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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1971 ***</div>


<h1>EREWHON REVISITED<br>
TWENTY YEARS LATER<br>
Both by the Original Discoverer of the Country and by his Son</h1>
<p>I forget when, but not very long after I had published &ldquo;Erewhon&rdquo;
in 1872, it occurred to me to ask myself what course events in Erewhon
would probably take after Mr. Higgs, as I suppose I may now call him,
had made his escape in the balloon with Arowhena.&nbsp; Given a people
in the conditions supposed to exist in Erewhon, and given the apparently
miraculous ascent of a remarkable stranger into the heavens with an
earthly bride&mdash;what would be the effect on the people generally?</p>
<p>There was no use in trying to solve this problem before, say, twenty
years should have given time for Erewhonian developments to assume something
like permanent shape, and in 1892 I was too busy with books now published
to be able to attend to Erewhon.&nbsp; It was not till the early winter
of 1900, i.e. as nearly as may be thirty years after the date of Higgs&rsquo;s
escape, that I found time to deal with the question above stated, and
to answer it, according to my lights, in the book which I now lay before
the public.</p>
<p>I have concluded, I believe rightly, that the events described in
Chapter XXIV. of &ldquo;Erewhon&rdquo; would give rise to such a cataclysmic
change in the old Erewhonian opinions as would result in the development
of a new religion.&nbsp; Now the development of all new religions follows
much the same general course.&nbsp; In all cases the times are more
or less out of joint&mdash;older faiths are losing their hold upon the
masses.&nbsp; At such times, let a personality appear, strong in itself,
and made to seem still stronger by association with some supposed transcendent
miracle, and it will be easy to raise a Lo here! that will attract many
followers.&nbsp; If there be a single great, and apparently well-authenticated,
miracle, others will accrete round it; then, in all religions that have
so originated, there will follow temples, priests, rites, sincere believers,
and unscrupulous exploiters of public credulity.&nbsp; To chronicle
the events that followed Higgs&rsquo;s balloon ascent without shewing
that they were much as they have been under like conditions in other
places, would be to hold the mirror up to something very wide of nature.</p>
<p>Analogy, however, between courses of events is one thing&mdash;historic
parallelisms abound; analogy between the main actors in events is a
very different one, and one, moreover, of which few examples can be
found.&nbsp; The development of the new ideas in Erewhon is a familiar
one, but there is no more likeness between Higgs and the founder of
any other religion, than there is between Jesus Christ and Mahomet.&nbsp;
He is a typical middle-class Englishman, deeply tainted with priggishness
in his earlier years, but in great part freed from it by the sweet uses
of adversity.</p>
<p>If I may be allowed for a moment to speak about myself, I would say
that I have never ceased to profess myself a member of the more advanced
wing of the English Broad Church.&nbsp; What those who belong to this
wing believe, I believe.&nbsp; What they reject, I reject.&nbsp; No
two people think absolutely alike on any subject, but when I converse
with advanced Broad Churchmen I find myself in substantial harmony with
them.&nbsp; I believe&mdash;and should be very sorry if I did not believe&mdash;that,
mutatis mutandis, such men will find the advice given on pp. 277-281
and 287-291 of this book much what, under the supposed circumstances,
they would themselves give.</p>
<p>Lastly, I should express my great obligations to Mr. R. A. Streatfeild
of the British Museum, who, in the absence from England of my friend
Mr. H. Festing Jones, has kindly supervised the corrections of my book
as it passed through the press.</p>
<p>SAMUEL BUTLER.<br>
May 1, 1901.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER I: UPS AND DOWNS OF FORTUNE&mdash;MY FATHER STARTS FOR EREWHON</h2>
<p>Before telling the story of my father&rsquo;s second visit to the
remarkable country which he discovered now some thirty years since,
I should perhaps say a few words about his career between the publication
of his book in 1872, and his death in the early summer of 1891.&nbsp;
I shall thus touch briefly on the causes that occasioned his failure
to maintain that hold on the public which he had apparently secured
at first.</p>
<p>His book, as the reader may perhaps know, was published anonymously,
and my poor father used to ascribe the acclamation with which it was
received, to the fact that no one knew who it might not have been written
by.&nbsp; <i>Omne ignotum pro magnifico</i>, and during its month of
anonymity the book was a frequent topic of appreciative comment in good
literary circles.&nbsp; Almost coincidently with the discovery that
he was a mere nobody, people began to feel that their admiration had
been too hastily bestowed, and before long opinion turned all the more
seriously against him for this very reason.&nbsp; The subscription,
to which the Lord Mayor had at first given his cordial support, was
curtly announced as closed before it had been opened a week; it had
met with so little success that I will not specify the amount eventually
handed over, not without protest, to my father; small, however, as it
was, he narrowly escaped being prosecuted for trying to obtain money
under false pretences.</p>
<p>The Geographical Society, which had for a few days received him with
open arms, was among the first to turn upon him&mdash;not, so far as
I can ascertain, on account of the mystery in which he had enshrouded
the exact whereabouts of Erewhon, nor yet by reason of its being persistently
alleged that he was subject to frequent attacks of alcoholic poisoning&mdash;but
through his own want of tact, and a highly-strung nervous state, which
led him to attach too much importance to his own discoveries, and not
enough to those of other people.&nbsp; This, at least, was my father&rsquo;s
version of the matter, as I heard it from his own lips in the later
years of his life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was still very young,&rdquo; he said to me, &ldquo;and my
mind was more or less unhinged by the strangeness and peril of my adventures.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Be this as it may, I fear there is no doubt that he was injudicious;
and an ounce of judgement is worth a pound of discovery.</p>
<p>Hence, in a surprisingly short time, he found himself dropped even
by those who had taken him up most warmly, and had done most to find
him that employment as a writer of religious tracts on which his livelihood
was then dependent.&nbsp; The discredit, however, into which my father
fell, had the effect of deterring any considerable number of people
from trying to rediscover Erewhon, and thus caused it to remain as unknown
to geographers in general as though it had never been found.&nbsp; A
few shepherds and cadets at up-country stations had, indeed, tried to
follow in my father&rsquo;s footsteps, during the time when his book
was still being taken seriously; but they had most of them returned,
unable to face the difficulties that had opposed them.&nbsp; Some few,
however, had not returned, and though search was made for them, their
bodies had not been found.&nbsp; When he reached Erewhon on his second
visit, my father learned that others had attempted to visit the country
more recently&mdash;probably quite independently of his own book; and
before he had himself been in it many hours he gathered what the fate
of these poor fellows doubtless was.</p>
<p>Another reason that made it more easy for Erewhon to remain unknown,
was the fact that the more mountainous districts, though repeatedly
prospected for gold, had been pronounced non-auriferous, and as there
was no sheep or cattle country, save a few river-bed flats above the
upper gorges of any of the rivers, and no game to tempt the sportsman,
there was nothing to induce people to penetrate into the fastnesses
of the great snowy range.&nbsp; No more, therefore, being heard of Erewhon,
my father&rsquo;s book came to be regarded as a mere work of fiction,
and I have heard quite recently of its having been seen on a second-hand
bookstall, marked &ldquo;6d. very readable.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Though there was no truth in the stories about my father&rsquo;s
being subject to attacks of alcoholic poisoning, yet, during the first
few years after his return to England, his occasional fits of ungovernable
excitement gave some colour to the opinion that much of what he said
he had seen and done might be only subjectively true.&nbsp; I refer
more particularly to his interview with Chowbok in the wool-shed, and
his highly coloured description of the statues on the top of the pass
leading into Erewhon.&nbsp; These were soon set down as forgeries of
delirium, and it was maliciously urged, that though in his book he had
only admitted having taken &ldquo;two or three bottles of brandy&rdquo;
with him, he had probably taken at least a dozen; and that if on the
night before he reached the statues he had &ldquo;only four ounces of
brandy&rdquo; left, he must have been drinking heavily for the preceding
fortnight or three weeks.&nbsp; Those who read the following pages will,
I think, reject all idea that my father was in a state of delirium,
not without surprise that any one should have ever entertained it.</p>
<p>It was Chowbok who, if he did not originate these calumnies, did
much to disseminate and gain credence for them.&nbsp; He remained in
England for some years, and never tired of doing what he could to disparage
my father.&nbsp; The cunning creature had ingratiated himself with our
leading religious societies, especially with the more evangelical among
them.&nbsp; Whatever doubt there might be about his sincerity, there
was none about his colour, and a coloured convert in those days was
more than Exeter Hall could resist.&nbsp; Chowbok saw that there was
no room for him and for my father, and declared my poor father&rsquo;s
story to be almost wholly false.&nbsp; It was true, he said, that he
and my father had explored the head-waters of the river described in
his book, but he denied that my father had gone on without him, and
he named the river as one distant by many thousands of miles from the
one it really was.&nbsp; He said that after about a fortnight he had
returned in company with my father, who by that time had become incapacitated
for further travel.&nbsp; At this point he would shrug his shoulders,
look mysterious, and thus say &ldquo;alcoholic poisoning&rdquo; even
more effectively than if he had uttered the words themselves.&nbsp;
For a man&rsquo;s tongue lies often in his shoulders.</p>
<p>Readers of my father&rsquo;s book will remember that Chowbok had
given a very different version when he had returned to his employer&rsquo;s
station; but Time and Distance afford cover under which falsehood can
often do truth to death securely.</p>
<p>I never understood why my father did not bring my mother forward
to confirm his story.&nbsp; He may have done so while I was too young
to know anything about it.&nbsp; But when people have made up their
minds, they are impatient of further evidence; my mother, moreover,
was of a very retiring disposition.&nbsp; The Italians say:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Chi lontano va ammogliare<br>
Sar&agrave; ingannato, o vorr&agrave; ingannare.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;If a man goes far afield for a wife, he will be deceived&mdash;or
means deceiving.&rdquo;&nbsp; The proverb is as true for women as for
men, and my mother was never quite happy in her new surroundings.&nbsp;
Wilfully deceived she assuredly was not, but she could not accustom
herself to English modes of thought; indeed she never even nearly mastered
our language; my father always talked with her in Erewhonian, and so
did I, for as a child she had taught me to do so, and I was as fluent
with her language as with my father&rsquo;s.&nbsp; In this respect she
often told me I could pass myself off anywhere in Erewhon as a native;
I shared also her personal appearance, for though not wholly unlike
my father, I had taken more closely after my mother.&nbsp; In mind,
if I may venture to say so, I believe I was more like my father.</p>
<p>I may as well here inform the reader that I was born at the end of
September 1871, and was christened John, after my grandfather.&nbsp;
From what I have said above he will readily believe that my earliest
experiences were somewhat squalid.&nbsp; Memories of childhood rush
vividly upon me when I pass through a low London alley, and catch the
faint sickly smell that pervades it&mdash;half paraffin, half black-currants,
but wholly something very different.&nbsp; I have a fancy that we lived
in Blackmoor Street, off Drury Lane.&nbsp; My father, when first I knew
of his doing anything at all, supported my mother and myself by drawing
pictures with coloured chalks upon the pavement; I used sometimes to
watch him, and marvel at the skill with which he represented fogs, floods,
and fires.&nbsp; These three &ldquo;f&rsquo;s,&rdquo; he would say,
were his three best friends, for they were easy to do and brought in
halfpence freely.&nbsp; The return of the dove to the ark was his favourite
subject.&nbsp; Such a little ark, on such a hazy morning, and such a
little pigeon&mdash;the rest of the picture being cheap sky, and still
cheaper sea; nothing, I have often heard him say, was more popular than
this with his clients.&nbsp; He held it to be his masterpiece, but would
add with some na&iuml;vet&eacute; that he considered himself a public
benefactor for carrying it out in such perishable fashion.&nbsp; &ldquo;At
any rate,&rdquo; he would say, &ldquo;no one can bequeath one of my
many replicas to the nation.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I never learned how much my father earned by his profession, but
it must have been something considerable, for we always had enough to
eat and drink; I imagine that he did better than many a struggling artist
with more ambitious aims.&nbsp; He was strictly temperate during all
the time that I knew anything about him, but he was not a teetotaler;
I never saw any of the fits of nervous excitement which in his earlier
years had done so much to wreck him.&nbsp; In the evenings, and on days
when the state of the pavement did not permit him to work, he took great
pains with my education, which he could very well do, for as a boy he
had been in the sixth form of one of our foremost public schools.&nbsp;
I found him a patient, kindly instructor, while to my mother he was
a model husband.&nbsp; Whatever others may have said about him, I can
never think of him without very affectionate respect.</p>
<p>Things went on quietly enough, as above indicated, till I was about
fourteen, when by a freak of fortune my father became suddenly affluent.&nbsp;
A brother of his father&rsquo;s had emigrated to Australia in 1851,
and had amassed great wealth.&nbsp; We knew of his existence, but there
had been no intercourse between him and my father, and we did not even
know that he was rich and unmarried.&nbsp; He died intestate towards
the end of 1885, and my father was the only relative he had, except,
of course, myself, for both my father&rsquo;s sisters had died young,
and without leaving children.</p>
<p>The solicitor through whom the news reached us was, happily, a man
of the highest integrity, and also very sensible and kind.&nbsp; He
was a Mr. Alfred Emery Cathie, of 15 Clifford&rsquo;s Inn, E.C., and
my father placed himself unreservedly in his hands.&nbsp; I was at once
sent to a first-rate school, and such pains had my father taken with
me that I was placed in a higher form than might have been expected
considering my age.&nbsp; The way in which he had taught me had prevented
my feeling any dislike for study; I therefore stuck fairly well to my
books, while not neglecting the games which are so important a part
of healthy education.&nbsp; Everything went well with me, both as regards
masters and school-fellows; nevertheless, I was declared to be of a
highly nervous and imaginative temperament, and the school doctor more
than once urged our headmaster not to push me forward too rapidly&mdash;for
which I have ever since held myself his debtor.</p>
<p>Early in 1890, I being then home from Oxford (where I had been entered
in the preceding year), my mother died; not so much from active illness,
as from what was in reality a kind of <i>maladie du pays</i>.&nbsp;
All along she had felt herself an exile, and though she had borne up
wonderfully during my father&rsquo;s long struggle with adversity, she
began to break as soon as prosperity had removed the necessity for exertion
on her own part.</p>
<p>My father could never divest himself of the feeling that he had wrecked
her life by inducing her to share her lot with his own; to say that
he was stricken with remorse on losing her is not enough; he had been
so stricken almost from the first year of his marriage; on her death
he was haunted by the wrong he accused himself&mdash;as it seems to
me very unjustly&mdash;of having done her, for it was neither his fault
nor hers&mdash;it was At&egrave;.</p>
<p>His unrest soon assumed the form of a burning desire to revisit the
country in which he and my mother had been happier together than perhaps
they ever again were.&nbsp; I had often heard him betray a hankering
after a return to Erewhon, disguised so that no one should recognise
him; but as long as my mother lived he would not leave her.&nbsp; When
death had taken her from him, he so evidently stood in need of a complete
change of scene, that even those friends who had most strongly dissuaded
him from what they deemed a madcap enterprise, thought it better to
leave him to himself.&nbsp; It would have mattered little how much they
tried to dissuade him, for before long his passionate longing for the
journey became so overmastering that nothing short of restraint in prison
or a madhouse could have stayed his going; but we were not easy about
him.&nbsp; &ldquo;He had better go,&rdquo; said Mr. Cathie to me, when
I was at home for the Easter vacation, &ldquo;and get it over.&nbsp;
He is not well, but he is still in the prime of life; doubtless he will
come back with renewed health and will settle down to a quiet home life
again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This, however, was not said till it had become plain that in a few
days my father would be on his way.&nbsp; He had made a new will, and
left an ample power of attorney with Mr. Cathie&mdash;or, as we always
called him, Alfred&mdash;who was to supply me with whatever money I
wanted; he had put all other matters in order in case anything should
happen to prevent his ever returning, and he set out on October 1, 1890,
more composed and cheerful than I had seen him for some time past.</p>
<p>I had not realised how serious the danger to my father would be if
he were recognised while he was in Erewhon, for I am ashamed to say
that I had not yet read his book.&nbsp; I had heard over and over again
of his flight with my mother in the balloon, and had long since read
his few opening chapters, but I had found, as a boy naturally would,
that the succeeding pages were a little dull, and soon put the book
aside.&nbsp; My father, indeed, repeatedly urged me not to read it,
for he said there was much in it&mdash;more especially in the earlier
chapters, which I had alone found interesting&mdash;that he would gladly
cancel if he could.&nbsp; &ldquo;But there!&rdquo; he had said with
a laugh, &ldquo;what does it matter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>He had hardly left, before I read his book from end to end, and,
on having done so, not only appreciated the risks that he would have
to run, but was struck with the wide difference between his character
as he had himself portrayed it, and the estimate I had formed of it
from personal knowledge.&nbsp; When, on his return, he detailed to me
his adventures, the account he gave of what he had said and done corresponded
with my own ideas concerning him; but I doubt not the reader will see
that the twenty years between his first and second visit had modified
him even more than so long an interval might be expected to do.</p>
<p>I heard from him repeatedly during the first two months of his absence,
and was surprised to find that he had stayed for a week or ten days
at more than one place of call on his outward journey.&nbsp; On November
26 he wrote from the port whence he was to start for Erewhon, seemingly
in good health and spirits; and on December 27, 1891, he telegraphed
for a hundred pounds to be wired out to him at this same port.&nbsp;
This puzzled both Mr. Cathie and myself, for the interval between November
26 and December 27 seemed too short to admit of his having paid his
visit to Erewhon and returned; as, moreover, he had added the words,
&ldquo;Coming home,&rdquo; we rather hoped that he had abandoned his
intention of going there.</p>
<p>We were also surprised at his wanting so much money, for he had taken
a hundred pounds in gold, which from some fancy, he had stowed in a
small silver jewel-box that he had given my mother not long before she
died.&nbsp; He had also taken a hundred pounds worth of gold nuggets,
which he had intended to sell in Erewhon so as to provide himself with
money when he got there.</p>
<p>I should explain that these nuggets would be worth in Erewhon fully
ten times as much as they would in Europe, owing to the great scarcity
of gold in that country.&nbsp; The Erewhonian coinage is entirely silver&mdash;which
is abundant, and worth much what it is in England&mdash;or copper, which
is also plentiful; but what we should call five pounds&rsquo; worth
of silver money would not buy more than one of our half-sovereigns in
gold.</p>
<p>He had put his nuggets into ten brown holland bags, and he had had
secret pockets made for the old Erewhonian dress which he had worn when
he escaped, so that he need never have more than one bag of nuggets
accessible at a time.&nbsp; He was not likely, therefore, to have been
robbed.&nbsp; His passage to the port above referred to had been paid
before he started, and it seemed impossible that a man of his very inexpensive
habits should have spent two hundred pounds in a single month&mdash;for
the nuggets would be immediately convertible in an English colony.&nbsp;
There was nothing, however, to be done but to cable out the money and
wait my father&rsquo;s arrival.</p>
<p>Returning for a moment to my father&rsquo;s old Erewhonian dress,
I should say that he had preserved it simply as a memento and without
any idea that he should again want it.&nbsp; It was not the court dress
that had been provided for him on the occasion of his visit to the king
and queen, but the everyday clothing that he had been ordered to wear
when he was put in prison, though his English coat, waistcoat, and trousers
had been allowed to remain in his own possession.&nbsp; These, I had
seen from his book, had been presented by him to the queen (with the
exception of two buttons, which he had given to Yram as a keepsake),
and had been preserved by her displayed upon a wooden dummy.&nbsp; The
dress in which he escaped had been soiled during the hours that he and
my mother had been in the sea, and had also suffered from neglect during
the years of his poverty; but he wished to pass himself off as a common
peasant or working-man, so he preferred to have it set in order as might
best be done, rather than copied.</p>
<p>So cautious was he in the matter of dress that he took with him the
boots he had worn on leaving Erewhon, lest the foreign make of his English
boots should arouse suspicion.&nbsp; They were nearly new, and when
he had had them softened and well greased, he found he could still wear
them quite comfortably.</p>
<p>But to return.&nbsp; He reached home late at night one day at the
beginning of February, and a glance was enough to show that he was an
altered man.&nbsp; &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; said I, shocked
at his appearance.&nbsp; &ldquo;Did you go to Erewhon, and were you
ill-treated there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I went to Erewhon,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and I was not ill-treated
there, but I have been so shaken that I fear I shall quite lose my reason.&nbsp;
Do not ask me more now.&nbsp; I will tell you about it all to-morrow.&nbsp;
Let me have something to eat, and go to bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When we met at breakfast next morning, he greeted me with all his
usual warmth of affection, but he was still taciturn.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
will begin to tell you about it,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;after breakfast.&nbsp;
Where is your dear mother?&nbsp; How was it that I have . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>Then of a sudden his memory returned, and he burst into tears.</p>
<p>I now saw, to my horror, that his mind was gone.&nbsp; When he recovered,
he said: &ldquo;It has all come back again, but at times now I am a
blank, and every week am more and more so.&nbsp; I daresay I shall be
sensible now for several hours.&nbsp; We will go into the study after
breakfast, and I will talk to you as long as I can do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Let the reader spare me, and let me spare the reader any description
of what we both of us felt.</p>
<p>When we were in the study, my father said, &ldquo;My dearest boy,
get pen and paper and take notes of what I tell you.&nbsp; It will be
all disjointed; one day I shall remember this, and another that, but
there will not be many more days on which I shall remember anything
at all.&nbsp; I cannot write a coherent page.&nbsp; You, when I am gone,
can piece what I tell you together, and tell it as I should have told
it if I had been still sound.&nbsp; But do not publish it yet; it might
do harm to those dear good people.&nbsp; Take the notes now, and arrange
them the sooner the better, for you may want to ask me questions, and
I shall not be here much longer.&nbsp; Let publishing wait till you
are confident that publication can do no harm; and above all, say nothing
to betray the whereabouts of Erewhon, beyond admitting (which I fear
I have already done) that it is in the Southern hemisphere.&rdquo;</p>
<p>These instructions I have religiously obeyed.&nbsp; For the first
days after his return, my father had few attacks of loss of memory,
and I was in hopes that his former health of mind would return when
he found himself in his old surroundings.&nbsp; During these days he
poured forth the story of his adventures so fast, that if I had not
had a fancy for acquiring shorthand, I should not have been able to
keep pace with him.&nbsp; I repeatedly urged him not to overtax his
strength, but he was oppressed by the fear that if he did not speak
at once, he might never be able to tell me all he had to say; I had,
therefore, to submit, though seeing plainly enough that he was only
hastening the complete paralysis which he so greatly feared.</p>
<p>Sometimes his narrative would be coherent for pages together, and
he could answer any questions without hesitation; at others, he was
now here and now there, and if I tried to keep him to the order of events
he would say that he had forgotten intermediate incidents, but that
they would probably come back to him, and I should perhaps be able to
put them in their proper places.</p>
<p>After about ten days he seemed satisfied that I had got all the facts,
and that with the help of the pamphlets which he had brought with him
I should be able to make out a connected story.&nbsp; &ldquo;Remember,&rdquo;
he said, &ldquo;that I thought I was quite well so long as I was in
Erewhon, and do not let me appear as anything else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When he had fully delivered himself, he seemed easier in his mind,
but before a month had passed he became completely paralysed, and though
he lingered till the beginning of June, he was seldom more than dimly
conscious of what was going on around him.</p>
<p>His death robbed me of one who had been a very kind and upright elder
brother rather than a father; and so strongly have I felt his influence
still present, living and working, as I believe for better within me,
that I did not hesitate to copy the epitaph which he saw in the Musical
Bank at Fairmead, <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a>
and to have it inscribed on the very simple monument which he desired
should alone mark his grave.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>The foregoing was written in the summer of 1891; what I now add should
be dated December 3, 1900.&nbsp; If, in the course of my work, I have
misrepresented my father, as I fear I may have sometimes done, I would
ask my readers to remember that no man can tell another&rsquo;s story
without some involuntary misrepresentation both of facts and characters.&nbsp;
They will, of course, see that &ldquo;Erewhon Revisited&rdquo; is written
by one who has far less literary skill than the author of &ldquo;Erewhon;&rdquo;
but again I would ask indulgence on the score of youth, and the fact
that this is my first book.&nbsp; It was written nearly ten years ago,
<i>i.e</i>. in the months from March to August 1891, but for reasons
already given it could not then be made public.&nbsp; I have now received
permission, and therefore publish the following chapters, exactly, or
very nearly exactly, as they were left when I had finished editing my
father&rsquo;s diaries, and the notes I took down from his own mouth&mdash;with
the exception, of course, of these last few lines, hurriedly written
as I am on the point of leaving England, of the additions I made in
1892, on returning from my own three hours&rsquo; stay in Erewhon, and
of the Postscript.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER II: TO THE FOOT OF THE PASS INTO EREWHON</h2>
<p>When my father reached the colony for which he had left England some
twenty-two years previously, he bought a horse, and started up country
on the evening of the day after his arrival, which was, as I have said,
on one of the last days of November 1890.&nbsp; He had taken an English
saddle with him, and a couple of roomy and strongly made saddle-bags.&nbsp;
In these he packed his money, his nuggets, some tea, sugar, tobacco,
salt, a flask of brandy, matches, and as many ship&rsquo;s biscuits
as he thought he was likely to want; he took no meat, for he could supply
himself from some accommodation-house or sheep-station, when nearing
the point after which he would have to begin camping out.&nbsp; He rolled
his Erewhonian dress and small toilette necessaries inside a warm red
blanket, and strapped the roll on to the front part of his saddle.&nbsp;
On to other D&rsquo;s, with which his saddle was amply provided, he
strapped his Erewhonian boots, a tin pannikin, and a billy that would
hold about a quart.&nbsp; I should, perhaps, explain to English readers
that a billy is a tin can, the name for which (doubtless of French Canadian
origin) is derived from the words &ldquo;<i>faire bouillir</i>.&rdquo;&nbsp;
He also took with him a pair of hobbles and a small hatchet.</p>
<p>He spent three whole days in riding across the plains, and was struck
with the very small signs of change that he could detect, but the fall
in wool, and the failure, so far, to establish a frozen meat trade,
had prevented any material development of the resources of the country.&nbsp;
When he had got to the front ranges, he followed up the river next to
the north of the one that he had explored years ago, and from the head
waters of which he had been led to discover the only practicable pass
into Erewhon.&nbsp; He did this, partly to avoid the terribly dangerous
descent on to the bed of the more northern river, and partly to escape
being seen by shepherds or bullock-drivers who might remember him.</p>
<p>If he had attempted to get through the gorge of this river in 1870,
he would have found it impassable; but a few river-bed flats had been
discovered above the gorge, on which there was now a shepherd&rsquo;s
hut, and on the discovery of these flats a narrow horse track had been
made from one end of the gorge to the other.</p>
<p>He was hospitably entertained at the shepherd&rsquo;s hut just mentioned,
which he reached on Monday, December 1.&nbsp; He told the shepherd in
charge of it that he had come to see if he could find traces of a large
wingless bird, whose existence had been reported as having been discovered
among the extreme head waters of the river.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Be careful, sir,&rdquo; said the shepherd; &ldquo;the river
is very dangerous; several people&mdash;one only about a year ago&mdash;have
left this hut, and though their horses and their camps have been found,
their bodies have not.&nbsp; When a great fresh comes down, it would
carry a body out to sea in twenty-four hours.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He evidently had no idea that there was a pass through the ranges
up the river, which might explain the disappearance of an explorer.</p>
<p>Next day my father began to ascend the river.&nbsp; There was so
much tangled growth still unburnt wherever there was room for it to
grow, and so much swamp, that my father had to keep almost entirely
to the river-bed&mdash;and here there was a good deal of quicksand.&nbsp;
The stones also were often large for some distance together, and he
had to cross and recross streams of the river more than once, so that
though he travelled all day with the exception of a couple of hours
for dinner, he had not made more than some five and twenty miles when
he reached a suitable camping ground, where he unsaddled his horse,
hobbled him, and turned him out to feed.&nbsp; The grass was beginning
to seed, so that though it was none too plentiful, what there was of
it made excellent feed.</p>
<p>He lit his fire, made himself some tea, ate his cold mutton and biscuits,
and lit his pipe, exactly as he had done twenty years before.&nbsp;
There was the clear starlit sky, the rushing river, and the stunted
trees on the mountain-side; the woodhens cried, and the &ldquo;more-pork&rdquo;
hooted out her two monotonous notes exactly as they had done years since;
one moment, and time had so flown backwards that youth came bounding
back to him with the return of his youth&rsquo;s surroundings; the next,
and the intervening twenty years&mdash;most of them grim ones&mdash;rose
up mockingly before him, and the buoyancy of hope yielded to the despondency
of admitted failure.&nbsp; By and by buoyancy reasserted itself, and,
soothed by the peace and beauty of the night, he wrapped himself up
in his blanket and dropped off into a dreamless slumber.</p>
<p>Next morning, <i>i.e</i>. December 3, he rose soon after dawn, bathed
in a backwater of the river, got his breakfast, found his horse on the
river-bed, and started as soon as he had duly packed and loaded.&nbsp;
He had now to cross streams of the river and recross them more often
than on the preceding day, and this, though his horse took well to the
water, required care; for he was anxious not to wet his saddle-bags,
and it was only by crossing at the wide, smooth, water above a rapid,
and by picking places where the river ran in two or three streams, that
he could find fords where his practised eye told him that the water
would not be above his horse&rsquo;s belly&mdash;for the river was of
great volume.&nbsp; Fortunately, there had been a late fall of snow
on the higher ranges, and the river was, for the summer season, low.</p>
<p>Towards evening, having travelled, so far as he could guess, some
twenty or five and twenty miles (for he had made another mid day halt),
he reached the place, which he easily recognised, as that where he had
camped before crossing to the pass that led into Erewhon.&nbsp; It was
the last piece of ground that could be called a flat (though it was
in reality only the sloping delta of a stream that descended from the
pass) before reaching a large glacier that had encroached on the river-bed,
which it traversed at right angles for a considerable distance.</p>
<p>Here he again camped, hobbled his horse, and turned him adrift, hoping
that he might again find him some two or three months hence, for there
was a good deal of sweet grass here and there, with sow-thistle and
anise; and the coarse tussock grass would be in full seed shortly, which
alone would keep him going for as long a time as my father expected
to be away.&nbsp; Little did he think that he should want him again
so shortly.</p>
<p>Having attended to his horse, he got his supper, and while smoking
his pipe congratulated himself on the way in which something had smoothed
away all the obstacles that had so nearly baffled him on his earlier
journey.&nbsp; Was he being lured on to his destruction by some malicious
fiend, or befriended by one who had compassion on him and wished him
well?&nbsp; His naturally sanguine temperament inclined him to adopt
the friendly spirit theory, in the peace of which he again laid himself
down to rest, and slept soundly from dark till dawn.</p>
<p>In the morning, though the water was somewhat icy, he again bathed,
and then put on his Erewhonian boots and dress.&nbsp; He stowed his
European clothes, with some difficulty, into his saddle-bags.&nbsp;
Herein also he left his case full of English sovereigns, his spare pipes,
his purse, which contained two pounds in gold and seven or eight shillings,
part of his stock of tobacco, and whatever provision was left him, except
the meat&mdash;which he left for sundry hawks and parrots that were
eyeing his proceedings apparently without fear of man.&nbsp; His nuggets
he concealed in the secret pockets of which I have already spoken, keeping
one bag alone accessible.</p>
<p>He had had his hair and beard cut short on shipboard the day before
he landed.&nbsp; These he now dyed with a dye that he had brought from
England, and which in a few minutes turned them very nearly black.&nbsp;
He also stained his face and hands deep brown.&nbsp; He hung his saddle
and bridle, his English boots, and his saddle-bags on the highest bough
that he could reach, and made them fairly fast with strips of flax leaf,
for there was some stunted flax growing on the ground where he had camped.&nbsp;
He feared that, do what he might, they would not escape the inquisitive
thievishness of the parrots, whose strong beaks could easily cut leather;
but he could do nothing more.&nbsp; It occurs to me, though my father
never told me so, that it was perhaps with a view to these birds that
he had chosen to put his English sovereigns into a metal box, with a
clasp to it which would defy them.</p>
<p>He made a roll of his blanket, and slung it over his shoulder; he
also took his pipe, tobacco, a little tea, a few ship&rsquo;s biscuits,
and his billy and pannikin; matches and salt go without saying.&nbsp;
When he had thus ordered everything as nearly to his satisfaction as
he could, he looked at his watch for the last time, as he believed,
till many weeks should have gone by, and found it to be about seven
o&rsquo;clock.&nbsp; Remembering what trouble it had got him into years
before, he took down his saddle-bags, reopened them, and put the watch
inside.&nbsp; He then set himself to climb the mountain side, towards
the saddle on which he had seen the statues.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER III: MY FATHER WHILE CAMPING IS ACCOSTED BY PROFESSORS HANKY
AND PANKY</h2>
<p>My father found the ascent more fatiguing than he remembered it to
have been.&nbsp; The climb, he said, was steady, and took him between
four and five hours, as near as he could guess, now that he had no watch;
but it offered nothing that could be called a difficulty, and the watercourse
that came down from the saddle was a sufficient guide; once or twice
there were waterfalls, but they did not seriously delay him.</p>
<p>After he had climbed some three thousand feet, he began to be on
the alert for some sound of ghostly chanting from the statues; but he
heard nothing, and toiled on till he came to a sprinkling of fresh snow&mdash;part
of the fall which he had observed on the preceding day as having whitened
the higher mountains; he knew, therefore, that he must now be nearing
the saddle.&nbsp; The snow grew rapidly deeper, and by the time he reached
the statues the ground was covered to a depth of two or three inches.</p>
<p>He found the statues smaller than he had expected.&nbsp; He had said
in his book&mdash;written many months after he had seen them&mdash;that
they were about six times the size of life, but he now thought that
four or five times would have been enough to say.&nbsp; Their mouths
were much clogged with snow, so that even though there had been a strong
wind (which there was not) they would not have chanted.&nbsp; In other
respects he found them not less mysteriously impressive than at first.&nbsp;
He walked two or three times all round them, and then went on.</p>
<p>The snow did not continue far down, but before long my father entered
a thick bank of cloud, and had to feel his way cautiously along the
stream that descended from the pass.&nbsp; It was some two hours before
he emerged into clear air, and found himself on the level bed of an
old lake now grassed over.&nbsp; He had quite forgotten this feature
of the descent&mdash;perhaps the clouds had hung over it; he was overjoyed,
however, to find that the flat ground abounded with a kind of quail,
larger than ours, and hardly, if at all, smaller than a partridge.&nbsp;
The abundance of these quails surprised him, for he did not remember
them as plentiful anywhere on the Erewhonian side of the mountains.</p>
<p>The Erewhonian quail, like its now nearly, if not quite, extinct
New Zealand congener, can take three successive flights of a few yards
each, but then becomes exhausted; hence quails are only found on ground
that is never burned, and where there are no wild animals to molest
them; the cats and dogs that accompany European civilisation soon exterminate
them; my father, therefore, felt safe in concluding that he was still
far from any village.&nbsp; Moreover he could see no sheep or goat&rsquo;s
dung; and this surprised him, for he thought he had found signs of pasturage
much higher than this.&nbsp; Doubtless, he said to himself, when he
wrote his book he had forgotten how long the descent had been.&nbsp;
But it was odd, for the grass was good feed enough, and ought, he considered,
to have been well stocked.</p>
<p>Tired with his climb, during which he had not rested to take food,
but had eaten biscuits, as he walked, he gave himself a good long rest,
and when refreshed, he ran down a couple of dozen quails, some of which
he meant to eat when he camped for the night, while the others would
help him out of a difficulty which had been troubling him for some time.</p>
<p>What was he to say when people asked him, as they were sure to do,
how he was living?&nbsp; And how was he to get enough Erewhonian money
to keep him going till he could find some safe means of selling a few
of his nuggets?&nbsp; He had had a little Erewhonian money when he went
up in the balloon, but had thrown it over, with everything else except
the clothes he wore and his MSS., when the balloon was nearing the water.&nbsp;
He had nothing with him that he dared offer for sale, and though he
had plenty of gold, was in reality penniless.</p>
<p>When, therefore, he saw the quails, he again felt as though some
friendly spirit was smoothing his way before him.&nbsp; What more easy
than to sell them at Coldharbour (for so the name of the town in which
he had been imprisoned should be translated), where he knew they were
a delicacy, and would fetch him the value of an English shilling a piece?</p>
<p>It took him between two and three hours to catch two dozen.&nbsp;
When he had thus got what he considered a sufficient stock, he tied
their legs together with rushes, and ran a stout stick through the whole
lot.&nbsp; Soon afterwards he came upon a wood of stunted pines, which,
though there was not much undergrowth, nevertheless afforded considerable
shelter and enabled him to gather wood enough to make himself a good
fire.&nbsp; This was acceptable, for though the days were long, it was
now evening, and as soon as the sun had gone the air became crisp and
frosty.</p>
<p>Here he resolved to pass the night.&nbsp; He chose a part where the
trees were thickest, lit his fire, plucked and cleaned four quails,
filled his billy with water from the stream hard by, made tea in his
pannikin, grilled two of his birds on the embers, ate them, and when
he had done all this, he lit his pipe and began to think things over.&nbsp;
&ldquo;So far so good,&rdquo; said he to himself; but hardly had the
words passed through his mind before he was startled by the sound of
voices, still at some distance, but evidently drawing towards him.</p>
<p>He instantly gathered up his billy, pannikin, tea, biscuits, and
blanket, all of which he had determined to discard and hide on the following
morning; everything that could betray him he carried full haste into
the wood some few yards off, in the direction opposite to that from
which the voices were coming, but he let his quails lie where they were,
and put his pipe and tobacco in his pocket.</p>
<p>The voices drew nearer and nearer, and it was all my father could
do to get back and sit down innocently by his fire, before he could
hear what was being said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank goodness,&rdquo; said one of the speakers (of course
in the Erewhonian language), &ldquo;we seem to be finding somebody at
last.&nbsp; I hope it is not some poacher; we had better be careful.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; said the other.&nbsp; &ldquo;It must be one
of the rangers.&nbsp; No one would dare to light a fire while poaching
on the King&rsquo;s preserves.&nbsp; What o&rsquo;clock do you make
it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Half after nine.&rdquo;&nbsp; And the watch was still in the
speaker&rsquo;s hand as he emerged from darkness into the glowing light
of the fire.&nbsp; My father glanced at it, and saw that it was exactly
like the one he had worn on entering Erewhon nearly twenty years previously.</p>
<p>The watch, however, was a very small matter; the dress of these two
men (for there were only two) was far more disconcerting.&nbsp; They
were not in the Erewhonian costume.&nbsp; The one was dressed like an
Englishman or would-be Englishman, while the other was wearing the same
kind of clothes but turned the wrong way round, so that when his face
was towards my father his body seemed to have its back towards him,
and <i>vice verso</i>.&nbsp; The man&rsquo;s head, in fact, appeared
to have been screwed right round; and yet it was plain that if he were
stripped he would be found built like other people.</p>
<p>What could it all mean?&nbsp; The men were about fifty years old.&nbsp;
They were well-to-do people, well clad, well fed, and were felt instinctively
by my father to belong to the academic classes.&nbsp; That one of them
should be dressed like a sensible Englishman dismayed my father as much
as that the other should have a watch, and look as if he had just broken
out of Bedlam, or as King Dagobert must have looked if he had worn all
his clothes as he is said to have worn his breeches.&nbsp; Both wore
their clothes so easily&mdash;for he who wore them reversed had evidently
been measured with a view to this absurd fashion&mdash;that it was plain
their dress was habitual.</p>
<p>My father was alarmed as well as astounded, for he saw that what
little plan of a campaign he had formed must be reconstructed, and he
had no idea in what direction his next move should be taken; but he
was a ready man, and knew that when people have taken any idea into
their heads, a little confirmation will fix it.&nbsp; A first idea is
like a strong seedling; it will grow if it can.</p>
<p>In less time than it will have taken the reader to get through the
last foregoing paragraphs, my father took up the cue furnished him by
the second speaker.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, going boldly up to this gentleman, &ldquo;I
am one of the rangers, and it is my duty to ask you what you are doing
here upon the King&rsquo;s preserves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite so, my man,&rdquo; was the rejoinder.&nbsp; &ldquo;We
have been to see the statues at the head of the pass, and have a permit
from the Mayor of Sunch&rsquo;ston to enter upon the preserves.&nbsp;
We lost ourselves in the thick fog, both going and coming back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father inwardly blessed the fog.&nbsp; He did not catch the name
of the town, but presently found that it was commonly pronounced as
I have written it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Be pleased to show it me,&rdquo; said my father in his politest
manner.&nbsp; On this a document was handed to him.</p>
<p>I will here explain that I shall translate the names of men and places,
as well as the substance of the document; and I shall translate all
names in future.&nbsp; Indeed I have just done so in the case of Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp;
As an example, let me explain that the true Erewhonian names for Hanky
and Panky, to whom the reader will be immediately introduced, are Sukoh
and Sukop&mdash;names too cacophonous to be read with pleasure by the
English public.&nbsp; I must ask the reader to believe that in all cases
I am doing my best to give the spirit of the original name.</p>
<p>I would also express my regret that my father did not either uniformly
keep to the true Erewhonian names, as in the cases of Senoj Nosnibor,
Ydgrun, Thims, &amp;c.&mdash;names which occur constantly in Erewhon&mdash;or
else invariably invent a name, as he did whenever he considered the
true name impossible.&nbsp; My poor mother&rsquo;s name, for example,
was really Nna Haras, and Mahaina&rsquo;s Enaj Ysteb, which he dared
not face.&nbsp; He, therefore, gave these characters the first names
that euphony suggested, without any attempt at translation.&nbsp; Rightly
or wrongly, I have determined to keep consistently to translation for
all names not used in my father&rsquo;s book; and throughout, whether
as regards names or conversations, I shall translate with the freedom
without which no translation rises above construe level.</p>
<p>Let me now return to the permit.&nbsp; The earlier part of the document
was printed, and ran as follows:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Extracts from the Act for the afforesting of certain
lands lying between the town of Sunchildston, formerly called Coldharbour,
and the mountains which bound the kingdom of Erewhon, passed in the
year Three, being the eighth year of the reign of his Most Gracious
Majesty King Well-beloved the Twenty-Second.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whereas it is expedient to prevent any of his Majesty&rsquo;s
subjects from trying to cross over into unknown lands beyond the mountains,
and in like manner to protect his Majesty&rsquo;s kingdom from intrusion
on the part of foreign devils, it is hereby enacted that certain lands,
more particularly described hereafter, shall be afforested and set apart
as a hunting-ground for his Majesty&rsquo;s private use.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is also enacted that the Rangers and Under-rangers shall
be required to immediately kill without parley any foreign devil whom
they may encounter coming from the other side of the mountains.&nbsp;
They are to weight the body, and throw it into the Blue Pool under the
waterfall shown on the plan hereto annexed; but on pain of imprisonment
for life they shall not reserve to their own use any article belonging
to the deceased.&nbsp; Neither shall they divulge what they have done
to any one save the Head Ranger, who shall report the circumstances
of the case fully and minutely to his Majesty.</p>
<p>&ldquo;As regards any of his Majesty&rsquo;s subjects who may be
taken while trespassing on his Majesty&rsquo;s preserves without a special
permit signed by the Mayor of Sunchildston, or any who may be convicted
of poaching on the said preserves, the Rangers shall forthwith arrest
them and bring them before the Mayor of Sunchildston, who shall enquire
into their antecedents, and punish them with such term of imprisonment,
with hard labour, as he may think fit, provided that no such term be
of less duration than twelve calendar months.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For the further provisions of the said Act, those whom it
may concern are referred to the Act in full, a copy of which may be
seen at the official residence of the Mayor of Sunchildston.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Then followed in MS.&nbsp; &ldquo;XIX.&nbsp; xii. 29.&nbsp; Permit
Professor Hanky, Royal Professor of Worldly Wisdom at Bridgeford, seat
of learning, city of the people who are above suspicion, and Professor
Panky, Royal Professor of Unworldly Wisdom in the said city, or either
of them&rdquo; [here the MS. ended, the rest of the permit being in
print] &ldquo;to pass freely during the space of forty-eight hours from
the date hereof, over the King&rsquo;s preserves, provided, under pain
of imprisonment with hard labour for twelve months, that they do not
kill, nor cause to be killed, nor eat, if another have killed, any one
or more of his Majesty&rsquo;s quails.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The signature was such a scrawl that my father could not read it,
but underneath was printed, &ldquo;Mayor of Sunchildston, formerly called
Coldharbour.&rdquo;</p>
<p>What a mass of information did not my father gather as he read, but
what a far greater mass did he not see that he must get hold of ere
he could reconstruct his plans intelligently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The year three,&rdquo; indeed; and XIX.&nbsp; xii. 29, in
Roman and Arabic characters!&nbsp; There were no such characters when
he was in Erewhon before.&nbsp; It flashed upon him that he had repeatedly
shewn them to the Nosnibors, and had once even written them down.&nbsp;
It could not be that . . . No, it was impossible; and yet there was
the European dress, aimed at by the one Professor, and attained by the
other.&nbsp; Again &ldquo;XIX.&rdquo; what was that? &ldquo;xii.&rdquo;
might do for December, but it was now the 4th of December not the 29th.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Afforested&rdquo; too?&nbsp; Then that was why he had seen no
sheep tracks.&nbsp; And how about the quails he had so innocently killed?&nbsp;
What would have happened if he had tried to sell them in Coldharbour?&nbsp;
What other like fatal error might he not ignorantly commit?&nbsp; And
why had Coldharbour become Sunchildston?</p>
<p>These thoughts raced through my poor father&rsquo;s brain as he slowly
perused the paper handed to him by the Professors.&nbsp; To give himself
time he feigned to be a poor scholar, but when he had delayed as long
as he dared, he returned it to the one who had given it him.&nbsp; Without
changing a muscle he said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your permit, sir, is quite regular.&nbsp; You can either stay
here the night or go on to Sunchildston as you think fit.&nbsp; May
I ask which of you two gentlemen is Professor Hanky, and which Professor
Panky?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My name is Panky,&rdquo; said the one who had the watch, who
wore his clothes reversed, and who had thought my father might be a
poacher.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And mine Hanky,&rdquo; said the other.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you think, Panky,&rdquo; he added, turning to his
brother Professor, &ldquo;had we not better stay here till sunrise?&nbsp;
We are both of us tired, and this fellow can make us a good fire.&nbsp;
It is very dark, and there will be no moon this two hours.&nbsp; We
are hungry, but we can hold out till we get to Sunchildston; it cannot
be more than eight or nine miles further down.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said,
&ldquo;My man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress?&nbsp; Why
are you not in ranger&rsquo;s uniform, and what is the meaning of all
those quails?&rdquo;&nbsp; For his seedling idea that my father was
in reality a poacher was doing its best to grow.</p>
<p>Quick as thought my father answered, &ldquo;The Head Ranger sent
me a message this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston
by to-morrow afternoon.&nbsp; As for the dress, we can run the quails
down quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear
out old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town.&nbsp;
My uniform is in the ranger&rsquo;s shelter an hour and a half higher
up the valley.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;See what comes,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;of having a whippersnapper
not yet twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger.&nbsp;
As for this fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The man is all right, Panky,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;and
seems to be a decent fellow enough.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then to my father,
&ldquo;How many brace have you got?&rdquo;&nbsp; And he looked at them
a little wistfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight
brace.&nbsp; I must run down ten more brace to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I see, I see.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then, turning to Panky, he said,
&ldquo;Of course, they are wanted for the Mayor&rsquo;s banquet on Sunday.&nbsp;
By the way, we have not yet received our invitation; I suppose we shall
find it when we get back to Sunchildston.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!&rdquo; groaned my father inwardly;
but he changed not a muscle of his face, and said stolidly to Professor
Hanky, &ldquo;I think you must be right, sir; but there was nothing
said about it to me, I was only told to bring the birds.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Thus tenderly did he water the Professor&rsquo;s second seedling.&nbsp;
But Panky had his seedling too, and, Cain-like, was jealous that Hanky&rsquo;s
should flourish while his own was withering.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what, pray, my man,&rdquo; he said somewhat peremptorily
to my father, &ldquo;are those two plucked quails doing?&nbsp; Were
you to deliver them plucked?&nbsp; And what bird did those bones belong
to which I see lying by the fire with the flesh all eaten off them?&nbsp;
Are the under-rangers allowed not only to wear the forbidden dress but
to eat the King&rsquo;s quails as well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The form in which the question was asked gave my father his cue.&nbsp;
He laughed heartily, and said, &ldquo;Why, sir, those plucked birds
are landrails, not quails, and those bones are landrail bones.&nbsp;
Look at this thigh-bone; was there ever a quail with such a bone as
that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>I cannot say whether or no Professor Panky was really deceived by
the sweet effrontery with which my father proffered him the bone.&nbsp;
If he was taken in, his answer was dictated simply by a donnish unwillingness
to allow any one to be better informed on any subject than he was himself.</p>
<p>My father, when I suggested this to him, would not hear of it.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Oh no,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;the man knew well enough that I
was lying.&rdquo;&nbsp; However this may be, the Professor&rsquo;s manner
changed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I thought they were
landrail bones, but was not sure till I had one in my hand.&nbsp; I
see, too, that the plucked birds are landrails, but there is little
light, and I have not often seen them without their feathers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think,&rdquo; said my father to me, &ldquo;that Hanky knew
what his friend meant, for he said, &lsquo;Panky, I am very hungry.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Hanky, Hanky,&rdquo; said the other, modulating his harsh
voice till it was quite pleasant.&nbsp; &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t corrupt the
poor man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Panky, drop that; we are not at Bridgeford now; I am very
hungry, and I believe half those birds are not quails but landrails.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father saw he was safe.&nbsp; He said, &ldquo;Perhaps some of
them might prove to be so, sir, under certain circumstances.&nbsp; I
am a poor man, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; said Hanky; and he slipped a sum equal
to about half-a-crown into my father&rsquo;s hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not know what you mean, sir,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;and
if I did, half-a-crown would not be nearly enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hanky,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;you must get this fellow
to give you lessons.&rdquo;</p>
<h2>CHAPTER IV: MY FATHER OVERHEARS MORE OF HANKY AND PANKY&rsquo;S
CONVERSATION</h2>
<p>My father, schooled under adversity, knew that it was never well
to press advantage too far.&nbsp; He took the equivalent of five shillings
for three brace, which was somewhat less than the birds would have been
worth when things were as he had known them.&nbsp; Moreover, he consented
to take a shilling&rsquo;s worth of Musical Bank money, which (as he
has explained in his book) has no appreciable value outside these banks.&nbsp;
He did this because he knew that it would be respectable to be seen
carrying a little Musical Bank money, and also because he wished to
give some of it to the British Museum, where he knew that this curious
coinage was unrepresented.&nbsp; But the coins struck him as being much
thinner and smaller than he had remembered them.</p>
<p>It was Panky, not Hanky, who had given him the Musical Bank money.&nbsp;
Panky was the greater humbug of the two, for he would humbug even himself&mdash;a
thing, by the way, not very hard to do; and yet he was the less successful
humbug, for he could humbug no one who was worth humbugging&mdash;not
for long.&nbsp; Hanky&rsquo;s occasional frankness put people off their
guard.&nbsp; He was the mere common, superficial, perfunctory Professor,
who, being a Professor, would of course profess, but would not lie more
than was in the bond; he was log-rolled and log-rolling, but still,
in a robust wolfish fashion, human.</p>
<p>Panky, on the other hand, was hardly human; he had thrown himself
so earnestly into his work, that he had become a living lie.&nbsp; If
he had had to play the part of Othello he would have blacked himself
all over, and very likely smothered his Desdemona in good earnest.&nbsp;
Hanky would hardly have blacked himself behind the ears, and his Desdemona
would have been quite safe.</p>
<p>Philosophers are like quails in the respect that they can take two
or three flights of imagination, but rarely more without an interval
of repose.&nbsp; The Professors had imagined my father to be a poacher
and a ranger; they had imagined the quails to be wanted for Sunday&rsquo;s
banquet; they had imagined that they imagined (at least Panky had) that
they were about to eat landrails; they were now exhausted, and cowered
down into the grass of their ordinary conversation, paying no more attention
to my father than if he had been a log.&nbsp; He, poor man, drank in
every word they said, while seemingly intent on nothing but his quails,
each one of which he cut up with a knife borrowed from Hanky.&nbsp;
Two had been plucked already, so he laid these at once upon the clear
embers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not know what we are to do with ourselves,&rdquo; said
Hanky, &ldquo;till Sunday.&nbsp; To-day is Thursday&mdash;it is the
twenty-ninth, is it not?&nbsp; Yes, of course it is&mdash;Sunday is
the first.&nbsp; Besides, it is on our permit.&nbsp; To-morrow we can
rest; what, I wonder, can we do on Saturday?&nbsp; But the others will
be here then, and we can tell them about the statues.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, but mind you do not blurt out anything about the landrails.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think we may tell Dr. Downie.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell nobody,&rdquo; said Panky.</p>
<p>They then talked about the statues, concerning which it was plain
that nothing was known.&nbsp; But my father soon broke in upon their
conversation with the first instalment of quails, which a few minutes
had sufficed to cook.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What a delicious bird a quail is,&rdquo; said Hanky.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Landrail, Hanky, landrail,&rdquo; said the other reproachfully.</p>
<p>Having finished the first birds in a very few minutes they returned
to the statues.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Old Mrs. Nosnibor,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;says the Sunchild
told her they were symbolic of ten tribes who had incurred the displeasure
of the sun, his father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I make no comment on my father&rsquo;s feelings.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of the sun! his fiddlesticks&rsquo; ends,&rdquo; retorted
Hanky.&nbsp; &ldquo;He never called the sun his father.&nbsp; Besides,
from all I have heard about him, I take it he was a precious idiot.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;O Hanky, Hanky! you will wreck the whole thing if you ever
allow yourself to talk in that way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are more likely to wreck it yourself, Panky, by never
doing so.&nbsp; People like being deceived, but they like also to have
an inkling of their own deception, and you never inkle them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Queen,&rdquo; said Panky, returning to the statues, &ldquo;sticks
to it that . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here comes another bird,&rdquo; interrupted Hanky; &ldquo;never
mind about the Queen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The bird was soon eaten, whereon Panky again took up his parable
about the Queen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Queen says they are connected with the cult of the ancient
Goddess Kiss-me-quick.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What if they are?&nbsp; But the Queen sees Kiss-me-quick in
everything.&nbsp; Another quail, if you please, Mr. Ranger.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father brought up another bird almost directly.&nbsp; Silence
while it was being eaten.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Talking of the Sunchild,&rdquo; said Panky; &ldquo;did you
ever see him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never set eyes on him, and hope I never shall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>And so on till the last bird was eaten.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fellow,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;fetch some more wood; the
fire is nearly dead.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can find no more, sir,&rdquo; said my father, who was afraid
lest some genuine ranger might be attracted by the light, and was determined
to let it go out as soon as he had done cooking.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;the moon will be up
soon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now, Hanky,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;tell me what you
propose to say on Sunday.&nbsp; I suppose you have pretty well made
up your mind about it by this time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pretty nearly.&nbsp; I shall keep it much on the usual lines.&nbsp;
I shall dwell upon the benighted state from which the Sunchild rescued
us, and shall show how the Musical Banks, by at once taking up the movement,
have been the blessed means of its now almost universal success.&nbsp;
I shall talk about the immortal glory shed upon Sunch&rsquo;ston by
the Sunchild&rsquo;s residence in the prison, and wind up with the Sunchild
Evidence Society, and an earnest appeal for funds to endow the canonries
required for the due service of the temple.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Temple! what temple?&rdquo; groaned my father inwardly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what are you going to do about the four black and white
horses?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stick to them, of course&mdash;unless I make them six.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I really do not see why they might not have been horses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say you do not,&rdquo; returned the other drily, &ldquo;but
