    As we set out homeward, I said: »After what I have seen to-day, together
with what you have told me, and what I learned under Miss Leete's tutelage at
the sample store, I have a tolerably clear idea of your system of distribution,
and how it enables you to dispense with a circulating medium. But I should like
very much to know something more about your system of production. You have told
me in general how your industrial army is levied and organized, but who directs
its efforts? What supreme authority determines what shall be done in every
department, so that enough of everything is produced and yet no labour wasted? It
seems to me that this must be a wonderfully complex and difficult function,
requiring very unusual endowments.«
    »Does it indeed seem so to you?« responded Dr. Leete. »I assure you that it
is nothing of the kind, but on the other hand so simple, and depending on
principles so obvious and easily applied, that the functionaries at Washington
to whom it is trusted require to be nothing more than men of fair abilities to
discharge it to the entire satisfaction of the nation. The machine which they
direct is indeed a vast one, but so logical in its principles and direct and
simple in its workings, that it all but runs itself; and nobody but a fool could
derange it, as I think you will agree after a few words of explanation. Since
you already have a pretty good idea of the working of the distributive system,
let us begin at that end. Even in your day statisticians were able to tell you
the number of yards of cotton, velvet, woolen, the number of barrels of flour,
potatoes, butter, number of pairs of shoes, hats, and umbrellas annually
consumed by the nation. Owing to the fact that production was in private hands,
and that there was no way of getting statistics of actual distribution, these
figures were not exact, but they were nearly so. Now that every pin which is
given out from a national warehouse is recorded, of course the figures of
consumption for any week, month, or year, in the possession of the department of
distribution at the end of that period, are precise. On these figures, allowing
for tendencies to increase or decrease and for any special causes likely to
affect demand, the estimates, say for a year ahead, are based. These estimates,
with a proper margin for security, having been accepted by the general
administration, the responsibility of the distributive department ceases until
the goods are delivered to it. I speak of the estimates being furnished for an
entire year ahead, but in reality they cover that much time only in case of the
great staples for which the demand can be calculated on as steady. In the great
majority of smaller industries for the product of which popular taste
fluctuates, and novelty is frequently required, production is kept barely ahead
of consumption, the distributive department furnishing frequent estimates based
on the weekly state of demand.
    Now the entire field of productive and constructive industry is divided into
ten great departments, each representing a group of allied industries, each
particular industry being in turn represented by a subordinate bureau, which has
a complete record of the plant and force under its control, of the present
product, and means of increasing it. The estimates of the distributive
department, after adoption by the administration, are sent as mandates to the
ten great departments, which allot them to the subordinate bureaus representing
the particular industries, and these set the men at work. Each bureau is
responsible for the task given it, and this responsibility is enforced by
departmental oversight and that of the administration; nor does the distributive
department accept the product without its own inspection; while even if in the
hands of the consumer an article turns out unfit, the system enables the fault
to be traced back to the original workman. The production of the commodities for
actual public consumption does not, of course, require by any means all the
national force of workers. After the necessary contingents have been detailed
for the various industries, the amount of labour left for other employment is
expended in creating fixed capital, such as buildings, machinery, engineering
works, and so forth.«
    »One point occurs to me,« I said, »on which I should think there might be
dissatisfaction. Where there is no opportunity for private enterprise, how is
there any assurance that the claims of small minorities of the people to have
articles produced, for which there is no wide demand, will be respected? An
official decree at any moment may deprive them of the means of gratifying some
special taste, merely because the majority does not share it.«
    »That would be tyranny indeed,« replied Dr. Leete, »and you may be very sure
that it does not happen with us, to whom liberty is as dear as equality or
fraternity. As you come to know our system better, you will see that our
officials are in fact, and not merely in name, the agents and servants of the
people. The administration has no power to stop the production of any commodity
for which there continues to be a demand. Suppose the demand for any article
declines to such a point that its production becomes very costly. The price has
to be raised in proportion, of course, but as long as the consumer cares to pay
it, the production goes on. Again, suppose an article not before produced is
demanded. If the administration doubts the reality of the demand, a popular
petition guaranteeing a certain basis of consumption compels it to produce the
desired article. A government, or a majority, which should undertake to tell the
people, or a minority, what they were to eat, drink, or wear, as I believe
governments in America did in your day, would be regarded as a curious
anachronism indeed. Possibly you had reasons for tolerating these infringements
of personal independence, but we should not think them endurable. I am glad you
raised this point, for it has given me a chance to show you how much more direct
and efficient is the control over production exercised by the individual citizen
now than it was in your day, when what you called private initiative prevailed,
though it should have been called capitalist initiative, for the average private
citizen had little enough share in it.«
    »You speak of raising the price of costly articles,« I said. »How can prices
be regulated in a country where there is no competition between buyers or
sellers?«
    »Just as they were with you,« replied Dr. Leete. »You think that needs
explaining,« he added, as I looked incredulous, »but the explanation need not be
long; the cost of the labour which produced it was recognized as the legitimate
basis of the price of an article in your day, and so it is in ours. In your day,
it was the difference in wages that made the difference in the cost of labour;
now it is the relative number of hours constituting a day's work in different
trades, the maintenance of the worker being equal in all cases. The cost of a
man's work in a trade so difficult that in order to attract volunteers the hours
have to be fixed at four a day is twice as great as that in a trade where the
men work eight hours. The result as to the cost of labour, you see, is just the
same as if the man working four hours were paid, under your system, twice the
wages the other gets. This calculation applied to the labour employed in the
various processes of a manufactured article gives its price relatively to other
articles. Besides the cost of production and transportation, the factor of
scarcity affects the prices of some commodities. As regards the great staples of
life, of which an abundance can always be secured, scarcity is eliminated as a
factor. There is always a large surplus kept on hand from which any fluctuations
of demand or supply can be corrected, even in most cases of bad crops. The
prices of the staples grow less year by year, but rarely, if ever, rise. There
are, however, certain classes of articles permanently, and others temporarily,
unequal to the demand, as, for example, fresh fish or dairy products in the
latter category, and the products of high skill and rare materials in the other.
All that can be done here is to equalize the inconvenience of the scarcity. This
is done by temporarily raising the price if the scarcity be temporary, or fixing
it high if it be permanent. High prices in your day meant restriction of the
articles affected to the rich, but nowadays, when the means of all are the same,
the effect is only that those to whom the articles seem most desirable are the
ones who purchase them. Of course the nation, as any other caterer for the
public needs must be, is frequently left with small lots of goods on its hands
by changes in taste, unseasonable weather, and various other causes. These it
has to dispose of at a sacrifice just as merchants often did in your day,
charging up the loss to the expenses of the business. Owing, however, to the
vast body of consumers to which such lots can be simultaneously offered, there
is rarely any difficulty in getting rid of them at trifling loss. I have given
you now some general notion of our system of production, as well as
distribution. Do you find it as complex as you expected?«
    I admitted that nothing could be much simpler.
    »I am sure,« said Dr. Leete, »that it is within the truth to say that the
head of one of the myriad private businesses of your day, who had to maintain
sleepless vigilance against the fluctuations of the market, the machinations of
his rivals, and the failure of his debtors, had a far more trying task than the
group of men at Washington who nowadays direct the industries of the entire
nation. All this merely shows, my dear fellow, how much easier it is to do
things the right way than the wrong. It is easier for a general up in a balloon,
with perfect survey of the field, to manoeuvre a million men to victory than for
a sergeant to manage a platoon in a thicket.«
    »The general of this army, including the flower of the manhood of the
nation, must be the foremost man in the country, really greater even than the
President of the United States,« I said.
    »He is the President of the United States,« replied Dr. Leete, »or rather
the most important function of the presidency is the headship of the industrial
army.«
    »How is he chosen?« I asked.
    »I explained to you before,« replied Dr. Leete, »when I was describing the
force of the motive of emulation among all grades of the industrial army, that
the line of promotion for the meritorious lies through three grades to the
officer's grade, and thence up through the lieutenancies to the captaincy or
foremanship, and superintendency or colonel's rank. Next, with an intervening
grade in some of the larger trades, come the general of the guild, under whose
immediate control all the operations of the trade are conducted. This officer is
at the head of the national bureau representing his trade, and is responsible
for its work to the administration. The general of his guild holds a splendid
position, and one which amply satisfies the ambition of most men, but above his
rank, which may be compared - to follow the military analogies familiar to you -
to that of a general of division or major-general, is that of the chiefs of the
ten great department, or groups of allied traces. The chiefs of these ten grand
divisions of the industrial army may be compared to your commanders of army
corps, or lieutenant-generals, each having from a dozen to a score of generals
of separate guilds reporting to him. Above these ten great officers, who form
his council, is the general-in-chief, who is the President of the United States.
    The general-in-chief of the industrial army must have passed through all the
grades below him, from the common labourers up. Let us see how he rises. As I
have told you, it is simply by the excellence of his record as a worker that one
rises through the grades of the privates and becomes a candidate for a
lieutenancy. Through the lieutenancies he rises to the colonelcy, or
superintendent's position, by appointment from above, strictly limited to the
candidates of the best records. The general of the guild appoints to the ranks
under him, but he himself is not appointed, but chosen by suffrage.«
    »By suffrage!« I exclaimed. »Is not that ruinous to the discipline of the
guild, by tempting the candidates to intrigue for the support of the workers
under them?«
    »So it would be, no doubt,« replied Dr. Leete, »if the workers had any
suffrage to exercise, or anything to say about the choice. But they have
nothing. Just here comes in a peculiarity of our system. The general of the
guild is chosen from among the superintendents by vote of the honorary members
of the guild, that is, of those who have served their time in the guild and
received their discharge. As you know, at the age of forty-five we are mustered
out of the army of industry, and have the residue of life for the pursuit of our
own improvement or recreation. Of course, however, the associations of our
active life-time retain a powerful hold on us. The companionships we formed then
remain our companionships till the end of life. We always continue honorary
members of our former guilds, and retain the keenest and most jealous interest
in their welfare and repute in the hands of the following generation. In the
clubs maintained by the honorary members of the several guilds, in which we meet
socially, there are no topics of conversation so common as those which relate to
these matters, and the young aspirants for guild leadership who can pass the
criticism of us old fellows are likely to be pretty well equipped. Recognizing
this fact, the nation entrusts to the honorary members of each guild the
election of its general, and I venture to claim that no previous form of society
could have developed a body of electors so ideally adapted to their office, as
regards absolute impartiality, knowledge of the special qualifications and
record of candidates, solicitude for the best result, and complete absence of
self-interest.
    Each of the ten lieutenant-generals or heads of departments is himself
elected from among the generals of the guilds grouped as a department, by vote
of the honorary members of the guilds thus grouped. Of course there is a
tendency on the part of each guild to vote for its own general, but no guild of
any group has nearly enough votes to elect a man not supported by most of the
others. I assure you that these elections are exceedingly lively.«
    »The President, I suppose, is selected from among the ten heads of the
great, departments,« I suggested.
    »Precisely, but the heads of departments are not eligible to the presidency
till they have been a certain number of years out of office. It is rarely that a
man passes through all the grades to the headship of a department much before he
is forty, and at the end of a five years' term he is usually forty-five. If
more, he still serves through his term, and if less, he is nevertheless
discharged from the industrial army at its termination. It would not do for him
to return to the ranks. The interval before he is a candidate for the presidency
is intended to give time for him to recognize fully that he has returned into
the general mass of the nation, and is identified with it rather than with the
industrial army. Moreover, it is expected that he will employ this period in
studying the general condition of the army, instead of that of the special group
of guilds of which he was the head. From among the former heads of departments
who may be eligible at the time, the President is elected by vote of all the men
of the nation who are not connected with the industrial army.«
    »The army is not allowed to vote for President?«
    »Certainly not. That would be perilous to its discipline, which it is the
business of the President to maintain as the representative of the nation at
large. His right hand for this purpose is the inspectorate, a highly important
department of our system; to the inspectorate come all complaints or information
as to defects in goods, insolence or inefficiency of officials, or dereliction
of any sort in the public service. The inspectorate, however, does not wait for
complaints. Not only is it on the alert to catch and sift every rumour of a fault
in the service, but it is its business, by systematic and constant oversight and
inspection of every branch of the army, to find out what is going wrong before
anybody else does. The President is usually not far from fifty when elected, and
serves five years, forming an honourable exception to the rule of retirement at
forty-five. At the end of his term of office, a national Congress is called to
receive his report and approve or condemn it. If it is approved, Congress
usually elects him to represent the nation for five years more in the
international council. Congress, I should also say, passes on the reports of the
outgoing heads of departments, and a disapproval renders any one of them
ineligible for President. But it is rare, indeed, that the nation has occasion
for other sentiments than those of gratitude toward its high officers. As to
their ability, to have risen from the ranks, by tests so various and severe, to
their positions, is proof in itself of extraordinary qualities, while as to
faithfulness, our social system leaves them absolutely without any other motive
than that of winning the esteem of their fellow citizens. Corruption is
impossible in a society where there is neither poverty to be bribed nor wealth
to bribe, while as to demagoguery or intrigue for office, the conditions of
promotion render them out of the question.«
    »One point I do not quite understand,« I said. »Are the members of the
liberal professions eligible to the presidency? and if so, how are they ranked
with those who pursue the industries proper?«
    »They have no ranking with them,« replied Dr. Leete. »The members of the
technical professions, such as engineers and architects, have a ranking with the
constructive guilds; but the members of the liberal professions, the doctors and
teachers, as well as the artists and men of letters who obtain remissions of
industrial service, do not belong to the industrial army. On this ground they
vote for the President, but are not eligible to his office. One of its main
duties being the control and discipline of the industrial army, it is essential
that the President should have passed through all its grades to understand his
business.«
    »That is reasonable,« I said, »but if the doctors and teachers do not know
enough of industry to be President, neither, I should think, can the President
know enough of medicine and education to control those departments.«
    »No more does he,« was the reply. »Except in the general way that he is
responsible for the enforcement of the laws as to all classes, the President has
nothing to do with the faculties of medicine and education, which are controlled
by boards of regents of their own, in which the President is ex-officio
chairman, and has the casting vote. These regents, who, of course, are
responsible to Congress, are chosen by the honorary members of the guilds of
education and medicine, the retired teachers and doctors of the country.«
    »Do you know,« I said, »the method of electing officials by votes of the
retired members of the guilds is nothing more than the application on a national
scale of the plan of government by alumni, which we used to a slight extent
occasionally in the management of our higher educational institutions.«
    »Did you, indeed?« exclaimed Dr. Leete, with animation. »That is quite new
to me, and I fancy will be to most of us, and of much interest as well. There
has been great discussion as to the germ of the idea, and we fancied that there
was for once something new under the sun. Well! well! In your higher educational
institutions! that is interesting indeed. You must tell me more of that.«
    »Truly, there is very little more to tell than I have told already,« I
replied. »If we had the germ of your idea, it was but as a germ.«
 

                                 Chapter XVIII

That evening I sat up for some time after the ladies had retired, talking with
Dr. Leete about the effect of the plan of exempting men from further service to
the nation after the age of forty-five, a point brought up by his account of the
part taken by the retired citizens in the government.
    »At forty-five,« said I, »a man still has ten years of good manual labour in
him, and twice ten years of good intellectual service. To be superannuated at
that age and laid on the shelf must be regarded rather as a hardship than a
favour by men of energetic dispositions.«
    »My dear Mr. West,« exclaimed Dr. Leete, beaming upon me, »you cannot have
any idea of the piquancy your nineteenth century ideas have for us of this day,
the rare quaintness of their effect. Know, O child of another race and yet the
same, that the labour we have to render as our part in securing for the nation
the means of a comfortable physical existence is by no means regarded as the
most important, the most interesting, or the most dignified employment of our
powers. We look upon it as a necessary duty to be discharged before we can fully
devote ourselves to the higher exercise of our faculties, the intellectual and
spiritual enjoyments and pursuits which alone mean life. Everything possible is
indeed done by the just distribution of burdens, and by all manner of special
attractions and incentives to relieve our labour of irksomeness, and, except in a
comparative sense, it is not usually irksome, and is often inspiring. But it is
not our labour, but the higher and larger activities which the performance of our
task will leave us free to enter upon, that are considered the main business of
existence.
    Of course not all, nor the majority, have those scientific, artistic,
literary, or scholarly interests which make leisure the one thing valuable to
their possessors. Many look upon the last half of life chiefly as a period for
enjoyment of other sorts; for travel, for social relaxation in the company of
their life-time friends; a time for the cultivation of all manner of personal
idiosyncrasies and special tastes, and the pursuit of every imaginable form of
recreation; in a word, a time for the leisurely and unperturbed appreciation of
the good things of the world which they have helped to create. But whatever the
differences between our individual tastes as to the use we shall put our leisure
to, we all agree in looking forward to the date of our discharge as the time
when we shall first enter upon the full enjoyment of our birthright, the period
when we shall first really attain our majority and become enfranchised from
discipline and control, with the fee of our lives vested in ourselves. As eager
boys in your day anticipated twenty-one, so men nowadays look forward to
forty-five. At twenty-one we become men, but at forty-five we renew youth.
Middle age and what you would have called old age are considered, rather than
youth, the enviable time of life. Thanks to the better conditions of existence
nowadays, and above all the freedom of every one from care, old age approaches
many years later and has an aspect far more benign than in past times. Persons
of average constitution usually live to eighty-five or ninety, and at forty-five
we are physically and mentally younger, I fancy, than you were at thirty-five.
It is a strange reflection that at forty-five, when we are just entering upon
the most enjoyable period of life, you already began to think of growing old and
to look backward. With you it was the forenoon, with us it is the afternoon,
which is the brighter half of life.«
    After this I remember that our talk branched into the subject of popular
sports and recreations at the present time as compared with those of the
nineteenth century.
    »In one respect,« said Dr. Leete, »there is a marked difference. The
professional sportsmen, which were such a curious feature of your day, we have
nothing answering to, nor are the prizes for which our athletes contend money
prizes, as with you. Our contests are always for glory only. The generous
rivalry existing between the various guilds, and the loyalty of each worker to
his own, afford a constant stimulation to all sorts of games and matches by sea
and land, in which the young men take scarcely more interest than the honorary
guildsmen who have served their time. The guild yacht races off Marblehead take
place next week, and you will be able to judge for yourself of the popular
enthusiasm which such events nowadays call out as compared with your day. The
demand for panem et circenses preferred by the Roman populace is recognized
nowadays as a wholly reasonable one. If bread is the first necessity of life,
recreation is a close second, and the nation caters for both. Americans of the
nineteenth century were as unfortunate in lacking an adequate provision for the
one sort of need as for the other. Even if the people of that period had enjoyed
larger leisure, they would, I fancy, have often been at a loss how to pass it
agreeably. We are never in that predicament.«
 

