Looking Backward, 2000 to 1887

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LOOKING BACKWARD

From 2000 to 1887

by

Edward Bellamy

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

Historical Section Shawmut College, Boston,

December 26, 2000

Living as we do in the closing year of the twentieth century, enjoying

the blessings of a social order at once so simple and logical that it

seems but the triumph of common sense, it is no doubt difficult for

those whose studies have not been largely historical to realize that

the present organization of society is, in its completeness, less than

a century old. No historical fact is, however, better established than

that till nearly the end of the nineteenth century it was the general

belief that the ancient industrial system, with all its shocking social

consequences, was destined to last, with possibly a little patching, to

the end of time. How strange and wellnigh incredible does it seem that

so prodigious a moral and material transformation as has taken place

since then could have been accomplished in so brief an interval! The

readiness with which men accustom themselves, as matters of course, to

improvements in their condition, which, when anticipated, seemed to

leave nothing more to be desired, could not be more strikingly

illustrated. What reflection could be better calculated to moderate the

enthusiasm of reformers who count for their reward on the lively

gratitude of future ages!

The object of this volume is to assist persons who, while desiring to

gain a more definite idea of the social contrasts between the

nineteenth and twentieth centuries, are daunted by the formal aspect of

the histories which treat the subject. Warned by a teacher's experience

that learning is accounted a weariness to the flesh, the author has

sought to alleviate the instructive quality of the book by casting it

in the form of a romantic narrative, which he would be glad to fancy

not wholly devoid of interest on its own account.

The reader, to whom modern social institutions and their underlying

principles are matters of course, may at times find Dr. Leete's

explanations of them rather trite--but it must be remembered that to

Dr. Leete's guest they were not matters of course, and that this book

is written for the express purpose of inducing the reader to forget for

the nonce that they are so to him. One word more. The almost universal

theme of the writers and orators who have celebrated this bimillennial

epoch has been the future rather than the past, not the advance that

has been made, but the progress that shall be made, ever onward and

upward, till the race shall achieve its ineffable destiny. This is

well, wholly well, but it seems to me that nowhere can we find more

solid ground for daring anticipations of human development during the

next one thousand years, than by "Looking Backward" upon the progress

of the last one hundred.

That this volume may be so fortunate as to find readers whose interest

in the subject shall incline them to overlook the deficiencies of the

treatment is the hope in which the author steps aside and leaves Mr.

Julian West to speak for himself.

JTABLE 5 28 1

Chapter 1

I first saw the light in the city of Boston in the year 1857. "What!"

you say, "eighteen fifty-seven? That is an odd slip. He means nineteen

fifty-seven, of course." I beg pardon, but there is no mistake. It was

about four in the afternoon of December the 26th, one day after

Christmas, in the year 1857, not 1957, that I first breathed the east

wind of Boston, which, I assure the reader, was at that remote period

marked by the same penetrating quality characterizing it in the present

year of grace, 2000.

These statements seem so absurd on their face, especially when I add

that I am a young man apparently of about thirty years of age, that no

person can be blamed for refusing to read another word of what promises

to be a mere imposition upon his credulity. Nevertheless I earnestly

assure the reader that no imposition is intended, and will undertake,

if he shall follow me a few pages, to entirely convince him of this. If

I may, then, provisionally assume, with the pledge of justifying the

assumption, that I know better than the reader when I was born, I will

go on with my narrative. As every schoolboy knows, in the latter part

of the nineteenth century the civilization of to-day, or anything like

it, did not exist, although the elements which were to develop it were

already in ferment. Nothing had, however, occurred to modify the

immemorial division of society into the four classes, or nations, as

they may be more fitly called, since the differences between them were

far greater than those between any nations nowadays, of the rich and

the poor, the educated and the ignorant. I myself was rich and also

educated, and possessed, therefore, all the elements of happiness

enjoyed by the most fortunate in that age. Living in luxury, and

occupied only with the pursuit of the pleasures and refinements of

life, I derived the means of my support from the labor of others,

rendering no sort of service in return. My parents and grand-parents

had lived in the same way, and I expected that my descendants, if I had

any, would enjoy a like easy existence.

But how could I live without service to the world? you ask. Why should

the world have supported in utter idleness one who was able to render

service? The answer is that my great-grandfather had accumulated a sum

of money on which his descendants had ever since lived. The sum, you

will naturally infer, must have been very large not to have been

exhausted in supporting three generations in idleness. This, however,

was not the fact. The sum had been originally by no means large. It

was, in fact, much larger now that three generations had been supported

upon it in idleness, than it was at first. This mystery of use without

consumption, of warmth without combustion, seems like magic, but was

merely an ingenious application of the art now happily lost but carried

to great perfection by your ancestors, of shifting the burden of one's

support on the shoulders of others. The man who had accomplished this,

and it was the end all sought, was said to live on the income of his

investments. To explain at this point how the ancient methods of

industry made this possible would delay us too much. I shall only stop

now to say that interest on investments was a species of tax in

perpetuity upon the product of those engaged in industry which a person

possessing or inheriting money was able to levy. It must not be

supposed that an arrangement which seems so unnatural and preposterous

according to modern notions was never criticized by your ancestors. It

had been the effort of lawgivers and prophets from the earliest ages to

abolish interest, or at least to limit it to the smallest possible

rate. All these efforts had, however, failed, as they necessarily must

so long as the ancient social organizations prevailed. At the time of

which I write, the latter part of the nineteenth century, governments

had generally given up trying to regulate the subject at all.

By way of attempting to give the reader some general impression of the

way people lived together in those days, and especially of the

relations of the rich and poor to one another, perhaps I cannot do

better than to compare society as it then was to a prodigious coach

which the masses of humanity were harnessed to and dragged toilsomely

along a very hilly and sandy road. The driver was hunger, and permitted

no lagging, though the pace was necessarily very slow. Despite the

difficulty of drawing the coach at all along so hard a road, the top

was covered with passengers who never got down, even at the steepest

ascents. These seats on top were very breezy and comfortable. Well up

out of the dust, their occupants could enjoy the scenery at their

leisure, or critically discuss the merits of the straining team.

Naturally such places were in great demand and the competition for them

was keen, every one seeking as the first end in life to secure a seat

on the coach for himself and to leave it to his child after him. By the

rule of the coach a man could leave his seat to whom he wished, but on

the other hand there were many accidents by which it might at any time

be wholly lost. For all that they were so easy, the seats were very

insecure, and at every sudden jolt of the coach persons were slipping

out of them and falling to the ground, where they were instantly

compelled to take hold of the rope and help to drag the coach on which

they had before ridden so pleasantly. It was naturally regarded as a

terrible misfortune to lose one's seat, and the apprehension that this

might happen to them or their friends was a constant cloud upon the

happiness of those who rode.

But did they think only of themselves? you ask. Was not their very

luxury rendered intolerable to them by comparison with the lot of their

brothers and sisters in the harness, and the knowledge that their own

weight added to their toil? Had they no compassion for fellow beings

from whom fortune only distinguished them? Oh, yes; commiseration was

frequently expressed by those who rode for those who had to pull the

coach, especially when the vehicle came to a bad place in the road, as

it was constantly doing, or to a particularly steep hill. At such

times, the desperate straining of the team, their agonized leaping and

plunging under the pitiless lashing of hunger, the many who fainted at

the rope and were trampled in the mire, made a very distressing

spectacle, which often called forth highly creditable displays of

feeling on the top of the coach. At such times the passengers would

call down encouragingly to the toilers of the rope, exhorting them to

patience, and holding out hopes of possible compensation in another

world for the hardness of their lot, while others contributed to buy

salves and liniments for the crippled and injured. It was agreed that

it was a great pity that the coach should be so hard to pull, and there

was a sense of general relief when the specially bad piece of road was

gotten over. This relief was not, indeed, wholly on account of the

team, for there was always some danger at these bad places of a general

overturn in which all would lose their seats.

It must in truth be admitted that the main effect of the spectacle of

the misery of the toilers at the rope was to enhance the passengers'

sense of the value of their seats upon the coach, and to cause them to

hold on to them more desperately than before. If the passengers could

only have felt assured that neither they nor their friends would ever

fall from the top, it is probable that, beyond contributing to the

funds for liniments and bandages, they would have troubled themselves

extremely little about those who dragged the coach.

I am well aware that this will appear to the men and women of the

twentieth century an incredible inhumanity, but there are two facts,

both very curious, which partly explain it. In the first place, it was

firmly and sincerely believed that there was no other way in which

Society could get along, except the many pulled at the rope and the few

rode, and not only this, but that no very radical improvement even was

possible, either in the harness, the coach, the roadway, or the

distribution of the toil. It had always been as it was, and it always

would be so. It was a pity, but it could not be helped, and philosophy

forbade wasting compassion on what was beyond remedy.

The other fact is yet more curious, consisting in a singular

hallucination which those on the top of the coach generally shared,

that they were not exactly like their brothers and sisters who pulled

at the rope, but of finer clay, in some way belonging to a higher order

of beings who might justly expect to be drawn. This seems

unaccountable, but, as I once rode on this very coach and shared that

very hallucination, I ought to be believed. The strangest thing about

the hallucination was that those who had but just climbed up from the

ground, before they had outgrown the marks of the rope upon their

hands, began to fall under its influence. As for those whose parents

and grand-parents before them had been so fortunate as to keep their

seats on the top, the conviction they cherished of the essential

difference between their sort of humanity and the common article was

absolute. The effect of such a delusion in moderating fellow feeling

for the sufferings of the mass of men into a distant and philosophical

compassion is obvious. To it I refer as the only extenuation I can

offer for the indifference which, at the period I write of, marked my

own attitude toward the misery of my brothers.

In 1887 I came to my thirtieth year. Although still unmarried, I was

engaged to wed Edith Bartlett. She, like myself, rode on the top of the

coach. That is to say, not to encumber ourselves further with an

illustration which has, I hope, served its purpose of giving the reader

some general impression of how we lived then, her family was wealthy.

In that age, when money alone commanded all that was agreeable and

refined in life, it was enough for a woman to be rich to have suitors;

but Edith Bartlett was beautiful and graceful also.

My lady readers, I am aware, will protest at this. "Handsome she might

have been," I hear them saying, "but graceful never, in the costumes

which were the fashion at that period, when the head covering was a

dizzy structure a foot tall, and the almost incredible extension of the

skirt behind by means of artificial contrivances more thoroughly

dehumanized the form than any former device of dressmakers. Fancy any

one graceful in such a costume!" The point is certainly well taken, and

I can only reply that while the ladies of the twentieth century are

lovely demonstrations of the effect of appropriate drapery in accenting

feminine graces, my recollection of their great-grandmothers enables me

to maintain that no deformity of costume can wholly disguise them.

Our marriage only waited on the completion of the house which I was

building for our occupancy in one of the most desirable parts of the

city, that is to say, a part chiefly inhabited by the rich. For it must

be understood that the comparative desirability of different parts of

Boston for residence depended then, not on natural features, but on the

character of the neighboring population. Each class or nation lived by

itself, in quarters of its own. A rich man living among the poor, an

educated man among the uneducated, was like one living in isolation

among a jealous and alien race. When the house had been begun, its

completion by the winter of 1886 had been expected. The spring of the

following year found it, however, yet incomplete, and my marriage still

a thing of the future. The cause of a delay calculated to be

particularly exasperating to an ardent lover was a series of strikes,

that is to say, concerted refusals to work on the part of the

brick-layers, masons, carpenters, painters, plumbers, and other trades

concerned in house building. What the specific causes of these strikes

were I do not remember. Strikes had become so common at that period

that people had ceased to inquire into their particular grounds. In one

department of industry or another, they had been nearly incessant ever

since the great business crisis of 1873. In fact it had come to be the

exceptional thing to see any class of laborers pursue their avocation

steadily for more than a few months at a time.

The reader who observes the dates alluded to will of course recognize

in these disturbances of industry the first and incoherent phase of the

great movement which ended in the establishment of the modern

industrial system with all its social consequences. This is all so

plain in the retrospect that a child can understand it, but not being

prophets, we of that day had no clear idea what was happening to us.

What we did see was that industrially the country was in a very queer

way. The relation between the workingman and the employer, between

labor and capital, appeared in some unaccountable manner to have become

dislocated. The working classes had quite suddenly and very generally

become infected with a profound discontent with their condition, and an

idea that it could be greatly bettered if they only knew how to go

about it. On every side, with one accord, they preferred demands for

higher pay, shorter hours, better dwellings, better educational

advantages, and a share in the refinements and luxuries of life,

demands which it was impossible to see the way to granting unless the

world were to become a great deal richer than it then was. Though they

knew something of what they wanted, they knew nothing of how to

accomplish it, and the eager enthusiasm with which they thronged about

any one who seemed likely to give them any light on the subject lent

sudden reputation to many would-be leaders, some of whom had little

enough light to give. However chimerical the aspirations of the

laboring classes might be deemed, the devotion with which they

supported one another in the strikes, which were their chief weapon,

and the sacrifices which they underwent to carry them out left no doubt

of their dead earnestness.

As to the final outcome of the labor troubles, which was the phrase by

which the movement I have described was most commonly referred to, the

opinions of the people of my class differed according to individual

temperament. The sanguine argued very forcibly that it was in the very

nature of things impossible that the new hopes of the workingmen could

be satisfied, simply because the world had not the wherewithal to

satisfy them. It was only because the masses worked very hard and lived

on short commons that the race did not starve outright, and no

considerable improvement in their condition was possible while the

world, as a whole, remained so poor. It was not the capitalists whom

the laboring men were contending with, these maintained, but the

iron-bound environment of humanity, and it was merely a question of the

thickness of their skulls when they would discover the fact and make up

their minds to endure what they could not cure.

The less sanguine admitted all this. Of course the workingmen's

aspirations were impossible of fulfillment for natural reasons, but

there were grounds to fear that they would not discover this fact until

they had made a sad mess of society. They had the votes and the power

to do so if they pleased, and their leaders meant they should. Some of

these desponding observers went so far as to predict an impending

social cataclysm. Humanity, they argued, having climbed to the top

round of the ladder of civilization, was about to take a header into

chaos, after which it would doubtless pick itself up, turn round, and

begin to climb again. Repeated experiences of this sort in historic and

prehistoric times possibly accounted for the puzzling bumps on the

human cranium. Human history, like all great movements, was cyclical,

and returned to the point of beginning. The idea of indefinite progress

in a right line was a chimera of the imagination, with no analogue in

nature. The parabola of a comet was perhaps a yet better illustration

of the career of humanity. Tending upward and sunward from the aphelion

of barbarism, the race attained the perihelion of civilization only to

plunge downward once more to its nether goal in the regions of chaos.

This, of course, was an extreme opinion, but I remember serious men

among my acquaintances who, in discussing the signs of the times,

adopted a very similar tone. It was no doubt the common opinion of

thoughtful men that society was approaching a critical period which

might result in great changes. The labor troubles, their causes,

course, and cure, took lead of all other topics in the public prints,

and in serious conversation.

The nervous tension of the public mind could not have been more

strikingly illustrated than it was by the alarm resulting from the talk

of a small band of men who called themselves anarchists, and proposed

to terrify the American people into adopting their ideas by threats of

violence, as if a mighty nation which had but just put down a rebellion

of half its own numbers, in order to maintain its political system,

were likely to adopt a new social system out of fear.

As one of the wealthy, with a large stake in the existing order of

things, I naturally shared the apprehensions of my class. The

particular grievance I had against the working classes at the time of

which I write, on account of the effect of their strikes in postponing

my wedded bliss, no doubt lent a special animosity to my feeling toward

them.

Chapter 2

The thirtieth day of May, 1887, fell on a Monday. It was one of the

annual holidays of the nation in the latter third of the nineteenth

century, being set apart under the name of Decoration Day, for doing

honor to the memory of the soldiers of the North who took part in the

war for the preservation of the union of the States. The survivors of

the war, escorted by military and civic processions and bands of music,

were wont on this occasion to visit the cemeteries and lay wreaths of

flowers upon the graves of their dead comrades, the ceremony being a

very solemn and touching one. The eldest brother of Edith Bartlett had

fallen in the war, and on Decoration Day the family was in the habit of

making a visit to Mount Auburn, where he lay.

I had asked permission to make one of the party, and, on our return to

the city at nightfall, remained to dine with the family of my

betrothed. In the drawing-room, after dinner, I picked up an evening

paper and read of a fresh strike in the building trades, which would

probably still further delay the completion of my unlucky house. I

remember distinctly how exasperated I was at this, and the

objurgations, as forcible as the presence of the ladies permitted,

which I lavished upon workmen in general, and these strikers in

particular. I had abundant sympathy from those about me, and the

remarks made in the desultory conversation which followed, upon the

unprincipled conduct of the labor agitators, were calculated to make

those gentlemen's ears tingle. It was agreed that affairs were going

from bad to worse very fast, and that there was no telling what we

should come to soon. "The worst of it," I remember Mrs. Bartlett's

saying, "is that the working classes all over the world seem to be

going crazy at once. In Europe it is far worse even than here. I'm sure

I should not dare to live there at all. I asked Mr. Bartlett the other

day where we should emigrate to if all the terrible things took place

which those socialists threaten. He said he did not know any place now

where society could be called stable except Greenland, Patagonia, and

the Chinese Empire." "Those Chinamen knew what they were about,"

somebody added, "when they refused to let in our western civilization.

They knew what it would lead to better than we did. They saw it was

nothing but dynamite in disguise."

After this, I remember drawing Edith apart and trying to persuade her

that it would be better to be married at once without waiting for the

completion of the house, spending the time in travel till our home was

ready for us. She was remarkably handsome that evening, the mourning

costume that she wore in recognition of the day setting off to great

advantage the purity of her complexion. I can see her even now with my

mind's eye just as she looked that night. When I took my leave she

followed me into the hall and I kissed her good-by as usual. There was

no circumstance out of the common to distinguish this parting from

previous occasions when we had bade each other good-by for a night or a

day. There was absolutely no premonition in my mind, or I am sure in

hers, that this was more than an ordinary separation.

Ah, well!

The hour at which I had left my betrothed was a rather early one for a

lover, but the fact was no reflection on my devotion. I was a confirmed

sufferer from insomnia, and although otherwise perfectly well had been

completely fagged out that day, from having slept scarcely at all the

two previous nights. Edith knew this and had insisted on sending me

home by nine o'clock, with strict orders to go to bed at once.

The house in which I lived had been occupied by three generations of

the family of which I was the only living representative in the direct

line. It was a large, ancient wooden mansion, very elegant in an

old-fashioned way within, but situated in a quarter that had long since

become undesirable for residence, from its invasion by tenement houses

and manufactories. It was not a house to which I could think of

bringing a bride, much less so dainty a one as Edith Bartlett. I had

advertised it for sale, and meanwhile merely used it for sleeping

purposes, dining at my club. One servant, a faithful colored man by the

name of Sawyer, lived with me and attended to my few wants. One feature

of the house I expected to miss greatly when I should leave it, and

this was the sleeping chamber which I had built under the foundations.

I could not have slept in the city at all, with its never ceasing

nightly noises, if I had been obliged to use an upstairs chamber. But

to this subterranean room no murmur from the upper world ever

penetrated. When I had entered it and closed the door, I was surrounded

by the silence of the tomb. In order to prevent the dampness of the

subsoil from penetrating the chamber, the walls had been laid in

hydraulic cement and were very thick, and the floor was likewise

protected. In order that the room might serve also as a vault equally

proof against violence and flames, for the storage of valuables, I had

roofed it with stone slabs hermetically sealed, and the outer door was

of iron with a thick coating of asbestos. A small pipe, communicating

with a wind-mill on the top of the house, insured the renewal of air.

It might seem that the tenant of such a chamber ought to be able to

command slumber, but it was rare that I slept well, even there, two

nights in succession. So accustomed was I to wakefulness that I minded

little the loss of one night's rest. A second night, however, spent in

my reading chair instead of my bed, tired me out, and I never allowed

myself to go longer than that without slumber, from fear of nervous

disorder. From this statement it will be inferred that I had at my

command some artificial means for inducing sleep in the last resort,

and so in fact I had. If after two sleepless nights I found myself on

the approach of the third without sensations of drowsiness, I called in

Dr. Pillsbury.

He was a doctor by courtesy only, what was called in those days an

"irregular" or "quack" doctor. He called himself a "Professor of Animal

Magnetism." I had come across him in the course of some amateur

investigations into the phenomena of animal magnetism. I don't think he

knew anything about medicine, but he was certainly a remarkable

mesmerist. It was for the purpose of being put to sleep by his

manipulations that I used to send for him when I found a third night of

sleeplessness impending. Let my nervous excitement or mental

preoccupation be however great, Dr. Pillsbury never failed, after a

short time, to leave me in a deep slumber, which continued till I was

aroused by a reversal of the mesmerizing process. The process for

awaking the sleeper was much simpler than that for putting him to

sleep, and for convenience I had made Dr Pillsbury teach Sawyer how to

do it.

My faithful servant alone knew for what purpose Dr. Pillsbury visited

me, or that he did so at all. Of course, when Edith became my wife I

should have to tell her my secrets. I had not hitherto told her this,

because there was unquestionably a slight risk in the mesmeric sleep,

and I knew she would set her face against my practice. The risk, of

course, was that it might become too profound and pass into a trance

beyond the mesmerizer's power to break, ending in death. Repeated

experiments had fully convinced me that the risk was next to nothing if

reasonable precautions were exercised, and of this I hoped, though

doubtingly, to convince Edith. I went directly home after leaving her,

and at once sent Sawyer to fetch Dr. Pillsbury. Meanwhile I sought my

subterranean sleeping chamber, and exchanging my costume for a

comfortable dressing-gown, sat down to read the letters by the evening

mail which Sawyer had laid on my reading table.

One of them was from the builder of my new house, and confirmed what I

had inferred from the newspaper item. The new strikes, he said, had

postponed indefinitely the completion of the contract, as neither

masters nor workmen would concede the point at issue without a long

struggle. Caligula wished that the Roman people had but one neck that

he might cut it off, and as I read this letter I am afraid that for a

moment I was capable of wishing the same thing concerning the laboring

classes of America. The return of Sawyer with the doctor interrupted my

gloomy meditations.