they were black and white storks, and you know that as well as I do.&nbsp;
Still, they have caught on, and they are in the altar-piece, prancing
and curvetting magnificently, so I shall trot them out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Altar-piece!&nbsp; Altar-piece!&rdquo; again groaned my father
inwardly.</p>
<p>He need not have groaned, for when he came to see the so-called altar-piece
he found that the table above which it was placed had nothing in common
with the altar in a Christian church.&nbsp; It was a mere table, on
which were placed two bowls full of Musical Bank coins; two cashiers,
who sat on either side of it, dispensed a few of these to all comers,
while there was a box in front of it wherein people deposited coin of
the realm according to their will or ability.&nbsp; The idea of sacrifice
was not contemplated, and the position of the table, as well as the
name given to it, was an instance of the way in which the Erewhonians
had caught names and practices from my father, without understanding
what they either were or meant.&nbsp; So, again, when Professor Hanky
had spoken of canonries, he had none but the vaguest idea of what a
canonry is.</p>
<p>I may add further that as a boy my father had had his Bible well
drilled into him, and never forgot it.&nbsp; Hence biblical passages
and expressions had been often in his mouth, as the effect of mere unconscious
cerebration.&nbsp; The Erewhonians had caught many of these, sometimes
corrupting them so that they were hardly recognizable.&nbsp; Things
that he remembered having said were continually meeting him during the
few days of his second visit, and it shocked him deeply to meet some
gross travesty of his own words, or of words more sacred than his own,
and yet to be unable to correct it.&nbsp; &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; he
said to me, &ldquo;that no one has ever hit on this as a punishment
for the damned in Hades.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Let me now return to Professor Hanky, whom I fear that I have left
too long.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And of course,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;I shall say all
sorts of pretty things about the Mayoress&mdash;for I suppose we must
not even think of her as Yram now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Mayoress,&rdquo; replied Panky, &ldquo;is a very dangerous
woman; see how she stood out about the way in which the Sunchild had
worn his clothes before they gave him the then Erewhonian dress.&nbsp;
Besides, she is a sceptic at heart, and so is that precious son of hers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was quite right,&rdquo; said Hanky, with something of
a snort.&nbsp; &ldquo;She brought him his dinner while he was still
wearing the clothes he came in, and if men do not notice how a man wears
his clothes, women do.&nbsp; Besides, there are many living who saw
him wear them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;but we should never have
talked the King over if we had not humoured him on this point.&nbsp;
Yram nearly wrecked us by her obstinacy.&nbsp; If we had not frightened
her, and if your study, Hanky, had not happened to have been burned
. . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, come, Panky, no more of that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I do not doubt that it was an accident; nevertheless
if your study had not been accidentally burned, on the very night the
clothes were entrusted to you for earnest, patient, careful, scientific
investigation&mdash;and Yram very nearly burned too&mdash;we should
never have carried it through.&nbsp; See what work we had to get the
King to allow the way in which the clothes were worn to be a matter
of opinion, not dogma.&nbsp; What a pity it is that the clothes were
not burned before the King&rsquo;s tailor had copied them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky laughed heartily enough.&nbsp; &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;it was touch and go.&nbsp; Why, I wonder, could not the Queen
have put the clothes on a dummy that would show back from front?&nbsp;
As soon as it was brought into the council chamber the King jumped to
a conclusion, and we had to bundle both dummy and Yram out of the royal
presence, for neither she nor the King would budge an inch.”</p>
<p>Even Panky smiled.&nbsp; &ldquo;What could we do?&nbsp; The common
people almost worship Yram; and so does her husband, though her fair-haired
eldest son was born barely seven months after marriage.&nbsp; The people
in these parts like to think that the Sunchild&rsquo;s blood is in the
country, and yet they swear through thick and thin that he is the Mayor&rsquo;s
duly begotten offspring&mdash;Faugh!&nbsp; Do you think they would have
stood his being jobbed into the rangership by any one else but Yram?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father&rsquo;s feelings may be imagined, but I will not here interrupt
the Professors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; said Hanky; &ldquo;for men must rob and
women must job so long as the world goes on.&nbsp; I did the best I
could.&nbsp; The King would never have embraced Sunchildism if I had
not told him he was right; then, when satisfied that we agreed with
him, he yielded to popular prejudice and allowed the question to remain
open.&nbsp; One of his Royal Professors was to wear the clothes one
way, and the other the other.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My way of wearing them,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;is much
the most convenient.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not a bit of it,&rdquo; said Hanky warmly.&nbsp; On this the
two Professors fell out, and the discussion grew so hot that my father
interfered by advising them not to talk so loud lest another ranger
should hear them.&nbsp; &ldquo;You know,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;there
are a good many landrail bones lying about, and it might be awkward.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The Professors hushed at once.&nbsp; &ldquo;By the way,&rdquo; said
Panky, after a pause, &ldquo;it is very strange about those footprints
in the snow.&nbsp; The man had evidently walked round the statues two
or three times, as though they were strange to him, and he had certainly
come from the other side.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was one of the rangers,&rdquo; said Hanky impatiently,
&ldquo;who had gone a little beyond the statues, and come back again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then we should have seen his footprints as he went.&nbsp;
I am glad I measured them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is nothing in it; but what were your measurements?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Eleven inches by four and a half; nails on the soles; one
nail missing on the right foot and two on the left.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then,
turning to my father quickly, he said, &ldquo;My man, allow me to have
a look at your boots.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense, Panky, nonsense!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Now my father by this time was wondering whether he should not set
upon these two men, kill them if he could, and make the best of his
way back, but he had still a card to play.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly, sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but I should tell you
that they are not my boots.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He took off his right boot and handed it to Panky.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Exactly so!&nbsp; Eleven inches by four and a half, and one
nail missing.&nbsp; And now, Mr. Ranger, will you be good enough to
explain how you became possessed of that boot.&nbsp; You need not show
me the other.&rdquo;&nbsp; And he spoke like an examiner who was confident
that he could floor his examinee in <i>viv&acirc; voce</i>.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know our orders,&rdquo; answered my father, &ldquo;you
have seen them on your permit.&nbsp; I met one of those foreign devils
from the other side, of whom we have had more than one lately; he came
from out of the clouds that hang higher up, and as he had no permit
and could not speak a word of our language, I gripped him, flung him,
and strangled him.&nbsp; Thus far I was only obeying orders, but seeing
how much better his boots were than mine, and finding that they would
fit me, I resolved to keep them.&nbsp; You may be sure I should not
have done so if I had known there was snow on the top of the pass.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He could not invent that,&rdquo; said Hanky; &ldquo;it is
plain he has not been up to the statues.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Panky was staggered.&nbsp; &ldquo;And of course,&rdquo; said he ironically,
&ldquo;you took nothing from this poor wretch except his boots.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;I will make a clean breast
of everything.&nbsp; I flung his body, his clothes, and my own old boots
into the pool; but I kept his blanket, some things he used for cooking,
and some strange stuff that looks like dried leaves, as well as a small
bag of something which I believe is gold.&nbsp; I thought I could sell
the lot to some dealer in curiosities who would ask no questions.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what, pray, have you done with all these things?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are here, sir.&rdquo;&nbsp; And as he spoke he dived
into the wood, returning with the blanket, billy, pannikin, tea, and
the little bag of nuggets, which he had kept accessible.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is very strange,&rdquo; said Hanky, who was beginning
to be afraid of my father when he learned that he sometimes killed people.</p>
<p>Here the Professors talked hurriedly to one another in a tongue which
my father could not understand, but which he felt sure was the hypothetical
language of which he has spoken in his book.</p>
<p>Presently Hanky said to my father quite civilly, &ldquo;And what,
my good man, do you propose to do with all these things?&nbsp; I should
tell you at once that what you take to be gold is nothing of the kind;
it is a base metal, hardly, if at all, worth more than copper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have had enough of them; to-morrow morning I shall take
them with me to the Blue Pool, and drop them into it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a pity you should do that,&rdquo; said Hanky musingly:
&ldquo;the things are interesting as curiosities, and&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;what
will you take for them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I could not do it, sir,&rdquo; answered my father.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
would not do it, no, not for&mdash;&rdquo; and he named a sum equivalent
to about five pounds of our money.&nbsp; For he wanted Erewhonian money,
and thought it worth his while to sacrifice his ten pounds&rsquo; worth
of nuggets in order to get a supply of current coin.</p>
<p>Hanky tried to beat him down, assuring him that no curiosity dealer
would give half as much, and my father so far yielded as to take &pound;4,
10s. in silver, which, as I have already explained, would not be worth
more than half a sovereign in gold.&nbsp; At this figure a bargain was
struck, and the Professors paid up without offering him a single Musical
Bank coin.&nbsp; They wanted to include the boots in the purchase, but
here my father stood out.</p>
<p>But he could not stand out as regards another matter, which caused
him some anxiety.&nbsp; Panky insisted that my father should give them
a receipt for the money, and there was an altercation between the Professors
on this point, much longer than I can here find space to give.&nbsp;
Hanky argued that a receipt was useless, inasmuch as it would be ruin
to my father ever to refer to the subject again.&nbsp; Panky, however,
was anxious, not lest my father should again claim the money, but (though
he did not say so outright) lest Hanky should claim the whole purchase
as his own.&nbsp; In so the end Panky, for a wonder, carried the day,
and a receipt was drawn up to the effect that the undersigned acknowledged
to have received from Professors Hanky and Panky the sum of &pound;4,
10s.&nbsp; (I translate the amount), as joint purchasers of certain
pieces of yellow ore, a blanket, and sundry articles found without an
owner in the King&rsquo;s preserves.&nbsp; This paper was dated, as
the permit had been, XIX.&nbsp; xii. 29.</p>
<p>My father, generally so ready, was at his wits&rsquo; end for a name,
and could think of none but Mr. Nosnibor&rsquo;s.&nbsp; Happily, remembering
that this gentleman had also been called Senoj&mdash;a name common enough
in Erewhon&mdash;he signed himself &ldquo;Senoj, Under-ranger.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Panky was now satisfied.&nbsp; &ldquo;We will put it in the bag,&rdquo;
he said, &ldquo;with the pieces of yellow ore.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Put it where you like,&rdquo; said Hanky contemptuously; and
into the bag it was put.</p>
<p>When all was now concluded, my father laughingly said, &ldquo;If
you have dealt unfairly by me, I forgive you.&nbsp; My motto is, &lsquo;Forgive
us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Repeat those last words,&rdquo; said Panky eagerly.&nbsp;
My father was alarmed at his manner, but thought it safer to repeat
them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You hear that, Hanky?&nbsp; I am convinced; I have not another
word to say.&nbsp; The man is a true Erewhonian; he has our corrupt
reading of the Sunchild&rsquo;s prayer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Please explain.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, can you not see?&rdquo; said Panky, who was by way of
being great at conjectural emendations.&nbsp; &ldquo;Can you not see
how impossible it is for the Sunchild, or any of the people to whom
he declared (as we now know provisionally) that he belonged, could have
made the forgiveness of his own sins depend on the readiness with which
he forgave other people?&nbsp; No man in his senses would dream of such
a thing.&nbsp; It would be asking a supposed all-powerful being not
to forgive his sins at all, or at best to forgive them imperfectly.&nbsp;
No; Yram got it wrong.&nbsp; She mistook &lsquo;but do not&rsquo; for
&lsquo;as we.&rsquo;&nbsp; The sound of the words is very much alike;
the correct reading should obviously be, &lsquo;Forgive us our trespasses,
but do not forgive them that trespass against us.&rsquo;&nbsp; This
makes sense, and turns an impossible prayer into one that goes straight
to the heart of every one of us.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then, turning to my father,
he said, &ldquo;You can see this, my man, can you not, as soon as it
is pointed out to you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father said that he saw it now, but had always heard the words
as he had himself spoken them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course you have, my good fellow, and it is because of this
that I know they never can have reached you except from an Erewhonian
source.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky smiled,&mdash;snorted, and muttered in an undertone, &ldquo;I
shall begin to think that this fellow is a foreign devil after all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now, gentlemen,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;the moon
is risen.&nbsp; I must be after the quails at daybreak; I will therefore
go to the ranger&rsquo;s shelter&rdquo; (a shelter, by the way, which
existed only in my father&rsquo;s invention), &ldquo;and get a couple
of hours&rsquo; sleep, so as to be both close to the quail-ground; and
fresh for running.&nbsp; You are so near the boundary of the preserves
that you will not want your permit further; no one will meet you, and
should any one do so, you need only give your names and say that you
have made a mistake.&nbsp; You will have to give it up to-morrow at
the Ranger&rsquo;s office; it will save you trouble if I collect it
now, and give it up when I deliver my quails.</p>
<p>&ldquo;As regards the curiosities, hide them as you best can outside
the limits.&nbsp; I recommend you to carry them at once out of the forest,
and rest beyond the limits rather than here.&nbsp; You can then recover
them whenever, and in whatever way, you may find convenient.&nbsp; But
I hope you will say nothing about any foreign devil&rsquo;s having come
over on to this side.&nbsp; Any whisper to this effect unsettles people&rsquo;s
minds, and they are too much unsettled already; hence our orders to
kill any one from over there at once, and to tell no one but the Head
Ranger.&nbsp; I was forced by you, gentlemen, to disobey these orders
in self-defence; I must trust your generosity to keep what I have told
you secret.&nbsp; I shall, of course, report it to the Head Ranger.&nbsp;
And now, if you think proper, you can give me up your permit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>All this was so plausible that the Professors gave up their permit
without a word but thanks.&nbsp; They bundled their curiosities hurriedly
into &ldquo;the poor foreign devil&rsquo;s&rdquo; blanket, reserving
a more careful packing till they were out of the preserves.&nbsp; They
wished my father a very good night, and all success with his quails
in the morning; they thanked him again for the care he had taken of
them in the matter of the landrails, and Panky even went so far as to
give him a few Musical Bank coins, which he gratefully accepted.&nbsp;
They then started off in the direction of Sunch&rsquo;ston.</p>
<p>My father gathered up the remaining quails, some of which he meant
to eat in the morning, while the others he would throw away as soon
as he could find a safe place.&nbsp; He turned towards the mountains,
but before he had gone a dozen yards he heard a voice, which he recognised
as Panky&rsquo;s, shouting after him, and saying&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mind you do not forget the true reading of the Sunchild&rsquo;s
prayer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are an old fool,&rdquo; shouted my father in English,
knowing that he could hardly be heard, still less understood, and thankful
to relieve his feelings.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER V: MY FATHER MEETS A SON, OF WHOSE EXISTENCE HE WAS IGNORANT;
AND STRIKES A BARGAIN WITH HIM</h2>
<p>The incidents recorded in the two last chapters had occupied about
two hours, so that it was nearly midnight before my father could begin
to retrace his steps and make towards the camp that he had left that
morning.&nbsp; This was necessary, for he could not go any further in
a costume that he now knew to be forbidden.&nbsp; At this hour no ranger
was likely to meet him before he reached the statues, and by making
a push for it he could return in time to cross the limits of the preserves
before the Professors&rsquo; permit had expired.&nbsp; If challenged,
he must brazen it out that he was one or other of the persons therein
named.</p>
<p>Fatigued though he was, he reached the statues as near as he could
guess, at about three in the morning.&nbsp; What little wind there had
been was warm, so that the tracks, which the Professors must have seen
shortly after he had made them, had disappeared.&nbsp; The statues looked
very weird in the moonlight but they were not chanting.</p>
<p>While ascending, he pieced together the information he had picked
up from the Professors.&nbsp; Plainly, the Sunchild, or child of the
sun, was none other than himself, and the new name of Coldharbour was
doubtless intended to commemorate the fact that this was the first town
he had reached in Erewhon.&nbsp; Plainly, also, he was supposed to be
of superhuman origin&mdash;his flight in the balloon having been not
unnaturally believed to be miraculous.&nbsp; The Erewhonians had for
centuries been effacing all knowledge of their former culture; archaeologists,
indeed, could still glean a little from museums, and from volumes hard
to come by, and still harder to understand; but archaeologists were
few, and even though they had made researches (which they may or may
not have done), their labours had never reached the masses.&nbsp; What
wonder, then, that the mushroom spawn of myth, ever present in an atmosphere
highly charged with ignorance, had germinated in a soil so favourably
prepared for its reception?</p>
<p>He saw it all now.&nbsp; It was twenty years next Sunday since he
and my mother had eloped.&nbsp; That was the meaning of XIX. xii. 29.&nbsp;
They had made a new era, dating from the day of his return to the palace
of the sun with a bride who was doubtless to unite the Erewhonian nature
with that of the sun.&nbsp; The New Year, then, would date from Sunday,
December 7, which would therefore become XX. i. 1.&nbsp; The Thursday,
now nearly if not quite over, being only two days distant from the end
of a month of thirty-one days, which was also the last of the year,
would be XIX. xii. 29, as on the Professors&rsquo; permit.</p>
<p>I should like to explain here what will appear more clearly on a
later page&mdash;I mean, that the Erewhonians, according to their new
system, do not believe the sun to be a god except as regards this world
and his other planets.&nbsp; My father had told them a little about
astronomy, and had assured them that all the fixed stars were suns like
our own, with planets revolving round them, which were probably tenanted
by intelligent living beings, however unlike they might be to ourselves.&nbsp;
From this they evolved the theory that the sun was the ruler of this
planetary system, and that he must be personified, as they had personified
the air-god, the gods of time and space, hope, justice, and the other
deities mentioned in my father&rsquo;s book.&nbsp; They retain their
old belief in the actual existence of these gods, but they now make
them all subordinate to the sun.&nbsp; The nearest approach they make
to our own conception of God is to say that He is the ruler over all
the suns throughout the universe&mdash;the suns being to Him much as
our planets and their denizens are to our own sun.&nbsp; They deny that
He takes more interest in one sun and its system than in another.&nbsp;
All the suns with their attendant planets are supposed to be equally
His children, and He deputes to each sun the supervision and protection
of its own system.&nbsp; Hence they say that though we may pray to the
air-god, &amp;c., and even to the sun, we must not pray to God.&nbsp;
We may be thankful to Him for watching over the suns, but we must not
go further.</p>
<p>Going back to my father&rsquo;s reflections, he perceived that the
Erewhonians had not only adopted our calendar, as he had repeatedly
explained it to the Nosnibors, but had taken our week as well, and were
making Sunday a high day, just as we do.&nbsp; Next Sunday, in commemoration
of the twentieth year after his ascent, they were about to dedicate
a temple to him; in this there was to be a picture showing himself and
his earthly bride on their heavenward journey, in a chariot drawn by
four black and white horses&mdash;which, however, Professor Hanky had
positively affirmed to have been only storks.</p>
<p>Here I interrupted my father.&nbsp; &ldquo;But were there,&rdquo;
I said, &ldquo;any storks?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he answered.&nbsp; &ldquo;As soon as I heard Hanky&rsquo;s
words I remembered that a flight of some four or five of the large storks
so common in Erewhon during the summer months had been wheeling high
aloft in one of those a&euml;rial dances that so much delight them.&nbsp;
I had quite forgotten it, but it came back to me at once that these
creatures, attracted doubtless by what they took to be an unknown kind
of bird, swooped down towards the balloon and circled round it like
so many satellites to a heavenly body.&nbsp; I was fearful lest they
should strike at it with their long and formidable beaks, in which case
all would have been soon over; either they were afraid, or they had
satisfied their curiosity&mdash;at any rate, they let us alone; but
they kept with us till we were well away from the capital.&nbsp; Strange,
how completely this incident had escaped me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I return to my father&rsquo;s thoughts as he made his way back to
his old camp.</p>
<p>As for the reversed position of Professor Panky&rsquo;s clothes,
he remembered having given his own old ones to the Queen, and having
thought that she might have got a better dummy on which to display them
than the headless scarecrow, which, however, he supposed was all her
ladies-in-waiting could lay their hands on at the moment.&nbsp; If that
dummy had never been replaced, it was perhaps not very strange that
the King could not at the first glance tell back from front, and if
he did not guess right at first, there was little chance of his changing,
for his first ideas were apt to be his last.&nbsp; But he must find
out more about this.</p>
<p>Then how about the watch?&nbsp; Had their views about machinery also
changed?&nbsp; Or was there an exception made about any machine that
he had himself carried?</p>
<p>Yram too.&nbsp; She must have been married not long after she and
he had parted.&nbsp; So she was now wife to the Mayor, and was evidently
able to have things pretty much her own way in Sunch&rsquo;ston, as
he supposed he must now call it.&nbsp; Thank heaven she was prosperous!&nbsp;
It was interesting to know that she was at heart a sceptic, as was also
her light-haired son, now Head Ranger.&nbsp; And that son?&nbsp; Just
twenty years of age!&nbsp; Born seven months after marriage!&nbsp; Then
the Mayor doubtless had light hair too; but why did not those wretches
say in which month Yram was married?&nbsp; If she had married soon after
he had left, this was why he had not been sent for or written to.&nbsp;
Pray heaven it was so.&nbsp; As for current gossip, people would talk,
and if the lad was well begotten, what could it matter to them whose
son he was?&nbsp; &ldquo;But,&rdquo; thought my father, &ldquo;I am
glad I did not meet him on my way down.&nbsp; I had rather have been
killed by some one else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky and Panky again.&nbsp; He remembered Bridgeford as the town
where the Colleges of Unreason had been most rife; he had visited it,
but he had forgotten that it was called &ldquo;The city of the people
who are above suspicion.&rdquo;&nbsp; Its Professors were evidently
going to muster in great force on Sunday; if two of them had robbed
him, he could forgive them, for the information he had gleaned from
them had furnished him with a <i>pied &agrave; terre</i>.&nbsp; Moreover,
he had got as much Erewhonian money as he should want, for he had resolved
to retrace his steps immediately after seeing the temple dedicated to
himself.&nbsp; He knew the danger he should run in returning over the
preserves without a permit, but his curiosity was so great that he resolved
to risk it.</p>
<p>Soon after he had passed the statues he began to descend, and it
being now broad day, he did so by leaps and bounds, for the ground was
not precipitous.&nbsp; He reached his old camp soon after five&mdash;this,
at any rate, was the hour at which he set his watch on finding that
it had run down during his absence.&nbsp; There was now no reason why
he should not take it with him, so he put it in his pocket.&nbsp; The
parrots had attacked his saddle-bags, saddle, and bridle, as they were
sure to do, but they had not got inside the bags.&nbsp; He took out
his English clothes and put them on&mdash;stowing his bags of gold in
various pockets, but keeping his Erewhonian money in the one that was
most accessible.&nbsp; He put his Erewhonian dress back into the saddle-bags,
intending to keep it as a curiosity; he also refreshed the dye upon
his hands, face, and hair; he lit himself a fire, made tea, cooked and
ate two brace of quails, which he had plucked while walking so as to
save time, and then flung himself on to the ground to snatch an hour&rsquo;s
very necessary rest.&nbsp; When he woke he found he had slept two hours,
not one, which was perhaps as well, and by eight he began to reascend
the pass.</p>
<p>He reached the statues about noon, for he allowed himself not a moment&rsquo;s
rest.&nbsp; This time there was a stiffish wind, and they were chanting
lustily.&nbsp; He passed them with all speed, and had nearly reached
the place where he had caught the quails, when he saw a man in a dress
which he guessed at once to be a ranger&rsquo;s, but which, strangely
enough, seeing that he was in the King&rsquo;s employ, was not reversed.&nbsp;
My father&rsquo;s heart beat fast; he got out his permit and held it
open in his hand, then with a smiling face he went towards the Ranger,
who was standing his ground.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I believe you are the Head Ranger,&rdquo; said my father,
who saw that he was still smooth-faced and had light hair.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
am Professor Panky, and here is my permit.&nbsp; My brother Professor
has been prevented from coming with me, and, as you see, I am alone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father had professed to pass himself off as Panky, for he had
rather gathered that Hanky was the better known man of the two.</p>
<p>While the youth was scrutinising the permit, evidently with suspicion,
my father took stock of him, and saw his own past self in him too plainly&mdash;knowing
all he knew&mdash;to doubt whose son he was.&nbsp; He had the greatest
difficulty in hiding his emotion, for the lad was indeed one of whom
any father might be proud.&nbsp; He longed to be able to embrace him
and claim him for what he was, but this, as he well knew, might not
be.&nbsp; The tears again welled into his eyes when he told me of the
struggle with himself that he had then had.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be jealous, my dearest boy,&rdquo; he said to
me.&nbsp; &ldquo;I love you quite as dearly as I love him, or better,
but he was sprung upon me so suddenly, and dazzled me with his comely
debonair face, so full of youth, and health, and frankness.&nbsp; Did
you see him, he would go straight to your heart, for he is wonderfully
like you in spite of your taking so much after your poor mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I was not jealous; on the contrary, I longed to see this youth, and
find in him such a brother as I had often wished to have.&nbsp; But
let me return to my father&rsquo;s story.</p>
<p>The young man, after examining the permit, declared it to be in form,
and returned it to my father, but he eyed him with polite disfavour.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you have come up, as so
many are doing, from Bridgeford and all over the country, to the dedication
on Sunday.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said my father.&nbsp; &ldquo;Bless me!&rdquo;
he added, &ldquo;what a wind you have up here!&nbsp; How it makes one&rsquo;s
eyes water, to be sure;&rdquo; but he spoke with a cluck in his throat
which no wind that blows can cause.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you met any suspicious characters between here and the
statues?&rdquo; asked the youth.&nbsp; &ldquo;I came across the ashes
of a fire lower down; there had been three men sitting for some time
round it, and they had all been eating quails.&nbsp; Here are some of
the bones and feathers, which I shall keep.&nbsp; They had not been
gone more than a couple of hours, for the ashes were still warm; they
are getting bolder and bolder&mdash;who would have thought they would
dare to light a fire?&nbsp; I suppose you have not met any one; but
if you have seen a single person, let me know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father said quite truly that he had met no one.&nbsp; He then
laughingly asked how the youth had been able to discover as much as
he had.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There were three well-marked forms, and three separate lots
of quail bones hidden in the ashes.&nbsp; One man had done all the plucking.&nbsp;
This is strange, but I dare say I shall get at it later.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After a little further conversation the Ranger said he was now going
down to Sunch&rsquo;ston, and, though somewhat curtly, proposed that
he and my father should walk together.</p>
<p>&ldquo;By all means,&rdquo; answered my father.</p>
<p>Before they had gone more than a few hundred yards his companion
said, &ldquo;If you will come with me a little to the left, I can show
you the Blue Pool.&rdquo;</p>
<p>To avoid the precipitous ground over which the stream here fell,
they had diverged to the right, where they had found a smoother descent;
returning now to the stream, which was about to enter on a level stretch
for some distance, they found themselves on the brink of a rocky basin,
of no great size, but very blue, and evidently deep.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This,&rdquo; said the Ranger, &ldquo;is where our orders tell
us to fling any foreign devil who comes over from the other side.&nbsp;
I have only been Head Ranger about nine months, and have not yet had
to face this horrid duty; but,&rdquo; and here he smiled, &ldquo;when
I first caught sight of you I thought I should have to make a beginning.&nbsp;
I was very glad when I saw you had a permit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And how many skeletons do you suppose are lying at the bottom
of this pool?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I believe not more than seven or eight in all.&nbsp; There
were three or four about eighteen years ago, and about the same number
of late years; one man was flung here only about three months before
I was appointed.&nbsp; I have the full list, with dates, down in my
office, but the rangers never let people in Sunch&rsquo;ston know when
they have Blue-Pooled any one; it would unsettle men&rsquo;s minds,
and some of them would be coming up here in the dark to drag the pool,
and see whether they could find anything on the body.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father was glad to turn away from this most repulsive place.&nbsp;
After a time he said, &ldquo;And what do you good people hereabouts
think of next Sunday&rsquo;s grand doings?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Bearing in mind what he had gleaned from the Professors about the
Ranger&rsquo;s opinions, my father gave a slightly ironical turn to
his pronunciation of the words &ldquo;grand doings.&rdquo;&nbsp; The
youth glanced at him with a quick penetrative look, and laughed as he
said, &ldquo;The doings will be grand enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What a fine temple they have built,&rdquo; said my father.&nbsp;
&ldquo;I have not yet seen the picture, but they say the four black
and white horses are magnificently painted.&nbsp; I saw the Sunchild
ascend, but I saw no horses in the sky, nor anything like horses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The youth was much interested.&nbsp; &ldquo;Did you really see him
ascend?&rdquo; he asked; &ldquo;and what, pray, do you think it all
was?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whatever it was, there were no horses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But there must have been, for, as you of course know, they
have lately found some droppings from one of them, which have been miraculously
preserved, and they are going to show them next Sunday in a gold reliquary.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said my father, who, however, was learning
the fact for the first time.&nbsp; &ldquo;I have not yet seen this precious
relic, but I think they might have found something less unpleasant.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps they would if they could,&rdquo; replied the youth,
laughing, &ldquo;but there was nothing else that the horses could leave.&nbsp;
It is only a number of curiously rounded stones, and not at all like
what they say it is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; continued my father, &ldquo;but relic or
no relic, there are many who, while they fully recognise the value of
the Sunchild&rsquo;s teaching, dislike these cock and bull stories as
blasphemy against God&rsquo;s most blessed gift of reason.&nbsp; There
are many in Bridgeford who hate this story of the horses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The youth was now quite reassured.&nbsp; &ldquo;So there are here,
sir,&rdquo; he said warmly, &ldquo;and who hate the Sunchild too.&nbsp;
If there is such a hell as he used to talk about to my mother, we doubt
not but that he will be cast into its deepest fires.&nbsp; See how he
has turned us all upside down.&nbsp; But we dare not say what we think.&nbsp;
There is no courage left in Erewhon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then waxing calmer he said, &ldquo;It is you Bridgeford people and
your Musical Banks that have done it all.&nbsp; The Musical Bank Managers
saw that the people were falling away from them.&nbsp; Finding that
the vulgar believed this foreign devil Higgs&mdash;for he gave this
name to my mother when he was in prison&mdash;finding that&mdash;But
you know all this as well as I do.&nbsp; How can you Bridgeford Professors
pretend to believe about these horses, and about the Sunchild&rsquo;s
being son to the sun, when all the time you know there is no truth in
it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My son&mdash;for considering the difference in our ages I
may be allowed to call you so&mdash;we at Bridgeford are much like you
at Sunch&rsquo;ston; we dare not always say what we think.&nbsp; Nor
would it be wise to do so, when we should not be listened to.&nbsp;
This fire must burn itself out, for it has got such hold that nothing
can either stay or turn it.&nbsp; Even though Higgs himself were to
return and tell it from the house-tops that he was a mortal&mdash;ay,
and a very common one&mdash;he would be killed, but not believed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let him come; let him show himself, speak out and die, if
the people choose to kill him.&nbsp; In that case I would forgive him,
accept him for my father, as silly people sometimes say he is, and honour
him to my dying day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would that be a bargain?&rdquo; said my father, smiling in
spite of emotion so strong that he could hardly bring the words out
of his mouth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it would,&rdquo; said the youth doggedly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then let me shake hands with you on his behalf, and let us
change the conversation.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He took my father&rsquo;s hand, doubtfully and somewhat disdainfully,
but he did not refuse it.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VI: FURTHER CONVERSATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON&mdash;THE
PROFESSORS&rsquo; HOARD</h2>
<p>It is one thing to desire a conversation to be changed, and another
to change it.&nbsp; After some little silence my father said, &ldquo;And
may I ask what name your mother gave you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My name,&rdquo; he answered, laughing, &ldquo;is George, and
I wish it were some other, for it is the first name of that arch-impostor
Higgs.&nbsp; I hate it as I hate the man who owned it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father said nothing, but he hid his face in his hands.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said the other, &ldquo;I fear you are in some
distress.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You remind me,&rdquo; replied my father, &ldquo;of a son who
was stolen from me when he was a child.&nbsp; I searched for him, during
many years, and at last fell in with him by accident, to find him all
the heart of father could wish.&nbsp; But alas! he did not take kindly
to me as I to him, and after two days he left me; nor shall I ever again
see him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then, sir, had I not better leave you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, stay with me till your road takes you elsewhere; for though
I cannot see my son, you are so like him that I could almost fancy he
is with me.&nbsp; And now&mdash;for I shall show no more weakness&mdash;you
say your mother knew the Sunchild, as I am used to call him.&nbsp; Tell
me what kind of a man she found him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She liked him well enough in spite of his being a little silly.&nbsp;
She does not believe he ever called himself child of the sun.&nbsp;
He used to say he had a father in heaven to whom he prayed, and who
could hear him; but he said that all of us, my mother as much as he,
have this unseen father.&nbsp; My mother does not believe he meant doing
us any harm, but only that he wanted to get himself and Mrs. Nosnibor&rsquo;s
younger daughter out of the country.&nbsp; As for there having been
anything supernatural about the balloon, she will have none of it; she
says that it was some machine which he knew how to make, but which we
have lost the art of making, as we have of many another.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is what she says amongst ourselves, but in public she
confirms all that the Musical Bank Managers say about him.&nbsp; She
is afraid of them.&nbsp; You know, perhaps, that Professor Hanky, whose
name I see on your permit, tried to burn her alive?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank heaven!&rdquo; thought my father, &ldquo;that I am Panky;&rdquo;
but aloud he said, &ldquo;Oh, horrible! horrible!&nbsp; I cannot believe
this even of Hanky.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He denies it, and we say we believe him; he was most kind
and attentive to my mother during all the rest of her stay in Bridgeford.&nbsp;
He and she parted excellent friends, but I know what she thinks.&nbsp;
I shall be sure to see him while he is in Sunch&rsquo;ston, I shall
have to be civil to him but it makes me sick to think of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When shall you see him?&rdquo; said my father, who was alarmed
at learning that Hanky and the Ranger were likely to meet.&nbsp; Who
could tell but that he might see Panky too?</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have been away from home a fortnight, and shall not be back
till late on Saturday night.&nbsp; I do not suppose I shall see him
before Sunday.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That will do,&rdquo; thought my father, who at that moment
deemed that nothing would matter to him much when Sunday was over.&nbsp;
Then, turning to the Ranger, he said, &ldquo;I gather, then, that your
mother does not think so badly of the Sunchild after all?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She laughs at him sometimes, but if any of us boys and girls
say a word against him we get snapped up directly.&nbsp; My mother turns
every one round her finger.&nbsp; Her word is law in Sunch&rsquo;ston;
every one obeys her; she has faced more than one mob, and quelled them
when my father could not do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can believe all you say of her.&nbsp; What other children
has she besides yourself?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are four sons, of whom the youngest is now fourteen, and
three daughters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;May all health and happiness attend her and you, and all of
you, henceforth and for ever,&rdquo; and my father involuntarily bared
his head as he spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said the youth, impressed by the fervency of my
father&rsquo;s manner, &ldquo;I thank you, but you do not talk as Bridgeford
Professors generally do, so far as I have seen or heard them.&nbsp;
Why do you wish us all well so very heartily?&nbsp; Is it because you
think I am like your son, or is there some other reason?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not my son alone that you resemble,&rdquo; said my father
tremulously, for he knew he was going too far.&nbsp; He carried it off
by adding, &ldquo;You resemble all who love truth and hate lies, as
I do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then, sir,&rdquo; said the youth gravely, &ldquo;you much
belie your reputation.&nbsp; And now I must leave you for another part
of the preserves, where I think it likely that last night&rsquo;s poachers
may now be, and where I shall pass the night in watching for them.&nbsp;
You may want your permit for a few miles further, so I will not take
it.&nbsp; Neither need you give it up at Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; It
is dated, and will be useless after this evening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>With this he strode off into the forest, bowing politely but somewhat
coldly, and without encouraging my father&rsquo;s half proffered hand.</p>
<p>My father turned sad and unsatisfied away.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It serves me right,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;he ought
never to have been my son; and yet, if such men can be brought by hook
or by crook into the world, surely the world should not ask questions
about the bringing.&nbsp; How cheerless everything looks now that he
has left me.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>By this time it was three o&rsquo;clock, and in another few minutes
my father came upon the ashes of the fire beside which he and the Professors
had supped on the preceding evening.&nbsp; It was only some eighteen
hours since they had come upon him, and yet what an age it seemed!&nbsp;
It was well the Ranger had left him, for though my father, of course,
would have known nothing about either fire or poachers, it might have
led to further falsehood, and by this time he had become exhausted&mdash;not
to say, for the time being, sick of lies altogether.</p>
<p>He trudged slowly on, without meeting a soul, until he came upon
some stones that evidently marked the limits of the preserves.&nbsp;
When he had got a mile or so beyond these, he struck a narrow and not
much frequented path, which he was sure would lead him towards Sunch&rsquo;ston,
and soon afterwards, seeing a huge old chestnut tree some thirty or
forty yards from the path itself, he made towards it and flung himself
on the ground beneath its branches.&nbsp; There were abundant signs
that he was nearing farm lands and homesteads, but there was no one
about, and if any one saw him there was nothing in his appearance to
arouse suspicion.</p>
<p>He determined, therefore, to rest here till hunger should wake him,
and drive him into Sunch&rsquo;ston, which, however, he did not wish
to reach till dusk if he could help it.&nbsp; He meant to buy a valise
and a few toilette necessaries before the shops should close, and then
engage a bedroom at the least frequented inn he could find that looked
fairly clean and comfortable.</p>
<p>He slept till nearly six, and on waking gathered his thoughts together.&nbsp;
He could not shake his newly found son from out of them, but there was
no good in dwelling upon him now, and he turned his thoughts to the
Professors.&nbsp; How, he wondered, were they getting on, and what had
they done with the things they had bought from him?</p>
<p>&ldquo;How delightful it would be,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;if
I could find where they have hidden their hoard, and hide it somewhere
else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He tried to project his mind into those of the Professors, as though
they were a team of straying bullocks whose probable action he must
determine before he set out to look for them.</p>
<p>On reflection, he concluded that the hidden property was not likely
to be far from the spot on which he now was.&nbsp; The Professors would
wait till they had got some way down towards Sunch&rsquo;ston, so as
to have readier access to their property when they wanted to remove
it; but when they came upon a path and other signs that inhabited dwellings
could not be far distant, they would begin to look out for a hiding-place.&nbsp;
And they would take pretty well the first that came.&nbsp; &ldquo;Why,
bless my heart,&rdquo; he exclaimed, &ldquo;this tree is hollow; I wonder
whether&mdash;&rdquo; and on looking up he saw an innocent little strip
of the very tough fibrous leaf commonly used while green as string,
or even rope, by the Erewhonians.&nbsp; The plant that makes this leaf
is so like the ubiquitous New Zealand <i>Phormium tenax</i>, or flax,
as it is there called, that I shall speak of it as flax in future, as
indeed I have already done without explanation on an earlier page; for
this plant grows on both sides of the great range.&nbsp; The piece of
flax, then, which my father caught sight of was fastened, at no great
height from the ground, round the branch of a strong sucker that had
grown from the roots of the chestnut tree, and going thence for a couple
of feet or so towards the place where the parent tree became hollow,
it disappeared into the cavity below.&nbsp; My father had little difficulty
in swarming the sucker till he reached the bough on to which the flax
was tied, and soon found himself hauling up something from the bottom
of the tree.&nbsp; In less time than it takes to tell the tale he saw
his own familiar red blanket begin to show above the broken edge of
the hollow, and in another second there was a clinkum-clankum as the
bundle fell upon the ground.&nbsp; This was caused by the billy and
the pannikin, which were wrapped inside the blanket.&nbsp; As for the
blanket, it had been tied tightly at both ends, as well as at several
points between, and my father inwardly complimented the Professors on
the neatness with which they had packed and hidden their purchase.&nbsp;
&ldquo;But,&rdquo; he said to himself with a laugh, &ldquo;I think one
of them must have got on the other&rsquo;s back to reach that bough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; thought he, &ldquo;they will have taken
the nuggets with them.&rdquo;&nbsp; And yet he had seemed to hear a
dumping as well as a clinkum-clankum.&nbsp; He undid the blanket, carefully
untying every knot and keeping the flax.&nbsp; When he had unrolled
it, he found to his very pleasurable surprise that the pannikin was
inside the billy, and the nuggets with the receipt inside the pannikin.&nbsp;
The paper containing the tea having been torn, was wrapped up in a handkerchief
marked with Hanky&rsquo;s name.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Down, conscience, down!&rdquo; he exclaimed as he transferred
the nuggets, receipt, and handkerchief to his own pocket.&nbsp; &ldquo;Eye
of my soul that you are! if you offend me I must pluck you out.&rdquo;&nbsp;
His conscience feared him and said nothing.&nbsp; As for the tea, he
left it in its torn paper.</p>
<p>He then put the billy, pannikin, and tea, back again inside the blanket,
which he tied neatly up, tie for tie with the Professor&rsquo;s own
flax, leaving no sign of any disturbance.&nbsp; He again swarmed the
sucker, till he reached the bough to which the blanket and its contents
had been made fast, and having attached the bundle, he dropped it back
into the hollow of the tree.&nbsp; He did everything quite leisurely,
for the Professors would be sure to wait till nightfall before coming
to fetch their property away.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If I take nothing but the nuggets,&rdquo; he argued, &ldquo;each
of the Professors will suspect the other of having conjured them into
his own pocket while the bundle was being made up.&nbsp; As for the
handkerchief, they must think what they like; but it will puzzle Hanky
to know why Panky should have been so anxious for a receipt, if he meant
stealing the nuggets.&nbsp; Let them muddle it out their own way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Reflecting further, he concluded, perhaps rightly, that they had
left the nuggets where he had found them, because neither could trust
the other not to filch a few, if he had them in his own possession,
and they could not make a nice division without a pair of scales.&nbsp;
&ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; he said to himself, &ldquo;there will be
a pretty quarrel when they find them gone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Thus charitably did he brood over things that were not to happen.&nbsp;
The discovery of the Professors&rsquo; hoard had refreshed him almost
as much as his sleep had done, and it being now past seven, he lit his
pipe&mdash;which, however, he smoked as furtively as he had done when
he was a boy at school, for he knew not whether smoking had yet become
an Erewhonian virtue or no&mdash;and walked briskly on towards Sunch&rsquo;ston.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VII: SIGNS OF THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS CATCH MY FATHER&rsquo;S
EYE ON EVERY SIDE</h2>
<p>He had not gone far before a turn in the path&mdash;now rapidly widening&mdash;showed
him two high towers, seemingly some two miles off; these he felt sure
must be at Sunch&rsquo;ston, he therefore stepped out, lest he should
find the shops shut before he got there.</p>
<p>On his former visit he had seen little of the town, for he was in
prison during his whole stay.&nbsp; He had had a glimpse of it on being
brought there by the people of the village where he had spent his first
night in Erewhon&mdash;a village which he had seen at some little distance
on his right hand, but which it would have been out of his way to visit,
even if he had wished to do so; and he had seen the Museum of old machines,
but on leaving the prison he had been blindfolded.&nbsp; Nevertheless
he felt sure that if the towers had been there he should have seen them,
and rightly guessed that they must belong to the temple which was to
be dedicated to himself on Sunday.</p>
<p>When he had passed through the suburbs he found himself in the main
street.&nbsp; Space will not allow me to dwell on more than a few of
the things which caught his eye, and assured him that the change in
Erewhonian habits and opinions had been even more cataclysmic than he
had already divined.&nbsp; The first important building that he came
to proclaimed itself as the College of Spiritual Athletics, and in the
window of a shop that was evidently affiliated to the college he saw
an announcement that moral try-your-strengths, suitable for every kind
of ordinary temptation, would be provided on the shortest notice.&nbsp;
Some of those that aimed at the more common kinds of temptation were
kept in stock, but these consisted chiefly of trials to the temper.&nbsp;
On dropping, for example, a penny into a slot, you could have a jet
of fine pepper, flour, or brickdust, whichever you might prefer, thrown
on to your face, and thus discover whether your composure stood in need
of further development or no.&nbsp; My father gathered this from the
writing that was pasted on to the try-your-strength, but he had no time
to go inside the shop and test either the machine or his own temper.&nbsp;
Other temptations to irritability required the agency of living people,
or at any rate living beings.&nbsp; Crying children, screaming parrots,
a spiteful monkey, might be hired on ridiculously easy terms.&nbsp;
He saw one advertisement, nicely framed, which ran as follows:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Mrs. Tantrums, Nagger, certificated by the College
of Spiritual Athletics.&nbsp; Terms for ordinary nagging, two shillings
and sixpence per hour.&nbsp; Hysterics extra.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Then followed a series of testimonials&mdash;for example:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Dear Mrs. Tantrums,&mdash;I have for years been
tortured with a husband of unusually peevish, irritable temper, who
made my life so intolerable that I sometimes answered him in a way that
led to his using personal violence towards me.&nbsp; After taking a
course of twelve sittings from you, I found my husband&rsquo;s temper
comparatively angelic, and we have ever since lived together in complete
harmony.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Another was from a husband:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Mr. --- presents his compliments to Mrs. Tantrums,
and begs to assure her that her extra special hysterics have so far
surpassed anything his wife can do, as to render him callous to those
attacks which he had formerly found so distressing.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There were many others of a like purport, but time did not permit
my father to do more than glance at them.&nbsp; He contented himself
with the two following, of which the first ran:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;He did try it at last.&nbsp; A little correction
of the right kind taken at the right moment is invaluable.&nbsp; No
more swearing.&nbsp; No more bad language of any kind.&nbsp; A lamb-like
temper ensured in about twenty minutes, by a single dose of one of our
spiritual indigestion tabloids.&nbsp; In cases of all the more ordinary
moral ailments, from simple lying, to homicidal mania, in cases again
of tendency to hatred, malice, and uncharitableness; of atrophy or hypertrophy
of the conscience, of costiveness or diarrhoea of the sympathetic instincts,
&amp;c., &amp;c., our spiritual indigestion tabloids will afford unfailing
and immediate relief.</p>
<p>&ldquo;<i>N.B</i>.&mdash;A bottle or two of our Sunchild Cordial
will assist the operation of the tabloids.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The second and last that I can give was as follows:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;All else is useless.&nbsp; If you wish to be a
social success, make yourself a good listener.&nbsp; There is no short
cut to this.&nbsp; A would-be listener must learn the rudiments of his
art and go through the mill like other people.&nbsp; If he would develop
a power of suffering fools gladly, he must begin by suffering them without
the gladness.&nbsp; Professor Proser, ex-straightener, certificated
bore, pragmatic or coruscating, with or without anecdotes, attends pupils
at their own houses.&nbsp; Terms moderate.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Proser, whose success as a professional mind-dresser
is so well-known that lengthened advertisement is unnecessary, prepares
ladies or gentlemen with appropriate remarks to be made at dinner-parties
or at-homes.&nbsp; Mrs. P. keeps herself well up to date with all the
latest scandals.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;Poor, poor, straighteners!&rdquo; said my father to himself.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Alas! that it should have been my fate to ruin you&mdash;for
I suppose your occupation is gone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Tearing himself away from the College of Spiritual Athletics and
its affiliated shop, he passed on a few doors, only to find himself
looking in at what was neither more nor less than a chemist&rsquo;s
shop.&nbsp; In the window there were advertisements which showed that
the practice of medicine was now legal, but my father could not stay
to copy a single one of the fantastic announcements that a hurried glance
revealed to him.</p>
<p>It was also plain here, as from the shop already more fully described,
that the edicts against machines had been repealed, for there were physical
try-your-strengths, as in the other shop there had been moral ones,
and such machines under the old law would not have been tolerated for
a moment.</p>
<p>My father made his purchases just as the last shops were closing.&nbsp;
He noticed that almost all of them were full of articles labelled &ldquo;Dedication.&rdquo;&nbsp;
There was Dedication gingerbread, stamped with a moulded representation
of the new temple; there were Dedication syrups, Dedication pocket-handkerchiefs,
also shewing the temple, and in one corner giving a highly idealised
portrait of my father himself.&nbsp; The chariot and the horses figured
largely, and in the confectioners&rsquo; shops there were models of
the newly discovered relic&mdash;made, so my father thought, with a
little heap of cherries or strawberries, smothered in chocolate.&nbsp;
Outside one tailor&rsquo;s shop he saw a flaring advertisement which
can only be translated, &ldquo;Try our Dedication trousers, price ten
shillings and sixpence.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Presently he passed the new temple, but it was too dark for him to
do more than see that it was a vast fane, and must have cost an untold
amount of money.&nbsp; At every turn he found himself more and more
shocked, as he realised more and more fully the mischief he had already
occasioned, and the certainty that this was small as compared with that
which would grow up hereafter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What,&rdquo; he said to me, very coherently and quietly, &ldquo;was
I to do?&nbsp; I had struck a bargain with that dear fellow, though
he knew not what I meant, to the effect that I should try to undo the
harm I had done, by standing up before the people on Sunday and saying
who I was.&nbsp; True, they would not believe me.&nbsp; They would look
at my hair and see it black, whereas it should be very light.&nbsp;
On this they would look no further, but very likely tear me in pieces
then and there.&nbsp; Suppose that the authorities held a <i>post-mortem</i>
examination, and that many who knew me (let alone that all my measurements
and marks were recorded twenty years ago) identified the body as mine:
would those in power admit that I was the Sunchild?&nbsp; Not they.&nbsp;
The interests vested in my being now in the palace of the sun are too
great to allow of my having been torn to pieces in Sunch&rsquo;ston,
no matter how truly I had been torn; the whole thing would be hushed
up, and the utmost that could come of it would be a heresy which would
in time be crushed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;On the other hand, what business have I with &lsquo;would
be&rsquo; or &lsquo;would not be?&rsquo;&nbsp; Should I not speak out,
come what may, when I see a whole people being led astray by those who
are merely exploiting them for their own ends?&nbsp; Though I could
do but little, ought I not to do that little?&nbsp; What did that good
fellow&rsquo;s instinct&mdash;so straight from heaven, so true, so healthy&mdash;tell
him?&nbsp; What did my own instinct answer?&nbsp; What would the conscience
of any honourable man answer?&nbsp; Who can doubt?</p>
<p>&ldquo;And yet, is there not reason? and is it not God-given as much
as instinct?&nbsp; I remember having heard an anthem in my young days,
&lsquo;O where shall wisdom be found? the deep saith it is not in me.&rsquo;&nbsp;
As the singers kept on repeating the question, I kept on saying sorrowfully
to myself&mdash;&lsquo;Ah, where, where, where?&rsquo; and when the
triumphant answer came, &lsquo;The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom,
and to depart from evil is understanding,&rsquo; I shrunk ashamed into
myself for not having foreseen it.&nbsp; In later life, when I have
tried to use this answer as a light by which I could walk, I found it
served but to the raising of another question, &lsquo;What is the fear
of the Lord, and what is evil in this particular case?&rsquo;&nbsp;
And my easy method with spiritual dilemmas proved to be but a case of
<i>ignotum per ignotius</i>.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If Satan himself is at times transformed into an angel of
light, are not angels of light sometimes transformed into the likeness
of Satan?&nbsp; If the devil is not so black as he is painted, is God
always so white?&nbsp; And is there not another place in which it is
said, &lsquo;The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,&rsquo;
as though it were not the last word upon the subject?&nbsp; If a man
should not do evil that good may come, so neither should he do good
that evil may come; and though it were good for me to speak out, should
I not do better by refraining?</p>
<p>&ldquo;Such were the lawless and uncertain thoughts that tortured
me very cruelly, so that I did what I had not done for many a long year&mdash;I
prayed for guidance.&nbsp; &lsquo;Shew me Thy will, O Lord,&rsquo; I
cried in great distress, &lsquo;and strengthen me to do it when Thou
hast shewn it me.&rsquo;&nbsp; But there was no answer.&nbsp; Instinct
tore me one way and reason another.&nbsp; Whereon I settled that I would
obey the reason with which God had endowed me, unless the instinct He
had also given me should thrash it out of me.&nbsp; I could get no further
than this, that the Lord hath mercy on whom He will have mercy, and
whom He willeth He hardeneth; and again I prayed that I might be among
those on whom He would shew His mercy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This was the strongest internal conflict that I ever remember
to have felt, and it was at the end of it that I perceived the first,
but as yet very faint, symptoms of that sickness from which I shall
not recover.&nbsp; Whether this be a token of mercy or no, my Father
which is in heaven knows, but I know not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>From what my father afterwards told me, I do not think the above
reflections had engrossed him for more than three or four minutes; the
giddiness which had for some seconds compelled him to lay hold of the
first thing he could catch at in order to avoid falling, passed away
without leaving a trace behind it, and his path seemed to become comfortably
clear before him.&nbsp; He settled it that the proper thing to do would
be to buy some food, start back at once while his permit was still valid,
help himself to the property which he had sold the Professors, leaving
the Erewhonians to wrestle as they best might with the lot that it had
pleased Heaven to send them.</p>
<p>This, however, was too heroic a course.&nbsp; He was tired, and wanted
a night&rsquo;s rest in a bed; he was hungry, and wanted a substantial
meal; he was curious, moreover, to see the temple dedicated to himself,
and hear Hanky&rsquo;s sermon; there was also this further difficulty,
he should have to take what he had sold the Professors without returning
them their &pound;4, 10s., for he could not do without his blanket,
&amp;c.; and even if he left a bag of nuggets made fast to the sucker,
he must either place it where it could be seen so easily that it would
very likely get stolen, or hide it so cleverly that the Professors would
never find it.&nbsp; He therefore compromised by concluding that he
would sup and sleep in Sunch&rsquo;ston, get through the morrow as he
best could without attracting attention, deepen the stain on his face
and hair, and rely on the change so made in his appearance to prevent
his being recognised at the dedication of the temple.&nbsp; He would
do nothing to disillusion the people&mdash;to do this would only be
making bad worse.&nbsp; As soon as the service was over, he would set
out towards the preserves, and, when it was well dark, make for the
statues.&nbsp; He hoped that on such a great day the rangers might be
many of them in Sunch&rsquo;ston; if there were any about, he must trust
the moonless night and his own quick eyes and ears to get him through
the preserves safely.</p>
<p>The shops were by this time closed, but the keepers of a few stalls
were trying by lamplight to sell the wares they had not yet got rid
of.&nbsp; One of these was a bookstall, and, running his eye over some
of the volumes, my father saw one entitled&mdash;</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The Sayings of the Sunchild during his stay in
Erewhon, to which is added a true account of his return to the palace
of the sun with his Erewhonian bride.&nbsp; This is the only version
authorised by the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks;
all other versions being imperfect and inaccurate.&mdash;Bridgeford,
XVIII., 150 pp. 8vo.&nbsp; Price 3s.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The reader will understand that I am giving the prices as nearly
as I can in their English equivalents.&nbsp; Another title was&mdash;</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;The Sacrament of Divorce: an Occasional Sermon
preached by Dr. Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks for the Province
of Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; 8vo, 16 pp. 6d.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Other titles ran&mdash;</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;Counsels of Imperfection.&rdquo;&nbsp; 8vo, 20
pp. 6d.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hygiene; or, How to Diagnose your Doctor.&nbsp; 8vo, 10 pp.