                                  Chapter XIX

In the course of an early morning constitutional I visited Charlestown. Among
the changes, too numerous to attempt to indicate, which mark the lapse of a
century in that quarter, I particularly noted the total disappearance of the old
state prison.
    »That went before my day, but I remember hearing about it,« said Dr. Leete,
when I alluded to the fact at the breakfast table. »We have no jails nowadays.
All cases of atavism are treated in the hospitals.«
    »Of atavism!« I exclaimed, staring.
    »Why, yes,« replied Dr. Leete. »The idea of dealing punitively with those
unfortunates was given up at least fifty years ago, and I think more.«
    »I don't quite understand you,« I said. »Atavism in my day was a word
applied to the cases of persons in whom some trait of a remote ancestor recurred
in a noticeable manner. Am I to understand that crime is nowadays looked upon as
the recurrence of an ancestral trait?«
    »I beg your pardon,« said Dr. Leete with a smile half humorous, half
deprecating, »but since you have so explicitly asked the question, I am forced
to say that the fact is precisely that.«
    After what I had already learned of the moral contrasts between the
nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, it was doubtless absurd in me to begin
to develop sensitiveness on the subject, and probably if Dr. Leete had not
spoken with that apologetic air and Mrs. Leete and Edith shown a corresponding
embarrassment, I should not have flushed, as I was conscious I did.
    »I was not in much danger of being vain of my generation before,« I said;
»but, really« -
    »This is your generation, Mr. West,« interposed Edith. »It is the one in
which you are living, you know, and it is only because we are alive now that we
call it ours.«
    »Thank you. I will try to think of it so,« I said, and as my eyes met hers
their expression quite cured my senseless sensitiveness. »After all,« I said,
with a laugh, »I was brought up a Calvinist, and ought not to be startled to
hear crime spoken of as an ancestral trait.«
    »In point of fact,« said Dr. Leete, »our use of the word is no reflection at
all on your generation, if begging Edith's pardon, we may call it yours, so far
as seeming to imply that we think ourselves, apart from our circumstances,
better than you were. In your day fully nineteen twentieths of the crime, using
the word broadly to include all sorts of misdemeanors, resulted from the
inequality in the possessions of individuals; want tempted the poor, lust of
greater gains, or the desire to preserve former gains, tempted the well-to-do.
Directly or indirectly, the desire for money, which then meant every good thing,
was the motive of all this crime, the taproot of a vast poison growth, which the
machinery of law, courts, and police could barely prevent from choking your
civilization outright. When we made the nation the sole trustee of the wealth of
the people, and guaranteed to all abundant maintenance, on the one hand
abolishing want, and on the other checking the accumulation of riches, we cut
this root, and the poison tree that overshadowed your society withered, like
Jonah's gourd, in a day. As for the comparatively small class of violent crimes
against persons, unconnected with any idea of gain, they were almost wholly
confined, even in your day, to the ignorant and bestial; and in these days, when
education and good manners are not the monopoly of a few, but universal, such
atrocities are scarcely ever heard of. You now see why the word atavism is used
for crime. It is because nearly all forms of crime known to you are motiveless
now, and when they appear can only be explained as the outcropping of ancestral
traits. You used to call persons who stole, evidently without any rational
motive, kleptomaniacs, and when the case was clear deemed it absurd to punish
them as thieves. Your attitude toward the genuine kleptomaniac is precisely ours
toward the victim of atavism, an attitude of compassion and firm but gentle
restraint.«
    »Your courts must have an easy time of it,« I observed. »With no private
property to speak of, no disputes between citizens over business relations, no
real estate to divide or debts to collect, there must be absolutely no civil
business at all for them; and with no offenses against property, and mighty few
of any sort to provide criminal cases, I should think you might almost do
without judges and lawyers altogether.«
    »We do without the lawyers, certainly,« was Dr. Leete's reply. »It would not
seem reasonable to us, in a case where the only interest of the nation is to
find out the truth, that persons should take part in the proceedings who had an
acknowledged motive to colour it.«
    »But who defends the accused?«
    »If he is a criminal he needs no defence, for he pleads guilty in most
instances,« replied Dr. Leete. »The plea of the accused is not a mere formality
with us, as with you. It is usually the end of the case.«
    »You don't mean that the man who pleads not guilty is thereupon discharged?«
    »No, I do not mean that. He is not accused on light grounds, and if he
denies his guilt, must still be tried. But trials are few, for in most cases the
guilty man pleads guilty. When he makes a false plea and is clearly proved
guilty, his penalty is doubled. Falsehood is, however, so despised among us that
few offenders would lie to save themselves.«
    »That is the most astounding thing you have yet told me,« I exclaimed. »If
lying has gone out of fashion, this is indeed the new heavens and the new earth
wherein dwelleth righteousness, which the prophet foretold.«
    »Such is, in fact, the belief of some persons nowadays,« was the doctor's
answer. »They hold that we have entered upon the millennium, and the theory from
their point of view does not lack plausibility. But as to your astonishment at
finding that the world has outgrown lying, there is really no ground for it
Falsehood, even in your day, was not common between gentlemen and ladies, social
equals. The lie of fear was the refuge of cowardice, and the lie of fraud the
device of the cheat. The inequalities of men and the lust of acquisition offered
a constant premium on lying at that time. Yet even then, the man who neither
feared another nor desired to defraud him scorned falsehood. Because we are now
all social equals, and no man either has anything to fear from another or can
gain anything by deceiving him, the contempt of falsehood is so universal that
it is rarely, as I told you, that even a criminal in other respects will be
found willing to lie. When, however, a plea of not guilty is returned, the judge
appoints two colleagues to state the opposite sides of the case. How far these
men are from being like your hired advocates and prosecutors, determined to
acquit or convict, may appear from the fact that unless both agree that the
verdict found is just, the case is tried over, while anything like bias in the
tone of either of the judges stating the case would be a shocking scandal.«
    »Do I understand,« I said, »that it is a judge who states each side of the
case as well as a judge who hears it?«
    »Certainly. The judges take turns in serving on the bench and at the bar,
and are expected to maintain the judicial temper equally whether in stating or
deciding a case. The system is indeed in effect that of trial by three judges
occupying different points of view as to the case. When they agree upon a
verdict, we believe it to be as near to absolute truth as men well can come.«
    »You have given up the jury system, then?«
    »It was well enough as a corrective in the days of hired advocates, and a
bench sometimes venal, and often with a tenure that made it dependent, but is
needless now. No conceivable motive but justice could actuate our judges.«
    »How are these magistrates selected?«
    »They are an honourable exception to the rule which discharges all men from
service at the age of forty-five. The President of the nation appoints the
necessary judges year by year from the class reaching that age. The number
appointed is, of course, exceedingly few, and the honour so high that it is held
an offset to the additional term of service which follows, and though a judge's
appointment may be declined, it rarely is. The term is five years, without
eligibility to reappointment. The members of the Supreme Court, which is the
guardian of the constitution, are selected from among the lower judges. When a
vacancy in that court occurs, those of the lower judges, whose terms expire that
year, select, as their last official act, the one of their colleagues left on
the bench whom they deem fittest to fill it.«
    »There being no legal profession to serve as a school for judges,« I said,
»they must, of course, come directly from the law school to the bench.«
    »We have no such things as law schools,« replied the doctor, smiling. »The
law as a special science is obsolete. It was a system of casuistry which the
elaborate artificiality of the old order of society absolutely required to
interpret it, but only a few of the plainest and simplest legal maxims have any
application to the existing state of the world. Everything touching the
relations of men to one another is now simpler, beyond any comparison, than in
your day. We should have no sort of use for the hair-splitting experts who
presided and argued in your courts. Yon must not imagine, however, that we have
any disrespect for those ancient worthies because we have no use for them. On
the contrary, we entertain an unfeigned respect, amounting almost to awe, for
the men who alone understood and were able to expound the interminable
complexity of the rights of property, and the relations of commercial and
personal dependence involved in your system. What, indeed, could possibly give a
more powerful impression of the intricacy and artificiality of that system than
the fact that it was necessary to set apart from other pursuits the cream of the
intellect of every generation, in order to provide a body of pundits able to
make it even vaguely intelligible to those whose fates it determined. The
treatises of your great lawyers, the works of Blackstone and Chitty, of Story
and Parsons, stand in our museums, side by side with the tomes of Duns Scotus
and his fellow scholastics, as curious monuments of intellectual subtlety
devoted to subjects equally remote from the interests of modern men. Our judges
are simply widely informed, judicious, and discreet men of ripe years.
    I should not fail to speak of one important function of the minor judges,«
added Dr. Leete. »This is to adjudicate all cases where a private of the
industrial army makes a complaint of unfairness against an officer. All such
questions are heard and settled without appeal by a single judge, three judges
being required only in graver cases. The efficiency of industry requires the
strictest discipline in the army of labour, but the claim of the workman to just
and considerate treatment is backed by the whole power of the nation. The
officer commands and the private obeys, but no officer is so high that he would
dare display an overbearing manner toward a workman of the lowest class. As for
churlishness or rudeness by an official of any sort, in his relations to the
public, not one among minor offenses is more sure of a prompt penalty than this.
Not only justice but civility is enforced by our judges in all sorts of
intercourse. No value of service is accepted as a set-off to boorish or
offensive manners.«
    It occurred to me, as Dr. Leete was speaking, that in all his talk I had
heard much of the nation and nothing of the state governments. Had the
organization of the nation as an industrial unit done away with the states? I
asked.
    »Necessarily,« he replied. »The state governments would have interfered with
the control and discipline of the industrial army, which, of course, required to
be central and uniform. Even if the state governments had not become
inconvenient for other reasons, they were rendered superfluous by the prodigious
simplification in the task of government since your day. Almost the sole
function of the administration now is that of directing the industries of the
country. Most of the purposes for which governments formerly existed no longer
remain to be subserved. We have no army or navy, and no military organization.
We have no departments of state or treasury, no excise or revenue services, no
taxes or tax collectors. The only function proper of government, as known to
you, which still remains, is the judiciary and police system. I have already
explained to you how simple is our judicial system as compared with your huge
and complex machine. Of course the same absence of crime and temptation to it,
which make the duties of judges so light, reduces the number and duties of the
police to a minimum.«
    »But with no state legislatures, and Congress meeting only once in five
years, how do you get your legislation done?«
    »We have no legislation,« replied Dr. Leete, »that is, next to none. It is
rarely that Congress, even when it meets, considers any new laws of consequence,
and then it only has power to commend them to the following Congress, lest
anything be done hastily. If you will consider a moment, Mr. West, you will see
that we have nothing to make laws about. The fundamental principles on which our
society is founded settle for all time the strifes and misunderstandings which
in your day called for legislation.
    Fully ninety-nine hundredths of the laws of that time concerned the
definition and protection of private property and the relations of buyers and
sellers. There is neither private property, beyond personal belongings, now, nor
buying and selling, and therefore the occasion of nearly all the legislation
formerly necessary has passed away. Formerly, society was a pyramid poised on
its apex. All the gravitations of human nature were constantly tending to topple
it over, and it could be maintained upright, or rather upwrong (if you will
pardon the feeble witticism), by an elaborate system of constantly renewed props
and buttresses and guy-ropes in the form of laws. A central Congress and forty
state legislatures, turning out some twenty thousand laws a year, could not make
new props fast enough to take the place of those which were constantly breaking
down or becoming ineffectual through some shifting of the strain. Now society
rests on its base, and is in as little need of artificial supports as the
everlasting hills.«
    »But you have at least municipal governments besides the one central
authority?«
    »Certainly, and they have important and extensive functions in looking out
for the public comfort and recreation, and the improvement and embellishment of
the villages and cities.«
    »But having no control over the labour of their people, or means of hiring
it, how can they do anything?«
    »Every town or city is conceded the right to retain, for its own public
works, a certain proportion of the quota of labour its citizens contribute to the
nation. This proportion, being assigned it as so much credit, can be applied in
any way desired.«
 

                                   Chapter XX

That afternoon Edith casually inquired if I had yet revisited the underground
chamber in the garden in which I had been found.
    »Not yet,« I replied. »To be frank, I have shrunk thus for from doing so,
lest the visit might revive old associations rather too strongly for my mental
equilibrium.«
    »Ah, yes!« she said, »I can imagine that you have done well to stay away. I
ought to have thought of that.«
    »No,« I said, »I am glad you spoke of it. The danger, if there was any,
existed only during the first day or two. Thanks to you, chiefly and always, I
feel my footing now so firm in this new world, that if you will go with me to
keep the ghosts off, I should really like to visit the place this afternoon.«
    Edith demurred at first, but, finding that I was in earnest, consented to
accompany me. The rampart of earth thrown up from the excavation was visible
among the trees from the house, and a few steps brought us to the spot. All
remained as it was at the point when work was interrupted by the discovery of
the tenant of the chamber, save that the door had been opened and the slab from
the roof replaced. Descending the sloping sides of the excavation, we went in at
the door and stood within the dimly-lighted room.
    Everything was just as I had beheld it last on that evening one hundred and
thirteen years previous, just before closing my eyes for that long sleep. I
stood for some time silently looking about me. I saw that my companion was
furtively regarding me with an expression of awed and sympathetic curiosity. I
put out my hand to her and she placed hers in it, the soft fingers responding
with a reassuring pressure to my clasp. Finally she whispered, »Had we not
better go out now? You must not try yourself too far. Oh, how strange it must be
to you!«
    »On the contrary,« I replied, »it does not seem strange; that is the
strangest part of it.«
    »Not strange?« she echoed.
    »Even so,« I replied. »The emotions with which you evidently credit me, and
which I anticipated would attend this visit, I simply do not feel. I realize all
that these surroundings suggest, but without the agitation I expected. You can't
be nearly as much surprised at this as I am myself. Ever since that terrible
morning when you came to my help, I have tried to avoid thinking of my former
life, just as I have avoided coming here, for fear of the agitating effects. I
am for all the world like a man who has permitted an injured limb to lie
motionless under the impression that it is exquisitely sensitive, and on trying
to move it finds that it is paralysed.«
    »Do you mean your memory is gone?«
    »Not at all. I remember everything connected with my former life, but with a
total lack of keen sensation. I remember it for clearness as if it had been but
a day since then, but my feelings about what I remember are as faint as if to my
consciousness, as well as in fact, a hundred years had intervened. Perhaps it is
possible to explain this, too. The effect of change in surroundings is like that
of lapse of time in making the past seem remote. When I first woke from that
trance, my former life appeared as yesterday, but now, since I have learned to
know my new surroundings, and to realize the prodigious changes that have
transformed the world, I no longer find it hard, but very easy, to realize that
I have slept a century. Can you conceive of such a thing as living a hundred
years in four days? It really seems to me that I have done just that, and that
it is this experience which has given so remote and unreal an appearance to my
former life. Can you see how such a thing might be?«
    »I can conceive it,« replied Edith, meditatively, »and I think we ought all
to be thankful that it is so, for it will save you much suffering, I am sure.«
    »Imagine,« I said, in an effort to explain, as much to myself as to her, the
strangeness of my mental condition, »that a man first heard of a bereavement
many, many years, half a lifetime perhaps, after the event occurred. I fancy his
feeling would be perhaps something as mine is. When I think of my friends in the
world of that former day, and the sorrow they must have felt for me, it is with
a pensive pity, rather than keen anguish, as of a sorrow long, long ago ended.«
    »You have told us nothing yet of your friends,« said Edith. »Had you many to
mourn you?«
    »Thank God, I had very few relatives, none nearer than cousins,« I replied.
»But there was one, not a relative, but dearer to me than any kin of blood. She
had your name. She was to have been my wife soon. Ah me!«
    »Ah me!« sighed the Edith by my side. »Think of the heartache she must have
had.«
    Something in the deep feeling of this gentle girl touched a chord in my
benumbed heart. My eyes, before so dry, were flooded with the tears that had
till now refused to come. When I had regained my composure, I saw that she too
had been weeping freely.
    »God bless your tender heart,« I said. »Would you like to see her picture?«
    A small locket with Edith Bartlett's picture, secured about my neck with a
gold chain, had lain upon my breast all through that long sleep, and removing
this I opened and gave it to my companion. She took it with eagerness, and after
poring long over the sweet face, touched the picture with her lips.
    »I know that she was good and lovely enough to well deserve your tears,« she
said; »but remember her heartache was over long ago, and she has been in heaven
for nearly a century.«
    It was indeed so. Whatever her sorrow had once been, for nearly a century
she had ceased to weep, and, my sudden passion spent, my own tears dried away. I
had loved her very dearly in my other life, but it was a hundred years ago! I do
not know but some may find in this confession evidence of lack of feeling, but I
think, perhaps, that none can have had an experience sufficiently like mine to
enable them to judge me. As we were about to leave the chamber, my eye rested
upon the great iron safe which stood in one corner. Calling my companion's
attention to it, I said: -
    »This was my strong room as well as my sleeping room. In the safe yonder are
several thousand dollars in gold, and any amount of securities. If I had known
when I went to sleep that night just how long my nap would be, I should still
have thought that the gold was a safe provision for my needs in any country or
any century, however distant. That a time would ever come when it would lose its
purchasing power, I should have considered the wildest of fancies. Nevertheless,
here I wake up to find myself among a people of whom a cart-load of gold will
not procure a loaf of bread.«
    As might be expected, I did not succeed in impressing Edith that there was
anything remarkable in this fact. »Why in the world should it?« she merely
asked.
 

                                  Chapter XXI

It had been suggested by Dr. Leete that we should devote the next morning to an
inspection of the schools and colleges of the city, with some attempt on his own
part at an explanation of the educational system of the twentieth century.
    »You will see,« said he, as we set out after breakfast, »many very important
differences between our methods of education and yours, but the main difference
is that nowadays all persons equally have those opportunities of higher
education which in your day only an infinitesimal portion of the population
enjoyed. We should think we had gained nothing worth speaking of, in equalizing
the physical comfort of men, without this educational equality.«
    »The cost must be very great,« I said.
    »If it took half the revenue of the nation, nobody would grudge it,« replied
Dr. Leete, »nor even if it took it all save a bare pittance. But in truth the
expense of educating ten thousand youth is not ten nor five times that of
educating one thousand. The principle which makes all operations on a large
scale proportionally cheaper than on a small scale holds as to education also.«
    »College education was terribly expensive in my day,« said I.
    »If I have not been misinformed by our historians,« Dr. Leete answered, »it
was not college education but college dissipation and extravagance which cost so
highly. The actual expense of your colleges appears to have been very low, and
would have been far lower if their patronage had been greater. The higher
education nowadays is as cheap as the lower, as all grades of teachers, like all
other workers, receive the same support. We have simply added to the common
school system of compulsory education, in vogue in Massachusetts a hundred years
ago, a half dozen higher grades, carrying the youth to the age of twenty-one and
giving him what you used to call the education of a gentleman, instead of
turning him loose at fourteen or fifteen with no mental equipment beyond
reading, writing, and the multiplication table.«
    »Setting aside the actual cost of these additional years of education,« I
replied, »we should not have thought we could afford the loss of time from
industrial pursuits. Boys of the poorer classes usually went to work at sixteen
or younger, and knew their trade at twenty.«
    »We should not concede you any gain even in material product by that plan,«
Dr. Leete replied. »The greater efficiency which education gives to all sorts of
labour, except the rudest, makes up in a short period for the time lost in
acquiring it.«
    »We should also have been afraid,« said I, »that a high education, while it
adapted men to the professions, would set them against manual labour of all
sorts.«
    »That was the effect of high education in your day, I have read,« replied
the doctor; »and it was no wonder, for manual labour meant association with a
rude, coarse, and ignorant class of people. There is no such class now. It was
inevitable that such a feeling should exist then, for the further reason that
all men receiving a high education were understood to be destined for the
professions or for wealthy leisure, and such an education in one neither rich
nor professional was a proof of disappointed aspirations, an evidence of
failure, a badge of inferiority rather than superiority. Nowadays, of course,
when the highest education is deemed necessary to fit a man merely to live,
without any reference to the sort of work he may do, its possession conveys no
such implication.«
    »After all,« I remarked, »no amount of education can cure natural dullness or
make up for original mental deficiencies. Unless the average natural mental
capacity of men is much above its level in my day, a high education must be
pretty nearly thrown away on a large element of the population. We used to hold
that a certain amount of susceptibility to educational influences is required to
make a mind worth cultivating, just as a certain natural fertility in soil is
required if it is to repay tilling.«
    »Ah,« said Dr. Leete, »I am glad you used that illustration, for it is just
the one I would have chosen to set forth the modern view of education. You say
that land so poor that the product will not repay the labour of tilling is not
cultivated. Nevertheless, much land that does not begin to repay tilling by its
product was cultivated in your day and is in ours. I refer to gardens, parks,
lawns, and, in general, to pieces of land so situated that, were they left to
grow up to weeds and briers, they would be eyesores and inconveniences to all
about. They are therefore tilled, and though their product is little, there is
yet no land that, in a wider sense, better repays cultivation. So it is with the
men and women with whom we mingle in the relations of society, whose voices are
always in our ears, whose behaviour in innumerable ways affects our enjoyment, -
who are, in fact, as much conditions of our lives as the air we breathe, or any
of the physical elements on which we depend. If, indeed, we could not afford to
educate everybody, we should choose the coarsest and dullest by nature, rather
than the brightest, to receive what education we could give. The naturally
refined and intellectual can better dispense with aids to culture than those
less fortunate in natural endowments.
    To borrow a phrase which was often used in your day, we should not consider
life worth living if we had to be surrounded by a population of ignorant,
boorish, coarse, wholly uncultivated men and women, as was the plight of the few
educated in your day. Is a man satisfied, merely because he is perfumed himself,
to mingle with a malodorous crowd? Could he take more than a very limited
satisfaction, even in a palatial apartment, if the windows on all four sides
opened into stable yards? And yet just that was the situation of those
considered most fortunate as to culture and refinement in your day. I know that
the poor rind ignorant envied the rich and cultured then; but to us the latter,
living as they did, surrounded by squalor and brutishness, seem little better
off than the former. The cultured man in your age was like one up to the neck in
a nauseous bog solacing himself with a smelling bottle. You see, perhaps, now,
how we look at this question of universal high education. No single thing is so
important to every man as to have for neighbours intelligent, companionable
persons. There is nothing, therefore, which the nation can do for him that will
enhance so much his own happiness as to educate his neighbours. When it fails to
do so, the value of his own education to him is reduced by half, and many of the
tastes he has cultivated are made positive sources of pain.
    To educate some to the highest degree, and leave the mass wholly
uncultivated, as you did, made the gap between them almost like that between
different natural species, which have no means of communication. What could be
more inhuman than this consequence of a partial enjoyment of education! Its
universal and equal enjoyment leaves, indeed, the differences between men as to
natural endowments as marked as in a state of nature, but the level of the
lowest is vastly raised. Brutishness is eliminated. All have some inkling of the
humanities, some appreciation of the things of the mind, and an admiration for
the still higher culture they have fallen short of. They have become capable of
receiving and imparting, in various degrees, but all in some measure, the
pleasures and inspirations of a refined social life. The cultured society of the
nineteenth century, - what did it consist of but here and there a few
microscopic oases in a vast, unbroken wilderness? The proportion of individuals
capable of intellectual sympathies or refined intercourse, to the mass of their
contemporaries, used to be so infinitesimal as to be in any broad view of
humanity scarcely worth mentioning. One generation of the world to-day
represents a greater volume of intellectual life than any five centuries ever
did before.
    There is still another point I should mention in stating the grounds on
which nothing less than the universality of the best education could now be
tolerated,« continued Dr. Leete, »and that is, the interest of the coming
generation in having educated parents. To put the matter in a nutshell, there
are three main grounds on which our educational system rests: first, the right
of every man to the completest education the nation can give him on his own
account, as necessary to his enjoyment of himself; second, the right of his
fellow-citizens to have him educated, as necessary to their enjoyment of his
society; third, the right of the unborn to be guaranteed an intelligent and
refined parentage.«
    I shall not describe in detail what I saw in the schools that day. Having
taken but slight interest in educational matters in my former life, I could
offer few comparisons of interest. Next to the fact of the universality of the
higher as well as the lower education, I was most struck with the prominence
given to physical culture, and the fact that proficiency in athletic feats and
games as well as in scholarship had a place in the rating of the youth.
    »The faculty of education,« Dr. Leete explained, »is held to the same
responsibility for the bodies as for the minds of its charges. The highest
possible physical, as well as mental, development of every one is the double
object of a curriculum which lasts from the age of six to that of twenty-one.«
    The magnificent health of the young people in the schools impressed me
strongly. My previous observations, not only of the notable personal endowments
of the family of my host, but of the people I had seen in my walks abroad, had
already suggested the idea that there must have been something like a general
improvement in the physical standard of the race since my day, and now, as I
compared these stalwart young men and fresh, vigorous maidens with the young
people I had seen in the schools of the nineteenth century, I was moved to
impart my thought to Dr. Leete. He listened with great interest to what I said.
    »Your testimony on this point,« he declared, »is invaluable. We believe that
there has been such an improvement as you speak of, but of course it could only
be a matter of theory with us. It is an incident of your unique position that
you alone in the world of to-day can speak with authority on this point. Your
opinion, when you state it publicly, will, I assure you, make a profound
sensation. For the rest it would be strange, certainly, if the race did not show
an improvement. In your day, riches debauched one class with idleness of mind
and body, while poverty sapped the vitality of the masses by overwork, bad food,
and pestilent homes. The labour required of children, and the burdens laid on
women, enfeebled the very springs of life. Instead of these maleficent
circumstances, all now enjoy the most favourable conditions of physical life; the
young are carefully nurtured and studiously cared for; the labour which is
required of all is limited to the period of greatest bodily vigour, and is never
excessive; care for one's self and one's family, anxiety as to livelihood, the
strain of a ceaseless battle for life - all these influences, which once did so
much to wreck the minds and bodies of men and women, are known no more.
Certainly, an improvement of the species ought to follow such a change. In
certain specific respects we know, indeed, that the improvement has taken place.
Insanity, for instance, which in the nineteenth century was so terribly common a
product of your insane mode of life, has almost disappeared, with its
alternative, suicide.«
 

