these
defects have been in great measure avoided. »Erewhon« was not an organic whole;
»Erewhon Revisited« may fairly claim to be. Nevertheless, though in literary
workmanship I do not doubt that this last-named book is an improvement on the
first, I shall be agreeably surprised if I am not told that »Erewhon,« with all
its faults, is the better reading of the two.
    
                                                                   Samuel Butler
August 7, 1901.
 

                                  Chapter One

                                  Waste Lands

If the reader will excuse me, I will say nothing or my antecedents, nor of the
circumstances which led me to leave my native country; the narrative would be
tedious to him and painful to myself. Suffice it, that when I left home it was
with the intention of going to some new colony, and either finding, or even
perhaps purchasing, waste crown land suitable for cattle or sheep farming, by
which means I thought that I could better my fortunes more rapidly than in
England.
    It will be seen that I did not succeed in my design, and that however much I
may have met with that was new and strange, I have been unable to reap any
pecuniary advantage.
    It is true, I imagine myself to have made a discovery which, if I can be the
first to profit by it, will bring me a recompense beyond all money computation,
and secure me a position such as has not been attained by more than some fifteen
or sixteen persons since the creation of the universe. But to this end I must
possess myself of a considerable sum of money: neither do I know how to get it,
except by interesting the public in my story, and inducing the charitable to
come forward and assist me. With this hope I now publish my adventures; but I do
so with great reluctance, for I fear that my story will be doubted unless I tell
the whole of it; and yet I dare not do so, lest others with more means than mine
should get the start of me. I prefer the risk of being doubted to that of being
anticipated, and have therefore concealed my destination on leaving England, as
also the point from which I began my more serious and difficult journey.
    My chief consolation lies in the fact that truth bears its own impress, and
that my story will carry conviction by reason of the internal evidences for its
accuracy. No one who is himself honest will doubt my being so.
    I reached my destination in one of the last months of 1868, but I dare not
mention the season, lest the reader should gather in which hemisphere I was. The
colony