3d.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Physics of Vicarious Existence,&rdquo; by Dr. Gurgoyle,
President of the Musical Banks for the Province of Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp;
8vo, 20 pp. 6d.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>There were many other books whose titles would probably have attracted
my father as much as those that I have given, but he was too tired and
hungry to look at more.&nbsp; Finding that he could buy all the foregoing
for 4s. 9d., he bought them and stuffed them into the valise that he
had just bought.&nbsp; His purchases in all had now amounted to a little
over &pound;1, 10s. (silver), leaving him about &pound;3 (silver), including
the money for which he had sold the quails, to carry him on till Sunday
afternoon.&nbsp; He intended to spend say &pound;2 (silver), and keep
the rest of the money in order to give it to the British Museum.</p>
<p>He now began to search for an inn, and walked about the less fashionable
parts of the town till he found an unpretending tavern, which he thought
would suit him.&nbsp; Here, on importunity, he was given a servant&rsquo;s
room at the top of the house, all others being engaged by visitors who
had come for the dedication.&nbsp; He ordered a meal, of which he stood
in great need, and having eaten it, he retired early for the night.&nbsp;
But he smoked a pipe surreptitiously up the chimney before he got into
bed.</p>
<p>Meanwhile other things were happening, of which, happily for his
repose, he was still ignorant, and which he did not learn till a few
days later.&nbsp; Not to depart from chronological order I will deal
with them in my next chapter.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER VIII: YRAM, NOW MAYORESS, GIVES A DINNER-PARTY, IN THE COURSE
OF WHICH SHE IS DISQUIETED BY WHAT SHE LEARNS FROM PROFESSOR HANKY:
SHE SENDS FOR HER SON GEORGE AND QUESTIONS HIM</h2>
<p>The Professors, returning to their hotel early on the Friday morning,
found a note from the Mayoress urging them to be her guests during the
remainder of their visit, and to meet other friends at dinner on this
same evening.&nbsp; They accepted, and then went to bed; for they had
passed the night under the tree in which they had hidden their purchase,
and, as may be imagined, had slept but little.&nbsp; They rested all
day, and transferred themselves and their belongings to the Mayor&rsquo;s
house in time to dress for dinner.</p>
<p>When they came down into the drawing-room they found a brilliant
company assembled, chiefly Musical-Bankical like themselves.&nbsp; There
was Dr. Downie, Professor of Logomachy, and perhaps the most subtle
dialectician in Erewhon.&nbsp; He could say nothing in more words than
any man of his generation.&nbsp; His text-book on the &ldquo;Art of
Obscuring Issues&rdquo; had passed through ten or twelve editions, and
was in the hands of all aspirants for academic distinction.&nbsp; He
had earned a high reputation for sobriety of judgement by resolutely
refusing to have definite views on any subject; so safe a man was he
considered, that while still quite young he had been appointed to the
lucrative post of Thinker in Ordinary to the Royal Family.&nbsp; There
was Mr. Principal Crank, with his sister Mrs. Quack; Professors Gabb
and Bawl, with their wives and two or three erudite daughters.</p>
<p>Old Mrs. Humdrum (of whom more anon) was there of course, with her
venerable white hair and rich black satin dress, looking the very ideal
of all that a stately old dowager ought to be.&nbsp; In society she
was commonly known as Ydgrun, so perfectly did she correspond with the
conception of this strange goddess formed by the Erewhonians.&nbsp;
She was one of those who had visited my father when he was in prison
twenty years earlier.&nbsp; When he told me that she was now called
Ydgrun, he said, &ldquo;I am sure that the Erinyes were only Mrs. Humdrums,
and that they were delightful people when you came to know them.&nbsp;
I do not believe they did the awful things we say they did.&nbsp; I
think, but am not quite sure, that they let Orestes off; but even though
they had not pardoned him, I doubt whether they would have done anything
more dreadful to him than issue a <i>mot d&rsquo;ordre</i> that he was
not to be asked to any more afternoon teas.&nbsp; This, however, would
be down-right torture to some people.&nbsp; At any rate,&rdquo; he continued,
&ldquo;be it the Erinyes, or Mrs. Grundy, or Ydgrun, in all times and
places it is woman who decides whether society is to condone an offence
or no.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Among the most attractive ladies present was one for whose Erewhonian
name I can find no English equivalent, and whom I must therefore call
Miss La Frime.&nbsp; She was Lady President of the principal establishment
for the higher education of young ladies, and so celebrated was she,
that pupils flocked to her from all parts of the surrounding country.&nbsp;
Her primer (written for the Erewhonian Arts and Science Series) on the
Art of Man-killing, was the most complete thing of the kind that had
yet been done; but ill-natured people had been heard to say that she
had killed all her own admirers so effectually that not one of them
had ever lived to marry her.&nbsp; According to Erewhonian custom the
successful marriages of the pupils are inscribed yearly on the oak paneling
of the college refectory, and a reprint from these in pamphlet form
accompanies all the prospectuses that are sent out to parents.&nbsp;
It was alleged that no other ladies&rsquo; seminary in Erewhon could
show such a brilliant record during all the years of Miss La Frime&rsquo;s
presidency.&nbsp; Many other guests of less note were there, but the
lions of the evening were the two Professors whom we have already met
with, and more particularly Hanky, who took the Mayoress in to dinner.&nbsp;
Panky, of course, wore his clothes reversed, as did Principal Crank
and Professor Gabb; the others were dressed English fashion.</p>
<p>Everything hung upon the hostess, for the host was little more than
a still handsome figure-head.&nbsp; He had been remarkable for his good
looks as a young man, and Strong is the nearest approach I can get to
a translation of his Erewhonian name.&nbsp; His face inspired confidence
at once, but he was a man of few words, and had little of that grace
which in his wife set every one instantly at his or her ease.&nbsp;
He knew that all would go well so long as he left everything to her,
and kept himself as far as might be in the background.</p>
<p>Before dinner was announced there was the usual buzz of conversation,
chiefly occupied with salutations, good wishes for Sunday&rsquo;s weather,
and admiration for the extreme beauty of the Mayoress&rsquo;s three
daughters, the two elder of whom were already out; while the third,
though only thirteen, might have passed for a year or two older.&nbsp;
Their mother was so much engrossed with receiving her guests that it
was not till they were all at table that she was able to ask Hanky what
he thought of the statues, which she had heard that he and Professor
Panky had been to see.&nbsp; She was told how much interested he had
been with them, and how unable he had been to form any theory as to
their date or object.&nbsp; He then added, appealing to Panky, who was
on the Mayoress&rsquo;s left hand, &ldquo;but we had rather a strange
adventure on our way down, had we not, Panky?&nbsp; We got lost, and
were benighted in the forest.&nbsp; Happily we fell in with one of the
rangers who had lit a fire.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do I understand, then,&rdquo; said Yram, as I suppose we may
as well call her, &ldquo;that you were out all last night?&nbsp; How
tired you must be!&nbsp; But I hope you had enough provisions with you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Indeed we were out all night.&nbsp; We staid by the ranger&rsquo;s
fire till midnight, and then tried to find our way down, but we gave
it up soon after we had got out of the forest, and then waited under
a large chestnut tree till four or five this morning.&nbsp; As for food,
we had not so much as a mouthful from about three in the afternoon till
we got to our inn early this morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, you poor, poor people! how tired you must be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No; we made a good breakfast as soon as we got in, and then
went to bed, where we staid till it was time for us to come to your
house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here Panky gave his friend a significant look, as much as to say
that he had said enough.</p>
<p>This set Hanky on at once.&nbsp; &ldquo;Strange to say, the ranger
was wearing the old Erewhonian dress.&nbsp; It did me good to see it
again after all these years.&nbsp; It seems your son lets his men wear
what few of the old clothes they may still have, so long as they keep
well away from the town.&nbsp; But fancy how carefully these poor fellows
husband them; why, it must be seventeen years since the dress was forbidden!&rdquo;</p>
<p>We all of us have skeletons, large or small, in some cupboard of
our lives, but a well regulated skeleton that will stay in its cupboard
quietly does not much matter.&nbsp; There are skeletons, however, which
can never be quite trusted not to open the cupboard door at some awkward
moment, go down stairs, ring the hall-door bell, with grinning face
announce themselves as the skeleton, and ask whether the master or mistress
is at home.&nbsp; This kind of skeleton, though no bigger than a rabbit,
will sometimes loom large as that of a dinotherium.&nbsp; My father
was Yram&rsquo;s skeleton.&nbsp; True, he was a mere skeleton of a skeleton,
for the chances were thousands to one that he and my mother had perished
long years ago; and even though he rang at the bell, there was no harm
that he either could or would now do to her or hers; still, so long
as she did not certainly know that he was dead, or otherwise precluded
from returning, she could not be sure that he would not one day come
back by the way that he would alone know, and she had rather he should
not do so.</p>
<p>Hence, on hearing from Professor Hanky that a man had been seen between
the statues and Sunch&rsquo;ston wearing the old Erewhonian dress, she
was disquieted and perplexed.&nbsp; The excuse he had evidently made
to the Professors aggravated her uneasiness, for it was an obvious attempt
to escape from an unexpected difficulty.&nbsp; There could be no truth
in it.&nbsp; Her son would as soon think of wearing the old dress himself
as of letting his men do so; and as for having old clothes still to
wear out after seventeen years, no one but a Bridgeford Professor would
accept this.&nbsp; She saw, therefore, that she must keep her wits about
her, and lead her guests on to tell her as much as they could be induced
to do.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My son,&rdquo; she said innocently, &ldquo;is always considerate
to his men, and that is why they are so devoted to him.&nbsp; I wonder
which of them it was?&nbsp; In what part of the preserves did you fall
in with him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky described the place, and gave the best idea he could of my
father&rsquo;s appearance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course he was swarthy like the rest of us?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw nothing remarkable about him, except that his eyes were
blue and his eyelashes nearly white, which, as you know, is rare in
Erewhon.&nbsp; Indeed, I do not remember ever before to have seen a
man with dark hair and complexion but light eyelashes.&nbsp; Nature
is always doing something unusual.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have no doubt,&rdquo; said Yram, &ldquo;that he was the
man they call Blacksheep, but I never noticed this peculiarity in him.&nbsp;
If he was Blacksheep, I am afraid you must have found him none too civil;
he is a rough diamond, and you would hardly be able to understand his
uncouth Sunch&rsquo;ston dialect.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;On the contrary, he was most kind and thoughtful&mdash;even
so far as to take our permit from us, and thus save us the trouble of
giving it up at your son&rsquo;s office.&nbsp; As for his dialect, his
grammar was often at fault, but we could quite understand him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am glad to hear he behaved better than I could have expected.&nbsp;
Did he say in what part of the preserves he had been?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He had been catching quails between the place where we saw
him and the statues; he was to deliver three dozen to your son this
afternoon for the Mayor&rsquo;s banquet on Sunday.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This was worse and worse.&nbsp; She had urged her son to provide
her with a supply of quails for Sunday&rsquo;s banquet, but he had begged
her not to insist on having them.&nbsp; There was no close time for
them in Erewhon, but he set his face against their being seen at table
in spring and summer.&nbsp; During the winter, when any great occasion
arose, he had allowed a few brace to be provided.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I asked my son to let me have some,&rdquo; said Yram, who
was now on full scent.&nbsp; She laughed genially as she added, &ldquo;Can
you throw any light upon the question whether I am likely to get my
three dozen?&nbsp; I have had no news as yet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The man had taken a good many; we saw them but did not count
them.&nbsp; He started about midnight for the ranger&rsquo;s shelter,
where he said he should sleep till daybreak, so as to make up his full
tale betimes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Yram had heard her son complain that there were no shelters on the
preserves, and state his intention of having some built before the winter.&nbsp;
Here too, then, the man&rsquo;s story must be false.&nbsp; She changed
the conversation for the moment, but quietly told a servant to send
high and low in search of her son, and if he could be found, to bid
him come to her at once.&nbsp; She then returned to her previous subject.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And did not this heartless wretch, knowing how hungry you
must both be, let you have a quail or two as an act of pardonable charity?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear Mayoress, how can you ask such a question?&nbsp; We
knew you would want all you could get; moreover, our permit threatened
us with all sorts of horrors if we so much as ate a single quail.&nbsp;
I assure you we never even allowed a thought of eating one of them to
cross our minds.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Yram to herself, &ldquo;they gorged upon
them.&rdquo;&nbsp; What could she think?&nbsp; A man who wore the old
dress, and therefore who had almost certainly been in Erewhon, but had
been many years away from it; who spoke the language well, but whose
grammar was defective&mdash;hence, again, one who had spent some time
in Erewhon; who knew nothing of the afforesting law now long since enacted,
for how else would he have dared to light a fire and be seen with quails
in his possession; an adroit liar, who on gleaning information from
the Professors had hazarded an excuse for immediately retracing his
steps; a man, too, with blue eyes and light eyelashes.&nbsp; What did
it matter about his hair being dark and his complexion swarthy&mdash;Higgs
was far too clever to attempt a second visit to Erewhon without dyeing
his hair and staining his face and hands.&nbsp; And he had got their
permit out of the Professors before he left them; clearly, then, he
meant coming back, and coming back at once before the permit had expired.&nbsp;
How could she doubt?&nbsp; My father, she felt sure, must by this time
be in Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; He would go back to change his clothes,
which would not be very far down on the other side the pass, for he
would not put on his old Erewhonian dress till he was on the point of
entering Erewhon; and he would hide his English dress rather than throw
it away, for he would want it when he went back again.&nbsp; It would
be quite possible, then, for him to get through the forest before the
permit was void, and he would be sure to go on to Sunch&rsquo;ston for
the night.</p>
<p>She chatted unconcernedly, now with one guest now with another, while
they in their turn chatted unconcernedly with one another.</p>
<p>Miss La Frime to Mrs. Humdrum: &ldquo;You know how he got his professorship?&nbsp;
No?&nbsp; I thought every one knew that.&nbsp; The question the candidates
had to answer was, whether it was wiser during a long stay at a hotel
to tip the servants pretty early, or to wait till the stay was ended.&nbsp;
All the other candidates took one side or the other, and argued their
case in full.&nbsp; Hanky sent in three lines to the effect that the
proper thing to do would be to promise at the beginning, and go away
without giving.&nbsp; The King, with whom the appointment rested, was
so much pleased with this answer that he gave Hanky the professorship
without so much as looking . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>Professor Gabb to Mrs. Humdrum: &ldquo;Oh no, I can assure you there
is no truth in it.&nbsp; What happened was this.&nbsp; There was the
usual crowd, and the people cheered Professor after Professor, as he
stood before them in the great Bridgeford theatre and satisfied them
that a lump of butter which had been put into his mouth would not melt
in it.&nbsp; When Hanky&rsquo;s turn came he was taken suddenly unwell,
and had to leave the theatre, on which there was a report in the house
that the butter had melted; this was at once stopped by the return of
the Professor.&nbsp; Another piece of butter was put into his mouth,
and on being taken out after the usual time, was found to shew no signs
of having . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>Miss Bawl to Mr. Principal Crank: . . . &ldquo;The Manager was so
tall, you know, and then there was that little mite of an assistant
manager&mdash;it <i>was</i> so funny.&nbsp; For the assistant manager&rsquo;s
voice was ever so much louder than the . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Bawl to Professor Gabb: . . .&nbsp; &ldquo;Live for art!&nbsp;
If I had to choose whether I would lose either art or science, I have
not the smallest hesitation in saying that I would lose . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>The Mayor and Dr. Downie: . . . &ldquo;That you are to be canonised
at the close of the year along with Professors Hanky and Panky?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I believe it is his Majesty&rsquo;s intention that the Professors
and myself are to head the list of the Sunchild&rsquo;s Saints, but
we have all of us got to . . . &rdquo;</p>
<p>And so on, and so on, buzz, buzz, buzz, over the whole table.&nbsp;
Presently Yram turned to Hanky and said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;By the way, Professor, you must have found it very cold up
at the statues, did you not?&nbsp; But I suppose the snow is all gone
by this time?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it was cold, and though the winter&rsquo;s snow is melted,
there had been a recent fall.&nbsp; Strange to say, we saw fresh footprints
in it, as of some one who had come up from the other side.&nbsp; But
thereon hangs a tale, about which I believe I should say nothing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then say nothing, my dear Professor,&rdquo; said Yram with
a frank smile.&nbsp; &ldquo;Above all,&rdquo; she added quietly and
gravely, &ldquo;say nothing to the Mayor, nor to my son, till after
Sunday.&nbsp; Even a whisper of some one coming over from the other
side disquiets them, and they have enough on hand for the moment.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Panky, who had been growing more and more restive at his friend&rsquo;s
outspokenness, but who had encouraged it more than once by vainly trying
to check it, was relieved at hearing his hostess do for him what he
could not do for himself.&nbsp; As for Yram, she had got enough out
of the Professor to be now fully dissatisfied, and mentally informed
them that they might leave the witness-box.&nbsp; During the rest of
dinner she let the subject of their adventure severely alone.</p>
<p>It seemed to her as though dinner was never going to end; but in
the course of time it did so, and presently the ladies withdrew.&nbsp;
As they were entering the drawing-room a servant told her that her son
had been found more easily than was expected, and was now in his own
room dressing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell him,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;to stay there till I come,
which I will do directly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She remained for a few minutes with her guests, and then, excusing
herself quietly to Mrs. Humdrum, she stepped out and hastened to her
son&rsquo;s room.&nbsp; She told him that Professors Hanky and Panky
were staying in the house, and that during dinner they had told her
something he ought to know, but which there was no time to tell him
until her guests were gone.&nbsp; &ldquo;I had rather,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;tell you about it before you see the Professors, for if you see
them the whole thing will be reopened, and you are sure to let them
see how much more there is in it than they suspect.&nbsp; I want everything
hushed up for the moment; do not, therefore, join us.&nbsp; Have dinner
sent to you in your father&rsquo;s study.&nbsp; I will come to you about
midnight.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, my dear mother,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;I have seen
Panky already.&nbsp; I walked down with him a good long way this afternoon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Yram had not expected this, but she kept her countenance.&nbsp; &ldquo;How
did you know,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that he was Professor Panky?&nbsp;
Did he tell you so?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly he did.&nbsp; He showed me his permit, which was
made out in favour of Professors Hanky and Panky, or either of them.&nbsp;
He said Hanky had been unable to come with him, and that he was himself
Professor Panky.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Yram again smiled very sweetly.&nbsp; &ldquo;Then, my dear boy,&rdquo;
she said, &ldquo;I am all the more anxious that you should not see him
now.&nbsp; See nobody but the servants and your brothers, and wait till
I can enlighten you.&nbsp; I must not stay another moment; but tell
me this much, have you seen any signs of poachers lately?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; there were three last night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;In what part of the preserves?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her son described the place.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are sure they had been killing quails?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, and eating them&mdash;two on one side of a fire they
had lit, and one on the other; this last man had done all the plucking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good!&rdquo;</p>
<p>She kissed him with more than even her usual tenderness, and returned
to the drawing-room.</p>
<p>During the rest of the evening she was engaged in earnest conversation
with Mrs. Humdrum, leaving her other guests to her daughters and to
themselves.&nbsp; Mrs. Humdrum had been her closest friend for many
years, and carried more weight than any one else in Sunch&rsquo;ston,
except, perhaps, Yram herself.&nbsp; &ldquo;Tell him everything,&rdquo;
she said to Yram at the close of their conversation; &ldquo;we all dote
upon him; trust him frankly, as you trusted your husband before you
let him marry you.&nbsp; No lies, no reserve, no tears, and all will
come right.&nbsp; As for me, command me,&rdquo; and the good old lady
rose to take her leave with as kind a look on her face as ever irradiated
saint or angel.&nbsp; &ldquo;I go early,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;for
the others will go when they see me do so, and the sooner you are alone
the better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>By half an hour before midnight her guests had gone.&nbsp; Hanky
and Panky were given to understand that they must still be tired, and
had better go to bed.&nbsp; So was the Mayor; so were her sons and daughters,
except of course George, who was waiting for her with some anxiety,
for he had seen that she had something serious to tell him.&nbsp; Then
she went down into the study.&nbsp; Her son embraced her as she entered,
and moved an easy chair for her, but she would not have it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No; I will have an upright one.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then, sitting
composedly down on the one her son placed for her, she said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now to business.&nbsp; But let me first tell you that
the Mayor was told, twenty years ago, all the more important part of
what you will now hear.&nbsp; He does not yet know what has happened
within the last few hours, but either you or I will tell him to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<h2>CHAPTER IX: INTERVIEW BETWEEN YRAM AND HER SON</h2>
<p>&ldquo;What did you think of Panky?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I could not make him out.&nbsp; If he had not been a Bridgeford
Professor I might have liked him; but you know how we all of us distrust
those people.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where did you meet him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;About two hours lower down than the statues.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At what o&rsquo;clock?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It might be between two and half-past.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose he did not say that at that hour he was in bed at
his hotel in Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; Hardly!&nbsp; Tell me what passed
between you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He had his permit open before we were within speaking distance.&nbsp;
I think he feared I should attack him without making sure whether he
was a foreign devil or no.&nbsp; I have told you he said he was Professor
Panky.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose he had a dark complexion and black hair like the
rest of us?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dark complexion and hair purplish rather than black.&nbsp;
I was surprised to see that his eyelashes were as light as my own, and
his eyes were blue like mine&mdash;but you will have noticed this at
dinner.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, my dear, I did not, and I think I should have done so
if it had been there to notice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, but it was so indeed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps.&nbsp; Was there anything strange about his way of
talking?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A little about his grammar, but these Bridgeford Professors
have often risen from the ranks.&nbsp; His pronunciation was nearly
like yours and mine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was his manner friendly?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very; more so than I could understand at first.&nbsp; I had
not, however, been with him long before I saw tears in his eyes, and
when I asked him whether he was in distress, he said I reminded him
of a son whom he had lost and had found after many years, only to lose
him almost immediately for ever.&nbsp; Hence his cordiality towards
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Yram half hysterically to herself, &ldquo;he
knew who you were.&nbsp; Now, how, I wonder, did he find that out?&rdquo;&nbsp;
All vestige of doubt as to who the man might be had now left her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly he knew who I was.&nbsp; He spoke about you more
than once, and wished us every kind of prosperity, baring his head reverently
as he spoke.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor fellow!&nbsp; Did he say anything about Higgs?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A good deal, and I was surprised to find he thought about
it all much as we do.&nbsp; But when I said that if I could go down
into the hell of which Higgs used to talk to you while he was in prison,
I should expect to find him in its hottest fires, he did not like it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Possibly not, my dear.&nbsp; Did you tell him how the other
boys, when you were at school, used sometimes to say you were son to
this man Higgs, and that the people of Sunch&rsquo;ston used to say
so also, till the Mayor trounced two or three people so roundly that
they held their tongues for the future?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not all that, but I said that silly people had believed me
to be the Sunchild&rsquo;s son, and what a disgrace I should hold it
to be son to such an impostor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did he say to this?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He asked whether I should feel the disgrace less if Higgs
were to undo the mischief he had caused by coming back and shewing himself
to the people for what he was.&nbsp; But he said it would be no use
for him to do so, inasmuch as people would kill him but would not believe
him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you said?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let him come back, speak out, and chance what might befall
him.&nbsp; In that case, I should honour him, father or no father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He asked if that would be a bargain; and when I said it would,
he grasped me warmly by the hand on Higgs&rsquo;s behalf&mdash;though
what it could matter to him passes my comprehension.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But he saw that even though Higgs were to shew himself and
say who he was, it would mean death to himself and no good to any one
else?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perfectly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then he can have meant nothing by shaking hands with you.&nbsp;
It was an idle jest.&nbsp; And now for your poachers.&nbsp; You do not
know who they were?&nbsp; I will tell you.&nbsp; The two who sat on
the one side the fire were Professors Hanky and Panky from the City
of the People who are above Suspicion.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said George vehemently.&nbsp; &ldquo;Impossible.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, my dear boy, quite possible, and whether possible or
impossible, assuredly true.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And the third man?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The third man was dressed in the old costume.&nbsp; He was
in possession of several brace of birds.&nbsp; The Professors vowed
they had not eaten any&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, but they had,&rdquo; blurted out George.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course they had, my dear; and a good thing too.&nbsp; Let
us return to the man in the old costume.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is puzzling.&nbsp; Who did he say he was?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He said he was one of your men; that you had instructed him
to provide you with three dozen quails for Sunday; and that you let
your men wear the old costume if they had any of it left, provided&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>This was too much for George; he started to his feet.&nbsp; &ldquo;What,
my dearest mother, does all this mean?&nbsp; You have been playing with
me all through.&nbsp; What is coming?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A very little more, and you shall hear.&nbsp; This man staid
with the Professors till nearly midnight, and then left them on the
plea that he would finish the night in the Ranger&rsquo;s shelter&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ranger&rsquo;s shelter, indeed!&nbsp; Why&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, my darling boy, be patient with me.&nbsp; He said he
must be up betimes, to run down the rest of the quails you had ordered
him to bring you.&nbsp; But before leaving the Professors he beguiled
them into giving him up their permit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said George, striding about the room with his
face flushed and his eyes flashing, &ldquo;he was the man with whom
I walked down this afternoon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Exactly so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And he must have changed his dress?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Exactly so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But where and how?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At some place not very far down on the other side the range,
where he had hidden his old clothes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And who, in the name of all that we hold most sacred, do you
take him to have been&mdash;for I see you know more than you have yet
told me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My son, he was Higgs the Sunchild, father to that boy whom
I love next to my husband more dearly than any one in the whole world.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She folded her arms about him for a second, without kissing him,
and left him.&nbsp; &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; she said, the moment she
had closed the door&mdash;&ldquo;and now I may cry.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>She did not cry for long, and having removed all trace of tears as
far as might be, she returned to her son outwardly composed and cheerful.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Shall I say more now,&rdquo; she said, seeing how grave he looked,
&ldquo;or shall I leave you, and talk further with you to-morrow?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now&mdash;now&mdash;now!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good!&nbsp; A little before Higgs came here, the Mayor, as
he now is, poor, handsome, generous to a fault so far as he had the
wherewithal, was adored by all the women of his own rank in Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp;
Report said that he had adored many of them in return, but after having
known me for a very few days, he asked me to marry him, protesting that
he was a changed man.&nbsp; I liked him, as every one else did, but
I was not in love with him, and said so; he said he would give me as
much time as I chose, if I would not point-blank refuse him; and so
the matter was left.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Within a week or so Higgs was brought to the prison, and he
had not been there long before I found, or thought I found, that I liked
him better than I liked Strong.&nbsp; I was a fool&mdash;but there!&nbsp;
As for Higgs, he liked, but did not love me.&nbsp; If I had let him
alone he would have done the like by me; and let each other alone we
did, till the day before he was taken down to the capital.&nbsp; On
that day, whether through his fault or mine I know not&mdash;we neither
of us meant it&mdash;it was as though Nature, my dear, was determined
that you should not slip through her fingers&mdash;well, on that day
we took it into our heads that we were broken-hearted lovers&mdash;the
rest followed.&nbsp; And how, my dearest boy, as I look upon you, can
I feign repentance?</p>
<p>&ldquo;My husband, who never saw Higgs, and knew nothing about him
except the too little that I told him, pressed his suit, and about a
month after Higgs had gone, having recovered my passing infatuation
for him, I took kindly to the Mayor and accepted him, without telling
him what I ought to have told him&mdash;but the words stuck in my throat.&nbsp;
I had not been engaged to him many days before I found that there was
something which I should not be able to hide much longer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know, my dear, that my mother had been long dead, and
I never had a sister or any near kinswoman.&nbsp; At my wits&rsquo;
end who I should consult, instinct drew me to Mrs. Humdrum, then a woman
of about five-and-forty.&nbsp; She was a grand lady, while I was about
the rank of one of my own housemaids.&nbsp; I had no claim on her; I
went to her as a lost dog looks into the faces of people on a road,
and singles out the one who will most surely help him.&nbsp; I had had
a good look at her once as she was putting on her gloves, and I liked
the way she did it.&nbsp; I marvel at my own boldness.&nbsp; At any
rate, I asked to see her, and told her my story exactly as I have now
told it to you.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You have no mother?&rsquo; she said, when she had heard
all.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;No.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Then, my dear, I will mother you myself.&nbsp; Higgs
is out of the question, so Strong must marry you at once.&nbsp; We will
tell him everything, and I, on your behalf, will insist upon it that
the engagement is at an end.&nbsp; I hear good reports of him, and if
we are fair towards him he will be generous towards us.&nbsp; Besides,
I believe he is so much in love with you that he would sell his soul
to get you.&nbsp; Send him to me.&nbsp; I can deal with him better than
you can.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;did my father, as I shall
always call him, say to all this?</p>
<p>&ldquo;Truth bred chivalry in him at once.&nbsp; &lsquo;I will marry
her,&rsquo; he said, with hardly a moment&rsquo;s hesitation, &lsquo;but
it will be better that I should not be put on any lower footing than
Higgs was.&nbsp; I ought not to be denied anything that has been allowed
to him.&nbsp; If I am trusted, I can trust myself to trust and think
no evil either of Higgs or her.&nbsp; They were pestered beyond endurance,
as I have been ere now.&nbsp; If I am held at arm&rsquo;s length till
I am fast bound, I shall marry Yram just the same, but I doubt whether
she and I shall ever be quite happy.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Come to my house this evening,&rsquo; said Mrs. Humdrum,
&lsquo;and you will find Yram there.&rsquo;&nbsp; He came, he found
me, and within a fortnight we were man and wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How much does not all this explain,&rdquo; said George, smiling
but very gravely.&nbsp; &ldquo;And you are going to ask me to forgive
you for robbing me of such a father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He has forgiven me, my dear, for robbing him of such a son.&nbsp;
He never reproached me.&nbsp; From that day to this he has never given
me a harsh word or even syllable.&nbsp; When you were born he took to
you at once, as, indeed, who could help doing? for you were the sweetest
child both in looks and temper that it is possible to conceive.&nbsp;
Your having light hair and eyes made things more difficult; for this,
and your being born, almost to the day, nine months after Higgs had
left us, made people talk&mdash;but your father kept their tongues within
bounds.&nbsp; They talk still, but they liked what little they saw of
Higgs, they like the Mayor and me, and they like you the best of all;
so they please themselves by having the thing both ways.&nbsp; Though,
therefore, you are son to the Mayor, Higgs cast some miraculous spell
upon me before he left, whereby my son should be in some measure his
as well as the Mayor&rsquo;s.&nbsp; It was this miraculous spell that
caused you to be born two months too soon, and we called you by Higgs&rsquo;s
first name as though to show that we took that view of the matter ourselves.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Humdrum, however, was very positive that there was no
spell at all.&nbsp; She had repeatedly heard her father say that the
Mayor&rsquo;s grandfather was light-haired and blue-eyed, and that every
third generation in that family a light-haired son was born.&nbsp; The
people believe this too.&nbsp; Nobody disbelieves Mrs. Humdrum, but
they like the miracle best, so that is how it has been settled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never knew whether Mrs. Humdrum told her husband, but I
think she must; for a place was found almost immediately for my husband
in Mr. Humdrum&rsquo;s business.&nbsp; He made himself useful; after
a few years he was taken into partnership, and on Mr. Humdrum&rsquo;s
death became head of the firm.&nbsp; Between ourselves, he says laughingly
that all his success in life was due to Higgs and me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall give Mrs. Humdrum a double dose of kissing,&rdquo;
said George thoughtfully, &ldquo;next time I see her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, do, do; she will so like it.&nbsp; And now, my darling
boy, tell your poor mother whether or no you can forgive her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He clasped her in his arms, and kissed her again and again, but for
a time he could find no utterance.&nbsp; Presently he smiled, and said,
&ldquo;Of course I do, but it is you who should forgive me, for was
it not all my fault?&rdquo;</p>
<p>When Yram, too, had become more calm, she said, &ldquo;It is late,
and we have no time to lose.&nbsp; Higgs&rsquo;s coming at this time
is mere accident; if he had had news from Erewhon he would have known
much that he did not know.&nbsp; I cannot guess why he has come&mdash;probably
through mere curiosity, but he will hear or have heard&mdash;yes, you
and he talked about it&mdash;of the temple; being here, he will want
to see the dedication.&nbsp; From what you have told me I feel sure
that he will not make a fool of himself by saying who he is, but in
spite of his disguise he may be recognised.&nbsp; I do not doubt that
he is now in Sunch&rsquo;ston; therefore, to-morrow morning scour the
town to find him.&nbsp; Tell him he is discovered, tell him you know
from me that he is your father, and that I wish to see him with all
good-will towards him.&nbsp; He will come.&nbsp; We will then talk to
him, and show him that he must go back at once.&nbsp; You can escort
him to the statues; after passing them he will be safe.&nbsp; He will
give you no trouble, but if he does, arrest him on a charge of poaching,
and take him to the gaol, where we must do the best we can with him&mdash;but
he will give you none.&nbsp; We need say nothing to the Professors.&nbsp;
No one but ourselves will know of his having been here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>On this she again embraced her son and left him.&nbsp; If two photographs
could have been taken of her, one as she opened the door and looked
fondly back on George, and the other as she closed it behind her, the
second portrait would have seemed taken ten years later than the first.</p>
<p>As for George, he went gravely but not unhappily to his own room.&nbsp;
&ldquo;So that ready, plausible fellow,&rdquo; he muttered to himself,
&ldquo;was my own father.&nbsp; At any rate, I am not son to a fool&mdash;and
he liked me.&rdquo;</p>
<h2>CHAPTER X: MY FATHER, FEARING RECOGNITION AT SUNCH&rsquo;STON,
BETAKES HIMSELF TO THE NEIGHBOURING TOWN OF FAIRMEAD</h2>
<p>I will now return to my father.&nbsp; Whether from fatigue or over-excitement,
he slept only by fits and starts, and when awake he could not rid himself
of the idea that, in spite of his disguise, he might be recognised,
either at his inn or in the town, by some one of the many who had seen
him when he was in prison.&nbsp; In this case there was no knowing what
might happen, but at best, discovery would probably prevent his seeing
the temple dedicated to himself, and hearing Professor Hanky&rsquo;s
sermon, which he was particularly anxious to do.</p>
<p>So strongly did he feel the real or fancied danger he should incur
by spending Saturday in Sunch&rsquo;ston, that he rose as soon as he
heard any one stirring, and having paid his bill, walked quietly out
of the house, without saying where he was going.</p>
<p>There was a town about ten miles off, not so important as Sunch&rsquo;ston,
but having some 10,000 inhabitants; he resolved to find accommodation
there for the day and night, and to walk over to Sunch&rsquo;ston in
time for the dedication ceremony, which he had found on inquiry, would
begin at eleven o&rsquo;clock.</p>
<p>The country between Sunch&rsquo;ston and Fairmead, as the town just
referred to was named, was still mountainous, and being well wooded
as well as well watered, abounded in views of singular beauty; but I
have no time to dwell on the enthusiasm with which my father described
them to me.&nbsp; The road took him at right angles to the main road
down the valley from Sunch&rsquo;ston to the capital, and this was one
reason why he had chosen Fairmead rather than Clearwater, which was
the next town lower down on the main road.&nbsp; He did not, indeed,
anticipate that any one would want to find him, but whoever might so
want would be more likely to go straight down the valley than to turn
aside towards Fairmead.</p>
<p>On reaching this place, he found it pretty full of people, for Saturday
was market-day.&nbsp; There was a considerable open space in the middle
of the town, with an arcade running round three sides of it, while the
fourth was completely taken up by the venerable Musical Bank of the
city, a building which had weathered the storms of more than five centuries.&nbsp;
On the outside of the wall, abutting on the market-place, were three
wooden <i>sedilia</i>, in which the Mayor and two coadjutors sate weekly
on market-days to give advice, redress grievances, and, if necessary
(which it very seldom was) to administer correction.</p>
<p>My father was much interested in watching the proceedings in a case
which he found on inquiry to be not infrequent.&nbsp; A man was complaining
to the Mayor that his daughter, a lovely child of eight years old, had
none of the faults common to children of her age, and, in fact, seemed
absolutely deficient in immoral sense.&nbsp; She never told lies, had
never stolen so much as a lollipop, never showed any recalcitrancy about
saying her prayers, and by her incessant obedience had filled her poor
father and mother with the gravest anxiety as regards her future well-being.&nbsp;
He feared it would be necessary to send her to a deformatory.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have generally found,&rdquo; said the Mayor, gravely but
kindly, &ldquo;that the fault in these distressing cases lies rather
with the parent than the children.&nbsp; Does the child never break
anything by accident?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you have duly punished her for it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alas! sir, I fear I only told her she was a naughty girl,
and must not do it again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then how can you expect your child to learn those petty arts
of deception without which she must fall an easy prey to any one who
wishes to deceive her?&nbsp; How can she detect lying in other people
unless she has had some experience of it in her own practice?&nbsp;
How, again, can she learn when it will be well for her to lie, and when
to refrain from doing so, unless she has made many a mistake on a small
scale while at an age when mistakes do not greatly matter?&nbsp; The
Sunchild (and here he reverently raised his hat), as you may read in
chapter thirty-one of his Sayings, has left us a touching tale of a
little boy, who, having cut down an apple tree in his father&rsquo;s
garden, lamented his inability to tell a lie.&nbsp; Some commentators,
indeed, have held that the evidence was so strongly against the boy
that no lie would have been of any use to him, and that his perception
of this fact was all that he intended to convey; but the best authorities
take his simple words, &lsquo;I cannot tell a lie,&rsquo; in their most
natural sense, as being his expression of regret at the way in which
his education had been neglected.&nbsp; If that case had come before
me, I should have punished the boy&rsquo;s father, unless he could show
that the best authorities are mistaken (as indeed they too generally
are), and that under more favourable circumstances the boy would have
been able to lie, and would have lied accordingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is no occasion for you to send your child to a deformatory.&nbsp;
I am always averse to extreme measures when I can avoid them.&nbsp;
Moreover, in a deformatory she would be almost certain to fall in with
characters as intractable as her own.&nbsp; Take her home and whip her
next time she so much as pulls about the salt.&nbsp; If you will do
this whenever you get a chance, I have every hope that you will have
no occasion to come to me again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well, sir,&rdquo; said the father, &ldquo;I will do my
best, but the child is so instinctively truthful that I am afraid whipping
will be of little use.&rdquo;</p>
<p>There were other cases, none of them serious, which in the old days
would have been treated by a straightener.&nbsp; My father had already
surmised that the straightener had become extinct as a class, having
been superseded by the Managers and Cashiers of the Musical Banks, but
this became more apparent as he listened to the cases that next came
on.&nbsp; These were dealt with quite reasonably, except that the magistrate
always ordered an emetic and a strong purge in addition to the rest
of his sentence, as holding that all diseases of the moral sense spring
from impurities within the body, which must be cleansed before there
could be any hope of spiritual improvement.&nbsp; If any devils were
found in what passed from the prisoner&rsquo;s body, he was to be brought
up again; for in this case the rest of the sentence might very possibly
be remitted.</p>
<p>When the Mayor and his coadjutors had done sitting, my father strolled
round the Musical Bank and entered it by the main entrance, which was
on the top of a flight of steps that went down on to the principal street
of the town.&nbsp; How strange it is that, no matter how gross a superstition
may have polluted it, a holy place, if hallowed by long veneration,
remains always holy.&nbsp; Look at Delphi.&nbsp; What a fraud it was,
and yet how hallowed it must ever remain.&nbsp; But letting this pass,
Musical Banks, especially when of great age, always fascinated my father,
and being now tired with his walk, he sat down on one of the many rush-bottomed
seats, and (for there was no service at this hour) gave free rein to
meditation.</p>
<p>How peaceful it all was with its droning old-world smell of ancestor,
dry rot, and stale incense.&nbsp; As the clouds came and went, the grey-green,
cobweb-chastened, light ebbed and flowed over the walls and ceiling;
to watch the fitfulness of its streams was a sufficient occupation.&nbsp;
A hen laid an egg outside and began to cackle&mdash;it was an event
of magnitude; a peasant sharpening his scythe, a blacksmith hammering
at his anvil, the clack of a wooden shoe upon the pavement, the boom
of a bumble-bee, the dripping of the fountain, all these things, with
such concert as they kept, invited the dewy-feathered sleep that visited
him, and held him for the best part of an hour.</p>
<p>My father has said that the Erewhonians never put up monuments or
write epitaphs for their dead, and this he believed to be still true;
but it was not so always, and on waking his eye was caught by a monument
of great beauty, which bore a date of about 1550 of our era.&nbsp; It
was to an old lady, who must have been very loveable if the sweet smiling
face of her recumbent figure was as faithful to the original as its
strongly marked individuality suggested.&nbsp; I need not give the earlier
part of her epitaph, which was conventional enough, but my father was
so struck with the concluding lines, that he copied them into the note-book
which he always carried in his pocket.&nbsp; They ran:-</p>
<blockquote><p>I fall asleep in the full and certain hope<br>
That my slumber shall not be broken;<br>
And that though I be all-forgetting,<br>
Yet shall I not be all-forgotten,<br>
But continue that life in the thoughts and deeds<br>
Of those I loved,<br>
Into which, while the power to strive was yet vouchsafed me,<br>
I fondly strove to enter.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>My father deplored his inability to do justice to the subtle tenderness
of the original, but the above was the nearest he could get to it.</p>
<p>How different this from the opinions concerning a future state which
he had tried to set before the Erewhonians some twenty years earlier.&nbsp;
It all came back to him, as the storks had done, now that he was again
in an Erewhonian environment, and he particularly remembered how one
youth had inveighed against our European notions of heaven and hell
with a contemptuous flippancy that nothing but youth and ignorance could
even palliate.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; he had said to my father, &ldquo;your heaven will
not attract me unless I can take my clothes and my luggage.&nbsp; Yes;
and I must lose my luggage and find it again.&nbsp; On arriving, I must
be told that it has unfortunately been taken to a wrong circle, and
that there may be some difficulty in recovering it&mdash;or it shall
have been sent up to mansion number five hundred thousand millions nine
hundred thousand forty six thousand eight hundred and eleven, whereas
it should have gone to four hundred thousand millions, &amp;c., &amp;c.;
and am I sure that I addressed it rightly?&nbsp; Then, when I am just
getting cross enough to run some risk of being turned out, the luggage
shall make its appearance, hat-box, umbrella, rug, golf-sticks, bicycle,
and everything else all quite correct, and in my delight I shall tip
the angel double and realise that I am enjoying myself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Or I must have asked what I could have for breakfast, and
be told I could have boiled eggs, or eggs and bacon, or filleted plaice.&nbsp;
&lsquo;Filleted plaice,&rsquo; I shall exclaim, &lsquo;no! not that.&nbsp;
Have you any red mullets?&rsquo;&nbsp; And the angel will say, &lsquo;Why
no, sir, the gulf has been so rough that there has hardly any fish come
in this three days, and there has been such a run on it that we have
nothing left but plaice.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Well, well,&rsquo; I shall say, &lsquo;have you any
kidneys?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;You can have one kidney, sir&rsquo;, will be the answer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;One kidney, indeed, and you call this heaven!&nbsp;
At any rate you will have sausages?&rsquo;</p>
<p>“Then the angel will say, &lsquo;We shall have some
after Sunday, sir, but we are quite out of them at present.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I shall say, somewhat sulkily, &lsquo;Then I suppose I
must have eggs and bacon.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But in the morning there will come up a red mullet, beautifully
cooked, a couple of kidneys and three sausages browned to a turn, and
seasoned with just so much sage and thyme as will savour without overwhelming
them; and I shall eat everything.&nbsp; It shall then transpire that
the angel knew about the luggage, and what I was to have for breakfast,
all the time, but wanted to give me the pleasure of finding things turn
out better than I had expected.&nbsp; Heaven would be a dull place without
such occasional petty false alarms as these.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I have no business to leave my father&rsquo;s story, but the mouth
of the ox that treadeth out the corn should not be so closely muzzled
that he cannot sometimes filch a mouthful for himself; and when I had
copied out the foregoing somewhat irreverent paragraphs, which I took
down (with no important addition or alteration) from my father&rsquo;s
lips, I could not refrain from making a few reflections of my own, which
I will ask the reader&rsquo;s forbearance if I lay before him.</p>
<p>Let heaven and hell alone, but think of Hades, with Tantalus, Sisyphus,
Tityus, and all the rest of them.&nbsp; How futile were the attempts
of the old Greeks and Romans to lay before us any plausible conception
of eternal torture.&nbsp; What were the Danaids doing but that which
each one of us has to do during his or her whole life?&nbsp; What are
our bodies if not sieves that we are for ever trying to fill, but which
we must refill continually without hope of being able to keep them full
for long together?&nbsp; Do we mind this?&nbsp; Not so long as we can
get the wherewithal to fill them; and the Danaids never seem to have
run short of water.&nbsp; They would probably ere long take to clearing
out any obstruction in their sieves if they found them getting choked.&nbsp;
What could it matter to them whether the sieves got full or no?&nbsp;
They were not paid for filling them.</p>
<p>Sisyphus, again!&nbsp; Can any one believe that he would go on rolling
that stone year after year and seeing it roll down again unless he liked
seeing it?&nbsp; We are not told that there was a dragon which attacked
him whenever he tried to shirk.&nbsp; If he had greatly cared about
getting his load over the last pinch, experience would have shown him
some way of doing so.&nbsp; The probability is that he got to enjoy
the downward rush of his stone, and very likely amused himself by so
timing it as to cause the greatest scare to the greatest number of the
shades that were below.</p>
<p>What though Tantalus found the water shun him and the fruits fly
from him when he tried to seize them?&nbsp; The writer of the &ldquo;Odyssey&rdquo;
gives us no hint that he was dying of thirst or hunger.&nbsp; The pores
of his skin would absorb enough water to prevent the first, and we may
be sure that he got fruit enough, one way or another, to keep him going.</p>
<p>Tityus, as an effort after the conception of an eternity of torture,
is not successful.&nbsp; What could an eagle matter on the liver of
a man whose body covered nine acres?&nbsp; Before long he would find
it an agreeable stimulant.&nbsp; If, then, the greatest minds of antiquity
could invent nothing that should carry better conviction of eternal
torture, is it likely that the conviction can be carried at all?</p>
<p>Methought I saw Jove sitting on the topmost ridges of Olympus and
confessing failure to Minerva.&nbsp; &ldquo;I see, my dear,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;that there is no use in trying to make people very happy
or very miserable for long together.&nbsp; Pain, if it does not soon
kill, consists not so much in present suffering as in the still recent
memory of a time when there was less, and in the fear that there will
soon be more; and so happiness lies less in immediate pleasure than
in lively recollection of a worse time and lively hope of better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As for the young gentleman above referred to, my father met him with
the assurance that there had been several cases in which living people
had been caught up into heaven or carried down into hell, and been allowed
to return to earth and report what they had seen; while to others visions
had been vouchsafed so clearly that thousands of authentic pictures
had been painted of both states.&nbsp; All incentive to good conduct,
he had then alleged, was found to be at once removed from those who
doubted the fidelity of these pictures.</p>
<p>This at least was what he had then said, but I hardly think he would
have said it at the time of which I am now writing.&nbsp; As he continued
to sit in the Musical Bank, he took from his valise the pamphlet on
&ldquo;The Physics of Vicarious Existence,&rdquo; by Dr. Gurgoyle, which
he had bought on the preceding evening, doubtless being led to choose
this particular work by the tenor of the old lady&rsquo;s epitaph.</p>
<p>The second title he found to run, &ldquo;Being Strictures on Certain
Heresies concerning a Future State that have been Engrafted on the Sunchild&rsquo;s
Teaching.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father shuddered as he read this title.&nbsp; &ldquo;How long,&rdquo;
he said to himself, &ldquo;will it be before they are at one another&rsquo;s
throats?&rdquo;</p>
<p>On reading the pamphlet, he found it added little to what the epitaph
had already conveyed; but it interested him, as showing that, however
cataclysmic a change of national opinions may appear to be, people will
find means of bringing the new into more or less conformity with the
old.</p>
<p>Here it is a mere truism to say that many continue to live a vicarious
life long after they have ceased to be aware of living.&nbsp; This view
is as old as the <i>non omnis moriar</i> of Horace, and we may be sure
some thousands of years older.&nbsp; It is only, therefore, with much
diffidence that I have decided to give a <i>r&eacute;sum&eacute;</i>
of opinions many of which those whom I alone wish to please will have
laid to heart from their youth upwards.&nbsp; In brief, Dr. Gurgoyle&rsquo;s
contention comes to little more than saying that the quick are more
dead, and the dead more quick, than we commonly think.&nbsp; To be alive,
according to him, is only to be unable to understand how dead one is,
and to be dead is only to be invincibly ignorant concerning our own
livingness&mdash;for the dead would be as living as the living if we
could only get them to believe it.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XI: PRESIDENT GURGOYLE&rsquo;S PAMPHLET &ldquo;ON THE PHYSICS
OF VICARIOUS EXISTENCE&rdquo;</h2>
<p>Belief, like any other moving body, follows the path of least resistance,
and this path had led Dr. Gurgoyle to the conviction, real or feigned,
that my father was son to the sun, probably by the moon, and that his
ascent into the sky with an earthly bride was due to the sun&rsquo;s
interference with the laws of nature.&nbsp; Nevertheless he was looked
upon as more or less of a survival, and was deemed lukewarm, if not
heretical, by those who seemed to be the pillars of the new system.</p>
<p>My father soon found that not even Panky could manipulate his teaching
more freely than the Doctor had done.&nbsp; My father had taught that
when a man was dead there was an end of him, until he should rise again
in the flesh at the last day, to enter into eternity either of happiness
or misery.&nbsp; He had, indeed, often talked of the immortality which
some achieve even in this world; but he had cheapened this, declaring
it to be an unsubstantial mockery, that could give no such comfort in
the hour of death as was unquestionably given by belief in heaven and
hell.</p>