                                  Chapter XXII

We had made an appointment to meet the ladies at the dining-hall for dinner,
after which, having some engagement, they left us sitting at table there,
discussing our wine and cigars with a multitude of other matters.
    »Doctor,« said I, in the course of our talk, »morally speaking, your social
system is one which I should be insensate not to admire in comparison with any
previously in vogue in the world, and especially with that of my own most
unhappy century. If I were to fall into a mesmeric sleep to-night as lasting as
that other, and meanwhile the course of time were to take a turn backward
instead of forward, and I were to wake up again in the nineteenth century, when
I had told my friends what I had seen, they would every one admit that your
world was a paradise of order, equity, and felicity. But they were a very
practical people, my contemporaries, and after expressing their admiration for
the moral beauty and material splendour of the system, they would presently begin
to cipher and ask how you got the money to make everybody so happy; for
certainly, to support the whole nation at a rate of comfort, and even luxury,
such as I see around me, must involve vastly greater wealth than the nation
produced in my day. Now, while I could explain to them pretty nearly everything
else of the main features of your system, I should quite fail to answer this
question, and failing there, they would tell me, for they were very close
cipherers, that I had been dreaming; nor would they ever believe anything else.
In my day, I know that the total annual product of the nation, although it might
have been divided with absolute equality, would not have come to more than three
or four hundred dollars per head, not very much more than enough to supply the
necessities of life with few or any of its comforts. How is it that you have so
much more?«
    »That is a very pertinent question, Mr. West,« replied Dr. Leete, »and I
should not blame your friends, in the case you supposed, if they declared your
story all moonshine, failing a satisfactory reply to it. It is a question which
I cannot answer exhaustively at any one sitting, and as for the exact statistics
to bear out my general statements, I shall have to refer you for them to books
in my library, but it would certainly be a pity to leave you to be put to
confusion by your old acquaintances, in case of the contingency you speak of,
for lack of a few suggestions.
    Let us begin with a number of small items wherein we economize wealth as
compared with you. We have no national, state, county, or municipal debts, or
payments on their account. We have no sort of military or naval expenditures for
men or materials, no army, navy, or militia. We have no revenue service, no
swarm of tax assessors and collectors. As regards our judiciary, police,
sheriffs, and jailers, the force which Massachusetts alone kept on foot in your
day far more than suffices for the nation now. We have no criminal class preying
upon the wealth of society as you had. The number of persons, more or less
absolutely lost to the working force through physical disability, of the lame,
sick, and debilitated, which constituted such a burden on the able-bodied in
your day, now that all live under conditions of health and comfort, has shrunk
to scarcely perceptible proportions, and with every generation is becoming more
completely eliminated.
    Another item wherein we save is the disuse of money and the thousand
occupations connected with financial operations of all sorts, whereby an army of
men was formerly taken away from useful employments. Also consider that the
waste of the very rich in your day on inordinate personal luxury has ceased,
though, indeed, this item might easily be over-estimated. Again, consider that
there are no idlers now, rich or poor, - no drones.
    A very important cause of former poverty was the vast waste of labour and
materials which resulted from domestic washing and cooking, and the performing
separately of innumerable other tasks to which we apply the coöperative plan.
    A larger economy than any of these - yes, of all together - is effected by
the organization of our distributing system, by which the work done once by the
merchants, traders, storekeepers, with their various grades of jobbers,
wholesalers, retailers, agents, commercial travellers, and middlemen of all
sorts, with an excessive waste of energy in needless transportation and
interminable handlings, is performed by one-tenth the number of hands and an
unnecessary turn of not one wheel. Something of what our distributing system is
like you know. Our statisticians calculate that one eightieth part of our
workers suffices for all the processes of distribution which in your day
required one eighth of the population, so much being withdrawn from the force
engaged in productive labour.«
    »I begin to see,« I said, »where you get your greater wealth.«
    »I beg your pardon,« replied Dr. Leete, »but you scarcely do as yet. The
economies I have mentioned thus far, in the aggregate, considering the labour
they would save directly and indirectly through saving of material, might
possibly be equivalent to the addition to your annual production of wealth of
one-half its former total. These items arc, however, scarcely worth mentioning
in comparison with other prodigious wastes, now saved, which resulted inevitably
from leaving the industries of the nation to private enterprise. However great
the economies your contemporaries might have devised in the consumption of
products, and however marvellous the progress of mechanical invention, they could
never have raised themselves out of the slough of poverty so long as they held
to that system.
    No mode more wasteful for utilizing human energy could be devised, and for
the credit of the human intellect it should be remembered that the system never
was devised, but was merely a survival from the rude ages when the lack of
social organization made any sort of coöperation impossible.«
    »I will readily admit,« I said, »that our industrial system was ethically
very bad, but as a mere wealth-making machine, apart from moral aspects, it
seemed to us admirable.«
    »As I said,« responded the doctor, »the subject is too large to discuss at
length now, but if you are really interested to know the main criticisms which
we moderns make on your industrial system as compared with our own, I can touch
briefly on some of them.
    The wastes which resulted from leaving the conduct of industry to
irresponsible individuals, wholly without mutual understanding or concert, were
mainly four: first, the waste by mistaken undertakings; second, the waste from
the competition and mutual hostility of those engaged in industry; third, the
waste by periodical gluts and crises, with the consequent interuptions of
industry; fourth, the waste from idle capital and labour at all limes. Any one of
these four great leaks, were all the others stopped, would suffice to make the
difference between wealth and poverty on the part of a nation.
    Take the waste by mistaken undertakings, to begin with. In your day the
production and distribution of commodities being without concert or
organization, there was no means of knowing just what demand there was for any
class of products, or what was the rate of supply. Therefore, any enterprise by
a private capitalist was always a doubtful experiment. The projector having no
general view of the field of industry and consumption, such as our government
has, could never be sure either what the people wanted, or what arrangements
other capitalists were making to supply them. In view of this, we are not
surprised to learn that the chances were considered several to one in favour of
the failure of any given business enterprise, and that it was common for persons
who at last succeeded in making a hit to have failed repeatedly. If a shoemaker,
for every pair of shoes he succeeded in completing, spoiled the leather of four
or five pair, besides losing the time spent on them, he would stand about the
same chance of getting rich as your contemporaries did with their system of
private enterprise, and its average of four or five failures to one success.
    The next of the great wastes was that from competition. The field of
industry was a battlefield as wide as the world, in which the workers wasted, in
assailing one another, energies which, if expended in concerted effort, as
to-day, would have enriched all. As for mercy or quarter in this warfare, there
was absolutely no suggestion of it. To deliberately enter a field of business
and destroy the enterprises of those who had occupied it previously, in order to
plant one's own enterprise on their ruins, was an achievement which never failed
to command popular admiration. Nor is there any stretch of fancy in comparing
this sort of struggle with actual warfare, so far as concerns the mental agony
and physical suffering which attended the struggle, and the misery which
overwhelmed the defeated and those dependent on them. Now nothing about your age
is, at first sight, more astounding to a man of modern times than the fact that
men engaged in the same industry, instead of fraternizing as comrades and
co-labourers to a common end, should have regarded each other as rivals and
enemies to be throttled and overthrown. This certainly seems like sheer madness,
a scene from bedlam. But more closely regarded, it is seen to be no such thing.
Your contemporaries, with their mutual throat-cutting, knew very well what they
were at. The producers of the nineteenth century were not, like ours, working
together for the maintenance of the community, but each solely for his own
maintenance at the expense of the community. If, in working to this end, he at
the same time increased the aggregate wealth, that was merely incidental. It was
just as feasible and as common to increase one's private hoard by practices
injurious to the general welfare. One's worst enemies were necessarily those of
his own trade, for, under your plan of making private profit the motive of
production, a scarcity of the article he produced was what each particular
producer desired. It was for his interest that no more of it should be produced
than he himself could produce. To secure this consummation as far as
circumstances permitted, by killing off and discouraging those engaged in his
line of industry, was his constant effort. When he had killed off all he could,
his policy was to combine with those he could not kill, and convert their mutual
warfare into a warfare upon the public at large by cornering the market, as I
believe you used to call it, and putting up prices to the highest point people
would stand before going without the goods. The day dream of the nineteenth
century producer was to gain absolute control of the supply of some necessity of
life, so that he might keep the public at the verge of starvation, and always
command famine prices for what he supplied. This, Mr. West, is what was called
in the nineteenth century a system of production. I will leave it to you if it
does not seem, in some of its aspects, a great deal more like a system for
preventing production. Some time when we have plenty of leisure I am going to
ask you to sit down with me and try to make me comprehend, as I never yet could,
though I have studied the matter a great deal, how such shrewd fellows as your
contemporaries appear to have been in many respects ever came to entrust the
business of providing for the community to a class whose interest it was to
starve it. I assure you that the wonder with us is, not that the world did not
get rich under such a system, but that it did not perish outright from want.
This wonder increases as we go on to consider some of the other prodigious
wastes that characterized it.
    Apart from the waste of labour and capital by misdirected industry, and that
from the constant blood-letting of your industrial warfare, your system was
liable to periodical convulsions, overwhelming alike the wise and unwise, the
successful cut-throat as well as his victim. I refer to the business crises at
intervals of five to ten years, which wrecked the industries of the nation,
prostrating all weak enterprises and crippling the strongest, and were followed
by long periods, often of many years, of so-called dull times, during which the
capitalists slowly regathered their dissipated strength while the labouring
classes starved and rioted. Then would ensue another brief season of prosperity,
followed in turn by another crisis and the ensuing years of exhaustion. As
commerce developed, making the nations mutually dependent, these crises became
world-wide, while the obstinacy of the ensuing state of collapse increased with
the area affected by the convulsions, and the consequent lack of rallying
centres. In proportion as the industries of the world multiplied and became
complex, and the volume of capital involved was increased, these business
cataclysms became more frequent, till, in the latter part of the nineteenth
century, there were two years of bad times to one of good, and the system of
industry, never before so extended or so imposing, seemed in danger of
collapsing by its own weight. After endless discussions, your economists appear
by that time to have settled down to the despairing conclusion that there was no
more possibility of preventing or controlling these crises than if they had been
drouths or hurricanes. It only remained to endure them as necessary evils, and
when they had passed over to build up again the shattered structure of industry,
as dwellers in an earthquake country keep on rebuilding their cities on the same
site.
    So far as considering the causes of the trouble inherent in their industrial
system, your contemporaries were certainly correct. They were in its very basis,
and must needs become more and more maleficent as the business fabric grew in
size and complexity. One of these causes was the lack of any common control of
the different industries, and the consequent impossibility of their orderly and
coördinate development. It inevitably resulted from this lack that they were
continually getting out of step with one another and out of relation with the
demand.
    Of the latter there was no criterion such as organized distribution gives
us, and the first notice that it had been exceeded in any group of industries
was a crash of prices, bankruptcy of producers, stoppage of production,
reduction of wages, or discharge of workmen. This process was constantly going
on in many industries, even in what were called good times, but a crisis took
place only when the industries affected were extensive. The markets then were
glutted with goods, of which nobody wanted beyond a sufficiency at any price.
The wages and profits of those making the glutted classes of goods being reduced
or wholly stopped, their purchasing power as consumers of other classes of
goods, of which there was no natural glut, was taken away, and, as a
consequence, goods of which there was no natural glut became artificially
glutted, till their prices also were broken down, and their makers thrown out of
work and deprived of income. The crisis was by this time fairly under way, and
nothing could check it till a nation's ransom had been wasted.
    A cause, also inherent in your system, which often produced and always
terribly aggravated crises, was the machinery of money and credit. Money was
essential when production was in many private hands, and buying and selling was
necessary to secure what one wanted. It was, however, open to the obvious
objection of substituting for food, clothing, and other things a merely
conventional representative of them. The confusion of mind which this favoured,
between goods and their representative, led the way to the credit system and its
prodigious illusions. Already accustomed to accept money for commodities, the
people next accepted promises for money, and ceased to look at all behind the
representative for the thing represented. Money was a sign of real commodities,
but credit was but the sign of a sign. There was a natural limit to gold and
silver, that is, money proper, but none to credit, and the result was that the
volume of credit, that is, the promises of money, ceased to bear any
ascertainable proportion to the money, still less to the commodities, actually
in existence. Under such a system, frequent and periodical crises were
necessitated by a law as absolute as that which brings to the ground a structure
overhanging its centre of gravity. It was one of your fictions that the
government and the banks authorized by it alone issued money; but everybody who
gave a dollar's credit issued money to that extent, which was as good as any to
swell the circulation till the next crises. The great extension of the credit
system was a characteristic of the latter part of the nineteenth century, and
accounts largely for the almost incessant business crises which marked that
period. Perilous as credit was, you could not dispense with its use, for,
lacking any national or other public organization of the capital of the country,
it was the only means you had for concentrating and directing it upon industrial
enterprises. It was in this way a most potent means for exaggerating the chief
peril of the private enterprise system of industry by enabling particular
industries to absorb disproportionate amounts of the disposable capital of the
country, and thus prepare disaster. Business enterprises were always vastly in
debt for advances of credit, both to one another and to the banks and
capitalists, and the prompt withdrawal of this credit at the first sign of a
crisis was generally the precipitating cause of it.
    It was the misfortune of your contemporaries that they had to cement their
business fabric with a material which an accident might at any moment turn into
an explosive. They were in the plight of a man building a house with dynamite
for mortar, for credit can be compared with nothing else.
    If you would see how needless were these convulsions of business which I
have been speaking of, and how entirely they resulted from leaving industry to
private and unorganized management, just consider the working of our system.
Over-production in special lines, which was the great hobgoblin of your day, is
impossible now, for by the connection between distribution and production supply
is geared to demand like an engine to the governor which regulates its speed.
Even suppose by an error of judgment an excessive production of some commodity.
The consequent slackening or cessation of production in that line throws nobody
out of employment. The suspended workers are at once found occupation in some
other department of the vast workshop and lose only the time spent in changing,
while, as for the glut, the business of the nation is large enough to carry any
amount of product manufactured in excess of demand till the latter overtakes it.
In such a case of over-production, as I have supposed, there is not with us, as
with you, any complex machinery to get out of order and magnify a thousand times
the original mistake. Of course, having not even money, we still less have
credit. All estimates deal directly with the real things, the flour, iron, wood,
wool, and labour, of which money and credit were for you the very misleading
representatives. In our calculations of cost there can be no mistakes. Out of
the annual product the amount necessary for the support of the people is taken,
and the requisite labour to produce the next year's consumption provided for. The
residue of the material and labour represents what can be safely expended in
improvements. If the crops are bad, the surplus for that year is less than
usual, that is all. Except for slight occasional effects of such natural causes,
there are no fluctuations of business; the material prosperity of the nation
flows on uninterruptedly from generation to generation, like an ever broadening
and deepening river.
    Your business crises, Mr. West,« continued the doctor, »like either of the
great wastes I mentioned before, were enough, alone, to have kept your noses to
the grindstone forever; but I have still to speak of one other great cause of
your poverty, and that was the idleness of a great part of your capital and
labour. With us it is the business of the administration to keep in constant
employment every ounce of available capital and labour in the country. In your
day there was no general control of either capital or labour, and a large part of
both failed to find employment. Capital, you used to say, is naturally timid,
and it would certainly have been reckless if it had not been timid in an epoch
when there was a large preponderance of probability that any particular business
venture would end in failure. There was no time when, if security could have
been guaranteed it, the amount of capital devoted to productive industry could
not have been greatly increased. The proportion of it so employed underwent
constant extraordinary fluctuations, according to the greater or less feeling of
uncertainty as to the stability of the industrial situation, so that the output
of the national industries greatly varied in different years. But for the same
reason that the amount of capital employed at times of special insecurity was
far less than at times of somewhat greater security, a very large proportion was
never employed at all, because the hazard of business was always very great in
the best of times.
    It should be also noted that the great amount of capital always seeking
employment where tolerable safety could be insured terribly embittered the
competition between capitalists when a promising opening presented itself. The
idleness of capital, the result of its timidity, of course meant the idleness of
labour in corresponding degree. Moreover, every change in the adjustments of
business, every slightest alteration in the condition of commerce or
manufactures, not to speak of the innumerable business failures that took place
yearly, even in the best of times, were constantly throwing a multitude of men
out of employment for periods of weeks or months, or even years. A great number
of these seekers after employment were constantly traversing the country,
becoming in time professional vagabonds, then criminals. Give us work! was the
cry of an army of the unemployed at nearly all seasons, and in seasons of
dullness in business this army swelled to a host so vast and desperate as to
threaten the stability of the government. Could there conceivably be a more
conclusive demonstration of the imbecility of the system of private enterprise
as a method for enriching a nation than the fact that, in an age of such general
poverty and want of everything, capitalists had to throttle one another to find
a safe chance to invest their capital and workmen rioted and burned because they
could find no work to do?
    Now, Mr. West,« continued Dr. Leete, »I want you to bear in mind that these
points of which I have been speaking indicate only negatively the advantages of
the national organization of industry by showing certain fatal defects and
prodigious imbecilities of the systems of private enterprise which are not found
in it. These alone, you must admit, would pretty well explain why the nation is
so much richer than in your day. But the larger half of our advantage over you,
the positive side of it, I have yet barely spoken of. Supposing the system of
private enterprise in industry were without any of the great leaks I have
mentioned; that there were no waste on account of misdirected effort growing out
of mistakes as to the demand, and inability to command a general view of the
industrial field. Suppose, also, there were no neutralizing and duplicating of
effort from competition. Suppose, also, there were no waste from business panics
and crisis through bankruptcy and long interruptions of industry, and also none
from the idleness of capital and labour. Supposing these evils, which are
essential to the conduct of industry by capital in private hands, could all be
miraculously prevented, and the system yet retained; even then the superiority
of the results attained by the modern industrial system of national control
would remain overwhelming.
    You used to have some pretty large textile manufacturing establishments,
even in your day, although not comparable with ours. No doubt you have visited
these great mills in your time, covering acres of ground, employing thousands of
hands, and combining under one roof, under one control, the hundred distinct
processes between, say, the cotton bale and the bale of glossy calicoes. You
have admired the vast economy of labour as of mechanical force resulting from the
perfect interworking with the rest of every wheel and every hand. No doubt you
have reflected how much less the same force of workers employed in that factory
would accomplish if they were scattered, each man working independently. Would
you think it an exaggeration to say that the utmost product of those workers,
working thus apart, however amicable their relations might be, was increased not
merely by a percentage, but many fold, when their efforts were organized under
one control? Well now, Mr. West, the organization of the industry of the nation
under a single control, so that all its processes interlock, has multiplied the
total product over the utmost that could be done under the former system, even
leaving out of account the four great wastes mentioned, in the same proportion
that the product of those mill-workers was increased by coöperation. The
effectiveness of the working force of a nation, under the myriad-headed
leadership of private capital, even if the leaders were not mutual enemies, as
compared with that which it attains under a single head, may be likened to the
military efficiency of a mob, or a horde of barbarians with a thousand petty
chiefs, as compared with that of a disciplined army under one general - such a
fighting machine, for example, as the German army in the time of von Moltke.«
    »After what you have told me,« I said, »I do not so much wonder that the
nation is richer now than then, but that you are not all Croesuses.«
    »Well,« replied Dr. Leete, »we are pretty well off. The rate at which we
live is as luxurious as we could wish. The rivalry of ostentation, which in your
day led to extravagance in no way conducive to comfort, finds no place, of
course, in a society of people absolutely equal in resources, and our ambition
stops at the surroundings which minister to the enjoyment of life. We might,
indeed, have much larger incomes, individually, if we chose so to use the
surplus of our product, but we prefer to expend it upon public works and
pleasures in which all share, upon public halls and buildings, art galleries,
bridges, statuary, means of transit, and the conveniences of our cities, great
musical and theatrical exhibitions, and in providing on a vast scale for the
recreations of the people. You have not begun to see how we live yet, Mr. West.
At home we have comfort, but the splendour of our life is, on its social side,
that which we share with our fellows. When you know more of it you will see
where the money goes, as you used to say, and I think you will agree that we do
well so to expend it.«
    »I suppose,« observed Dr. Leete, as we strolled homeward from the dining
hall, »that no reflection would have cut the men of your wealth-worshiping
century more keenly than the suggestion that they did not know how to make
money. Nevertheless, that is just the verdict history has passed on them. Their
system of unorganized and antagonistic industries was as absurd economically as
it was morally abominable. Selfishness was their only science, and in industrial
production selfishness is suicide. Competition, which is the instinct of
selfishness, is another word for dissipation of energy, while combination is the
secret of efficient production; and not till the idea of increasing the
individual hoard gives place to the idea of increasing the common stock can
industrial combination be realized, and the acquisition of wealth really begin.
Even if the principle of share and share alike for all men were not the only
humane and rational basis for a society, we should still enforce it as
economically expedient, seeing that until the disintegrating influence of
self-seeking is suppressed no true concert of industry is possible.«
 