It appeared that he had with difficulty been able to secure his

services, as he was preparing to leave the city that very night. The

doctor explained that since he had seen me last he had learned of a

fine professional opening in a distant city, and decided to take prompt

advantage of it. On my asking, in some panic, what I was to do for some

one to put me to sleep, he gave me the names of several mesmerizers in

Boston who, he averred, had quite as great powers as he.

Somewhat relieved on this point, I instructed Sawyer to rouse me at

nine o'clock next morning, and, lying down on the bed in my

dressing-gown, assumed a comfortable attitude, and surrendered myself

to the manipulations of the mesmerizer. Owing, perhaps, to my unusually

nervous state, I was slower than common in losing consciousness, but at

length a delicious drowsiness stole over me.

Chapter 3

"He is going to open his eyes. He had better see but one of us at

first."

"Promise me, then, that you will not tell him."

The first voice was a man's, the second a woman's, and both spoke in

whispers.

"I will see how he seems," replied the man.

"No, no, promise me," persisted the other.

"Let her have her way," whispered a third voice, also a woman.

"Well, well, I promise, then," answered the man. "Quick, go! He is

coming out of it."

There was a rustle of garments and I opened my eyes. A fine looking man

of perhaps sixty was bending over me, an expression of much benevolence

mingled with great curiosity upon his features. He was an utter

stranger. I raised myself on an elbow and looked around. The room was

empty. I certainly had never been in it before, or one furnished like

it. I looked back at my companion. He smiled.

"How do you feel?" he inquired.

"Where am I?" I demanded.

"You are in my house," was the reply.

"How came I here?"

"We will talk about that when you are stronger. Meanwhile, I beg you

will feel no anxiety. You are among friends and in good hands. How do

you feel?"

"A bit queerly," I replied, "but I am well, I suppose. Will you tell me

how I came to be indebted to your hospitality? What has happened to me?

How came I here? It was in my own house that I went to sleep."

"There will be time enough for explanations later," my unknown host

replied, with a reassuring smile. "It will be better to avoid agitating

talk until you are a little more yourself. Will you oblige me by taking

a couple of swallows of this mixture? It will do you good. I am a

physician."

I repelled the glass with my hand and sat up on the couch, although

with an effort, for my head was strangely light.

"I insist upon knowing at once where I am and what you have been doing

with me," I said.

"My dear sir," responded my companion, "let me beg that you will not

agitate yourself. I would rather you did not insist upon explanations

so soon, but if you do, I will try to satisfy you, provided you will

first take this draught, which will strengthen you somewhat."

I thereupon drank what he offered me. Then he said, "It is not so

simple a matter as you evidently suppose to tell you how you came here.

You can tell me quite as much on that point as I can tell you. You have

just been roused from a deep sleep, or, more properly, trance. So much

I can tell you. You say you were in your own house when you fell into

that sleep. May I ask you when that was?"

"When?" I replied, "when? Why, last evening, of course, at about ten

o'clock. I left my man Sawyer orders to call me at nine o'clock. What

has become of Sawyer?"

"I can't precisely tell you that," replied my companion, regarding me

with a curious expression, "but I am sure that he is excusable for not

being here. And now can you tell me a little more explicitly when it

was that you fell into that sleep, the date, I mean?"

"Why, last night, of course; I said so, didn't I? that is, unless I

have overslept an entire day. Great heavens! that cannot be possible;

and yet I have an odd sensation of having slept a long time. It was

Decoration Day that I went to sleep."

"Decoration Day?"

"Yes, Monday, the 30th."

"Pardon me, the 30th of what?"

"Why, of this month, of course, unless I have slept into June, but that

can't be."

"This month is September."

"September! You don't mean that I've slept since May! God in heaven!

Why, it is incredible."

"We shall see," replied my companion; "you say that it was May 30th

when you went to sleep?"

"Yes."

"May I ask of what year?"

I stared blankly at him, incapable of speech, for some moments.

"Of what year?" I feebly echoed at last.

"Yes, of what year, if you please? After you have told me that I shall

be able to tell you how long you have slept."

"It was the year 1887," I said.

My companion insisted that I should take another draught from the

glass, and felt my pulse.

"My dear sir," he said, "your manner indicates that you are a man of

culture, which I am aware was by no means the matter of course in your

day it now is. No doubt, then, you have yourself made the observation

that nothing in this world can be truly said to be more wonderful than

anything else. The causes of all phenomena are equally adequate, and

the results equally matters of course. That you should be startled by

what I shall tell you is to be expected; but I am confident that you

will not permit it to affect your equanimity unduly. Your appearance is

that of a young man of barely thirty, and your bodily condition seems

not greatly different from that of one just roused from a somewhat too

long and profound sleep, and yet this is the tenth day of September in

the year 2000, and you have slept exactly one hundred and thirteen

years, three months, and eleven days."

Feeling partially dazed, I drank a cup of some sort of broth at my

companion's suggestion, and, immediately afterward becoming very

drowsy, went off into a deep sleep.

When I awoke it was broad daylight in the room, which had been lighted

artificially when I was awake before. My mysterious host was sitting

near. He was not looking at me when I opened my eyes, and I had a good

opportunity to study him and meditate upon my extraordinary situation,

before he observed that I was awake. My giddiness was all gone, and my

mind perfectly clear. The story that I had been asleep one hundred and

thirteen years, which, in my former weak and bewildered condition, I

had accepted without question, recurred to me now only to be rejected

as a preposterous attempt at an imposture, the motive of which it was

impossible remotely to surmise.

Something extraordinary had certainly happened to account for my waking

up in this strange house with this unknown companion, but my fancy was

utterly impotent to suggest more than the wildest guess as to what that

something might have been. Could it be that I was the victim of some

sort of conspiracy? It looked so, certainly; and yet, if human

lineaments ever gave true evidence, it was certain that this man by my

side, with a face so refined and ingenuous, was no party to any scheme

of crime or outrage. Then it occurred to me to question if I might not

be the butt of some elaborate practical joke on the part of friends who

had somehow learned the secret of my underground chamber and taken this

means of impressing me with the peril of mesmeric experiments. There

were great difficulties in the way of this theory; Sawyer would never

have betrayed me, nor had I any friends at all likely to undertake such

an enterprise; nevertheless the supposition that I was the victim of a

practical joke seemed on the whole the only one tenable. Half expecting

to catch a glimpse of some familiar face grinning from behind a chair

or curtain, I looked carefully about the room. When my eyes next rested

on my companion, he was looking at me.

"You have had a fine nap of twelve hours," he said briskly, "and I can

see that it has done you good. You look much better. Your color is good

and your eyes are bright. How do you feel?"

"I never felt better," I said, sitting up.

"You remember your first waking, no doubt," he pursued, "and your

surprise when I told you how long you had been asleep?"

"You said, I believe, that I had slept one hundred and thirteen years."

"Exactly."

"You will admit," I said, with an ironical smile, "that the story was

rather an improbable one."

"Extraordinary, I admit," he responded, "but given the proper

conditions, not improbable nor inconsistent with what we know of the

trance state. When complete, as in your case, the vital functions are

absolutely suspended, and there is no waste of the tissues. No limit

can be set to the possible duration of a trance when the external

conditions protect the body from physical injury. This trance of yours

is indeed the longest of which there is any positive record, but there

is no known reason wherefore, had you not been discovered and had the

chamber in which we found you continued intact, you might not have

remained in a state of suspended animation till, at the end of

indefinite ages, the gradual refrigeration of the earth had destroyed

the bodily tissues and set the spirit free."

I had to admit that, if I were indeed the victim of a practical joke,

its authors had chosen an admirable agent for carrying out their

imposition. The impressive and even eloquent manner of this man would

have lent dignity to an argument that the moon was made of cheese. The

smile with which I had regarded him as he advanced his trance

hypothesis did not appear to confuse him in the slightest degree.

"Perhaps," I said, "you will go on and favor me with some particulars

as to the circumstances under which you discovered this chamber of

which you speak, and its contents. I enjoy good fiction."

"In this case," was the grave reply, "no fiction could be so strange as

the truth. You must know that these many years I have been cherishing

the idea of building a laboratory in the large garden beside this

house, for the purpose of chemical experiments for which I have a

taste. Last Thursday the excavation for the cellar was at last begun.

It was completed by that night, and Friday the masons were to have

come. Thursday night we had a tremendous deluge of rain, and Friday

morning I found my cellar a frog-pond and the walls quite washed down.

My daughter, who had come out to view the disaster with me, called my

attention to a corner of masonry laid bare by the crumbling away of one

of the walls. I cleared a little earth from it, and, finding that it

seemed part of a large mass, determined to investigate it. The workmen

I sent for unearthed an oblong vault some eight feet below the surface,

and set in the corner of what had evidently been the foundation walls

of an ancient house. A layer of ashes and charcoal on the top of the

vault showed that the house above had perished by fire. The vault

itself was perfectly intact, the cement being as good as when first

applied. It had a door, but this we could not force, and found entrance

by removing one of the flagstones which formed the roof. The air which

came up was stagnant but pure, dry and not cold. Descending with a

lantern, I found myself in an apartment fitted up as a bedroom in the

style of the nineteenth century. On the bed lay a young man. That he

was dead and must have been dead a century was of course to be taken

for granted; but the extraordinary state of preservation of the body

struck me and the medical colleagues whom I had summoned with

amazement. That the art of such embalming as this had ever been known

we should not have believed, yet here seemed conclusive testimony that

our immediate ancestors had possessed it. My medical colleagues, whose

curiosity was highly excited, were at once for undertaking experiments

to test the nature of the process employed, but I withheld them. My

motive in so doing, at least the only motive I now need speak of, was

the recollection of something I once had read about the extent to which

your contemporaries had cultivated the subject of animal magnetism. It

had occurred to me as just conceivable that you might be in a trance,

and that the secret of your bodily integrity after so long a time was

not the craft of an embalmer, but life. So extremely fanciful did this

idea seem, even to me, that I did not risk the ridicule of my fellow

physicians by mentioning it, but gave some other reason for postponing

their experiments. No sooner, however, had they left me, than I set on

foot a systematic attempt at resuscitation, of which you know the

result."

Had its theme been yet more incredible, the circumstantiality of this

narrative, as well as the impressive manner and personality of the

narrator, might have staggered a listener, and I had begun to feel very

strangely, when, as he closed, I chanced to catch a glimpse of my

reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall of the room. I rose and went

up to it. The face I saw was the face to a hair and a line and not a

day older than the one I had looked at as I tied my cravat before going

to Edith that Decoration Day, which, as this man would have me believe,

was celebrated one hundred and thirteen years before. At this, the

colossal character of the fraud which was being attempted on me, came

over me afresh. Indignation mastered my mind as I realized the

outrageous liberty that had been taken.

"You are probably surprised," said my companion, "to see that, although

you are a century older than when you lay down to sleep in that

underground chamber, your appearance is unchanged. That should not

amaze you. It is by virtue of the total arrest of the vital functions

that you have survived this great period of time. If your body could

have undergone any change during your trance, it would long ago have

suffered dissolution."

"Sir," I replied, turning to him, "what your motive can be in reciting

to me with a serious face this remarkable farrago, I am utterly unable

to guess; but you are surely yourself too intelligent to suppose that

anybody but an imbecile could be deceived by it. Spare me any more of

this elaborate nonsense and once for all tell me whether you refuse to

give me an intelligible account of where I am and how I came here. If

so, I shall proceed to ascertain my whereabouts for myself, whoever may

hinder."

"You do not, then, believe that this is the year 2000?"

"Do you really think it necessary to ask me that?" I returned.

"Very well," replied my extraordinary host. "Since I cannot convince

you, you shall convince yourself. Are you strong enough to follow me

upstairs?"

"I am as strong as I ever was," I replied angrily, "as I may have to

prove if this jest is carried much farther."

"I beg, sir," was my companion's response, "that you will not allow

yourself to be too fully persuaded that you are the victim of a trick,

lest the reaction, when you are convinced of the truth of my

statements, should be too great."

The tone of concern, mingled with commiseration, with which he said

this, and the entire absence of any sign of resentment at my hot words,

strangely daunted me, and I followed him from the room with an

extraordinary mixture of emotions. He led the way up two flights of

stairs and then up a shorter one, which landed us upon a belvedere on

the house-top. "Be pleased to look around you," he said, as we reached

the platform, "and tell me if this is the Boston of the nineteenth

century."

At my feet lay a great city. Miles of broad streets, shaded by trees

and lined with fine buildings, for the most part not in continuous

blocks but set in larger or smaller inclosures, stretched in every

direction. Every quarter contained large open squares filled with

trees, among which statues glistened and fountains flashed in the late

afternoon sun. Public buildings of a colossal size and an architectural

grandeur unparalleled in my day raised their stately piles on every

side. Surely I had never seen this city nor one comparable to it

before. Raising my eyes at last towards the horizon, I looked westward.

That blue ribbon winding away to the sunset, was it not the sinuous

Charles? I looked east; Boston harbor stretched before me within its

headlands, not one of its green islets missing.

I knew then that I had been told the truth concerning the prodigious

thing which had befallen me.

Chapter 4

I did not faint, but the effort to realize my position made me very

giddy, and I remember that my companion had to give me a strong arm as

he conducted me from the roof to a roomy apartment on the upper floor

of the house, where he insisted on my drinking a glass or two of good

wine and partaking of a light repast.

"I think you are going to be all right now," he said cheerily. "I

should not have taken so abrupt a means to convince you of your

position if your course, while perfectly excusable under the

circumstances, had not rather obliged me to do so. I confess," he added

laughing, "I was a little apprehensive at one time that I should

undergo what I believe you used to call a knockdown in the nineteenth

century, if I did not act rather promptly. I remembered that the

Bostonians of your day were famous pugilists, and thought best to lose

no time. I take it you are now ready to acquit me of the charge of

hoaxing you."

"If you had told me," I replied, profoundly awed, "that a thousand

years instead of a hundred had elapsed since I last looked on this

city, I should now believe you."

"Only a century has passed," he answered, "but many a millennium in the

world's history has seen changes less extraordinary."

"And now," he added, extending his hand with an air of irresistible

cordiality, "let me give you a hearty welcome to the Boston of the

twentieth century and to this house. My name is Leete, Dr. Leete they

call me."

"My name," I said as I shook his hand, "is Julian West."

"I am most happy in making your acquaintance, Mr. West," he responded.

"Seeing that this house is built on the site of your own, I hope you

will find it easy to make yourself at home in it."

After my refreshment Dr. Leete offered me a bath and a change of

clothing, of which I gladly availed myself.

It did not appear that any very startling revolution in men's attire

had been among the great changes my host had spoken of, for, barring a

few details, my new habiliments did not puzzle me at all.

Physically, I was now myself again. But mentally, how was it with me,

the reader will doubtless wonder. What were my intellectual sensations,

he may wish to know, on finding myself so suddenly dropped as it were

into a new world. In reply let me ask him to suppose himself suddenly,

in the twinkling of an eye, transported from earth, say, to Paradise or

Hades. What does he fancy would be his own experience? Would his

thoughts return at once to the earth he had just left, or would he,

after the first shock, wellnigh forget his former life for a while,

albeit to be remembered later, in the interest excited by his new

surroundings? All I can say is, that if his experience were at all like

mine in the transition I am describing, the latter hypothesis would

prove the correct one. The impressions of amazement and curiosity which

my new surroundings produced occupied my mind, after the first shock,

to the exclusion of all other thoughts. For the time the memory of my

former life was, as it were, in abeyance.

No sooner did I find myself physically rehabilitated through the kind

offices of my host, than I became eager to return to the house-top; and

presently we were comfortably established there in easy-chairs, with

the city beneath and around us. After Dr. Leete had responded to

numerous questions on my part, as to the ancient landmarks I missed and

the new ones which had replaced them, he asked me what point of the

contrast between the new and the old city struck me most forcibly.

"To speak of small things before great," I responded, "I really think

that the complete absence of chimneys and their smoke is the detail

that first impressed me."

"Ah!" ejaculated my companion with an air of much interest, "I had

forgotten the chimneys, it is so long since they went out of use. It is

nearly a century since the crude method of combustion on which you

depended for heat became obsolete."

"In general," I said, "what impresses me most about the city is the

material prosperity on the part of the people which its magnificence

implies."

"I would give a great deal for just one glimpse of the Boston of your

day," replied Dr. Leete. "No doubt, as you imply, the cities of that

period were rather shabby affairs. If you had the taste to make them

splendid, which I would not be so rude as to question, the general

poverty resulting from your extraordinary industrial system would not

have given you the means. Moreover, the excessive individualism which

then prevailed was inconsistent with much public spirit. What little

wealth you had seems almost wholly to have been lavished in private

luxury. Nowadays, on the contrary, there is no destination of the

surplus wealth so popular as the adornment of the city, which all enjoy

in equal degree."

The sun had been setting as we returned to the house-top, and as we

talked night descended upon the city.

"It is growing dark," said Dr. Leete. "Let us descend into the house; I

want to introduce my wife and daughter to you."

His words recalled to me the feminine voices which I had heard

whispering about me as I was coming back to conscious life; and, most

curious to learn what the ladies of the year 2000 were like, I assented

with alacrity to the proposition. The apartment in which we found the

wife and daughter of my host, as well as the entire interior of the

house, was filled with a mellow light, which I knew must be artificial,

although I could not discover the source from which it was diffused.

Mrs. Leete was an exceptionally fine looking and well preserved woman

of about her husband's age, while the daughter, who was in the first

blush of womanhood, was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her

face was as bewitching as deep blue eyes, delicately tinted complexion,

and perfect features could make it, but even had her countenance lacked

special charms, the faultless luxuriance of her figure would have given

her place as a beauty among the women of the nineteenth century.

Feminine softness and delicacy were in this lovely creature deliciously

combined with an appearance of health and abounding physical vitality

too often lacking in the maidens with whom alone I could compare her.

It was a coincidence trifling in comparison with the general

strangeness of the situation, but still striking, that her name should

be Edith.

The evening that followed was certainly unique in the history of social

intercourse, but to suppose that our conversation was peculiarly

strained or difficult would be a great mistake. I believe indeed that

it is under what may be called unnatural, in the sense of

extraordinary, circumstances that people behave most naturally, for the

reason, no doubt, that such circumstances banish artificiality. I know

at any rate that my intercourse that evening with these representatives

of another age and world was marked by an ingenuous sincerity and

frankness such as but rarely crown long acquaintance. No doubt the

exquisite tact of my entertainers had much to do with this. Of course

there was nothing we could talk of but the strange experience by virtue

of which I was there, but they talked of it with an interest so naive

and direct in its expression as to relieve the subject to a great

degree of the element of the weird and the uncanny which might so

easily have been overpowering. One would have supposed that they were

quite in the habit of entertaining waifs from another century, so

perfect was their tact.

For my own part, never do I remember the operations of my mind to have

been more alert and acute than that evening, or my intellectual

sensibilities more keen. Of course I do not mean that the consciousness

of my amazing situation was for a moment out of mind, but its chief

effect thus far was to produce a feverish elation, a sort of mental

intoxication.[1]

Edith Leete took little part in the conversation, but when several

times the magnetism of her beauty drew my glance to her face, I found

her eyes fixed on me with an absorbed intensity, almost like

fascination. It was evident that I had excited her interest to an

extraordinary degree, as was not astonishing, supposing her to be a

girl of imagination. Though I supposed curiosity was the chief motive

of her interest, it could but affect me as it would not have done had

she been less beautiful.

Dr. Leete, as well as the ladies, seemed greatly interested in my

account of the circumstances under which I had gone to sleep in the

underground chamber. All had suggestions to offer to account for my

having been forgotten there, and the theory which we finally agreed on

offers at least a plausible explanation, although whether it be in its

details the true one, nobody, of course, will ever know. The layer of

ashes found above the chamber indicated that the house had been burned

down. Let it be supposed that the conflagration had taken place the

night I fell asleep. It only remains to assume that Sawyer lost his

life in the fire or by some accident connected with it, and the rest

follows naturally enough. No one but he and Dr. Pillsbury either knew

of the existence of the chamber or that I was in it, and Dr. Pillsbury,

who had gone that night to New Orleans, had probably never heard of the

fire at all. The conclusion of my friends, and of the public, must have

been that I had perished in the flames. An excavation of the ruins,

unless thorough, would not have disclosed the recess in the foundation

walls connecting with my chamber. To be sure, if the site had been

again built upon, at least immediately, such an excavation would have

been necessary, but the troublous times and the undesirable character

of the locality might well have prevented rebuilding. The size of the

trees in the garden now occupying the site indicated, Dr. Leete said,

that for more than half a century at least it had been open ground.

[1] In accounting for this state of mind it must be remembered that,

except for the topic of our conversations, there was in my surroundings

next to nothing to suggest what had befallen me. Within a block of my

home in the old Boston I could have found social circles vastly more

foreign to me. The speech of the Bostonians of the twentieth century

differs even less from that of their cultured ancestors of the

nineteenth than did that of the latter from the language of Washington

and Franklin, while the differences between the style of dress and

furniture of the two epochs are not more marked than I have known

fashion to make in the time of one generation.

Chapter 5

When, in the course of the evening the ladies retired, leaving Dr.

Leete and myself alone, he sounded me as to my disposition for sleep,

saying that if I felt like it my bed was ready for me; but if I was

inclined to wakefulness nothing would please him better than to bear me

company. "I am a late bird, myself," he said, "and, without suspicion

of flattery, I may say that a companion more interesting than yourself

could scarcely be imagined. It is decidedly not often that one has a

chance to converse with a man of the nineteenth century."

Now I had been looking forward all the evening with some dread to the

time when I should be alone, on retiring for the night. Surrounded by

these most friendly strangers, stimulated and supported by their

sympathetic interest, I had been able to keep my mental balance. Even

then, however, in pauses of the conversation I had had glimpses, vivid

as lightning flashes, of the horror of strangeness that was waiting to

be faced when I could no longer command diversion. I knew I could not

sleep that night, and as for lying awake and thinking, it argues no

cowardice, I am sure, to confess that I was afraid of it. When, in

reply to my host's question, I frankly told him this, he replied that

it would be strange if I did not feel just so, but that I need have no

anxiety about sleeping; whenever I wanted to go to bed, he would give

me a dose which would insure me a sound night's sleep without fail.