<p>Dr. Gurgoyle, however, had an equal horror, on the one hand, of anything
involving resumption of life by the body when it was once dead, and
on the other, of the view that life ended with the change which we call
death.&nbsp; He did not, indeed, pretend that he could do much to take
away the sting from death, nor would he do this if he could, for if
men did not fear death unduly, they would often court it unduly.&nbsp;
Death can only be belauded at the cost of belittling life; but he held
that a reasonable assurance of fair fame after death is a truer consolation
to the dying, a truer comfort to surviving friends, and a more real
incentive to good conduct in this life, than any of the consolations
or incentives falsely fathered upon the Sunchild.</p>
<p>He began by setting aside every saying ascribed, however truly, to
my father, if it made against his views, and by putting his own glosses
on all that he could gloze into an appearance of being in his favour.&nbsp;
I will pass over his attempt to combat the rapidly spreading belief
in a heaven and hell such as we accept, and will only summarise his
contention that, of our two lives&mdash;namely, the one we live in our
own persons, and that other life which we live in other people both
before our reputed death and after it&mdash;the second is as essential
a factor of our complete life as the first is, and sometimes more so.</p>
<p>Life, he urged, lies not in bodily organs, but in the power to use
them, and in the use that is made of them&mdash;that is to say, in the
work they do.&nbsp; As the essence of a factory is not in the building
wherein the work is done, nor yet in the implements used in turning
it out, but in the will-power of the master and in the goods he makes;
so the true life of a man is in his will and work, not in his body.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Those,&rdquo; he argued, &ldquo;who make the life of a man reside
within his body, are like one who should mistake the carpenter&rsquo;s
tool-box for the carpenter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He maintained that this had been my father&rsquo;s teaching, for
which my father heartily trusts that he may be forgiven.</p>
<p>He went on to say that our will-power is not wholly limited to the
working of its own special system of organs, but under certain conditions
can work and be worked upon by other will-powers like itself: so that
if, for example, A&rsquo;s will-power has got such hold on B&rsquo;s
as to be able, through B, to work B&rsquo;s mechanism, what seems to
have been B&rsquo;s action will in reality have been more A&rsquo;s
than B&rsquo;s, and this in the same real sense as though the physical
action had been effected through A&rsquo;s own mechanical system&mdash;A,
in fact, will have been living in B.&nbsp; The universally admitted
maxim that he who does this or that by the hand of an agent does it
himself, shews that the foregoing view is only a roundabout way of stating
what common sense treats as a matter of course.</p>
<p>Hence, though A&rsquo;s individual will-power must be held to cease
when the tools it works with are destroyed or out of gear, yet, so long
as any survivors were so possessed by it while it was still efficient,
or, again, become so impressed by its operation on them through work
that he has left, as to act in obedience to his will-power rather than
their own, A has a certain amount of <i>bon&acirc; fide</i> life still
remaining.&nbsp; His vicarious life is not affected by the dissolution
of his body; and in many cases the sum total of a man&rsquo;s vicarious
action and of its outcome exceeds to an almost infinite extent the sum
total of those actions and works that were effected through the mechanism
of his own physical organs.&nbsp; In these cases his vicarious life
is more truly his life than any that he lived in his own person.</p>
<p>&ldquo;True,&rdquo; continued the Doctor, &ldquo;while living in
his own person, a man knows, or thinks he knows, what he is doing, whereas
we have no reason to suppose such knowledge on the part of one whose
body is already dust; but the consciousness of the doer has less to
do with the livingness of the deed than people generally admit.&nbsp;
We know nothing of the power that sets our heart beating, nor yet of
the beating itself so long as it is normal.&nbsp; We know nothing of
our breathing or of our digestion, of the all-important work we achieved
as embryos, nor of our growth from infancy to manhood.&nbsp; No one
will say that these were not actions of a living agent, but the more
normal, the healthier, and thus the more truly living, the agent is,
the less he will know or have known of his own action.&nbsp; The part
of our bodily life that enters into our consciousness is very small
as compared with that of which we have no consciousness.&nbsp; What
completer proof can we have that livingness consists in deed rather
than in consciousness of deed?</p>
<p>&ldquo;The foregoing remarks are not intended to apply so much to
vicarious action in virtue, we will say, of a settlement, or testamentary
disposition that cannot be set aside.&nbsp; Such action is apt to be
too unintelligent, too far from variation and quick change to rank as
true vicarious action; indeed it is not rarely found to effect the very
opposite of what the person who made the settlement or will desired.&nbsp;
They are meant to apply to that more intelligent and versatile action
engendered by affectionate remembrance.&nbsp; Nevertheless, even the
compulsory vicarious action taken in consequence of a will, and indeed
the very name &ldquo;will&rdquo; itself, shews that though we cannot
take either flesh or money with us, we can leave our will-power behind
us in very efficient operation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This vicarious life (on which I have insisted, I fear at unnecessary
length, for it is so obvious that none can have failed to realise it)
is lived by every one of us before death as well as after it, and is
little less important to us than that of which we are to some extent
conscious in our own persons.&nbsp; A man, we will say, has written
a book which delights or displeases thousands of whom he knows nothing,
and who know nothing of him.&nbsp; The book, we will suppose, has considerable,
or at any rate some influence on the action of these people.&nbsp; Let
us suppose the writer fast asleep while others are enjoying his work,
and acting in consequence of it, perhaps at long distances from him.&nbsp;
Which is his truest life&mdash;the one he is leading in them, or that
equally unconscious life residing in his own sleeping body?&nbsp; Can
there be a doubt that the vicarious life is the more efficient?</p>
<p>&ldquo;Or when we are waking, how powerfully does not the life we
are living in others pain or delight us, according as others think ill
or well of us?&nbsp; How truly do we not recognise it as part of our
own existence, and how great an influence does not the fear of a present
hell in men&rsquo;s bad thoughts, and the hope of a present heaven in
their good ones, influence our own conduct?&nbsp; Have we not here a
true heaven and a true hell, as compared with the efficiency of which
these gross material ones so falsely engrafted on to the Sunchild&rsquo;s
teaching are but as the flint implements of a prehistoric race?&nbsp;
&lsquo;If a man,&rsquo; said the Sunchild, &lsquo;fear not man, whom
he hath seen, neither will he fear God, whom he hath not seen.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father again assures me that he never said this.&nbsp; Returning
to Dr. Gurgoyle, he continued:&mdash;&ldquo;It may be urged that on
a man&rsquo;s death one of the great factors of his life is so annihilated
that no kind of true life can be any further conceded to him.&nbsp;
For to live is to be influenced, as well as to influence; and when a
man is dead how can he be influenced?&nbsp; He can haunt, but he cannot
any more be haunted.&nbsp; He can come to us, but we cannot go to him.&nbsp;
On ceasing, therefore, to be impressionable, so great a part of that
wherein his life consisted is removed, that no true life can be conceded
to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not pretend that a man is as fully alive after his so-called
death as before it.&nbsp; He is not.&nbsp; All I contend for is, that
a considerable amount of efficient life still remains to some of us,
and that a little life remains to all of us, after what we commonly
regard as the complete cessation of life.&nbsp; In answer, then, to
those who have just urged that the destruction of one of the two great
factors of life destroys life altogether, I reply that the same must
hold good as regards death.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If to live is to be influenced and to influence, and if a
man cannot be held as living when he can no longer be influenced, surely
to die is to be no longer able either to influence or be influenced,
and a man cannot be held dead until both these two factors of death
are present.&nbsp; If failure of the power to be influenced vitiates
life, presence of the power to influence vitiates death.&nbsp; And no
one will deny that a man can influence for many a long year after he
is vulgarly reputed as dead.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It seems, then, that there is no such thing as either absolute
life without any alloy of death, nor absolute death without any alloy
of life, until, that is to say, all posthumous power to influence has
faded away.&nbsp; And this, perhaps, is what the Sunchild meant by saying
that in the midst of life we are in death, and so also that in the midst
of death we are in life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And there is this, too.&nbsp; No man can influence fully until
he can no more be influenced&mdash;that is to say, till after his so-called
death.&nbsp; Till then, his &lsquo;he&rsquo; is still unsettled.&nbsp;
We know not what other influences may not be brought to bear upon him
that may change the character of the influence he will exert on ourselves.&nbsp;
Therefore, he is not fully living till he is no longer living.&nbsp;
He is an incomplete work, which cannot have full effect till finished.&nbsp;
And as for his vicarious life&mdash;which we have seen to be very real&mdash;this
can be, and is, influenced by just appreciation, undue praise or calumny,
and is subject, it may be, to secular vicissitudes of good and evil
fortune.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If this is not true, let us have no more talk about the immortality
of great men and women.&nbsp; The Sunchild was never weary of talking
to us (as we then sometimes thought, a little tediously) about a great
poet of that nation to which it pleased him to feign that he belonged.&nbsp;
How plainly can we not now see that his words were spoken for our learning&mdash;for
the enforcement of that true view of heaven and hell on which I am feebly
trying to insist?&nbsp; The poet&rsquo;s name, he said, was Shakespeare.&nbsp;
Whilst he was alive, very few people understood his greatness; whereas
now, after some three hundred years, he is deemed the greatest poet
that the world has ever known.&nbsp; &lsquo;Can this man,&rsquo; he
asked, &lsquo;be said to have been truly born till many a long year
after he had been reputed as truly dead?&nbsp; While he was in the flesh,
was he more than a mere embryo growing towards birth into that life
of the world to come in which he now shines so gloriously?&nbsp; What
a small thing was that flesh and blood life, of which he was alone conscious,
as compared with that fleshless life which he lives but knows not in
the lives of millions, and which, had it ever been fully revealed even
to his imagination, we may be sure that he could not have reached?&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;These were the Sunchild&rsquo;s words, as repeated to me by
one of his chosen friends while he was yet amongst us.&nbsp; Which,
then, of this man&rsquo;s two lives should we deem best worth having,
if we could choose one or other, but not both?&nbsp; The felt or the
unfelt?&nbsp; Who would not go cheerfully to block or stake if he knew
that by doing so he could win such life as this poet lives, though he
also knew that on having won it he could know no more about it?&nbsp;
Does not this prove that in our heart of hearts we deem an unfelt life,
in the heaven of men&rsquo;s loving thoughts, to be better worth having
than any we can reasonably hope for and still feel?</p>
<p>&ldquo;And the converse of this is true; many a man has unhesitatingly
laid down his felt life to escape unfelt infamy in the hell of men&rsquo;s
hatred and contempt.&nbsp; As body is the sacrament, or outward and
visible sign, of mind; so is posterity the sacrament of those who live
after death.&nbsp; Each is the mechanism through which the other becomes
effective.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I grant that many live but a short time when the breath is
out of them.&nbsp; Few seeds germinate as compared with those that rot
or are eaten, and most of this world&rsquo;s denizens are little more
than still-born as regards the larger life, while none are immortal
to the end of time.&nbsp; But the end of time is not worth considering;
not a few live as many centuries as either they or we need think about,
and surely the world, so far as we can guess its object, was made rather
to be enjoyed than to last.&nbsp; &lsquo;Come and go&rsquo; pervades
all things of which we have knowledge, and if there was any provision
made, it seems to have been for a short life and a merry one, with enough
chance of extension beyond the grave to be worth trying for, rather
than for the perpetuity even of the best and noblest.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Granted, again, that few live after death as long or as fully
as they had hoped to do, while many, when quick, can have had none but
the faintest idea of the immortality that awaited them; it is nevertheless
true that none are so still-born on death as not to enter into a life
of some sort, however short and humble.&nbsp; A short life or a long
one can no more be bargained for in the unseen world than in the seen;
as, however, care on the part of parents can do much for the longer
life and greater well-being of their offspring in this world, so the
conduct of that offspring in this world does much both to secure for
itself longer tenure of life in the next, and to determine whether that
life shall be one of reward or punishment.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Reward or punishment,&rsquo; some reader will perhaps
exclaim; &lsquo;what mockery, when the essence of reward and punishment
lies in their being felt by those who have earned them.&rsquo;&nbsp;
I can do nothing with those who either cry for the moon, or deny that
it has two sides, on the ground that we can see but one.&nbsp; Here
comes in faith, of which the Sunchild said, that though we can do little
with it, we can do nothing without it.&nbsp; Faith does not consist,
as some have falsely urged, in believing things on insufficient evidence;
this is not faith, but faithlessness to all that we should hold most
faithfully.&nbsp; Faith consists in holding that the instincts of the
best men and women are in themselves an evidence which may not be set
aside lightly; and the best men and women have ever held that death
is better than dishonour, and desirable if honour is to be won thereby.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It follows, then, that though our conscious flesh and blood
life is the only one that we can fully apprehend, yet we do also indeed
move, even here, in an unseen world, wherein, when our palpable life
is ended, we shall continue to live for a shorter or longer time&mdash;reaping
roughly, though not infallibly, much as we have sown.&nbsp; Of this
unseen world the best men and women will be almost as heedless while
in the flesh as they will be when their life in flesh is over; for,
as the Sunchild often said, &lsquo;The Kingdom of Heaven cometh not
by observation.&rsquo;&nbsp; It will be all in all to them, and at the
same time nothing, for the better people they are, the less they will
think of anything but this present life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What an ineffable contradiction in terms have we not here.&nbsp;
What a reversal, is it not, of all this world&rsquo;s canons, that we
should hold even the best of all that we can know or feel in this life
to be a poor thing as compared with hopes the fulfilment of which we
can never either feel or know.&nbsp; Yet we all hold this, however little
we may admit it to ourselves.&nbsp; For the world at heart despises
its own canons.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I cannot quote further from Dr. Gurgoyle&rsquo;s pamphlet; suffice
it that he presently dealt with those who say that it is not right of
any man to aim at thrusting himself in among the living when he has
had his day.&nbsp; &ldquo;Let him die,&rdquo; say they, &ldquo;and let
die as his fathers before him.&rdquo;&nbsp; He argued that as we had
a right to pester people till we got ourselves born, so also we have
a right to pester them for extension of life beyond the grave.&nbsp;
Life, whether before the grave or afterwards, is like love&mdash;all
reason is against it, and all healthy instinct for it.&nbsp; Instinct
on such matters is the older and safer guide; no one, therefore, should
seek to efface himself as regards the next world more than as regards
this.&nbsp; If he is to be effaced, let others efface him; do not let
him commit suicide.&nbsp; Freely we have received; freely, therefore,
let us take as much more as we can get, and let it be a stand-up fight
between ourselves and posterity to see whether it can get rid of us
or no.&nbsp; If it can, let it; if it cannot, it must put up with us.&nbsp;
It can better care for itself than we can for ourselves when the breath
is out of us.</p>
<p>Not the least important duty, he continued, of posterity towards
itself lies in passing righteous judgement on the forbears who stand
up before it.&nbsp; They should be allowed the benefit of a doubt, and
peccadilloes should be ignored; but when no doubt exists that a man
was engrainedly mean and cowardly, his reputation must remain in the
Purgatory of Time for a term varying from, say, a hundred to two thousand
years.&nbsp; After a hundred years it may generally come down, though
it will still be under a cloud.&nbsp; After two thousand years it may
be mentioned in any society without holding up of hands in horror.&nbsp;
Our sense of moral guilt varies inversely as the squares of its distance
in time and space from ourselves.</p>
<p>Not so with heroism; this loses no lustre through time and distance.&nbsp;
Good is gold; it is rare, but it will not tarnish.&nbsp; Evil is like
dirty water&mdash;plentiful and foul, but it will run itself clear of
taint.</p>
<p>The Doctor having thus expatiated on his own opinions concerning
heaven and hell, concluded by tilting at those which all right-minded
people hold among ourselves.&nbsp; I shall adhere to my determination
not to reproduce his arguments; suffice it that though less flippant
than those of the young student whom I have already referred to, they
were more plausible; and though I could easily demolish them, the reader
will probably prefer that I should not set them up for the mere pleasure
of knocking them down.&nbsp; Here, then, I take my leave of good Dr.
Gurgoyle and his pamphlet; neither can I interrupt my story further
by saying anything about the other two pamphlets purchased by my father.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XII: GEORGE FAILS TO FIND MY FATHER, WHEREON YRAM CAUTIONS
THE PROFESSORS</h2>
<p>On the morning after the interview with her son described in a foregoing
chapter, Yram told her husband what she had gathered from the Professors,
and said that she was expecting Higgs every moment, inasmuch as she
was confident that George would soon find him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do what you like, my dear,&rdquo; said the Mayor.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
shall keep out of the way, for you will manage him better without me.&nbsp;
You know what I think of you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He then went unconcernedly to his breakfast, at which the Professors
found him somewhat taciturn.&nbsp; Indeed they set him down as one of
the dullest and most uninteresting people they had ever met.</p>
<p>When George returned and told his mother that though he had at last
found the inn at which my father had slept, my father had left and could
not be traced, she was disconcerted, but after a few minutes she said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He will come back here for the dedication, but there will
be such crowds that we may not see him till he is inside the temple,
and it will save trouble if we can lay hold on him sooner.&nbsp; Therefore,
ride either to Clearwater or Fairmead, and see if you can find him.&nbsp;
Try Fairmead first; it is more out of the way.&nbsp; If you cannot hear
of him there, come back, get another horse, and try Clearwater.&nbsp;
If you fail here too, we must give him up, and look out for him in the
temple to-morrow morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you going to say anything to the Professors?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not if you can bring Higgs here before night-fall.&nbsp; If
you cannot do this I must talk it over with my husband; I shall have
some hours in which to make up my mind.&nbsp; Now go&mdash;the sooner
the better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was nearly eleven, and in a few minutes George was on his way.&nbsp;
By noon he was at Fairmead, where he tried all the inns in vain for
news of a person answering the description of my father&mdash;for not
knowing what name my father might choose to give, he could trust only
to description.&nbsp; He concluded that since my father could not be
heard of in Fairmead by one o&rsquo;clock (as it nearly was by the time
he had been round all the inns) he must have gone somewhere else; he
therefore rode back to Sunch&rsquo;ston, made a hasty lunch, got a fresh
horse, and rode to Clearwater, where he met with no better success.&nbsp;
At all the inns both at Fairmead and Clearwater he left word that if
the person he had described came later in the day, he was to be told
that the Mayoress particularly begged him to return at once to Sunch&rsquo;ston,
and come to the Mayor&rsquo;s house.</p>
<p>Now all the time that George was at Fairmead my father was inside
the Musical Bank, which he had entered before going to any inn.&nbsp;
Here he had been sitting for nearly a couple of hours, resting, dreaming,
and reading Bishop Gurgoyle&rsquo;s pamphlet.&nbsp; If he had left the
Bank five minutes earlier, he would probably have been seen by George
in the main street of Fairmead&mdash;as he found out on reaching the
inn which he selected and ordering dinner.</p>
<p>He had hardly got inside the house before the waiter told him that
young Mr. Strong, the Ranger from Sunch&rsquo;ston, had been enquiring
for him and had left a message for him, which was duly delivered.</p>
<p>My father, though in reality somewhat disquieted, showed no uneasiness,
and said how sorry he was to have missed seeing Mr. Strong.&nbsp; &ldquo;But,&rdquo;
he added, &ldquo;it does not much matter; I need not go back this afternoon,
for I shall be at Sunch&rsquo;ston to-morrow morning and will go straight
to the Mayor&rsquo;s.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He had no suspicion that he was discovered, but he was a good deal
puzzled.&nbsp; Presently he inclined to the opinion that George, still
believing him to be Professor Panky, had wanted to invite him to the
banquet on the following day&mdash;for he had no idea that Hanky and
Panky were staying with the Mayor and Mayoress.&nbsp; Or perhaps the
Mayor and his wife did not like so distinguished a man&rsquo;s having
been unable to find a lodging in Sunch&rsquo;ston, and wanted him to
stay with them.&nbsp; Ill satisfied as he was with any theory he could
form, he nevertheless reflected that he could not do better than stay
where he was for the night, inasmuch as no one would be likely to look
for him a second time at Fairmead.&nbsp; He therefore ordered his room
at once.</p>
<p>It was nearly seven before George got back to Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp;
In the meantime Yram and the Mayor had considered the question whether
anything was to be said to the Professors or no.&nbsp; They were confident
that my father would not commit himself&mdash;why, indeed, should he
have dyed his hair and otherwise disguised himself, if he had not intended
to remain undiscovered?&nbsp; Oh no; the probability was that if nothing
was said to the Professors now, nothing need ever be said, for my father
might be escorted back to the statues by George on the Sunday evening
and be told that he was not to return.&nbsp; Moreover, even though something
untoward were to happen after all, the Professors would have no reason
for thinking that their hostess had known of the Sunchild&rsquo;s being
in Sunch&rsquo;ston.</p>
<p>On the other hand, they were her guests, and it would not be handsome
to keep Hanky, at any rate, in the dark, when the knowledge that the
Sunchild was listening to every word he said might make him modify his
sermon not a little.&nbsp; It might or it might not, but that was a
matter for him, not her.&nbsp; The only question for her was whether
or no it would be sharp practice to know what she knew and say nothing
about it.&nbsp; Her husband hated <i>finesse</i> as much as she did,
and they settled it that though the question was a nice one, the more
proper thing to do would be to tell the Professors what it might so
possibly concern one or both of them to know.</p>
<p>On George&rsquo;s return without news of my father, they found he
thought just as they did; so it was arranged that they should let the
Professors dine in peace, but tell them about the Sunchild&rsquo;s being
again in Erewhon as soon as dinner was over.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Happily,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;they will do no harm.&nbsp;
They will wish Higgs&rsquo;s presence to remain unknown as much as we
do, and they will be glad that he should be got out of the country immediately.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not so, my dear,&rdquo; said Yram.&nbsp; &ldquo;&lsquo;Out
of the country&rsquo; will not do for those people.&nbsp; Nothing short
of &lsquo;out of the world&rsquo; will satisfy them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That,&rdquo; said George promptly, &ldquo;must not be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly not, my dear, but that is what they will want.&nbsp;
I do not like having to tell them, but I am afraid we must.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; said the Mayor, laughing.&nbsp; &ldquo;Tell
them, and let us see what happens.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They then dressed for dinner, where Hanky and Panky were the only
guests.&nbsp; When dinner was over Yram sent away her other children,
George alone remaining.&nbsp; He sat opposite the Professors, while
the Mayor and Yram were at the two ends of the table.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid, dear Professor Hanky,&rdquo; said Yram, &ldquo;that
I was not quite open with you last night, but I wanted time to think
things over, and I know you will forgive me when you remember what a
number of guests I had to attend to.&rdquo;&nbsp; She then referred
to what Hanky had told her about the supposed ranger, and shewed him
how obvious it was that this man was a foreigner, who had been for some
time in Erewhon more than seventeen years ago, but had had no communication
with it since then.&nbsp; Having pointed sufficiently, as she thought,
to the Sunchild, she said, &ldquo;You see who I believe this man to
have been.&nbsp; Have I said enough, or shall I say more?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I understand you,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;and I agree with
you that the Sunchild will be in the temple to-morrow.&nbsp; It is a
serious business, but I shall not alter my sermon.&nbsp; He must listen
to what I may choose to say, and I wish I could tell him what a fool
he was for coming here.&nbsp; If he behaves himself, well and good:
your son will arrest him quietly after service, and by night he will
be in the Blue Pool.&nbsp; Your son is bound to throw him there as a
foreign devil, without the formality of a trial.&nbsp; It would be a
most painful duty to me, but unless I am satisfied that that man has
been thrown into the Blue Pool, I shall have no option but to report
the matter at headquarters.&nbsp; If, on the other hand, the poor wretch
makes a disturbance, I can set the crowd on to tear him in pieces.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George was furious, but he remained quite calm, and left everything
to his mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have nothing to do with the Blue Pool,&rdquo; said Yram
drily.&nbsp; &ldquo;My son, I doubt not, will know how to do his duty;
but if you let the people kill this man, his body will remain, and an
inquest must be held, for the matter will have been too notorious to
be hushed up.&nbsp; All Higgs&rsquo;s measurements and all marks on
his body were recorded, and these alone would identify him.&nbsp; My
father, too, who is still master of the gaol, and many another, could
swear to him.&nbsp; Should the body prove, as no doubt it would, to
be that of the Sunchild, what is to become of Sunchildism?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky smiled.&nbsp; &ldquo;It would not be proved.&nbsp; The measurements
of a man of twenty or thereabouts would not correspond with this man&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
All we Professors should attend the inquest, and half Bridgeford is
now in Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; No matter though nine-tenths of the marks
and measurements corresponded, so long as there is a tenth that does
not do so, we should not be flesh and blood if we did not ignore the
nine points and insist only on the tenth.&nbsp; After twenty years we
shall find enough to serve our turn.&nbsp; Think of what all the learning
of the country is committed to; think of the change in all our ideas
and institutions; think of the King and of Court influence.&nbsp; I
need not enlarge.&nbsp; We shall not permit the body to be the Sunchild&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
No matter what evidence you may produce, we shall sneer it down, and
say we must have more before you can expect us to take you seriously;
if you bring more, we shall pay no attention; and the more you bring
the more we shall laugh at you.&nbsp; No doubt those among us who are
by way of being candid will admit that your arguments ought to be considered,
but you must not expect that it will be any part of their duty to consider
them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And even though we admitted that the body had been proved
up to the hilt to be the Sunchild&rsquo;s, do you think that such a
trifle as that could affect Sunchildism?&nbsp; Hardly.&nbsp; Sunch&rsquo;ston
is no match for Bridgeford and the King; our only difficulty would lie
in settling which was the most plausible way of the many plausible ways
in which the death could be explained.&nbsp; We should hatch up twenty
theories in less than twenty hours, and the last state of Sunchildism
would be stronger than the first.&nbsp; For the people want it, and
so long as they want it they will have it.&nbsp; At the same time the
supposed identification of the body, even by some few ignorant people
here, might lead to a local heresy that is as well avoided, and it will
be better that your son should arrest the man before the dedication,
if he can be found, and throw him into the Blue Pool without any one
but ourselves knowing that he has been here at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I need not dwell on the deep disgust with which this speech was listened
to, but the Mayor, and Yram, and George said not a word.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, Mayoress,&rdquo; said Panky, who had not opened his lips
so far, &ldquo;are you sure that you are not too hasty in believing
this stranger to be the Sunchild?&nbsp; People are continually thinking
that such and such another is the Sunchild come down again from the
sun&rsquo;s palace and going to and fro among us.&nbsp; How many such
stories, sometimes very plausibly told, have we not had during the last
twenty years?&nbsp; They never take root, and die out of themselves
as suddenly as they spring up.&nbsp; That the man is a poacher can hardly
be doubted; I thought so the moment I saw him; but I think I can also
prove to you that he is not a foreigner, and, therefore, that he is
not the Sunchild.&nbsp; He quoted the Sunchild&rsquo;s prayer with a
corruption that can have only reached him from an Erewhonian source&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here Hanky interrupted him somewhat brusquely.&nbsp; &ldquo;The man,
Panky,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;was the Sunchild; and he was not a poacher,
for he had no idea that he was breaking the law; nevertheless, as you
say, Sunchildism on the brain has been a common form of mania for several
years.&nbsp; Several persons have even believed themselves to be the
Sunchild.&nbsp; We must not forget this, if it should get about that
Higgs has been here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then, turning to Yram, he said sternly, &ldquo;But come what may,
your son must take him to the Blue Pool at nightfall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said George, with perfect suavity, &ldquo;you
have spoken as though you doubted my readiness to do my duty.&nbsp;
Let me assure you very solemnly that when the time comes for me to act,
I shall act as duty may direct.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will answer for him,&rdquo; said Yram, with even more than
her usual quick, frank smile, &ldquo;that he will fulfil his instructions
to the letter, unless,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;some black and white
horses come down from heaven and snatch poor Higgs out of his grasp.&nbsp;
Such things have happened before now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should advise your son to shoot them if they do,&rdquo;
said Hanky drily and sub-defiantly.</p>
<p>Here the conversation closed; but it was useless trying to talk of
anything else, so the Professors asked Yram to excuse them if they retired
early, in view of the fact that they had a fatiguing day before them.&nbsp;
This excuse their hostess readily accepted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do not let us talk any more now,&rdquo; said Yram as soon
as they had left the room.&nbsp; &ldquo;It will be quite time enough
when the dedication is over.&nbsp; But I rather think the black and
white horses will come.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think so too, my dear,&rdquo; said the Mayor laughing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They shall come,&rdquo; said George gravely; &ldquo;but we
have not yet got enough to make sure of bringing them.&nbsp; Higgs will
perhaps be able to help me to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>&ldquo;Now what,&rdquo; said Panky as they went upstairs, &ldquo;does
that woman mean&mdash;for she means something?&nbsp; Black and white
horses indeed!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not know what she means to do,&rdquo; said the other,
&ldquo;but I know that she thinks she can best us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish we had not eaten those quails.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense, Panky; no one saw us but Higgs, and the evidence
of a foreign devil, in such straits as his, could not stand for a moment.&nbsp;
We did not eat them.&nbsp; No, no; she has something that she thinks
better than that.&nbsp; Besides, it is absolutely impossible that she
should have heard what happened.&nbsp; What I do not understand is,
why she should have told us about the Sunchild&rsquo;s being here at
all.&nbsp; Why not have left us to find it out or to know nothing about
it?&nbsp; I do not understand it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So true is it, as Euclid long since observed, that the less cannot
comprehend that which is the greater.&nbsp; True, however, as this is,
it is also sometimes true that the greater cannot comprehend the less.&nbsp;
Hanky went musing to his own room and threw himself into an easy chair
to think the position over.&nbsp; After a few minutes he went to a table
on which he saw pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a short letter; then
he rang the bell.</p>
<p>When the servant came he said, &ldquo;I want to send this note to
the manager of the new temple, and it is important that he should have
it to-night.&nbsp; Be pleased, therefore, to take it to him and deliver
it into his own hands; but I had rather you said nothing about it to
the Mayor or Mayoress, nor to any of your fellow-servants.&nbsp; Slip
out unperceived if you can.&nbsp; When you have delivered the note,
ask for an answer at once, and bring it to me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So saying, he slipped a sum equal to about five shillings into the
man&rsquo;s hand.</p>
<p>The servant returned in about twenty minutes, for the temple was
quite near, and gave a note to Hanky, which ran, &ldquo;Your wishes
shall be attended to without fail.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good!&rdquo; said Hanky to the man.&nbsp; &ldquo;No one in
the house knows of your having run this errand for me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No one, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you!&nbsp; I wish you a very good night.&rdquo;</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIII: A VISIT TO THE PROVINCIAL DEFORMATORY AT FAIRMEAD</h2>
<p>Having finished his early dinner, and not fearing that he should
be either recognised at Fairmead or again enquired after from Sunch&rsquo;ston,
my father went out for a stroll round the town, to see what else he
could find that should be new and strange to him.&nbsp; He had not gone
far before he saw a large building with an inscription saying that it
was the Provincial Deformatory for Boys.&nbsp; Underneath the larger
inscription there was a smaller one&mdash;one of those corrupt versions
of my father&rsquo;s sayings, which, on dipping into the Sayings of
the Sunchild, he had found to be so vexatiously common.&nbsp; The inscription
ran:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;When the righteous man turneth away from the righteousness
that he hath committed, and doeth that which is a little naughty and
wrong, he will generally be found to have gained in amiability what
he has lost in righteousness.&rdquo;&nbsp; Sunchild Sayings, chap. xxii.
v. 15.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The case of the little girl that he had watched earlier in the day
had filled him with a great desire to see the working of one of these
curious institutions; he therefore resolved to call on the headmaster
(whose name he found to be Turvey), and enquire about terms, alleging
that he had a boy whose incorrigible rectitude was giving him much anxiety.&nbsp;
The information he had gained in the forenoon would be enough to save
him from appearing to know nothing of the system.&nbsp; On having rung
the bell, he announced himself to the servant as a Mr. Senoj, and asked
if he could see the Principal.</p>
<p>Almost immediately he was ushered into the presence of a beaming,
dapper-looking, little old gentleman, quick of speech and movement,
in spite of some little portliness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ts, ts, ts,&rdquo; he said, when my father had enquired about
terms and asked whether he might see the system at work.&nbsp; &ldquo;How
unfortunate that you should have called on a Saturday afternoon.&nbsp;
We always have a half-holiday.&nbsp; But stay&mdash;yes&mdash;that will
do very nicely; I will send for them into school as a means of stimulating
their refractory system.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He called his servant and told him to ring the boys into school.&nbsp;
Then, turning to my father he said, &ldquo;Stand here, sir, by the window;
you will see them all come trooping in.&nbsp; H&rsquo;m, h&rsquo;m,
I am sorry to see them still come back as soon as they hear the bell.&nbsp;
I suppose I shall ding some recalcitrancy into them some day, but it
is uphill work.&nbsp; Do you see the head-boy&mdash;the third of those
that are coming up the path?&nbsp; I shall have to get rid of him.&nbsp;
Do you see him? he is going back to whip up the laggers&mdash;and now
he has boxed a boy&rsquo;s ears: that boy is one of the most hopeful
under my care.&nbsp; I feel sure he has been using improper language,
and my head-boy has checked him instead of encouraging him.&rdquo;&nbsp;
And so on till the boys were all in school.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You see, my dear sir,&rdquo; he said to my father, &ldquo;we
are in an impossible position.&nbsp; We have to obey instructions from
the Grand Council of Education at Bridgeford, and they have established
these institutions in consequence of the Sunchild&rsquo;s having said
that we should aim at promoting the greatest happiness of the greatest
number.&nbsp; This, no doubt, is a sound principle, and the greatest
number are by nature somewhat dull, conceited, and unscrupulous.&nbsp;
They do not like those who are quick, unassuming, and sincere; how,
then, consistently with the first principles either of morality or political
economy as revealed to us by the Sunchild, can we encourage such people
if we can bring sincerity and modesty fairly home to them?&nbsp; We
cannot do so.&nbsp; And we must correct the young as far as possible
from forming habits which, unless indulged in with the greatest moderation,
are sure to ruin them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cannot pretend to consider myself very successful.&nbsp;
I do my best, but I can only aim at making my school a reflection of
the outside world.&nbsp; In the outside world we have to tolerate much
that is prejudicial to the greatest happiness of the greatest number,
partly because we cannot always discover in time who may be let alone
as being genuinely insincere, and who are in reality masking sincerity
under a garb of flippancy, and partly also because we wish to err on
the side of letting the guilty escape, rather than of punishing the
innocent.&nbsp; Thus many people who are perfectly well known to belong
to the straightforward classes are allowed to remain at large, and may
be even seen hobnobbing with the guardians of public immorality.&nbsp;
Indeed it is not in the public interest that straightforwardness should
be extirpated root and branch, for the presence of a small modicum of
sincerity acts as a wholesome irritant to the academicism of the greatest
number, stimulating it to consciousness of its own happy state, and
giving it something to look down upon.&nbsp; Moreover, we hold it useful
to have a certain number of melancholy examples, whose notorious failure
shall serve as a warning to those who neglect cultivating that power
of immoral self-control which shall prevent them from saying, or even
thinking, anything that shall not immediately and palpably minister
to the happiness, and hence meet the approval, of the greatest number.&rdquo;</p>
<p>By this time the boys were all in school.&nbsp; &ldquo;There is not
one prig in the whole lot,&rdquo; said the headmaster sadly.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
wish there was, but only those boys come here who are notoriously too
good to become current coin in the world unless they are hardened with
an alloy of vice.&nbsp; I should have liked to show you our gambling,
book-making, and speculation class, but the assistant-master who attends
to this branch of our curriculum is gone to Sunch&rsquo;ston this afternoon.&nbsp;
He has friends who have asked him to see the dedication of the new temple,
and he will not be back till Monday.&nbsp; I really do not know what
I can do better for you than examine the boys in Counsels of Imperfection.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So saying, he went into the schoolroom, over the fireplace of which
my father&rsquo;s eye caught an inscription, &ldquo;Resist good, and
it will fly from you.&nbsp; Sunchild&rsquo;s Sayings, xvii. 2.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Then, taking down a copy of the work just named from a shelf above his
desk, he ran his eye over a few of its pages.</p>
<p>He called up a class of about twenty boys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, my boys,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Why is it so necessary
to avoid extremes of truthfulness?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not necessary, sir,&rdquo; said one youngster, &ldquo;and
the man who says that it is so is a scoundrel.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come here, my boy, and hold out your hand.&rdquo;&nbsp; When
he had done so, Mr. Turvey gave him two sharp cuts with a cane.&nbsp;
&ldquo;There now, go down to the bottom of the class and try not to
be so extremely truthful in future.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then, turning to my
father, he said, &ldquo;I hate caning them, but it is the only way to
teach them.&nbsp; I really do believe that boy will know better than
to say what he thinks another time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He repeated his question to the class, and the head-boy answered,
&ldquo;Because, sir, extremes meet, and extreme truth will be mixed
with extreme falsehood.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite right, my boy.&nbsp; Truth is like religion; it has
only two enemies&mdash;the too much and the too little.&nbsp; Your answer
is more satisfactory than some of your recent conduct had led me to
expect.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, sir, you punished me only three weeks ago for telling
you a lie.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes; why, so I did; I had forgotten.&nbsp; But then you
overdid it.&nbsp; Still it was a step in the right direction.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now, my boy,&rdquo; he said to a very frank and ingenuous
youth about half way up the class, &ldquo;and how is truth best reached?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Through the falling out of thieves, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite so.&nbsp; Then it will be necessary that the more earnest,
careful, patient, self-sacrificing, enquirers after truth should have
a good deal of the thief about them, though they are very honest people
at the same time.&nbsp; Now what does the man&rdquo; (who on enquiry
my father found to be none other than Mr. Turvey himself) &ldquo;say
about honesty?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He says, sir, that honesty does not consist in never stealing,
but in knowing how and where it will be safe to do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Remember,&rdquo; said Mr. Turvey to my father, &ldquo;how
necessary it is that we should have a plentiful supply of thieves, if
honest men are ever to come by their own.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He spoke with the utmost gravity, evidently quite easy in his mind
that his scheme was the only one by which truth could be successfully
attained.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But pray let me have any criticism you may feel inclined to
make.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have none,&rdquo; said my father.&nbsp; &ldquo;Your system
commends itself to common sense; it is the one adopted in the law courts,
and it lies at the very foundation of party government.&nbsp; If your
academic bodies can supply the country with a sufficient number of thieves&mdash;which
I have no doubt they can&mdash;there seems no limit to the amount of
truth that may be attained.&nbsp; If, however, I may suggest the only
difficulty that occurs to me, it is that academic thieves shew no great
alacrity in falling out, but incline rather to back each other up through
thick and thin.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah, yes,&rdquo; said Mr. Turvey, &ldquo;there is that difficulty;
nevertheless circumstances from time to time arise to get them by the
ears in spite of themselves.&nbsp; But from whatever point of view you
may look at the question, it is obviously better to aim at imperfection
than perfection; for if we aim steadily at imperfection, we shall probably
get it within a reasonable time, whereas to the end of our days we should
never reach perfection.&nbsp; Moreover, from a worldly point of view,
there is no mistake so great as that of being always right.&rdquo;&nbsp;
He then turned to his class and said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now tell me what did the Sunchild tell us about God and
Mammon?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The head-boy answered: &ldquo;He said that we must serve both, for
no man can serve God well and truly who does not serve Mammon a little
also; and no man can serve Mammon effectually unless he serve God largely
at the same time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What were his words?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He said, &lsquo;Cursed be they that say, &ldquo;Thou shalt
not serve God and Mammon, for it is the whole duty of man to know how
to adjust the conflicting claims of these two deities.&rdquo;&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here my father interposed.&nbsp; &ldquo;I knew the Sunchild; and
I more than once heard him speak of God and Mammon.&nbsp; He never varied
the form of the words he used, which were to the effect that a man must
serve either God or Mammon, but that he could not serve both.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Mr. Turvey, &ldquo;that no doubt was his exoteric
teaching, but Professors Hanky and Panky have assured me most solemnly
that his esoteric teaching was as I have given it.&nbsp; By the way,
these gentlemen are both, I understand, at Sunch&rsquo;ston, and I think
it quite likely that I shall have a visit from them this afternoon.&nbsp;
If you do not know them I should have great pleasure in introducing
you to them; I was at Bridgeford with both of them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have had the pleasure of meeting them already,&rdquo; said
my father, &ldquo;and as you are by no means certain that they will
come, I will ask you to let me thank you for all that you have been
good enough to shew me, and bid you good-afternoon.&nbsp; I have a rather
pressing engagement&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear sir, you must please give me five minutes more.&nbsp;
I shall examine the boys in the Musical Bank Catechism.&rdquo;&nbsp;
He pointed to one of them and said, &ldquo;Repeat your duty towards
your neighbour.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My duty towards my neighbour,&rdquo; said the boy, &ldquo;is
to be quite sure that he is not likely to borrow money of me before
I let him speak to me at all, and then to have as little to do with
him as&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>At this point there was a loud ring at the door bell.&nbsp; &ldquo;Hanky
and Panky come to see me, no doubt,&rdquo; said Mr. Turvey.&nbsp; &ldquo;I
do hope it is so.&nbsp; You must stay and see them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear sir,&rdquo; said my father, putting his handkerchief
up to his face, &ldquo;I am taken suddenly unwell and must positively
leave you.&rdquo;&nbsp; He said this in so peremptory a tone that Mr.
Turvey had to yield.&nbsp; My father held his handkerchief to his face
as he went through the passage and hall, but when the servant opened
the door he took it down, for there was no Hanky or Panky&mdash;no one,
in fact, but a poor, wizened old man who had come, as he did every other
Saturday afternoon, to wind up the Deformatory clocks.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, he had been scared, and was in a very wicked-fleeth-when-no-man-pursueth
frame of mind.&nbsp; He went to his inn, and shut himself up in his
room for some time, taking notes of all that had happened to him in
the last three days.&nbsp; But even at his inn he no longer felt safe.&nbsp;
How did he know but that Hanky and Panky might have driven over from
Sunch&rsquo;ston to see Mr. Turvey, and might put up at this very house?
or they might even be going to spend the night here.&nbsp; He did not
venture out of his room till after seven by which time he had made rough
notes of as much of the foregoing chapters as had come to his knowledge
so far.&nbsp; Much of what I have told as nearly as I could in the order
in which it happened, he did not learn till later.&nbsp; After giving
the merest outline of his interview with Mr. Turvey, he wrote a note
as follows:&mdash;&ldquo;I suppose I must have held forth about the
greatest happiness of the greatest number, but I had quite forgotten
it, though I remember repeatedly quoting my favourite proverb, &lsquo;Every
man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.&rsquo;&nbsp; To this
they have paid no attention.&rdquo;</p>
<p>By seven his panic about Hanky and Panky ended, for if they had not
come by this time, they were not likely to do so.&nbsp; Not knowing
that they were staying at the Mayor&rsquo;s, he had rather settled it
that they would now stroll up to the place where they had left their
hoard and bring it down as soon as night had fallen.&nbsp; And it is
quite possible that they might have found some excuse for doing this,
when dinner was over, if their hostess had not undesignedly hindered
them by telling them about the Sunchild.&nbsp; When the conversation
recorded in the preceding chapter was over, it was too late for them
to make any plausible excuse for leaving the house; we may be sure,
therefore, that much more had been said than Yram and George were able
to remember and report to my father.</p>
<p>After another stroll about Fairmead, during which he saw nothing
but what on a larger scale he had already seen at Sunch&rsquo;ston,
he returned to his inn at about half-past eight, and ordered supper
in a public room that corresponded with the coffee-room of an English
hotel.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIV: MY FATHER MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MR. BALMY, AND WALKS
WITH HIM NEXT DAY TO SUNCH&rsquo;STON</h2>
<p>Up to this point, though he had seen enough to shew him the main
drift of the great changes that had taken place in Erewhonian opinions,
my father had not been able to glean much about the history of the transformation.&nbsp;
He could see that it had all grown out of the supposed miracle of his
balloon ascent, and he could understand that the ignorant masses had
been so astounded by an event so contrary to all their experience, that
their faith in experience was utterly routed and demoralised.&nbsp;
If a man and a woman might rise from the earth and disappear into the
sky, what else might not happen?&nbsp; If they had been wrong in thinking
such a thing impossible, in how much else might they not be mistaken
also?&nbsp; The ground was shaken under their very feet.</p>
<p>It was not as though the thing had been done in a corner.&nbsp; Hundreds
of people had seen the ascent; and even if only a small number had been
present, the disappearance of the balloon, of my mother, and of my father
himself, would have confirmed their story.&nbsp; My father, then, could
understand that a single incontrovertible miracle of the first magnitude
should uproot the hedges of caution in the minds of the common people,
but he could not understand how such men as Hanky and Panky, who evidently
did not believe that there had been any miracle at all, had been led
to throw themselves so energetically into a movement so subversive of
all their traditions, when, as it seemed to him, if they had held out
they might have pricked the balloon bubble easily enough, and maintained
everything <i>in statu quo</i>.</p>
<p>How, again, had they converted the King&mdash;if they had converted
him?&nbsp; The Queen had had full knowledge of all the preparations
for the ascent.&nbsp; The King had had everything explained to him.&nbsp;
The workmen and workwomen who had made the balloon and the gas could
testify that none but natural means had been made use of&mdash;means
which, if again employed any number of times, would effect a like result.&nbsp;
How could it be that when the means of resistance were so ample and
so easy, the movement should nevertheless have been irresistible?&nbsp;
For had it not been irresistible, was it to be believed that astute
men like Hanky and Panky would have let themselves be drawn into it?</p>
<p>What then had been its inner history?&nbsp; My father had so fully
determined to make his way back on the following evening, that he saw
no chance of getting to know the facts&mdash;unless, indeed, he should
be able to learn something from Hanky&rsquo;s sermon; he was therefore
not sorry to find an elderly gentleman of grave but kindly aspect seated
opposite to him when he sat down to supper.</p>
<p>The expression on this man&rsquo;s face was much like that of the
early Christians as shewn in the S. Giovanni Laterano bas-reliefs at
Rome, and again, though less aggressively self-confident, like that
on the faces of those who have joined the Salvation Army.&nbsp; If he
had been in England, my father would have set him down as a Swedenborgian;
this being impossible, he could only note that the stranger bowed his
head, evidently saying a short grace before he began to eat, as my father
had always done when he was in Erewhon before.&nbsp; I will not say
that my father had never omitted to say grace during the whole of the
last twenty years, but he said it now, and unfortunately forgetting
himself, he said it in the English language, not loud, but nevertheless
audibly.</p>
<p>My father was alarmed at what he had done, but there was no need,
for the stranger immediately said, &ldquo;I hear, sir, that you have
the gift of tongues.&nbsp; The Sunchild often mentioned it to us, as
having been vouchsafed long since to certain of the people, to whom,
for our learning, he saw fit to feign that he belonged.&nbsp; He thus
foreshadowed prophetically its manifestation also among ourselves.&nbsp;
All which, however, you must know as well as I do.&nbsp; Can you interpret?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father was much shocked, but he remembered having frequently spoken
of the power of speaking in unknown tongues which was possessed by many
of the early Christians, and he also remembered that in times of high
religious enthusiasm this power had repeatedly been imparted, or supposed
to be imparted, to devout believers in the middle ages.&nbsp; It grated
upon him to deceive one who was so obviously sincere, but to avoid immediate
discomfiture he fell in with what the stranger had said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alas! sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that rarer and more precious
gift has been withheld from me; nor can I speak in an unknown tongue,
unless as it is borne in upon me at the moment.&nbsp; I could not even
repeat the words that have just fallen from me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That,&rdquo; replied the stranger, &ldquo;is almost invariably
the case.&nbsp; These illuminations of the spirit are beyond human control.&nbsp;
You spoke in so low a tone that I cannot interpret what you have just
said, but should you receive a second inspiration later, I shall doubtless
be able to interpret it for you.&nbsp; I have been singularly gifted
in this respect&mdash;more so, perhaps, than any other interpreter in
Erewhon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father mentally vowed that no second inspiration should be vouchsafed
to him, but presently remembering how anxious he was for information
on the points touched upon at the beginning of this chapter, and seeing
that fortune had sent him the kind of man who would be able to enlighten
him, he changed his mind; nothing, he reflected, would be more likely
to make the stranger talk freely with him, than the affording him an
opportunity for showing off his skill as an interpreter.</p>
<p>Something, therefore, he would say, but what?&nbsp; No one could
talk more freely when the train of his thoughts, or the conversation
of others, gave him his cue, but when told to say an unattached &ldquo;something,&rdquo;
he could not even think of &ldquo;How do you do this morning? it is
a very fine day;&rdquo; and the more he cudgelled his brains for &ldquo;something,&rdquo;
the more they gave no response.&nbsp; He could not even converse further
with the stranger beyond plain &ldquo;yes&rdquo; and &ldquo;no&rdquo;;
so he went on with his supper, and in thinking of what he was eating
and drinking for the moment forgot to ransack his brain.&nbsp; No sooner
had he left off ransacking it, than it suggested something&mdash;not,
indeed, a very brilliant something, but still something.&nbsp; On having
grasped it, he laid down his knife and fork, and with the air of one
distraught he said&mdash;</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills<br>
My father feeds his flock&mdash;a frugal swain.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;I heard you,&rdquo; exclaimed the stranger, &ldquo;and I can
interpret every word of what you have said, but it would not become
me to do so, for you have conveyed to me a message more comforting than
I can bring myself to repeat even to him who has conveyed it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Having said this he bowed his head, and remained for some time wrapped
in meditation.&nbsp; My father kept a respectful silence, but after
a little time he ventured to say in a low tone, how glad he was to have
been the medium through whom a comforting assurance had been conveyed.&nbsp;
Presently, on finding himself encouraged to renew the conversation,
he threw out a deferential feeler as to the causes that might have induced
Mr. Balmy to come to Fairmead.&nbsp; &ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;you, like myself, have come to these parts in order to see the
dedication of the new temple; I could not get a lodging in Sunch&rsquo;ston,
so I walked down here this morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This, it seemed, had been Mr. Balmy&rsquo;s own case, except that
he had not yet been to Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; Having heard that it
was full to overflowing, he had determined to pass the night at Fairmead,
and walk over in the morning&mdash;starting soon after seven, so as
to arrive in good time for the dedication ceremony.&nbsp; When my father
heard this, he proposed that they should walk together, to which Mr.