                                 Chapter XXIII

That evening, as I sat with Edith in the music room, listening to some pieces in
the programme of that day which had attracted my notice, I took advantage of an
interval in the music to say, »I have a question to ask you which I fear is
rather indiscreet.«
    »I am quite sure it is not that,« she replied, encouragingly.
    »I am in the position of an eavesdropper,« I continued, »who, having
overheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming to concern
him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest.«
    »An eavesdropper!« she repeated, looking puzzled.
    »Yes,« I said, »but an excusable one, as I think you will admit.«
    »This is very mysterious,« she replied.
    »Yes,« said I, »so mysterious that often I have doubted whether I really
overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or only dreamed it. I want
you to tell me. The matter is this: When I was coming out of that sleep of a
century, the first impression of which I was conscious was of voices talking
around me, voices that afterwards I recognized as your father's, your mother's,
and your own. First, I remember your father's voice saying, He is going to open
his eyes. He had better see but one person at first. Then you said, if I did not
dream it all, Promise me, then, that you will not tell him. Your father seemed
to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and your mother interposing, he
finally promised, and when I opened my eyes I saw only him.«
    I had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I had not
dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so incomprehensible was it
that these people should know anything of me, a contemporary of their
great-grandparents, which I did not know myself. But when I saw the effect of my
words upon Edith, I knew that it was no dream, but another mystery, and a more
puzzling one than any I had before encountered. For from the moment that the
drift of my question became apparent, she showed indications of the most acute
embarrassment. Her eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had dropped
in a panic before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to forehead.
    »Pardon me,« I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment at the
extraordinary effect of my words. »It seems, then, that I was not dreaming.
There is some secret, something about me, which you are withholding from me.
Really, does not it seem a little hard that a person in my position should not
be given all the information possible concerning himself?«
    »It does not concern you - that is, not directly. It is not about you -
exactly,« she replied, scarcely audibly.
    »But it concerns me in some way,« I persisted. »It must be something that
would interest me.«
    »I don't know even that,« she replied, venturing a momentary glance at my
face, furiously blushing, and yet with a quaint smile flickering about her lips
which betrayed a certain perception of humour in the situation despite its
embarrassment, - »I am not sure that it would even interest you.«
    »Your father would have told me,« I insisted, with an accent of reproach.
»It was you who forbade him. He thought I ought to know.«
    She did not reply. She was so entirely charming in her confusion that I was
now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation as by my original
curiosity, to importune her further.
    »Am I never to know? Will you never tell me?« I said.
    »It depends,« she answered, after a long pause.
    »On what?« I persisted.
    »Ah, you ask too much,« she replied. Then, raising to mine a face which
inscrutable eyes, flushed cheeks, and smiling lips combined to render perfectly
bewitching, she added, »What should you think if I said that it depended on -
yourself?«
    »On myself?« I echoed. »How can that possibly be?«
    »Mr. West, we are losing some charming music,« was her only reply to this,
and turning to the telephone, at a touch of her finger she set the air to
swaying to the rhythm of an adagio. After that she took good care that the music
should leave no opportunity for conversation. She kept her face averted from me,
and pretended to be absorbed in the airs, but that it was a mere pretence the
crimson tide standing at flood in her checks sufficiently betrayed.
    When at length she suggested that I might have heard all I cared to, for
that time, and we rose to leave the room, she came straight up to me and said,
without raising her eyes, »Mr. West, you say I have been good to you. I have not
been particularly so, but if you think I have, I want you to promise me that you
will not try again to make me tell you this thing you have asked to-night, and
that you will not try to find it out from any one else, - my father or mother,
for instance.«
    To such an appeal there was but one reply possible. »Forgive me for
distressing you. Of course I will promise,« I said. »I would never have asked
you if I had fancied it could distress you. But do you blame me for being
curious?«
    »I do not blame you at all.«
    »And some time,« I added, »if I do not tease you, you may tell me of your
own accord. May I not hope so?«
    »Perhaps,« she murmured.
    »Only perhaps?«
    Looking up, she read my face with a quick, deep glance. »Yes,« she said, »I
think I may tell you - some time;« and so our conversation ended, for she gave
me no chance to say anything more.
    That night I don't think even Dr. Pillsbury could have put me to sleep, till
toward morning at least. Mysteries had been my accustomed food for days now, but
none had before confronted me at once so mysterious and so fascinating as this,
the solution of which Edith Leete had forbidden me even to seek. It was a double
mystery. How, in the first place, was it conceivable that she should know any
secret about me, a stranger from a strange age? In the second place, even if she
should know such a secret, how account for the agitating effect which the
knowledge of it seemed to have upon her? There are puzzles so difficult that one
cannot even get so far as a conjecture as to the solution, and this seemed one
of them. I am usually of too practical a turn to waste time on such conundrums;
but the difficulty of a riddle embodied in a beautiful young girl does not
detract from its fascination. In general, no doubt, maidens' blushes may be
safely assumed to tell the same tale to young men in all ages and races, but to
give that interpretation to Edith's crimson checks would, considering my
position and the length of time I had known her, and still more the fact that
this mystery dated from before I had known her at all, be a piece of utter
fatuity. And yet she was an angel, and I should not have been a young man if
reason and common sense had been able quite to banish a roseate tinge from my
dreams that night.
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

In the morning I went down stairs early in the hope of seeing Edith alone. In
this, however, I was disappointed. Not finding her in the house, I sought her in
the garden, but she was not there. In the course of my wanderings I visited the
underground chamber, and sat down there to rest. Upon the reading table in the
chamber several periodicals and newspapers lay, and thinking that Dr. Leete
might be interested in glancing over a Boston daily of 1887, I brought one of
the papers with me into the house when I came.
    At breakfast I met Edith. She blushed as she greeted me, but was perfectly
self-possessed. As we sat at table, Dr. Leete amused himself with looking over
the paper I had brought in. There was in it, as in all the newspapers of that
date, a great deal about the labour troubles, strikes, lock-outs, boycotts, the
programmes of labour parties, and the wild threats of the anarchists.
    »By the way,« said I, as the doctor read aloud to us some of these items,
»what part did the followers of the red flag take in the establishment of the
new order of things? They were making considerable noise the last thing that I
knew.«
    »They had nothing to do with it except to hinder it, of course,« replied Dr.
Leete. »They did that very effectually while they lasted, for their talk so
disgusted people as to deprive the best considered projects for social reform of
a hearing. The subsidizing of those fellows was one of the shrewdest moves of
the opponents of reform.«
    »Subsidizing them!« I exclaimed in astonishment.
    »Certainly,« replied Dr. Leete. »No historical authority nowadays doubts
that they were paid by the great monopolies to wave the red flag and talk about
burning, sacking, and blowing people up, in order, by alarming the timid, to
head off any real reforms. What astonishes me most is that you should have
fallen into the trap so unsuspectingly.«
    »What are your grounds for believing that the red flag party was
subsidized?« I inquired.
    »Why simply because they must have seen that their course made a thousand
enemies of their professed cause to one friend. Not to suppose that they were
hired for the work is to credit them with an inconceivable folly.4 In the United
States, of all countries, no party could intelligently expect to carry its point
without first winning over to its ideas a majority of the nation, as the
national party eventually did.«
    »The national party!« I exclaimed. »That must have arisen after my day. I
suppose it was one of the labour parties.«
    »Oh no!« replied the doctor. »The labour parties, as such, never could have
accomplished anything on a large or permanent scale. For purposes of national
scope, their basis as merely class organizations was too narrow. It was not till
a rearrangement of the industrial and social system on a higher ethical basis,
and for the more efficient production of wealth, was recognised as the interest,
not of one class, but equally of all classes, of rich and poor, cultured and
ignorant, old and young, weak and strong, men and women, that there was any
prospect that it would be achieved. Then the national party arose to carry it
out by political methods. It probably took that name because its aim was to
nationalize the functions of production and distribution. Indeed, it could not
well have had any other name, for its purpose was to realize the idea of the
nation with a grandeur and completeness never before conceived, not as an
association of men for certain merely political functions affecting their
happiness only remotely and superficially, but as a family, a vital union, a
common life, a mighty heaven-touching tree whose leaves are its people, fed from
its veins, and feeding it in turn. The most patriotic of all possible parties,
it sought to justify patriotism and raise it from an instinct to a rational
devotion, by making the native land truly a father land, a father who kept the
people alive and was not merely an idol for which they were expected in die.«
 