Next morning, no doubt, I would awake with the feeling of an old

citizen.

"Before I acquired that," I replied, "I must know a little more about

the sort of Boston I have come back to. You told me when we were upon

the house-top that though a century only had elapsed since I fell

asleep, it had been marked by greater changes in the conditions of

humanity than many a previous millennium. With the city before me I

could well believe that, but I am very curious to know what some of the

changes have been. To make a beginning somewhere, for the subject is

doubtless a large one, what solution, if any, have you found for the

labor question? It was the Sphinx's riddle of the nineteenth century,

and when I dropped out the Sphinx was threatening to devour society,

because the answer was not forthcoming. It is well worth sleeping a

hundred years to learn what the right answer was, if, indeed, you have

found it yet."

"As no such thing as the labor question is known nowadays," replied Dr.

Leete, "and there is no way in which it could arise, I suppose we may

claim to have solved it. Society would indeed have fully deserved being

devoured if it had failed to answer a riddle so entirely simple. In

fact, to speak by the book, it was not necessary for society to solve

the riddle at all. It may be said to have solved itself. The solution

came as the result of a process of industrial evolution which could not

have terminated otherwise. All that society had to do was to recognize

and cooperate with that evolution, when its tendency had become

unmistakable."

"I can only say," I answered, "that at the time I fell asleep no such

evolution had been recognized."

"It was in 1887 that you fell into this sleep, I think you said."

"Yes, May 30th, 1887."

My companion regarded me musingly for some moments. Then he observed,

"And you tell me that even then there was no general recognition of the

nature of the crisis which society was nearing? Of course, I fully

credit your statement. The singular blindness of your contemporaries to

the signs of the times is a phenomenon commented on by many of our

historians, but few facts of history are more difficult for us to

realize, so obvious and unmistakable as we look back seem the

indications, which must also have come under your eyes, of the

transformation about to come to pass. I should be interested, Mr. West,

if you would give me a little more definite idea of the view which you

and men of your grade of intellect took of the state and prospects of

society in 1887. You must, at least, have realized that the widespread

industrial and social troubles, and the underlying dissatisfaction of

all classes with the inequalities of society, and the general misery of

mankind, were portents of great changes of some sort."

"We did, indeed, fully realize that," I replied. "We felt that society

was dragging anchor and in danger of going adrift. Whither it would

drift nobody could say, but all feared the rocks."

"Nevertheless," said Dr. Leete, "the set of the current was perfectly

perceptible if you had but taken pains to observe it, and it was not

toward the rocks, but toward a deeper channel."

"We had a popular proverb," I replied, "that 'hindsight is better than

foresight,' the force of which I shall now, no doubt, appreciate more

fully than ever. All I can say is, that the prospect was such when I

went into that long sleep that I should not have been surprised had I

looked down from your house-top to-day on a heap of charred and

moss-grown ruins instead of this glorious city."

Dr. Leete had listened to me with close attention and nodded

thoughtfully as I finished speaking. "What you have said," he observed,

"will be regarded as a most valuable vindication of Storiot, whose

account of your era has been generally thought exaggerated in its

picture of the gloom and confusion of men's minds. That a period of

transition like that should be full of excitement and agitation was

indeed to be looked for; but seeing how plain was the tendency of the

forces in operation, it was natural to believe that hope rather than

fear would have been the prevailing temper of the popular mind."

"You have not yet told me what was the answer to the riddle which you

found," I said. "I am impatient to know by what contradiction of

natural sequence the peace and prosperity which you now seem to enjoy

could have been the outcome of an era like my own."

"Excuse me," replied my host, "but do you smoke?" It was not till our

cigars were lighted and drawing well that he resumed. "Since you are in

the humor to talk rather than to sleep, as I certainly am, perhaps I

cannot do better than to try to give you enough idea of our modern

industrial system to dissipate at least the impression that there is

any mystery about the process of its evolution. The Bostonians of your

day had the reputation of being great askers of questions, and I am

going to show my descent by asking you one to begin with. What should

you name as the most prominent feature of the labor troubles of your

day?"

"Why, the strikes, of course," I replied.

"Exactly; but what made the strikes so formidable?"

"The great labor organizations."

"And what was the motive of these great organizations?"

"The workmen claimed they had to organize to get their rights from the

big corporations," I replied.

"That is just it," said Dr. Leete; "the organization of labor and the

strikes were an effect, merely, of the concentration of capital in

greater masses than had ever been known before. Before this

concentration began, while as yet commerce and industry were conducted

by innumerable petty concerns with small capital, instead of a small

number of great concerns with vast capital, the individual workman was

relatively important and independent in his relations to the employer.

Moreover, when a little capital or a new idea was enough to start a man

in business for himself, workingmen were constantly becoming employers

and there was no hard and fast line between the two classes. Labor

unions were needless then, and general strikes out of the question. But

when the era of small concerns with small capital was succeeded by that

of the great aggregations of capital, all this was changed. The

individual laborer, who had been relatively important to the small

employer, was reduced to insignificance and powerlessness over against

the great corporation, while at the same time the way upward to the

grade of employer was closed to him. Self-defense drove him to union

with his fellows.

"The records of the period show that the outcry against the

concentration of capital was furious. Men believed that it threatened

society with a form of tyranny more abhorrent than it had ever endured.

They believed that the great corporations were preparing for them the

yoke of a baser servitude than had ever been imposed on the race,

servitude not to men but to soulless machines incapable of any motive

but insatiable greed. Looking back, we cannot wonder at their

desperation, for certainly humanity was never confronted with a fate

more sordid and hideous than would have been the era of corporate

tyranny which they anticipated.

"Meanwhile, without being in the smallest degree checked by the clamor

against it, the absorption of business by ever larger monopolies

continued. In the United States there was not, after the beginning of

the last quarter of the century, any opportunity whatever for

individual enterprise in any important field of industry, unless backed

by a great capital. During the last decade of the century, such small

businesses as still remained were fast-failing survivals of a past

epoch, or mere parasites on the great corporations, or else existed in

fields too small to attract the great capitalists. Small businesses, as

far as they still remained, were reduced to the condition of rats and

mice, living in holes and corners, and counting on evading notice for

the enjoyment of existence. The railroads had gone on combining till a

few great syndicates controlled every rail in the land. In

manufactories, every important staple was controlled by a syndicate.

These syndicates, pools, trusts, or whatever their name, fixed prices

and crushed all competition except when combinations as vast as

themselves arose. Then a struggle, resulting in a still greater

consolidation, ensued. The great city bazar crushed it country rivals

with branch stores, and in the city itself absorbed its smaller rivals

till the business of a whole quarter was concentrated under one roof,

with a hundred former proprietors of shops serving as clerks. Having no

business of his own to put his money in, the small capitalist, at the

same time that he took service under the corporation, found no other

investment for his money but its stocks and bonds, thus becoming doubly

dependent upon it.

"The fact that the desperate popular opposition to the consolidation of

business in a few powerful hands had no effect to check it proves that

there must have been a strong economical reason for it. The small

capitalists, with their innumerable petty concerns, had in fact yielded

the field to the great aggregations of capital, because they belonged

to a day of small things and were totally incompetent to the demands of

an age of steam and telegraphs and the gigantic scale of its

enterprises. To restore the former order of things, even if possible,

would have involved returning to the day of stagecoaches. Oppressive

and intolerable as was the regime of the great consolidations of

capital, even its victims, while they cursed it, were forced to admit

the prodigious increase of efficiency which had been imparted to the

national industries, the vast economies effected by concentration of

management and unity of organization, and to confess that since the new

system had taken the place of the old the wealth of the world had

increased at a rate before undreamed of. To be sure this vast increase

had gone chiefly to make the rich richer, increasing the gap between

them and the poor; but the fact remained that, as a means merely of

producing wealth, capital had been proved efficient in proportion to

its consolidation. The restoration of the old system with the

subdivision of capital, if it were possible, might indeed bring back a

greater equality of conditions, with more individual dignity and

freedom, but it would be at the price of general poverty and the arrest

of material progress.

"Was there, then, no way of commanding the services of the mighty

wealth-producing principle of consolidated capital without bowing down

to a plutocracy like that of Carthage? As soon as men began to ask

themselves these questions, they found the answer ready for them. The

movement toward the conduct of business by larger and larger

aggregations of capital, the tendency toward monopolies, which had been

so desperately and vainly resisted, was recognized at last, in its true

significance, as a process which only needed to complete its logical

evolution to open a golden future to humanity.

"Early in the last century the evolution was completed by the final

consolidation of the entire capital of the nation. The industry and

commerce of the country, ceasing to be conducted by a set of

irresponsible corporations and syndicates of private persons at their

caprice and for their profit, were intrusted to a single syndicate

representing the people, to be conducted in the common interest for the

common profit. The nation, that is to say, organized as the one great

business corporation in which all other corporations were absorbed; it

became the one capitalist in the place of all other capitalists, the

sole employer, the final monopoly in which all previous and lesser

monopolies were swallowed up, a monopoly in the profits and economies

of which all citizens shared. The epoch of trusts had ended in The

Great Trust. In a word, the people of the United States concluded to

assume the conduct of their own business, just as one hundred odd years

before they had assumed the conduct of their own government, organizing

now for industrial purposes on precisely the same grounds that they had

then organized for political purposes. At last, strangely late in the

world's history, the obvious fact was perceived that no business is so

essentially the public business as the industry and commerce on which

the people's livelihood depends, and that to entrust it to private

persons to be managed for private profit is a folly similar in kind,

though vastly greater in magnitude, to that of surrendering the

functions of political government to kings and nobles to be conducted

for their personal glorification."

"Such a stupendous change as you describe," said I, "did not, of

course, take place without great bloodshed and terrible convulsions."

"On the contrary," replied Dr. Leete, "there was absolutely no

violence. The change had been long foreseen. Public opinion had become

fully ripe for it, and the whole mass of the people was behind it.

There was no more possibility of opposing it by force than by argument.

On the other hand the popular sentiment toward the great corporations

and those identified with them had ceased to be one of bitterness, as

they came to realize their necessity as a link, a transition phase, in

the evolution of the true industrial system. The most violent foes of

the great private monopolies were now forced to recognize how

invaluable and indispensable had been their office in educating the

people up to the point of assuming control of their own business. Fifty

years before, the consolidation of the industries of the country under

national control would have seemed a very daring experiment to the most

sanguine. But by a series of object lessons, seen and studied by all

men, the great corporations had taught the people an entirely new set

of ideas on this subject. They had seen for many years syndicates

handling revenues greater than those of states, and directing the

labors of hundreds of thousands of men with an efficiency and economy

unattainable in smaller operations. It had come to be recognized as an

axiom that the larger the business the simpler the principles that can

be applied to it; that, as the machine is truer than the hand, so the

system, which in a great concern does the work of the master's eye in a

small business, turns out more accurate results. Thus it came about

that, thanks to the corporations themselves, when it was proposed that

the nation should assume their functions, the suggestion implied

nothing which seemed impracticable even to the timid. To be sure it was

a step beyond any yet taken, a broader generalization, but the very

fact that the nation would be the sole corporation in the field would,

it was seen, relieve the undertaking of many difficulties with which

the partial monopolies had contended."

Chapter 6

Dr. Leete ceased speaking, and I remained silent, endeavoring to form

some general conception of the changes in the arrangements of society

implied in the tremendous revolution which he had described.

Finally I said, "The idea of such an extension of the functions of

government is, to say the least, rather overwhelming."

"Extension!" he repeated, "where is the extension?"

"In my day," I replied, "it was considered that the proper functions of

government, strictly speaking, were limited to keeping the peace and

defending the people against the public enemy, that is, to the military

and police powers."

"And, in heaven's name, who are the public enemies?" exclaimed Dr.

Leete. "Are they France, England, Germany, or hunger, cold, and

nakedness? In your day governments were accustomed, on the slightest

international misunderstanding, to seize upon the bodies of citizens

and deliver them over by hundreds of thousands to death and mutilation,

wasting their treasures the while like water; and all this oftenest for

no imaginable profit to the victims. We have no wars now, and our

governments no war powers, but in order to protect every citizen

against hunger, cold, and nakedness, and provide for all his physical

and mental needs, the function is assumed of directing his industry for

a term of years. No, Mr. West, I am sure on reflection you will

perceive that it was in your age, not in ours, that the extension of

the functions of governments was extraordinary. Not even for the best

ends would men now allow their governments such powers as were then

used for the most maleficent."

"Leaving comparisons aside," I said, "the demagoguery and corruption of

our public men would have been considered, in my day, insuperable

objections to any assumption by government of the charge of the

national industries. We should have thought that no arrangement could

be worse than to entrust the politicians with control of the

wealth-producing machinery of the country. Its material interests were

quite too much the football of parties as it was."

"No doubt you were right," rejoined Dr. Leete, "but all that is changed

now. We have no parties or politicians, and as for demagoguery and

corruption, they are words having only an historical significance."

"Human nature itself must have changed very much," I said.

"Not at all," was Dr. Leete's reply, "but the conditions of human life

have changed, and with them the motives of human action. The

organization of society with you was such that officials were under a

constant temptation to misuse their power for the private profit of

themselves or others. Under such circumstances it seems almost strange

that you dared entrust them with any of your affairs. Nowadays, on the

contrary, society is so constituted that there is absolutely no way in

which an official, however ill-disposed, could possibly make any profit

for himself or any one else by a misuse of his power. Let him be as bad

an official as you please, he cannot be a corrupt one. There is no

motive to be. The social system no longer offers a premium on

dishonesty. But these are matters which you can only understand as you

come, with time, to know us better."

"But you have not yet told me how you have settled the labor problem.

It is the problem of capital which we have been discussing," I said.

"After the nation had assumed conduct of the mills, machinery,

railroads, farms, mines, and capital in general of the country, the

labor question still remained. In assuming the responsibilities of

capital the nation had assumed the difficulties of the capitalist's

position."

"The moment the nation assumed the responsibilities of capital those

difficulties vanished," replied Dr. Leete. "The national organization

of labor under one direction was the complete solution of what was, in

your day and under your system, justly regarded as the insoluble labor

problem. When the nation became the sole employer, all the citizens, by

virtue of their citizenship, became employees, to be distributed

according to the needs of industry."

"That is," I suggested, "you have simply applied the principle of

universal military service, as it was understood in our day, to the

labor question."

"Yes," said Dr. Leete, "that was something which followed as a matter

of course as soon as the nation had become the sole capitalist. The

people were already accustomed to the idea that the obligation of every

citizen, not physically disabled, to contribute his military services

to the defense of the nation was equal and absolute. That it was

equally the duty of every citizen to contribute his quota of industrial

or intellectual services to the maintenance of the nation was equally

evident, though it was not until the nation became the employer of

labor that citizens were able to render this sort of service with any

pretense either of universality or equity. No organization of labor was

possible when the employing power was divided among hundreds or

thousands of individuals and corporations, between which concert of any

kind was neither desired, nor indeed feasible. It constantly happened

then that vast numbers who desired to labor could find no opportunity,

and on the other hand, those who desired to evade a part or all of

their debt could easily do so."

"Service, now, I suppose, is compulsory upon all," I suggested.

"It is rather a matter of course than of compulsion," replied Dr.

Leete. "It is regarded as so absolutely natural and reasonable that the

idea of its being compulsory has ceased to be thought of. He would be

thought to be an incredibly contemptible person who should need

compulsion in such a case. Nevertheless, to speak of service being

compulsory would be a weak way to state its absolute inevitableness.

Our entire social order is so wholly based upon and deduced from it

that if it were conceivable that a man could escape it, he would be

left with no possible way to provide for his existence. He would have

excluded himself from the world, cut himself off from his kind, in a

word, committed suicide."

"Is the term of service in this industrial army for life?"

"Oh, no; it both begins later and ends earlier than the average working

period in your day. Your workshops were filled with children and old

men, but we hold the period of youth sacred to education, and the

period of maturity, when the physical forces begin to flag, equally

sacred to ease and agreeable relaxation. The period of industrial

service is twenty-four years, beginning at the close of the course of

education at twenty-one and terminating at forty-five. After

forty-five, while discharged from labor, the citizen still remains

liable to special calls, in case of emergencies causing a sudden great

increase in the demand for labor, till he reaches the age of

fifty-five, but such calls are rarely, in fact almost never, made. The

fifteenth day of October of every year is what we call Muster Day,

because those who have reached the age of twenty-one are then mustered

into the industrial service, and at the same time those who, after

twenty-four years' service, have reached the age of forty-five, are

honorably mustered out. It is the great day of the year with us, whence

we reckon all other events, our Olympiad, save that it is annual."

Chapter 7

"It is after you have mustered your industrial army into service," I

said, "that I should expect the chief difficulty to arise, for there

its analogy with a military army must cease. Soldiers have all the same

thing, and a very simple thing, to do, namely, to practice the manual

of arms, to march and stand guard. But the industrial army must learn

and follow two or three hundred diverse trades and avocations. What

administrative talent can be equal to determining wisely what trade or

business every individual in a great nation shall pursue?"

"The administration has nothing to do with determining that point."

"Who does determine it, then?" I asked.

"Every man for himself in accordance with his natural aptitude, the

utmost pains being taken to enable him to find out what his natural

aptitude really is. The principle on which our industrial army is

organized is that a man's natural endowments, mental and physical,

determine what he can work at most profitably to the nation and most

satisfactorily to himself. While the obligation of service in some form

is not to be evaded, voluntary election, subject only to necessary

regulation, is depended on to determine the particular sort of service

every man is to render. As an individual's satisfaction during his term

of service depends on his having an occupation to his taste, parents

and teachers watch from early years for indications of special

aptitudes in children. A thorough study of the National industrial

system, with the history and rudiments of all the great trades, is an

essential part of our educational system. While manual training is not

allowed to encroach on the general intellectual culture to which our

schools are devoted, it is carried far enough to give our youth, in

addition to their theoretical knowledge of the national industries,

mechanical and agricultural, a certain familiarity with their tools and

methods. Our schools are constantly visiting our workshops, and often

are taken on long excursions to inspect particular industrial

enterprises. In your day a man was not ashamed to be grossly ignorant

of all trades except his own, but such ignorance would not be

consistent with our idea of placing every one in a position to select

intelligently the occupation for which he has most taste. Usually long

before he is mustered into service a young man has found out the

pursuit he wants to follow, has acquired a great deal of knowledge

about it, and is waiting impatiently the time when he can enlist in its

ranks."

"Surely," I said, "it can hardly be that the number of volunteers for

any trade is exactly the number needed in that trade. It must be

generally either under or over the demand."

"The supply of volunteers is always expected to fully equal the

demand," replied Dr. Leete. "It is the business of the administration

to see that this is the case. The rate of volunteering for each trade

is closely watched. If there be a noticeably greater excess of

volunteers over men needed in any trade, it is inferred that the trade

offers greater attractions than others. On the other hand, if the

number of volunteers for a trade tends to drop below the demand, it is

inferred that it is thought more arduous. It is the business of the

administration to seek constantly to equalize the attractions of the

trades, so far as the conditions of labor in them are concerned, so

that all trades shall be equally attractive to persons having natural

tastes for them. This is done by making the hours of labor in different

trades to differ according to their arduousness. The lighter trades,

prosecuted under the most agreeable circumstances, have in this way the

longest hours, while an arduous trade, such as mining, has very short

hours. There is no theory, no a priori rule, by which the respective

attractiveness of industries is determined. The administration, in

taking burdens off one class of workers and adding them to other

classes, simply follows the fluctuations of opinion among the workers

themselves as indicated by the rate of volunteering. The principle is

that no man's work ought to be, on the whole, harder for him than any

other man's for him, the workers themselves to be the judges. There are

no limits to the application of this rule. If any particular occupation

is in itself so arduous or so oppressive that, in order to induce

volunteers, the day's work in it had to be reduced to ten minutes, it

would be done. If, even then, no man was willing to do it, it would

remain undone. But of course, in point of fact, a moderate reduction in

the hours of labor, or addition of other privileges, suffices to secure

all needed volunteers for any occupation necessary to men. If, indeed,

the unavoidable difficulties and dangers of such a necessary pursuit

were so great that no inducement of compensating advantages would

overcome men's repugnance to it, the administration would only need to

take it out of the common order of occupations by declaring it 'extra

hazardous,' and those who pursued it especially worthy of the national

gratitude, to be overrun with volunteers. Our young men are very greedy

of honor, and do not let slip such opportunities. Of course you will

see that dependence on the purely voluntary choice of avocations

involves the abolition in all of anything like unhygienic conditions or

special peril to life and limb. Health and safety are conditions common

to all industries. The nation does not maim and slaughter its workmen

by thousands, as did the private capitalists and corporations of your

day."

"When there are more who want to enter a particular trade than there is

room for, how do you decide between the applicants?" I inquired.

"Preference is given to those who have acquired the most knowledge of

the trade they wish to follow. No man, however, who through successive

years remains persistent in his desire to show what he can do at any

particular trade, is in the end denied an opportunity. Meanwhile, if a

man cannot at first win entrance into the business he prefers, he has

usually one or more alternative preferences, pursuits for which he has

some degree of aptitude, although not the highest. Every one, indeed,

is expected to study his aptitudes so as to have not only a first

choice as to occupation, but a second or third, so that if, either at

the outset of his career or subsequently, owing to the progress of

invention or changes in demand, he is unable to follow his first

vocation, he can still find reasonably congenial employment. This

principle of secondary choices as to occupation is quite important in

our system. I should add, in reference to the counter-possibility of

some sudden failure of volunteers in a particular trade, or some sudden

necessity of an increased force, that the administration, while

depending on the voluntary system for filling up the trades as a rule,

holds always in reserve the power to call for special volunteers, or

draft any force needed from any quarter. Generally, however, all needs

of this sort can be met by details from the class of unskilled or

common laborers."

"How is this class of common laborers recruited?" I asked. "Surely

nobody voluntarily enters that."