Balmy gladly consented; it was therefore arranged that they should go
to bed early, breakfast soon after six, and then walk to Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp;
My father then went to his own room, where he again smoked a surreptitious
pipe up the chimney.</p>
<p>Next morning the two men breakfasted together, and set out as the
clock was striking seven.&nbsp; The day was lovely beyond the power
of words, and still fresh&mdash;for Fairmead was some 2500 feet above
the sea, and the sun did not get above the mountains that overhung it
on the east side, till after eight o&rsquo;clock.&nbsp; Many persons
were also starting for Sunch&rsquo;ston, and there was a procession
got up by the Musical Bank Managers of the town, who walked in it, robed
in rich dresses of scarlet and white embroidered with much gold thread.&nbsp;
There was a banner displaying an open chariot in which the Sunchild
and his bride were seated, beaming with smiles, and in attitudes suggesting
that they were bowing to people who were below them.&nbsp; The chariot
was, of course, drawn by the four black and white horses of which the
reader has already heard, and the balloon had been ignored.&nbsp; Readers
of my father&rsquo;s book will perhaps remember that my mother was not
seen at all&mdash;she was smuggled into the car of the balloon along
with sundry rugs, under which she lay concealed till the balloon had
left the earth.&nbsp; All this went for nothing.&nbsp; It has been said
that though God cannot alter the past, historians can; it is perhaps
because they can be useful to Him in this respect that He tolerates
their existence.&nbsp; Painters, my father now realised, can do all
that historians can, with even greater effect.</p>
<p>Women headed the procession&mdash;the younger ones dressed in white,
with veils and chaplets of roses, blue cornflower, and pheasant&rsquo;s
eye Narcissus, while the older women were more soberly attired.&nbsp;
The Bank Managers and the banner headed the men, who were mostly peasants,
but among them were a few who seemed to be of higher rank, and these,
for the most part, though by no means all of them, wore their clothes
reversed&mdash;as I have forgotten to say was done also by Mr. Balmy.&nbsp;
Both men and women joined in singing a litany the words of which my
father could not catch; the tune was one he had been used to play on
his apology for a flute when he was in prison, being, in fact, none
other than &ldquo;Home, Sweet Home.&rdquo;&nbsp; There was no harmony;
they never got beyond the first four bars, but these they must have
repeated, my father thought, at least a hundred times between Fairmead
and Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he to himself,
&ldquo;however little else I may have taught them, I at any rate gave
them the diatonic scale.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He now set himself to exploit his fellow-traveller, for they soon
got past the procession.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The greatest miracle,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;in connection
with this whole matter, has been&mdash;so at least it seems to me&mdash;not
the ascent of the Sunchild with his bride, but the readiness with which
the people generally acknowledged its miraculous character.&nbsp; I
was one of those that witnessed the ascent, but I saw no signs that
the crowd appreciated its significance.&nbsp; They were astounded, but
they did not fall down and worship.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; said the other, &ldquo;but you forget the long
drought and the rain that the Sunchild immediately prevailed on the
air-god to send us.&nbsp; He had announced himself as about to procure
it for us; it was on this ground that the King assented to the preparation
of those material means that were necessary before the horses of the
sun could attach themselves to the chariot into which the balloon was
immediately transformed.&nbsp; Those horses might not be defiled by
contact with this gross earth.&nbsp; I too witnessed the ascent; at
the moment, I grant you, I saw neither chariot nor horses, and almost
all those present shared my own temporary blindness; the whole action
from the moment when the balloon left the earth, moved so rapidly, that
we were flustered, and hardly knew what it was that we were really seeing.&nbsp;
It was not till two or three years later that I found the scene presenting
itself to my soul&rsquo;s imaginary sight in the full splendour which
was no doubt witnessed, but not apprehended, by my bodily vision.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;you confirm an opinion
that I have long held.&mdash;Nothing is so misleading as the testimony
of eye-witnesses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A spiritual enlightenment from within,&rdquo; returned Mr.
Balmy, &ldquo;is more to be relied on than any merely physical affluence
from external objects.&nbsp; Now, when I shut my eyes, I see the balloon
ascend a little way, but almost immediately the heavens open, the horses
descend, the balloon is transformed, and the glorious pageant careers
onward till it vanishes into the heaven of heavens.&nbsp; Hundreds with
whom I have conversed assure me that their experience has been the same
as mine.&nbsp; Has yours been different?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh no, not at all; but I always see some storks circling round
the balloon before I see any horses.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How strange!&nbsp; I have heard others also say that they
saw the storks you mention; but let me do my utmost I cannot force them
into my mental image of the scene.&nbsp; This shows, as you were saying
just now, how incomplete the testimony of an eye-witness often is.&nbsp;
It is quite possible that the storks were there, but the horses and
the chariot have impressed themselves more vividly on my mind than anything
else has.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite so; and I am not without hope that even at this late
hour some further details may yet be revealed to us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is possible, but we should be as cautious in accepting
any fresh details as in rejecting them.&nbsp; Should some heresy obtain
wide acceptance, visions will perhaps be granted to us that may be useful
in refuting it, but otherwise I expect nothing more.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Neither do I, but I have heard people say that inasmuch as
the Sunchild said he was going to interview the air-god in order to
send us rain, he was more probably son to the air-god than to the sun.&nbsp;
Now here is a heresy which&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, my dear sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Balmy, interrupting him
with great warmth, &ldquo;he spoke of his father in heaven as endowed
with attributes far exceeding any that can be conceivably ascribed to
the air-god.&nbsp; The power of the air-god does not extend beyond our
own atmosphere.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pray believe me,&rdquo; said my father, who saw by the ecstatic
gleam in his companion&rsquo;s eye that there was nothing to be done
but to agree with him, &ldquo;that I accept&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hear me to the end,&rdquo; replied Mr. Balmy.&nbsp; &ldquo;Who
ever heard the Sunchild claim relationship with the air-god?&nbsp; He
could command the air-god, and evidently did so, halting no doubt for
this beneficent purpose on his journey towards his ultimate destination.&nbsp;
Can we suppose that the air-god, who had evidently intended withholding
the rain from us for an indefinite period, should have so immediately
relinquished his designs against us at the intervention of any less
exalted personage than the sun&rsquo;s own offspring?&nbsp; Impossible!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I quite agree with you,&rdquo; exclaimed my father, &ldquo;it
is out of the&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me finish what I have to say.&nbsp; When the rain came
so copiously for days, even those who had not seen the miraculous ascent
found its consequences come so directly home to them, that they had
no difficulty in accepting the report of others.&nbsp; There was not
a farmer or cottager in the land but heaved a sigh of relief at rescue
from impending ruin, and they all knew it was the Sunchild who had promised
the King that he would make the air-god send it.&nbsp; So abundantly,
you will remember, did it come, that we had to pray to him to stop it,
which in his own good time he was pleased to do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I remember,&rdquo; said my father, who was at last able to
edge in a word, &ldquo;that it nearly flooded me out of house and home.&nbsp;
And yet, in spite of all this, I hear that there are many at Bridgeford
who are still hardened unbelievers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alas! you speak too truly.&nbsp; Bridgeford and the Musical
Banks for the first three years fought tooth and nail to blind those
whom it was their first duty to enlighten.&nbsp; I was a Professor of
the hypothetical language, and you may perhaps remember how I was driven
from my chair on account of the fearlessness with which I expounded
the deeper mysteries of Sunchildism.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I remember well how cruelly&mdash;&rdquo; but my father
was not allowed to get beyond &ldquo;cruelly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was I who explained why the Sunchild had represented himself
as belonging to a people in many respects analogous to our own, when
no such people can have existed.&nbsp; It was I who detected that the
supposed nation spoken of by the Sunchild was an invention designed
in order to give us instruction by the light of which we might more
easily remodel our institutions.&nbsp; I have sometimes thought that
my gift of interpretation was vouchsafed to me in recognition of the
humble services that I was hereby allowed to render.&nbsp; By the way,
you have received no illumination this morning, have you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never do, sir, when I am in the company of one whose conversation
I find supremely interesting.&nbsp; But you were telling me about Bridgeford:
I live hundreds of miles from Bridgeford, and have never understood
the suddenness, and completeness, with which men like Professors Hanky
and Panky and Dr. Downie changed front.&nbsp; Do they believe as you
and I do, or did they merely go with the times?&nbsp; I spent a couple
of hours with Hanky and Panky only two evenings ago, and was not so
much impressed as I could have wished with the depth of their religious
fervour.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are sincere now&mdash;more especially Hanky&mdash;but
I cannot think I am judging them harshly, if I say that they were not
so at first.&nbsp; Even now, I fear, that they are more carnally than
spiritually minded.&nbsp; See how they have fought for the aggrandisement
of their own order.&nbsp; It is mainly their doing that the Musical
Banks have usurped the spiritual authority formerly exercised by the
straighteners.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But the straighteners,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;could
not co-exist with Sunchildism, and it is hard to see how the claims
of the Banks can be reasonably gainsaid.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps; and after all the Banks are our main bulwark against
the evils that I fear will follow from the repeal of the laws against
machinery.&nbsp; This has already led to the development of a materialism
which minimizes the miraculous element in the Sunchild&rsquo;s ascent,
as our own people minimize the material means that were the necessary
prologue to the miraculous.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Thus did they converse; but I will not pursue their conversation
further.&nbsp; It will be enough to say that in further floods of talk
Mr. Balmy confirmed what George had said about the Banks having lost
their hold upon the masses.&nbsp; That hold was weak even in the time
of my father&rsquo;s first visit; but when the people saw the hostility
of the Banks to a movement which far the greater number of them accepted,
it seemed as though both Bridgeford and the Banks were doomed, for Bridgeford
was heart and soul with the Banks.&nbsp; Hanky, it appeared, though
under thirty, and not yet a Professor, grasped the situation, and saw
that Bridgeford must either move with the times, or go.&nbsp; He consulted
some of the most sagacious Heads of Houses and Professors, with the
result that a committee of enquiry was appointed, which in due course
reported that the evidence for the Sunchild&rsquo;s having been the
only child of the sun was conclusive.&nbsp; It was about this time&mdash;that
is to say some three years after his ascent&mdash;that &ldquo;Higgsism,&rdquo;
as it had been hitherto called, became &ldquo;Sunchildism,&rdquo; and
&ldquo;Higgs&rdquo; the &ldquo;Sunchild.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father also learned the King&rsquo;s fury at his escape (for he
would call it nothing else) with my mother.&nbsp; This was so great
that though he had hitherto been, and had ever since proved himself
to be, a humane ruler, he ordered the instant execution of all who had
been concerned in making either the gas or the balloon; and his cruel
orders were carried out within a couple of hours.&nbsp; At the same
time he ordered the destruction by fire of the Queen&rsquo;s workshops,
and of all remnants of any materials used in making the balloon.&nbsp;
It is said the Queen was so much grieved and outraged (for it was her
doing that the material ground-work, so to speak, had been provided
for the miracle) that she wept night and day without ceasing three whole
months, and never again allowed her husband to embrace her, till he
had also embraced Sunchildism.</p>
<p>When the rain came, public indignation at the King&rsquo;s action
was raised almost to revolution pitch, and the King was frightened at
once by the arrival of the promised downfall and the displeasure of
his subjects.&nbsp; But he still held out, and it was only after concessions
on the part of the Bridgeford committee, that he at last consented to
the absorption of Sunchildism into the Musical Bank system, and to its
establishment as the religion of the country.&nbsp; The far-reaching
changes in Erewhonian institutions with which the reader is already
acquainted followed as a matter of course.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know the difficulty,&rdquo; said my father presently, &ldquo;with
which the King was persuaded to allow the way in which the Sunchild&rsquo;s
dress should be worn to be a matter of opinion, not dogma.&nbsp; I see
we have adopted different fashions.&nbsp; Have you any decided opinions
upon the subject?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have; but I will ask you not to press me for them.&nbsp;
Let this matter remain as the King has left it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father thought that he might now venture on a shot.&nbsp; So he
said, &ldquo;I have always understood, too, that the King forced the
repeal of the laws against machinery on the Bridgeford committee, as
another condition of his assent?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly.&nbsp; He insisted on this, partly to gratify the
Queen, who had not yet forgiven him, and who had set her heart on having
a watch, and partly because he expected that a development of the country&rsquo;s
resources, in consequence of a freer use of machinery, would bring more
money into his exchequer.&nbsp; Bridgeford fought hard and wisely here,
but they had gained so much by the Musical Bank Managers being recognised
as the authorised exponents of Sunchildism, that they thought it wise
to yield&mdash;apparently with a good grace&mdash;and thus gild the
pill which his Majesty was about to swallow.&nbsp; But even then they
feared the consequences that are already beginning to appear, all which,
if I mistake not, will assume far more serious proportions in the future.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;See,&rdquo; said my father suddenly, &ldquo;we are coming
to another procession, and they have got some banners, let us walk a
little quicker and overtake it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Horrible!&rdquo; replied Mr. Balmy fiercely.&nbsp; &ldquo;You
must be short-sighted, or you could never have called my attention to
it.&nbsp; Let us get it behind us as fast as possible, and not so much
as look at it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, yes,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;it is indeed horrible,
I had not seen what it was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He had not the faintest idea what the matter was, but he let Mr.
Balmy walk a little ahead of him, so that he could see the banners,
the most important of which he found to display a balloon pure and simple,
with one figure in the car.&nbsp; True, at the top of the banner there
was a smudge which might be taken for a little chariot, and some very
little horses, but the balloon was the only thing insisted on.&nbsp;
As for the procession, it consisted entirely of men, whom a smaller
banner announced to be workmen from the Fairmead iron and steel works.&nbsp;
There was a third banner, which said, &ldquo;Science as well as Sunchildism.&rdquo;</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XV: THE TEMPLE IS DEDICATED TO MY FATHER, AND CERTAIN EXTRACTS
ARE READ FROM HIS SUPPOSED SAYINGS</h2>
<p>&ldquo;It is enough to break one&rsquo;s heart,&rdquo; said Mr. Balmy
when he had outstripped the procession, and my father was again beside
him.&nbsp; &ldquo;&lsquo;As well as,&rsquo; indeed!&nbsp; We know what
that means.&nbsp; Wherever there is a factory there is a hot-bed of
unbelief.&nbsp; &lsquo;As well as&rsquo;!&nbsp; Why it is a defiance.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What, I wonder,&rdquo; said my father innocently, &ldquo;must
the Sunchild&rsquo;s feelings be, as he looks down on this procession.&nbsp;
For there can be little doubt that he is doing so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There can be no doubt at all,&rdquo; replied Mr. Balmy, &ldquo;that
he is taking note of it, and of all else that is happening this day
in Erewhon.&nbsp; Heaven grant that he be not so angered as to chastise
the innocent as well as the guilty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I doubt,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;his being so angry
even with this procession, as you think he is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here, fearing an outburst of indignation, he found an excuse for
rapidly changing the conversation.&nbsp; Moreover he was angry with
himself for playing upon this poor good creature.&nbsp; He had not done
so of malice prepense; he had begun to deceive him, because he believed
himself to be in danger if he spoke the truth; and though he knew the
part to be an unworthy one, he could not escape from continuing to play
it, if he was to discover things that he was not likely to discover
otherwise.</p>
<p>Often, however, he had checked himself.&nbsp; It had been on the
tip of his tongue to be illuminated with the words,</p>
<blockquote><p>Sukoh and Sukop were two pretty men,<br>
They lay in bed till the clock struck ten,</p>
</blockquote>
<p>and to follow it up with,</p>
<blockquote><p>Now with the drops of this most Yknarc time<br>
My love looks fresh,</p>
</blockquote>
<p>in order to see how Mr. Balmy would interpret the assertion here
made about the Professors, and what statement he would connect with
his own Erewhonian name; but he had restrained himself.</p>
<p>The more he saw, and the more he heard, the more shocked he was at
the mischief he had done.&nbsp; See how he had unsettled the little
mind this poor, dear, good gentleman had ever had, till he was now a
mere slave to preconception.&nbsp; And how many more had he not in like
manner brought to the verge of idiocy?&nbsp; How many again had he not
made more corrupt than they were before, even though he had not deceived
them&mdash;as for example, Hanky and Panky.&nbsp; And the young? how
could such a lie as that a chariot and four horses came down out of
the clouds enter seriously into the life of any one, without distorting
his mental vision, if not ruining it?</p>
<p>And yet, the more he reflected, the more he also saw that he could
do no good by saying who he was.&nbsp; Matters had gone so far that
though he spoke with the tongues of men and angels he would not be listened
to; and even if he were, it might easily prove that he had added harm
to that which he had done already.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; As soon as he had
heard Hanky&rsquo;s sermon, he would begin to work his way back, and
if the Professors had not yet removed their purchase, he would recover
it; but he would pin a bag containing about five pounds worth of nuggets
on to the tree in which they had hidden it, and, if possible, he would
find some way of sending the rest to George.</p>
<p>He let Mr. Balmy continue talking, glad that this gentleman required
little more than monosyllabic answers, and still more glad, in spite
of some agitation, to see that they were now nearing Sunch&rsquo;ston,
towards which a great concourse of people was hurrying from Clearwater,
and more distant towns on the main road.&nbsp; Many whole families were
coming,&mdash;the fathers and mothers carrying the smaller children,
and also their own shoes and stockings, which they would put on when
nearing the town.&nbsp; Most of the pilgrims brought provisions with
them.&nbsp; All wore European costumes, but only a few of them wore
it reversed, and these were almost invariably of higher social status
than the great body of the people, who were mainly peasants.</p>
<p>When they reached the town, my father was relieved at finding that
Mr. Balmy had friends on whom he wished to call before going to the
temple.&nbsp; He asked my father to come with him, but my father said
that he too had friends, and would leave him for the present, while
hoping to meet him again later in the day.&nbsp; The two, therefore,
shook hands with great effusion, and went their several ways.&nbsp;
My father&rsquo;s way took him first into a confectioner&rsquo;s shop,
where he bought a couple of Sunchild buns, which he put into his pocket,
and refreshed himself with a bottle of Sunchild cordial and water.&nbsp;
All shops except those dealing in refreshments were closed, and the
town was gaily decorated with flags and flowers, often festooned into
words or emblems proper for the occasion.</p>
<p>My father, it being now a quarter to eleven, made his way towards
the temple, and his heart was clouded with care as he walked along.&nbsp;
Not only was his heart clouded, but his brain also was oppressed, and
he reeled so much on leaving the confectioner&rsquo;s shop, that he
had to catch hold of some railings till the faintness and giddiness
left him.&nbsp; He knew the feeling to be the same as what he had felt
on the Friday evening, but he had no idea of the cause, and as soon
as the giddiness left him he thought there was nothing the matter with
him.</p>
<p>Turning down a side street that led into the main square of the town,
he found himself opposite the south end of the temple, with its two
lofty towers that flanked the richly decorated main entrance.&nbsp;
I will not attempt to describe the architecture, for my father could
give me little information on this point.&nbsp; He only saw the south
front for two or three minutes, and was not impressed by it, save in
so far as it was richly ornamented&mdash;evidently at great expense&mdash;and
very large.&nbsp; Even if he had had a longer look, I doubt whether
I should have got more out of him, for he knew nothing of architecture,
and I fear his test whether a building was good or bad, was whether
it looked old and weather-beaten or no.&nbsp; No matter what a building
was, if it was three or four hundred years old he liked it, whereas,
if it was new, he would look to nothing but whether it kept the rain
out.&nbsp; Indeed I have heard him say that the mediaeval sculpture
on some of our great cathedrals often only pleases us because time and
weather have set their seals upon it, and that if we could see it as
it was when it left the mason&rsquo;s hands, we should find it no better
than much that is now turned out in the Euston Road.</p>
<p>The ground plan here given will help the reader to understand the
few following pages more easily.</p>
<pre>                +--------------------+
  N            /          a           \
 W+E          /                 b      \------------+
  S          /       G          H       \           |
            |             C             |    N      |
+-----------+---------------------------+-----------+------+
|                  ------------------- I                   |
|                  -------------------                     |
|                  -------------------                     |
|          o&rsquo;                                o&rsquo;            |
|                                                          |
|  E |||||||||||||||                 ||||||||||||||||| F   |
|    |||||||||||||||                 |||||||||||||||||     |
|                                                          |
| e  A     o&rsquo;     B               C          o&rsquo;    D       | f
|    ---          ---             ---              ---     |
|    ---          ---             ---              ---     |
|    ---          ---             ---              ---     |
|    ---   o&rsquo;     ---             ---        o&rsquo;    ---     |
|    ---          ---             ---              ---     |
|    ---          ---             ---              ---     |
|    ---          ---             ---              ---     |
|    ---   o&rsquo;     ---             ---        o&rsquo;    ---     |
|                                                          |
|                                                          |
|                                                          |
|          o&rsquo;                                o&rsquo;            |
|                                                          |
|                                                          |
| g                                                        |  h
|           o&rsquo;                               o&rsquo;            |
+-----------+--------------------------------+-------------+
|           |--------------------------------|             |
|           |-------------M------------------|             |
|    K      |--------------------------------|     L       |
|           |--------------------------------|             |
|           |--------------------------------|             |
|           |                                |             |
+-----------+                                +-------------+</pre>
<p>a.&nbsp; Table with cashier&rsquo;s seat on either side, and alms-box
in front.&nbsp; The picture is exhibited on a scaffolding behind it.</p>
<p>b.&nbsp; The reliquary.</p>
<p>c.&nbsp; The President&rsquo;s chair.</p>
<p>d.&nbsp; Pulpit and lectern.</p>
<table class="autotable">
<tr><td>
e.</td><td rowspan="4">Side doors.</td></tr>
<tr><td>f.</td></tr>
<tr><td>g.</td></tr>
<tr><td>h.</td></tr></table>
<p>i.&nbsp; Yram&rsquo;s seat.</p>
<p>k.&nbsp; Seats of George and the Sunchild.</p>
<p>o&rsquo;&nbsp; Pillars.</p>
<p>A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, blocks of seats.</p>
<p>I.&nbsp; Steps leading from the apse to the nave.</p>
<p>K and L.&nbsp; Towers.</p>
<p>M.&nbsp; Steps and main entrance.</p>
<p>N.&nbsp; Robing-room.</p>
<p>The building was led up to by a flight of steps (M), and on entering
it my father found it to consist of a spacious nave, with two aisles
and an apse which was raised some three feet above the nave and aisles.&nbsp;
There were no transepts.&nbsp; In the apse there was the table (a),
with the two bowls of Musical Bank money mentioned on an earlier page,
as also the alms-box in front of it.</p>
<p>At some little distance in front of the table stood the President&rsquo;s
chair (c), or I might almost call it throne.&nbsp; It was so placed
that his back would be turned towards the table, which fact again shews
that the table was not regarded as having any greater sanctity than
the rest of the temple.</p>
<p>Behind the table, the picture already spoken of was raised aloft.&nbsp;
There was no balloon; some clouds that hung about the lower part of
the chariot served to conceal the fact that the painter was uncertain
whether it ought to have wheels or no.&nbsp; The horses were without
driver, and my father thought that some one ought to have had them in
hand, for they were in far too excited a state to be left safely to
themselves.&nbsp; They had hardly any harness, but what little there
was was enriched with gold bosses.&nbsp; My mother was in Erewhonian
costume, my father in European, but he wore his clothes reversed.&nbsp;
Both he and my mother seemed to be bowing graciously to an unseen crowd
beneath them, and in the distance, near the bottom of the picture, was
a fairly accurate representation of the Sunch&rsquo;ston new temple.&nbsp;
High up, on the right hand, was a disc, raised and gilt, to represent
the sun; on it, in low relief, there was an indication of a gorgeous
palace, in which, no doubt, the sun was supposed to live; though how
they made it all out my father could not conceive.</p>
<p>On the right of the table there was a reliquary (b) of glass, much
adorned with gold, or more probably gilding, for gold was so scarce
in Erewhon that gilding would be as expensive as a thin plate of gold
would be in Europe: but there is no knowing.&nbsp; The reliquary was
attached to a portable stand some five feet high, and inside it was
the relic already referred to.&nbsp; The crowd was so great that my
father could not get near enough to see what it contained, but I may
say here, that when, two days later, circumstances compelled him to
have a close look at it, he saw that it consisted of about a dozen fine
coprolites, deposited by some antediluvian creature or creatures, which,
whatever else they may have been, were certainly not horses.</p>
<p>In the apse there were a few cross benches (G and H) on either side,
with an open space between them, which was partly occupied by the President&rsquo;s
seat already mentioned.&nbsp; Those on the right, as one looked towards
the apse, were for the Managers and Cashiers of the Bank, while those
on the left were for their wives and daughters.</p>
<p>In the centre of the nave, only a few feet in front of the steps
leading to the apse, was a handsome pulpit and lectern (d).&nbsp; The
pulpit was raised some feet above the ground, and was so roomy that
the preacher could walk about in it.&nbsp; On either side of it there
were cross benches with backs (E and F); those on the right were reserved
for the Mayor, civic functionaries, and distinguished visitors, while
those on the left were for their wives and daughters.</p>
<p>Benches with backs (A, B, C, D) were placed about half-way down both
nave and aisles&mdash;those in the nave being divided so as to allow
a free passage between them.&nbsp; The rest of the temple was open space,
about which people might walk at their will.&nbsp; There were side doors
(<i>e</i>, <i>j</i>, and <i>f</i>, <i>h</i>) at the upper and lower
end of each aisle.&nbsp; Over the main entrance was a gallery in which
singers were placed.</p>
<p>As my father was worming his way among the crowd, which was now very
dense, he was startled at finding himself tapped lightly on the shoulder,
and turning round in alarm was confronted by the beaming face of George.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do you do, Professor Panky?&rdquo; said the youth&mdash;who
had decided thus to address him.&nbsp; &ldquo;What are you doing here
among the common people?&nbsp; Why have you not taken your place in
one of the seats reserved for our distinguished visitors?&nbsp; I am
afraid they must be all full by this time, but I will see what I can
do for you.&nbsp; Come with me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said my father.&nbsp; His heart beat so
fast that this was all he could say, and he followed meek as a lamb.</p>
<p>With some difficulty the two made their way to the right-hand corner
seats of block C, for every seat in the reserved block was taken.&nbsp;
The places which George wanted for my father and for himself were already
occupied by two young men of about eighteen and nineteen, both of them
well-grown, and of prepossessing appearance.&nbsp; My father saw by
the truncheons they carried that they were special constables, but he
took no notice of this, for there were many others scattered about the
crowd.&nbsp; George whispered a few words to one of them, and to my
father&rsquo;s surprise they both gave up their seats, which appear
on the plan as (<i>k</i>).</p>
<p>It afterwards transpired that these two young men were George&rsquo;s
brothers, who by his desire had taken the seats some hours ago, for
it was here that George had determined to place himself and my father
if he could find him.&nbsp; He chose these places because they would
be near enough to let his mother (who was at i, in the middle of the
front row of block E, to the left of the pulpit) see my father without
being so near as to embarrass him; he could also see and be seen by
Hanky, and hear every word of his sermon; but perhaps his chief reason
had been the fact that they were not far from the side-door at the upper
end of the right-hand aisle, while there was no barrier to interrupt
rapid egress should this prove necessary.</p>
<p>It was now high time that they should sit down, which they accordingly
did.&nbsp; George sat at the end of the bench, and thus had my father
on his left.&nbsp; My father was rather uncomfortable at seeing the
young men whom they had turned out, standing against a column close
by, but George said that this was how it was to be, and there was nothing
to be done but to submit.&nbsp; The young men seemed quite happy, which
puzzled my father, who of course had no idea that their action was preconcerted.</p>
<p>Panky was in the first row of block F, so that my father could not
see his face except sometimes when he turned round.&nbsp; He was sitting
on the Mayor&rsquo;s right hand, while Dr. Downie was on his left; he
looked at my father once or twice in a puzzled way, as though he ought
to have known him, but my father did not think he recognised him.&nbsp;
Hanky was still with President Gurgoyle and others in the robing-room,
N; Yram had already taken her seat: my father knew her in a moment,
though he pretended not to do so when George pointed her out to him.&nbsp;
Their eyes met for a second; Yram turned hers quickly away, and my father
could not see a trace of recognition in her face.&nbsp; At no time during
the whole ceremony did he catch her looking at him again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you stupid man,&rdquo; she said to him later on in the
day with a quick, kindly smile, &ldquo;I was looking at you all the
time.&nbsp; As soon as the President or Hanky began to talk about you
I knew you would stare at him, and then I could look.&nbsp; As soon
as they left off talking about you I knew you would be looking at me,
unless you went to sleep&mdash;and as I did not know which you might
be doing, I waited till they began to talk about you again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father had hardly taken note of his surroundings when the choir
began singing, accompanied by a few feeble flutes and lutes, or whatever
the name of the instrument should be, but with no violins, for he knew
nothing of the violin, and had not been able to teach the Erewhonians
anything about it.&nbsp; The voices were all in unison, and the tune
they sang was one which my father had taught Yram to sing; but he could
not catch the words.</p>
<p>As soon as the singing began, a procession, headed by the venerable
Dr. Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks of the province, began
to issue from the robing-room, and move towards the middle of the apse.&nbsp;
The President was sumptuously dressed, but he wore no mitre, nor anything
to suggest an English or European Bishop.&nbsp; The Vice-President,
Head Manager, Vice-Manager, and some Cashiers of the Bank, now ranged
themselves on either side of him, and formed an impressive group as
they stood, gorgeously arrayed, at the top of the steps leading from
the apse to the nave.&nbsp; Here they waited till the singers left off
singing.</p>
<p>When the litany, or hymn, or whatever it should be called, was over,
the Head Manager left the President&rsquo;s side and came down to the
lectern in the nave, where he announced himself as about to read some
passages from the Sunchild&rsquo;s Sayings.&nbsp; Perhaps because it
was the first day of the year according to their new calendar, the reading
began with the first chapter, the whole of which was read.&nbsp; My
father told me that he quite well remembered having said the last verse,
which he still held as true; hardly a word of the rest was ever spoken
by him, though he recognised his own influence in almost all of it.&nbsp;
The reader paused, with good effect, for about five seconds between
each paragraph, and read slowly and very clearly.&nbsp; The chapter
was as follows:-</p>
<blockquote><p>These are the words of the Sunchild about God and man.&nbsp;
He said&mdash;</p>
<p>1.&nbsp; God is the baseless basis of all thoughts, things, and deeds.</p>
<p>2.&nbsp; So that those who say that there is a God, lie, unless they
also mean that there is no God; and those who say that there is no God,
lie, unless they also mean that there is a God.</p>
<p>3.&nbsp; It is very true to say that man is made after the likeness
of God; and yet it is very untrue to say this.</p>
<p>4.&nbsp; God lives and moves in every atom throughout the universe.&nbsp;
Therefore it is wrong to think of Him as &lsquo;Him&rsquo; and &lsquo;He,&rsquo;
save as by the clutching of a drowning man at a straw.</p>
<p>5.&nbsp; God is God to us only so long as we cannot see Him.&nbsp;
When we are near to seeing Him He vanishes, and we behold Nature in
His stead.</p>
<p>6.&nbsp; We approach Him most nearly when we think of Him as our
expression for Man&rsquo;s highest conception, of goodness, wisdom,
and power.&nbsp; But we cannot rise to Him above the level of our own
highest selves.</p>
<p>7.&nbsp; We remove ourselves most far from Him when we invest Him
with human form and attributes.</p>
<p>8.&nbsp; My father the sun, the earth, the moon, and all planets
that roll round my father, are to God but as a single cell in our bodies
to ourselves.</p>
<p>9.&nbsp; He is as much above my father, as my father is above men
and women.</p>
<p>10.&nbsp; The universe is instinct with the mind of God.&nbsp; The
mind of God is in all that has mind throughout all worlds.&nbsp; There
is no God but the Universe, and man, in this world is His prophet.</p>
<p>11.&nbsp; God&rsquo;s conscious life, nascent, so far as this world
is concerned, in the infusoria, adolescent in the higher mammals, approaches
maturity on this earth in man.&nbsp; All these living beings are members
one of another, and of God.</p>
<p>12.&nbsp; Therefore, as man cannot live without God in the world,
so neither can God live in this world without mankind.</p>
<p>13.&nbsp; If we speak ill of God in our ignorance it may be forgiven
us; but if we speak ill of His Holy Spirit indwelling in good men and
women it may not be forgiven us.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>The Head Manager now resumed his place by President Gurgoyle&rsquo;s
side, and the President in the name of his Majesty the King declared
the temple to be hereby dedicated to the contemplation of the Sunchild
and the better exposition of his teaching.&nbsp; This was all that was
said.&nbsp; The reliquary was then brought forward and placed at the
top of the steps leading from the apse to the nave; but the original
intention of carrying it round the temple was abandoned for fear of
accidents through the pressure round it of the enormous multitudes who
were assembled.&nbsp; More singing followed of a simple but impressive
kind; during this I am afraid I must own that my father, tired with
his walk, dropped off into a refreshing slumber, from which he did not
wake till George nudged him and told him not to snore, just as the Vice-Manager
was going towards the lectern to read another chapter of the Sunchild&rsquo;s
Sayings&mdash;which was as follows:-</p>
<blockquote><p>The Sunchild also spoke to us a parable about the unwisdom
of the children yet unborn, who though they know so much, yet do not
know as much as they think they do.</p>
<p>He said:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;The unborn have knowledge of one another so long as they are
unborn, and this without impediment from walls or material obstacles.&nbsp;
The unborn children in any city form a population apart, who talk with
one another and tell each other about their developmental progress.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They have no knowledge, and cannot even conceive the existence
of anything that is not such as they are themselves.&nbsp; Those who
have been born are to them what the dead are to us.&nbsp; They can see
no life in them, and know no more about them than they do of any stage
in their own past development other than the one through which they
are passing at the moment.&nbsp; They do not even know that their mothers
are alive&mdash;much less that their mothers were once as they now are.&nbsp;
To an embryo, its mother is simply the environment, and is looked upon
much as our inorganic surroundings are by ourselves.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The great terror of their lives is the fear of birth,&mdash;that
they shall have to leave the only thing that they can think of as life,
and enter upon a dark unknown which is to them tantamount to annihilation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Some, indeed, among them have maintained that birth is not
the death which they commonly deem it, but that there is a life beyond
the womb of which they as yet know nothing, and which is a million fold
more truly life than anything they have yet been able even to imagine.&nbsp;
But the greater number shake their yet unfashioned heads and say they
have no evidence for this that will stand a moment&rsquo;s examination.</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Nay,&rsquo; answer the others, &lsquo;so much work,
so elaborate, so wondrous as that whereon we are now so busily engaged
must have a purpose, though the purpose is beyond our grasp.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;Never,&rsquo; reply the first speakers; &lsquo;our
pleasure in the work is sufficient justification for it.&nbsp; Who has
ever partaken of this life you speak of, and re-entered into the womb
to tell us of it?&nbsp; Granted that some few have pretended to have
done this, but how completely have their stories broken down when subjected
to the tests of sober criticism.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; When we are born we
are born, and there is an end of us.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But in the hour of birth, when they can no longer re-enter
the womb and tell the others, Behold! they find that it is not so.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Here the reader again closed his book and resumed his place in the
apse.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XVI: PROFESSOR HANKY PREACHES A SERMON, IN THE COURSE OF
WHICH MY FATHER DECLARES HIMSELF TO BE THE SUNCHILD</h2>
<p>Professor Hanky then went up into the pulpit, richly but soberly
robed in vestments the exact nature of which I cannot determine.&nbsp;
His carriage was dignified, and the harsh lines on his face gave it
a strong individuality, which, though it did not attract, conveyed an
impression of power that could not fail to interest.&nbsp; As soon as
he had given attention time to fix itself upon him, he began his sermon
without text or preliminary matter of any kind, and apparently without
notes.</p>
<p>He spoke clearly and very quietly, especially at the beginning; he
used action whenever it could point his meaning, or give it life and
colour, but there was no approach to staginess or even oratorical display.&nbsp;
In fact, he spoke as one who meant what he was saying, and desired that
his hearers should accept his meaning, fully confident in his good faith.&nbsp;
His use of pause was effective.&nbsp; After the word &ldquo;mistake,&rdquo;
at the end of the opening sentence, he held up his half-bent hand and
paused for full three seconds, looking intently at his audience as he
did so.&nbsp; Every one felt the idea to be here enounced that was to
dominate the sermon.</p>
<p>The sermon&mdash;so much of it as I can find room for&mdash;was as
follows:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;My friends, let there be no mistake.&nbsp; At such a time,
as this, it is well we should look back upon the path by which we have
travelled, and forward to the goal towards which we are tending.&nbsp;
As it was necessary that the material foundations of this building should
be so sure that there shall be no subsidence in the superstructure,
so is it not less necessary to ensure that there shall be no subsidence
in the immaterial structure that we have raised in consequence of the
Sunchild&rsquo;s sojourn among us.&nbsp; Therefore, my friends, I again
say, &lsquo;Let there be no mistake.&rsquo;&nbsp; Each stone that goes
towards the uprearing of this visible fane, each human soul that does
its part in building the invisible temple of our national faith, is
bearing witness to, and lending its support to, that which is either
the truth of truths, or the baseless fabric of a dream.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My friends, this is the only possible alternative.&nbsp; He
in whose name we are here assembled, is either worthy of more reverential
honour than we can ever pay him, or he is worthy of no more honour than
any other honourable man among ourselves.&nbsp; There can be no halting
between these two opinions.&nbsp; The question of questions is, was
he the child of the tutelary god of this world&mdash;the sun, and is
it to the palace of the sun that he returned when he left us, or was
he, as some amongst us still do not hesitate to maintain, a mere man,
escaping by unusual but strictly natural means to some part of this
earth with which we are unacquainted.&nbsp; My friends, either we are
on a right path or on a very wrong one, and in a matter of such supreme
importance&mdash;there must be no mistake.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I need not remind those of you whose privilege it is to live
in Sunch&rsquo;ston, of the charm attendant on the Sunchild&rsquo;s
personal presence and conversation, nor of his quick sympathy, his keen
intellect, his readiness to adapt himself to the capacities of all those
who came to see him while he was in prison.&nbsp; He adored children,
and it was on them that some of his most conspicuous miracles were performed.&nbsp;
Many a time when a child had fallen and hurt itself, was he known to
make the place well by simply kissing it.&nbsp; Nor need I recall to
your minds the spotless purity of his life&mdash;so spotless that not
one breath of slander has ever dared to visit it.&nbsp; I was one of
the not very many who had the privilege of being admitted to the inner
circle of his friends during the later weeks that he was amongst us.&nbsp;
I loved him dearly, and it will ever be the proudest recollection of
my life that he deigned to return me no small measure of affection.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father, furious as he was at finding himself dragged into complicity
with this man&rsquo;s imposture, could not resist a smile at the effrontery
with which he lowered his tone here, and appeared unwilling to dwell
on an incident which he could not recall without being affected almost
to tears, and mere allusion to which, had involved an apparent self-display
that was above all things repugnant to him.&nbsp; What a difference
between the Hanky of Thursday evening with its &ldquo;never set eyes
on him and hope I never shall,&rdquo; and the Hanky of Sunday morning,
who now looked as modest as Cleopatra might have done had she been standing
godmother to a little blue-eyed girl&mdash;Bellerophon&rsquo;s first-born
baby.</p>
<p>Having recovered from his natural, but promptly repressed, emotion,
the Professor continued:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;I need not remind you of the purpose for which so many of
us, from so many parts of our kingdom, are here assembled.&nbsp; We
know what we have come hither to do: we are come each one of us to sign
and seal by his presence the bond of his assent to those momentous changes,
which have found their first great material expression in the temple
that you see around you.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You all know how, in accordance with the expressed will of
the Sunchild, the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks
began as soon as he had left us to examine, patiently, carefully, earnestly,
and without bias of any kind, firstly the evidences in support of the
Sunchild&rsquo;s claim to be the son of the tutelar deity of this world,
and secondly the precise nature of his instructions as regards the future
position and authority of the Musical Banks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My friends, it is easy to understand why the Sunchild should
have given us these instructions.&nbsp; With that foresight which is
the special characteristic of divine, as compared with human, wisdom,
he desired that the evidences in support of his superhuman character
should be collected, sifted, and placed on record, before anything was
either lost through the death of those who could alone substantiate
it, or unduly supplied through the enthusiasm of over-zealous visionaries.&nbsp;
The greater any true miracle has been, the more certainly will false
ones accrete round it; here, then, we find the explanation of the command
the Sunchild gave to us to gather, verify, and record, the facts of
his sojourn here in Erewhon.&nbsp; For above all things he held it necessary
to ensure that there should be neither mistake, nor even possibility
of mistake.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Consider for a moment what differences of opinion would infallibly
have arisen, if the evidences for the miraculous character of the Sunchild&rsquo;s
mission had been conflicting&mdash;if they had rested on versions each
claiming to be equally authoritative, but each hopelessly irreconcilable
on vital points with every single other.&nbsp; What would future generations
have said in answer to those who bade them fling all human experience
to the winds, on the strength of records written they knew not certainly
by whom, nor how long after the marvels that they recorded, and of which
all that could be certainly said was that no two of them told the same
story?</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who that believes either in God or man&mdash;who with any
self-respect, or respect for the gift of reason with which God had endowed
him, either would, or could, believe that a chariot and four horses
had come down from heaven, and gone back again with human or quasi-human
occupants, unless the evidences for the fact left no loophole for escape?&nbsp;
If a single loophole were left him, he would be unpardonable, not for
disbelieving the story, but for believing it.&nbsp; The sin against
God would lie not in want of faith, but in faith.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My friends, there are two sins in matters of belief.&nbsp;
There is that of believing on too little evidence, and that of requiring
too much before we are convinced.&nbsp; The guilt of the latter is incurred,
alas! by not a few amongst us at the present day, but if the testimony
to the truth of the wondrous event so faithfully depicted on the picture
that confronts you had been less contemporaneous, less authoritative,
less unanimous, future generations&mdash;and it is for them that we
should now provide&mdash;would be guilty of the first-named, and not
less heinous sin if they believed at all.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Small wonder, then, that the Sunchild, having come amongst
us for our advantage, not his own, would not permit his beneficent designs
to be endangered by the discrepancies, mythical developments, idiosyncracies,
and a hundred other defects inevitably attendant on amateur and irresponsible
recording.&nbsp; Small wonder, then, that he should have chosen the
officials of the Musical Banks, from the Presidents and Vice-Presidents
downwards to be the authoritative exponents of his teaching, the depositaries
of his traditions, and his representatives here on earth till he shall
again see fit to visit us.&nbsp; For he will come.&nbsp; Nay it is even
possible that he may be here amongst us at this very moment, disguised
so that none may know him, and intent only on watching our devotion
towards him.&nbsp; If this be so, let me implore him, in the name of
the sun his father, to reveal himself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Now Hanky had already given my father more than one look that had
made him uneasy.&nbsp; He had evidently recognised him as the supposed
ranger of last Thursday evening.&nbsp; Twice he had run his eye like
a searchlight over the front benches opposite to him, and when the beam
had reached my father there had been no more searching.&nbsp; It was
beginning to dawn upon my father that George might have discovered that
he was not Professor Panky; was it for this reason that these two young
special constables, though they gave up their places, still kept so
close to him?&nbsp; Was George only waiting his opportunity to arrest
him&mdash;not of course even suspecting who he was&mdash;but as a foreign
devil who had tried to pass himself off as Professor Panky?&nbsp; Had
this been the meaning of his having followed him to Fairmead?&nbsp;
And should he have to be thrown into the Blue Pool by George after all?&nbsp;
&ldquo;It would serve me,&rdquo; said he to himself, &ldquo;richly right.&rdquo;</p>
<p>These fears which had been taking shape for some few minutes were
turned almost to certainties by the half-contemptuous glance Hanky threw
towards him as he uttered what was obviously intended as a challenge.&nbsp;
He saw that all was over, and was starting to his feet to declare himself,
and thus fall into the trap that Hanky was laying for him, when George
gripped him tightly by the knee and whispered, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t&mdash;you
are in great danger.&rdquo;&nbsp; And he smiled kindly as he spoke.</p>
<p>My father sank back dumbfounded.&nbsp; &ldquo;You know me?&rdquo;
he whispered in reply.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perfectly.&nbsp; So does Hanky, so does my mother; say no
more,&rdquo; and he again smiled.</p>
<p>George, as my father afterwards learned, had hoped that he would
reveal himself, and had determined in spite of his mother&rsquo;s instructions,
to give him an opportunity of doing so.&nbsp; It was for this reason
that he had not arrested him quietly, as he could very well have done,
before the service began.&nbsp; He wished to discover what manner of
man his father was, and was quite happy as soon as he saw that he would
have spoken out if he had not been checked.&nbsp; He had not yet caught
Hanky&rsquo;s motive in trying to goad my father, but on seeing that
he was trying to do this, he knew that a trap was being laid, and that
my father must not be allowed to speak.</p>
<p>Almost immediately, however, he perceived that while his eyes had
been turned on Hanky, two burly vergers had wormed their way through
the crowd and taken their stand close to his two brothers.&nbsp; Then
he understood, and understood also how to frustrate.</p>
<p>As for my father, George&rsquo;s ascendancy over him&mdash;quite
felt by George&mdash;was so absolute that he could think of nothing
now but the exceeding great joy of finding his fears groundless, and
of delivering himself up to his son&rsquo;s guidance in the assurance
that the void in his heart was filled, and that his wager not only would
be held as won, but was being already paid.&nbsp; How they had found
out, why he was not to speak as he would assuredly have done&mdash;for
he was in a white heat of fury&mdash;what did it all matter now that
he had found that which he had feared he should fail to find?&nbsp;
He gave George a puzzled smile, and composed himself as best he could
to hear the continuation of Hanky&rsquo;s sermon, which was as follows:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who could the Sunchild have chosen, even though he had been
gifted with no more than human sagacity, but the body of men whom he
selected?&nbsp; It becomes me but ill to speak so warmly in favour of
that body of whom I am the least worthy member, but what other is there
in Erewhon so above all suspicion of slovenliness, self-seeking, preconceived
bias, or bad faith?&nbsp; If there was one set of qualities more essential
than another for the conduct of the investigations entrusted to us by
the Sunchild, it was those that turn on meekness and freedom from all
spiritual pride.&nbsp; I believe I can say quite truly that these are
the qualities for which Bridgeford is more especially renowned.&nbsp;
The readiness of her Professors to learn even from those who at first
sight may seem least able to instruct them&mdash;the gentleness with
which they correct an opponent if they feel it incumbent upon them to
do so, the promptitude with which they acknowledge error when it is
pointed out to them and quit a position no matter how deeply they have
been committed to it, at the first moment in which they see that they
cannot hold it righteously, their delicate sense of honour, their utter
immunity from what the Sunchild used to call log-rolling or intrigue,
the scorn with which they regard anything like hitting below the belt&mdash;these
I believe I may truly say are the virtues for which Bridgeford is pre-eminently
renowned.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The Professor went on to say a great deal more about the fitness
of Bridgeford and the Musical Bank managers for the task imposed on
them by the Sunchild, but here my father&rsquo;s attention flagged&mdash;nor,
on looking at the verbatim report of the sermon that appeared next morning
in the leading Sunch&rsquo;ston journal, do I see reason to reproduce
Hanky&rsquo;s words on this head.&nbsp; It was all to shew that there
had been no possibility of mistake.</p>
<p>Meanwhile George was writing on a scrap of paper as though he was
taking notes of the sermon.&nbsp; Presently he slipped this into my
father&rsquo;s hand.&nbsp; It ran:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;You see those vergers standing near my brothers, who gave
up their seats to us.&nbsp; Hanky tried to goad you into speaking that
they might arrest you, and get you into the Bank prisons.&nbsp; If you
fall into their hands you are lost.&nbsp; I must arrest you instantly
on a charge of poaching on the King&rsquo;s preserves, and make you
my prisoner.&nbsp; Let those vergers catch sight of the warrant which
I shall now give you.&nbsp; Read it and return it to me.&nbsp; Come
with me quietly after service.&nbsp; I think you had better not reveal
yourself at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As soon as he had given my father time to read the foregoing, George
took a warrant out of his pocket.&nbsp; My father pretended to read
it and returned it.&nbsp; George then laid his hand on his shoulder,
and in an undertone arrested him.&nbsp; He then wrote on another scrap
of paper and passed it on to the elder of his two brothers.&nbsp; It
was to the effect that he had now arrested my father, and that if the
vergers attempted in any way to interfere between him and his prisoner,
his brothers were to arrest both of them, which, as special constables,
they had power to do.</p>
<p>Yram had noted Hanky&rsquo;s attempt to goad my father, and had not
been prepared for his stealing a march upon her by trying to get my
father arrested by Musical Bank officials, rather than by her son.&nbsp;
On the preceding evening this last plan had been arranged on; and she
knew nothing of the note that Hanky had sent an hour or two later to
the Manager of the temple&mdash;the substance of which the reader can
sufficiently guess.&nbsp; When she had heard Hanky&rsquo;s words and
saw the vergers, she was for a few minutes seriously alarmed, but she
was reassured when she saw George give my father the warrant, and her
two sons evidently explaining the position to the vergers.</p>
<p>Hanky had by this time changed his theme, and was warning his hearers
of the dangers that would follow on the legalization of the medical
profession, and the repeal of the edicts against machines.&nbsp; Space
forbids me to give his picture of the horrible tortures that future
generations would be put to by medical men, if these were not duly kept
in check by the influence of the Musical Banks; the horrors of the inquisition
in the middle ages are nothing to what he depicted as certain to ensue
if medical men were ever to have much money at their command.&nbsp;
The only people in whose hands money might be trusted safely were those
who presided over the Musical Banks.&nbsp; This tirade was followed
by one not less alarming about the growth of materialistic tendencies
among the artisans employed in the production of mechanical inventions.&nbsp;
My father, though his eyes had been somewhat opened by the second of
the two processions he had seen on his way to Sunch&rsquo;ston, was
not prepared to find that in spite of the superficially almost universal
acceptance of the new faith, there was a powerful, and it would seem
growing, undercurrent of scepticism, with a desire to reduce his escape
with my mother to a purely natural occurence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not enough,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;that the Sunchild
should have ensured the preparation of authoritative evidence of his
supernatural character.&nbsp; The evidences happily exist in overwhelming
strength, but they must be brought home to minds that as yet have stubbornly
refused to receive them.&nbsp; During the last five years there has
been an enormous increase in the number of those whose occupation in
the manufacture of machines inclines them to a materialistic explanation
even of the most obviously miraculous events, and the growth of this
class in our midst constituted, and still constitutes, a grave danger
to the state.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was to meet this that the society was formed on behalf
of which I appeal fearlessly to your generosity.&nbsp; It is called,
as most of you doubtless know, the Sunchild Evidence Society; and his
Majesty the King graciously consented to become its Patron.&nbsp; This
society not only collects additional evidences&mdash;indeed it is entirely
due to its labours that the precious relic now in this temple was discovered&mdash;but
it is its beneficent purpose to lay those that have been authoritatively
investigated before men who, if left to themselves, would either neglect
them altogether, or worse still reject them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For the first year or two the efforts of the society met with
but little success among those for whose benefit they were more particularly
intended, but during the present year the working classes in some cities
and towns (stimulated very much by the lectures of my illustrious friend
Professor Panky) have shewn a most remarkable and zealous interest in
Sunchild evidences, and have formed themselves into local branches for
the study and defence of Sunchild truth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yet in spite of all this need&mdash;of all this patient labour
and really very gratifying success&mdash;the subscriptions to the society
no longer furnish it with its former very modest income&mdash;an income
which is deplorably insufficient if the organization is to be kept effective,
and the work adequately performed.&nbsp; In spite of the most rigid
economy, the committee have been compelled to part with a considerable
portion of their small reserve fund (provided by a legacy) to tide over
difficulties.&nbsp; But this method of balancing expenditure and income
is very unsatisfactory, and cannot be long continued.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am led to plead for the society with especial insistence
at the present time, inasmuch as more than one of those whose unblemished
life has made them fitting recipients of such a signal favour, have
recently had visions informing them that the Sunchild will again shortly
visit us.&nbsp; We know not when he will come, but when he comes, my
friends, let him not find us unmindful of, nor ungrateful for, the inestimable
services he has rendered us.&nbsp; For come he surely will.&nbsp; Either
in winter, what time icicles hang by the wall and milk comes frozen
home in the pail&mdash;or in summer when days are at their longest and
the mowing grass is about&mdash;there will be an hour, either at morn,
or eve, or in the middle day, when he will again surely come.&nbsp;
May it be mine to be among those who are then present to receive him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here he again glared at my father, whose blood was boiling.&nbsp;
George had not positively forbidden him to speak out; he therefore sprang
to his feet, &ldquo;You lying hound,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;I am the
Sunchild, and you know it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George, who knew that he had my father in his own hands, made no
attempt to stop him, and was delighted that he should have declared
himself though he had felt it his duty to tell him not to do so.&nbsp;
Yram turned pale.&nbsp; Hanky roared out, &ldquo;Tear him in pieces&mdash;leave
not a single limb on his body.&nbsp; Take him out and burn him alive.&rdquo;&nbsp;