                                  Chapter XXV

The personality of Edith Leete had naturally impressed me strongly ever since I
had come, in so strange a manner, to be an inmate of her father's house, and it
was to be expected that after what had happened the night previous, I should be
more than ever preoccupied with thoughts of her. From the first I had been
struck with the air of serene frankness and ingenuous directness, more like that
of a noble and innocent boy than any girl I had ever known, which characterized
her. I was curious to know how far this charming quality might be peculiar to
herself, and how far possibly a result of alterations in the social position of
women which might have taken place since my time. Finding an opportunity that
day, when alone with Dr. Leete, I turned the conversation in that direction.
    »I suppose,« I said, »that women nowadays, having been relieved of the
burden of housework, have no employment but the cultivation of their charms and
graces.«
    »So far as we men are concerned,« replied Dr. Leete, »we should consider
that they amply paid their way, to use one of your forms of expression, if they
confined themselves to that expression, but you may be very sure that they have
quite too much spirit to consent to be mere beneficiaries of society, even as a
return for ornamenting it. They did, indeed, welcome their riddance from
housework, because that was not only exceptionally wearing in itself, but also
wasteful, in the extreme, of energy, as compared with the coöperative plan; but
they accepted relief from that sort of work only that they might contribute in
other and more effectual, as well as more agreeable, ways to the common weal.
Our women, as well as our men, are members of the industrial army, and leave it
only when maternal duties claim them. The result is that most women, at one time
or another of their lives, serve industrially some five or ten or fifteen years,
while those who have no children fill out the full term.«
    »A woman does not, then, necessarily leave the industrial service on
marriage?« I queried.
    »No more than a man,« replied the doctor. »Why on earth should she? Married
women have no housekeeping responsibilities now, you know, and a husband is not
a baby that he should be cared for.«
    »It was thought one of the most grievous features of our civilization that
we required so much toil from women,« I said; »but it seems to me you get more
out of them than we did.«
    Dr. Leete laughed. »Indeed we do, just as we do out of our men. Yet the
women of this age are very happy, and those of the nineteenth century, unless
contemporary references greatly mislead us, were very miserable. The reason that
women nowadays are so much more efficient co-labourers with the men, and at the
same time are so happy, is that, in regard to their work as well as men's, we
follow the principle of providing every one the kind of occupation he or she is
best adapted to. Women being inferior in strength to men, and further
disqualified industrially in special ways, the kinds of occupation reserved for
them, and the conditions under which they pursue them, have reference to these
facts. The heavier sorts of work are everywhere reserved for men, the lighter
occupations for women. Under no circumstances is a woman permitted to follow any
employment not perfectly adapted, both as to kind and degree of labour, to her
sex. Moreover, the hours of women's work are considerably shorter than those of
men's, more frequent vacations are granted, and the most careful provision is
made for rest when needed. The men of this day so well appreciate that they owe
to the beauty and grace of women the chief zest of their lives and their main
incentive to effort, that they permit them to work at all only because it is
fully understood that a certain regular requirement of labour, of a sort adapted
to their powers, is well for body and mind, during the period of maximum
physical vigour. We believe that the magnificent health which distinguishes our
women from those of your day, who seem to have been so generally sickly, is
owing largely to the fact that all alike are furnished with healthful and
inspiriting occupation.«
    »I understood you,« I said, »that the women workers belong to the army of
industry, but how can they be under the same system of ranking and discipline
with the men, when the conditions of their labour are so different.«
    »They are under an entirely different discipline,« replied Dr. Leete, »and
constitute rather an allied force than an integral part of the army of the men.
They have a woman general-in-chief and are under exclusively feminine régime.
This general, as also the higher officers, is chosen by the body of women who
have passed the time of service, in correspondence with the manner in which the
chiefs of the masculine army and the President of the nation are elected. The
general of the women's army sits in the cabinet of the President and has a veto
on measures respecting women's work, pending appeals to Congress. I should have
said, in speaking of the judiciary, that we have women on the bench, appointed
by the general of the women, as well as men. Causes in which both parties are
women are determined by women judges, and where a man and a woman are parties to
a case, a judge of either sex must consent to the verdict.«
    »Womanhood seems to be organized as a sort of imperium in imperio in your
system,« I said.
    »To some extent,« Dr. Leete replied; »but the inner imperium is one from
which you will admit there is not likely to be much danger to the nation. The
lack of some such recognition of the distinct individuality of the sexes was one
of the innumerable defects of your society. The passional attraction between men
and women has too often prevented a perception of the profound differences which
make the members of each sex in many things strange to the other, and capable of
sympathy only with their own. It is in giving full play to the differences of
sex rather than in seeking to obliterate them, as was apparently the effort of
some reformers in your day, that the enjoyment of each by itself and the
piquancy which each has for the other, are alike enhanced. In your day there was
no career for women except in an unnatural rivalry with men. We have given them
a world of their own, with its emulations, ambitions, and careers, and I assure
you they are very happy in it. It seems to us that women were more than any
other class the victims of your civilization. There is something which, even at
this distance of time, penetrates one with pathos in the spectacle of their
ennuied, undeveloped lives, stunted at marriage, their narrow horizon, bounded
so often, physically, by the four walls of home, and morally by a petty circle
of personal interests. I speak now, not of the poorer classes, who were
generally worked to death, but also of the well-to-do and rich. From the great
sorrows, as well as the petty frets of life, they had no refuge in the breezy
outdoor world of human affairs, nor any interests save those of the family. Such
an existence would have softened men's brains or driven them mad. All that is
changed to-day. No woman is heard nowadays wishing she were a man, nor parents
desiring boy rather than girl children. Our girls are as full of ambition for
their careers as our boys. Marriage, when it comes, does not mean incarceration
for them, nor does it separate them in any way from the larger interests of
society, the bustling life of the world. Only when maternity fills a woman's
mind with new interests does she withdraw from the world for a time. Afterwards,
and at any time, she may return to her place among her comrades, nor need she
ever lose touch with them. Women are a very happy race nowadays, as compared
with what they ever were before in the world's history, and their power of
giving happiness to men has been of course increased in proportion.«
    »I should imagine it possible,« I said, »that the interest which girls take
in their careers as members of the industrial army and candidates for its
distinctions might have an effect to deter them from marriage.«
    Dr. Leete smiled. »Have no anxiety on that score, Mr. West,« he replied.
»The Creator took very good care that whatever other modifications the
dispositions of men and women might with time take on, their attraction for each
other should remain constant. The mere fact that in an age like yours, when the
struggle for existence must have left people little time for other thoughts, and
the future was so uncertain that to assume parental responsibilities must have
often seemed like a criminal risk, there was even then marrying and giving in
marriage, should be conclusive on this point. As for love nowadays, one of our
authors says that the vacuum left in the minds of men and women by the absence
of care for one's livelihood has been entirely taken up by the tender passion.
That, however, I beg you to believe, is something of an exaggeration. For the
rest, so far is marriage from being an interference with a woman's career, that
the higher positions in the feminine army of industry are entrusted only to
women who have been both wives and mothers, as they alone fully represent their
sex.«
    »Are credit cards issued to the women just as to the men?«
    »Certainly.«
    »The credits of the women, I suppose, are for smaller sums, owing to the
frequent suspension of their labour on account of family responsibilities.«
    »Smaller!« exclaimed Dr. Leete, »oh, no! The maintenance of all our people
is the same. There are no exceptions to that rule, but if any difference were
made on account of the interruptions you speak of, it would be by making the
woman's credit larger, not smaller. Can you think of any service constituting a
stronger claim on the nation's gratitude than bearing and nursing the nation's
children? According to our view, none deserve so well of the world as good
parents. There is no task so unselfish, so necessarily without return, though
the heart is well rewarded, as the nurture of the children who are to make the
world for one another when we are gone.«
    »It would seem to follow, from what you have said, that wives are in no way
dependent on their husbands for maintenance.«
    »Of course they are not,« replied Dr. Leete, »nor children on their parents
either, that is, for means of support, though of course they are for the offices
of affection. The child's labour, when he grows up, will go to increase the
common stork, not his parents', who will be dead, and therefore he is properly
nurtured out of the common stock. The account of every person, man, woman, and
child, you must understand, is always with the nation directly, and never
through any intermediary, except, of course, that parents, to a certain extent,
act for children as their guardians. You see that it is by virtue of the
relation of individuals to the nation, of their membership in it, that they are
entitled to support; and this title is in no way connected with or affected by
their relations to other individuals who are fellow members of the nation with
them. That any person should be dependent for the means of support upon another
would be shocking to the moral sense as well as indefensible on any rational
social theory. What would become of personal liberty and dignity under such an
arrangement? I am aware that you called yourselves free in the nineteenth
century. The meaning of the word could not then, however, have been at all what
it is at present, or you certainly would not have applied it to a society of
which nearly every member was in a position of galling personal dependence upon
others as to the very means of life, the poor upon the rich, or employed upon
employer, women upon men, children upon parents. Instead of distributing the
product of the nation directly to its members, which would seem the most natural
and obvious method, it would actually appear that you had given your minds to
devising a plan of hand to hand distribution, involving the maximum of personal
humiliation to all clashes of recipients.
    As regards the dependence of women upon men for support, which then was
usual, of course natural attraction in case of marriages of love may often have
made it endurable, though for spirited women I should fancy it must always have
remained humiliating. What, then, must it have been in the innumerable cases
where women, with or without the form of marriage, had to sell themselves to men
to get their living? Even your contemporaries, callous as they were to most of
the revolting aspects of their society, seem to have had an idea that this was
not quite as it should be; but it was still only for pity's sake that they
deplored the lot of the women. It did not occur to them that it was robbery as
well as cruelty when men seized for themselves the whole product of the world
and left women to beg and wheedle for their share. Why - but bless me, Mr. West,
I am really running on at a remarkable rate, just as if the robbery, the sorrow,
and the shame which those poor women endured were not over a century since, or
as if you were responsible for what you no doubt deplored as much as I do.«
    »I must bear my share of responsibility for the world as it then was,« I
replied. »All I can say in extenuation is that until the nation was ripe for the
present system of organized production and distribution, no radical improvement
in the position of woman was possible. The root of her disability, as you say,
was her personal dependence upon man for her livelihood, and I can imagine no
other mode of social organization than that you have adopted, which would have
set men free of one another. I suppose, by the way, that so entire a change in
the position of women cannot have taken place without affecting in marked ways
the social relations of the sexes. That will be a very interesting study for
me.«
    »The change you will observe,« said Dr. Leete, »will chiefly be, I think,
the entire frankness and unconstraint which now characterizes those relations,
as compared with the artificiality which seems to have marked them in your time.
The sexes now meet with the ease of perfect equals, suitor to each other for
nothing but love. In your time the fact that women were dependent for support on
men made the woman in reality the one chiefly benefited by marriage. This fact,
so far as we can judge from contemporary records, appears to have been coarsely
enough recognized among the lower classes, while among the more polished it was
glossed over by a system of elaborate conventionalities which aimed to carry the
precisely opposite meaning, namely, that the man was the party chiefly
benefited. To keep up this convention it was essential that he should always
seem the suitor. Nothing was therefore considered more shocking to the
proprieties than that a woman should betray a fondness for a man before he had
indicated a desire to marry her. Why, we actually have in our libraries books,
by authors of your day, written for no other purpose than to discuss the
question whether, under any conceivable circumstances, a woman might, without
discredit to her sex, reveal an unsolicited love. All this seems exquisitely
absurd to us, and yet we know that, given your circumstances, the problem might
have a serious side. When for a woman to proffer her love to a man was in effect
to invite him to assume the burden of her support, it is easy to see that pride
and delicacy might well have cheeked the promptings of the heart. When you go
out into our society, Mr. West, you must be prepared to be often
cross-questioned on this point by our young people, who are naturally much
interested in this aspect of old-fashioned manners.«5
    »And so the girls of the twentieth century tell their love.«
    »If they choose,« replied Dr. Leete. »There is no more pretence of a
concealment of feeling on their part than on the part of their lovers. Coquetry
would be as much despised in a girl as in a man. Affected coldness, which in
your day rarely deceived a lover, would deceive him wholly now, for no one
thinks of practicing it.«
    »One result which must follow from the independence of women I can see for
myself,« I said. »There can be no marriages now except those of inclination.«
    »That is a matter of course,« replied Dr. Leete.
    »Think of a world in which there are nothing but matches of pure love! Ah
me, Dr. Leete, how far you are from being able to understand what an astonishing
phenomenon such a world seems to a man of the nineteenth century!«
    »I can, however, to some extent, imagine it,« replied the doctor. »But the
fact you celebrate, that there are nothing but love matches, means even more,
perhaps, than you probably at first realize. It means that for the first time in
human history the principle of sexual selection, with its tendency to preserve
and transmit the better types of the race, and let the inferior types drop out,
has unhindered operation. The necessities of poverty, the need of having a home,
no longer tempt women to accept as the fathers of their children men whom they
neither can love nor respect. Wealth and rank no longer divert attention from
personal qualities. Gold no longer gilds the straitened forehead of the fool.
The gifts of person, mind, and disposition; beauty, wit, eloquence, kindness,
generosity, geniality, courage, are sure of transmission to posterity. Every
generation is sifted through a little finer mesh than the last. The attributes
that human nature admires are preserved, those that repel it are left behind.
There are, of course, a great many women who with love must mingle admiration,
and seek to wed greatly, but these not the less obey the same law, for to wed
greatly now is not to marry men of fortune or title, but those who have risen
above their fellows by the solidity or brilliance of their services to humanity.
These form nowadays the only aristocracy with which alliance is distinction.
    You were speaking, a day or two ago, of the physical superiority of our
people to your contemporaries. Perhaps more important than any of the causes I
mentioned then as tending to race purification has been the effect of
untrammeled sexual selection upon the quality of two or three successive
generations. I believe that when you have made a fuller study of our people you
will find in them not only a physical, but a mental and moral improvement. It
would be strange if it were not so, for not only is one of the great laws of
nature now freely working out the salvation of the race, but a profound moral
sentiment has come to its support. Individualism, which in your day was the
animating idea of society, not only was fatal to any vital sentiment of
brotherhood and common interest among living men, but equally to any realization
of the responsibility of the living for the generation to follow. To-day this
sense of responsibility, practically unrecognized in all previous ages, has
become one of the great ethical ideas of the race, reinforcing, with an intense
conviction of duty, the natural impulse to seek in marriage the best and noblest
of the other sex. The result is, that not all the encouragements and incentives
of every sort which we have provided to develop industry, talent, genius,
excellence of whatever kind, are comparable in their effect on our young men
with the fact that our women sit aloft as judges of the race and reserve
themselves to reward the winners. Of all the whips, and spurs, and baits, and
prizes, there is none like the thought of the radiant faces which the laggards
will find averted.
    Celibates nowadays are almost invariably men who have failed to acquit
themselves creditably in the work of life. The woman must be a courageous one,
with a very evil sort of courage, too, whom pity for one of these unfortunates
should lead to defy the opinion of her generation - for otherwise she is free -
so far as to accept him for a husband. I should add that, more exacting and
difficult to resist than any other element in that opinion, she would find the
sentiment of her own sex. Our women have risen to the full height of their
responsibility as the wardens of the world to come, to whose keeping the keys of
the future are confided. Their feeling of duty in this respect amounts to a
sense of religious consecration. It is a cult in which they educate their
daughters from childhood.«
    After going to my room that night, I sat up late to read a romance of
Berrian, handed me by Dr. Leete, the plot of which turned on a situation
suggested by his last words, concerning the modern view of parental
responsibility. A similar situation would almost certainly have been treated by
a nineteenth century romancist so as to excite the morbid sympathy of the reader
with the sentimental selfishness of the lovers, and his resentment toward the
unwritten law which they outraged. I need not describe - for who has not read
»Ruth Elton?« - how different is the course which Berrian takes, and with what
tremendous effect he enforces the principle which he states: »Over the unborn
our power is that of God, and our responsibility like His toward us. As we
acquit ourselves toward them, so let Him deal with us.«
 

                                  Chapter XXVI

I think if a person were ever excusable for losing track of the days of the
week, the circumstances excused me. Indeed, if I had been told that the method
of reckoning time had been wholly changed and the days were now counted in lots
of five, ten, or fifteen instead of seven, I should have been in no way
surprised after what I had already heard and seen of the twentieth century. The
first time that any inquiry as to the days of the week occurred to me was the
morning following the conversation related in the last chapter. At the breakfast
table Dr. Leete asked me if I would care to hear a sermon.
    »Is it Sunday, then?« I exclaimed.
    »Yes,« he replied. »It was on Friday, you see, when we made the lucky
discovery of the buried chamber to which we owe your society this morning. It
was on Saturday morning, soon after midnight, that you first awoke, and Sunday
afternoon when you awoke the second time with faculties fully regained.«
    »So you still have Sundays and sermons,« I said. »We had prophets who
foretold that long before this time the world would have dispensed with both. I
am very curious to know how the ecclesiastical systems fit in with the rest of
your social arrangements. I suppose you have a sort of national church with
official clergymen.«
    Dr. Leete laughed, and Mrs. Leete and Edith seemed greatly amused.
    »Why, Mr. West,« Edith said, »what odd people you must think us. You were
quite done with national religious establishments in the nineteenth century, and
did you fancy we had gone back to them?«
    »But how can voluntary churches and an unofficial clerical profession be
reconciled with national ownership of all buildings, and the industrial service
required of all men?« I answered.
    »The religious practices of the people have naturally changed considerably
in a century,« replied Dr. Leete; »but supposing them to have remained
unchanged, our social system would accommodate them perfectly. The nation
supplies any person or number of persons with buildings on guarantee of the
rent, and they remain tenants while they pay it. As for the clergymen, if a
number of persons wish the services of an individual for any particular end of
their own, apart from the general service of the nation, they can always secure
it, with that individual's own consent, of course, just as we secure the service
of our editors, by contributing from their credit-cards an indemnity to the
nation for the loss of his services in general industry. This idemnity paid the
nation for the individual answers to the salary in your day paid to the
individual himself; and the various applications of this principle leave private
initiative full play in all details to which national control is not applicable.
Now, as to hearing a sermon to-day, if you wish to do so, you can either go to a
church to hear it or stay at home.«
    »How am I to hear it if I stay at home?«
    »Simply by accompanying us to the music room at the proper hour and
selecting an easy chair. There are some who still prefer to hear sermons in
church, but most of our preaching, like our musical performances, is not in
public, but delivered in acoustically prepared chambers, connected by wire with
subscribers' houses. If you prefer to go to a church I shall be glad to
accompany you, but I really don't believe you are likely to hear anywhere a
better discourse than you will at home. I see by the paper that Mr. Barton is to
preach this morning, and he preaches only by telephone, and to audiences often
reaching 150,000.«
    »The novelty of the experience of hearing a sermon under such circumstances
would incline me to be one of Mr. Barton's hearers, if for no other reason,« I
said.
    An hour or two later, as I sat reading in the library, Edith came for me,
and I followed her to the music room, where Dr. and Mrs. Leete were waiting. We
had not more than seated ourselves comfortably when the tinkle of a bell was
heard, and a few moments after the voice of a man, at the pitch of ordinary
conversation, addressed us, with an effect of proceeding from an invisible
person in the room. This was what the voice said: -
 
                              Mr. Barton's Sermon.
 
        »We have had among us, during the past week, a critic from the
        nineteenth century, a living representative of the epoch of our great-
        grandparents. It would be strange if a fact so extraordinary had not
        somewhat strongly affected our imaginations. Perhaps most of us have
        been stimulated to some effort to realize the society of a century ago,
        and figure to ourselves what it must have been like to live then. In
        inviting you now to consider certain reflections upon this subject which
        have occurred to me, I presume that I shall rather follow than divert
        the course of your own thoughts.«
 
Edith whispered something to her father at this point, to which he nodded assent
and turned to me.
    »Mr. West,« he said, »Edith suggests that you may find it slightly
embarrassing to listen to a discourse on the lines Mr. Barton is laying down,
and if so, you need not be cheated out of a sermon. She will connect us with Mr.
Sweetser's speaking room if you say so, and I can still promise you a very good
discourse.«
    »No, no,« I said. »Believe me, I would much rather hear what Mr. Barton has
to say.«
    »As you please,« replied my host.
    When her father spoke to me Edith had touched a screw, and the voice of Mr.
Barton had ceased abruptly. Now at another touch the room was once more filled
with the earnest sympathetic tones which had already impressed me most
favourably.
 