"It is the grade to which all new recruits belong for the first three

years of their service. It is not till after this period, during which

he is assignable to any work at the discretion of his superiors, that

the young man is allowed to elect a special avocation. These three

years of stringent discipline none are exempt from, and very glad our

young men are to pass from this severe school into the comparative

liberty of the trades. If a man were so stupid as to have no choice as

to occupation, he would simply remain a common laborer; but such cases,

as you may suppose, are not common."

"Having once elected and entered on a trade or occupation," I remarked,

"I suppose he has to stick to it the rest of his life."

"Not necessarily," replied Dr. Leete; "while frequent and merely

capricious changes of occupation are not encouraged or even permitted,

every worker is allowed, of course, under certain regulations and in

accordance with the exigencies of the service, to volunteer for another

industry which he thinks would suit him better than his first choice.

In this case his application is received just as if he were

volunteering for the first time, and on the same terms. Not only this,

but a worker may likewise, under suitable regulations and not too

frequently, obtain a transfer to an establishment of the same industry

in another part of the country which for any reason he may prefer.

Under your system a discontented man could indeed leave his work at

will, but he left his means of support at the same time, and took his

chances as to future livelihood. We find that the number of men who

wish to abandon an accustomed occupation for a new one, and old friends

and associations for strange ones, is small. It is only the poorer sort

of workmen who desire to change even as frequently as our regulations

permit. Of course transfers or discharges, when health demands them,

are always given."

"As an industrial system, I should think this might be extremely

efficient," I said, "but I don't see that it makes any provision for

the professional classes, the men who serve the nation with brains

instead of hands. Of course you can't get along without the

brain-workers. How, then, are they selected from those who are to serve

as farmers and mechanics? That must require a very delicate sort of

sifting process, I should say."

"So it does," replied Dr. Leete; "the most delicate possible test is

needed here, and so we leave the question whether a man shall be a

brain or hand worker entirely to him to settle. At the end of the term

of three years as a common laborer, which every man must serve, it is

for him to choose, in accordance to his natural tastes, whether he will

fit himself for an art or profession, or be a farmer or mechanic. If he

feels that he can do better work with his brains than his muscles, he

finds every facility provided for testing the reality of his supposed

bent, of cultivating it, and if fit of pursuing it as his avocation.

The schools of technology, of medicine, of art, of music, of

histrionics, and of higher liberal learning are always open to

aspirants without condition."

"Are not the schools flooded with young men whose only motive is to

avoid work?"

Dr. Leete smiled a little grimly.

"No one is at all likely to enter the professional schools for the

purpose of avoiding work, I assure you," he said. "They are intended

for those with special aptitude for the branches they teach, and any

one without it would find it easier to do double hours at his trade

than try to keep up with the classes. Of course many honestly mistake

their vocation, and, finding themselves unequal to the requirements of

the schools, drop out and return to the industrial service; no

discredit attaches to such persons, for the public policy is to

encourage all to develop suspected talents which only actual tests can

prove the reality of. The professional and scientific schools of your

day depended on the patronage of their pupils for support, and the

practice appears to have been common of giving diplomas to unfit

persons, who afterwards found their way into the professions. Our

schools are national institutions, and to have passed their tests is a

proof of special abilities not to be questioned.

"This opportunity for a professional training," the doctor continued,

"remains open to every man till the age of thirty is reached, after

which students are not received, as there would remain too brief a

period before the age of discharge in which to serve the nation in

their professions. In your day young men had to choose their

professions very young, and therefore, in a large proportion of

instances, wholly mistook their vocations. It is recognized nowadays

that the natural aptitudes of some are later than those of others in

developing, and therefore, while the choice of profession may be made

as early as twenty-four, it remains open for six years longer."

A question which had a dozen times before been on my lips now found

utterance, a question which touched upon what, in my time, had been

regarded the most vital difficulty in the way of any final settlement

of the industrial problem. "It is an extraordinary thing," I said,

"that you should not yet have said a word about the method of adjusting

wages. Since the nation is the sole employer, the government must fix

the rate of wages and determine just how much everybody shall earn,

from the doctors to the diggers. All I can say is, that this plan would

never have worked with us, and I don't see how it can now unless human

nature has changed. In my day, nobody was satisfied with his wages or

salary. Even if he felt he received enough, he was sure his neighbor

had too much, which was as bad. If the universal discontent on this

subject, instead of being dissipated in curses and strikes directed

against innumerable employers, could have been concentrated upon one,

and that the government, the strongest ever devised would not have seen

two pay days."

Dr. Leete laughed heartily.

"Very true, very true," he said, "a general strike would most probably

have followed the first pay day, and a strike directed against a

government is a revolution."

"How, then, do you avoid a revolution every pay day?" if demanded. "Has

some prodigious philosopher devised a new system of calculus

satisfactory to all for determining the exact and comparative value of

all sorts of service, whether by brawn or brain, by hand or voice, by

ear or eye? Or has human nature itself changed, so that no man looks

upon his own things but 'every man on the things of his neighbor'? One

or the other of these events must be the explanation."

"Neither one nor the other, however, is," was my host's laughing

response. "And now, Mr. West," he continued, "you must remember that

you are my patient as well as my guest, and permit me to prescribe

sleep for you before we have any more conversation. It is after three

o'clock."

"The prescription is, no doubt, a wise one," I said; "I only hope it

can be filled."

"I will see to that," the doctor replied, and he did, for he gave me a

wineglass of something or other which sent me to sleep as soon as my

head touched the pillow.

Chapter 8

When I awoke I felt greatly refreshed, and lay a considerable time in a

dozing state, enjoying the sensation of bodily comfort. The experiences

of the day previous, my waking to find myself in the year 2000, the

sight of the new Boston, my host and his family, and the wonderful

things I had heard, were a blank in my memory. I thought I was in my

bed-chamber at home, and the half-dreaming, half-waking fancies which

passed before my mind related to the incidents and experiences of my

former life. Dreamily I reviewed the incidents of Decoration Day, my

trip in company with Edith and her parents to Mount Auburn, and my

dining with them on our return to the city. I recalled how extremely

well Edith had looked, and from that fell to thinking of our marriage;

but scarcely had my imagination begun to develop this delightful theme

than my waking dream was cut short by the recollection of the letter I

had received the night before from the builder announcing that the new

strikes might postpone indefinitely the completion of the new house.

The chagrin which this recollection brought with it effectually roused

me. I remembered that I had an appointment with the builder at eleven

o'clock, to discuss the strike, and opening my eyes, looked up at the

clock at the foot of my bed to see what time it was. But no clock met

my glance, and what was more, I instantly perceived that I was not in

my room. Starting up on my couch, I stared wildly round the strange

apartment.

I think it must have been many seconds that I sat up thus in bed

staring about, without being able to regain the clew to my personal

identity. I was no more able to distinguish myself from pure being

during those moments than we may suppose a soul in the rough to be

before it has received the ear-marks, the individualizing touches which

make it a person. Strange that the sense of this inability should be

such anguish! but so we are constituted. There are no words for the

mental torture I endured during this helpless, eyeless groping for

myself in a boundless void. No other experience of the mind gives

probably anything like the sense of absolute intellectual arrest from

the loss of a mental fulcrum, a starting point of thought, which comes

during such a momentary obscuration of the sense of one's identity. I

trust I may never know what it is again.

I do not know how long this condition had lasted--it seemed an

interminable time--when, like a flash, the recollection of everything

came back to me. I remembered who and where I was, and how I had come

here, and that these scenes as of the life of yesterday which had been

passing before my mind concerned a generation long, long ago mouldered

to dust. Leaping from bed, I stood in the middle of the room clasping

my temples with all my might between my hands to keep them from

bursting. Then I fell prone on the couch, and, burying my face in the

pillow, lay without motion. The reaction which was inevitable, from the

mental elation, the fever of the intellect that had been the first

effect of my tremendous experience, had arrived. The emotional crisis

which had awaited the full realization of my actual position, and all

that it implied, was upon me, and with set teeth and laboring chest,

gripping the bedstead with frenzied strength, I lay there and fought

for my sanity. In my mind, all had broken loose, habits of feeling,

associations of thought, ideas of persons and things, all had dissolved

and lost coherence and were seething together in apparently

irretrievable chaos. There were no rallying points, nothing was left

stable. There only remained the will, and was any human will strong

enough to say to such a weltering sea, "Peace, be still"? I dared not

think. Every effort to reason upon what had befallen me, and realize

what it implied, set up an intolerable swimming of the brain. The idea

that I was two persons, that my identity was double, began to fascinate

me with its simple solution of my experience.

I knew that I was on the verge of losing my mental balance. If I lay

there thinking, I was doomed. Diversion of some sort I must have, at

least the diversion of physical exertion. I sprang up, and, hastily

dressing, opened the door of my room and went down-stairs. The hour was

very early, it being not yet fairly light, and I found no one in the

lower part of the house. There was a hat in the hall, and, opening the

front door, which was fastened with a slightness indicating that

burglary was not among the perils of the modern Boston, I found myself

on the street. For two hours I walked or ran through the streets of the

city, visiting most quarters of the peninsular part of the town. None

but an antiquarian who knows something of the contrast which the Boston

of today offers to the Boston of the nineteenth century can begin to

appreciate what a series of bewildering surprises I underwent during

that time. Viewed from the house-top the day before, the city had

indeed appeared strange to me, but that was only in its general aspect.

How complete the change had been I first realized now that I walked the

streets. The few old landmarks which still remained only intensified

this effect, for without them I might have imagined myself in a foreign

town. A man may leave his native city in childhood, and return fifty

years later, perhaps, to find it transformed in many features. He is

astonished, but he is not bewildered. He is aware of a great lapse of

time, and of changes likewise occurring in himself meanwhile. He but

dimly recalls the city as he knew it when a child. But remember that

there was no sense of any lapse of time with me. So far as my

consciousness was concerned, it was but yesterday, but a few hours,

since I had walked these streets in which scarcely a feature had

escaped a complete metamorphosis. The mental image of the old city was

so fresh and strong that it did not yield to the impression of the

actual city, but contended with it, so that it was first one and then

the other which seemed the more unreal. There was nothing I saw which

was not blurred in this way, like the faces of a composite photograph.

Finally, I stood again at the door of the house from which I had come

out. My feet must have instinctively brought me back to the site of my

old home, for I had no clear idea of returning thither. It was no more

homelike to me than any other spot in this city of a strange

generation, nor were its inmates less utterly and necessarily strangers

than all the other men and women now on the earth. Had the door of the

house been locked, I should have been reminded by its resistance that I

had no object in entering, and turned away, but it yielded to my hand,

and advancing with uncertain steps through the hall, I entered one of

the apartments opening from it. Throwing myself into a chair, I covered

my burning eyeballs with my hands to shut out the horror of

strangeness. My mental confusion was so intense as to produce actual

nausea. The anguish of those moments, during which my brain seemed

melting, or the abjectness of my sense of helplessness, how can I

describe? In my despair I groaned aloud. I began to feel that unless

some help should come I was about to lose my mind. And just then it did

come. I heard the rustle of drapery, and looked up. Edith Leete was

standing before me. Her beautiful face was full of the most poignant

sympathy.

"Oh, what is the matter, Mr. West?" she said. "I was here when you came

in. I saw how dreadfully distressed you looked, and when I heard you

groan, I could not keep silent. What has happened to you? Where have

you been? Can't I do something for you?"

Perhaps she involuntarily held out her hands in a gesture of compassion

as she spoke. At any rate I had caught them in my own and was clinging

to them with an impulse as instinctive as that which prompts the

drowning man to seize upon and cling to the rope which is thrown him as

he sinks for the last time. As I looked up into her compassionate face

and her eyes moist with pity, my brain ceased to whirl. The tender

human sympathy which thrilled in the soft pressure of her fingers had

brought me the support I needed. Its effect to calm and soothe was like

that of some wonder-working elixir.

"God bless you," I said, after a few moments. "He must have sent you to

me just now. I think I was in danger of going crazy if you had not

come." At this the tears came into her eyes.

"Oh, Mr. West!" she cried. "How heartless you must have thought us! How

could we leave you to yourself so long! But it is over now, is it not?

You are better, surely."

"Yes," I said, "thanks to you. If you will not go away quite yet, I

shall be myself soon."

"Indeed I will not go away," she said, with a little quiver of her

face, more expressive of her sympathy than a volume of words. "You must

not think us so heartless as we seemed in leaving you so by yourself. I

scarcely slept last night, for thinking how strange your waking would

be this morning; but father said you would sleep till late. He said

that it would be better not to show too much sympathy with you at

first, but to try to divert your thoughts and make you feel that you

were among friends."

"You have indeed made me feel that," I answered. "But you see it is a

good deal of a jolt to drop a hundred years, and although I did not

seem to feel it so much last night, I have had very odd sensations this

morning." While I held her hands and kept my eyes on her face, I could

already even jest a little at my plight.

"No one thought of such a thing as your going out in the city alone so

early in the morning," she went on. "Oh, Mr. West, where have you been?"

Then I told her of my morning's experience, from my first waking till

the moment I had looked up to see her before me, just as I have told it

here. She was overcome by distressful pity during the recital, and,

though I had released one of her hands, did not try to take from me the

other, seeing, no doubt, how much good it did me to hold it. "I can

think a little what this feeling must have been like," she said. "It

must have been terrible. And to think you were left alone to struggle

with it! Can you ever forgive us?"

"But it is gone now. You have driven it quite away for the present," I

said.

"You will not let it return again," she queried anxiously.

"I can't quite say that," I replied. "It might be too early to say

that, considering how strange everything will still be to me."

"But you will not try to contend with it alone again, at least," she

persisted. "Promise that you will come to us, and let us sympathize

with you, and try to help you. Perhaps we can't do much, but it will

surely be better than to try to bear such feelings alone."

"I will come to you if you will let me," I said.

"Oh yes, yes, I beg you will," she said eagerly. "I would do anything

to help you that I could."

"All you need do is to be sorry for me, as you seem to be now," I

replied.

"It is understood, then," she said, smiling with wet eyes, "that you

are to come and tell me next time, and not run all over Boston among

strangers."

This assumption that we were not strangers seemed scarcely strange, so

near within these few minutes had my trouble and her sympathetic tears

brought us.

"I will promise, when you come to me," she added, with an expression of

charming archness, passing, as she continued, into one of enthusiasm,

"to seem as sorry for you as you wish, but you must not for a moment

suppose that I am really sorry for you at all, or that I think you will

long be sorry for yourself. I know, as well as I know that the world

now is heaven compared with what it was in your day, that the only

feeling you will have after a little while will be one of thankfulness

to God that your life in that age was so strangely cut off, to be

returned to you in this."

Chapter 9

Dr. and Mrs. Leete were evidently not a little startled to learn, when

they presently appeared, that I had been all over the city alone that

morning, and it was apparent that they were agreeably surprised to see

that I seemed so little agitated after the experience.

"Your stroll could scarcely have failed to be a very interesting one,"

said Mrs. Leete, as we sat down to table soon after. "You must have

seen a good many new things."

"I saw very little that was not new," I replied. "But I think what

surprised me as much as anything was not to find any stores on

Washington Street, or any banks on State. What have you done with the

merchants and bankers? Hung them all, perhaps, as the anarchists wanted

to do in my day?"

"Not so bad as that," replied Dr. Leete. "We have simply dispensed with

them. Their functions are obsolete in the modern world."

"Who sells you things when you want to buy them?" I inquired.

"There is neither selling nor buying nowadays; the distribution of

goods is effected in another way. As to the bankers, having no money we

have no use for those gentry."

"Miss Leete," said I, turning to Edith, "I am afraid that your father

is making sport of me. I don't blame him, for the temptation my

innocence offers must be extraordinary. But, really, there are limits

to my credulity as to possible alterations in the social system."

"Father has no idea of jesting, I am sure," she replied, with a

reassuring smile.

The conversation took another turn then, the point of ladies' fashions

in the nineteenth century being raised, if I remember rightly, by Mrs.

Leete, and it was not till after breakfast, when the doctor had invited

me up to the house-top, which appeared to be a favorite resort of his,

that he recurred to the subject.

"You were surprised," he said, "at my saying that we got along without

money or trade, but a moment's reflection will show that trade existed

and money was needed in your day simply because the business of

production was left in private hands, and that, consequently, they are

superfluous now."

"I do not at once see how that follows," I replied.

"It is very simple," said Dr. Leete. "When innumerable different and

independent persons produced the various things needful to life and

comfort, endless exchanges between individuals were requisite in order

that they might supply themselves with what they desired. These

exchanges constituted trade, and money was essential as their medium.

But as soon as the nation became the sole producer of all sorts of

commodities, there was no need of exchanges between individuals that

they might get what they required. Everything was procurable from one

source, and nothing could be procured anywhere else. A system of direct

distribution from the national storehouses took the place of trade, and

for this money was unnecessary."

"How is this distribution managed?" I asked.

"On the simplest possible plan," replied Dr. Leete. "A credit

corresponding to his share of the annual product of the nation is given

to every citizen on the public books at the beginning of each year, and

a credit card issued him with which he procures at the public

storehouses, found in every community, whatever he desires whenever he

desires it. This arrangement, you will see, totally obviates the

necessity for business transactions of any sort between individuals and

consumers. Perhaps you would like to see what our credit cards are like.

"You observe," he pursued as I was curiously examining the piece of

pasteboard he gave me, "that this card is issued for a certain number

of dollars. We have kept the old word, but not the substance. The term,

as we use it, answers to no real thing, but merely serves as an

algebraical symbol for comparing the values of products with one

another. For this purpose they are all priced in dollars and cents,

just as in your day. The value of what I procure on this card is

checked off by the clerk, who pricks out of these tiers of squares the

price of what I order."

"If you wanted to buy something of your neighbor, could you transfer

part of your credit to him as consideration?" I inquired.

"In the first place," replied Dr. Leete, "our neighbors have nothing to

sell us, but in any event our credit would not be transferable, being

strictly personal. Before the nation could even think of honoring any

such transfer as you speak of, it would be bound to inquire into all

the circumstances of the transaction, so as to be able to guarantee its

absolute equity. It would have been reason enough, had there been no

other, for abolishing money, that its possession was no indication of

rightful title to it. In the hands of the man who had stolen it or

murdered for it, it was as good as in those which had earned it by

industry. People nowadays interchange gifts and favors out of

friendship, but buying and selling is considered absolutely

inconsistent with the mutual benevolence and disinterestedness which

should prevail between citizens and the sense of community of interest

which supports our social system. According to our ideas, buying and

selling is essentially anti-social in all its tendencies. It is an

education in self-seeking at the expense of others, and no society

whose citizens are trained in such a school can possibly rise above a

very low grade of civilization."

"What if you have to spend more than your card in any one year?" I

asked.

"The provision is so ample that we are more likely not to spend it

all," replied Dr. Leete. "But if extraordinary expenses should exhaust

it, we can obtain a limited advance on the next year's credit, though

this practice is not encouraged, and a heavy discount is charged to

check it. Of course if a man showed himself a reckless spendthrift he

would receive his allowance monthly or weekly instead of yearly, or if

necessary not be permitted to handle it all."

"If you don't spend your allowance, I suppose it accumulates?"

"That is also permitted to a certain extent when a special outlay is

anticipated. But unless notice to the contrary is given, it is presumed

that the citizen who does not fully expend his credit did not have

occasion to do so, and the balance is turned into the general surplus."

"Such a system does not encourage saving habits on the part of

citizens," I said.

"It is not intended to," was the reply. "The nation is rich, and does

not wish the people to deprive themselves of any good thing. In your

day, men were bound to lay up goods and money against coming failure of

the means of support and for their children. This necessity made

parsimony a virtue. But now it would have no such laudable object, and,

having lost its utility, it has ceased to be regarded as a virtue. No

man any more has any care for the morrow, either for himself or his

children, for the nation guarantees the nurture, education, and

comfortable maintenance of every citizen from the cradle to the grave."

"That is a sweeping guarantee!" I said. "What certainty can there be

that the value of a man's labor will recompense the nation for its

outlay on him? On the whole, society may be able to support all its

members, but some must earn less than enough for their support, and

others more; and that brings us back once more to the wages question,

on which you have hitherto said nothing. It was at just this point, if

you remember, that our talk ended last evening; and I say again, as I

did then, that here I should suppose a national industrial system like

yours would find its main difficulty. How, I ask once more, can you

adjust satisfactorily the comparative wages or remuneration of the

multitude of avocations, so unlike and so incommensurable, which are

necessary for the service of society? In our day the market rate

determined the price of labor of all sorts, as well as of goods. The

employer paid as little as he could, and the worker got as much. It was

not a pretty system ethically, I admit; but it did, at least, furnish

us a rough and ready formula for settling a question which must be

settled ten thousand times a day if the world was ever going to get

forward. There seemed to us no other practicable way of doing it."

"Yes," replied Dr. Leete, "it was the only practicable way under a

system which made the interests of every individual antagonistic to

those of every other; but it would have been a pity if humanity could

never have devised a better plan, for yours was simply the application

to the mutual relations of men of the devil's maxim, 'Your necessity is

my opportunity.' The reward of any service depended not upon its

difficulty, danger, or hardship, for throughout the world it seems that

the most perilous, severe, and repulsive labor was done by the worst

paid classes; but solely upon the strait of those who needed the

service."

"All that is conceded," I said. "But, with all its defects, the plan of

settling prices by the market rate was a practical plan; and I cannot

conceive what satisfactory substitute you can have devised for it. The

government being the only possible employer, there is of course no

labor market or market rate. Wages of all sorts must be arbitrarily

fixed by the government. I cannot imagine a more complex and delicate

function than that must be, or one, however performed, more certain to

breed universal dissatisfaction."

"I beg your pardon," replied Dr. Leete, "but I think you exaggerate the

difficulty. Suppose a board of fairly sensible men were charged with

settling the wages for all sorts of trades under a system which, like

ours, guaranteed employment to all, while permitting the choice of

avocations. Don't you see that, however unsatisfactory the first

adjustment might be, the mistakes would soon correct themselves? The

favored trades would have too many volunteers, and those discriminated

against would lack them till the errors were set right. But this is

aside from the purpose, for, though this plan would, I fancy, be

practicable enough, it is no part of our system."