The vergers made a dash for him&mdash;but George&rsquo;s brothers seized
them.&nbsp; The crowd seemed for a moment inclined to do as Hanky bade
them, but Yram rose from her place, and held up her hand as one who
claimed attention.&nbsp; She advanced towards George and my father as
unconcernedly as though she were merely walking out of church, but she
still held her hand uplifted.&nbsp; All eyes were turned on her, as
well as on George and my father, and the icy calm of her self-possession
chilled those who were inclined for the moment to take Hanky&rsquo;s
words literally.&nbsp; There was not a trace of fluster in her gait,
action, or words, as she said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My friends, this temple, and this day, must not be profaned
with blood.&nbsp; My son will take this poor madman to the prison.&nbsp;
Let him be judged and punished according to law.&nbsp; Make room, that
he and my son may pass.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then, turning to my father, she said, &ldquo;Go quietly with the
Ranger.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Having so spoken, she returned to her seat as unconcernedly as she
had left it.</p>
<p>Hanky for a time continued to foam at the mouth and roar out, &ldquo;Tear
him to pieces! burn him alive!&rdquo; but when he saw that there was
no further hope of getting the people to obey him, he collapsed on to
a seat in his pulpit, mopped his bald head, and consoled himself with
a great pinch of a powder which corresponds very closely to our own
snuff.</p>
<p>George led my father out by the side door at the north end of the
western aisle; the people eyed him intently, but made way for him without
demonstration.&nbsp; One voice alone was heard to cry out, &ldquo;Yes,
he is the Sunchild!&rdquo;&nbsp; My father glanced at the speaker, and
saw that he was the interpreter who had taught him the Erewhonian language
when he was in prison.</p>
<p>George, seeing a special constable close by, told him to bid his
brothers release the vergers, and let them arrest the interpreter&mdash;this
the vergers, foiled as they had been in the matter of my father&rsquo;s
arrest, were very glad to do.&nbsp; So the poor interpreter, to his
dismay, was lodged at once in one of the Bank prison-cells, where he
could do no further harm.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XVII: GEORGE TAKES HIS FATHER TO PRISON, AND THERE OBTAINS
SOME USEFUL INFORMATION</h2>
<p>By this time George had got my father into the open square, where
he was surprised to find that a large bonfire had been made and lighted.&nbsp;
There had been nothing of the kind an hour before; the wood, therefore,
must have been piled and lighted while people had been in church.&nbsp;
He had no time at the moment to enquire why this had been done, but
later on he discovered that on the Sunday morning the Manager of the
new temple had obtained leave from the Mayor to have the wood piled
in the square, representing that this was Professor Hanky&rsquo;s contribution
to the festivities of the day.&nbsp; There had, it seemed, been no intention
of lighting it until nightfall; but it had accidentally caught fire
through the carelessness of a workman, much about the time when Hanky
began to preach.&nbsp; No one for a moment believed that there had been
any sinister intention, or that Professor Hanky when he urged the crowd
to burn my father alive, even knew that there was a pile of wood in
the square at all&mdash;much less that it had been lighted&mdash;for
he could hardly have supposed that the wood had been got together so
soon.&nbsp; Nevertheless both George and my father, when they knew all
that had passed, congratulated themselves on the fact that my father
had not fallen into the hands of the vergers, who would probably have
tried to utilise the accidental fire, though in no case is it likely
they would have succeeded.</p>
<p>As soon as they were inside the gaol, the old Master recognised my
father.&nbsp; &ldquo;Bless my heart&mdash;what?&nbsp; You here, again,
Mr. Higgs?&nbsp; Why, I thought you were in the palace of the sun your
father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish I was,&rdquo; answered my father, shaking hands with
him, but he could say no more.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are as safe here as if you were,&rdquo; said George laughing,
&ldquo;and safer.&rdquo;&nbsp; Then turning to his grandfather, he said,
&ldquo;You have the record of Mr. Higgs&rsquo;s marks and measurements?&nbsp;
I know you have: take him to his old cell; it is the best in the prison;
and then please bring me the record.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The old man took George and my father to the cell which he had occupied
twenty years earlier&mdash;but I cannot stay to describe his feelings
on finding himself again within it.&nbsp; The moment his grandfather&rsquo;s
back was turned, George said to my father, &ldquo;And now shake hands
also with your son.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As he spoke he took my father&rsquo;s hand and pressed it warmly
between both his own.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you know you are my son,&rdquo; said my father as steadily
as the strong emotion that mastered him would permit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you did not know this when I was walking with you on Friday?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course not.&nbsp; I thought you were Professor Panky; if
I had not taken you for one of the two persons named in your permit,
I should have questioned you closely, and probably ended by throwing
you into the Blue Pool.&rdquo;&nbsp; He shuddered as he said this.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you knew who I was when you called me Panky in the temple?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite so.&nbsp; My mother told me everything on Friday evening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And that is why you tried to find me at Fairmead?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, but where in the world were you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was inside the Musical Bank of the town, resting and reading.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George laughed, and said, &ldquo;On purpose to hide?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh no; pure chance.&nbsp; But on Friday evening?&nbsp; How
could your mother have found out by that time that I was in Erewhon?&nbsp;
Am I on my head or my heels?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;On your heels, my father, which shall take you back to your
own country as soon as we can get you out of this.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What have I done to deserve so much goodwill?&nbsp; I have
done you nothing but harm?&rdquo;&nbsp; Again he was quite overcome.</p>
<p>George patted him gently on the hand, and said, &ldquo;You made a
bet and you won it.&nbsp; During the very short time that we can be
together, you shall be paid in full, and may heaven protect us both.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As soon as my father could speak he said, &ldquo;But how did your
mother find out that I was in Erewhon?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hanky and Panky were dining with her, and they told her some
things that she thought strange.&nbsp; She cross-questioned them, put
two and two together, learned that you had got their permit out of them,
saw that you intended to return on Friday, and concluded that you would
be sleeping in Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; She sent for me, told me all,
bade me scour Sunch&rsquo;ston to find you, intending that you should
be at once escorted safely over the preserves by me.&nbsp; I found your
inn, but you had given us the slip.&nbsp; I tried first Fairmead and
then Clearwater, but did not find you till this morning.&nbsp; For reasons
too long to repeat, my mother warned Hanky and Panky that you would
be in the temple; whereon Hanky tried to get you into his clutches.&nbsp;
Happily he failed, but if I had known what he was doing I should have
arrested you before the service.&nbsp; I ought to have done this, but
I wanted you to win your wager, and I shall get you safely away in spite
of them.&nbsp; My mother will not like my having let you hear Hanky&rsquo;s
sermon and declare yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You half told me not to say who I was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, but I was delighted when you disobeyed me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I did it very badly.&nbsp; I never rise to great occasions,
I always fall to them, but these things must come as they come.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You did it as well as it could be done, and good will come
of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;describe exactly all
that passed between you and the Professors.&nbsp; On which side of Panky
did Hanky sit, and did they sit north and south or east and west?&nbsp;
How did you get&mdash;oh yes, I know that&mdash;you told them it would
be of no further use to them.&nbsp; Tell me all else you can.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father said that the Professors were sitting pretty well east
and west, so that Hanky, who was on the east side, nearest the mountains,
had Panky, who was on the Sunch&rsquo;ston side, on his right hand.&nbsp;
George made a note of this.&nbsp; My father then told what the reader
already knows, but when he came to the measurement of the boots, George
said, &ldquo;Take your boots off,&rdquo; and began taking off his own.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Foot for foot,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we are not father and son,
but brothers.&nbsp; Yours will fit me; they are less worn than mine,
but I daresay you will not mind that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>On this George <i>ex abundanti cautel&acirc;</i> knocked a nail out
of the right boot that he had been wearing and changed boots with my
father; but he thought it more plausible not to knock out exactly the
same nail that was missing on my father&rsquo;s boot.&nbsp; When the
change was made, each found&mdash;or said he found&mdash;the other&rsquo;s
boots quite comfortable.</p>
<p>My father all the time felt as though he were a basket given to a
dog.&nbsp; The dog had got him, was proud of him, and no one must try
to take him away.&nbsp; The promptitude with which George took to him,
the obvious pleasure he had in &ldquo;running&rdquo; him, his quick
judgement, verging as it should towards rashness, his confidence that
my father trusted him without reserve, the conviction of perfect openness
that was conveyed by the way in which his eyes never budged from my
father&rsquo;s when he spoke to him, his genial, kindly, manner, perfect
physical health, and the air he had of being on the best possible terms
with himself and every one else&mdash;the combination of all this so
overmastered my poor father (who indeed had been sufficiently mastered
before he had been five minutes in George&rsquo;s company) that he resigned
himself as gratefully to being a basket, as George had cheerfully undertaken
the task of carrying him.</p>
<p>In passing I may say that George could never get his own boots back
again, though he tried more than once to do so.&nbsp; My father always
made some excuse.&nbsp; They were the only memento of George that he
brought home with him; I wonder that he did not ask for a lock of his
hair, but he did not.&nbsp; He had the boots put against a wall in his
bedroom, where he could see them from his bed, and during his illness,
while consciousness yet remained with him, I saw his eyes continually
turn towards them.&nbsp; George, in fact, dominated him as long as anything
in this world could do so.&nbsp; Nor do I wonder; on the contrary, I
love his memory the better; for I too, as will appear later, have seen
George, and whatever little jealousy I may have felt, vanished on my
finding him almost instantaneously gain the same ascendancy over me
his brother, that he had gained over his and my father.&nbsp; But of
this no more at present.&nbsp; Let me return to the gaol in Sunch&rsquo;ston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell me more,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;about the Professors.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father told him about the nuggets, the sale of his kit, the receipt
he had given for the money, and how he had got the nuggets back from
a tree, the position of which he described.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know the tree; have you got the nuggets here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here they are, with the receipt, and the pocket handkerchief
marked with Hanky&rsquo;s name.&nbsp; The pocket handkerchief was found
wrapped round some dried leaves that we call tea, but I have not got
these with me.&rdquo;&nbsp; As he spoke he gave everything to George,
who showed the utmost delight in getting possession of them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose the blanket and the rest of the kit are still in
the tree?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Unless Hanky and Panky have got them away, or some one has
found them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is not likely.&nbsp; I will now go to my office, but
I will come back very shortly.&nbsp; My grandfather shall bring you
something to eat at once.&nbsp; I will tell him to send enough for two&rdquo;&mdash;which
he accordingly did.</p>
<p>On reaching the office, he told his next brother (whom he had made
an under-ranger) to go to the tree he described, and bring back the
bundle he should find concealed therein.&nbsp; &ldquo;You can go there
and back,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in an hour and a half, and I shall
want the bundle by that time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The brother, whose name I never rightly caught, set out at once.&nbsp;
As soon as he was gone, George took from a drawer the feathers and bones
of quails, that he had shown my father on the morning when he met him.&nbsp;
He divided them in half, and made them into two bundles, one of which
he docketed, &ldquo;Bones of quails eaten, XIX. xii. 29, by Professor
Hanky, P.O.W.W., &amp;c.&rdquo;&nbsp; And he labelled Panky&rsquo;s
quail bones in like fashion.</p>
<p>Having done this, he returned to the gaol, but on his way he looked
in at the Mayor&rsquo;s, and left a note saying that he should be at
the gaol, where any message would reach him, but that he did not wish
to meet Professors Hanky and Panky for another couple of hours.&nbsp;
It was now about half-past twelve, and he caught sight of a crowd coming
quietly out of the temple, whereby he knew that Hanky would soon be
at the Mayor&rsquo;s house.</p>
<p>Dinner was brought in almost at the moment when George returned to
the gaol.&nbsp; As soon as it was over George said:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you quite sure you have made no mistake about the way
in which you got the permit out of the Professors?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite sure.&nbsp; I told them they would not want it, and
said I could save them trouble if they gave it me.&nbsp; They never
suspected why I wanted it.&nbsp; Where do you think I may be mistaken?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You sold your nuggets for rather less than a twentieth part
of their value, and you threw in some curiosities, that would have fetched
about half as much as you got for the nuggets.&nbsp; You say you did
this because you wanted money to keep you going till you could sell
some of your nuggets.&nbsp; This sounds well at first, but the sacrifice
is too great to be plausible when considered.&nbsp; It looks more like
a case of good honest manly straightforward corruption.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But surely you believe me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I do.&nbsp; I believe every syllable that comes
from your mouth, but I shall not be able to make out that the story
was as it was not, unless I am quite certain what it really was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was exactly as I have told you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is enough.&nbsp; And now, may I tell my mother that you
will put yourself in her, and the Mayor&rsquo;s, and my, hands, and
will do whatever we tell you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will be obedience itself&mdash;but you will not ask me to
do anything that will make your mother or you think less well of me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If we tell you what you are to do, we shall not think any
the worse of you for doing it.&nbsp; Then I may say to my mother that
you will be good and give no trouble&mdash;not even though we bid you
shake hands with Hanky and Panky?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will embrace them and kiss them on both cheeks, if you and
she tell me to do so.&nbsp; But what about the Mayor?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He has known everything, and condoned everything, these last
twenty years.&nbsp; He will leave everything to my mother and me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shall I have to see him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly.&nbsp; You must be brought up before him to-morrow
morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How can I look him in the face?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As you would me, or any one else.&nbsp; It is understood among
us that nothing happened.&nbsp; Things may have looked as though they
had happened, but they did not happen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And you are not yet quite twenty?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, but I am son to my mother&mdash;and,&rdquo; he added,
&ldquo;to one who can stretch a point or two in the way of honesty as
well as other people.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Having said this with a laugh, he again took my father&rsquo;s hand
between both his, and went back to his office&mdash;where he set himself
to think out the course he intended to take when dealing with the Professors.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XVIII: YRAM INVITES DR. DOWNIE AND MRS. HUMDRUM TO LUNCHEON&mdash;A
PASSAGE AT ARMS BETWEEN HER AND HANKY IS AMICABLY ARRANGED</h2>
<p>The disturbance caused by my father&rsquo;s outbreak was quickly
suppressed, for George got him out of the temple almost immediately;
it was bruited about, however, that the Sunchild had come down from
the palace of the sun, but had disappeared as soon as any one had tried
to touch him.&nbsp; In vain did Hanky try to put fresh life into his
sermon; its back had been broken, and large numbers left the church
to see what they could hear outside, or failing information, to discourse
more freely with one another.</p>
<p>Hanky did his best to quiet his hearers when he found that he could
not infuriate them,&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This poor man,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is already known to
me, as one of those who have deluded themselves into believing that
they are the Sunchild.&nbsp; I have known of his so declaring himself,
more than once, in the neighbourhood of Bridgeford, and others have
not infrequently done the same; I did not at first recognize him, and
regret that the shock of horror his words occasioned me should have
prompted me to suggest violence against him.&nbsp; Let this unfortunate
affair pass from your minds, and let me again urge upon you the claims
of the Sunchild Evidence Society.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The audience on hearing that they were to be told more about the
Sunchild Evidence Society melted away even more rapidly than before,
and the sermon fizzled out to an ignominious end quite unworthy of its
occasion.</p>
<p>About half-past twelve, the service ended, and Hanky went to the
robing-room to take off his vestments.&nbsp; Yram, the Mayor, and Panky,
waited for him at the door opposite to that through which my father
had been taken; while waiting, Yram scribbled off two notes in pencil,
one to Dr. Downie, and another to Mrs. Humdrum, begging them to come
to lunch at once&mdash;for it would be one o&rsquo;clock before they
could reach the Mayor&rsquo;s.&nbsp; She gave these notes to the Mayor,
and bade him bring both the invited guests along with him.</p>
<p>The Mayor left just as Hanky was coming towards her.&nbsp; &ldquo;This,
Mayoress,&rdquo; he said with some asperity, &ldquo;is a very serious
business.&nbsp; It has ruined my collection.&nbsp; Half the people left
the temple without giving anything at all.&nbsp; You seem,&rdquo; he
added in a tone the significance of which could not be mistaken, &ldquo;to
be very fond, Mayoress, of this Mr. Higgs.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Yram, &ldquo;I am; I always liked him, and
I am sorry for him; but he is not the person I am most sorry for at
this moment&mdash;he, poor man, is not going to be horsewhipped within
the next twenty minutes.&rdquo;&nbsp; And she spoke the &ldquo;he&rdquo;
in italics.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not understand you, Mayoress.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My husband will explain, as soon as I have seen him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hanky,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;you must withdraw, and apologise
at once.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky was not slow to do this, and when he had disavowed everything,
withdrawn everything, apologised for everything, and eaten humble pie
to Yram&rsquo;s satisfaction, she smiled graciously, and held out her
hand, which Hanky was obliged to take.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now, Professor,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;let me return
to your remark that this is a very serious business, and let me also
claim a woman&rsquo;s privilege of being listened to whenever she chooses
to speak.&nbsp; I propose, then, that we say nothing further about this
matter till after luncheon.&nbsp; I have asked Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum
to join us&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why Mrs. Humdrum?&rdquo; interrupted Hanky none too pleasantly,
for he was still furious about the duel that had just taken place between
himself and his hostess.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear Professor,&rdquo; said Yram good-humouredly, &ldquo;pray
say all you have to say and I will continue.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky was silent.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have asked,&rdquo; resumed Yram, &ldquo;Dr. Downie and Mrs.
Humdrum to join, us, and after luncheon we can discuss the situation
or no as you may think proper.&nbsp; Till then let us say no more.&nbsp;
Luncheon will be over by two o&rsquo;clock or soon after, and the banquet
will not begin till seven, so we shall have plenty of time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky looked black and said nothing.&nbsp; As for Panky he was morally
in a state of collapse, and did not count.</p>
<p>Hardly had they reached the Mayor&rsquo;s house when the Mayor also
arrived with Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum, both of whom had seen and
recognised my father in spite of his having dyed his hair.&nbsp; Dr.
Downie had met him at supper in Mr. Thims&rsquo;s rooms when he had
visited Bridgeford, and naturally enough had observed him closely.&nbsp;
Mrs. Humdrum, as I have already said, had seen him more than once when
he was in prison.&nbsp; She and Dr. Downie were talking earnestly over
the strange reappearance of one whom they had believed long since dead,
but Yram imposed on them the same silence that she had already imposed
on the Professors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Professor Hanky,&rdquo; said she to Mrs. Humdrum, in Hanky&rsquo;s
hearing, &ldquo;is a little alarmed at my having asked you to join our
secret conclave.&nbsp; He is not married, and does not know how well
a woman can hold her tongue when she chooses.&nbsp; I should have told
you all that passed, for I mean to follow your advice, so I thought
you had better hear everything yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky still looked black, but he said nothing.&nbsp; Luncheon was
promptly served, and done justice to in spite of much preoccupation;
for if there is one thing that gives a better appetite than another,
it is a Sunday morning&rsquo;s service with a charity sermon to follow.&nbsp;
As the guests might not talk on the subject they wanted to talk about,
and were in no humour to speak of anything else, they gave their whole
attention to the good things that were before them, without so much
as a thought about reserving themselves for the evening&rsquo;s banquet.&nbsp;
Nevertheless, when luncheon was over, the Professors were in no more
genial, manageable, state of mind than they had been when it began.</p>
<p>When the servants had left the room, Yram said to Hanky, &ldquo;You
saw the prisoner, and he was the man you met on Thursday night?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly, he was wearing the forbidden dress and he had many
quails in his possession.&nbsp; There is no doubt also that he was a
foreign devil.&rdquo;</p>
<p>At this point, it being now nearly half-past two, George came in,
and took a seat next to Mrs. Humdrum&mdash;between her and his mother&mdash;who
of course sat at the head of the table with the Mayor opposite to her.&nbsp;
On one side of the table sat the Professors, and on the other Dr. Downie,
Mrs. Humdrum, and George, who had heard the last few words that Hanky
had spoken.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XIX: A COUNCIL IS HELD AT THE MAYOR&rsquo;S, IN THE COURSE
OF WHICH GEORGE TURNS THE TABLES ON THE PROFESSORS</h2>
<p>&ldquo;Now who,&rdquo; said Yram, &ldquo;is this unfortunate creature
to be, when he is brought up to-morrow morning, on the charge of poaching?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not necessary,&rdquo; said Hanky severely, &ldquo;that
he should be brought up for poaching.&nbsp; He is a foreign devil, and
as such your son is bound to fling him without trial into the Blue Pool.&nbsp;
Why bring a smaller charge when you must inflict the death penalty on
a more serious one?&nbsp; I have already told you that I shall feel
it my duty to report the matter at headquarters, unless I am satisfied
that the death penalty has been inflicted.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;we must all of us do
our duty, and I shall not shrink from mine&mdash;but I have arrested
this man on a charge of poaching, and must give my reasons; the case
cannot be dropped, and it must be heard in public.&nbsp; Am I, or am
I not, to have the sworn depositions of both you gentlemen to the fact
that the prisoner is the man you saw with quails in his possession?&nbsp;
If you can depose to this he will be convicted, for there can be no
doubt he killed the birds himself.&nbsp; The least penalty my father
can inflict is twelve months&rsquo; imprisonment with hard labour; and
he must undergo this sentence before I can Blue-Pool him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then comes the question whether or no he is a foreign devil.&nbsp;
I may decide this in private, but I must have depositions on oath before
I do so, and at present I have nothing but hearsay.&nbsp; Perhaps you
gentlemen can give me the evidence I shall require, but the case is
one of such importance that were the prisoner proved never so clearly
to be a foreign devil, I should not Blue-Pool him till I had taken the
King&rsquo;s pleasure concerning him.&nbsp; I shall rejoice, therefore,
if you gentlemen can help me to sustain the charge of poaching, and
thus give me legal standing-ground for deferring action which the King
might regret, and which once taken cannot be recalled.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here Yram interposed.&nbsp; &ldquo;These points,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;are details.&nbsp; Should we not first settle, not what, but
who, we shall allow the prisoner to be, when he is brought up to-morrow
morning?&nbsp; Settle this, and the rest will settle itself.&nbsp; He
has declared himself to be the Sunchild, and will probably do so again.&nbsp;
I am prepared to identify him, so is Dr. Downie, so is Mrs. Humdrum,
the interpreter, and doubtless my father.&nbsp; Others of known respectability
will also do so, and his marks and measurements are sure to correspond
quite sufficiently.&nbsp; The question is, whether all this is to be
allowed to appear on evidence, or whether it is to be established, as
it easily may, if we give our minds to it, that he is not the Sunchild.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whatever else he is,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;he must not
be the Sunchild.&nbsp; He must, if the charge of poaching cannot be
dropped, be a poacher and a foreign devil.&nbsp; I was doubtless too
hasty when I said that I believed I recognized the man as one who had
more than once declared himself to be the Sunchild&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, Hanky,&rdquo; interrupted Panky, &ldquo;are you sure
that you can swear to this man&rsquo;s being the man we met on Thursday
night?&nbsp; We only saw him by firelight, and I doubt whether I should
feel justified in swearing to him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, well: on second thoughts I am not sure, Panky, but what
you may be right after all; it is possible that he may be what I said
he was in my sermon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I rejoice to hear you say so,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;for
in this case the charge of poaching will fall through.&nbsp; There will
be no evidence against the prisoner.&nbsp; And I rejoice also to think
that I shall have nothing to warrant me in believing him to be a foreign
devil.&nbsp; For if he is not to be the Sunchild, and not to be your
poacher, he becomes a mere monomaniac.&nbsp; If he apologises for having
made a disturbance in the temple, and promises not to offend again,
a fine, and a few days&rsquo; imprisonment, will meet the case, and
he may be discharged.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I see, I see,&rdquo; said Hanky very angrily.&nbsp; &ldquo;You
are determined to get this man off if you can.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall act,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;in accordance with
sworn evidence, and not otherwise.&nbsp; Choose whether you will have
the prisoner to be your poacher or no: give me your sworn depositions
one way or the other, and I shall know how to act.&nbsp; If you depose
on oath to the identity of the prisoner and your poacher, he will be
convicted and imprisoned.&nbsp; As to his being a foreign devil, if
he is the Sunchild, of course he is one; but otherwise I cannot Blue-Pool
him even when his sentence is expired, without testimony deposed to
me on oath in private, though no open trial is required.&nbsp; A case
for suspicion was made out in my hearing last night, but I must have
depositions on oath to all the leading facts before I can decide what
my duty is.&nbsp; What will you swear to?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All this,&rdquo; said Hanky, in a voice husky with passion,
&ldquo;shall be reported to the King.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I intend to report every word of it; but that is not the point:
the question is what you gentlemen will swear to?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well.&nbsp; I will settle it thus.&nbsp; We will swear
that the prisoner is the poacher we met on Thursday night, and that
he is also a foreign devil: his wearing the forbidden dress; his foreign
accent; the foot-tracks we found in the snow, as of one coming over
from the other side; his obvious ignorance of the Afforesting Act, as
shown by his having lit a fire and making no effort to conceal his quails
till our permit shewed him his blunder; the cock-and-bull story he told
us about your orders, and that other story about his having killed a
foreign devil&mdash;if these facts do not satisfy you, they will satisfy
the King that the prisoner is a foreign devil as well as a poacher.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Some of these facts,&rdquo; answered George, &ldquo;are new
to me.&nbsp; How do you know that the foot-tracks were made by the prisoner?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Panky brought out his note-book and read the details he had noted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you examine the man&rsquo;s boots?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;One of them, the right foot; this, with the measurements,
was quite enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hardly.&nbsp; Please to look at both soles of my own boots;
you will find that those tracks were mine.&nbsp; I will have the prisoner&rsquo;s
boots examined; in the meantime let me tell you that I was up at the
statues on Thursday morning, walked three or four hundred yards beyond
them, over ground where there was less snow, returned over the snow,
and went two or three times round them, as it is the Ranger&rsquo;s
duty to do once a year in order to see that none of them are beginning
to lean.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He showed the soles of his boots, and the Professors were obliged
to admit that the tracks were his.&nbsp; He cautioned them as to the
rest of the points on which they relied.&nbsp; Might they not be as
mistaken, as they had just proved to be about the tracks?&nbsp; He could
not, however, stir them from sticking to it that there was enough evidence
to prove my father to be a foreign devil, and declaring their readiness
to depose to the facts on oath.&nbsp; In the end Hanky again fiercely
accused him of trying to shield the prisoner.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are quite right,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;and you will
see my reasons shortly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have no doubt,&rdquo; said Hanky significantly, &ldquo;that
they are such as would weigh with any man of ordinary feeling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I understand, then,&rdquo; said George, appearing to take
no notice of Hanky&rsquo;s innuendo, &ldquo;that you will swear to the
facts as you have above stated them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then kindly wait while I write them on the form that I have
brought with me; the Mayor can administer the oath and sign your depositions.&nbsp;
I shall then be able to leave you, and proceed with getting up the case
against the prisoner.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So saying, he went to a writing-table in another part of the room,
and made out the depositions.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the Mayor, Mrs. Humdrum, and Dr. Downie (who had each of
them more than once vainly tried to take part in the above discussion)
conversed eagerly in an undertone among themselves.&nbsp; Hanky was
blind with rage, for he had a sense that he was going to be outwitted;
the Mayor, Yram, and Mrs. Humdrum had already seen that George thought
he had all the trumps in his own hand, but they did not know more.&nbsp;
Dr. Downie was frightened, and Panky so muddled as to be <i>hors de
combat</i>.</p>
<p>George now rejoined the Professors, and read the depositions: the
Mayor administered the oath according to Erewhonian custom; the Professors
signed without a word, and George then handed the document to his father
to countersign.</p>
<p>The Mayor examined it, and almost immediately said, &ldquo;My dear
George, you have made a mistake; these depositions are on a form reserved
for deponents who are on the point of death.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; answered George, &ldquo;there is no help for
it.&nbsp; I did my utmost to prevent their signing.&nbsp; I knew that
those depositions were their own death warrant,&mdash;and that is why,
though I was satisfied that the prisoner is a foreign devil, I had hoped
to be able to shut my eyes.&nbsp; I can now no longer do so, and as
the inevitable consequence, I must Blue-Pool both the Professors before
midnight.&nbsp; What man of ordinary feeling would not under these circumstances
have tried to dissuade them from deposing as they have done?&rdquo;</p>
<p>By this time the Professors had started to their feet, and there
was a look of horrified astonishment on the faces of all present, save
that of George, who seemed quite happy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What monstrous absurdity is this?&rdquo; shouted Hanky; &ldquo;do
you mean to murder us?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly not.&nbsp; But you have insisted that I should do
my duty, and I mean to do it.&nbsp; You gentlemen have now been proved
to my satisfaction to have had traffic with a foreign devil; and under
section 37 of the Afforesting Act, I must at once Blue-Pool any such
persons without public trial.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense, nonsense, there was nothing of the kind on our permit,
and as for trafficking with this foreign devil, we spoke to him, but
we neither bought nor sold.&nbsp; Where is the Act?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here.&nbsp; On your permit you were referred to certain other
clauses not set out therein, which might be seen at the Mayor&rsquo;s
office.&nbsp; Clause 37 is as follows:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;It is furthermore enacted that should any of his
Majesty&rsquo;s subjects be found, after examination by the Head Ranger,
to have had traffic of any kind by way of sale or barter with any foreign
devil, the said Ranger, on being satisfied that such traffic has taken
place, shall forthwith, with or without the assistance of his under-rangers,
convey such subjects of his Majesty to the Blue Pool, bind them, weight
them, and fling them into it, without the formality of a trial, and
shall report the circumstances of the case to his Majesty.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;But we never bought anything from the prisoner.&nbsp; What
evidence can you have of this but the word of a foreign devil in such
straits that he would swear to anything?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The prisoner has nothing to do with it.&nbsp; I am convinced
by this receipt in Professor Panky&rsquo;s handwriting which states
that he and you jointly purchased his kit from the prisoner, and also
this bag of gold nuggets worth about &pound;100 in silver, for the absurdly
small sum of &pound;4, 10s. in silver.&nbsp; I am further convinced
by this handkerchief marked with Professor Hanky&rsquo;s name, in which
was found a broken packet of dried leaves that are now at my office
with the rest of the prisoner&rsquo;s kit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then we were watched and dogged,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;on
Thursday evening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That, sir,&rdquo; replied George, &ldquo;is my business, not
yours.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here Panky laid his arms on the table, buried his head in them, and
burst into tears.&nbsp; Every one seemed aghast, but the Mayor, Yram,
and Mrs. Humdrum saw that George was enjoying it all far too keenly
to be serious.&nbsp; Dr. Downie was still frightened (for George&rsquo;s
surface manner was Rhadamanthine) and did his utmost to console Panky.&nbsp;
George pounded away ruthlessly at his case.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I say nothing about your having bought quails from the prisoner
and eaten them.&nbsp; As you justly remarked just now, there is no object
in preferring a smaller charge when one must inflict the death penalty
on a more serious one.&nbsp; Still, Professor Hanky, these are bones
of the quails you ate as you sate opposite the prisoner on the side
of the fire nearest Sunch&rsquo;ston; these are Professor Panky&rsquo;s
bones, with which I need not disturb him.&nbsp; This is your permit,
which was found upon the prisoner, and which there can be no doubt you
sold him, having been bribed by the offer of the nuggets for&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Monstrous, monstrous!&nbsp; Infamous falsehood!&nbsp; Who
will believe such a childish trumped up story!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who, sir, will believe anything else?&nbsp; You will hardly
contend that you did not know the nuggets were gold, and no one will
believe you mean enough to have tried to get this poor man&rsquo;s property
out of him for a song&mdash;you knowing its value, and he not knowing
the same.&nbsp; No one will believe that you did not know the man to
be a foreign devil, or that he could hoodwink two such learned Professors
so cleverly as to get their permit out of them.&nbsp; Obviously he seduced
you into selling him your permit, and&mdash;I presume because he wanted
a little of our money&mdash;he made you pay him for his kit.&nbsp; I
am satisfied that you have not only had traffic with a foreign devil,
but traffic of a singularly atrocious kind, and this being so, I shall
Blue-Pool both of you as soon as I can get you up to the Pool itself.&nbsp;
The sooner we start the better.&nbsp; I shall gag you, and drive you
up in a close carriage as far as the road goes; from that point you
can walk up, or be dragged up as you may prefer, but you will probably
find walking more comfortable.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;come what may, I must be at
the banquet.&nbsp; I am set down to speak.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Mayor will explain that you have been taken somewhat suddenly
unwell.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here Yram, who had been talking quietly with her husband, Dr. Downie,
and Mrs. Humdrum, motioned her son to silence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I feared,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that difficulties might
arise, though I did not foresee how seriously they would affect my guests.&nbsp;
Let Mrs. Humdrum on our side, and Dr. Downie on that of the Professors,
go into the next room and talk the matter quietly over; let us then
see whether we cannot agree to be bound by their decision.&nbsp; I do
not doubt but they will find some means of averting any catastrophe
more serious&mdash;No, Professor Hanky, the doors are locked&mdash;than
a little perjury in which we shall all share and share alike.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do what you like,&rdquo; said Hanky, looking for all the world
like a rat caught in a trap.&nbsp; As he spoke he seized a knife from
the table, whereon George pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket
and slipped them on to his wrists before he well knew what was being
done to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;George,&rdquo; said the Mayor, &ldquo;this is going too far.&nbsp;
Do you mean to Blue-Pool the Professors or no?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not if they will compromise.&nbsp; If they will be reasonable,
they will not be Blue-Pooled; if they think they can have everything
their own way, the eels will be at them before morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A voice was heard from the head of Panky which he had buried in his
arms upon the table.&nbsp; &ldquo;Co-co-co-compromise,&rdquo; it said;
and the effect was so comic that every one except Hanky smiled.&nbsp;
Meanwhile Yram had conducted Dr. Downie and Mrs. Humdrum into an adjoining
room.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XX: MRS. HUMDRUM AND DR. DOWNIE PROPOSE A COMPROMISE, WHICH,
AFTER AN AMENDMENT BY GEORGE, IS CARRIED NEM.&nbsp; CON.</h2>
<p>They returned in about ten minutes, and Dr. Downie asked Mrs. Humdrum
to say what they had agreed to recommend.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We think,&rdquo; said she very demurely, &ldquo;that the strict
course would be to drop the charge of poaching, and Blue-Pool both the
Professors and the prisoner without delay.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We also think that the proper thing would be to place on record
that the prisoner is the Sunchild&mdash;about which neither Dr. Downie
nor I have a shadow of doubt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;These measures we hold to be the only legal ones, but at the
same time we do not recommend them.&nbsp; We think it would offend the
public conscience if it came to be known, as it certainly would, that
the Sunchild was violently killed, on the very day that had seen us
dedicate a temple in his honour, and perhaps at the very hour when laudatory
speeches were being made about him at the Mayor&rsquo;s banquet; we
think also that we should strain a good many points rather than Blue-Pool
the Professors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing is perfect, and Truth makes her mistakes like other
people; when she goes wrong and reduces herself to such an absurdity
as she has here done, those who love her must save her from herself,
correct her, and rehabilitate her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Our conclusion, therefore, is this:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;The prisoner must recant on oath his statement that he is
the Sunchild.&nbsp; The interpreter must be squared, or convinced of
his mistake.&nbsp; The Mayoress, Dr. Downie, I, and the gaoler (with
the interpreter if we can manage him), must depose on oath that the
prisoner is not Higgs.&nbsp; This must be our contribution to the rehabilitation
of Truth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Professors must contribute as follows: They must swear
that the prisoner is not the man they met with quails in his possession
on Thursday night.&nbsp; They must further swear that they have one
or both of them known him, off and on, for many years past, as a monomaniac
with Sunchildism on the brain but otherwise harmless.&nbsp; If they
will do this, no proceedings are to be taken against them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Mayor&rsquo;s contribution shall be to reprimand the prisoner,
and order him to repeat his recantation in the new temple before the
Manager and Head Cashier, and to confirm his statement on oath by kissing
the reliquary containing the newly found relic.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Ranger and the Master of the Gaol must contribute that
the prisoner&rsquo;s measurements, and the marks found on his body,
negative all possibility of his identity with the Sunchild, and that
all the hair on the covered as well as the uncovered parts of his body
was found to be jet black.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We advise further that the prisoner should have his nuggets
and his kit returned to him, and that the receipt given by the Professors
together with Professor Hanky&rsquo;s handkerchief be given back to
the Professors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Furthermore, seeing that we should all of us like to have
a quiet evening with the prisoner, we should petition the Mayor and
Mayoress to ask him to meet all here present at dinner to-morrow evening,
after his discharge, on the plea that Professors Hanky and Panky and
Dr. Downie may give him counsel, convince him of his folly, and if possible
free him henceforth from the monomania under which he now suffers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The prisoner shall give his word of honour, never to return
to Erewhon, nor to encourage any of his countrymen to do so.&nbsp; After
the dinner to which we hope the Mayoress will invite us, the Ranger,
if the night is fair, shall escort the prisoner as far as the statues,
whence he will find his own way home.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Those who are in favour of this compromise hold up their hands.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The Mayor and Yram held up theirs.&nbsp; &ldquo;Will you hold up
yours, Professor Hanky,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;if I release you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Hanky with a gruff laugh, whereon George
released him and he held up both his hands.</p>
<p>Panky did not hold up his, whereon Hanky said, &ldquo;Hold up your
hands, Panky, can&rsquo;t you?&nbsp; We are really very well out of
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Panky, hardly lifting his head, sobbed out, &ldquo;I think we ought
to have our f-f-fo-fo-four pounds ten returned to us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid, sir,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;that the prisoner
must have spent the greater part of this money.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Every one smiled, indeed it was all George could do to prevent himself
from laughing outright.&nbsp; The Mayor brought out his purse, counted
the money, and handed it good-humouredly to Panky, who gratefully received
it, and said he would divide it with Hanky.&nbsp; He then held up his
hands, &ldquo;But,&rdquo; he added, turning to his brother Professor,
&ldquo;so long as I live, Hanky, I will never go out anywhere again
with you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George then turned to Hanky and said, &ldquo;I am afraid I must now
trouble you and Professor Panky to depose on oath to the facts which
Mrs. Humdrum and Dr. Downie propose you should swear to in open court
to-morrow.&nbsp; I knew you would do so, and have brought an ordinary
form, duly filled up, which declares that the prisoner is not the poacher
you met on Thursday; and also, that he has been long known to both of
you as a harmless monomaniac.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As he spoke he brought out depositions to the above effect which
he had just written in his office; he shewed the Professors that the
form was this time an innocent one, whereon they made no demur to signing
and swearing in the presence of the Mayor, who attested.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The former depositions,&rdquo; said Hanky, &ldquo;had better
be destroyed at once.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;may hardly be, but so long
as you stick to what you have just sworn to, they will not be used against
you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky scowled, but knew that he was powerless and said no more.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>The knowledge of what ensued did not reach me from my father.&nbsp;
George and his mother, seeing how ill he looked, and what a shock the
events of the last few days had given him, resolved that he should not
know of the risk that George was about to run; they therefore said nothing
to him about it.&nbsp; What I shall now tell, I learned on the occasion
already referred to when I had the happiness to meet George.&nbsp; I
am in some doubt whether it is more fitly told here, or when I come
to the interview between him and me; on the whole, however, I suppose
chronological order is least outraged by dealing with it here.</p>
<p>As soon as the Professors had signed the second depositions, George
said, &ldquo;I have not yet held up my hands, but I will hold them up
if Mrs. Humdrum and Dr. Downie will approve of what I propose.&nbsp;
Their compromise does not go far enough, for swear as we may, it is
sure to get noised abroad, with the usual exaggerations, that the Sunchild
has been here, and that he has been spirited away either by us, or by
the sun his father.&nbsp; For one person whom we know of as having identified
him, there will be five, of whom we know nothing, and whom we cannot
square.&nbsp; Reports will reach the King sooner or later, and I shall
be sent for.&nbsp; Meanwhile the Professors will be living in fear of
intrigue on my part, and I, however unreasonably, shall fear the like
on theirs.&nbsp; This should not be.&nbsp; I mean, therefore, on the
day following my return from escorting the prisoner, to set out for
the capital, see the King, and make a clean breast of the whole matter.&nbsp;
To this end I must have the nuggets, the prisoner&rsquo;s kit, his receipt,
Professor Hanky&rsquo;s handkerchief, and, of course, the two depositions
just sworn to by the Professors.&nbsp; I hope and think that the King
will pardon us all round; but whatever he may do I shall tell him everything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky was up in arms at once.&nbsp; &ldquo;Sheer madness,&rdquo;
he exclaimed.&nbsp; Yram and the Mayor looked anxious; Dr. Downie eyed
George as though he were some curious creature, which he heard of but
had never seen, and was rather disposed to like.&nbsp; Mrs. Humdrum
nodded her head approvingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite right, George,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;tell his Majesty
everything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Dr. Downie then said, &ldquo;Your son, Mayoress, is a very sensible
fellow.&nbsp; I will go with him, and with the Professors&mdash;for
they had better come too: each will hear what the other says, and we
will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.&nbsp;
I am, as you know, a <i>persona grata</i> at Court; I will say that
I advised your son&rsquo;s action.&nbsp; The King has liked him ever
since he was a boy, and I am not much afraid about what he will do.&nbsp;
In public, no doubt we had better hush things up, but in private the
King must be told.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky fought hard for some time, but George told him that it did
not matter whether he agreed or no.&nbsp; &ldquo;You can come,&rdquo;
he said, &ldquo;or stop away, just as you please.&nbsp; If you come,
you can hear and speak; if you do not, you will not hear, but these
two depositions will speak for you.&nbsp; Please yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;I suppose we had
better go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Every one having now understood what his or her part was to be, Yram
said they had better shake hands all round and take a couple of hours&rsquo;
rest before getting ready for the banquet.&nbsp; George said that the
Professors did not shake hands with him very cordially, but the farce
was gone through.&nbsp; When the hand-shaking was over, Dr. Downie and
Mrs. Humdrum left the house, and the Professors retired grumpily to
their own room.</p>
<p>I will say here that no harm happened either to George or the Professors
in consequence of his having told the King, but will reserve particulars
for my concluding chapter.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXI: YRAM, ON GETTING RID OF HER GUESTS, GOES TO THE PRISON
TO SEE MY FATHER</h2>
<p>Yram did not take the advice she had given her guests, but set about
preparing a basket of the best cold dainties she could find, including
a bottle of choice wine that she knew my father would like; thus loaded
she went to the gaol, which she entered by her father&rsquo;s private
entrance.</p>
<p>It was now about half-past four, so that much more must have been
said and done after luncheon at the Mayor&rsquo;s than ever reached
my father.&nbsp; The wonder is that he was able to collect so much.&nbsp;
He, poor man, as soon as George left him, flung himself on to the bed
that was in his cell and lay there wakeful, but not unquiet, till near
the time when Yram reached the gaol.</p>
<p>The old gaoler came to tell him that she had come and would be glad
to see him; much as he dreaded the meeting there was no avoiding it,
and in a few minutes Yram stood before him.</p>
<p>Both were agitated, but Yram betrayed less of what she felt than
my father.&nbsp; He could only bow his head and cover his face with
his hands.&nbsp; Yram said, &ldquo;We are old friends; take your hands
from your face and let me see you.&nbsp; There!&nbsp; That is well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She took his right hand between both hers, looked at him with eyes
full of kindness, and said softly&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are not much changed, but you look haggard, worn, and
ill; I am uneasy about you.&nbsp; Remember, you are among friends, who
will see that no harm befalls you.&nbsp; There is a look in your eyes
that frightens me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As she spoke she took the wine out of her basket, and poured him
out a glass, but rather to give him some little thing to distract his
attention, than because she expected him to drink it&mdash;which he
could not do.</p>
<p>She never asked him whether he found her altered, or turned the conversation
ever such a little on to herself; all was for him; to soothe and comfort
him, not in words alone, but in look, manner, and voice.&nbsp; My father
knew that he could thank her best by controlling himself, and letting
himself be soothed and comforted&mdash;at any rate so far as he could
seem to be.</p>
<p>Up to this time they had been standing, but now Yram, seeing my father
calmer, said, &ldquo;Enough, let us sit down.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So saying she seated herself at one end of the small table that was
in the cell, and motioned my father to sit opposite to her.&nbsp; &ldquo;The
light hurts you?&rdquo; she said, for the sun was coming into the room.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Change places with me, I am a sun worshipper.&nbsp; No, we can
move the table, and we can then see each other better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This done, she said, still very softly, &ldquo;And now tell me what
it is all about.&nbsp; Why have you come here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell me first,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;what befell you
after I had been taken away.&nbsp; Why did you not send me word when
you found what had happened? or come after me?&nbsp; You know I should
have married you at once, unless they bound me in fetters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know you would; but you remember Mrs. Humdrum?&nbsp; Yes,
I see you do.&nbsp; I told her everything; it was she who saved me.&nbsp;
We thought of you, but she saw that it would not do.&nbsp; As I was
to marry Mr. Strong, the more you were lost sight of the better, but
with George ever with me I have not been able to forget you.&nbsp; I
might have been very happy with you, but I could not have been happier
than I have been ever since that short dreadful time was over.&nbsp;
George must tell you the rest.&nbsp; I cannot do so.&nbsp; All is well.&nbsp;
I love my husband with my whole heart and soul, and he loves me with
his.&nbsp; As between him and me, he knows everything; George is his
son, not yours; we have settled it so, though we both know otherwise;
as between you and me, for this one hour, here, there is no use in pretending
that you are not George&rsquo;s father.&nbsp; I have said all I need
say.&nbsp; Now, tell me what I asked you&mdash;Why are you here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I fear,&rdquo; said my father, set at rest by the sweetness
of Yram&rsquo;s voice and manner&mdash;he told me he had never seen
any one to compare with her except my mother&mdash;&ldquo;I fear, to
do as much harm now as I did before, and with as little wish to do any
harm at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He then told her all that the reader knows, and explained how he
had thought he could have gone about the country as a peasant, and seen
how she herself had fared, without her, or any one, even suspecting
that he was in the country.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You say your wife is dead, and that she left you with a son&mdash;is
he like George?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;In mind and disposition, wonderfully; in appearance, no; he
is dark and takes after his mother, and though he is handsome, he is
not so good-looking as George.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No one,&rdquo; said George&rsquo;s mother, &ldquo;ever was,
or ever will be, and he is as good as he looks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should not have believed you if you had said he was not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is right.&nbsp; I am glad you are proud of him.&nbsp;
He irradiates the lives of every one of us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And the mere knowledge that he exists will irradiate the rest
of mine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Long may it do so.&nbsp; Let us now talk about this morning&mdash;did
you mean to declare yourself?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not know what I meant; what I most cared about was the
doing what I thought George would wish to see his father do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You did that; but he says he told you not to say who you were.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So he did, but I knew what he would think right.&nbsp; He
was uppermost in my thoughts all the time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Yram smiled, and said, &ldquo;George is a dangerous person; you were
both of you very foolish; one as bad as the other.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not know.&nbsp; I do not know anything.&nbsp; It is beyond
me; but I am at peace about it, and hope I shall do the like again to-morrow
before the Mayor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heartily hope you will do nothing of the kind.&nbsp; George
tells me you have promised him to be good and to do as we bid you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So I will; but he will not tell me to say that I am not what
I am.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, he will, and I will tell you why.&nbsp; If we permit
you to be Higgs the Sunchild, he must either throw his own father into
the Blue Pool&mdash;which he will not do&mdash;or run great risk of
being thrown into it himself, for not having Blue-Pooled a foreigner.&nbsp;
I am afraid we shall have to make you do a good deal that neither you
nor we shall like.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She then told him briefly of what had passed after luncheon at her
house, and what it had been settled to do, leaving George to tell the
details while escorting him towards the statues on the following evening.&nbsp;
She said that every one would be so completely in every one else&rsquo;s
power that there was no fear of any one&rsquo;s turning traitor.&nbsp;
But she said nothing about George&rsquo;s intention of setting out for
the capital on Wednesday morning to tell the whole story to the King.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; she said, when she had told him as much as was
necessary, &ldquo;be good, and do as you said you would.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will.&nbsp; I will deny myself, not once, nor twice, but
as often as is necessary.&nbsp; I will kiss the reliquary, and when
I meet Hanky and Panky at your table, I will be sworn brother to them&mdash;so
long, that is, as George is out of hearing; for I cannot lie well to
them when he is listening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, you can.&nbsp; He will understand all about it; he
enjoys falsehood as well as we all do, and has the nicest sense of when
to lie and when not to do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What gift can be more invaluable?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father, knowing that he might not have another chance of seeing
Yram alone, now changed the conversation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have something,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;for George, but he
must know nothing about it till after I am gone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As he spoke, he took from his pockets the nine small bags of nuggets
that remained to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But this,&rdquo; said Yram, &ldquo;being gold, is a large
sum: can you indeed spare it, and do you really wish George to have
it all?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall be very unhappy if he does not, but he must know nothing
about it till I am out of Erewhon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father then explained to her that he was now very rich, and would
have brought ten times as much, if he had known of George&rsquo;s existence.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said Yram, musing, &ldquo;if you are rich, I accept
and thank you heartily on his behalf.&nbsp; I can see a reason for his
not knowing what you are giving him at present, but it is too long to
tell.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The reason was, that if George knew of this gold before he saw the
King, he would be sure to tell him of it, and the King might claim it,
for George would never explain that it was a gift from father to son;
whereas if the King had once pardoned him, he would not be so squeamish
as to open up the whole thing again with a postscript to his confession.&nbsp;
But of this she said not a word.</p>
<p>My father then told her of the box of sovereigns that he had left
in his saddle-bags.&nbsp; &ldquo;They are coined,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and
George will have to melt them down, but he will find some way of doing
this.&nbsp; They will be worth rather more than these nine bags of nuggets.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The difficulty will be to get him to go down and fetch them,
for it is against his oath to go far beyond the statues.&nbsp; If you
could be taken faint and say you wanted help, he would see you to your
camping ground without a word, but he would be angry if he found he
had been tricked into breaking his oath in order that money might be
given him.&nbsp; It would never do.&nbsp; Besides, there would not be