»I venture to assume that one effect has been common with us as a result of this
effort at retrospection, and that it has been to leave us more than ever amazed
at the stupendous change which one brief century has made in the material and
moral conditions of humanity.
    Still, as regards the contrast between the poverty of the nation and the
world in the nineteenth century and their wealth now, it is not greater,
possibly, than had been before seen in human history, perhaps not greater, for
example, than that between the poverty of this country during the earliest
colonial period of the seventeenth century and the relatively great wealth it
had attained at the close of the nineteenth, or between the England of William
the Conqueror and that of Victoria. Although the aggregate riches of a nation
did not then, as now, afford any accurate criterion of the masses of its people,
yet instances like these afford partial parallels for the merely material side
of the contrast between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries. It is when
we contemplate the moral aspect of that contrast that we find ourselves in the
presence of a phenomenon for which history offers no precedent, however far back
we may cast our eye. One might almost be excused who should exclaim, Here,
surely, is something like a miracle! Nevertheless, when we give over idle
wonder, and begin to examine the seeming prodigy critically, we find it no
prodigy at all, much less a miracle. It is not necessary to suppose a moral new
birth of humanity, or a wholesale destruction of the wicked and survival of the
good, to account for the fact before us. It finds its simple and obvious
explanation in the reaction of a changed environment upon human nature. It means
merely that a form of society which was founded on the pseudo self-interest of
selfishness, and appealed solely to the anti-social and brutal side of human
nature, has been replaced by institutions based on the true self-interest of a
rational unselfishness, and appealing to the social and generous instincts of
men.
    My friends, if you would see men again the beasts of prey they seemed in the
nineteenth century, all you have to do is to restore the old social and
industrial system, which taught them to view their natural prey in their
fellow-men, and find their gain in the loss of others. No doubt it seems to you
that no necessity, however dire, would have tempted you to subsist on what
superior skill or strength enabled you to wrest from others equally needy. But
suppose it were not merely your own life that you were responsible for. I know
well that there must have been many a man among our ancestors who, if it had
been merely a question of his own life, would sooner have given it up than
nourished it by bread snatched from others. But this he was not permitted to do.
He had dear lives dependent on him. Men loved women in those days, as now. God
knows how they dared be fathers, but they had babies as sweet, no doubt, to them
as ours to us, whom they must feed, clothe, educate. The gentlest creatures are
fierce when they have young to provide for, and in that wolfish society the
struggle for bread borrowed a peculiar desperation from the tenderest
sentiments. For the sake of those dependent on him, a man might not choose, but
must plunge into the foul fight, - cheat, overreach, supplant, defraud, buy
below worth and sell above, break down the business by which his neighbour fed
his young ones, tempt men to buy what they ought not and to sell what they
should not, grind his labourers, sweat his debtors, cozen his creditors. Though a
man sought it carefully with tears, it was hard to find a way in which he could
earn a living and provide for his family except by pressing in before some
weaker rival and taking the food from his mouth. Even the ministers of religion
were not exempt from this cruel necessity. While they warned their flocks
against the love of money, regard for their families compelled them to keep an
outlook for the pecuniary prizes of their calling. Poor fellows, theirs was
indeed a trying business, preaching to men a generosity and unselfishness which
they and everybody knew would, in the existing state of the world, reduce to
poverty those who should practice them, laying down laws of conduct which the
law of self-preservation compelled men to break. Looking on the inhuman
spectacle of society, these worthy men bitterly bemoaned the depravity of human
nature; as if angelic nature would not have been debauched in such a devil's
school! Ah, my friends, believe me, it is not now in this happy age that
humanity is proving the divinity within it. It was rather in those evil days
when not even the fight for life with one another, the struggle for mere
existence, in which mercy was folly, could wholly banish generosity and kindness
from the earth.
    It is not hard to understand the desperation with which men and women, who
under other conditions would have been full of gentleness and ruth, fought and
tore each other in the scramble for gold, when we realize what it meant to miss
it, what poverty was in that day. For the body it was hunger and thirst, torment
by heat and frost, in sickness neglect, in health unremitting toil; for the
moral nature it meant oppression, contempt, and the patient endurance of
indignity, brutish associations from infancy, the loss of all the innocence of
childhood, the grace of womanhood, the dignity of manhood; for the mind it meant
the death of ignorance, the torpor of all those faculties which distinguish us
from brutes, the reduction of life to a round of bodily functions.
    Ah, my friends, if such a fate as this were offered you and your children as
the only alternative of success in the accumulation of wealth, how long do you
fancy would you be in sinking to the moral level of your ancestors?
    Some two or three centuries ago an act of barbarity was committed in India,
which, though the number of lives destroyed was but a few score, was attended by
such peculiar horrors that its memory is likely to be perpetual. A number of
English prisoners were shut up in a room containing not enough air to supply
one-tenth their number. The unfortunates were gallant men, devoted comrades in
service, but, as the agonies of suffocation began to take hold on them, they
forgot all else, and became involved in a hideous struggle, each one for
himself, and against all others, to force a way to one of the small apertures of
the prison at which alone it was possible to get a breath of air. It was a
struggle in which men became beasts, and the recital of its horrors by the few
survivors so shocked our forefathers that for a century later we find it a stock
reference in their literature as a typical illustration of the extreme
possibilities of human misery, as shocking in its moral as its physical aspect.
They could scarcely have anticipated that to us the Black Hole of Calcutta, with
its press of maddened men tearing and trampling one another in the struggle to
win a place at the breathing holes, would seem a striking type of the society of
their age. It lacked something of being a complete type, however, for in the
Calcutta Black Hole there were no tender women, no little children and old men
and women, no cripples. They were at least all men, strong to bear, who
suffered.
    When we reflect that the ancient order of which I have been speaking was
prevalent up to the end of the nineteenth century, while to us the new order
which succeeded it already seems antique, even our parents having known no
other, we cannot fail to be astounded at the suddenness with which a transition
so profound beyond all previous experience of the race must have been effected.
Some observation of the state of men's minds during the last quarter of the
nineteenth century will, however, in great measure, dissipate this astonishment.
Though general intelligence in the modern sense could not be said to exist in
any community at that time, yet, as compared with previous generations, the one
then on the stage was intelligent. The inevitable consequence of even this
comparative degree of intelligence had been a perception of the evils of
society, such as had never before been general. It is quite true that these
evils had been even worse, much worse, in previous ages. It was the increased
intelligence of the masses which made the difference, as the dawn reveals the
squalor of surroundings which in the darkness may have seemed tolerable. The
key-note of the literature of the period was one of compassion for the poor and
unfortunate, and indignant outcry against the failure of the social machinery to
ameliorate the miseries of men. It is plain from these outbursts that the moral
hideousness of the spectacle about them was, at least by flashes, fully realized
by the best of the men of that time, and that the lives of some of the more
sensitive and generous hearted of them were rendered well-nigh unendurable by
the intensity of their sympathies.
    Although the idea of the vital unity of the family of mankind, the reality
of human brotherhood, was very far from being apprehended by them as the moral
axiom it seems to us, yet it is a mistake to suppose that there was no feeling
at all corresponding to it. I could read you passages of great beauty from some
of their writers which show that the conception was clearly attained by a few,
and no doubt vaguely by many more. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that the
nineteenth century was in name Christian, and the fact that the entire
commercial and industrial frame of society was the embodiment of the
anti-Christian spirit must have had some weight, though I admit it was strangely
little, with the nominal followers of Jesus Christ.
    When we inquire why it did not have more, why, in general, long after a vast
majority of men had agreed as to the crying abuses of the existing social
arrangement, they still tolerated it, or contented themselves with talking of
petty reforms in it, we come upon an extraordinary fact. It was the sincere
belief of even the best of men at that epoch that the only stable elements in
human nature, on which a social system could be safely founded, were its worst
propensities. They had been taught and believed that greed and self-seeking were
all that held mankind together, and that all human associations would fall to
pieces if anything were done to blunt the edge of these motives or curb their
operation. In a word, they believed - even those who longed to believe otherwise
- the exact reverse of what seems to us self-evident; they believed, that is,
that the anti-social qualities of men, and not their social qualities, were what
furnished the cohesive force of society. It seemed reasonable to them that men
lived together solely for the purpose of overreaching and oppressing one
another, and of being overreaching and oppressed, and that while a society that
gave full scope to these propensities could stand, there would be little chance
for one based on the idea of coöperation for the benefit of all. It seems absurd
to expect any one to believe that convictions like these were ever seriously
entertained by men; but that they were not only entertained by our
great-grandfathers, but were responsible for the long delay in doing away with
the ancient order, after a conviction of its intolerable abuses had become
general, is as well established as any fact in history can be. Just here you
will find the explanation of the profound pessimism of the literature of the
last quarter of the nineteenth century, the note of melancholy in its poetry,
and the cynicism of its humour.
    Feeling that the condition of the race was unendurable, they had no clear
hope of anything better. They believed that the evolution of humanity had
resulted in leading it into a cul de sac, and that there was no way of getting
forward. The frame of men's minds at this time is strikingly illustrated by
treatises which have come down to us, and may even now be consulted in our
libraries by the curious, in which laborious arguments are pursued to prove that
despite the evil plight of men, life was still, by some slight preponderance of
considerations, probably better worth living than leaving. Despising themselves,
they despised their Creator. There was a general decay of religious belief. Pale
and watery gleams, from skies thickly veiled by doubt and dread, alone lighted
up the chaos of earth. That men should doubt Him whose breath is in their
nostrils, or dread the hands that moulded them, seems to us indeed a pitiable
insanity; but we must remember that children who are brave by day have sometimes
foolish fears at night. The dawn has come since then. It is very easy to believe
in that fatherhood of God in the twentieth century.
    Briefly, as must needs be in a discourse of this character, I have adverted
to some of the causes which had prepared men's minds for the change from the old
to the new order, as well as some causes of the conservatism of despair which
for a while held it back after the time was ripe. To wonder at the rapidity with
which the change was completed after its possibility was first entertained is to
forget the intoxicating effect of hope upon minds long accustomed to despair.
The sunburst, after so long and dark a night, must needs have had a dazzling
effect. From the moment men allowed themselves to believe that humanity after
all had not been meant for a dwarf, that its squat stature was not the measure
of its possible growth, but that it stood upon the verge of an avatar of
limitless development, the reaction must needs have been overwhelming. It is
evident that nothing was able to stand against the enthusiasm which the new
faith inspired.
    Here, at last, men must have felt, was a cause compared with which the
grandest of historic causes had been trivial. It was doubtless because it could
have commanded millions of martyrs, that none were needed. The change of a
dynasty in a petty kingdom of the old world often cost more lives than did the
revolution which set the feet of the human race at last in the right way.
    Doubtless it ill beseems one to whom the boon of life in our resplendent age
has been vouchsafed to wish his destiny other, and yet I have often thought that
I would fain exchange my share in this serene and golden day for a place in that
stormy epoch of transition, when heroes burst the barred gate of the future and
revealed to the kindling gaze of a hopeless race, in place of the blank wall
that had closed its path, a vista of progress whose end, for very excess of
light, still dazzles us. Ah, my friends! who will say that to have lived then,
when the weakest influence was a lever to whose touch the centuries trembled,
was not worth a share even in this era of fruition?
    You know the story of that last, greatest, and most bloodless of
revolutions. In the time of one generation men laid aside the social traditions
and practices of barbarians, and assumed a social order worthy of rational and
human beings. Ceasing to be predatory in their habits, they became co-workers,
and found in fraternity, at once, the science of wealth and happiness. What
shall I eat and drink, and wherewithal shall I be clothed? stated as a problem
beginning and ending in self, had been an anxious and an endless one. But when
once it was conceived, not from the individual, but the fraternal standpoint,
What shall we eat and drink, and wherewithal shall we be clothed? - its
difficulties vanished.
    Poverty with servitude had been the result, for the mass of humanity, of
attempting to solve the problem of maintenance from the individual standpoint,
but no sooner had the nation become the sole capitalist and employer than not
alone did plenty replace poverty, but the last vestige of the serfdom of man to
man disappeared from earth. Human slavery, so often vainly scotched, at last was
killed. The means of subsistence no longer doled out by men to women, by
employer to employed, by rich to poor, was distributed from a common stock as
among children at the father's table. It was impossible for a man any longer to
use his fellow-men as tools for his own profit. His esteem was the only sort of
gain he could thenceforth make out of him. There was no more either arrogance or
servility in the relations of human beings to one another. For the first time
since the creation every man stood up straight before God. The fear of want and
the lust of gain became extinct motives when abundance was assured to all and
immoderate possessions made impossible of attainment. There were no more beggars
nor almoners. Equity left charity without an occupation. The ten commandments
became well-nigh obsolete in a world where there was no temptation to theft, no
occasion to lie either for fear or favour, no room for envy where all were equal,
and little provocation to violence where men were disarmed of power to injure
one another. Humanity's ancient dream of liberty, equality, fraternity, mocked
by so many ages, at last was realized.
    As in the old society the generous, the just, the tender-hearted had been
placed at a disadvantage by the possession of those qualities, so in the new
society the cold-hearted, the greedy, and self-seeking found themselves out of
joint with the world. Now that the conditions of life for the first time ceased
to operate as a forcing process to develop the brutal qualities of human nature,
and the premium which had heretofore encouraged selfishness was not only
removed, but placed upon unselfishness, it was for the first time possible to
see what unperverted human nature really was like. The depraved tendencies,
which had previously overgrown and obscured the better to so large an extent,
now withered like cellar fungi in the open air, and the nobler qualities showed
a sudden luxuriance which turned cynics into panegyrists and for the first time
in human history tempted mankind to fall in love with itself. Soon was fully
revealed, what the divines and philosophers of the old world never would have
believed, that human nature in its essential qualities is good, not bad, that
men by their natural intention and structure are generous, not selfish, pitiful,
not cruel, sympathetic, not arrogant, godlike in aspirations, instinct with
divinest impulses of tenderness and self-sacrifice, images of God indeed, not
the travesties upon Him they had seemed. The constant pressure, through
numberless generations, of conditions of life which might have perverted angels,
had not been able to essentially alter the natural nobility of the stock, and
these conditions once removed, like a bent tree, it had sprung back to its
normal uprightness.
    To put the whole matter in the nutshell of a parable, let me compare
humanity in the olden time to a rosebush planted in a swamp, watered with black
bog-water, breathing miasmatic fogs by day, and chilled with poison dews at
night. Innumerable generations of gardeners had done their best to make it
bloom, but beyond an occasional half-opened bud with a worm at the heart, their
efforts had been unsuccessful. Many, indeed, claimed that the bush was no
rosebush at all, but a noxious shrub, fit only to be uprooted and burned. The
gardeners, for the most part, however, held that the bush belonged to the rose
family, but had some ineradicable taint about it, which prevented the buds from
coming out, and accounted for its generally sickly condition. There were a few,
indeed, who maintained that the stock was good enough, that the trouble was in
the bog, and that under more favourable conditions the plant might be expected to
do better. But these persons were not regular gardeners, and being condemned by
the latter as mere theorists and day dreamers, were, for the most part, so
regarded by the people. Moreover, urged some eminent moral philosophers, even
conceding for the sake of the argument that the bush might possibly do better
elsewhere, it was a more valuable discipline for the buds to try to bloom in a
bog than it would be under more favourable conditions. The buds that succeeded in
opening might indeed be very rare, and the flowers pale and scentless, but they
represented far more moral effort than if they had bloomed spontaneously in a
garden.
    The regular gardeners and the moral philosophers had their way. The bush
remained rooted in the bog, and the old course of treatment went on. Continually
new varieties of forcing mixtures were applied to the roots, and more recipes
than could be numbered, each declared by its advocates the best and only
suitable preparation, were used to kill the vermin and remove the mildew. This
went on a very long time. Occasionally some one claimed to observe a slight
improvement in the appearance of the bush, but there were quite as many who
declared that it did not look so well as it used to. On the whole there could
not be said to be any marked change. Finally, during a period of general
despondency as to the prospects of the bush where it was, the idea of
transplanting it was again mooted, and this time found favour. Let us try it, was
the general voice. Perhaps it may thrive better elsewhere, and here it is
certainly doubtful if it be worth cultivating longer. So it came about that the
rosebush of humanity was transplanted, and set in sweet, warm, dry earth, where
the sun bathed it, the stars wooed it, and the south wind caressed it. Then it
appeared that it was indeed a rosebush. The vermin and the mildew disappeared,
and the bush was covered with most beautiful red roses, whose fragrance filled
the world.
    It is a pledge of the destiny appointed for us that the Creator has set in
our hearts an infinite standard of achievement, judged by which our past
attainments seem always insignificant, and the goal never nearer. Had our
forefathers conceived a state of society in which men should live together like
brethren dwelling in unity, without strifes or envying, violence or
overreaching, and where, at the price of a degree of labour not greater than
health demands, in their chosen occupations, they should be wholly freed from
care for the morrow and left with no more concern for their livelihood than
trees which are watered by unfailing streams, - had they conceived such a
condition, I say, it would have seemed to them nothing less than paradise. They
would have confounded it with their idea of heaven, nor dreamed that there could
possibly lie further beyond anything to be desired or striven for.
    But how is it with us who stand on this height which they gazed up to?
Already we have well-nigh forgotten, except when it is especially called to our
minds by some occasion like the present, that it was not always with men as it
is now. It is a strain on our imaginations to conceive the social arrangements
of our immediate ancestors. We find them grotesque. The solution of the problem
of physical maintenance so as to banish care and crime, so far from seeming to
us an ultimate attainment, appears but as a preliminary to anything like real
human progress. We have but relieved ourselves of an impertinent and needless
harassment which hindered our ancestors from undertaking the real ends of
existence. We are merely stripped for the race; no more. We are like a child
which has just learned to stand upright and to walk. It is a great event, from
the child's point of view, when he first walks. Perhaps he fancies that there
can be little beyond that achievement, but a year later he has forgotten that he
could not always walk. His horizon did but widen when he rose, and enlarge as he
moved. A great event indeed, in one sense, was his first step, but only as a
beginning, not as the end. His true career was but then first entered on. The
enfranchisement of humanity in the last century, from mental and physical
absorption in working and scheming for the more bodily necessities, may be
regarded as a species of second birth of the race, without which its first birth
to an existence that was but a burden would forever have remained unjustified,
but whereby it is now abundantly vindicated. Since then, humanity has entered on
a new phase of spiritual development, an evolution of higher faculties, the very
existence of which in human nature our ancestors scarcely suspected. In place of
the dreary hopelessness of the nineteenth century, its profound pessimism as to
the future of humanity, the animating idea of the present age is an enthusiastic
conception of the opportunities of our earthly existence, and the unbounded
possibilities of human nature. The betterment of mankind from generation to
generation, physically, mentally, morally, is recognized as the one great object
supremely worthy of effort and of sacrifice. We believe the race for the first
time to have entered on the realization of God's ideal of it, and each
generation must now be a step upward.
    Do you ask what we look for when unnumbered generations shall have passed
away? I answer, the way stretches far before us, but the end is lost in light.
For twofold is the return of man to God who is our home, the return of the
individual by the way of death, and the return of the race by the fulfilment of
the evolution, when the divine secret hidden in the germ shall be perfectly
unfolded. With a tear for the dark past, turn we then to the dazzling future,
and, veiling our eyes, press forward. The long and weary winter of the race is
ended. Its summer has begun. Humanity has burst the chrysalis. The heavens are
before it.«
 

                                 Chapter XXVII

I never could tell just why, but Sunday afternoon during my old life had been a
time when I was peculiarly subject to melancholy, when the colour unaccountably
faded out of all the aspects of life, and everything appeared pathetically
uninteresting. The hours, which in general were wont to bear me easily on their
wings, lost the power of flight, and toward the close of the day, drooping quite
to earth, had fairly to be dragged along by main strength. Perhaps it was partly
owing to the established association of ideas that, despite the utter change in
my circumstances, I fell into a state of profound depression on the afternoon of
this my first Sunday in the twentieth century.
    It was not, however, on the present occasion a depression without specific
cause, the mere vague melancholy I have spoken of, but a sentiment suggested and
certainly quite justified by my position. The sermon of Mr. Barton, with its
constant implication of the vast moral gap between the century to which I
belonged and that in which I found myself, had had an effect strongly to
accentuate my sense of loneliness in it. Considerately and philosophically as he
had spoken, his words could scarcely have failed to leave upon my mind a strong
impression of the mingled pity, curiosity, and aversion which I, as a
representative of an abhorred epoch, must excite in all around me.
    The extraordinary kindness with which I had been treated by Dr. Leete and
his family, and especially the goodness of Edith, had hitherto prevented my
fully realizing that their real sentiment toward me must necessarily be that of
the whole generation to which they belonged. The recognition of this, as
regarded Dr. Leete and his amiable wife, however painful, I might have endured,
but the conviction that Edith must share their feeling was more than I could
bear.
    The crushing effect with which this belated perception of a fact so obvious
came to me opened my eyes fully to something which perhaps the reader has
already suspected, - I loved Edith.
    Was it strange that I did? The affecting occasion on which our intimacy had
begun, when her hands had drawn me out of the whirlpool of madness; the fact
that her sympathy was the vital breath which had set me up in this new life and
enabled me to support it; my habit of looking to her as the mediator between me
and the world around in a sense that even her father was not, - these were
circumstances that had predetermined a result which her remarkable loveliness of
person and disposition would alone have accounted for. It was quite inevitable
that she should have come to seem to me, in a sense quite different from the
usual experience of lovers, the only woman in this world. Now that I had become
suddenly sensible of the fatuity of the hopes I had begun to cherish, I suffered
not merely what another lover might, but in addition a desolate loneliness, an
utter forlornness, such as no other lover, however unhappy, could have felt.
    My hosts evidently saw that I was depressed in spirits, and did their best
to divert me. Edith especially, I could see, was distressed for me, but
according to the usual perversity of lovers, having once been so mad as to dream
of receiving something more from her, there was no longer any virtue for me in a
kindness that I knew was only sympathy.
    Toward nightfall, after secluding myself in my room most of the afternoon, I
went into the garden to walk about. The day was overcast, with an autumnal
flavour in the warm, still air. Finding myself near the excavation, I entered the
subterranean chamber and sat down there. »This,« I muttered to myself, »is the
only home I have. Let me stay here, and not go forth any more.« Seeking aid from
the familiar surroundings, I endeavoured to find a sad sort of consolation in
reviving the past and summoning up the forms and faces that were about me in my
former life. It was in vain. There was no longer any life in them. For nearly
one hundred years the stars had been looking down on Edith Bartlett's grave, and
the graves of all my generation.
    The past was dead, crushed beneath a century's weight, and from the present
I was shut out. There was no place for me anywhere. I was neither dead nor
properly alive.
    »Forgive me for following you.«
    I looked up. Edith stood in the door of the subterranean room, regarding me
smilingly, but with eyes full of sympathetic distress.
    »Send me away if I am intruding on you,« she said; »but we saw that you were
out of spirits, and you know you promised to let me know if that were so. You
have not kept your word.«
    I rose and came to the door, trying to smile, but making, I fancy, rather
sorry work of it, for the sight of her loveliness brought home to me the more
poignantly the cause of my wretchedness.
    »I was feeling a little lonely, that is all,« I said. »Has it never occurred
to you that my position is so much more utterly alone than any human being's
ever was before that a new word is really needed to describe it?«
    »Oh, you must not talk that way, - you must not let yourself feel that way,
- you must not!« she exclaimed, with moistened eyes. »Are we not your friends?
It is your own fault if you will not let us be. You need not be lonely.«
    »You are good to me beyond my power of understanding,« I said, »but don't
you suppose that I know it is pity merely, sweet pity, but pity only. I should
be a fool not to know that I cannot seem to you as other men of your own
generation do, but as some strange uncanny being, a stranded creature of an
unknown sea, whose forlornness touches your compassion despite its
grotesqueness. I have been so foolish, you were so kind, as to almost forget
that this must needs be so, and to fancy I might in time become naturalized, as
we used to say, in this age, so as to feel like one of you and to seem to you
like the other men about you. But Mr. Barton's sermon taught me how vain such a
fancy is, how great the gulf between us must seem to you.«
    »Oh that miserable sermon!« she exclaimed, fairly crying now in her
sympathy, »I wanted you not to hear it. What does he know of you? He has read in
old musty books about your times, that is all. What do you care about him, to
let yourself be vexed by anything he said? Isn't it anything to you, that we who
know you feel differently? Don't you care more about what we think of you than
what he does who never saw you? Oh, Mr. West! you don't know, you can't think,
how it makes me feel to see you so forlorn. I can't have it so. What can I say
to you? How can I convince you how different our feeling for you is from what
you think?«
    As before, in that other crisis of my fate when she had come to me, she
extended her hands towards me in a gesture of helpfulness, and, as then, I
caught and held them in my own; her bosom heaved with strong emotion, and little
tremors in the fingers which I clasped emphasized the depth of her feeling. In
her face, pity contended in a sort of divine spite against the obstacles which
reduced it to impotence. Womanly compassion surely never wore a guise more
lovely.
    Such beauty and such goodness quite melted me, and it seemed that the only
fitting response I could make was to tell her just the truth. Of course I had
not a spark of hope, but on the other hand I had no fear that she would be
angry. She was too pitiful for that. So I said presently, »It is very ungrateful
in me not to be satisfied with such kindness as you have shown me, and are
showing me now. But are you so blind as not to see why they are not enough to
make me happy? Don't you see that it is because I have been mad enough to love
you?«
    At my last words she blushed deeply and her eyes fell before mine, but she
made no effort to withdraw her hands from my clasp. For some moments she stood
so, panting a little. Then blushing deeper than ever, but with a dazzling smile,
she looked up.
    »Are you sure it is not you who are blind?« she said.
    That was all, but it was enough, for it told me that, unaccountable,
incredible as it was, this radiant daughter of a golden age had bestowed upon me
not alone her pity, but her love. Still, I half believed I must be under some
blissful hallucination even as I clasped her in my arms. »If I am beside
myself,« I cried, »let me remain so.«
    »It is I whom you must think beside myself,« she panted, escaping from my
arms when I had barely tasted the sweetness of her lips. »Oh! oh! what must you
think of me almost to throw myself in the arms of one I have known but a week? I
did not mean that you should find it out so soon, but I was so sorry for you I
forgot what I was saying. No, no; you must not touch me again till you know who
I am. After that, sir, you shall apologize to me very humbly for thinking, as I
know you do, that I have been over quick to fall in love with you. After you
know who I am, you will be bound to confess that it was nothing less than my
duty to fall in love with you at first sight, and that no girl of proper feeling
in my place could do otherwise.«
    As may be supposed, I would have been quite content to waive explanations,
but Edith was resolute that there should be no more kisses until she had been
vindicated from all suspicion of precipitancy in the bestowal of her affections,
and I was fain to follow the lovely enigma into the house. Having come where her
mother was, she blushingly whispered something in her ear and ran away, leaving
us together.
    It then appeared that, strange as my experience had been, I was now first to
know what was perhaps its strangest feature. From Mrs. Leete I learned that
Edith was the great-granddaughter of no other than my lost love, Edith Bartlett.
After mourning me for fourteen years, she had made a marriage of esteem, and
left a son who had been Mrs. Leete's father. Mrs. Leete had never seen her
grandmother, but had heard much of her, and, when her daughter was born, gave
her the name of Edith. This fact might have tended to increase the interest
which the girl took, as she grew up, in all that concerned her ancestress, and
especially the tragic story of the supposed death of the lover, whose wife she
expected to be, in the conflagration of his house. It was a tale well calculated
to touch the sympathy of a romantic girl, and the fact that the blood of the
unfortunate heroine was in her own veins naturally heightened Edith's interest
in it. A portrait of Edith Bartlett and some of her papers, including a packet
of my own letters, were among the family heirlooms. The picture represented a
very beautiful young woman about whom it was easy to imagine all manner of
tender and romantic things. My letters gave Edith some material for forming a
distinct idea of my personality, and both together sufficed to make the sad old
story very real to her. She used to tell her parents, half jestingly, that she
would never marry till she found a lover like Julian West, and there were none
such nowadays.
    Now all this, of course, was merely the day-dreaming of a girl whose mind
had never been taken up by a love affair of her own, and would have had no
serious consequence but for the discovery that morning of the buried vault in
her father's garden and the revelation of the identity of its inmate. For when
the apparently lifeless form had been borne into the house, the face in the
locket found upon the breast was instantly recognized as that of Edith Bartlett,
and by that fact, taken in connection with the other circumstances, they knew
that I was no other than Julian West. Even had there been no thought, as at
first there was not, of my resuscitation, Mrs. Leete said she believed that this
event would have affected her daughter in a critical and life-long manner. The
presumption of some subtle ordering of destiny, involving her fate with mine,
would under all circumstances have possessed an irresistible fascination for
almost any woman.
    Whether when I came back to life a few hours afterwards, and from the first
seemed to turn to her with a peculiar dependence and to find a special solace in
her company, she had been too quick in giving her love at the first sign of
mine, I could now, her mother said, judge for myself. If I thought so, I must
remember that this, after all, was the twentieth and not the nineteenth century,
and love was, no doubt, now quicker in growth, as well as franker in utterance
than then.
    From Mrs. Leete I went to Edith. When I found her, it was first of all to
take her by both hands and stand a long time in rapt contemplation of her face.
As I gazed, the memory of that other Edith, which had been affected as with a
benumbing shock by the tremendous experience that had parted us, revived, and my
heart was dissolved with tender and pitiful emotions, but also very blissful
ones. For she who brought to me so poignantly the sense of my loss was to make
that loss good. It was as if from her eyes Edith Bartlett looked into mine, and
smiled consolation to me. My fate was not alone the strangest, but the most
fortunate that ever befell a man. A double miracle had been wrought for me. I
had not been stranded upon the shore of this strange world to find myself alone
and companionless. My love, whom I had dreamed lost, had been reëmbodied for my
consolation. When at last, in an ecstasy of gratitude and tenderness, I folded
the lovely girl in my arms, the two Ediths were blended in my thought, nor have
they ever since been clearly distinguished. I was not long in finding that on
Edith's part there was a corresponding confusion of identities. Never, surely,
was there between freshly united lovers a stranger talk than ours that
afternoon. She seemed more anxious to have me speak of Edith Bartlett than of
herself, of how I had loved her than how I loved herself, rewarding my fond
words concerning another woman with tears and tender smiles and pressures of the
hand.
    »You must not love me too much for myself,« she said. »I shall be very
jealous for her. I shall not let you forget her. I am going to tell you
something which you may think strange. Do you not believe that spirits sometimes
come back to the world to fulfil some work that lay near their hearts? What if
I were to tell you that I have sometimes thought that her spirit lives in me, -
that Edith Bartlett, not Edith Leete, is my real name. I cannot know it; of
course none of us can know who we really are; but I can feel it. Can you wonder
that I have such a feeling, seeing how my life was affected by her and by you,
even before you came. So you see you need not trouble to love me at all, if only
you are true to her. I shall not be likely to be jealous.«
    Dr. Leete had gone out that afternoon, and I did not have an interview with
him till later. He was not, apparently, wholly unprepared for the intelligence I
conveyed, and shook my hand heartily.
    »Under any ordinary circumstances, Mr. West, I should say that this step had
been taken on rather short acquaintance; but these are decidedly not ordinary
circumstances. In fairness, perhaps I ought to tell you,« he added, smilingly,
»that while I cheerfully consent to the proposed arrangement, you must not feel
too much indebted to me, as I judge my consent is a mere formality. From the
moment the secret of the locket was out, it had to be, I fancy. Why, bless me,
if Edith had not been there to redeem her great-grandmother's pledge, I really
apprehend that Mrs. Leete's loyalty to me would have suffered a severe strain.«
    That evening the garden was bathed in moonlight, and till midnight Edith and
I wandered to and fro there, trying to grow accustomed to our happiness.
    »What should I have done if you had not cared for me?« she exclaimed. »I was
afraid you were not going to. What should I have done then, when I felt I was
consecrated to you! As soon as you came back to life, I was as sure as if she
had told me that I was to be to you what she could not be, but that could only
be if you would let me. Oh, how I wanted to tell you that morning, when you felt
so terribly strange among us, who I was, but dared not open my lips about that,
or let father or mother« -
    »That must have been what you would not let your father tell me!« I
exclaimed, referring to the conversation I had overheard as I came out of my
trance.
    »Of course it was,« Edith laughed. »Did you only just guess that? Father
being only a man, thought that it would make you feel among friends to tell you
who we were. He did not think of me at all. But mother knew what I meant, and so
I had my way. I could never have looked you in the face if you had known who I
was. It would have been forcing myself on you quite too boldly. I am afraid you
think I did that to-day, as it was. I am sure I did not mean to, for I know
girls were expected to hide their feelings in your day, and I was dreadfully
afraid of shocking you. Ah me, how hard it must have been for them to have
always had to conceal their love like a fault. Why did they think it such a
shame to love any one till they had been given permission? It is so odd to think
of waiting for permission to fall in love. Was it because men in those days were
angry when girls loved them? That is not the way women would feel, I am sure, or
men either, I think, now. I don't understand it at all. That will be one of the
curious things about the women of those days that you will have to explain to
me. I don't believe Edith Bartlett was so foolish as the others.«
    After sundry ineffectual attempts at parting, she finally insisted that we
must say good night. I was about to imprint upon her lips the positively last
kiss, when she said, with an indescribable archness: -
    »One thing troubles me. Are you sure that you quite forgive Edith Bartlett
for marrying any one else? The books that have come down to us make out lovers
of your time more jealous than fond, and that is what makes me ask. It would be
a great relief to me if I could feel sure that you were not in the least jealous
of my great-grandfather for marrying your sweetheart. May I tell my
great-grandmother's picture when I go to my room that you quite forgive her for
proving false to you?«
    Will the reader believe it, this coquettish quip, whether the speaker
herself had any idea of it or not, actually touched and with the touching cured
a preposterous ache of something like jealousy which I had been vaguely
conscious of ever since Mrs. Leete had told me of Edith Bartlett's marriage.
Even while I had been holding Edith Bartlett's great-granddaughter in my arms, I
had not, till this moment, so illogical are some of our feelings, distinctly
realized that but for that marriage I could not have done so. The absurdity of
this frame of mind could only be equalled by the abruptness with which it
dissolved as Edith's roguish query cleared the fog from my perceptions. I
laughed as I kissed her.
    »You may assure her of my entire forgiveness,« I said, »although if it had
been any man but your great-grandfather whom she married, it would have been a
very different matter.«
    On reaching my chamber that night I did not open the musical telephone that
I might be lulled to sleep with soothing tunes, as had become my habit. For once
my thoughts made better music than even twentieth century orchestras discourse,
and it held me enchanted till well toward morning, when I fell asleep.
 