"How, then, do you regulate wages?" I once more asked.

Dr. Leete did not reply till after several moments of meditative

silence. "I know, of course," he finally said, "enough of the old order

of things to understand just what you mean by that question; and yet

the present order is so utterly different at this point that I am a

little at loss how to answer you best. You ask me how we regulate

wages; I can only reply that there is no idea in the modern social

economy which at all corresponds with what was meant by wages in your

day."

"I suppose you mean that you have no money to pay wages in," said I.

"But the credit given the worker at the government storehouse answers

to his wages with us. How is the amount of the credit given

respectively to the workers in different lines determined? By what

title does the individual claim his particular share? What is the basis

of allotment?"

"His title," replied Dr. Leete, "is his humanity. The basis of his

claim is the fact that he is a man."

"The fact that he is a man!" I repeated, incredulously. "Do you

possibly mean that all have the same share?"

"Most assuredly."

The readers of this book never having practically known any other

arrangement, or perhaps very carefully considered the historical

accounts of former epochs in which a very different system prevailed,

cannot be expected to appreciate the stupor of amazement into which Dr.

Leete's simple statement plunged me.

"You see," he said, smiling, "that it is not merely that we have no

money to pay wages in, but, as I said, we have nothing at all answering

to your idea of wages."

By this time I had pulled myself together sufficiently to voice some of

the criticisms which, man of the nineteenth century as I was, came

uppermost in my mind, upon this to me astounding arrangement. "Some men

do twice the work of others!" I exclaimed. "Are the clever workmen

content with a plan that ranks them with the indifferent?"

"We leave no possible ground for any complaint of injustice," replied

Dr. Leete, "by requiring precisely the same measure of service from

all."

"How can you do that, I should like to know, when no two men's powers

are the same?"

"Nothing could be simpler," was Dr. Leete's reply. "We require of each

that he shall make the same effort; that is, we demand of him the best

service it is in his power to give."

"And supposing all do the best they can," I answered, "the amount of

the product resulting is twice greater from one man than from another."

"Very true," replied Dr. Leete; "but the amount of the resulting

product has nothing whatever to do with the question, which is one of

desert. Desert is a moral question, and the amount of the product a

material quantity. It would be an extraordinary sort of logic which

should try to determine a moral question by a material standard. The

amount of the effort alone is pertinent to the question of desert. All

men who do their best, do the same. A man's endowments, however

godlike, merely fix the measure of his duty. The man of great

endowments who does not do all he might, though he may do more than a

man of small endowments who does his best, is deemed a less deserving

worker than the latter, and dies a debtor to his fellows. The Creator

sets men's tasks for them by the faculties he gives them; we simply

exact their fulfillment."

"No doubt that is very fine philosophy," I said; "nevertheless it seems

hard that the man who produces twice as much as another, even if both

do their best, should have only the same share."

"Does it, indeed, seem so to you?" responded Dr. Leete. "Now, do you

know, that seems very curious to me? The way it strikes people nowadays

is, that a man who can produce twice as much as another with the same

effort, instead of being rewarded for doing so, ought to be punished if

he does not do so. In the nineteenth century, when a horse pulled a

heavier load than a goat, I suppose you rewarded him. Now, we should

have whipped him soundly if he had not, on the ground that, being much

stronger, he ought to. It is singular how ethical standards change."

The doctor said this with such a twinkle in his eye that I was obliged

to laugh.

"I suppose," I said, "that the real reason that we rewarded men for

their endowments, while we considered those of horses and goats merely

as fixing the service to be severally required of them, was that the

animals, not being reasoning beings, naturally did the best they could,

whereas men could only be induced to do so by rewarding them according

to the amount of their product. That brings me to ask why, unless human

nature has mightily changed in a hundred years, you are not under the

same necessity."

"We are," replied Dr. Leete. "I don't think there has been any change

in human nature in that respect since your day. It is still so

constituted that special incentives in the form of prizes, and

advantages to be gained, are requisite to call out the best endeavors

of the average man in any direction."

"But what inducement," I asked, "can a man have to put forth his best

endeavors when, however much or little he accomplishes, his income

remains the same? High characters may be moved by devotion to the

common welfare under such a system, but does not the average man tend

to rest back on his oar, reasoning that it is of no use to make a

special effort, since the effort will not increase his income, nor its

withholding diminish it?"

"Does it then really seem to you," answered my companion, "that human

nature is insensible to any motives save fear of want and love of

luxury, that you should expect security and equality of livelihood to

leave them without possible incentives to effort? Your contemporaries

did not really think so, though they might fancy they did. When it was

a question of the grandest class of efforts, the most absolute

self-devotion, they depended on quite other incentives. Not higher

wages, but honor and the hope of men's gratitude, patriotism and the

inspiration of duty, were the motives which they set before their

soldiers when it was a question of dying for the nation, and never was

there an age of the world when those motives did not call out what is

best and noblest in men. And not only this, but when you come to

analyze the love of money which was the general impulse to effort in

your day, you find that the dread of want and desire of luxury was but

one of several motives which the pursuit of money represented; the

others, and with many the more influential, being desire of power, of

social position, and reputation for ability and success. So you see

that though we have abolished poverty and the fear of it, and

inordinate luxury with the hope of it, we have not touched the greater

part of the motives which underlay the love of money in former times,

or any of those which prompted the supremer sorts of effort. The

coarser motives, which no longer move us, have been replaced by higher

motives wholly unknown to the mere wage earners of your age. Now that

industry of whatever sort is no longer self-service, but service of the

nation, patriotism, passion for humanity, impel the worker as in your

day they did the soldier. The army of industry is an army, not alone by

virtue of its perfect organization, but by reason also of the ardor of

self-devotion which animates its members.

"But as you used to supplement the motives of patriotism with the love

of glory, in order to stimulate the valor of your soldiers, so do we.

Based as our industrial system is on the principle of requiring the

same unit of effort from every man, that is, the best he can do, you

will see that the means by which we spur the workers to do their best

must be a very essential part of our scheme. With us, diligence in the

national service is the sole and certain way to public repute, social

distinction, and official power. The value of a man's services to

society fixes his rank in it. Compared with the effect of our social

arrangements in impelling men to be zealous in business, we deem the

object-lessons of biting poverty and wanton luxury on which you

depended a device as weak and uncertain as it was barbaric. The lust of

honor even in your sordid day notoriously impelled men to more

desperate effort than the love of money could."

"I should be extremely interested," I said, "to learn something of what

these social arrangements are."

"The scheme in its details," replied the doctor, "is of course very

elaborate, for it underlies the entire organization of our industrial

army; but a few words will give you a general idea of it."

At this moment our talk was charmingly interrupted by the emergence

upon the aerial platform where we sat of Edith Leete. She was dressed

for the street, and had come to speak to her father about some

commission she was to do for him.

"By the way, Edith," he exclaimed, as she was about to leave us to

ourselves, "I wonder if Mr. West would not be interested in visiting

the store with you? I have been telling him something about our system

of distribution, and perhaps he might like to see it in practical

operation."

"My daughter," he added, turning to me, "is an indefatigable shopper,

and can tell you more about the stores than I can."

The proposition was naturally very agreeable to me, and Edith being

good enough to say that she should be glad to have my company, we left

the house together.

Chapter 10

"If I am going to explain our way of shopping to you," said my

companion, as we walked along the street, "you must explain your way to

me. I have never been able to understand it from all I have read on the

subject. For example, when you had such a vast number of shops, each

with its different assortment, how could a lady ever settle upon any

purchase till she had visited all the shops? for, until she had, she

could not know what there was to choose from."

"It was as you suppose; that was the only way she could know," I

replied.

"Father calls me an indefatigable shopper, but I should soon be a very

fatigued one if I had to do as they did," was Edith's laughing comment.

"The loss of time in going from shop to shop was indeed a waste which

the busy bitterly complained of," I said; "but as for the ladies of the

idle class, though they complained also, I think the system was really

a godsend by furnishing a device to kill time."

"But say there were a thousand shops in a city, hundreds, perhaps, of

the same sort, how could even the idlest find time to make their

rounds?"

"They really could not visit all, of course," I replied. "Those who did

a great deal of buying, learned in time where they might expect to find

what they wanted. This class had made a science of the specialties of

the shops, and bought at advantage, always getting the most and best

for the least money. It required, however, long experience to acquire

this knowledge. Those who were too busy, or bought too little to gain

it, took their chances and were generally unfortunate, getting the

least and worst for the most money. It was the merest chance if persons

not experienced in shopping received the value of their money."

"But why did you put up with such a shockingly inconvenient arrangement

when you saw its faults so plainly?" Edith asked me.

"It was like all our social arrangements," I replied. "You can see

their faults scarcely more plainly than we did, but we saw no remedy

for them."

"Here we are at the store of our ward," said Edith, as we turned in at

the great portal of one of the magnificent public buildings I had

observed in my morning walk. There was nothing in the exterior aspect

of the edifice to suggest a store to a representative of the nineteenth

century. There was no display of goods in the great windows, or any

device to advertise wares, or attract custom. Nor was there any sort of

sign or legend on the front of the building to indicate the character

of the business carried on there; but instead, above the portal,

standing out from the front of the building, a majestic life-size group

of statuary, the central figure of which was a female ideal of Plenty,

with her cornucopia. Judging from the composition of the throng passing

in and out, about the same proportion of the sexes among shoppers

obtained as in the nineteenth century. As we entered, Edith said that

there was one of these great distributing establishments in each ward

of the city, so that no residence was more than five or ten minutes'

walk from one of them. It was the first interior of a twentieth-century

public building that I had ever beheld, and the spectacle naturally

impressed me deeply. I was in a vast hall full of light, received not

alone from the windows on all sides, but from the dome, the point of

which was a hundred feet above. Beneath it, in the centre of the hall,

a magnificent fountain played, cooling the atmosphere to a delicious

freshness with its spray. The walls and ceiling were frescoed in mellow

tints, calculated to soften without absorbing the light which flooded

the interior. Around the fountain was a space occupied with chairs and

sofas, on which many persons were seated conversing. Legends on the

walls all about the hall indicated to what classes of commodities the

counters below were devoted. Edith directed her steps towards one of

these, where samples of muslin of a bewildering variety were displayed,

and proceeded to inspect them.

"Where is the clerk?" I asked, for there was no one behind the counter,

and no one seemed coming to attend to the customer.

"I have no need of the clerk yet," said Edith; "I have not made my

selection."

"It was the principal business of clerks to help people to make their

selections in my day," I replied.

"What! To tell people what they wanted?"

"Yes; and oftener to induce them to buy what they didn't want."

"But did not ladies find that very impertinent?" Edith asked,

wonderingly. "What concern could it possibly be to the clerks whether

people bought or not?"

"It was their sole concern," I answered. "They were hired for the

purpose of getting rid of the goods, and were expected to do their

utmost, short of the use of force, to compass that end."

"Ah, yes! How stupid I am to forget!" said Edith. "The storekeeper and

his clerks depended for their livelihood on selling the goods in your

day. Of course that is all different now. The goods are the nation's.

They are here for those who want them, and it is the business of the

clerks to wait on people and take their orders; but it is not the

interest of the clerk or the nation to dispose of a yard or a pound of

anything to anybody who does not want it." She smiled as she added,

"How exceedingly odd it must have seemed to have clerks trying to

induce one to take what one did not want, or was doubtful about!"

"But even a twentieth century clerk might make himself useful in giving

you information about the goods, though he did not tease you to buy

them," I suggested.

"No," said Edith, "that is not the business of the clerk. These printed

cards, for which the government authorities are responsible, give us

all the information we can possibly need."

I saw then that there was fastened to each sample a card containing in

succinct form a complete statement of the make and materials of the

goods and all its qualities, as well as price, leaving absolutely no

point to hang a question on.

"The clerk has, then, nothing to say about the goods he sells?" I said.

"Nothing at all. It is not necessary that he should know or profess to

know anything about them. Courtesy and accuracy in taking orders are

all that are required of him."

"What a prodigious amount of lying that simple arrangement saves!" I

ejaculated.

"Do you mean that all the clerks misrepresented their goods in your

day?" Edith asked.

"God forbid that I should say so!" I replied, "for there were many who

did not, and they were entitled to especial credit, for when one's

livelihood and that of his wife and babies depended on the amount of

goods he could dispose of, the temptation to deceive the customer--or

let him deceive himself--was wellnigh overwhelming. But, Miss Leete, I

am distracting you from your task with my talk."

"Not at all. I have made my selections." With that she touched a

button, and in a moment a clerk appeared. He took down her order on a

tablet with a pencil which made two copies, of which he gave one to

her, and enclosing the counterpart in a small receptacle, dropped it

into a transmitting tube.

"The duplicate of the order," said Edith as she turned away from the

counter, after the clerk had punched the value of her purchase out of

the credit card she gave him, "is given to the purchaser, so that any

mistakes in filling it can be easily traced and rectified."

"You were very quick about your selections," I said. "May I ask how you

knew that you might not have found something to suit you better in some

of the other stores? But probably you are required to buy in your own

district."

"Oh, no," she replied. "We buy where we please, though naturally most

often near home. But I should have gained nothing by visiting other

stores. The assortment in all is exactly the same, representing as it

does in each case samples of all the varieties produced or imported by

the United States. That is why one can decide quickly, and never need

visit two stores."

"And is this merely a sample store? I see no clerks cutting off goods

or marking bundles."

"All our stores are sample stores, except as to a few classes of

articles. The goods, with these exceptions, are all at the great

central warehouse of the city, to which they are shipped directly from

the producers. We order from the sample and the printed statement of

texture, make, and qualities. The orders are sent to the warehouse, and

the goods distributed from there."

"That must be a tremendous saving of handling," I said. "By our system,

the manufacturer sold to the wholesaler, the wholesaler to the

retailer, and the retailer to the consumer, and the goods had to be

handled each time. You avoid one handling of the goods, and eliminate

the retailer altogether, with his big profit and the army of clerks it

goes to support. Why, Miss Leete, this store is merely the order

department of a wholesale house, with no more than a wholesaler's

complement of clerks. Under our system of handling the goods,

persuading the customer to buy them, cutting them off, and packing

them, ten clerks would not do what one does here. The saving must be

enormous."

"I suppose so," said Edith, "but of course we have never known any

other way. But, Mr. West, you must not fail to ask father to take you

to the central warehouse some day, where they receive the orders from

the different sample houses all over the city and parcel out and send

the goods to their destinations. He took me there not long ago, and it

was a wonderful sight. The system is certainly perfect; for example,

over yonder in that sort of cage is the dispatching clerk. The orders,

as they are taken by the different departments in the store, are sent

by transmitters to him. His assistants sort them and enclose each class

in a carrier-box by itself. The dispatching clerk has a dozen pneumatic

transmitters before him answering to the general classes of goods, each

communicating with the corresponding department at the warehouse. He

drops the box of orders into the tube it calls for, and in a few

moments later it drops on the proper desk in the warehouse, together

with all the orders of the same sort from the other sample stores. The

orders are read off, recorded, and sent to be filled, like lightning.

The filling I thought the most interesting part. Bales of cloth are

placed on spindles and turned by machinery, and the cutter, who also

has a machine, works right through one bale after another till

exhausted, when another man takes his place; and it is the same with

those who fill the orders in any other staple. The packages are then

delivered by larger tubes to the city districts, and thence distributed

to the houses. You may understand how quickly it is all done when I

tell you that my order will probably be at home sooner than I could

have carried it from here."

"How do you manage in the thinly settled rural districts?" I asked.

"The system is the same," Edith explained; "the village sample shops

are connected by transmitters with the central county warehouse, which

may be twenty miles away. The transmission is so swift, though, that

the time lost on the way is trifling. But, to save expense, in many

counties one set of tubes connect several villages with the warehouse,

and then there is time lost waiting for one another. Sometimes it is

two or three hours before goods ordered are received. It was so where I

was staying last summer, and I found it quite inconvenient."[1]

"There must be many other respects also, no doubt, in which the country

stores are inferior to the city stores," I suggested.

"No," Edith answered, "they are otherwise precisely as good. The sample

shop of the smallest village, just like this one, gives you your choice

of all the varieties of goods the nation has, for the county warehouse

draws on the same source as the city warehouse."

As we walked home I commented on the great variety in the size and cost

of the houses. "How is it," I asked, "that this difference is

consistent with the fact that all citizens have the same income?"

"Because," Edith explained, "although the income is the same, personal

taste determines how the individual shall spend it. Some like fine

horses; others, like myself, prefer pretty clothes; and still others

want an elaborate table. The rents which the nation receives for these

houses vary, according to size, elegance, and location, so that

everybody can find something to suit. The larger houses are usually

occupied by large families, in which there are several to contribute to

the rent; while small families, like ours, find smaller houses more

convenient and economical. It is a matter of taste and convenience

wholly. I have read that in old times people often kept up

establishments and did other things which they could not afford for

ostentation, to make people think them richer than they were. Was it

really so, Mr. West?"

"I shall have to admit that it was," I replied.

"Well, you see, it could not be so nowadays; for everybody's income is

known, and it is known that what is spent one way must be saved

another."

[1] I am informed since the above is in type that this lack of

perfection in the distributing service of some of the country districts

is to be remedied, and that soon every village will have its own set of

tubes.

Chapter 11

When we arrived home, Dr. Leete had not yet returned, and Mrs. Leete

was not visible. "Are you fond of music, Mr. West?" Edith asked.

I assured her that it was half of life, according to my notion.

"I ought to apologize for inquiring," she said. "It is not a question

that we ask one another nowadays; but I have read that in your day,

even among the cultured class, there were some who did not care for

music."

"You must remember, in excuse," I said, "that we had some rather absurd

kinds of music."

"Yes," she said, "I know that; I am afraid I should not have fancied it

all myself. Would you like to hear some of ours now, Mr. West?"

"Nothing would delight me so much as to listen to you," I said.

"To me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Did you think I was going to play or

sing to you?"

"I hoped so, certainly," I replied.

Seeing that I was a little abashed, she subdued her merriment and

explained. "Of course, we all sing nowadays as a matter of course in

the training of the voice, and some learn to play instruments for their

private amusement; but the professional music is so much grander and

more perfect than any performance of ours, and so easily commanded when

we wish to hear it, that we don't think of calling our singing or

playing music at all. All the really fine singers and players are in

the musical service, and the rest of us hold our peace for the main

part. But would you really like to hear some music?"

I assured her once more that I would.

"Come, then, into the music room," she said, and I followed her into an

apartment finished, without hangings, in wood, with a floor of polished

wood. I was prepared for new devices in musical instruments, but I saw

nothing in the room which by any stretch of imagination could be

conceived as such. It was evident that my puzzled appearance was

affording intense amusement to Edith.

"Please look at to-day's music," she said, handing me a card, "and tell

me what you would prefer. It is now five o'clock, you will remember."

The card bore the date "September 12, 2000," and contained the longest

programme of music I had ever seen. It was as various as it was long,

including a most extraordinary range of vocal and instrumental solos,

duets, quartettes, and various orchestral combinations. I remained

bewildered by the prodigious list until Edith's pink finger tip

indicated a particular section of it, where several selections were

bracketed, with the words "5 P.M." against them; then I observed that

this prodigious programme was an all-day one, divided into twenty-four

sections answering to the hours. There were but a few pieces of music

in the "5 P.M." section, and I indicated an organ piece as my

preference.

"I am so glad you like the organ," said she. "I think there is scarcely

any music that suits my mood oftener."

She made me sit down comfortably, and, crossing the room, so far as I

could see, merely touched one or two screws, and at once the room was

filled with the music of a grand organ anthem; filled, not flooded,

for, by some means, the volume of melody had been perfectly graduated

to the size of the apartment. I listened, scarcely breathing, to the

close. Such music, so perfectly rendered, I had never expected to hear.

"Grand!" I cried, as the last great wave of sound broke and ebbed away

into silence. "Bach must be at the keys of that organ; but where is the

organ?"

"Wait a moment, please," said Edith; "I want to have you listen to this

waltz before you ask any questions. I think it is perfectly charming";

and as she spoke the sound of violins filled the room with the witchery

of a summer night. When this had also ceased, she said: "There is

nothing in the least mysterious about the music, as you seem to

imagine. It is not made by fairies or genii, but by good, honest, and

exceedingly clever human hands. We have simply carried the idea of

labor saving by cooperation into our musical service as into everything

else. There are a number of music rooms in the city, perfectly adapted

acoustically to the different sorts of music. These halls are connected

by telephone with all the houses of the city whose people care to pay

the small fee, and there are none, you may be sure, who do not. The

corps of musicians attached to each hall is so large that, although no

individual performer, or group of performers, has more than a brief

part, each day's programme lasts through the twenty-four hours. There

are on that card for to-day, as you will see if you observe closely,

distinct programmes of four of these concerts, each of a different

order of music from the others, being now simultaneously performed, and

any one of the four pieces now going on that you prefer, you can hear

by merely pressing the button which will connect your house-wire with

the hall where it is being rendered. The programmes are so coordinated

that the pieces at any one time simultaneously proceeding in the

different halls usually offer a choice, not only between instrumental

and vocal, and between different sorts of instruments; but also between

different motives from grave to gay, so that all tastes and moods can

be suited."

"It appears to me, Miss Leete," I said, "that if we could have devised

an arrangement for providing everybody with music in their homes,

perfect in quality, unlimited in quantity, suited to every mood, and

beginning and ceasing at will, we should have considered the limit of

human felicity already attained, and ceased to strive for further

improvements."

"I am sure I never could imagine how those among you who depended at

all on music managed to endure the old-fashioned system for providing

it," replied Edith. "Music really worth hearing must have been, I

suppose, wholly out of the reach of the masses, and attainable by the

most favored only occasionally, at great trouble, prodigious expense,

and then for brief periods, arbitrarily fixed by somebody else, and in

connection with all sorts of undesirable circumstances. Your concerts,

for instance, and operas! How perfectly exasperating it must have been,

for the sake of a piece or two of music that suited you, to have to sit

for hours listening to what you did not care for! Now, at a dinner one

can skip the courses one does not care for. Who would ever dine,

however hungry, if required to eat everything brought on the table? and

I am sure one's hearing is quite as sensitive as one's taste. I suppose

it was these difficulties in the way of commanding really good music

which made you endure so much playing and singing in your homes by

people who had only the rudiments of the art."