time, for he must be back here on Tuesday night.&nbsp; No; if he breaks
his oath he must do it with his eyes open&mdash;and he will do it later
on&mdash;or I will go and fetch the money for him myself.&nbsp; He is
in love with a grand-daughter of Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s, and this sum,
together with what you are now leaving with me, will make him a well-to-do
man.&nbsp; I have always been unhappy about his having any of the Mayor&rsquo;s
money, and his salary was not quite enough for him to marry on.&nbsp;
What can I say to thank you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell me, please, about Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s grand-daughter.&nbsp;
You like her as a wife for George?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Absolutely.&nbsp; She is just such another as her grandmother
must have been.&nbsp; She and George have been sworn lovers ever since
he was ten, and she eight.&nbsp; The only drawback is that her mother,
Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s second daughter, married for love, and there are
many children, so that there will be no money with her; but what you
are leaving will make everything quite easy, for he will sell the gold
at once.&nbsp; I am so glad about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can you ask Mrs. Humdrum to bring her grand-daughter with
her to-morrow evening?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid not, for we shall want to talk freely at dinner,
and she must not know that you are the Sunchild; she shall come to my
house in the afternoon and you can see her then.&nbsp; You will be quite
happy about her, but of course she must not know that you are her father-in-law
that is to be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;One thing more.&nbsp; As George must know nothing about the
sovereigns, I must tell you how I will hide them.&nbsp; They are in
a silver box, which I will bind to the bough of some tree close to my
camp; or if I can find a tree with a hole in it I will drop the box
into the hole.&nbsp; He cannot miss my camp; he has only to follow the
stream that runs down from the pass till it gets near a large river,
and on a small triangular patch of flat ground, he will see the ashes
of my camp fire, a few yards away from the stream on his right hand
as he descends.&nbsp; In whatever tree I may hide the box, I will strew
wood ashes for some yards in a straight line towards it.&nbsp; I will
then light another fire underneath, and blaze the tree with a knife
that I have left at my camping ground.&nbsp; He is sure to find it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Yram again thanked him, and then my father, to change the conversation,
asked whether she thought that George really would have Blue-Pooled
the Professors.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is no knowing,&rdquo; said Yram.&nbsp; &ldquo;He is
the gentlest creature living till some great provocation rouses him,
and I never saw him hate and despise any one as he does the Professors.&nbsp;
Much of what he said was merely put on, for he knew the Professors must
yield.&nbsp; I do not like his ever having to throw any one into that
horrid place, no more does he, but the Rangership is exactly the sort
of thing to suit him, and the opening was too good to lose.&nbsp; I
must now leave you, and get ready for the Mayor&rsquo;s banquet.&nbsp;
We shall meet again to-morrow evening.&nbsp; Try and eat what I have
brought you in this basket.&nbsp; I hope you will like the wine.&rdquo;&nbsp;
She put out her hand, which my father took, and in another moment she
was gone, for she saw a look in his face as though he would fain have
asked her to let him once more press his lips to hers.&nbsp; Had he
done this, without thinking about it, it is likely enough she would
not have been ill pleased.&nbsp; But who can say?</p>
<p>For the rest of the evening my father was left very much to his own
not too comfortable reflections.&nbsp; He spent part of it in posting
up the notes from which, as well as from his own mouth, my story is
in great part taken.&nbsp; The good things that Yram had left with him,
and his pipe, which she had told him he might smoke quite freely, occupied
another part, and by ten o&rsquo;clock he went to bed.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXII: MAINLY OCCUPIED WITH A VERACIOUS EXTRACT FROM A SUNCH&rsquo;STONIAN
JOURNAL</h2>
<p>While my father was thus wiling away the hours in his cell, the whole
town was being illuminated in his honour, and not more than a couple
of hundred yards off, at the Mayor&rsquo;s banquet, he was being extolled
as a superhuman being.</p>
<p>The banquet, which was at the town hall, was indeed a very brilliant
affair, but the little space that is left me forbids my saying more
than that Hanky made what was considered the speech of the evening,
and betrayed no sign of ill effects from the bad quarter of an hour
which he had spent so recently.&nbsp; Not a trace was to be seen of
any desire on his part to change his tone as regards Sunchildism&mdash;as,
for example, to minimize the importance of the relic, or to remind his
hearers that though the chariot and horses had undoubtedly come down
from the sky and carried away my father and mother, yet that the earlier
stage of the ascent had been made in a balloon.&nbsp; It almost seemed,
so George told my father, as though he had resolved that he would speak
lies, all lies, and nothing but lies.</p>
<p>Panky, who was also to have spoken, was excused by the Mayor on the
ground that the great heat and the excitement of the day&rsquo;s proceedings
had quite robbed him of his voice.</p>
<p>Dr. Downie had a jumping cat before his mental vision.&nbsp; He spoke
quietly and sensibly, dwelling chiefly on the benefits that had already
accrued to the kingdom through the abolition of the edicts against machinery,
and the great developments which he foresaw as probable in the near
future.&nbsp; He held up the Sunchild&rsquo;s example, and his ethical
teaching, to the imitation and admiration of his hearers, but he said
nothing about the miraculous element in my father&rsquo;s career, on
which he declared that his friend Professor Hanky had already so eloquently
enlarged as to make further allusion to it superfluous.</p>
<p>The reader knows what was to happen on the following morning.&nbsp;
The programme concerted at the Mayor&rsquo;s was strictly adhered to.&nbsp;
The following account, however, which appeared in the Sunch&rsquo;ston
bi-weekly newspaper two days after my father had left, was given me
by George a year later, on the occasion of that interview to which I
have already more than once referred.&nbsp; There were other accounts
in other papers, but the one I am giving departs the least widely from
the facts.&nbsp; It ran:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;<i>The close of a disagreeable incident</i>.&mdash;Our readers
will remember that on Sunday last during the solemn inauguration of
the temple now dedicated to the Sunchild, an individual on the front
bench of those set apart for the public suddenly interrupted Professor
Hanky&rsquo;s eloquent sermon by declaring himself to be the Sunchild,
and saying that he had come down from the sun to sanctify by his presence
the glorious fane which the piety of our fellow-citizens and others
has erected in his honour.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wild rumours obtained credence throughout the congregation
to the effect that this person was none other than the Sunchild himself,
and in spite of the fact that his complexion and the colour of his hair
showed this to be impossible, more than one person was carried away
by the excitement of the moment, and by some few points of resemblance
between the stranger and the Sunchild.&nbsp; Under the influence of
this belief, they were preparing to give him the honour which they supposed
justly due to him, when to the surprise of every one he was taken into
custody by the deservedly popular Ranger of the King&rsquo;s preserves,
and in the course of the afternoon it became generally known that he
had been arrested on the charge of being one of a gang of poachers who
have been known for some time past to be making much havoc among the
quails on the preserves.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This offence, at all times deplored by those who desire that
his Majesty should enjoy good sport when he honours us with a visit,
is doubly deplorable during the season when, on the higher parts of
the preserves, the young birds are not yet able to shift for themselves;
the Ranger, therefore, is indefatigable in his efforts to break up the
gang, and with this end in view, for the last fortnight has been out
night and day on the remoter sections of the forest&mdash;little suspecting
that the marauders would venture so near Sunch&rsquo;ston as it now
seems they have done.&nbsp; It is to his extreme anxiety to detect and
punish these miscreants that we must ascribe the arrest of a man, who,
however foolish, and indeed guilty, he is in other respects, is innocent
of the particular crime imputed to him.&nbsp; The circumstances that
led to his arrest have reached us from an exceptionally well-informed
source, and are as follows:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;Our distinguished guests, Professors Hanky and Panky, both
of them justly celebrated archaeologists, had availed themselves of
the opportunity afforded them by their visit to Sunch&rsquo;ston, to
inspect the mysterious statues at the head of the stream that comes
down near this city, and which have hitherto baffled all those who have
tried to ascertain their date and purpose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;On their descent after a fatiguing day the Professors were
benighted, and lost their way.&nbsp; Seeing the light of a small fire
among some trees near them, they made towards it, hoping to be directed
rightly, and found a man, respectably dressed, sitting by the fire with
several brace of quails beside him, some of them plucked.&nbsp; Believing
that in spite of his appearance, which would not have led them to suppose
that he was a poacher, he must unquestionably be one, they hurriedly
enquired their way, intending to leave him as soon as they had got their
answer; he, however, attacked them, or made as though he would do so,
and said he would show them a way which they should be in no fear of
losing, whereon Professor Hanky, with a well-directed blow, felled him
to the ground.&nbsp; The two Professors, fearing that other poachers
might come to his assistance, made off as nearly as they could guess
in the direction of Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp; When they had gone a mile
or two onward at haphazard, they sat down under a large tree, and waited
till day began to break; they then resumed their journey, and before
long struck a path which led them to a spot from which they could see
the towers of the new temple.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Fatigued though they were, they waited before taking the rest
of which they stood much in need, till they had reported their adventure
at the Ranger&rsquo;s office.&nbsp; The Ranger was still out on the
preserves, but immediately on his return on Saturday morning he read
the description of the poacher&rsquo;s appearance and dress, about which
last, however, the only remarkable feature was that it was better than
a poacher might be expected to possess, and gave an air of respectability
to the wearer that might easily disarm suspicion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Ranger made enquiries at all the inns in Sunch&rsquo;ston,
and at length succeeded in hearing of a stranger who appeared to correspond
with the poacher whom the Professors had seen; but the man had already
left, and though the Ranger did his best to trace him he did not succeed.&nbsp;
On Sunday morning, however, he observed the prisoner, and found that
he answered the description given by the Professors; he therefore arrested
him quietly in the temple, but told him that he should not take him
to prison till the service was over.&nbsp; The man said he would come
quietly inasmuch as he should easily be able to prove his innocence.&nbsp;
In the meantime, however, he professed the utmost anxiety to hear Professor
Hanky&rsquo;s sermon, which he said he believed would concern him nearly.&nbsp;
The Ranger paid no attention to this, and was as much astounded as the
rest of the congregation were, when immediately after one of Professor
Hanky&rsquo;s most eloquent passages, the man started up and declared
himself to be the Sunchild.&nbsp; On this the Ranger took him away at
once, and for the man&rsquo;s own protection hurried him off to prison.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Professor Hanky was so much shocked at such outrageous conduct,
that for the moment he failed to recognise the offender; after a few
seconds, however, he grasped the situation, and knew him to be one who
on previous occasions, near Bridgeford, had done what he was now doing.&nbsp;
It seems that he is notorious in the neighbourhood of Bridgeford, as
a monomaniac who is so deeply impressed with the beauty of the Sunchild&rsquo;s
character&mdash;and we presume also of his own&mdash;as to believe that
he is himself the Sunchild.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Recovering almost instantly from the shock the interruption
had given him, the learned Professor calmed his hearers by acquainting
them with the facts of the case, and continued his sermon to the delight
of all who heard it.&nbsp; We should say, however, that the gentleman
who twenty years ago instructed the Sunchild in the Erewhonian language,
was so struck with some few points of resemblance between the stranger,
and his former pupil, that he acclaimed him, and was removed forcibly
by the vergers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;On Monday morning the prisoner was brought up before the Mayor.&nbsp;
We cannot say whether it was the sobering effect of prison walls, or
whether he had been drinking before he entered the temple, and had now
had time enough to recover himself&mdash;at any rate for some reason
or other he was abjectly penitent when his case came on for hearing.&nbsp;
The charge of poaching was first gone into, but was immediately disposed
of by the evidence of the two Professors, who stated that the prisoner
bore no resemblance to the poacher they had seen, save that he was about
the same height and age, and was respectably dressed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The charge of disturbing the congregation by declaring himself
the Sunchild was then proceeded with, and unnecessary as it may appear
to be, it was thought advisable to prevent all possibility of the man&rsquo;s
assertion being accepted by the ignorant as true, at some later date,
when those who could prove its falsehood were no longer living.&nbsp;
The prisoner, therefore, was removed to his cell, and there measured
by the Master of the Gaol, and the Ranger in the presence of the Mayor,
who attested the accuracy of the measurements.&nbsp; Not one single
one of them corresponded with those recorded of the Sunchild himself,
and a few marks such as moles, and permanent scars on the Sunchild&rsquo;s
body were not found on the prisoner&rsquo;s.&nbsp; Furthermore the prisoner
was shaggy-breasted, with much coarse jet black hair on the fore-arms
and from the knees downwards, whereas the Sunchild had little hair save
on his head, and what little there was, was fine, and very light in
colour.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Confronted with these discrepancies, the gentleman who had
taught the Sunchild our language was convinced of his mistake, though
he still maintained that there was some superficial likeness between
his former pupil and the prisoner.&nbsp; Here he was confirmed by the
Master of the Gaol, the Mayoress, Mrs. Humdrum, and Professors Hanky
and Panky, who all of them could see what the interpreter meant, but
denied that the prisoner could be mistaken for the Sunchild for more
than a few seconds.&nbsp; No doubt the prisoner&rsquo;s unhappy delusion
has been fostered, if not entirely caused, by his having been repeatedly
told that he was like the Sunchild.&nbsp; The celebrated Dr. Downie,
who well remembers the Sunchild, was also examined, and gave his evidence
with so much convincing detail as to make it unnecessary to call further
witnesses.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It having been thus once for all officially and authoritatively
placed on record that the prisoner was not the Sunchild, Professors
Hanky and Panky then identified him as a well known monomaniac on the
subject of Sunchildism, who in other respects was harmless.&nbsp; We
withhold his name and place of abode, out of consideration for the well
known and highly respectable family to which he belongs.&nbsp; The prisoner
admitted with much contrition that he had made a disturbance in the
temple, but pleaded that he had been carried away by the eloquence of
Professor Hanky; he promised to avoid all like offence in future, and
threw himself on the mercy of the court.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Mayor, unwilling that Sunday&rsquo;s memorable ceremony
should be the occasion of a serious punishment to any of those who took
part in it, reprimanded the prisoner in a few severe but not unkindly
words, inflicted a fine of forty shillings, and ordered that the prisoner
should be taken directly to the temple, where he should confess his
folly to the Manager and Head Cashier, and confirm his words by kissing
the reliquary in which the newly found relic has been placed.&nbsp;
The prisoner being unable to pay the fine, some of the ladies and gentlemen
in court kindly raised the amount amongst them, in pity for the poor
creature&rsquo;s obvious contrition, rather than see him sent to prison
for a month in default of payment.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The prisoner was then conducted to the temple, followed by
a considerable number of people.&nbsp; Strange to say, in spite of the
overwhelming evidence that they had just heard, some few among the followers,
whose love of the marvellous overpowered their reason, still maintained
that the prisoner was the Sunchild.&nbsp; Nothing could be more decorous
than the prisoner&rsquo;s behaviour when, after hearing the recantation
that was read out to him by the Manager, he signed the document with
his name and address, which we again withhold, and kissed the reliquary
in confirmation of his words.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Mayor then declared the prisoner to be at liberty.&nbsp;
When he had done so he said, &lsquo;I strongly urge you to place yourself
under my protection for the present, that you may be freed from the
impertinent folly and curiosity of some whose infatuation might lead
you from that better mind to which I believe you are now happily restored.&nbsp;
I wish you to remain for some few hours secluded in the privacy of my
own study, where Dr. Downie and the two excellent Professors will administer
that ghostly counsel to you, which will be likely to protect you from
any return of your unhappy delusion.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The man humbly bowed assent, and was taken by the Mayor&rsquo;s
younger sons to the Mayor&rsquo;s own house, where he was duly cared
for.&nbsp; About midnight, when all was quiet, he was conducted to the
outskirts of the town towards Clearwater, and furnished with enough
money to provide for his more pressing necessities till he could reach
some relatives who reside three or four days&rsquo; walk down on the
road towards the capital.&nbsp; He desired the man who accompanied him
to repeat to the Mayor his heartfelt thanks for the forbearance and
generosity with which he had been treated.&nbsp; The remembrance of
this, he said, should be ever present with him, and he was confident
would protect him if his unhappy monomania shewed any signs of returning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let us now, however, remind our readers that the poacher who
threatened Professors Hanky and Panky&rsquo;s life on Thursday evening
last is still at large.&nbsp; He is evidently a man of desperate character,
and it is to be hoped that our fellow-citizens will give immediate information
at the Ranger&rsquo;s office if they see any stranger in the neighbourhood
of the preserves whom they may have reasonable grounds for suspecting.</p>
<p>&ldquo;P.S.&mdash;As we are on the point of going to press we learn
that a dangerous lunatic, who has been for some years confined in the
Clearwater asylum, succeeded in escaping on the night of Wednesday last,
and it is surmised with much probability, that this was the man who
threatened the two Professors on Thursday evening.&nbsp; His being alone,
his having dared to light a fire, probably to cook quails which he had
been driven to kill from stress of hunger, the respectability of his
dress, and the fury with which he would have attacked the two Professors
single-handed, but for Professor Hanky&rsquo;s presence of mind in giving
him a knock-down blow, all point in the direction of thinking that he
was no true poacher, but, what is even more dangerous&mdash;a madman
at large.&nbsp; We have not received any particulars as to the man&rsquo;s
appearance, nor the clothes he was wearing, but we have little doubt
that these will confirm the surmise to which we now give publicity.&nbsp;
If it is correct it becomes doubly incumbent on all our fellow-citizens
to be both on the watch, and on their guard.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We may add that the man was fully believed to have taken the
direction towards the capital; hence no attempts were made to look for
him in the neighbourhood of Sunch&rsquo;ston, until news of the threatened
attack on the Professors led the keeper of the asylum to feel confident
that he had hitherto been on a wrong scent.&rdquo;</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIII: MY FATHER IS ESCORTED TO THE MAYOR&rsquo;S HOUSE,
AND IS INTRODUCED TO A FUTURE DAUGHTER-IN-LAW</h2>
<p>My father said he was followed to the Mayor&rsquo;s house by a good
many people, whom the Mayor&rsquo;s sons in vain tried to get rid of.&nbsp;
One or two of these still persisted in saying he was the Sunchild&mdash;whereon
another said, &ldquo;But his hair is black.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; was the answer, &ldquo;but a man can dye his hair,
can he not? look at his blue eyes and his eyelashes?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father was doubting whether he ought not to again deny his identity
out of loyalty to the Mayor and Yram, when George&rsquo;s next brother
said, &ldquo;Pay no attention to them, but step out as fast as you can.&rdquo;&nbsp;
This settled the matter, and in a few minutes they were at the Mayor&rsquo;s,
where the young men took him into the study; the elder said with a smile,
&ldquo;We should like to stay and talk to you, but my mother said we
were not to do so.&rdquo;&nbsp; Whereon they left him much to his regret,
but he gathered rightly that they had not been officially told who he
was, and were to be left to think what they liked, at any rate for the
present.</p>
<p>In a few minutes the Mayor entered, and going straight up to my father
shook him cordially by the hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have brought you this morning&rsquo;s paper,&rdquo; said
he.&nbsp; &ldquo;You will find a full report of Professor Hanky&rsquo;s
sermon, and of the speeches at last night&rsquo;s banquet.&nbsp; You
see they pass over your little interruption with hardly a word, but
I dare say they will have made up their minds about it all by Thursday&rsquo;s
issue.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He laughed as he produced the paper&mdash;which my father brought
home with him, and without which I should not have been able to report
Hanky&rsquo;s sermon as fully as I have done.&nbsp; But my father could
not let things pass over thus lightly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thank you,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but I have much more to
thank you for, and know not how to do it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can you not trust me to take everything as said?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, but I cannot trust myself not to be haunted if I do not
say&mdash;or at any rate try to say&mdash;some part of what I ought
to say.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well; then I will say something myself.&nbsp; I have
a small joke, the only one I ever made, which I inflict periodically
upon my wife.&nbsp; You, and I suppose George, are the only two other
people in the world to whom it can ever be told; let me see, then, if
I cannot break the ice with it.&nbsp; It is this.&nbsp; Some men have
twin sons; George in this topsy turvey world of ours has twin fathers&mdash;you
by luck, and me by cunning.&nbsp; I see you smile; give me your hand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father took the Mayor&rsquo;s hand between both his own.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Had I been in your place,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I should be
glad to hope that I might have done as you did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I,&rdquo; said the Mayor, more readily than might have
been expected of him, &ldquo;fear that if I had been in yours&mdash;I
should have made it the proper thing for you to do.&nbsp; There!&nbsp;
The ice is well broken, and now for business.&nbsp; You will lunch with
us, and dine in the evening.&nbsp; I have given it out that you are
of good family, so there is nothing odd in this.&nbsp; At lunch you
will not be the Sunchild, for my younger children will be there; at
dinner all present will know who you are, so we shall be free as soon
as the servants are out of the room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry, but I must send you away with George as soon as
the streets are empty&mdash;say at midnight&mdash;for the excitement
is too great to allow of your staying longer.&nbsp; We must keep your
rug and the things you cook with, but my wife will find you what will
serve your turn.&nbsp; There is no moon, so you and George will camp
out as soon as you get well on to the preserves; the weather is hot,
and you will neither of you take any harm.&nbsp; To-morrow by mid-day
you will be at the statues, where George must bid you good-bye, for
he must be at Sunch&rsquo;ston to-morrow night.&nbsp; You will doubtless
get safely home; I wish with all my heart that I could hear of your
having done so, but this, I fear, may not be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So be it,&rdquo; replied my father, &ldquo;but there is something
I should yet say.&nbsp; The Mayoress has no doubt told you of some gold,
coined and uncoined, that I am leaving for George.&nbsp; She will also
have told you that I am rich; this being so, I should have brought him
much more, if I had known that there was any such person.&nbsp; You
have other children; if you leave him anything, you will be taking it
away from your own flesh and blood; if you leave him nothing, it will
be a slur upon him.&nbsp; I must therefore send you enough gold, to
provide for George as your other children will be provided for; you
can settle it upon him at once, and make it clear that the settlement
is instead of provision for him by will.&nbsp; The difficulty is in
the getting the gold into Erewhon, and until it is actually here, he
must know nothing about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I have no space for the discussion that followed.&nbsp; In the end
it was settled that George was to have &pound;2000 in gold, which the
Mayor declared to be too much, and my father too little.&nbsp; Both,
however, were agreed that Erewhon would before long be compelled to
enter into relations with foreign countries, in which case the value
of gold would decline so much as to make &pound;2000 worth little more
than it would be in England.&nbsp; The Mayor proposed to buy land with
it, which he would hand over to George as a gift from himself, and this
my father at once acceded to.&nbsp; All sorts of questions such as will
occur to the reader were raised and settled, but I must beg him to be
content with knowing that everything was arranged with the good sense
that two such men were sure to bring to bear upon it.</p>
<p>The getting the gold into Erewhon was to be managed thus.&nbsp; George
was to know nothing, but a promise was to be got from him that at noon
on the following New Year&rsquo;s day, or whatever day might be agreed
upon, he would be at the statues, where either my father or myself would
meet him, spend a couple of hours with him, and then return.&nbsp; Whoever
met George was to bring the gold as though it were for the Mayor, and
George could be trusted to be human enough to bring it down, when he
saw that it would be left where it was if he did not do so.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He will kick a good deal,&rdquo; said the Mayor, &ldquo;at
first, but he will come round in the end.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Luncheon was now announced.&nbsp; My father was feeling faint and
ill; more than once during the forenoon he had had a return of the strange
giddiness and momentary loss of memory which had already twice attacked
him, but he had recovered in each case so quickly that no one had seen
he was unwell.&nbsp; He, poor man, did not yet know what serious brain
exhaustion these attacks betokened, and finding himself in his usual
health as soon as they passed away, set them down as simply effects
of fatigue and undue excitement.</p>
<p>George did not lunch with the others.&nbsp; Yram explained that he
had to draw up a report which would occupy him till dinner time.&nbsp;
Her three other sons, and her three lovely daughters, were there.&nbsp;
My father was delighted with all of them, for they made friends with
him at once.&nbsp; He had feared that he would have been disgraced in
their eyes, by his having just come from prison, but whatever they may
have thought, no trace of anything but a little engaging timidity on
the girls&rsquo; part was to be seen.&nbsp; The two elder boys&mdash;or
rather young men, for they seemed fully grown, though, like George,
not yet bearded&mdash;treated him as already an old acquaintance, while
the youngest, a lad of fourteen, walked straight up to him, put out
his hand, and said, &ldquo;How do you do, sir?&rdquo; with a pretty
blush that went straight to my father&rsquo;s heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;These boys,&rdquo; he said to Yram aside, &ldquo;who have
nothing to blush for&mdash;see how the blood mantles into their young
cheeks, while I, who should blush at being spoken to by them, cannot
do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do not talk nonsense,&rdquo; said Yram, with mock severity.</p>
<p>But it was no nonsense to my poor father.&nbsp; He was awed at the
goodness and beauty with which he found himself surrounded.&nbsp; His
thoughts were too full of what had been, what was, and what was yet
to be, to let him devote himself to these young people as he would dearly
have liked to do.&nbsp; He could only look at them, wonder at them,
fall in love with them, and thank heaven that George had been brought
up in such a household.</p>
<p>When luncheon was over, Yram said, &ldquo;I will now send you to
a room where you can lie down and go to sleep for a few hours.&nbsp;
You will be out late to-night, and had better rest while you can.&nbsp;
Do you remember the drink you taught us to make of corn parched and
ground?&nbsp; You used to say you liked it.&nbsp; A cup shall be brought
to your room at about five, for you must try and sleep till then.&nbsp;
If you notice a little box on the dressing-table of your room, you will
open it or no as you like.&nbsp; About half-past five there will be
a visitor, whose name you can guess, but I shall not let her stay long
with you.&nbsp; Here comes the servant to take you to your room.&rdquo;&nbsp;
On this she smiled, and turned somewhat hurriedly away.</p>
<p>My father on reaching his room went to the dressing-table, where
he saw a small unpretending box, which he immediately opened.&nbsp;
On the top was a paper with the words, &ldquo;Look&mdash;say nothing&mdash;forget.&rdquo;&nbsp;
Beneath this was some cotton wool, and then&mdash;the two buttons and
the lock of his own hair, that he had given Yram when he said good-bye
to her.</p>
<p>The ghost of the lock that Yram had then given him, rose from the
dead, and smote him as with a whip across the face.&nbsp; On what dust-heap
had it not been thrown how many long years ago?&nbsp; Then she had never
forgotten him? to have been remembered all these years by such a woman
as that, and never to have heeded it&mdash;never to have found out what
she was though he had seen her day after day for months.&nbsp; Ah! but
she was then still budding.&nbsp; That was no excuse.&nbsp; If a loveable
woman&mdash;aye, or any woman&mdash;has loved a man, even though he
cannot marry her, or even wish to do so, at any rate let him not forget
her&mdash;and he had forgotten Yram as completely until the last few
days, as though he had never seen her.&nbsp; He took her little missive,
and under &ldquo;Look,&rdquo; he wrote, &ldquo;I have;&rdquo; under
&ldquo;Say nothing,&rdquo; &ldquo;I will;&rdquo; under &ldquo;forget,&rdquo;
&ldquo;never.&rdquo;&nbsp; &ldquo;And I never shall,&rdquo; he said
to himself, as he replaced the box upon the table.&nbsp; He then lay
down to rest upon the bed, but he could get no sleep.</p>
<p>When the servant brought him his imitation coffee&mdash;an imitation
so successful that Yram made him a packet of it to replace the tea that
he must leave behind him&mdash;he rose and presently came downstairs
into the drawing-room, where he found Yram and Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s
grand-daughter, of whom I will say nothing, for I have never seen her,
and know nothing about her, except that my father found her a sweet-looking
girl, of graceful figure and very attractive expression.&nbsp; He was
quite happy about her, but she was too young and shy to make it possible
for him to do more than admire her appearance, and take Yram&rsquo;s
word for it that she was as good as she looked.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXIV: AFTER DINNER, DR. DOWNIE AND THE PROFESSORS WOULD
BE GLAD TO KNOW WHAT IS TO BE DONE ABOUT SUNCHILDISM</h2>
<p>It was about six when George&rsquo;s <i>fianc&eacute;e</i> left the
house, and as soon as she had done so, Yram began to see about the rug
and the best substitutes she could find for the billy and pannikin.&nbsp;
She had a basket packed with all that my father and George would want
to eat and drink while on the preserves, and enough of everything, except
meat, to keep my father going till he could reach the shepherd&rsquo;s
hut of which I have already spoken.&nbsp; Meat would not keep, and my
father could get plenty of flappers&mdash;i.e. ducks that cannot yet
fly&mdash;when he was on the river-bed down below.</p>
<p>The above preparations had not been made very long, before Mrs. Humdrum
arrived, followed presently by Dr. Downie and in due course by the Professors,
who were still staying in the house.&nbsp; My father remembered Mrs.
Humdrum&rsquo;s good honest face, but could not bring Dr. Downie to
his recollection till the Doctor told him when and where they had met,
and then he could only very uncertainly recall him, though he vowed
that he could now do so perfectly well.</p>
<p>&ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; said Hanky, advancing towards him with
his best Bridgeford manner, &ldquo;you will not have forgotten meeting
my brother Professor and myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It has been rather a forgetting sort of a morning,&rdquo;
said my father demurely, &ldquo;but I can remember that much, and am
delighted to renew my acquaintance with both of you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As he spoke he shook hands with both Professors.</p>
<p>George was a little late, but when he came, dinner was announced.&nbsp;
My father sat on Yram&rsquo;s right-hand, Dr. Downie on her left.&nbsp;
George was next my father, with Mrs. Humdrum opposite to him.&nbsp;
The Professors sat one on either side of the Mayor.&nbsp; During dinner
the conversation turned almost entirely on my father&rsquo;s flight,
his narrow escape from drowning, and his adventures on his return to
England; about these last my father was very reticent, for he said nothing
about his book, and antedated his accession of wealth by some fifteen
years, but as he walked up towards the statues with George he told him
everything.</p>
<p>My father repeatedly tried to turn the conversation from himself,
but Mrs. Humdrum and Yram wanted to know about Nna Haras, as they persisted
in calling my mother&mdash;how she endured her terrible experiences
in the balloon, when she and my father were married, all about my unworthy
self, and England generally.&nbsp; No matter how often he began to ask
questions about the Nosnibors and other old acquaintances, both the
ladies soon went back to his own adventures.&nbsp; He succeeded, however,
in learning that Mr. Nosnibor was dead, and Zulora, an old maid of the
most unattractive kind, who had persistently refused to accept Sunchildism,
while Mrs. Nosnibor was the recipient of honours hardly inferior to
those conferred by the people at large on my father and mother, with
whom, indeed, she believed herself to have frequent interviews by way
of visionary revelations.&nbsp; So intolerable were these revelations
to Zulora, that a separate establishment had been provided for her.&nbsp;
George said to my father quietly&mdash;&ldquo;Do you know I begin to
think that Zulora must be rather a nice person.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; said my father grimly, &ldquo;but my wife
and I did not find it out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When the ladies left the room, Dr. Downie took Yram&rsquo;s seat,
and Hanky Dr. Downie&rsquo;s; the Mayor took Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s, leaving
my father, George, and Panky, in their old places.&nbsp; Almost immediately,
Dr. Downie said, &ldquo;And now, Mr, Higgs, tell us, as a man of the
world, what we are to do about Sunchildism?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father smiled at this.&nbsp; &ldquo;You know, my dear sir, as
well as I do, that the proper thing would be to put me back in prison,
and keep me there till you can send me down to the capital.&nbsp; You
should eat your oaths of this morning, as I would eat mine; tell every
one here who I am; let them see that my hair has been dyed; get all
who knew me when I was here before to come and see me; appoint an unimpeachable
committee to examine the record of my marks and measurements, and compare
it with those of my own body.&nbsp; You should let me be seen in every
town at which I lodged on my way down, and tell people that you had
made a mistake.&nbsp; When you get to the capital, hand me over to the
King&rsquo;s tender mercies and say that our oaths were only taken this
morning to prevent a ferment in the town.&nbsp; I will play my part
very willingly.&nbsp; The King can only kill me, and I should die like
a gentleman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They will not do it,&rdquo; said George quietly to my father,
&ldquo;and I am glad of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He was right.&nbsp; &ldquo;This,&rdquo; said Dr. Downie, &ldquo;is
a counsel of perfection.&nbsp; Things have gone too far, and we are
flesh and blood.&nbsp; What would those who in your country come nearest
to us Musical Bank Managers do, if they found they had made such a mistake
as we have, and dared not own it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do not ask me,&rdquo; said my father; &ldquo;the story is
too long, and too terrible.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At any rate, then, tell us what you would have us do that
is within our reach.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have done you harm enough, and if I preach, as likely as
not I shall do more.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Seeing, however, that Dr. Downie was anxious to hear what he thought,
my father said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then I must tell you.&nbsp; Our religion sets before us an
ideal which we all cordially accept, but it also tells us of marvels
like your chariot and horses, which we most of us reject.&nbsp; Our
best teachers insist on the ideal, and keep the marvels in the background.&nbsp;
If they could say outright that our age has outgrown them, they would
say so, but this they may not do; nevertheless they contrive to let
their opinions be sufficiently well known, and their hearers are content
with this.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We have others who take a very different course, but of these
I will not speak.&nbsp; Roughly, then, if you cannot abolish me altogether,
make me a peg on which to hang all your own best ethical and spiritual
conceptions.&nbsp; If you will do this, and wriggle out of that wretched
relic, with that not less wretched picture&mdash;if you will make me
out to be much better and abler than I was, or ever shall be, Sunchildism
may serve your turn for many a long year to come.&nbsp; Otherwise it
will tumble about your heads before you think it will.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Am I to go on or stop?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; said George softly.&nbsp; That was enough for
my father, so on he went.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are already doing part of what I wish.&nbsp; I was delighted
with the two passages I heard on Sunday, from what you call the Sunchild&rsquo;s
Sayings.&nbsp; I never said a word of either passage; I wish I had;
I wish I could say anything half so good.&nbsp; And I have read a pamphlet
by President Gurgoyle, which I liked extremely; but I never said what
he says I did.&nbsp; Again, I wish I had.&nbsp; Keep to this sort of
thing, and I will be as good a Sunchildist as any of you.&nbsp; But
you must bribe some thief to steal that relic, and break it up to mend
the roads with; and&mdash;for I believe that here as elsewhere fires
sometimes get lighted through the carelessness of a workman&mdash;set
the most careless workman you can find to do a plumbing job near that
picture.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Hanky looked black at this, and George trod lightly on my father&rsquo;s
toe, but he told me that my father&rsquo;s face was innocence itself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;These are hard sayings,&rdquo; said Dr. Downie.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know they are,&rdquo; replied my father, &ldquo;and I do
not like saying them, but there is no royal road to unlearning, and
you have much to unlearn.&nbsp; Still, you Musical Bank people bear
witness to the fact that beyond the kingdoms of this world there is
another, within which the writs of this world&rsquo;s kingdoms do not
run.&nbsp; This is the great service which our church does for us in
England, and hence many of us uphold it, though we have no sympathy
with the party now dominant within it.&nbsp; &lsquo;Better,&rsquo; we
think, &lsquo;a corrupt church than none at all.&rsquo;&nbsp; Moreover,
those who in my country would step into the church&rsquo;s shoes are
as corrupt as the church, and more exacting.&nbsp; They are also more
dangerous, for the masses distrust the church, and are on their guard
against aggression, whereas they do not suspect the doctrinaires and
faddists, who, if they could, would interfere in every concern of our
lives.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me return to yourselves.&nbsp; You Musical Bank Managers
are very much such a body of men as your country needs&mdash;but when
I was here before you had no figurehead; I have unwittingly supplied
you with one, and it is perhaps because you saw this, that you good
people of Bridgeford took up with me.&nbsp; Sunchildism is still young
and plastic; if you will let the cock-and-bull stories about me tacitly
drop, and invent no new ones, beyond saying what a delightful person
I was, I really cannot see why I should not do for you as well as any
one else.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There.&nbsp; What I have said is nine-tenths of it rotten
and wrong, but it is the most practicable rotten and wrong that I can
suggest, seeing into what a rotten and wrong state of things you have
drifted.&nbsp; And now, Mr. Mayor, do you not think we may join the
Mayoress and Mrs. Humdrum?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As you please, Mr. Higgs,&rdquo; answered the Mayor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then let us go, for I have said too much already, and your
son George tells me that we must be starting shortly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As they were leaving the room Panky sidled up to my father and said,
&ldquo;There is a point, Mr. Higgs, which you can settle for me, though
I feel pretty certain how you will settle it.&nbsp; I think that a corruption
has crept into the text of the very beautiful&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>At this moment, as my father, who saw what was coming, was wondering
what in the world he could say, George came up to him and said, &ldquo;Mr.
Higgs, my mother wishes me to take you down into the store-room, to
make sure that she has put everything for you as you would like it.&rdquo;&nbsp;
On this my father said he would return directly and answer what he knew
would be Panky&rsquo;s question.</p>
<p>When Yram had shewn what she had prepared&mdash;all of it, of course,
faultless&mdash;she said, &ldquo;And now, Mr. Higgs, about our leave-taking.&nbsp;
Of course we shall both of us feel much.&nbsp; I shall; I know you will;
George will have a few more hours with you than the rest of us, but
his time to say good-bye will come, and it will be painful to both of
you.&nbsp; I am glad you came&mdash;I am glad you have seen George,
and George you, and that you took to one another.&nbsp; I am glad my
husband has seen you; he has spoken to me about you very warmly, for
he has taken to you much as George did.&nbsp; I am very, very glad to
have seen you myself, and to have learned what became of you&mdash;and
of your wife.&nbsp; I know you wish well to all of us; be sure that
we all of us wish most heartily well to you and yours.&nbsp; I sent
for you and George, because I could not say all this unless we were
alone; it is all I can do,&rdquo; she said, with a smile, &ldquo;to
say it now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Indeed it was, for the tears were in her eyes all the time, as they
were also in my father&rsquo;s.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let this,&rdquo; continued Yram, &ldquo;be our leave-taking&mdash;for
we must have nothing like a scene upstairs.&nbsp; Just shake hands with
us all, say the usual conventional things, and make it as short as you
can; but I could not bear to send you away without a few warmer words
than I could have said when others were in the room.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;May heaven bless you and yours,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;for
ever and ever.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That will do,&rdquo; said George gently.&nbsp; &ldquo;Now,
both of you shake hands, and come upstairs with me.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>When all three of them had got calm, for George had been moved almost
as much as his father and mother, they went upstairs, and Panky came
for his answer.&nbsp; &ldquo;You are very possibly right,&rdquo; said
my father&mdash;&ldquo;the version you hold to be corrupt is the one
in common use amongst ourselves, but it is only a translation, and very
possibly only a translation of a translation, so that it may perhaps
have been corrupted before it reached us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That,&rdquo; said Panky, &ldquo;will explain everything,&rdquo;
and he went contentedly away.</p>
<p>My father talked a little aside with Mrs. Humdrum about her grand-daughter
and George, for Yram had told him that she knew all about the attachment,
and then George, who saw that my father found the greatest difficulty
in maintaining an outward calm, said, &ldquo;Mr. Higgs, the streets
are empty; we had better go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father did as Yram had told him; shook hands with every one, said
all that was usual and proper as briefly as he could, and followed George
out of the room.&nbsp; The Mayor saw them to the door, and saved my
father from embarrassment by saying, &ldquo;Mr. Higgs, you and I understand
one another too well to make it necessary for us to say so.&nbsp; Good-bye
to you, and may no ill befall you ere you get home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father grasped his hand in both his own.&nbsp; &ldquo;Again,&rdquo;
he said, &ldquo;I can say no more than that I thank you from the bottom
of my heart.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As he spoke he bowed his head, and went out with George into the
night.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXV: GEORGE ESCORTS MY FATHER TO THE STATUES; THE TWO THEN
PART</h2>
<p>The streets were quite deserted as George had said they would be,
and very dark, save for an occasional oil lamp.</p>
<p>&ldquo;As soon as we can get within the preserves,&rdquo; said George,
&ldquo;we had better wait till morning.&nbsp; I have a rug for myself
as well as for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw you had two,&rdquo; answered my father; &ldquo;you must
let me carry them both; the provisions are much the heavier load.”</p>
<p>George fought as hard as a dog would do, till my father said that
they must not quarrel during the very short time they had to be together.&nbsp;
On this George gave up one rug meekly enough, and my father yielded
about the basket, and the other rug.</p>
<p>It was about half-past eleven when they started, and it was after
one before they reached the preserves.&nbsp; For the first mile from
the town they were not much hindered by the darkness, and my father
told George about his book and many another matter; he also promised
George to say nothing about this second visit.&nbsp; Then the road became
more rough, and when it dwindled away to be a mere lane&mdash;becoming
presently only a foot track&mdash;they had to mind their footsteps,
and got on but slowly.&nbsp; The night was starlit, and warm, considering
that they were more than three thousand feet above the sea, but it was
very dark, so that my father was well enough pleased when George showed
him the white stones that marked the boundary, and said they had better
soon make themselves as comfortable as they could till morning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We can stay here,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;till half-past three,
there will be a little daylight then; we will rest half an hour for
breakfast at about five, and by noon we shall be at the statues, where
we will dine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>This being settled, George rolled himself up in his rug, and in a
few minutes went comfortably off to sleep.&nbsp; Not so my poor father.&nbsp;
He wound up his watch, wrapped his rug round him, and lay down; but
he could get no sleep.&nbsp; After such a day, and such an evening,
how could any one have slept?</p>
<p>About three the first signs of dawn began to show, and half an hour
later my father could see the sleeping face of his son&mdash;whom it
went to his heart to wake.&nbsp; Nevertheless he woke him, and in a
few minutes the two were on their way&mdash;George as fresh as a lark&mdash;my
poor father intent on nothing so much as on hiding from George how ill
and unsound in body and mind he was feeling.</p>
<p>They walked on, saying but little, till at five by my father&rsquo;s
watch George proposed a halt for breakfast.&nbsp; The spot he chose
was a grassy oasis among the trees, carpeted with subalpine flowers,
now in their fullest beauty, and close to a small stream that here came
down from a side valley.&nbsp; The freshness of the morning air, the
extreme beauty of the place, the lovely birds that flitted from tree
to tree, the exquisite shapes and colours of the flowers, still dew-bespangled,
and above all, the tenderness with which George treated him, soothed
my father, and when he and George had lit a fire and made some hot corn-coffee&mdash;with
a view to which Yram had put up a bottle of milk&mdash;he felt so much
restored as to look forward to the rest of his journey without alarm.&nbsp;
Moreover he had nothing to carry, for George had left his own rug at
the place where they had slept, knowing that he should find it on his
return; he had therefore insisted on carrying my father&rsquo;s.&nbsp;
My father fought as long as he could, but he had to give in.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now tell me,&rdquo; said George, glad to change the subject,
&ldquo;what will those three men do about what you said to them last
night?&nbsp; Will they pay any attention to it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father laughed.&nbsp; &ldquo;My dear George, what a question&mdash;I
do not know them well enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, you do.&nbsp; At any rate say what you think most
likely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well.&nbsp; I think Dr. Downie will do much as I said.&nbsp;
He will not throw the whole thing over, through fear of schism, loyalty
to a party from which he cannot well detach himself, and because he
does not think that the public is quite tired enough of its toy.&nbsp;
He will neither preach nor write against it, but he will live lukewarmly
against it, and this is what the Hankys hate.&nbsp; They can stand either
hot or cold, but they are afraid of lukewarm.&nbsp; In England Dr. Downie
would be a Broad Churchman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think we shall ever get rid of Sunchildism altogether?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If they stick to the cock-and-bull stories they are telling
now, and rub them in, as Hanky did on Sunday, it may go, and go soon.&nbsp;
It has taken root too quickly and easily; and its top is too heavy for
its roots; still there are so many chances in its favour that it may
last a long time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And how about Hanky?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He will brazen it out, relic, chariot, and all: and he will
welcome more relics and more cock-and-bull stories; his single eye will
be upon his own aggrandisement and that of his order.&nbsp; Plausible,
unscrupulous, heartless scoundrel that he is, he will play for the queen
and the women of the court, as Dr. Downie will play for the king and
the men.&nbsp; He and his party will sleep neither night nor day, but
they will have one redeeming feature&mdash;whoever they may deceive,
they will not deceive themselves.&nbsp; They believe every one else
to be as bad as they are, and see no reason why they should not push
their own wares in the way of business.&nbsp; Hanky is everything that
we in England rightly or wrongly believe a typical Jesuit to be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And Panky&mdash;what about him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Panky must persuade himself of his own lies, before he is
quite comfortable about telling them to other people.&nbsp; Hanky keeps
Hanky well out of it; Panky must have a base of operations in Panky.&nbsp;
Hanky will lead him by the nose, bit by bit, for his is the master spirit.&nbsp;
In England Panky would be what we call an extreme ritualist.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then the real battle will be between Hanky and Dr. Downie.&nbsp;
Which will carry the day?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;For the present, probably Hanky.&nbsp; He is the more vigilant,
and energetic; in this case Sunchildism will have to go, and I am afraid
your whole Musical Bank system will be swept away along with it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And why not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because, my dear boy, though false in the letter, if good
counsels prevail, it may be made true enough in spirit.&nbsp; If it
were to go, its place would be soon filled by men who would be as false
in letter as the others were, and much more false in spirit.&nbsp; You
want a heart to check your head, and a head to check your heart.&nbsp;
As in our English body politic there are two parties opposed to one
another, neither of which can thrive if the other is unduly weakened,
so in our spiritual and intellectual world two parties more or less
antagonistic are equally necessary.&nbsp; Those who are at the head
of science provide us with the one party; those whom we call our churchmen
are the other.&nbsp; Both are corrupt, but we can spare neither, for
each checks as far as it can the corruptions of the other.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you would have us uphold Sunchildism, knowing it to be
untrue?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do what you will, you will not get perfect truth.&nbsp; And
if you can follow the lead which I believe Dr. Downie will give you,
that is to say, get rid of cock-and-bull stories, idealise my unworthy
self, and, as I said last night, make me a peg on which to hang your
own best thoughts&mdash;Sunchildism will be as near truth as anything
you are likely to get.&nbsp; But if Hankyism triumphs, come what may
you must get rid of it, for he and his school will tamper with the one
sure and everlasting word of God revealed to us by human experience.&nbsp;
He who plays fast and loose with this is as one who would forge God&rsquo;s
signature to a cheque drawn on God&rsquo;s own bank.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are we to foster the belief that it was indeed the Sunchild
who interrupted Hanky&rsquo;s sermon?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, where you safely can, but not otherwise; and commit the
facts to writing as soon as you can find time.&nbsp; Do nothing to jeopardise
your own safety; you can do more by perfunctory acquiescence than by
open dissent.&nbsp; And tell those friends whom you can trust, what
these my parting words to you have been.&nbsp; But above all I charge
you solemnly, do nothing to jeopardise your own safety; you cannot play
into Hanky&rsquo;s hands more certainly than by risking this.&nbsp;
Think how he and Panky would rejoice, and how Dr. Downie would grieve.&nbsp;
Be wise and wary; bide your time; do what you prudently can, and you
will find you can do much; try to do more, and you will do nothing.&nbsp;
Be guided by the Mayor, by your mother&mdash;and by that dear old lady
whose grandson you will&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then they have told you,&rdquo; interrupted the youth blushing
scarlet.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dearest boy, of course they have, and I have seen her,
and am head over ears in love with her myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He was all smiles and blushes, and vowed for a few minutes that it
was a shame of them to tell me, but presently he said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you like her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Rather!&rdquo; said my father vehemently, and shaking George
by the hand.&nbsp; But he said nothing about the nuggets and the sovereigns,
knowing that Yram did not wish him to do so.&nbsp; Neither did George
say anything about his determination to start for the capital in the
morning, and make a clean breast of everything to the King.&nbsp; So
soon does it become necessary even for those who are most cordially
attached to hide things from one another.&nbsp; My father, however,
was made comfortable by receiving a promise from the youth that he would
take no step of which the persons he had named would disapprove.</p>
<p>When once Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s grand-daughter had been introduced
there was no more talking about Hanky and Panky; for George began to
bubble over with the subject that was nearest his heart, and how much
he feared that it would be some time yet before he could be married.&nbsp;
Many a story did he tell of his early attachment and of its course for
the last ten years, but my space will not allow me to inflict one of
them on the reader.&nbsp; My father saw that the more he listened and
sympathised and encouraged, the fonder George became of him, and this
was all he cared about.</p>
<p>Thus did they converse hour after hour.&nbsp; They passed the Blue
Pool, without seeing it or even talking about it for more than a minute.&nbsp;
George kept an eye on the quails and declared them fairly plentiful
and strong on the wing, but nothing now could keep him from pouring
out his whole heart about Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s grand-daughter, until
towards noon they caught sight of the statues, and a halt was made which
gave my father the first pang he had felt that morning, for he knew
that the statues would be the beginning of the end.</p>
<p>There was no need to light a fire, for Yram had packed for them two
bottles of a delicious white wine, something like White Capri, which
went admirably with the many more solid good things that she had provided
for them.&nbsp; As soon as they had finished a hearty meal my father
said to George, &ldquo;You must have my watch for a keepsake; I see
you are not wearing my boots.&nbsp; I fear you did not find them comfortable,
but I am glad you have not got them on, for I have set my heart on keeping
yours.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let us settle about the boots first.&nbsp; I rather fancied
that that was why you put me off when I wanted to get my own back again;
and then I thought I should like yours for a keepsake, so I put on another
pair last night, and they are nothing like so comfortable as yours were.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now I wonder,&rdquo; said my father to me, &ldquo;whether
this was true, or whether it was only that dear fellow&rsquo;s pretty
invention; but true or false I was as delighted as he meant me to be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I asked George about this when I saw him, and he confessed with an
ingenuous blush that my father&rsquo;s boots had hurt him, and that
he had never thought of making a keepsake of them, till my father&rsquo;s
words stimulated his invention.</p>
<p>As for the watch, which was only a silver one, but of the best make,
George protested for a time, but when he had yielded, my father could
see that he was overjoyed at getting it; for watches, though now permitted,
were expensive and not in common use.</p>
<p>Having thus bribed him, my father broached the possibility of his
meeting him at the statues on that day twelvemonth, but of course saying
nothing about why he was so anxious that he should come.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will come,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;not a yard farther
than the statues, and if I cannot come I will send your brother.&nbsp;
And I will come at noon; but it is possible that the river down below
may be in fresh, and I may not be able to hit off the day, though I
will move heaven and earth to do so.&nbsp; Therefore if I do not meet
you on the day appointed, do your best to come also at noon on the following
day.&nbsp; I know how inconvenient this will be for you, and will come
true to the day if it is possible.&rdquo;</p>
<p>To my father&rsquo;s surprise, George did not raise so many difficulties
as he had expected.&nbsp; He said it might be done, if neither he nor
my father were to go beyond the statues.&nbsp; &ldquo;And difficult
as it will be for you,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;you had better come
a second day if necessary, as I will, for who can tell what might happen
to make the first day impossible?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;we shall be spared that
horrible feeling that we are parting without hope of seeing each other
again.&nbsp; I find it hard enough to say good-bye even now, but I do
not know how I could have faced it if you had not agreed to our meeting
again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The day fixed upon will be our XXI. i. 3, and the hour noon
as near as may be?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So.&nbsp; Let me write it down: &lsquo;XXI. i. 3, <i>i.e</i>.
our December 9, 1891, I am to meet George at the statues, at twelve
o&rsquo;clock, and if he does not come, I am to be there again on the
following day.&rsquo;”</p>
<p>In like manner, George wrote down what he was to do: &ldquo;XXI.
i. 3, or failing this XXI. i. 4.&nbsp; Statues.&nbsp; Noon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;is a solemn covenant, is it not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said my father, &ldquo;and may all good omens
attend it!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The words were not out of his mouth before a mountain bird, something
like our jackdaw, but smaller and of a bluer black, flew out of the
hollow mouth of one of the statues, and with a hearty chuckle perched
on the ground at his feet, attracted doubtless by the scraps of food
that were lying about.&nbsp; With the fearlessness of birds in that
country, it looked up at him and George, gave another hearty chuckle,
and flew back to its statue with the largest fragment it could find.</p>
<p>They settled that this was an omen so propitious that they could
part in good hope.&nbsp; &ldquo;Let us finish the wine,&rdquo; said
my father, &ldquo;and then, do what must be done!&rdquo;</p>
<p>They finished the wine to each other&rsquo;s good health; George
drank also to mine, and said he hoped my father would bring me with
him, while my father drank to Yram, the Mayor, their children, Mrs.