                                 Chapter XXVIII

»It's a little after the time you told me to wake you, sir. You did not come out
of it as quick as common, sir.«
    The voice was the voice of my man Sawyer. I started bolt upright in bed and
stared around. I was in my underground chamber. The mellow light of the lamp
which always burned in the room when I occupied it illumined the familiar walls
and furnishings. By my bedside, with the glass of sherry in his hand which Dr.
Pillsbury prescribed on first rousing from a mesmeric sleep, by way of awakening
the torpid physical functions, stood Sawyer.
    »Better take this right off, sir,« he said, as I stared blankly at him. »You
look kind of flushed like, sir, and you need it.«
    I tossed off the liquor and began to realize what had happened to me. It
was, of course, very plain. All that about the twentieth century had been a
dream. I had but dreamed of that enlightened and care-free race of men and their
ingeniously simple institutions, of the glorious new Boston with its domes and
pinnacles, its gardens and fountains, and its universal reign of comfort. The
amiable family which I had learned to know so well, my genial host and Mentor,
Dr. Leete, his wife, and their daughter, the second and more beauteous Edith, my
betrothed, - these, too, had been but figments of a vision.
 
For a considerable time I remained in the attitude in which this conviction had
come over me, sitting up in bed gazing at vacancy, absorbed in recalling the
scenes and incidents of my fantastic experience. Sawyer, alarmed at my looks,
was meanwhile anxiously inquiring what was the matter with me. Roused at length
by his importunities to a recognition of my surroundings, I pulled myself
together with an effort and assured the faithful fellow that I was all right. »I
have had an extraordinary dream, that's all, Sawyer,« I said, »a
most-ex-traor-dinary-dream.«
 
I dressed in a mechanical way, feeling light-headed and oddly uncertain of
myself, and sat down to the coffee and rolls which Sawyer was in the habit of
providing for my refreshment before I left the house. The morning newspaper lay
by the plate. I took it up, and my eye fell on the date, May 31, 1887. I had
known, of course, from the moment I opened my eyes, that my long and detailed
experience in another century had been a dream, and yet it was startling to have
it so conclusively demonstrated that the world was but a few hours older than
when I had lain down to sleep.
 
Glancing at the table of contents at the head of the paper, which reviewed the
news of the morning, I read the following summary: -
 
        »Foreign Affairs. - The impending war between France and Germany. The
        French Chambers asked for new military credits to meet Germany's
        increase of her army. Probability that all Europe will be involved in
        case of war. - Great suffering among the unemployed in London. They
        demand work. Monster demonstration to be made. The authorities uneasy. -
        Great strikes in Belgium. The government preparing to repress outbreaks.
        Shocking facts in regard to the employment of girls in Belgium coal
        mines. - Wholesale evictions in Ireland.
            Home Affairs. - The epidemic of fraud unchecked. Embezzlement of
        half a million in New York. - Misappropriation of a trust fund by
        executors. Orphans left penniless. - Clever system of thefts by a bank
        teller; $50,000 gone. - The coal barons decide to advance the price of
        coal and reduce production. - Speculators engineering a great wheat
        corner at Chicago. - A clique forcing up the price of coffee. - Enormous
        land-grabs of Western syndicates. - Revelations of shocking corruption
        among Chicago officials. Systematic bribery. - The trials of the Boodle
        aldermen to go on at New York. - Large failures of business houses.
        Fears of a business crisis. - A large grist of burglaries and larcenies.
        - A woman murdered in cold blood for her money at New Haven. - A
        householder shot by a burglar in this city last night. - A man shoots
        himself in Worcester because he could not get work. A large family left
        destitute. - An aged couple in New Jersey commit suicide rather than go
        to the poor- house. - Pitiable destitution among the women wage-workers
        in the great cities. - Startling growth of illiteracy in Massachusetts.
        - More insane asylums wanted. - Decoration Day addresses. Professor
        Brown's oration on the moral grandeur of nineteenth century
        civilization.«
 