"Yes," I replied, "it was that sort of music or none for most of us.

"Ah, well," Edith sighed, "when one really considers, it is not so

strange that people in those days so often did not care for music. I

dare say I should have detested it, too."

"Did I understand you rightly," I inquired, "that this musical

programme covers the entire twenty-four hours? It seems to on this

card, certainly; but who is there to listen to music between say

midnight and morning?"

"Oh, many," Edith replied. "Our people keep all hours; but if the music

were provided from midnight to morning for no others, it still would be

for the sleepless, the sick, and the dying. All our bedchambers have a

telephone attachment at the head of the bed by which any person who may

be sleepless can command music at pleasure, of the sort suited to the

mood."

"Is there such an arrangement in the room assigned to me?"

"Why, certainly; and how stupid, how very stupid, of me not to think to

tell you of that last night! Father will show you about the adjustment

before you go to bed to-night, however; and with the receiver at your

ear, I am quite sure you will be able to snap your fingers at all sorts

of uncanny feelings if they trouble you again."

That evening Dr. Leete asked us about our visit to the store, and in

the course of the desultory comparison of the ways of the nineteenth

century and the twentieth, which followed, something raised the

question of inheritance. "I suppose," I said, "the inheritance of

property is not now allowed."

"On the contrary," replied Dr. Leete, "there is no interference with

it. In fact, you will find, Mr. West, as you come to know us, that

there is far less interference of any sort with personal liberty

nowadays than you were accustomed to. We require, indeed, by law that

every man shall serve the nation for a fixed period, instead of leaving

him his choice, as you did, between working, stealing, or starving.

With the exception of this fundamental law, which is, indeed, merely a

codification of the law of nature--the edict of Eden--by which it is

made equal in its pressure on men, our system depends in no particular

upon legislation, but is entirely voluntary, the logical outcome of the

operation of human nature under rational conditions. This question of

inheritance illustrates just that point. The fact that the nation is

the sole capitalist and land-owner of course restricts the individual's

possessions to his annual credit, and what personal and household

belongings he may have procured with it. His credit, like an annuity in

your day, ceases on his death, with the allowance of a fixed sum for

funeral expenses. His other possessions he leaves as he pleases."

"What is to prevent, in course of time, such accumulations of valuable

goods and chattels in the hands of individuals as might seriously

interfere with equality in the circumstances of citizens?" I asked.

"That matter arranges itself very simply," was the reply. "Under the

present organization of society, accumulations of personal property are

merely burdensome the moment they exceed what adds to the real comfort.

In your day, if a man had a house crammed full with gold and silver

plate, rare china, expensive furniture, and such things, he was

considered rich, for these things represented money, and could at any

time be turned into it. Nowadays a man whom the legacies of a hundred

relatives, simultaneously dying, should place in a similar position,

would be considered very unlucky. The articles, not being salable,

would be of no value to him except for their actual use or the

enjoyment of their beauty. On the other hand, his income remaining the

same, he would have to deplete his credit to hire houses to store the

goods in, and still further to pay for the service of those who took

care of them. You may be very sure that such a man would lose no time

in scattering among his friends possessions which only made him the

poorer, and that none of those friends would accept more of them than

they could easily spare room for and time to attend to. You see, then,

that to prohibit the inheritance of personal property with a view to

prevent great accumulations would be a superfluous precaution for the

nation. The individual citizen can be trusted to see that he is not

overburdened. So careful is he in this respect, that the relatives

usually waive claim to most of the effects of deceased friends,

reserving only particular objects. The nation takes charge of the

resigned chattels, and turns such as are of value into the common stock

once more."

"You spoke of paying for service to take care of your houses," said I;

"that suggests a question I have several times been on the point of

asking. How have you disposed of the problem of domestic service? Who

are willing to be domestic servants in a community where all are social

equals? Our ladies found it hard enough to find such even when there

was little pretense of social equality."

"It is precisely because we are all social equals whose equality

nothing can compromise, and because service is honorable, in a society

whose fundamental principle is that all in turn shall serve the rest,

that we could easily provide a corps of domestic servants such as you

never dreamed of, if we needed them," replied Dr. Leete. "But we do not

need them."

"Who does your house-work, then?" I asked.

"There is none to do," said Mrs. Leete, to whom I had addressed this

question. "Our washing is all done at public laundries at excessively

cheap rates, and our cooking at public kitchens. The making and

repairing of all we wear are done outside in public shops. Electricity,

of course, takes the place of all fires and lighting. We choose houses

no larger than we need, and furnish them so as to involve the minimum

of trouble to keep them in order. We have no use for domestic servants."

"The fact," said Dr. Leete, "that you had in the poorer classes a

boundless supply of serfs on whom you could impose all sorts of painful

and disagreeable tasks, made you indifferent to devices to avoid the

necessity for them. But now that we all have to do in turn whatever

work is done for society, every individual in the nation has the same

interest, and a personal one, in devices for lightening the burden.

This fact has given a prodigious impulse to labor-saving inventions in

all sorts of industry, of which the combination of the maximum of

comfort and minimum of trouble in household arrangements was one of the

earliest results.

"In case of special emergencies in the household," pursued Dr. Leete,

"such as extensive cleaning or renovation, or sickness in the family,

we can always secure assistance from the industrial force."

"But how do you recompense these assistants, since you have no money?"

"We do not pay them, of course, but the nation for them. Their services

can be obtained by application at the proper bureau, and their value is

pricked off the credit card of the applicant."

"What a paradise for womankind the world must be now!" I exclaimed. "In

my day, even wealth and unlimited servants did not enfranchise their

possessors from household cares, while the women of the merely

well-to-do and poorer classes lived and died martyrs to them."

"Yes," said Mrs. Leete, "I have read something of that; enough to

convince me that, badly off as the men, too, were in your day, they

were more fortunate than their mothers and wives."

"The broad shoulders of the nation," said Dr. Leete, "bear now like a

feather the burden that broke the backs of the women of your day. Their

misery came, with all your other miseries, from that incapacity for

cooperation which followed from the individualism on which your social

system was founded, from your inability to perceive that you could make

ten times more profit out of your fellow men by uniting with them than

by contending with them. The wonder is, not that you did not live more

comfortably, but that you were able to live together at all, who were

all confessedly bent on making one another your servants, and securing

possession of one another's goods.

"There, there, father, if you are so vehement, Mr. West will think you

are scolding him," laughingly interposed Edith.

"When you want a doctor," I asked, "do you simply apply to the proper

bureau and take any one that may be sent?"

"That rule would not work well in the case of physicians," replied Dr.

Leete. "The good a physician can do a patient depends largely on his

acquaintance with his constitutional tendencies and condition. The

patient must be able, therefore, to call in a particular doctor, and he

does so just as patients did in your day. The only difference is that,

instead of collecting his fee for himself, the doctor collects it for

the nation by pricking off the amount, according to a regular scale for

medical attendance, from the patient's credit card."

"I can imagine," I said, "that if the fee is always the same, and a

doctor may not turn away patients, as I suppose he may not, the good

doctors are called constantly and the poor doctors left in idleness."

"In the first place, if you will overlook the apparent conceit of the

remark from a retired physician," replied Dr. Leete, with a smile, "we

have no poor doctors. Anybody who pleases to get a little smattering of

medical terms is not now at liberty to practice on the bodies of

citizens, as in your day. None but students who have passed the severe

tests of the schools, and clearly proved their vocation, are permitted

to practice. Then, too, you will observe that there is nowadays no

attempt of doctors to build up their practice at the expense of other

doctors. There would be no motive for that. For the rest, the doctor

has to render regular reports of his work to the medical bureau, and if

he is not reasonably well employed, work is found for him."

Chapter 12

The questions which I needed to ask before I could acquire even an

outline acquaintance with the institutions of the twentieth century

being endless, and Dr. Leete's good-nature appearing equally so, we sat

up talking for several hours after the ladies left us. Reminding my

host of the point at which our talk had broken off that morning, I

expressed my curiosity to learn how the organization of the industrial

army was made to afford a sufficient stimulus to diligence in the lack

of any anxiety on the worker's part as to his livelihood.

"You must understand in the first place," replied the doctor, "that the

supply of incentives to effort is but one of the objects sought in the

organization we have adopted for the army. The other, and equally

important, is to secure for the file-leaders and captains of the force,

and the great officers of the nation, men of proven abilities, who are

pledged by their own careers to hold their followers up to their

highest standard of performance and permit no lagging. With a view to

these two ends the industrial army is organized. First comes the

unclassified grade of common laborers, men of all work, to which all

recruits during their first three years belong. This grade is a sort of

school, and a very strict one, in which the young men are taught habits

of obedience, subordination, and devotion to duty. While the

miscellaneous nature of the work done by this force prevents the

systematic grading of the workers which is afterwards possible, yet

individual records are kept, and excellence receives distinction

corresponding with the penalties that negligence incurs. It is not,

however, policy with us to permit youthful recklessness or

indiscretion, when not deeply culpable, to handicap the future careers

of young men, and all who have passed through the unclassified grade

without serious disgrace have an equal opportunity to choose the life

employment they have most liking for. Having selected this, they enter

upon it as apprentices. The length of the apprenticeship naturally

differs in different occupations. At the end of it the apprentice

becomes a full workman, and a member of his trade or guild. Now not

only are the individual records of the apprentices for ability and

industry strictly kept, and excellence distinguished by suitable

distinctions, but upon the average of his record during apprenticeship

the standing given the apprentice among the full workmen depends.

"While the internal organizations of different industries, mechanical

and agricultural, differ according to their peculiar conditions, they

agree in a general division of their workers into first, second, and

third grades, according to ability, and these grades are in many cases

subdivided into first and second classes. According to his standing as

an apprentice a young man is assigned his place as a first, second, or

third grade worker. Of course only men of unusual ability pass directly

from apprenticeship into the first grade of the workers. The most fall

into the lower grades, working up as they grow more experienced, at the

periodical regradings. These regradings take place in each industry at

intervals corresponding with the length of the apprenticeship to that

industry, so that merit never need wait long to rise, nor can any rest

on past achievements unless they would drop into a lower rank. One of

the notable advantages of a high grading is the privilege it gives the

worker in electing which of the various branches or processes of his

industry he will follow as his specialty. Of course it is not intended

that any of these processes shall be disproportionately arduous, but

there is often much difference between them, and the privilege of

election is accordingly highly prized. So far as possible, indeed, the

preferences even of the poorest workmen are considered in assigning

them their line of work, because not only their happiness but their

usefulness is thus enhanced. While, however, the wish of the lower

grade man is consulted so far as the exigencies of the service permit,

he is considered only after the upper grade men have been provided for,

and often he has to put up with second or third choice, or even with an

arbitrary assignment when help is needed. This privilege of election

attends every regrading, and when a man loses his grade he also risks

having to exchange the sort of work he likes for some other less to his

taste. The results of each regrading, giving the standing of every man

in his industry, are gazetted in the public prints, and those who have

won promotion since the last regrading receive the nation's thanks and

are publicly invested with the badge of their new rank."

"What may this badge be?" I asked.

"Every industry has its emblematic device," replied Dr. Leete, "and

this, in the shape of a metallic badge so small that you might not see

it unless you knew where to look, is all the insignia which the men of

the army wear, except where public convenience demands a distinctive

uniform. This badge is the same in form for all grades of industry, but

while the badge of the third grade is iron, that of the second grade is

silver, and that of the first is gilt.

"Apart from the grand incentive to endeavor afforded by the fact that

the high places in the nation are open only to the highest class men,

and that rank in the army constitutes the only mode of social

distinction for the vast majority who are not aspirants in art,

literature, and the professions, various incitements of a minor, but

perhaps equally effective, sort are provided in the form of special

privileges and immunities in the way of discipline, which the superior

class men enjoy. These, while intended to be as little as possible

invidious to the less successful, have the effect of keeping constantly

before every man's mind the great desirability of attaining the grade

next above his own.

"It is obviously important that not only the good but also the

indifferent and poor workmen should be able to cherish the ambition of

rising. Indeed, the number of the latter being so much greater, it is

even more essential that the ranking system should not operate to

discourage them than that it should stimulate the others. It is to this

end that the grades are divided into classes. The grades as well as the

classes being made numerically equal at each regrading, there is not at

any time, counting out the officers and the unclassified and apprentice

grades, over one-ninth of the industrial army in the lowest class, and

most of this number are recent apprentices, all of whom expect to rise.

Those who remain during the entire term of service in the lowest class

are but a trifling fraction of the industrial army, and likely to be as

deficient in sensibility to their position as in ability to better it.

"It is not even necessary that a worker should win promotion to a

higher grade to have at least a taste of glory. While promotion

requires a general excellence of record as a worker, honorable mention

and various sorts of prizes are awarded for excellence less than

sufficient for promotion, and also for special feats and single

performances in the various industries. There are many minor

distinctions of standing, not only within the grades but within the

classes, each of which acts as a spur to the efforts of a group. It is

intended that no form of merit shall wholly fail of recognition.

"As for actual neglect of work positively bad work, or other overt

remissness on the part of men incapable of generous motives, the

discipline of the industrial army is far too strict to allow anything

whatever of the sort. A man able to do duty, and persistently refusing,

is sentenced to solitary imprisonment on bread and water till he

consents.

"The lowest grade of the officers of the industrial army, that of

assistant foremen or lieutenants, is appointed out of men who have held

their place for two years in the first class of the first grade. Where

this leaves too large a range of choice, only the first group of this

class are eligible. No one thus comes to the point of commanding men

until he is about thirty years old. After a man becomes an officer, his

rating of course no longer depends on the efficiency of his own work,

but on that of his men. The foremen are appointed from among the

assistant foremen, by the same exercise of discretion limited to a

small eligible class. In the appointments to the still higher grades

another principle is introduced, which it would take too much time to

explain now.

"Of course such a system of grading as I have described would have been

impracticable applied to the small industrial concerns of your day, in

some of which there were hardly enough employees to have left one

apiece for the classes. You must remember that, under the national

organization of labor, all industries are carried on by great bodies of

men, many of your farms or shops being combined as one. It is also

owing solely to the vast scale on which each industry is organized,

with co-ordinate establishments in every part of the country, that we

are able by exchanges and transfers to fit every man so nearly with the

sort of work he can do best.

"And now, Mr. West, I will leave it to you, on the bare outline of its

features which I have given, if those who need special incentives to do

their best are likely to lack them under our system. Does it not seem

to you that men who found themselves obliged, whether they wished or

not, to work, would under such a system be strongly impelled to do

their best?"

I replied that it seemed to me the incentives offered were, if any

objection were to be made, too strong; that the pace set for the young

men was too hot; and such, indeed, I would add with deference, still

remains my opinion, now that by longer residence among you I become

better acquainted with the whole subject.

Dr. Leete, however, desired me to reflect, and I am ready to say that

it is perhaps a sufficient reply to my objection, that the worker's

livelihood is in no way dependent on his ranking, and anxiety for that

never embitters his disappointments; that the working hours are short,

the vacations regular, and that all emulation ceases at forty-five,

with the attainment of middle life.

"There are two or three other points I ought to refer to," he added,

"to prevent your getting mistaken impressions. In the first place, you

must understand that this system of preferment given the more efficient

workers over the less so, in no way contravenes the fundamental idea of

our social system, that all who do their best are equally deserving,

whether that best be great or small. I have shown that the system is

arranged to encourage the weaker as well as the stronger with the hope

of rising, while the fact that the stronger are selected for the

leaders is in no way a reflection upon the weaker, but in the interest

of the common weal.

"Do not imagine, either, because emulation is given free play as an

incentive under our system, that we deem it a motive likely to appeal

to the nobler sort of men, or worthy of them. Such as these find their

motives within, not without, and measure their duty by their own

endowments, not by those of others. So long as their achievement is

proportioned to their powers, they would consider it preposterous to

expect praise or blame because it chanced to be great or small. To such

natures emulation appears philosophically absurd, and despicable in a

moral aspect by its substitution of envy for admiration, and exultation

for regret, in one's attitude toward the successes and the failures of

others.

"But all men, even in the last year of the twentieth century, are not

of this high order, and the incentives to endeavor requisite for those

who are not must be of a sort adapted to their inferior natures. For

these, then, emulation of the keenest edge is provided as a constant

spur. Those who need this motive will feel it. Those who are above its

influence do not need it.

"I should not fail to mention," resumed the doctor, "that for those too

deficient in mental or bodily strength to be fairly graded with the

main body of workers, we have a separate grade, unconnected with the

others,--a sort of invalid corps, the members of which are provided

with a light class of tasks fitted to their strength. All our sick in

mind and body, all our deaf and dumb, and lame and blind and crippled,

and even our insane, belong to this invalid corps, and bear its

insignia. The strongest often do nearly a man's work, the feeblest, of

course, nothing; but none who can do anything are willing quite to give

up. In their lucid intervals, even our insane are eager to do what they

can."

"That is a pretty idea of the invalid corps," I said. "Even a barbarian

from the nineteenth century can appreciate that. It is a very graceful

way of disguising charity, and must be grateful to the feelings of its

recipients."

"Charity!" repeated Dr. Leete. "Did you suppose that we consider the

incapable class we are talking of objects of charity?"

"Why, naturally," I said, "inasmuch as they are incapable of

self-support."

But here the doctor took me up quickly.

"Who is capable of self-support?" he demanded. "There is no such thing

in a civilized society as self-support. In a state of society so

barbarous as not even to know family cooperation, each individual may

possibly support himself, though even then for a part of his life only;

but from the moment that men begin to live together, and constitute

even the rudest sort of society, self-support becomes impossible. As

men grow more civilized, and the subdivision of occupations and

services is carried out, a complex mutual dependence becomes the

universal rule. Every man, however solitary may seem his occupation, is

a member of a vast industrial partnership, as large as the nation, as

large as humanity. The necessity of mutual dependence should imply the

duty and guarantee of mutual support; and that it did not in your day

constituted the essential cruelty and unreason of your system."

"That may all be so," I replied, "but it does not touch the case of

those who are unable to contribute anything to the product of industry."

"Surely I told you this morning, at least I thought I did," replied Dr.

Leete, "that the right of a man to maintenance at the nation's table

depends on the fact that he is a man, and not on the amount of health

and strength he may have, so long as he does his best."

"You said so," I answered, "but I supposed the rule applied only to the

workers of different ability. Does it also hold of those who can do

nothing at all?"

"Are they not also men?"

"I am to understand, then, that the lame, the blind, the sick, and the

impotent, are as well off as the most efficient and have the same

income?"

"Certainly," was the reply.

"The idea of charity on such a scale," I answered, "would have made our

most enthusiastic philanthropists gasp."

"If you had a sick brother at home," replied Dr. Leete, "unable to

work, would you feed him on less dainty food, and lodge and clothe him

more poorly, than yourself? More likely far, you would give him the

preference; nor would you think of calling it charity. Would not the

word, in that connection, fill you with indignation?"

"Of course," I replied; "but the cases are not parallel. There is a

sense, no doubt, in which all men are brothers; but this general sort

of brotherhood is not to be compared, except for rhetorical purposes,

to the brotherhood of blood, either as to its sentiment or its

obligations."

"There speaks the nineteenth century!" exclaimed Dr. Leete. "Ah, Mr.

West, there is no doubt as to the length of time that you slept. If I

were to give you, in one sentence, a key to what may seem the mysteries

of our civilization as compared with that of your age, I should say

that it is the fact that the solidarity of the race and the brotherhood

of man, which to you were but fine phrases, are, to our thinking and

feeling, ties as real and as vital as physical fraternity.

"But even setting that consideration aside, I do not see why it so

surprises you that those who cannot work are conceded the full right to

live on the produce of those who can. Even in your day, the duty of

military service for the protection of the nation, to which our

industrial service corresponds, while obligatory on those able to

discharge it, did not operate to deprive of the privileges of

citizenship those who were unable. They stayed at home, and were

protected by those who fought, and nobody questioned their right to be,

or thought less of them. So, now, the requirement of industrial service

from those able to render it does not operate to deprive of the

privileges of citizenship, which now implies the citizen's maintenance,

him who cannot work. The worker is not a citizen because he works, but

works because he is a citizen. As you recognize the duty of the strong

to fight for the weak, we, now that fighting is gone by, recognize his

duty to work for him.

"A solution which leaves an unaccounted-for residuum is no solution at

all; and our solution of the problem of human society would have been

none at all had it left the lame, the sick, and the blind outside with

the beasts, to fare as they might. Better far have left the strong and

well unprovided for than these burdened ones, toward whom every heart

must yearn, and for whom ease of mind and body should be provided, if

for no others. Therefore it is, as I told you this morning, that the

title of every man, woman, and child to the means of existence rests on

no basis less plain, broad, and simple than the fact that they are

fellows of one race-members of one human family. The only coin current

is the image of God, and that is good for all we have.

"I think there is no feature of the civilization of your epoch so

repugnant to modern ideas as the neglect with which you treated your

dependent classes. Even if you had no pity, no feeling of brotherhood,

how was it that you did not see that you were robbing the incapable

class of their plain right in leaving them unprovided for?"

"I don't quite follow you there," I said. "I admit the claim of this

class to our pity, but how could they who produced nothing claim a

share of the product as a right?"

"How happened it," was Dr. Leete's reply, "that your workers were able

to produce more than so many savages would have done? Was it not wholly

on account of the heritage of the past knowledge and achievements of

the race, the machinery of society, thousands of years in contriving,

found by you ready-made to your hand? How did you come to be possessors

of this knowledge and this machinery, which represent nine parts to one

contributed by yourself in the value of your product? You inherited it,

did you not? And were not these others, these unfortunate and crippled

brothers whom you cast out, joint inheritors, co-heirs with you? What

did you do with their share? Did you not rob them when you put them off

with crusts, who were entitled to sit with the heirs, and did you not

add insult to robbery when you called the crusts charity?