Humdrum, and above all to Mrs. Humdrum&rsquo;s grand-daughter.&nbsp;
They then re-packed all that could be taken away; my father rolled his
rug to his liking, slung it over his shoulder, gripped George&rsquo;s
hand, and said, &ldquo;My dearest boy, when we have each turned our
backs upon one another, let us walk our several ways as fast as we can,
and try not to look behind us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So saying he loosed his grip of George&rsquo;s hand, bared his head,
lowered it, and turned away.</p>
<p>George burst into tears, and followed him after he had gone two paces;
he threw his arms round him, hugged him, kissed him on his lips, cheeks,
and forehead, and then turning round, strode full speed towards Sunch&rsquo;ston.&nbsp;
My father never took his eyes off him till he was out of sight, but
the boy did not look round.&nbsp; When he could see him no more, my
father with faltering gait, and feeling as though a prop had suddenly
been taken from under him, began to follow the stream down towards his
old camp.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVI: MY FATHER REACHES HOME, AND DIES NOT LONG AFTERWARDS</h2>
<p>My father could walk but slowly, for George&rsquo;s boots had blistered
his feet, and it seemed to him that the river-bed, of which he caught
glimpses now and again, never got any nearer; but all things come to
an end, and by seven o&rsquo;clock on the night of Tuesday, he was on
the spot which he had left on the preceding Friday morning.&nbsp; Three
entire days had intervened, but he felt that something, he knew not
what, had seized him, and that whereas before these three days life
had been one thing, what little might follow them, would be another&mdash;and
a very different one.</p>
<p>He soon caught sight of his horse which had strayed a mile lower
down the river-bed, and in spite of his hobbles had crossed one ugly
stream that my father dared not ford on foot.&nbsp; Tired though he
was, he went after him, bridle in hand, and when the friendly creature
saw him, it recrossed the stream, and came to him of its own accord&mdash;either
tired of his own company, or tempted by some bread my father held out
towards him.&nbsp; My father took off the hobbles, and rode him bare-backed
to the camping ground, where he rewarded him with more bread and biscuit,
and then hobbled him again for the night.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was here,&rdquo; he said to me on one of the first days
after his return, &ldquo;that I first knew myself to be a broken man.&nbsp;
As for meeting George again, I felt sure that it would be all I could
do to meet his brother; and though George was always in my thoughts,
it was for you and not him that I was now yearning.&nbsp; When I gave
George my watch, how glad I was that I had left my gold one at home,
for that is yours, and I could not have brought myself to give it him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind that, my dear father,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;but
tell me how you got down the river, and thence home again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My very dear boy,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I can hardly remember,
and I had no energy to make any more notes.&nbsp; I remember putting
a scrap of paper into the box of sovereigns, merely sending George my
love along with the money; I remember also dropping the box into a hole
in a tree, which I blazed, and towards which I drew a line of wood-ashes.&nbsp;
I seem to see a poor unhinged creature gazing moodily for hours into
a fire which he heaps up now and again with wood.&nbsp; There is not
a breath of air; Nature sleeps so calmly that she dares not even breathe
for fear of waking; the very river has hushed his flow.&nbsp; Without,
the starlit calm of a summer&rsquo;s night in a great wilderness; within,
a hurricane of wild and incoherent thoughts battling with one another
in their fury to fall upon him and rend him&mdash;and on the other side
the great wall of mountain, thousands of children praying at their mother&rsquo;s
knee to this poor dazed thing.&nbsp; I suppose this half delirious wretch
must have been myself.&nbsp; But I must have been more ill when I left
England than I thought I was, or Erewhon would not have broken me down
as it did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>No doubt he was right.&nbsp; Indeed it was because Mr. Cathie and
his doctor saw that he was out of health and in urgent need of change,
that they left off opposing his wish to travel.&nbsp; There is no use,
however, in talking about this now.</p>
<p>I never got from him how he managed to reach the shepherd&rsquo;s
hut, but I learned some little from the shepherd, when I stayed with
him both on going towards Erewhon, and on returning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He did not seem to have drink in him,&rdquo; said the shepherd,
&ldquo;when he first came here; but he must have been pretty full of
it, or he must have had some bottles in his saddle-bags; for he was
awful when he came back.&nbsp; He had got them worse than any man I
ever saw, only that he was not awkward.&nbsp; He said there was a bird
flying out of a giant&rsquo;s mouth and laughing at him, and he kept
muttering about a blue pool, and hanky-panky of all sorts, and he said
he knew it was all hanky-panky, at least I thought he said so, but it
was no use trying to follow him, for it was all nothing but horrors.&nbsp;
He said I was to stop the people from trying to worship him.&nbsp; Then
he said the sky opened and he could see the angels going about and singing
&lsquo;Hallelujah.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How long did he stay with you?&rdquo; I asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;About ten days, but the last three he was himself again, only
too weak to move.&nbsp; He thought he was cured except for weakness.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you know how he had been spending the last two days or
so before he got down to your hut?&rdquo;</p>
<p>I said two days, because this was the time I supposed he would take
to descend the river.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should say drinking all the time.&nbsp; He said he had fallen
off his horse two or three times, till he took to leading him.&nbsp;
If he had had any other horse than old Doctor he would have been a dead
man.&nbsp; Bless you, I have known that horse ever since he was foaled,
and I never saw one like him for sense.&nbsp; He would pick fords better
than that gentleman could, I know, and if the gentleman fell off him
he would just stay stock still.&nbsp; He was badly bruised, poor man,
when he got here.&nbsp; I saw him through the gorge when he left me,
and he gave me a sovereign; he said he had only one other left to take
him down to the port, or he would have made it more.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He was my father,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and he is dead, but
before he died he told me to give you five pounds which I have brought
you.&nbsp; I think you are wrong in saying that he had been drinking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is what they all say; but I take it very kind of him
to have thought of me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>My father&rsquo;s illness for the first three weeks after his return
played with him as a cat plays with a mouse; now and again it would
let him have a day or two&rsquo;s run, during which he was so cheerful
and unclouded that his doctor was quite hopeful about him.&nbsp; At
various times on these occasions I got from him that when he left the
shepherd&rsquo;s hut, he thought his illness had run itself out, and
that he should now reach the port from which he was to sail for S. Francisco
without misadventure.&nbsp; This he did, and he was able to do all he
had to do at the port, though frequently attacked with passing fits
of giddiness.&nbsp; I need not dwell upon his voyage to S. Francisco,
and thence home; it is enough to say that he was able to travel by himself
in spite of gradually, but continually, increasing failure.</p>
<p>&ldquo;When,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I reached the port, I telegraphed
as you know, for more money.&nbsp; How puzzled you must have been.&nbsp;
I sold my horse to the man from whom I bought it, at a loss of only
about &pound;10, and I left with him my saddle, saddle-bags, small hatchet,
my hobbles, and in fact everything that I had taken with me, except
what they had impounded in Erewhon.&nbsp; Yram&rsquo;s rug I dropped
into the river when I knew that I should no longer need it&mdash;as
also her substitutes for my billy and pannikin; and I burned her basket.&nbsp;
The shepherd would have asked me questions.&nbsp; You will find an order
to deliver everything up to bearer.&nbsp; You need therefore take nothing
from England.&rdquo;</p>
<p>At another time he said, &ldquo;When you go, for it is plain I cannot,
and go one or other of us must, try and get the horse I had: he will
be nine years old, and he knows all about the rivers: if you leave everything
to him, you may shut your eyes, but do not interfere with him.&nbsp;
Give the shepherd what I said and he will attend to you, but go a day
or two too soon, for the margin of one day was not enough to allow in
case of a fresh in the river; if the water is discoloured you must not
cross it&mdash;not even with Doctor.&nbsp; I could not ask George to
come up three days running from Sunch&rsquo;ston to the statues and
back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Here he became exhausted.&nbsp; Almost the last coherent string of
sentences I got from him was as follows:-</p>
<p>&ldquo;About George&rsquo;s money if I send him &pound;2000 you will
still have nearly &pound;150,000 left, and Mr. Cathie will not let you
try to make it more.&nbsp; I know you would give him four or five thousand,
but the Mayor and I talked it over, and settled that &pound;2000 in
gold would make him a rich man.&nbsp; Consult our good friend Alfred&rdquo;
(meaning, of course, Mr. Cathie) &ldquo;about the best way of taking
the money.&nbsp; I am afraid there is nothing for it but gold, and this
will be a great weight for you to carry&mdash;about, I believe 36 lbs.&nbsp;
Can you do this?&nbsp; I really think that if you lead your horse you
. . . no&mdash;there will be the getting him down again&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry about it, my dear father,&rdquo; said I,
&ldquo;I can do it easily if I stow the load rightly, and I will see
to this.&nbsp; I shall have nothing else to carry, for I shall camp
down below both morning and evening.&nbsp; But would you not like to
send some present to the Mayor, Yram, their other children, and Mrs.
Humdrum&rsquo;s grand-daughter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do what you can,&rdquo; said my father.&nbsp; And these were
the last instructions he gave me about those adventures with which alone
this work is concerned.</p>
<p>The day before he died, he had a little flicker of intelligence,
but all of a sudden his face became clouded as with great anxiety; he
seemed to see some horrible chasm in front of him which he had to cross,
or which he feared that I must cross, for he gasped out words, which,
as near as I could catch them, were, &ldquo;Look out!&nbsp; John!&nbsp;
Leap!&nbsp; Leap!&nbsp; Le.... &rdquo; but he could not say all that
he was trying to say and closed his eyes, having, as I then deemed,
seen that he was on the brink of that gulf which lies between life and
death; I took it that in reality he died at that moment; for there was
neither struggle, nor hardly movement of any kind afterwards&mdash;nothing
but a pulse which for the next several hours grew fainter and fainter
so gradually, that it was not till some time after it had ceased to
beat that we were certain of its having done so.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVII: I MEET MY BROTHER GEORGE AT THE STATUES, ON THE TOP
OF THE PASS INTO EREWHON</h2>
<p>This book has already become longer than I intended, but I will ask
the reader to have patience while I tell him briefly of my own visit
to the threshold of that strange country of which I fear that he may
be already beginning to tire.</p>
<p>The winding-up of my father&rsquo;s estate was a very simple matter,
and by the beginning of September 1891 I should have been free to start;
but about that time I became engaged, and naturally enough I did not
want to be longer away than was necessary.&nbsp; I should not have gone
at all if I could have helped it.&nbsp; I left, however, a fortnight
later than my father had done.</p>
<p>Before starting I bought a handsome gold repeater for the Mayor,
and a brooch for Yram, of pearls and diamonds set in gold, for which
I paid &pound;200.&nbsp; For Yram&rsquo;s three daughters and for Mrs.
Humdrum&rsquo;s grand-daughter I took four brooches each of which cost
about &pound;15, 15s., and for the boys I got three ten-guinea silver
watches.&nbsp; For George I only took a strong English knife of the
best make, and the two thousand pounds worth of uncoined gold, which
for convenience&rsquo; sake I had had made into small bars.&nbsp; I
also had a knapsack made that would hold these and nothing else&mdash;each
bar being strongly sewn into its place, so that none of them could shift.&nbsp;
Whenever I went on board ship, or went on shore, I put this on my back,
so that no one handled it except myself&mdash;and I can assure the reader
that I did not find it a light weight to handle.&nbsp; I ought to have
taken something for old Mrs. Humdrum, but I am ashamed to say that I
forgot her.</p>
<p>I went as directly as I could to the port of which my father had
told me, and reached it on November 27, one day later than he had done
in the preceding year.</p>
<p>On the following day, which was a Saturday, I went to the livery
stables from which my father had bought his horse, and found to my great
delight that Doctor could be at my disposal, for, as it seemed to me,
the very reasonable price of fifteen shillings a day.&nbsp; I shewed
the owner of the stables my father&rsquo;s order, and all the articles
he had left were immediately delivered to me.&nbsp; I was still wearing
crape round one arm, and the horse-dealer, whose name was Baker, said
he was afraid the other gentleman might be dead.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Indeed, he is so,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and a great grief
it is to me; he was my father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dear, dear,&rdquo; answered Mr. Baker, &ldquo;that is a very
serious thing for the poor gentleman.&nbsp; He seemed quite unfit to
travel alone, and I feared he was not long for this world, but he was
bent on going.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I had nothing now to do but to buy a blanket, pannikin, and billy,
with some tea, tobacco, two bottles of brandy, some ship&rsquo;s biscuits,
and whatever other few items were down on the list of requisites which
my father had dictated to me.&nbsp; Mr. Baker, seeing that I was what
he called a new chum, shewed me how to pack my horse, but I kept my
knapsack full of gold on my back, and though I could see that it puzzled
him, he asked no questions.&nbsp; There was no reason why I should not
set out at once for the principal town of the colony, which was some
ten miles inland; I, therefore, arranged at my hotel that the greater
part of my luggage should await my return, and set out to climb the
high hills that back the port.&nbsp; From the top of these I had a magnificent
view of the plains that I should have to cross, and of the long range
of distant mountains which bounded them north and south as far as the
eye could reach.&nbsp; On some of the mountains I could still see streaks
of snow, but my father had explained to me that the ranges I should
here see, were not those dividing the English colony from Erewhon.&nbsp;
I also saw, some nine miles or so out upon the plains, the more prominent
buildings of a large town which seemed to be embosomed in trees, and
this I reached in about an hour and a half; for I had to descend at
a foot&rsquo;s pace, and Doctor&rsquo;s many virtues did not comprise
a willingness to go beyond an amble.</p>
<p>At the town above referred to I spent the night, and began to strike
across the plains on the following morning.&nbsp; I might have crossed
these in three days at twenty-five miles a day, but I had too much time
on my hands, and my load of gold was so uncomfortable that I was glad
to stay at one accommodation house after another, averaging about eighteen
miles a day.&nbsp; I have no doubt that if I had taken advice, I could
have stowed my load more conveniently, but I could not unpack it, and
made the best of it as it was.</p>
<p>On the evening of Wednesday, December 2, I reached the river which
I should have to follow up; it was here nearing the gorge through which
it had to pass before the country opened out again at the back of the
front range.&nbsp; I came upon it quite suddenly on reaching the brink
of a great terrace, the bank of which sloped almost precipitously down
towards it, but was covered with grass.&nbsp; The terrace was some three
hundred feet above the river, and faced another similar one, which was
from a mile and a half to two miles distant.&nbsp; At the bottom of
this huge yawning chasm, rolled the mighty river, and I shuddered at
the thought of having to cross and recross it.&nbsp; For it was angry,
muddy, evidently in heavy fresh, and filled bank and bank for nearly
a mile with a flood of seething waters.</p>
<p>I followed along the northern edge of the terrace, till I reached
the last accommodation house that could be said to be on the plains&mdash;which,
by the way, were here some eight or nine hundred feet above sea level.&nbsp;
When I reached this house, I was glad to learn that the river was not
likely to remain high for more than a day or two, and that if what was
called a Southerly Burster came up, as it might be expected to do at
any moment, it would be quite low again before three days were over.</p>
<p>At this house I stayed the night, and in the course of the evening
a stray dog&mdash;a retriever, hardly full grown, and evidently very
much down on his luck&mdash;took up with me; when I inquired about him,
and asked if I might take him with me, the landlord said he wished I
would, for he knew nothing about him and was trying to drive him from
the house.&nbsp; Knowing what a boon the companionship of this poor
beast would be to me when I was camping out alone, I encouraged him,
and next morning he followed me as a matter of course.</p>
<p>In the night the Southerly Burster which my host anticipated had
come up, cold and blustering, but invigorating after the hot, dry, wind
that had been blowing hard during the daytime as I had crossed the plains.&nbsp;
A mile or two higher up I passed a large sheep-station, but did not
stay there.&nbsp; One or two men looked at me with surprise, and asked
me where I was going, whereon I said I was in search of rare plants
and birds for the Museum of the town at which I had slept the night
after my arrival.&nbsp; This satisfied their curiosity, and I ambled
on accompanied by the dog.&nbsp; In passing I may say that I found Doctor
not to excel at any pace except an amble, but for a long journey, especially
for one who is carrying a heavy, awkward load, there is no pace so comfortable;
and he ambled fairly fast.</p>
<p>I followed the horse track which had been cut through the gorge,
and in many places I disliked it extremely, for the river, still in
fresh, was raging furiously; twice, for some few yards, where the gorge
was wider and the stream less rapid, it covered the track, and I had
no confidence that it might not have washed it away; on these occasions
Doctor pricked his ears towards the water, and was evidently thinking
exactly what his rider was.&nbsp; He decided, however, that all would
be sound, and took to the water without any urging on my part.&nbsp;
Seeing his opinion, I remembered my father&rsquo;s advice, and let him
do what he liked, but in one place for three or four yards the water
came nearly up to his belly, and I was in great fear for the watches
that were in my saddle-bags.&nbsp; As for the dog, I feared I had lost
him, but after a time he rejoined me, though how he contrived to do
so I cannot say.</p>
<p>Nothing could be grander than the sight of this great river pent
into a narrow compass, and occasionally becoming more like an immense
waterfall than a river, but I was in continual fear of coming to more
places where the water would be over the track, and perhaps of finding
myself unable to get any farther.&nbsp; I therefore failed to enjoy
what was really far the most impressive sight in its way that I had
ever seen.&nbsp; &ldquo;Give me,&rdquo; I said to myself, &ldquo;the
Thames at Richmond,&rdquo; and right thankful was I, when at about two
o&rsquo;clock I found that I was through the gorge and in a wide valley,
the greater part of which, however, was still covered by the river.&nbsp;
It was here that I heard for the first time the curious sound of boulders
knocking against each other underneath the great body of water that
kept rolling them round and round.</p>
<p>I now halted, and lit a fire, for there was much dead scrub standing
that had remained after the ground had been burned for the first time
some years previously.&nbsp; I made myself some tea, and turned Doctor
out for a couple of hours to feed.&nbsp; I did not hobble him, for my
father had told me that he would always come for bread.&nbsp; When I
had dined, and smoked, and slept for a couple of hours or so, I reloaded
Doctor and resumed my journey towards the shepherd&rsquo;s hut, which
I caught sight of about a mile before I reached it.&nbsp; When nearly
half a mile off it, I dismounted, and made a written note of the exact
spot at which I did so.&nbsp; I then turned for a couple of hundred
yards to my right, at right angles to the track, where some huge rocks
were lying&mdash;fallen ages since from the mountain that flanked this
side of the valley.&nbsp; Here I deposited my knapsack in a hollow underneath
some of the rocks, and put a good sized stone in front of it, for I
meant spending a couple of days with the shepherd to let the river go
down.&nbsp; Moreover, as it was now only December 3, I had too much
time on my hands, but I had not dared to cut things finer.</p>
<p>I reached the hut at about six o&rsquo;clock, and introduced myself
to the shepherd, who was a nice, kind old man, commonly called Harris,
but his real name he told me was Horace&mdash;Horace Taylor.&nbsp; I
had the conversation with him of which I have already told the reader,
adding that my father had been unable to give a coherent account of
what he had seen, and that I had been sent to get the information he
had failed to furnish.</p>
<p>The old man said that I must certainly wait a couple of days before
I went higher up the river.&nbsp; He had made himself a nice garden,
in which he took the greatest pride, and which supplied him with plenty
of vegetables.&nbsp; He was very glad to have company, and to receive
the newspapers which I had taken care to bring him.&nbsp; He had a real
genius for simple cookery, and fed me excellently.&nbsp; My father&rsquo;s
&pound;5, and the ration of brandy which I nightly gave him, made me
a welcome guest, and though I was longing to be at any rate as far as
the foot of the pass into Erewhon, I amused myself very well in an abundance
of ways with which I need not trouble the reader.</p>
<p>One of the first things that Harris said to me was, &ldquo;I wish
I knew what your father did with the nice red blanket he had with him
when he went up the river.&nbsp; He had none when he came down again;
I have no horse here, but I borrowed one from a man who came up one
day from down below, and rode to a place where I found what I am sure
were the ashes of the last fire he made, but I could find neither the
blanket nor the billy and pannikin he took away with him.&nbsp; He said
he supposed he must have left the things there, but he could remember
nothing about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;that I cannot help you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; continued the shepherd, &ldquo;I did not
have my ride for nothing, for as I was coming back I found this rug
half covered with sand on the river-bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As he spoke he pointed to an excellent warm rug, on the spare bunk
in his hut.&nbsp; &ldquo;It is none of our make,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I
suppose some foreign digger has come over from the next river down south
and got drowned, for it had not been very long where I found it, at
least I think not, for it was not much fly-blown, and no one had passed
here to go up the river since your father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I knew what it was, but I held my tongue beyond saying that the rug
was a very good one.</p>
<p>The next day, December 4, was lovely, after a night that had been
clear and cold, with frost towards early morning.&nbsp; When the shepherd
had gone for some three hours in the forenoon to see his sheep (that
were now lambing), I walked down to the place where I had left my knapsack,
and carried it a good mile above the hut, where I again hid it.&nbsp;
I could see the great range from one place, and the thick new fallen
snow assured me that the river would be quite normal shortly.&nbsp;
Indeed, by evening it was hardly at all discoloured, but I waited another
day, and set out on the morning of Sunday, December 6.&nbsp; The river
was now almost as low as in winter, and Harris assured me that if I
used my eyes I could not miss finding a ford over one stream or another
every half mile or so.&nbsp; I had the greatest difficulty in preventing
him from accompanying me on foot for some little distance, but I got
rid of him in the end; he came with me beyond the place where I had
hidden my knapsack, but when he had left me long enough, I rode back
and got it.</p>
<p>I see I am dwelling too long upon my own small adventures.&nbsp;
Suffice it that, accompanied by my dog, I followed the north bank of
the river till I found I must cross one stream before I could get any
farther.&nbsp; This place would not do, and I had to ride half a mile
back before I found one that seemed as if it might be safe.&nbsp; I
fancy my father must have done just the same thing, for Doctor seemed
to know the ground, and took to the water the moment I brought him to
it.&nbsp; It never reached his belly, but I confess I did not like it.&nbsp;
By and by I had to recross, and so on, off and on, till at noon I camped
for dinner.&nbsp; Here the dog found me a nest of young ducks, nearly
fledged, from which the parent birds tried with great success to decoy
me.&nbsp; I fully thought I was going to catch them, but the dog knew
better and made straight for the nest, from which he returned immediately
with a fine young duck in his mouth, which he laid at my feet, wagging
his tail and barking.&nbsp; I took another from the nest and left two
for the old birds.</p>
<p>The afternoon was much as the morning and towards seven I reached
a place which suggested itself as a good camping ground.&nbsp; I had
hardly fixed on it and halted, before I saw a few pieces of charred
wood, and felt sure that my father must have camped at this very place
before me.&nbsp; I hobbled Doctor, unloaded, plucked and singed a duck,
and gave the dog some of the meat with which Harris had furnished me;
I made tea, laid my duck on the embers till it was cooked, smoked, gave
myself a nightcap of brandy and water, and by and by rolled myself round
in my blanket, with the dog curled up beside me.&nbsp; I will not dwell
upon the strangeness of my feelings&mdash;nor the extreme beauty of
the night.&nbsp; But for the dog, and Doctor, I should have been frightened,
but I knew that there were no savage creatures or venomous snakes in
the country, and both the dog and Doctor were such good companionable
creatures, that I did not feel so much oppressed by the solitude as
I had feared I should be.&nbsp; But the night was cold, and my blanket
was not enough to keep me comfortably warm.</p>
<p>The following day was delightfully warm as soon as the sun got to
the bottom of the valley, and the fresh fallen snow disappeared so fast
from the snowy range that I was afraid it would raise the river&mdash;which,
indeed, rose in the afternoon and became slightly discoloured, but it
cannot have been more than three or four inches deeper, for it never
reached the bottom of my saddle-bags.&nbsp; I believe Doctor knew exactly
where I was going, for he wanted no guidance.&nbsp; I halted again at
midday, got two more ducks, crossed and recrossed the river, or some
of its streams, several times, and at about six, caught sight, after
a bend in the valley, of the glacier descending on to the river-bed.&nbsp;
This I knew to be close to the point at which I was to camp for the
night, and from which I was to ascend the mountain.&nbsp; After another
hour&rsquo;s slow progress over the increasing roughness of the river-bed,
I saw the triangular delta of which my father had told me, and the stream
that had formed it, bounding down the mountain side.&nbsp; Doctor went
right up to the place where my father&rsquo;s fire had been, and I again
found many pieces of charred wood and ashes.</p>
<p>As soon as I had unloaded Doctor and hobbled him, I went to a tree
hard by, on which I could see the mark of a blaze, and towards which
I thought I could see a line of wood ashes running.&nbsp; There I found
a hole in which some bird had evidently been wont to build, and surmised
correctly that it must be the one in which my father had hidden his
box of sovereigns.&nbsp; There was no box in the hole now, and I began
to feel that I was at last within measureable distance of Erewhon and
the Erewhonians.</p>
<p>I camped for the night here, and again found my single blanket insufficient.&nbsp;
The next day, i.e. Tuesday, December 8, I had to pass as I best could,
and it occurred to me that as I should find the gold a great weight,
I had better take it some three hours up the mountain side and leave
it there, so as to make the following day less fatiguing, and this I
did, returning to my camp for dinner; but I was panic-stricken all the
rest of the day lest I should not have hidden it safely, or lest I should
be unable to find it next day&mdash;conjuring up a hundred absurd fancies
as to what might befall it.&nbsp; And after all, heavy though it was,
I could have carried it all the way.&nbsp; In the afternoon I saddled
Doctor and rode him up to the glaciers, which were indeed magnificent,
and then I made the few notes of my journey from which this chapter
has been taken.&nbsp; I made excuses for turning in early, and at daybreak
rekindled my fire and got my breakfast.&nbsp; All the time the companionship
of the dog was an unspeakable comfort to me.</p>
<p>It was now the day my father had fixed for my meeting with George,
and my excitement (with which I have not yet troubled the reader, though
it had been consuming me ever since I had left Harris&rsquo;s hut) was
beyond all bounds, so much so that I almost feared I was in a fever
which would prevent my completing the little that remained of my task;
in fact, I was in as great a panic as I had been about the gold that
I had left.&nbsp; My hands trembled as I took the watches, and the brooches
for Yram and her daughters from my saddle-bags, which I then hung, probably
on the very bough on which my father had hung them.&nbsp; Needless to
say, I also hung my saddle and bridle along with the saddle-bags.</p>
<p>It was nearly seven before I started, and about ten before I reached
the hiding-place of my knapsack.&nbsp; I found it, of course, quite
easily, shouldered it, and toiled on towards the statues.&nbsp; At a
quarter before twelve I reached them, and almost beside myself as I
was, could not refrain from some disappointment at finding them a good
deal smaller than I expected.&nbsp; My father, correcting the measurement
he had given in his book, said he thought that they were about four
or five times the size of life; but really I do not think they were
more than twenty feet high, any one of them.&nbsp; In other respects
my father&rsquo;s description of them is quite accurate.&nbsp; There
was no wind, and as a matter of course, therefore, they were not chanting.&nbsp;
I wiled away the quarter of an hour before the time when George became
due, with wondering at them, and in a way admiring them, hideous though
they were; but all the time I kept looking towards the part from which
George should come.</p>
<p>At last my watch pointed to noon, but there was no George.&nbsp;
A quarter past twelve, but no George.&nbsp; Half-past, still no George.&nbsp;
One o&rsquo;clock, and all the quarters till three o&rsquo;clock, but
still no George.&nbsp; I tried to eat some of the ship&rsquo;s biscuits
I had brought with me, but I could not.&nbsp; My disappointment was
now as great as my excitement had been all the forenoon; at three o&rsquo;clock
I fairly cried, and for half an hour could only fling myself on the
ground and give way to all the unreasonable spleen that extreme vexation
could suggest.&nbsp; True, I kept telling myself that for aught I knew
George might be dead, or down with a fever; but this would not do; for
in this last case he should have sent one of his brothers to meet me,
and it was not likely that he was dead.&nbsp; I am afraid I thought
it most probable that he had been casual&mdash;of which unworthy suspicion
I have long since been heartily ashamed.</p>
<p>I put the brooches inside my knapsack, and hid it in a place where
I was sure no one would find it; then, with a heavy heart, I trudged
down again to my camp&mdash;broken in spirit, and hopeless for the morrow.</p>
<p>I camped again, but it was some hours before I got a wink of sleep;
and when sleep came it was accompanied by a strange dream.&nbsp; I dreamed
that I was by my father&rsquo;s bedside, watching his last flicker of
intelligence, and vainly trying to catch the words that he was not less
vainly trying to utter.&nbsp; All of a sudden the bed seemed to be at
my camping ground, and the largest of the statues appeared, quite small,
high up the mountain side, but striding down like a giant in seven league
boots till it stood over me and my father, and shouted out &ldquo;Leap,
John, leap.&rdquo;&nbsp; In the horror of this vision I woke with a
loud cry that woke my dog also, and made him shew such evident signs
of fear, that it seemed to me as though he too must have shared my dream.</p>
<p>Shivering with cold I started up in a frenzy, but there was nothing,
save a night of such singular beauty that I did not even try to go to
sleep again.&nbsp; Naturally enough, on trying to keep awake I dropped
asleep before many minutes were over.</p>
<p>In the morning I again climbed up to the statues, without, to my
surprise, being depressed with the idea that George would again fail
to meet me.&nbsp; On the contrary, without rhyme or reason, I had a
strong presentiment that he would come.&nbsp; And sure enough, as soon
as I caught sight of the statues, which I did about a quarter to twelve,
I saw a youth coming towards me, with a quick step, and a beaming face
that had only to be seen to be fallen in love with.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are my brother,&rdquo; said he to me.&nbsp; &ldquo;Is
my father with you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>I pointed to the crape on my arm, and to the ground, but said nothing.</p>
<p>He understood me, and bared his head.&nbsp; Then he flung his arms
about me and kissed my forehead according to Erewhonian custom.&nbsp;
I was a little surprised at his saying nothing to me about the way in
which he had disappointed me on the preceding day; I resolved, however,
to wait for the explanation that I felt sure he would give me presently.</p>
<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII: GEORGE AND I SPEND A FEW HOURS TOGETHER AT THE STATUES,
AND THEN PART&mdash;I REACH HOME&mdash;POSTSCRIPT</h2>
<p>I have said on an earlier page that George gained an immediate ascendancy
over me, but ascendancy is not the word&mdash;he took me by storm; how,
or why, I neither know nor want to know, but before I had been with
him more than a few minutes I felt as though I had known and loved him
all my life.&nbsp; And the dog fawned upon him as though he felt just
as I did.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come to the statues,&rdquo; said he, as soon as he had somewhat
recovered from the shock of the news I had given him.&nbsp; &ldquo;We
can sit down there on the very stone on which our father and I sat a
year ago.&nbsp; I have brought a basket, which my mother packed for&mdash;for&mdash;him
and me.&nbsp; Did he talk to you about me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He talked of nothing so much, and he thought of nothing so
much.&nbsp; He had your boots put where he could see them from his bed
until he died.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then followed the explanation about these boots, of which the reader
has already been told.&nbsp; This made us both laugh, and from that
moment we were cheerful.</p>
<p>I say nothing about our enjoyment of the luncheon with which Yram
had provided us, and if I were to detail all that I told George about
my father, and all the additional information that I got from him&mdash;(many
a point did he clear up for me that I had not fully understood)&mdash;I
should fill several chapters, whereas I have left myself only one.&nbsp;
Luncheon being over I said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And are you married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes&rdquo; (with a blush), &ldquo;and are you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>I could not blush.&nbsp; Why should I?&nbsp; And yet young people&mdash;especially
the most ingenuous among them&mdash;are apt to flush up on being asked
if they are, or are going, to be married.&nbsp; If I could have blushed,
I would.&nbsp; As it was I could only say that I was engaged and should
marry as soon as I got back.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you have come all this way for me, when you were wanting
to get married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I have.&nbsp; My father on his death-bed told me
to do so, and to bring you something that I have brought you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What trouble I have given!&nbsp; How can I thank you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shake hands with me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Whereon he gave my hand a stronger grip than I had quite bargained
for.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;before I tell you what I have
brought, you must promise me to accept it.&nbsp; Your father said I
was not to leave you till you had done so, and I was to say that he
sent it with his dying blessing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After due demur George gave his promise, and I took him to the place
where I had hidden my knapsack.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I brought it up yesterday,&rdquo; said I.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yesterday? but why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because yesterday&mdash;was it not?&mdash;was the first of
the two days agreed upon between you and our father?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No&mdash;surely to-day is the first day&mdash;I was to come
XXI. i. 3, which would be your December 9.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But yesterday was December 9 with us&mdash;to-day is December
10.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Strange!&nbsp; What day of the week do you make it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;To-day is Thursday, December 10.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is still stranger&mdash;we make it Wednesday; yesterday
was Tuesday.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then I saw it.&nbsp; The year XX. had been a leap year with the Erewhonians,
and 1891 in England had not.&nbsp; This, then, was what had crossed
my father&rsquo;s brain in his dying hours, and what he had vainly tried
to tell me.&nbsp; It was also what my unconscious self had been struggling
to tell my conscious one, during the past night, but which my conscious
self had been too stupid to understand.&nbsp; And yet my conscious self
had caught it in an imperfect sort of a way after all, for from the
moment that my dream had left me I had been composed, and easy in my
mind that all would be well.&nbsp; I wish some one would write a book
about dreams and parthenogenesis&mdash;for that the two are part and
parcel of the same story&mdash;a brood of folly without father bred&mdash;I
cannot doubt.</p>
<p>I did not trouble George with any of this rubbish, but only shewed
him how the mistake had arisen.&nbsp; When we had laughed sufficiently
over my mistake&mdash;for it was I who had come up on the wrong day,
not he&mdash;I fished my knapsack out of its hiding-place.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do not unpack it,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;beyond taking out
the brooches, or you will not be able to pack it so well; but you can
see the ends of the bars of gold, and you can feel the weight; my father
sent them for you.&nbsp; The pearl brooch is for your mother, the smaller
brooches are for your sisters, and your wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I then told him how much gold there was, and from my pockets brought
out the watches and the English knife.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This last,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;is the only thing that I
am giving you; the rest is all from our father.&nbsp; I have many many
times as much gold myself, and this is legally your property as much
as mine is mine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George was aghast, but he was powerless alike to express his feelings,
or to refuse the gold.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you mean to say that my father left me this by his will?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Certainly he did,&rdquo; said I, inventing a pious fraud.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is all against my oath,&rdquo; said he, looking grave.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your oath be hanged,&rdquo; said I.&nbsp; &ldquo;You must
give the gold to the Mayor, who knows that it was coming, and it will
appear to the world, as though he were giving it you now instead of
leaving you anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But it is ever so much too much!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not half enough.&nbsp; You and the Mayor must settle
all that between you.&nbsp; He and our father talked it all over, and
this was what they settled.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And our father planned all this, without saying a word to
me about it while we were on our way up here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&nbsp; There might have been some hitch in the gold&rsquo;s
coming.&nbsp; Besides the Mayor told him not to tell you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And he never said anything about the other money he left for
me&mdash;which enabled me to marry at once?&nbsp; Why was this?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your mother said he was not to do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Bless my heart, how they have duped me all round.&nbsp; But
why would not my mother let your father tell me?&nbsp; Oh yes&mdash;she
was afraid I should tell the King about it, as I certainly should, when
I told him all the rest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell the King?&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what have you been telling
the King?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Everything; except about the nuggets and the sovereigns, of
which I knew nothing; and I have felt myself a blackguard ever since
for not telling him about these when he came up here last autumn&mdash;but
I let the Mayor and my mother talk me over, as I am afraid they will
do again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When did you tell the King?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then followed all the details that I have told in the latter part
of Chapter XXI.&nbsp; When I asked how the King took the confession,
George said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He was so much flattered at being treated like a reasonable
being, and Dr. Downie, who was chief spokesman, played his part so discreetly,
without attempting to obscure even the most compromising issues, that
though his Majesty made some show of displeasure at first, it was plain
that he was heartily enjoying the whole story.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dr. Downie shewed very well.&nbsp; He took on himself the
onus of having advised our action, and he gave me all the credit of
having proposed that we should make a clean breast of everything.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The King, too, behaved with truly royal politeness; he was
on the point of asking why I had not taken our father to the Blue Pool
at once, and flung him into it on the Sunday afternoon, when something
seemed to strike him: he gave me a searching look, on which he said
in an undertone, &lsquo;Oh yes,&rsquo; and did not go on with his question.&nbsp;
He never blamed me for anything, and when I begged him to accept my
resignation of the Rangership, he said&mdash;</p>
<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;No.&nbsp; Stay where you are till I lose confidence
in you, which will not, I think, be very soon.&nbsp; I will come and
have a few days&rsquo; shooting about the middle of March, and if I
have good sport I shall order your salary to be increased.&nbsp; If
any more foreign devils come over, do not Blue-Pool them; send them
down to me, and I will see what I think of them; I am much disposed
to encourage a few of them to settle here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; continued George, &ldquo;that he said this
because he knew I was half a foreign devil myself.&nbsp; Indeed he won
my heart not only by the delicacy of his consideration, but by the obvious
good will he bore me.&nbsp; I do not know what he did with the nuggets,
but he gave orders that the blanket and the rest of my father&rsquo;s
kit should be put in the great Erewhonian Museum.&nbsp; As regards my
father&rsquo;s receipt, and the Professors&rsquo; two depositions, he
said he would have them carefully preserved in his secret archives.&nbsp;
&lsquo;A document,&rsquo; he said somewhat enigmatically, &lsquo;is
a document&mdash;but, Professor Hanky, you can have this&rsquo;&mdash;and
as he spoke he handed him back his pocket-handkerchief.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hanky during the whole interview was furious, at having to
play so undignified a part, but even more so, because the King while
he paid marked attention to Dr. Downie, and even to myself, treated
him with amused disdain.&nbsp; Nevertheless, angry though he was, he
was impenitent, unabashed, and brazened it out at Bridgeford, that the
King had received him with open arms, and had snubbed Dr. Downie and
myself.&nbsp; But for his (Hanky&rsquo;s) intercession, I should have
been dismissed then and there from the Rangership.&nbsp; And so forth.&nbsp;
Panky never opened his mouth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Returning to the King, his Majesty said to Dr. Downie, &lsquo;I
am afraid I shall not be able to canonize any of you gentlemen just
yet.&nbsp; We must let this affair blow over.&nbsp; Indeed I am in half
a mind to have this Sunchild bubble pricked; I never liked it, and am
getting tired of it; you Musical Bank gentlemen are overdoing it.&nbsp;
I will talk it over with her Majesty.&nbsp; As for Professor Hanky,
I do not see how I can keep one who has been so successfully hoodwinked,
as my Professor of Worldly Wisdom; but I will consult her Majesty about
this point also.&nbsp; Perhaps I can find another post for him.&nbsp;
If I decide on having Sunchildism pricked, he shall apply the pin.&nbsp;
You may go.&rsquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And glad enough,&rdquo; said George, &ldquo;we all of us were
to do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But did he,&rdquo; I asked, &ldquo;try to prick the bubble
of Sunchildism?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh no.&nbsp; As soon as he said he would talk it over with
her Majesty, I knew the whole thing would end in smoke, as indeed to
all outward appearance it shortly did; for Dr. Downie advised him not
to be in too great a hurry, and whatever he did to do it gradually.&nbsp;
He therefore took no further action than to show marked favour to practical
engineers and mechanicians.&nbsp; Moreover he started an aeronautical
society, which made Bridgeford furious; but so far, I am afraid it has
done us no good, for the first ascent was disastrous, involving the
death of the poor fellow who made it, and since then no one has ventured
to ascend.&nbsp; I am afraid we do not get on very fast.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did the King,&rdquo; I asked, &ldquo;increase your salary?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&nbsp; He doubled it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what do they say in Sunch&rsquo;ston about our father&rsquo;s
second visit?&rdquo;</p>
<p>George laughed, and shewed me the newspaper extract which I have
already given.&nbsp; I asked who wrote it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I did,&rdquo; said he, with a demure smile; &ldquo;I wrote
it at night after I returned home, and before starting for the capital
next morning.&nbsp; I called myself &lsquo;the deservedly popular Ranger,&rsquo;
to avert suspicion.&nbsp; No one found me out; you can keep the extract,
I brought it here on purpose.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It does you great credit.&nbsp; Was there ever any lunatic,
and was he found?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes.&nbsp; That part was true, except that he had never
been up our way.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then the poacher is still at large?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is to be feared so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And were Dr. Downie and the Professors canonized after all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not yet; but the Professors will be next month&mdash;for Hanky
is still Professor.&nbsp; Dr. Downie backed out of it.&nbsp; He said
it was enough to be a Sunchildist without being a Sunchild Saint.&nbsp;
He worships the jumping cat as much as the others, but he keeps his
eye better on the cat, and sees sooner both when it will jump, and where
it will jump to.&nbsp; Then, without disturbing any one, he insinuates
himself into the place which will be best when the jump is over.&nbsp;
Some say that the cat knows him and follows him; at all events when
he makes a move the cat generally jumps towards him soon afterwards.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You give him a very high character.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, but I have my doubts about his doing much in this matter;
he is getting old, and Hanky burrows like a mole night and day.&nbsp;
There is no knowing how it will all end.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And the people at Sunch&rsquo;ston?&nbsp; Has it got well
about among them, in spite of your admirable article, that it was the
Sunchild himself who interrupted Hanky?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It has, and it has not.&nbsp; Many of us know the truth, but
a story came down from Bridgeford that it was an evil spirit who had
assumed the Sunchild&rsquo;s form, intending to make people sceptical
about Sunchildism; Hanky and Panky cowed this spirit, otherwise it would
never have recanted.&nbsp; Many people swallow this.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But Hanky and Panky swore that they knew the man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That does not matter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And now please, how long have you been married?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;About ten months.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Any family?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;One boy about a fortnight old.&nbsp; Do come down to Sunch&rsquo;ston
and see him&mdash;he is your own nephew.&nbsp; You speak Erewhonian
so perfectly that no human being would suspect you were a foreigner,
and you look one of us from head to foot.&nbsp; I can smuggle you through
quite easily, and my mother would so like to see you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I should dearly have liked to have gone, but it was out of the question.&nbsp;
I had nothing with me but the clothes I stood in; moreover I was longing
to be back in England, and when once I was in Erewhon there was no knowing
when I should be able to get away again; but George fought hard before
he gave in.</p>
<p>It was now nearing the time when this strange meeting between two
brothers&mdash;as strange a one as the statues can ever have looked
down upon&mdash;must come to an end.&nbsp; I shewed George what the
repeater would do, and what it would expect of its possessor.&nbsp;
I gave him six good photographs, of my father and myself&mdash;three
of each.&nbsp; He had never seen a photograph, and could hardly believe
his eyes as he looked at those I shewed him.&nbsp; I also gave him three
envelopes addressed to myself, care of Alfred Emery Cathie, Esq., 15
Clifford&rsquo;s Inn, London, and implored him to write to me if he
could ever find means of getting a letter over the range as far as the
shepherd&rsquo;s hut.&nbsp; At this he shook his head, but he promised
to write if he could.&nbsp; I also told him that I had written a full
account of my father&rsquo;s second visit to Erewhon, but that it should
never be published till I heard from him&mdash;at which he again shook
his head, but added, &ldquo;And yet who can tell?&nbsp; For the King
may have the country opened up to foreigners some day after all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then he thanked me a thousand times over, shouldered the knapsack,
embraced me as he had my father, and caressed the dog, embraced me again,
and made no attempt to hide the tears that ran down his cheeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I shall wait here till you are
out of sight.&rdquo;</p>
<p>I turned away, and did not look back till I reached the place at
which I knew that I should lose the statues.&nbsp; I then turned round,
waved my hand&mdash;as also did George, and went down the mountain side,
full of sad thoughts, but thankful that my task had been so happily
accomplished, and aware that my life henceforward had been enriched
by something that I could never lose.</p>
<p>For I had never seen, and felt as though I never could see, George&rsquo;s
equal.&nbsp; His absolute unconsciousness of self, the unhesitating
way in which he took me to his heart, his fearless frankness, the happy
genial expression that played on his face, and the extreme sweetness
of his smile&mdash;these were the things that made me say to myself
that the &ldquo;blazon of beauty&rsquo;s best&rdquo; could tell me nothing
better than what I had found and lost within the last three hours.&nbsp;
How small, too, I felt by comparison!&nbsp; If for no other cause, yet
for this, that I, who had wept so bitterly over my own disappointment
the day before, could meet this dear fellow&rsquo;s tears with no tear
of my own.</p>
<p>But let this pass.&nbsp; I got back to Harris&rsquo;s hut without
adventure.&nbsp; When there, in the course of the evening, I told Harris
that I had a fancy for the rug he had found on the river-bed, and that
if he would let me have it, I would give him my red one and ten shillings
to boot.&nbsp; The exchange was so obviously to his advantage that he
made no demur, and next morning I strapped Yram&rsquo;s rug on to my
horse, and took it gladly home to England, where I keep it on my own
bed next to the counterpane, so that with care it may last me out my
life.&nbsp; I wanted him to take the dog and make a home for him, but
he had two collies already, and said that a retriever would be of no
use to him.&nbsp; So I took the poor beast on with me to the port, where
I was glad to find that Mr. Baker liked him and accepted him from me,
though he was not mine to give.&nbsp; He had been such an unspeakable
comfort to me when I was alone, that he would have haunted me unless
I had been able to provide for him where I knew he would be well cared
for.&nbsp; As for Doctor, I was sorry to leave him, but I knew he was
in good hands.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I see you have not brought your knapsack back, sir,&rdquo;
said Mr. Baker.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;and very thankful was I when I had
handed it over to those for whom it was intended.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have no doubt you were, sir, for I could see it was a desperate
heavy load for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Indeed it was.&rdquo;&nbsp; But at this point I brought the
discussion to a close.</p>
<p>Two days later I sailed, and reached home early in February 1892.&nbsp;
I was married three weeks later, and when the honeymoon was over, set
about making the necessary, and some, I fear, unnecessary additions
to this book&mdash;by far the greater part of which had been written,
as I have already said, many months earlier.&nbsp; I now leave it, at
any rate for the present, April 22, 1892.</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>Postscript.&mdash;On the last day of November 1900, I received a
letter addressed in Mr. Alfred Cathie&rsquo;s familiar handwriting,
and on opening it found that it contained another, addressed to me in
my own, and unstamped.&nbsp; For the moment I was puzzled, but immediately
knew that it must be from George.&nbsp; I tore it open, and found eight
closely written pages, which I devoured as I have seldom indeed devoured
so long a letter.&nbsp; It was dated XXIX. vii. 1, and, as nearly as
I can translate it was as follows;-</p>
<p>&ldquo;Twice, my dearest brother, have I written to you, and twice
in successive days in successive years, have I been up to the statues
on the chance that you could meet me, as I proposed in my letters.&nbsp;
Do not think I went all the way back to Sunch&rsquo;ston&mdash;there
is a ranger&rsquo;s shelter now only an hour and a half below the statues,
and here I passed the night.&nbsp; I knew you had got neither of my
letters, for if you had got them and could not come yourself, you would
have sent some one whom you could trust with a letter.&nbsp; I know
you would, though I do not know how you would have contrived to do it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I sent both letters through Bishop Kahabuka (or, as his inferior
clergy call him, &lsquo;Chowbok&rsquo;), head of the Christian Mission
to Er&euml;wh&ecirc;mos, which, as your father has doubtless told you,
is the country adjoining Erewhon, but inhabited by a coloured race having
no affinity with our own.&nbsp; Bishop Kahabuka has penetrated at times
into Erewhon, and the King, wishing to be on good terms with his neighbours,
has permitted him to establish two or three mission stations in the
western parts of Erewhon.&nbsp; Among the missionaries are some few
of your own countrymen.&nbsp; None of us like them, but one of them
is teaching me English, which I find quite easy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;As I wrote in the letters that have never reached you, I am
no longer Ranger.&nbsp; The King, after some few years (in the course
of which I told him of your visit, and what you had brought me), declared
that I was the only one of his servants whom he could trust, and found
high office for me, which kept me in close confidential communication
with himself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;About three years ago, on the death of his Prime Minister,
he appointed me to fill his place; and it was on this, that so many
possibilities occurred to me concerning which I dearly longed for your
opinion, that I wrote and asked you, if you could, to meet me personally
or by proxy at the statues, which I could reach on the occasion of my
annual visit to my mother&mdash;yes&mdash;and father&mdash;at Sunch&rsquo;ston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I sent both letters by way of Erewhemos, confiding them to
Bishop Kahabuka, who is just such another as St. Hanky.&nbsp; He tells
me that our father was a very old and dear friend of his&mdash;but of
course I did not say anything about his being my own father.&nbsp; I
only inquired about a Mr. Higgs, who was now worshipped in Erewhon as
a supernatural being.&nbsp; The Bishop said it was, &ldquo;Oh, so very
dreadful,&rdquo; and he felt it all the more keenly, for the reason
that he had himself been the means of my father&rsquo;s going to Erewhon,
by giving him the information that enabled him to find the pass over
the range that bounded the country.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I did not like the man, but I thought I could trust him with
a letter, which it now seems I could not do.&nbsp; This third letter
I have given him with a promise of a hundred pounds in silver for his
new Cathedral, to be paid as soon as I get an answer from you.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are all well at Sunch&rsquo;ston; so are my wife and eight
children&mdash;five sons and three daughters&mdash;but the country is
at sixes and sevens.&nbsp; St. Panky is dead, but his son Pocus is worse.&nbsp;
Dr. Downie has become very lethargic.&nbsp; I can do less against St.
Hankyism than when I was a private man.&nbsp; A little indiscretion
on my part would plunge the country in civil war.&nbsp; Our engineers
and so-called men of science are sturdily begging for endowments, and
steadily claiming to have a hand in every pie that is baked from one
end of the country to the other.&nbsp; The missionaries are buying up
all our silver, and a change in the relative values of gold and silver
is in progress of which none of us foresee the end.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The King and I both think that annexation by England, or a
British Protectorate, would be the saving of us, for we have no army
worth the name, and if you do not take us over some one else soon will.&nbsp;
The King has urged me to send for you.&nbsp; If you come (do! do! do!)
you had better come by way of Erewhemos, which is now in monthly communication
with Southampton.&nbsp; If you will write me that you are coming I will
meet you at the port, and bring you with me to our own capital, where
the King will be overjoyed to see you.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>The rest of the letter was filled with all sorts of news which interested
me, but would require chapters of explanation before they could become
interesting to the reader.</p>
<p>The letter wound up:-</p>
<blockquote><p>&ldquo;You may publish now whatever you like, whenever
you like.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Write to me by way of Erewhemos, care of the Right Reverend
the Lord Bishop, and say which way you will come.&nbsp; If you prefer
the old road, we are bound to be in the neighbourhood of the statues
by the beginning of March.&nbsp; My next brother is now Ranger, and
could meet you at the statues with permit and luncheon, and more of
that white wine than ever you will be able to drink.&nbsp; Only let
me know what you will do.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should tell you that the old railway which used to run from
Clearwater to the capital, and which, as you know, was allowed to go
to ruin, has been reconstructed at an outlay far less than might have
been expected&mdash;for the bridges had been maintained for ordinary
carriage traffic.&nbsp; The journey, therefore, from Sunch&rsquo;ston
to the capital can now be done in less than forty hours.&nbsp; On the
whole, however, I recommend you to come by way of Erewhemos.&nbsp; If
you start, as I think possible, without writing from England, Bishop
Kahabuka&rsquo;s palace is only eight miles from the port, and he will
give you every information about your further journey&mdash;a distance
of less than a couple of hundred miles.&nbsp; But I should prefer to
meet you myself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dearest brother, I charge you by the memory of our common
father, and even more by that of those three hours that linked you to
me for ever, and which I would fain hope linked me also to yourself&mdash;come
over, if by any means you can do so&mdash;come over and help us.</p>
<p>&ldquo;GEORGE STRONG.&rdquo;</p>
</blockquote>
<p>&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said I to my wife who was at the other end
of the breakfast table, &ldquo;I shall have to translate this letter
to you, and then you will have to help me to begin packing; for I have
none too much time.&nbsp; I must see Alfred, and give him a power of
attorney.&nbsp; He will arrange with some publisher about my book, and
you can correct the press.&nbsp; Break the news gently to the children;
and get along without me, my dear, for six months as well as you can.&rdquo;</p>
<hr class="tb">
<p>I write this at Southampton, from which port I sail to-morrow&mdash;i.e.
November 15, 1900&mdash;for Erewhemos.</p>
<h2>Footnotes</h2>
<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a>&nbsp; See Chapter
X.</p>

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1971 ***</div>
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