It was indeed the nineteenth century to which I had awake; there could be no
kind of doubt about that. Its complete microcosm this summary of the day's news
had presented, even to that last unmistakable touch of fatuous self-complacency.
Coming after such a damning indictment of the age as that one day's chronicle of
world-wide bloodshed, greed, and tyranny, was a bit of cynicism worthy of
Mephistopheles, and yet of all whose eyes it had met this morning I was,
perhaps, the only one who perceived the cynicism, and but yesterday I should
have perceived it no more than the others. That strange dream it was which had
made all the difference. For I know not how long, I forgot my surroundings after
this, and was again in fancy moving in that vivid dream-world, in that glorious
city, with its homes of simple comfort and its gorgeous public palaces. Around
me were again faces unmarred by arrogance or servility, by envy or greed, by
anxious care or feverish ambition, and stately forms of men and women who had
never known fear of a fellow man or depended on his favour, but always, in the
words of that sermon which still rang in my ears, had »stood up straight before
God.«
    With a profound sigh and a sense of irreparable loss, not the less poignant
that it was a loss of what had never really been, I roused at last from my
reverie, and soon after left the house.
    A dozen times between my door and Washington Street I had to stop and pull
myself together, such power had been in that vision of the Boston of the future
to make the real Boston strange. The squalor and malodorousness of the town
struck me, from the moment I stood upon the street, as facts I had never before
observed. But yesterday, moreover, it had seemed quite a matter of course that
some of my fellow-citizens should wear silks, and others rags, that some should
look well fed, and others hungry. Now on the contrary the glaring disparities in
the dress and condition of the men and women who brushed each other on the
sidewalks shocked me at every step, and yet more the entire indifference which
the prosperous showed to the plight of the unfortunate. Were these human beings,
who could behold the wretchedness of their fellows without so much as a change
of countenance? And yet, all the while, I knew well that it was I who had
changed, and not my contemporaries. I had dreamed of a city whose people fared
all alike as children of one family and were one another's keepers in all
things.
    Another feature of the real Boston, which assumed the extraordinary effect
of strangeness that marks familiar things seen in a new light, was the
prevalence of advertising. There had been no personal advertising in the Boston
of the twentieth century, because there was no need of any, but here the walls
of the buildings, the windows, the broadsides of the newspapers in every hand,
the very pavements, everything in fact in sight, save the sky, were covered with
the appeals of individuals who sought, under innumerable pretexts, to attract
the contributions of others to their support. However the wording might vary,
the tenor of all these appeals was the same: -
    »Help John Jones. Never mind the rest. They are frauds. I, John Jones, am
the right one. Buy of me. Employ me. Visit me. Hear me, John Jones. Look at me.
Make no mistake. John Jones is the man and nobody else. Let the rest starve, but
for God's sake remember John Jones!«
    Whether the pathos or the moral repulsiveness of the spectacle most
impressed me, so suddenly become a stranger in my own city, I know not. Wretched
men, I was moved to cry, who, because they will not learn to be helpers of one
another, are doomed to be beggars of one another from the least to the greatest!
This horrible babel of shameless self-assertion and mutual depreciation, this
stunning clamour of conflicting boasts, appeals, and adjurations, this stupendous
system of brazen beggary, what was it all but the necessity of a society in
which the opportunity to serve the world according to his gifts, instead of
being secured to every man as the first object of social organization, had to be
fought for!
    I reached Washington Street at the busiest point, and there I stood and
laughed aloud, to the scandal of the passers-by. For my life I could not have
helped it, with such a mad humour was I moved at sight of the interminable rows
of stores on either side, up and down the street so far as I could see, - scores
of them, to make the spectacle more utterly preposterous, within a stone's throw
devoted to selling the same sort of goods. Stores! stores! stores! miles of
stores! ten thousand stores to distribute the goods needed by this one city,
which in my dream had been supplied with all things from a single warehouse, as
they were ordered through one great store in every quarter, where the buyer,
without waste of time or labour, found under one roof the world's assortment in
whatever line he desired. There the labour of distribution had been so slight as
to add but a scarcely perceptible fraction to the cost of commodities to the
user. The cost of production was virtually all he paid. But here the mere
distribution of the goods, their handling alone, added a fourth, a third, a half
and more, to the cost. All these ten thousand plants must be paid for, their
rent, their staffs of superintendence, their platoons of salesmen, their ten
thousand sets of accountants, jobbers, and business dependants, with all they
spent in advertising themselves and fighting one another, and the consumers must
do the paying. What a famous process for beggaring a nation!
    Were these serious men I saw about me, or children, who did their business
on such a plan? Could they be reasoning beings, who did not see the folly which,
when the product is made and ready for use, wastes so much of it in getting it
to the user? If people eat with a spoon that leaks half its contents between
bowl and lip, are they not likely to go hungry?
    I had passed through Washington Street thousands of times before and viewed
the ways of those who sold merchandise, but my curiosity concerning them was as
if I had never gone by their way before. I took wondering note of the show
windows of the stores, filled with goods arranged with a wealth of pains and
artistic device to attract the eye. I saw the throngs of ladies looking in, and
the proprietors eagerly watching the effect of the bait. I went within and noted
the hawk-eyed floor-walker watching for business, overlooking the clerks,
keeping them up to their task of inducing the customers to buy, buy, buy, for
money if they had it, for credit if they had it not, to buy what they wanted
not, more than they wanted, what they could not afford. At times I momentarily
lost the clue and was confused by the sight. Why this effort to induce people to
buy? Surely that had nothing to do with the legitimate business of distributing
products to those who needed them. Surely it was the sheerest waste to force
upon people what they did not want, but what might be useful to another. The
nation was so much the poorer for every such achievement. What were these clerks
thinking of? Then I would remember that they were not acting as distributors
like those in the store I had visited in the dream Boston. They were not serving
the public interest, but their immediate personal interest, and it was nothing
to them what the ultimate effect of their course on the general prosperity might
be, if but they increased their own hoard, for these goods were their own, and
the more they sold and the more they got for them, the greater their gain. The
more wasteful the people were, the more articles they did not want which they
could be induced to buy, the better for these sellers. To encourage prodigality
was the express aim of the ten thousand stores of Boston.
    Nor were these storekeepers and clerks a whit worse men than any others in
Boston. They must earn a living and support their families, and how were they to
find a trade to do it by which did not necessitate placing their individual
interests before those of others and that of all? They could not be asked to
starve while they waited for an order of things such as I had seen in my dream,
in which the interest of each and that of all were identical. But, God in
heaven! what wonder, under such a system as this about me - what wonder that the
city was so shabby, and the people so meanly dressed, and so many of them ragged
and hungry!
    Some time after this it was that I drifted over into South Boston and found
myself among the manufacturing establishments. I had been in this quarter of the
city a hundred times before, just as I had been on Washington Street, but here,
as well as there, I now first perceived the true significance of what I
witnessed. Formerly I had taken pride in the fact that, by actual count, Boston
had some four thousand independent manufacturing establishments; but in this
very multiplicity and independence I recognized now the secret of the
insignificant total product of their industry.
    If Washington Street had been like a lane in Bedlam, this was a spectacle as
much more melancholy as production is a more vital function than distribution.
For not only were these four thousand establishments not working in concert, and
for that reason alone operating at prodigious disadvantage, but, as if this did
not involve a sufficiently disastrous loss of power, they were using their
utmost skill to frustrate one another's effort, praying by night and working by
day for the destruction of one another's enterprises.
    The roar and rattle of wheels and hammers resounding from every side was not
the hum of a peaceful industry, but the clangor of swords wielded by foe-men.
These mills and shops were so many forts, each under its own flag, its guns
trained on the mills and shops about it, and its sappers busy below, undermining
them.
    Within each one of these forts the strictest organization of industry was
insisted on; the separate gangs worked under a single central authority. No
interference and no duplicating of work were permitted. Each had his allotted
task, and none were idle. By what hiatus in the logical faculty, by what lost
link of reasoning, account, then, for the failure to recognize the necessity of
applying the same principle to the organization of the national industries as a
whole, to see that if lack of organization could impair the efficiency of a
shop, it must have effects as much more disastrous in disabling the industries
of the nation at large as the latter are vaster in volume and more complex in
the relationship of their parts.
    People would be prompt enough to ridicule an army in which there were
neither companies, battalions, regiments, brigades, divisions, or army corps, -
no unit of organization, in fact, larger than the corporal's squad, with no
officer higher than a corporal, and all the corporals equal in authority. And
yet just such an army were the manufacturing industries of nineteenth century
Boston, an army of four thousand independent squads led by four thousand
independent corporals, each with a separate plan of campaign.
    Knots of idle men were to be seen here and there on every side, some idle
because they could find no work at any price, others because they could not get
what they thought a fair price.
    I accosted some of the latter, and they told me their grievances. It was
very little comfort I could give them. »I am sorry for you,« I said. »You get
little enough, certainly, and yet the wonder to me is, not that industries
conducted as these are do not pay you living wages, but that they are able to
pay you any wages at all.«
    Making my way back again after this to the peninsular city, toward three
o'clock I stood on State Street, staring, as if I had never seen them before, at
the banks and brokers' offices, and other financial institutions, of which there
had been in the State Street of my vision no vestige. Business men, confidential
clerks, and errand boys were thronging in and out of the banks, for it wanted
but a few minutes of the closing hour. Opposite me was the bank where I did
business, and presently I crossed the street, and, going in with the crowd,
stood in a recess of the wall looking on at the army of clerks handling money,
and the cues of depositors at the tellers' windows. An old gentleman whom I
knew, a director of the bank, passing me and observing my contemplative
attitude, stopped a moment.
    »Interesting sight, isn't it, Mr. West,« he said. »Wonderful piece of
mechanism; I find it so myself. I like sometimes to stand and look on at it just
as you are doing. It's a poem, sir, a poem, that's what I call it. Did you ever
think, Mr. West, that the bank is the heart of the business system? From it and
to it, in endless flux and reflux, the life blood goes. It is flowing in now. It
will flow out again in the morning;« and pleased with his little conceit, the
old man passed on smiling.
    Yesterday I should have considered the simile apt enough, but since then I
had visited a world incomparably more affluent than this, in which money was
unknown and without conceivable use. I had learned that it had a use in the
world around me only because the work of producing the nation's livelihood,
instead of being regarded as the most strictly public and common of all
concerns, and as such conducted by the nation, was abandoned to the hap-hazard
efforts of individuals. This original mistake necessitated endless exchanges to
bring about any sort of general distribution of products. These exchanges money
effected - how equitably, might be seen in a walk from the tenement house
districts to the Back Bay - at the cost of an army of men taken from productive
labour to manage it, with constant ruinous breakdowns of its machinery, and a
generally debauching influence on mankind which had justified its description,
from ancient time, as the »root of all evil.«
    Alas for the poor old bank director with his poem! He had mistaken the
throbbing of an abscess for the beating of the heart. What he called »a
wonderful piece of mechanism« was an imperfect device to remedy an unnecessary
defect, the clumsy crutch of a self-made cripple.
    After the banks had closed I wandered aimlessly about the business quarter
for an hour or two, and later sat a while on one of the benches of the Common,
finding an interest merely in watching the throngs that passed, such as one has
in studying the populace of a foreign city, so strange since yesterday had my
fellow citizens and their ways become to me. For thirty years I had lived among
them, and yet I seemed to have never noted before how drawn and anxious were
their faces, of the rich as of the poor, the refined, acute faces of the
educated as well as the dull masks of the ignorant. And well it might be so, for
I saw now, as never before I had seen so plainly, that each as he walked
constantly turned to catch the whispers of a spectre at his ear, the spectre of
Uncertainty. »Do your work never so well,« the spectre was whispering, - »rise
early and toil till late, rob cunningly or serve faithfully, you shall never
know security. Rich you may be now and still come to poverty at last. Leave
never so much wealth to your children, you cannot buy the assurance that your
son may not be the servant of your servant, or that your daughter will not have
to sell herself for bread.«
    A man passing by thrust an advertising card in my hand, which set forth the
merits of some new scheme of life insurance. The incidents reminded me of the
only device, pathetic in its admission of the universal need it so poorly
supplied, which offered these tired and hunted men and women even a partial
protection from uncertainty. By this means, those already well-to-do, I
remembered, might purchase a precarious confidence that after their death their
loved ones would not, for a while at least, be trampled under the feet of men.
But this was all, and this was only for those who could pay well for it. What
idea was possible to these wretched dwellers in the land Ishmael, where every
man's hand was against each and the hand of each against every other, of true
life insurance as I had seen it among the people of that dream land, each of
whom, by virtue merely of his membership in the national family, was guaranteed
against need of any sort, by a policy underwritten by one hundred million fellow
countrymen.
    Some time after this it was that I recall a glimpse of myself standing on
the steps of a building on Tremont Street, looking at a military parade. A
regiment was passing. It was the first sight in that dreary day which had
inspired me with any other emotions than wondering pity and amazement. Here at
last were order and reason, an exhibition of what intelligent coöperation can
accomplish. The people who stood looking on with kindling faces, - could it be
that the sight had for them no more than but a spectacular interest? Could they
fail to see that it was their perfect concert of action, their organization
under one control, which made these men the tremendous engine they were, able to
vanquish a mob ten times as numerous? Seeing this so plainly, could they fail to
compare the scientific manner in which the nation went to war with the
unscientific manner in which it went to work? Would they not query since what
time the killing of men had been a task so much more important than feeding and
clothing them, that a trained army should be deemed alone adequate to the
former, while the latter was left to a mob?
    It was now toward nightfall, and the streets were thronged with the workers
from the stores, the shops, and mills. Carried along with the stronger part of
the current, I found myself, as it began to grow dark, in the midst of a scene
of squalor and human degradation such as only the South Cove tenement district
could present. I had seen the mad wasting of human labour; here I saw in direst
shape the want that waste had bred.
    From the black doorways and windows of the rookeries on every side came
gusts of fetid air. The streets and alleys reeked with the effluvia of a slave
ship's between-decks. As I passed I had glimpses within of pale babies gasping
out their lives amid sultry stenches, of hopeless-faced women deformed by
hardship, retaining of womanhood no trait save weakness, while from the windows
leered girls with brows of brass. Like the starving bands of mongrel curs that
infest the streets of Moslem towns, swarms of half-clad brutalized children
filled the air with shrieks and curses as they fought and tumbled among the
garbage that littered the court-yards.
    There was nothing in all this that was new to me. Often had I passed through
this part of the city and witnessed its sights with feelings of disgust mingled
with a certain philosophical wonder at the extremities mortals will endure and
still cling to life. But not alone as regarded the economical follies of this
age, but equally as touched its moral abominations, scales had fallen from my
eyes since that vision of another century. No more did I look upon the woeful
dwellers in this Inferno with a callous curiosity as creatures scarcely human. I
saw in them my brothers and sisters, my parents, my children, flesh of my flesh,
blood of my blood. The festering mass of human wretchedness about me offended
not now my senses merely, but pierced my heart like a knife, so that I could not
repress sighs and groans. I not only saw but felt in my body all that I saw.
    Presently, too, as I observed the wretched beings about me more closely, I
perceived that they were all quite dead. Their bodies were so many living
sepulchres. On each brutal brow was plainly written the hic jacet of a soul dead
within.
    As I looked, horror struck, from one death's head to another, I was affected
by a singular hallucination. Like a wavering translucent spirit face
superimposed upon each of these brutish masks I saw the ideal, the possible face
that would have been the actual if mind and soul had lived. It was not till I
was aware of these ghostly faces, and of the reproach that could not be gainsaid
which was in their eyes, that the full piteousness of the ruin that had been
wrought was revealed to me. I was moved with contrition as with a strong agony,
for I had been one of those who had endured that these things should be. I had
been one of those who, well knowing that they were, had not desired to hear or
be compelled to think much of them, but had gone on as if they were not, seeking
my own pleasure and profit. Therefore now I found upon my garments the blood of
this great multitude of strangled souls of my brothers. The voice of their blood
cried out against me from the ground. Every stone of the reeking pavements,
every brick of the pestilential rookeries, found a tongue and called after me as
I fled: What hast thou done with thy brother Abel?
    I have no clear recollection of anything after this 'till I found myself
standing on the carved stone steps of the magnificent home of my betrothed in
Common-wealth avenue. Amid the tumult of my thoughts that day, I had scarcely
once thought of her, but now obeying some unconscious impulse my feet had found
the familiar way to her door. I was told that the family were at dinner, but
word was sent out that I should join them at table. Besides the family, I found
several guests present, all known to me. The table glittered with plate and
costly china. The ladies were sumptuously dressed and wore the jewels of queens.
The scene was one of costly elegance and lavish luxury. The company was in
excellent spirits, and there was plentiful laughter and a running fire of jests.
    To me it was as if, in wandering through the place of doom, my blood turned
to tears by its sights, and my spirit attuned to sorrow, pity, and despair, I
had happened in some glade upon a merry party of roisterers. I sat in silence
until Edith began to rally me upon my sombre looks. What ailed me? The others
presently joined in the playful assault, and I became a target for quips and
jests. Where had I been, and what had I seen to make such a dull fellow of me?
    »I have been in Golgotha,« at last I answered. »I have seen Humanity hanging
on a cross! Do none of you know what sights the sun and stars look down on in
this city, that you can think and talk of anything else? Do you not know that
close to your doors a great multitude of men and women, flesh of your flesh,
live lives that are one agony from birth to death? Listen! their dwellings are
so near that if you hush your laughter you will hear their grievous voices, the
piteous crying of the little ones that suckle poverty, the hoarse curses of men
sodden in misery, turned half-way back to brutes, the chaffering of an army of
women selling themselves for bread. With what have you stopped your ears that
you do not hear these doleful sounds? For me, I can hear nothing else.«
    Silence followed my words. A passion of pity had shaken me as I spoke, but
when I looked around upon the company, I saw that, far from being stirred as I
was, their faces expressed a cold and hard astonishment, mingled in Edith's with
extreme mortification, in her father's with anger. The ladies were exchanging
scandalized looks, while one of the gentlemen had put up his eyeglass and was
studying me with an air of scientific curiosity. When I saw that things which
were to me so intolerable moved them not at all, that words that melted my heart
to speak had only offended them with the speaker, I was at first stunned and
then overcome with a desperate sickness and faintness at the heart. What hope
was there for the wretched, for the world, if thoughtful men and tender women
were not moved by things like these! Then I bethought myself that it must be
because I had not spoken aright. No doubt I had put the case badly. They were
angry because they thought I was berating them, when God knew I was merely
thinking of the horror of the fact without any attempt to assign the
responsibility for it.
    I restrained my passion, and tried to speak calmly and logically that I
might correct this impression. I told them that I had not meant to accuse them,
as if they, or the rich in general, were responsible for the misery of the
world. True indeed it was, that the superfluity which they wasted would,
otherwise bestowed, relieve much bitter suffering. These costly viands, these
rich wines, these gorgeous fabrics and glistening jewels represented the ransom
of many lives. They were verily not without the guiltiness of those who waste in
a land stricken with famine. Nevertheless, all the waste of all the rich, were
it saved, would go but a little way to cure the poverty of the world. There was
so little to divide that even if the rich went share and share with the poor,
there would be but a common fare of crusts, albeit made very sweet then by
brotherly love.
    The folly of men, not their hard-heartedness, was the great cause of the
world's poverty. It was not the crime of man, nor of any class of men, that made
the race so miserable, but a hideous, ghastly mistake, a colossal
world-darkening blunder. And then I showed them how four fifths of the labour of
men was utterly wasted by the mutual warfare, the lack of organization and
concert among the workers. Seeking to make the matter very plain, I instanced
the case of arid lands where the soil yielded the means of life only by careful
use of the watercourses for irrigation. I showed how in such countries it was
counted the most important function of the government to see that the water was
not wasted by the selfishness or ignorance of individuals, since otherwise there
would be famine. To this end its use was strictly regulated and systematized,
and individuals of their mere caprice were not permitted to dam it or divert it,
or in any way to tamper with it.
    The labour of men, I explained, was the fertilizing stream which alone
rendered earth habitable. It was but a scanty stream at best, and its use
required to be regulated by a system which expended every drop to the best
advantage, if the world were to be supported in abundance. But how far from any
system was the actual practice! Every man wasted the precious fluid as he
wished, animated only by the equal motives of saving his own crop and spoiling
his neighbour's, that his might sell the better. What with greed and what with
spite some fields were flooded while others were parched, and half the water ran
wholly to waste. In such a land, though a few by strength or cunning might win
the means of luxury, the lot of the great mass must be poverty, and of the weak
and ignorant bitter want and perennial famine.
    Let but the famine-stricken nation assume the function it had neglected, and
regulate for the common good the course of the life-giving stream, and the earth
would bloom like one garden, and none of its children lack any good thing. I
described the physical felicity, mental enlightenment, and moral elevation which
would then attend the lives of all men. With fervency I spoke of that new world,
blessed with plenty, purified by justice and sweetened by brotherly kindness,
the world of which I had indeed but dreamed, but which might so easily be made
real. But when I had expected now surely the faces round me to light up with
emotions akin to mine, they grew ever more dark, angry, and scornful. Instead of
enthusiasm, the ladies showed only aversion and dread, while the men interrupted
me with shouts of reprobation and contempt. »Madman!« »Pestilent fellow!«
»Fanatic!« »Enemy of society!« were some of their cries, and the one who had
before taken his eyeglass to me exclaimed, »He says we are to have no more poor.
Ha! ha!«
    »Put the fellow out!« exclaimed the father of my betrothed, and at the
signal the men sprang from their chairs and advanced upon me.
    It seemed to me that my heart would burst with the anguish of finding that
what was to me so plain and so all-important was to them meaningless, and that I
was powerless to make it other. So hot had been my heart that I had thought to
melt an iceberg with its glow, only to find at last the overmastering chill
seizing my own vitals. It was not enmity that I felt toward them as they
thronged me, but pity only, for them and for the world.
    Although despairing, I could not give over. Still I strove with them. Tears
poured from my eyes. In my vehemence I became inarticulate. I panted, I sobbed,
I groaned, and immediately afterwards found myself sitting upright in bed in my
room in Dr. Leete's house, and the morning sun shining through the open window
into my eyes. I was gasping. The tears were streaming down my face, and I
quivered in every nerve.
    
    As with an escaped convict who dreams that he has been recaptured and
brought back to his dark and reeking dungeon, and opens his eyes to see the
heaven's vault spread above him, so it was with me, as I realized that my return
to the nineteenth century had been the dream, and my presence in the twentieth
was the reality.
    The cruel sights which I had witnessed in my vision, and could so well
confirm from the experience of my former life, though they had, alas! once been,
and must in the retrospect to the end of time move the compassionate to tears,
were, God be thanked, forever gone by. Long ago oppressor and oppressed, prophet
and scorner, had been dust. For generations, rich and poor had been forgotten
words.
    But in that moment, while yet I mused with unspeakable thankfulness upon the
greatness of the world's salvation and my privilege in beholding it, there
suddenly pierced me like a knife a pang of shame, remorse, and wondering
self-reproach, that bowed my head upon my breast and made me wish the grave had
hid me with my fellows from the sun. For I had been a man of that former time.
What had I done to help on the deliverance whereat I now presumed to rejoice? I
who had lived in those cruel, insensate days, what had I done to bring them to
an end? I had been every whit as indifferent to the wretchedness of my brothers,
as cynically incredulous of better things, as besotted a worshipper of Chaos and
Old Night, as any of my fellows. So far as my personal influence went, it had
been exerted rather to hinder than to help forward the enfranchisement of the
race which was even then preparing. What right had I to hail a salvation which
reproached me, to rejoice in a day whose dawning I had mocked?
    »Better for you, better for you,« a voice within me rang, »had this evil
dream been the reality, and this fair reality the dream; better your part
pleading for crucified humanity with a scoffing generation, than here, drinking
of wells you digged not, and eating of trees whose husbandmen you stoned;« and
my spirit answered, »Better, truly.«
    When at length I raised my bowed head and looked forth from the window,
Edith, fresh as the morning, had come into the garden and was gathering flowers.
I hastened to descend to her. Kneeling before her, with my face in the dust, I
confessed with tears how little was my worth to breathe the air of this golden
century, and how infinitely less to wear upon my breast its consummate flower.
Fortunate is he who, with a case so desperate as mine, finds a judge so
merciful.
 

                                   Postscript

                       The Rate of the World's Progress.

                    To the Editor of the Boston Transcript:
 
The Transcript of March 30, 1888, contained a review of Looking Backward, in
response to which I beg to be allowed a word. The description to which the book
is devoted, of the radically new social and industrial institutions and
arrangements supposed to be enjoyed by the people of the United States in the
twentieth century, is not objected to as depicting a degree of human felicity
and moral development necessarily unattainable by the race, provided time enough
had been allowed for its evolution from the present chaotic state of society. In
failing to allow this, the reviewer thinks that the author has made an absurd
mistake, which seriously detracts from the value of the book as a work of
realistic imagination. Instead of placing the realization of the ideal social
state a scant fifty years ahead, it is suggested that he should have made his
figure seventy-five centuries. There is certainly a large discrepancy between
seventy-five centuries and fifty years, and if the reviewer is correct in his
estimate of the probable rate of human progress, the outlook of the world is
decidedly discouraging. But is he right? I think not.
    Looking Backward, although in form a fanciful romance, is intended, in all
seriousness, as a forecast, in accordance with the principles of evolution, of
the next stage in the industrial and social development of humanity, especially
in this country; and no part of it is believed by the author to be better
supported by the indications of probability than the implied prediction that the
dawn of the new era is already near at hand, and that the full day will swiftly
follow. Does this seem at first thought incredible, in view of the vastness of
the changes presupposed? What is the teaching of history, but that great
national transformations, while ages in unnoticed preparation, when once
inaugurated, are accomplished with a rapidity and resistless momentum
proportioned to their magnitude, not limited by it?
    In 1759, when Quebec fell, the might of England in America seemed
irresistible, and the vassalage of the colonies assured. Nevertheless, thirty
years later, the first President of the American Republic was inaugurated. In
1849, after Novara, Italian prospects appeared as hopeless as at any time since
the Middle Ages; yet only fifteen years after, Victor Emmanuel was crowned King
of United Italy. In 1864, the fulfillment of the thousand-year dream of German
unity was apparently as far off as ever. Seven years later it had been realized,
and William had assumed at Versailles the Crown of Barbarossa. In 1832, the
original Anti-slavery Society was formed in Boston by a few so-called
visionaries. Thirty-eight years later, in 1870, the society disbanded, its
programme fully carried out.
    These precedents do not, of course, prove that any such industrial and
social transformation as is outlined in Looking Backward is impending; but they
do show that, when the moral and economical conditions for it are ripe, it may
be expected to go forward with great rapidity. On no other stage are the scenes
shifted with a swiftness so like magic as on the great stage of history when
once the hour strikes. The question is not, then, how extensive the
scene-shifting must be to set the stage for the new fraternal civilization, but
whether there are any special indications that a social transformation is at
hand. The causes that have been bringing it ever nearer have been at work from
immemorial time. To the stream of tendency setting toward an ultimate
realization of a form of society which, while vastly more efficient for material
prosperity, should also satisfy and not outrage the moral instincts, every sigh
of poverty, every tear of pity, every humane impulse, every generous enthusiasm,
every true religious feeling, every act by which men have given effect to their
mutual sympathy by drawing more closely together for any purpose, have
contributed from the beginnings of civilization. That this long stream of
influence, ever widening and deepening, is at last about to sweep away the
barriers it has so long sapped, is at least one obvious interpretation of the
present universal ferment of men's minds as to the imperfections of present
social arrangements. Not only are the toilers of the world engaged in something
like a world-wide insurrection, but true and humane men and women, of every
degree, are in a mood of exasperation, verging on absolute revolt, against
social conditions that reduce life to a brutal struggle for existence, mock
every dictate of ethics and religion, and render well-nigh futile the efforts of
philanthropy.
    As an iceberg, floating southward from the frozen North, is gradually
undermined by warmer seas, and, become at last unstable, churns the sea to yeast
for miles around by the mighty rockings that portend its overturn, so the
barbaric industrial and social system, which has come down to us from savage
antiquity, undermined by the modern humane spirit, riddled by the criticism of
economic science, is shaking the world with convulsions that presage its
collapse.
    All thoughtful men agree that the present aspect of society is portentous of
great changes. The only question is, whether they will be for the better or the
worse. Those who believe in man's essential nobleness lean to the former view,
those who believe in his essential baseness to the latter. For my part, I hold
to the former opinion. Looking Backward was written in the belief that the
Golden Age lies before us and not behind us, and is not far away. Our children
will surely see it, and we, too, who are already men and women, if we deserve it
by our faith and by our works.
                                                                 EDWARD BELLAMY.
 

                                     Notes

1 In accounting for this state of mind it must be remembered that, except for
the topic of our conversations, there was in my surroundings next to nothing to
suggest what had befallen me. Within a block of my home in the old Boston I
could have found social circles vastly more foreign to me. The speech of the
Bostonians of the twentieth century differs even less from that of their
cultured ancestors of the nineteenth than did that of the latter from the
language of Washington and Franklin, while the differences between the style of
dress and furniture of the two epochs are not more marked than I have known
fashion to make in the time of one generation.
 
2 I am informed since the above is in type that this lack of perfection in the
distributing service of some of the country districts is to be remedied, and
that soon every village will have its own set of tubes.
 
3 I cannot sufficiently celebrate the glorious liberty that reigns in the public
libraries of the twentieth century as compared with the intolerable management
of those of the nineteenth century, in which the books were jealousy railed away
from the people, and obtainable only at an expenditure of time and red tape
calculated to discourage any ordinary taste for literature.
 
4 I fully admit the difficulty of accounting for the course of the anarchists on
any other theory than that they were subsidized by the capitalists, but, at the
same time, there is no doubt that the theory is wholly erroneous. It certainly
was not held at the time by any one, though it may seem so obvious in the
retrospect.
 
5 I may say that Dr. Leete's warning has been fully justified by my experience.
The amount and intensity of amusement which the young people of this day, and
the young women especially, are able to extract from what they are pleased to
call the oddities of courtship in the nineteenth century, appear unlimited.