"Ah, Mr. West," Dr. Leete continued, as I did not respond, "what I do

not understand is, setting aside all considerations either of justice

or brotherly feeling toward the crippled and defective, how the workers

of your day could have had any heart for their work, knowing that their

children, or grand-children, if unfortunate, would be deprived of the

comforts and even necessities of life. It is a mystery how men with

children could favor a system under which they were rewarded beyond

those less endowed with bodily strength or mental power. For, by the

same discrimination by which the father profited, the son, for whom he

would give his life, being perchance weaker than others, might be

reduced to crusts and beggary. How men dared leave children behind

them, I have never been able to understand."

Note.--Although in his talk on the previous evening Dr. Leete had

emphasized the pains taken to enable every man to ascertain and follow

his natural bent in choosing an occupation, it was not till I learned

that the worker's income is the same in all occupations that I realized

how absolutely he may be counted on to do so, and thus, by selecting

the harness which sets most lightly on himself, find that in which he

can pull best. The failure of my age in any systematic or effective way

to develop and utilize the natural aptitudes of men for the industries

and intellectual avocations was one of the great wastes, as well as one

of the most common causes of unhappiness in that time. The vast

majority of my contemporaries, though nominally free to do so, never

really chose their occupations at all, but were forced by circumstances

into work for which they were relatively inefficient, because not

naturally fitted for it. The rich, in this respect, had little

advantage over the poor. The latter, indeed, being generally deprived

of education, had no opportunity even to ascertain the natural

aptitudes they might have, and on account of their poverty were unable

to develop them by cultivation even when ascertained. The liberal and

technical professions, except by favorable accident, were shut to them,

to their own great loss and that of the nation. On the other hand, the

well-to-do, although they could command education and opportunity, were

scarcely less hampered by social prejudice, which forbade them to

pursue manual avocations, even when adapted to them, and destined them,

whether fit or unfit, to the professions, thus wasting many an

excellent handicraftsman. Mercenary considerations, tempting men to

pursue money-making occupations for which they were unfit, instead of

less remunerative employments for which they were fit, were responsible

for another vast perversion of talent. All these things now are

changed. Equal education and opportunity must needs bring to light

whatever aptitudes a man has, and neither social prejudices nor

mercenary considerations hamper him in the choice of his life work.

Chapter 13

As Edith had promised he should do, Dr. Leete accompanied me to my

bedroom when I retired, to instruct me as to the adjustment of the

musical telephone. He showed how, by turning a screw, the volume of the

music could be made to fill the room, or die away to an echo so faint

and far that one could scarcely be sure whether he heard or imagined

it. If, of two persons side by side, one desired to listen to music and

the other to sleep, it could be made audible to one and inaudible to

another.

"I should strongly advise you to sleep if you can to-night, Mr. West,

in preference to listening to the finest tunes in the world," the

doctor said, after explaining these points. "In the trying experience

you are just now passing through, sleep is a nerve tonic for which

there is no substitute."

Mindful of what had happened to me that very morning, I promised to

heed his counsel.

"Very well," he said, "then I will set the telephone at eight o'clock."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He explained that, by a clock-work combination, a person could arrange

to be awakened at any hour by the music.

It began to appear, as has since fully proved to be the case, that I

had left my tendency to insomnia behind me with the other discomforts

of existence in the nineteenth century; for though I took no sleeping

draught this time, yet, as the night before, I had no sooner touched

the pillow than I was asleep.

I dreamed that I sat on the throne of the Abencerrages in the

banqueting hall of the Alhambra, feasting my lords and generals, who

next day were to follow the crescent against the Christian dogs of

Spain. The air, cooled by the spray of fountains, was heavy with the

scent of flowers. A band of Nautch girls, round-limbed and

luscious-lipped, danced with voluptuous grace to the music of brazen

and stringed instruments. Looking up to the latticed galleries, one

caught a gleam now and then from the eye of some beauty of the royal

harem, looking down upon the assembled flower of Moorish chivalry.

Louder and louder clashed the cymbals, wilder and wilder grew the

strain, till the blood of the desert race could no longer resist the

martial delirium, and the swart nobles leaped to their feet; a thousand

scimetars were bared, and the cry, "Allah il Allah!" shook the hall and

awoke me, to find it broad daylight, and the room tingling with the

electric music of the "Turkish Reveille."

At the breakfast-table, when I told my host of my morning's experience,

I learned that it was not a mere chance that the piece of music which

awakened me was a reveille. The airs played at one of the halls during

the waking hours of the morning were always of an inspiring type.

"By the way," I said, "I have not thought to ask you anything about the

state of Europe. Have the societies of the Old World also been

remodeled?"

"Yes," replied Dr. Leete, "the great nations of Europe as well as

Australia, Mexico, and parts of South America, are now organized

industrially like the United States, which was the pioneer of the

evolution. The peaceful relations of these nations are assured by a

loose form of federal union of world-wide extent. An international

council regulates the mutual intercourse and commerce of the members of

the union and their joint policy toward the more backward races, which

are gradually being educated up to civilized institutions. Complete

autonomy within its own limits is enjoyed by every nation."

"How do you carry on commerce without money?" I said. "In trading with

other nations, you must use some sort of money, although you dispense

with it in the internal affairs of the nation."

"Oh, no; money is as superfluous in our foreign as in our internal

relations. When foreign commerce was conducted by private enterprise,

money was necessary to adjust it on account of the multifarious

complexity of the transactions; but nowadays it is a function of the

nations as units. There are thus only a dozen or so merchants in the

world, and their business being supervised by the international

council, a simple system of book accounts serves perfectly to regulate

their dealings. Customs duties of every sort are of course superfluous.

A nation simply does not import what its government does not think

requisite for the general interest. Each nation has a bureau of foreign

exchange, which manages its trading. For example, the American bureau,

estimating such and such quantities of French goods necessary to

America for a given year, sends the order to the French bureau, which

in turn sends its order to our bureau. The same is done mutually by all

the nations."

"But how are the prices of foreign goods settled, since there is no

competition?"

"The price at which one nation supplies another with goods," replied

Dr. Leete, "must be that at which it supplies its own citizens. So you

see there is no danger of misunderstanding. Of course no nation is

theoretically bound to supply another with the product of its own

labor, but it is for the interest of all to exchange some commodities.

If a nation is regularly supplying another with certain goods, notice

is required from either side of any important change in the relation."

"But what if a nation, having a monopoly of some natural product,

should refuse to supply it to the others, or to one of them?"

"Such a case has never occurred, and could not without doing the

refusing party vastly more harm than the others," replied Dr. Leete.

"In the fist place, no favoritism could be legally shown. The law

requires that each nation shall deal with the others, in all respects,

on exactly the same footing. Such a course as you suggest would cut off

the nation adopting it from the remainder of the earth for all purposes

whatever. The contingency is one that need not give us much anxiety."

"But," said I, "supposing a nation, having a natural monopoly in some

product of which it exports more than it consumes, should put the price

away up, and thus, without cutting off the supply, make a profit out of

its neighbors' necessities? Its own citizens would of course have to

pay the higher price on that commodity, but as a body would make more

out of foreigners than they would be out of pocket themselves."

"When you come to know how prices of all commodities are determined

nowadays, you will perceive how impossible it is that they could be

altered, except with reference to the amount or arduousness of the work

required respectively to produce them," was Dr. Leete's reply. "This

principle is an international as well as a national guarantee; but even

without it the sense of community of interest, international as well as

national, and the conviction of the folly of selfishness, are too deep

nowadays to render possible such a piece of sharp practice as you

apprehend. You must understand that we all look forward to an eventual

unification of the world as one nation. That, no doubt, will be the

ultimate form of society, and will realize certain economic advantages

over the present federal system of autonomous nations. Meanwhile,

however, the present system works so nearly perfectly that we are quite

content to leave to posterity the completion of the scheme. There are,

indeed, some who hold that it never will be completed, on the ground

that the federal plan is not merely a provisional solution of the

problem of human society, but the best ultimate solution."

"How do you manage," I asked, "when the books of any two nations do not

balance? Supposing we import more from France than we export to her."

"At the end of each year," replied the doctor, "the books of every

nation are examined. If France is found in our debt, probably we are in

the debt of some nation which owes France, and so on with all the

nations. The balances that remain after the accounts have been cleared

by the international council should not be large under our system.

Whatever they may be, the council requires them to be settled every few

years, and may require their settlement at any time if they are getting

too large; for it is not intended that any nation shall run largely in

debt to another, lest feelings unfavorable to amity should be

engendered. To guard further against this, the international council

inspects the commodities interchanged by the nations, to see that they

are of perfect quality."

"But what are the balances finally settled with, seeing that you have

no money?"

"In national staples; a basis of agreement as to what staples shall be

accepted, and in what proportions, for settlement of accounts, being a

preliminary to trade relations."

"Emigration is another point I want to ask you about," said I. "With

every nation organized as a close industrial partnership, monopolizing

all means of production in the country, the emigrant, even if he were

permitted to land, would starve. I suppose there is no emigration

nowadays."

"On the contrary, there is constant emigration, by which I suppose you

mean removal to foreign countries for permanent residence," replied Dr.

Leete. "It is arranged on a simple international arrangement of

indemnities. For example, if a man at twenty-one emigrates from England

to America, England loses all the expense of his maintenance and

education, and America gets a workman for nothing. America accordingly

makes England an allowance. The same principle, varied to suit the

case, applies generally. If the man is near the term of his labor when

he emigrates, the country receiving him has the allowance. As to

imbecile persons, it is deemed best that each nation should be

responsible for its own, and the emigration of such must be under full

guarantees of support by his own nation. Subject to these regulations,

the right of any man to emigrate at any time is unrestricted."

"But how about mere pleasure trips; tours of observation? How can a

stranger travel in a country whose people do not receive money, and are

themselves supplied with the means of life on a basis not extended to

him? His own credit card cannot, of course, be good in other lands. How

does he pay his way?"

"An American credit card," replied Dr. Leete, "is just as good in

Europe as American gold used to be, and on precisely the same

condition, namely, that it be exchanged into the currency of the

country you are traveling in. An American in Berlin takes his credit

card to the local office of the international council, and receives in

exchange for the whole or part of it a German credit card, the amount

being charged against the United States in favor of Germany on the

international account."

"Perhaps Mr. West would like to dine at the Elephant to-day," said

Edith, as we left the table.

"That is the name we give to the general dining-house in our ward,"

explained her father. "Not only is our cooking done at the public

kitchens, as I told you last night, but the service and quality of the

meals are much more satisfactory if taken at the dining-house. The two

minor meals of the day are usually taken at home, as not worth the

trouble of going out; but it is general to go out to dine. We have not

done so since you have been with us, from a notion that it would be

better to wait till you had become a little more familiar with our

ways. What do you think? Shall we take dinner at the dining-house

to-day?"

I said that I should be very much pleased to do so.

Not long after, Edith came to me, smiling, and said:

"Last night, as I was thinking what I could do to make you feel at home

until you came to be a little more used to us and our ways, an idea

occurred to me. What would you say if I were to introduce you to some

very nice people of your own times, whom I am sure you used to be well

acquainted with?"

I replied, rather vaguely, that it would certainly be very agreeable,

but I did not see how she was going to manage it.

"Come with me," was her smiling reply, "and see if I am not as good as

my word."

My susceptibility to surprise had been pretty well exhausted by the

numerous shocks it had received, but it was with some wonderment that I

followed her into a room which I had not before entered. It was a

small, cosy apartment, walled with cases filled with books.

"Here are your friends," said Edith, indicating one of the cases, and

as my eye glanced over the names on the backs of the volumes,

Shakespeare, Milton, Wordsworth, Shelley, Tennyson, Defoe, Dickens,

Thackeray, Hugo, Hawthorne, Irving, and a score of other great writers

of my time and all time, I understood her meaning. She had indeed made

good her promise in a sense compared with which its literal fulfillment

would have been a disappointment. She had introduced me to a circle of

friends whom the century that had elapsed since last I communed with

them had aged as little as it had myself. Their spirit was as high,

their wit as keen, their laughter and their tears as contagious, as

when their speech had whiled away the hours of a former century. Lonely

I was not and could not be more, with this goodly companionship,

however wide the gulf of years that gaped between me and my old life.

"You are glad I brought you here," exclaimed Edith, radiant, as she

read in my face the success of her experiment. "It was a good idea, was

it not, Mr. West? How stupid in me not to think of it before! I will

leave you now with your old friends, for I know there will be no

company for you like them just now; but remember you must not let old

friends make you quite forget new ones!" and with that smiling caution

she left me.

Attracted by the most familiar of the names before me, I laid my hand

on a volume of Dickens, and sat down to read. He had been my prime

favorite among the bookwriters of the century,--I mean the nineteenth

century,--and a week had rarely passed in my old life during which I

had not taken up some volume of his works to while away an idle hour.

Any volume with which I had been familiar would have produced an

extraordinary impression, read under my present circumstances, but my

exceptional familiarity with Dickens, and his consequent power to call

up the associations of my former life, gave to his writings an effect

no others could have had, to intensify, by force of contrast, my

appreciation of the strangeness of my present environment. However new

and astonishing one's surroundings, the tendency is to become a part of

them so soon that almost from the first the power to see them

objectively and fully measure their strangeness, is lost. That power,

already dulled in my case, the pages of Dickens restored by carrying me

back through their associations to the standpoint of my former life.

With a clearness which I had not been able before to attain, I saw now

the past and present, like contrasting pictures, side by side.

The genius of the great novelist of the nineteenth century, like that

of Homer, might indeed defy time; but the setting of his pathetic

tales, the misery of the poor, the wrongs of power, the pitiless

cruelty of the system of society, had passed away as utterly as Circe

and the sirens, Charybdis and Cyclops.

During the hour or two that I sat there with Dickens open before me, I

did not actually read more than a couple of pages. Every paragraph,

every phrase, brought up some new aspect of the world-transformation

which had taken place, and led my thoughts on long and widely ramifying

excursions. As meditating thus in Dr. Leete's library I gradually

attained a more clear and coherent idea of the prodigious spectacle

which I had been so strangely enabled to view, I was filled with a

deepening wonder at the seeming capriciousness of the fate that had

given to one who so little deserved it, or seemed in any way set apart

for it, the power alone among his contemporaries to stand upon the

earth in this latter day. I had neither foreseen the new world nor

toiled for it, as many about me had done regardless of the scorn of

fools or the misconstruction of the good. Surely it would have been

more in accordance with the fitness of things had one of those

prophetic and strenuous souls been enabled to see the travail of his

soul and be satisfied; he, for example, a thousand times rather than I,

who, having beheld in a vision the world I looked on, sang of it in

words that again and again, during these last wondrous days, had rung

in my mind:

For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,

Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled.

In the Parliament of man, the federation of the world.

Then the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.

For I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,

And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.

What though, in his old age, he momentarily lost faith in his own

prediction, as prophets in their hours of depression and doubt

generally do; the words had remained eternal testimony to the seership

of a poet's heart, the insight that is given to faith.

I was still in the library when some hours later Dr. Leete sought me

there. "Edith told me of her idea," he said, "and I thought it an

excellent one. I had a little curiosity what writer you would first

turn to. Ah, Dickens! You admired him, then! That is where we moderns

agree with you. Judged by our standards, he overtops all the writers of

his age, not because his literary genius was highest, but because his

great heart beat for the poor, because he made the cause of the victims

of society his own, and devoted his pen to exposing its cruelties and

shams. No man of his time did so much as he to turn men's minds to the

wrong and wretchedness of the old order of things, and open their eyes

to the necessity of the great change that was coming, although he

himself did not clearly foresee it."

Chapter 14

A heavy rainstorm came up during the day, and I had concluded that the

condition of the streets would be such that my hosts would have to give

up the idea of going out to dinner, although the dining-hall I had

understood to be quite near. I was much surprised when at the dinner

hour the ladies appeared prepared to go out, but without either rubbers

or umbrellas.

The mystery was explained when we found ourselves on the street, for a

continuous waterproof covering had been let down so as to inclose the

sidewalk and turn it into a well lighted and perfectly dry corridor,

which was filled with a stream of ladies and gentlemen dressed for

dinner. At the corners the entire open space was similarly roofed in.

Edith Leete, with whom I walked, seemed much interested in learning

what appeared to be entirely new to her, that in the stormy weather the

streets of the Boston of my day had been impassable, except to persons

protected by umbrellas, boots, and heavy clothing. "Were sidewalk

coverings not used at all?" she asked. They were used, I explained, but

in a scattered and utterly unsystematic way, being private enterprises.

She said to me that at the present time all the streets were provided

against inclement weather in the manner I saw, the apparatus being

rolled out of the way when it was unnecessary. She intimated that it

would be considered an extraordinary imbecility to permit the weather

to have any effect on the social movements of the people.

Dr. Leete, who was walking ahead, overhearing something of our talk,

turned to say that the difference between the age of individualism and

that of concert was well characterized by the fact that, in the

nineteenth century, when it rained, the people of Boston put up three

hundred thousand umbrellas over as many heads, and in the twentieth

century they put up one umbrella over all the heads.

As we walked on, Edith said, "The private umbrella is father's favorite

figure to illustrate the old way when everybody lived for himself and

his family. There is a nineteenth century painting at the Art Gallery

representing a crowd of people in the rain, each one holding his

umbrella over himself and his wife, and giving his neighbors the

drippings, which he claims must have been meant by the artist as a

satire on his times."

We now entered a large building into which a stream of people was

pouring. I could not see the front, owing to the awning, but, if in

correspondence with the interior, which was even finer than the store I

visited the day before, it would have been magnificent. My companion

said that the sculptured group over the entrance was especially

admired. Going up a grand staircase we walked some distance along a

broad corridor with many doors opening upon it. At one of these, which

bore my host's name, we turned in, and I found myself in an elegant

dining-room containing a table for four. Windows opened on a courtyard

where a fountain played to a great height and music made the air

electric.

"You seem at home here," I said, as we seated ourselves at table, and

Dr. Leete touched an annunciator.

"This is, in fact, a part of our house, slightly detached from the

rest," he replied. "Every family in the ward has a room set apart in

this great building for its permanent and exclusive use for a small

annual rental. For transient guests and individuals there is

accommodation on another floor. If we expect to dine here, we put in

our orders the night before, selecting anything in market, according to

the daily reports in the papers. The meal is as expensive or as simple

as we please, though of course everything is vastly cheaper as well as

better than it would be prepared at home. There is actually nothing

which our people take more interest in than the perfection of the

catering and cooking done for them, and I admit that we are a little

vain of the success that has been attained by this branch of the

service. Ah, my dear Mr. West, though other aspects of your

civilization were more tragical, I can imagine that none could have

been more depressing than the poor dinners you had to eat, that is, all

of you who had not great wealth."

"You would have found none of us disposed to disagree with you on that

point," I said.

The waiter, a fine-looking young fellow, wearing a slightly distinctive

uniform, now made his appearance. I observed him closely, as it was the

first time I had been able to study particularly the bearing of one of

the enlisted members of the industrial army. This young man, I knew

from what I had been told, must be highly educated, and the equal,

socially and in all respects, of those he served. But it was perfectly

evident that to neither side was the situation in the slightest degree

embarrassing. Dr. Leete addressed the young man in a tone devoid, of

course, as any gentleman's would be, of superciliousness, but at the

same time not in any way deprecatory, while the manner of the young man

was simply that of a person intent on discharging correctly the task he

was engaged in, equally without familiarity or obsequiousness. It was,

in fact, the manner of a soldier on duty, but without the military

stiffness. As the youth left the room, I said, "I cannot get over my

wonder at seeing a young man like that serving so contentedly in a

menial position."

"What is that word 'menial'? I never heard it," said Edith.

"It is obsolete now," remarked her father. "If I understand it rightly,

it applied to persons who performed particularly disagreeable and

unpleasant tasks for others, and carried with it an implication of

contempt. Was it not so, Mr. West?"

"That is about it," I said. "Personal service, such as waiting on

tables, was considered menial, and held in such contempt, in my day,

that persons of culture and refinement would suffer hardship before

condescending to it."

"What a strangely artificial idea," exclaimed Mrs. Leete wonderingly.

"And yet these services had to be rendered," said Edith.

"Of course," I replied. "But we imposed them on the poor, and those who

had no alternative but starvation."

"And increased the burden you imposed on them by adding your contempt,"

remarked Dr. Leete.

"I don't think I clearly understand," said Edith. "Do you mean that you

permitted people to do things for you which you despised them for

doing, or that you accepted services from them which you would have

been unwilling to render them? You can't surely mean that, Mr. West?"

I was obliged to tell her that the fact was just as she had stated. Dr.

Leete, however, came to my relief.

"To understand why Edith is surprised," he said, "you must know that

nowadays it is an axiom of ethics that to accept a service from another

which we would be unwilling to return in kind, if need were, is like

borrowing with the intention of not repaying, while to enforce such a

service by taking advantage of the poverty or necessity of a person

would be an outrage like forcible robbery. It is the worst thing about

any system which divides men, or allows them to be divided, into

classes and castes, that it weakens the sense of a common humanity.

Unequal distribution of wealth, and, still more effectually, unequal

opportunities of education and culture, divided society in your day

into classes which in many respects regarded each other as distinct

races. There is not, after all, such a difference as might appear

between our ways of looking at this question of service. Ladies and

gentlemen of the cultured class in your day would no more have

permitted persons of their own class to render them services they would

scorn to return than we would permit anybody to do so. The poor and the

uncultured, however, they looked upon as of another kind from

themselves. The equal wealth and equal opportunities of culture which

all persons now enjoy have simply made us all members of one class,

which corresponds to the most fortunate class with you. Until this

equality of condition had come to pass, the idea of the solidarity of

humanity, the brotherhood of all men, could never have become the real

conviction and practical principle of action it is nowadays. In your

day the same phrases were indeed used, but they were phrases merely."

"Do the waiters, also, volunteer?"

"No," replied Dr. Leete. "The waiters are young men in the unclassified

grade of the industrial army who are assignable to all sorts of

miscellaneous occupations not requiring special skill. Waiting on table

is one of these, and every young recruit is given a taste of it. I

myself served as a waiter for several months in this very dining-house

some forty years ago. Once more you must remember that there is

recognized no sort of difference between the dignity of the different

sorts of work required by the nation. The individual is never regarded,

nor regards himself, as the servant of those he serves, nor is he in

any way dependent upon them. It is always the nation which he is

serving. No difference is recognized between a waiter's functions and

those of any other worker. The fact that his is a personal service is

indifferent from our point of view. So is a doctor's. I should as soon

expect our waiter today to look down on me because I served him as a

doctor, as think of looking down on him because he serves me as a

waiter."

After dinner my entertainers conducted me about the building, of which

the extent, the magnificent architecture and richness of embellishment,

astonished me. It seemed that it was not merely a dining-hall, but

likewise a great pleasure-house and social rendezvous of the quarter,

and no appliance of entertainment or recreation seemed lacking.

"You find illustrated here," said Dr. Leete, when I had expressed my

admiration, "what I said to you in our first conversation, when you

were looking out over the city, as to the splendor of our public and

common life as compared with the simplicity of our private and home

life, and the contrast which, in this respect, the twentieth bears to

the nineteenth century. To save ourselves useless burdens, we have as

little gear about us at home as is consistent with comfort, but the

social side of our life is ornate and luxurious beyond anything the

world ever knew before. All the industrial and professional guilds have

clubhouses as extensive as this, as well as country, mountain, and

seaside houses for sport and rest in vacations."

NOTE. In the latter part of the nineteenth century it became a practice

of needy young men at some of the colleges of the country to earn a

little money for their term bills by serving as waiters on tables at

hotels during the long summer vacation. It was claimed, in reply to

critics who expressed the prejudices of the time in asserting that

persons voluntarily following such an occupation could not be

gentlemen, that they were entitled to praise for vindicating, by their

example, the dignity of all honest and necessary labor. The use of this

argument illustrates a common confusion in thought on the part of my

former contemporaries. The business of waiting on tables was in no more

need of defense than most of the other ways of getting a living in that

day, but to talk of dignity attaching to labor of any sort under the

system then prevailing was absurd. There is no way in which selling

labor for the highest price it will fetch is more dignified than

selling goods for what can be got. Both were commercial transactions to

be judged by the commercial standard. By setting a price in money on

his service, the worker accepted the money measure for it, and

renounced all clear claim to be judged by any other. The sordid taint

which this necessity imparted to the noblest and the highest sorts of

service was bitterly resented by generous souls, but there was no

evading it. There was no exemption, however transcendent the quality of

one's service, from the necessity of haggling for its price in the

market-place. The physician must sell his healing and the apostle his

preaching like the rest. The prophet, who had guessed the meaning of

God, must dicker for the price of the revelation, and the poet hawk his

visions in printers' row. If I were asked to name the most

distinguishing felicity of this age, as compared to that in which I

first saw the light, I should say that to me it seems to consist in the

dignity you have given to labor by refusing to set a price upon it and

abolishing the market-place forever. By requiring of every man his best

you have made God his task-master, and by making honor the sole reward

of achievement you have imparted to all service the distinction

peculiar in my day to the soldier's.

Chapter 15

When, in the course of our tour of inspection, we came to the library,

we succumbed to the temptation of the luxurious leather chairs with

which it was furnished, and sat down in one of the book-lined alcoves

to rest and chat awhile.[1]

"Edith tells me that you have been in the library all the morning,"

said Mrs. Leete. "Do you know, it seems to me, Mr. West, that you are

the most enviable of mortals."

"I should like to know just why," I replied.

"Because the books of the last hundred years will be new to you," she

answered. "You will have so much of the most absorbing literature to

read as to leave you scarcely time for meals these five years to come.

Ah, what would I give if I had not already read Berrian's novels."

"Or Nesmyth's, mamma," added Edith.

"Yes, or Oates' poems, or 'Past and Present,' or, 'In the Beginning,'

or--oh, I could name a dozen books, each worth a year of one's life,"

declared Mrs. Leete, enthusiastically.

"I judge, then, that there has been some notable literature produced in

this century."

"Yes," said Dr. Leete. "It has been an era of unexampled intellectual

splendor. Probably humanity never before passed through a moral and

material evolution, at once so vast in its scope and brief in its time

of accomplishment, as that from the old order to the new in the early

part of this century. When men came to realize the greatness of the

felicity which had befallen them, and that the change through which

they had passed was not merely an improvement in details of their

condition, but the rise of the race to a new plane of existence with an

illimitable vista of progress, their minds were affected in all their

faculties with a stimulus, of which the outburst of the mediaeval

renaissance offers a suggestion but faint indeed. There ensued an era

of mechanical invention, scientific discovery, art, musical and

literary productiveness to which no previous age of the world offers

anything comparable."

"By the way," said I, "talking of literature, how are books published

now? Is that also done by the nation?"

"Certainly."

"But how do you manage it? Does the government publish everything that

is brought it as a matter of course, at the public expense, or does it

exercise a censorship and print only what it approves?"

"Neither way. The printing department has no censorial powers. It is

bound to print all that is offered it, but prints it only on condition

that the author defray the first cost out of his credit. He must pay

for the privilege of the public ear, and if he has any message worth

hearing we consider that he will be glad to do it. Of course, if

incomes were unequal, as in the old times, this rule would enable only

the rich to be authors, but the resources of citizens being equal, it

merely measures the strength of the author's motive. The cost of an

edition of an average book can be saved out of a year's credit by the

practice of economy and some sacrifices. The book, on being published,

is placed on sale by the nation."

"The author receiving a royalty on the sales as with us, I suppose," I

suggested.

"Not as with you, certainly," replied Dr. Leete, "but nevertheless in

one way. The price of every book is made up of the cost of its

publication with a royalty for the author. The author fixes this

royalty at any figure he pleases. Of course if he puts it unreasonably

high it is his own loss, for the book will not sell. The amount of this

royalty is set to his credit and he is discharged from other service to

the nation for so long a period as this credit at the rate of allowance

for the support of citizens shall suffice to support him. If his book

be moderately successful, he has thus a furlough for several months, a

year, two or three years, and if he in the mean time produces other

successful work, the remission of service is extended so far as the

sale of that may justify. An author of much acceptance succeeds in

supporting himself by his pen during the entire period of service, and

the degree of any writer's literary ability, as determined by the

popular voice, is thus the measure of the opportunity given him to

devote his time to literature. In this respect the outcome of our

system is not very dissimilar to that of yours, but there are two

notable differences. In the first place, the universally high level of

education nowadays gives the popular verdict a conclusiveness on the

real merit of literary work which in your day it was as far as possible

from having. In the second place, there is no such thing now as

favoritism of any sort to interfere with the recognition of true merit.

Every author has precisely the same facilities for bringing his work

before the popular tribunal. To judge from the complaints of the

writers of your day, this absolute equality of opportunity would have

been greatly prized."

"In the recognition of merit in other fields of original genius, such

as music, art, invention, design," I said, "I suppose you follow a

similar principle."

"Yes," he replied, "although the details differ. In art, for example,

as in literature, the people are the sole judges. They vote upon the

acceptance of statues and paintings for the public buildings, and their

favorable verdict carries with it the artist's remission from other

tasks to devote himself to his vocation. On copies of his work disposed

of, he also derives the same advantage as the author on sales of his

books. In all these lines of original genius the plan pursued is the

same to offer a free field to aspirants, and as soon as exceptional

talent is recognized to release it from all trammels and let it have

free course. The remission of other service in these cases is not

intended as a gift or reward, but as the means of obtaining more and

higher service. Of course there are various literary, art, and

scientific institutes to which membership comes to the famous and is

greatly prized. The highest of all honors in the nation, higher than

the presidency, which calls merely for good sense and devotion to duty,

is the red ribbon awarded by the vote of the people to the great

authors, artists, engineers, physicians, and inventors of the

generation. Not over a certain number wear it at any one time, though

every bright young fellow in the country loses innumerable nights'

sleep dreaming of it. I even did myself."

"Just as if mamma and I would have thought any more of you with it,"

exclaimed Edith; "not that it isn't, of course, a very fine thing to

have."

"You had no choice, my dear, but to take your father as you found him

and make the best of him," Dr. Leete replied; "but as for your mother,

there, she would never have had me if I had not assured her that I was

bound to get the red ribbon or at least the blue."

On this extravagance Mrs. Leete's only comment was a smile.

"How about periodicals and newspapers?" I said. "I won't deny that your

book publishing system is a considerable improvement on ours, both as

to its tendency to encourage a real literary vocation, and, quite as

important, to discourage mere scribblers; but I don't see how it can be

made to apply to magazines and newspapers. It is very well to make a

man pay for publishing a book, because the expense will be only

occasional; but no man could afford the expense of publishing a

newspaper every day in the year. It took the deep pockets of our

private capitalists to do that, and often exhausted even them before

the returns came in. If you have newspapers at all, they must, I fancy,

be published by the government at the public expense, with government

editors, reflecting government opinions. Now, if your system is so

perfect that there is never anything to criticize in the conduct of

affairs, this arrangement may answer. Otherwise I should think the lack

of an independent unofficial medium for the expression of public

opinion would have most unfortunate results. Confess, Dr. Leete, that a

free newspaper press, with all that it implies, was a redeeming

incident of the old system when capital was in private hands, and that

you have to set off the loss of that against your gains in other

respects."

"I am afraid I can't give you even that consolation," replied Dr.

Leete, laughing. "In the first place, Mr. West, the newspaper press is

by no means the only or, as we look at it, the best vehicle for serious

criticism of public affairs. To us, the judgments of your newspapers on

such themes seem generally to have been crude and flippant, as well as

deeply tinctured with prejudice and bitterness. In so far as they may

be taken as expressing public opinion, they give an unfavorable

impression of the popular intelligence, while so far as they may have

formed public opinion, the nation was not to be felicitated. Nowadays,

when a citizen desires to make a serious impression upon the public

mind as to any aspect of public affairs, he comes out with a book or

pamphlet, published as other books are. But this is not because we lack

newspapers and magazines, or that they lack the most absolute freedom.

The newspaper press is organized so as to be a more perfect expression

of public opinion than it possibly could be in your day, when private

capital controlled and managed it primarily as a money-making business,

and secondarily only as a mouthpiece for the people."

"But," said I, "if the government prints the papers at the public

expense, how can it fail to control their policy? Who appoints the

editors, if not the government?"

"The government does not pay the expense of the papers, nor appoint

their editors, nor in any way exert the slightest influence on their

policy," replied Dr. Leete. "The people who take the paper pay the

expense of its publication, choose its editor, and remove him when

unsatisfactory. You will scarcely say, I think, that such a newspaper

press is not a free organ of popular opinion."

"Decidedly I shall not," I replied, "but how is it practicable?"

"Nothing could be simpler. Supposing some of my neighbors or myself

think we ought to have a newspaper reflecting our opinions, and devoted

especially to our locality, trade, or profession. We go about among the

people till we get the names of such a number that their annual

subscriptions will meet the cost of the paper, which is little or big

according to the largeness of its constituency. The amount of the

subscriptions marked off the credits of the citizens guarantees the

nation against loss in publishing the paper, its business, you

understand, being that of a publisher purely, with no option to refuse

the duty required. The subscribers to the paper now elect somebody as

editor, who, if he accepts the office, is discharged from other service

during his incumbency. Instead of paying a salary to him, as in your

day, the subscribers pay the nation an indemnity equal to the cost of

his support for taking him away from the general service. He manages

the paper just as one of your editors did, except that he has no

counting-room to obey, or interests of private capital as against the

public good to defend. At the end of the first year, the subscribers

for the next either re-elect the former editor or choose any one else

to his place. An able editor, of course, keeps his place indefinitely.

As the subscription list enlarges, the funds of the paper increase, and

it is improved by the securing of more and better contributors, just as

your papers were."

"How is the staff of contributors recompensed, since they cannot be

paid in money?"

"The editor settles with them the price of their wares. The amount is

transferred to their individual credit from the guarantee credit of the

paper, and a remission of service is granted the contributor for a

length of time corresponding to the amount credited him, just as to

other authors. As to magazines, the system is the same. Those

interested in the prospectus of a new periodical pledge enough

subscriptions to run it for a year; select their editor, who

recompenses his contributors just as in the other case, the printing

bureau furnishing the necessary force and material for publication, as

a matter of course. When an editor's services are no longer desired, if

he cannot earn the right to his time by other literary work, he simply

resumes his place in the industrial army. I should add that, though

ordinarily the editor is elected only at the end of the year, and as a

rule is continued in office for a term of years, in case of any sudden

change he should give to the tone of the paper, provision is made for

taking the sense of the subscribers as to his removal at any time."

"However earnestly a man may long for leisure for purposes of study or

meditation," I remarked, "he cannot get out of the harness, if I

understand you rightly, except in these two ways you have mentioned. He

must either by literary, artistic, or inventive productiveness

indemnify the nation for the loss of his services, or must get a

sufficient number of other people to contribute to such an indemnity."

"It is most certain," replied Dr. Leete, "that no able-bodied man

nowadays can evade his share of work and live on the toil of others,

whether he calls himself by the fine name of student or confesses to

being simply lazy. At the same time our system is elastic enough to

give free play to every instinct of human nature which does not aim at

dominating others or living on the fruit of others' labor. There is not

only the remission by indemnification but the remission by abnegation.

Any man in his thirty-third year, his term of service being then half

done, can obtain an honorable discharge from the army, provided he

accepts for the rest of his life one half the rate of maintenance other

citizens receive. It is quite possible to live on this amount, though

one must forego the luxuries and elegancies of life, with some,

perhaps, of its comforts."

When the ladies retired that evening, Edith brought me a book and said:

"If you should be wakeful to-night, Mr. West, you might be interested

in looking over this story by Berrian. It is considered his

masterpiece, and will at least give you an idea what the stories

nowadays are like."

I sat up in my room that night reading "Penthesilia" till it grew gray

in the east, and did not lay it down till I had finished it. And yet

let no admirer of the great romancer of the twentieth century resent my

saying that at the first reading what most impressed me was not so much

what was in the book as what was left out of it. The story-writers of

my day would have deemed the making of bricks without straw a light

task compared with the construction of a romance from which should be

excluded all effects drawn from the contrasts of wealth and poverty,

education and ignorance, coarseness and refinement, high and low, all

motives drawn from social pride and ambition, the desire of being

richer or the fear of being poorer, together with sordid anxieties of

any sort for one's self or others; a romance in which there should,

indeed, be love galore, but love unfretted by artificial barriers

created by differences of station or possessions, owning no other law

but that of the heart. The reading of "Penthesilia" was of more value

than almost any amount of explanation would have been in giving me

something like a general impression of the social aspect of the

twentieth century. The information Dr. Leete had imparted was indeed

extensive as to facts, but they had affected my mind as so many

separate impressions, which I had as yet succeeded but imperfectly in

making cohere. Berrian put them together for me in a picture.

[1] I cannot sufficiently celebrate the glorious liberty that reigns in

the public libraries of the twentieth century as compared with the

intolerable management of those of the nineteenth century, in which the

books were jealously railed away from the people, and obtainable only

at an expenditure of time and red tape calculated to discourage any

ordinary taste for literature.

Chapter 16

Next morning I rose somewhat before the breakfast hour. As I descended

the stairs, Edith stepped into the hall from the room which had been

the scene of the morning interview between us described some chapters

back.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, with a charmingly arch expression, "you thought to

slip out unbeknown for another of those solitary morning rambles which

have such nice effects on you. But you see I am up too early for you

this time. You are fairly caught."

"You discredit the efficacy of your own cure," I said, "by supposing

that such a ramble would now be attended with bad consequences."

"I am very glad to hear that," she said. "I was in here arranging some

flowers for the breakfast table when I heard you come down, and fancied

I detected something surreptitious in your step on the stairs."

"You did me injustice," I replied. "I had no idea of going out at all."

Despite her effort to convey an impression that my interception was

purely accidental, I had at the time a dim suspicion of what I

afterwards learned to be the fact, namely, that this sweet creature, in

pursuance of her self-assumed guardianship over me, had risen for the

last two or three mornings at an unheard-of hour, to insure against the

possibility of my wandering off alone in case I should be affected as

on the former occasion. Receiving permission to assist her in making up

the breakfast bouquet, I followed her into the room from which she had

emerged.

"Are you sure," she asked, "that you are quite done with those terrible

sensations you had that morning?"

"I can't say that I do not have times of feeling decidedly queer," I

replied, "moments when my personal identity seems an open question. It

would be too much to expect after my experience that I should not have

such sensations occasionally, but as for being carried entirely off my

feet, as I was on the point of being that morning, I think the danger

is past."

"I shall never forget how you looked that morning," she said.

"If you had merely saved my life," I continued, "I might, perhaps, find

words to express my gratitude, but it was my reason you saved, and

there are no words that would not belittle my debt to you." I spoke

with emotion, and her eyes grew suddenly moist.

"It is too much to believe all this," she said, "but it is very

delightful to hear you say it. What I did was very little. I was very

much distressed for you, I know. Father never thinks anything ought to

astonish us when it can be explained scientifically, as I suppose this

long sleep of yours can be, but even to fancy myself in your place

makes my head swim. I know that I could not have borne it at all."

"That would depend," I replied, "on whether an angel came to support

you with her sympathy in the crisis of your condition, as one came to

me." If my face at all expressed the feelings I had a right to have

toward this sweet and lovely young girl, who had played so angelic a

role toward me, its expression must have been very worshipful just

then. The expression or the words, or both together, caused her now to

drop her eyes with a charming blush.

"For the matter of that," I said, "if your experience has not been as

startling as mine, it must have been rather overwhelming to see a man

belonging to a strange century, and apparently a hundred years dead,

raised to life."

"It seemed indeed strange beyond any describing at first," she said,

"but when we began to put ourselves in your place, and realize how much

stranger it must seem to you, I fancy we forgot our own feelings a good

deal, at least I know I did. It seemed then not so much astounding as

interesting and touching beyond anything ever heard of before."

"But does it not come over you as astounding to sit at table with me,

seeing who I am?"

"You must remember that you do not seem so strange to us as we must to

you," she answered. "We belong to a future of which you could not form

an idea, a generation of which you knew nothing until you saw us. But

you belong to a generation of which our forefathers were a part. We

know all about it; the names of many of its members are household words

with us. We have made a study of your ways of living and thinking;

nothing you say or do surprises us, while we say and do nothing which

does not seem strange to you. So you see, Mr. West, that if you feel

that you can, in time, get accustomed to us, you must not be surprised

that from the first we have scarcely found you strange at all."

"I had not thought of it in that way," I replied. "There is indeed much

in what you say. One can look back a thousand years easier than forward

fifty. A century is not so very long a retrospect. I might have known

your great-grand-parents. Possibly I did. Did they live in Boston?"

"I believe so."

"You are not sure, then?"

"Yes," she replied. "Now I think, they did."

"I had a very large circle of acquaintances in the city," I said. "It

is not unlikely that I knew or knew of some of them. Perhaps I may have

known them well. Wouldn't it be interesting if I should chance to be

able to tell you all about your great-grandfather, for instance?"

"Very interesting."

"Do you know your genealogy well enough to tell me who your forbears

were in the Boston of my day?"

"Oh, yes."

"Perhaps, then, you will some time tell me what some of their names

were."

She was engrossed in arranging a troublesome spray of green, and did

not reply at once. Steps upon the stairway indicated that the other

members of the family were descending.

"Perhaps, some time," she said.

After breakfast, Dr. Leete suggested taking me to inspect the central

warehouse and observe actually in operation the machinery of

distribution, which Edith had described to me. As we walked away from

the house I said, "It is now several days that I have been living in

your household on a most extraordinary footing, or rather on none at

all. I have not spoken of this aspect of my position before because

there were so many other aspects yet more extraordinary. But now that I

am beginning a little to feel my feet under me, and to realize that,

however I came here, I am here, and must make the best of it, I must

speak to you on this point."

"As for your being a guest in my house," replied Dr. Leete, "I pray you

not to begin to be uneasy on that point, for I mean to keep you a long

time yet. With all your modesty, you can but realize that such a guest

as yourself is an acquisition not willingly to be parted with."

"Thanks, doctor," I said. "It would be absurd, certainly, for me to

affect any oversensitiveness about accepting the temporary hospitality

of one to whom I owe it that I am not still awaiting the end of the

world in a living tomb. But if I am to be a permanent citizen of this

century I must have some standing in it. Now, in my time a person more

or less entering the world, however he got in, would not be noticed in

the unorganized throng of men, and might make a place for himself

anywhere he chose if he were strong enough. But nowadays everybody is a

part of a system with a distinct place and function. I am outside the

system, and don't see how I can get in; there seems no way to get in,

except to be born in or to come in as an emigrant from some other

system."

Dr. Leete laughed heartily.

"I admit," he said, "that our system is defective in lacking provision

for cases like yours, but you see nobody anticipated additions to the

world except by the usual process. You need, however, have no fear that

we shall be unable to provide both a place and occupation for you in

due time. You have as yet been brought in contact only with the members

of my family, but you must not suppose that I have kept your secret. On

the contrary, your case, even before your resuscitation, and vastly

more since has excited the profoundest interest in the nation. In view

of your precarious nervous condition, it was thought best that I should

take exclusive charge of you at first, and that you should, through me

and my family, receive some general idea of the sort of world you had

come back to before you began to make the acquaintance generally of its

inhabitants. As to finding a function for you in society, there was no

hesitation as to what that would be. Few of us have it in our power to

confer so great a service on the nation as you will be able to when you

leave my roof, which, however, you must not think of doing for a good

time yet."

"What can I possibly do?" I asked. "Perhaps you imagine I have some

trade, or art, or special skill. I assure you I have none whatever. I

never earned a dollar in my life, or did an hour's work. I am strong,

and might be a common laborer, but nothing more."

"If that were the most efficient service you were able to render the

nation, you would find that avocation considered quite as respectable

as any other," replied Dr. Leete; "but you can do something else

better. You are easily the master of all our historians on questions

relating to the social condition of the latter part of the nineteenth

century, to us one of the most absorbingly interesting periods of

history: and whenever in due time you have sufficiently familiarized

yourself with our institutions, and are willing to teach us something

concerning those of your day, you will find an historical lectureship

in one of our colleges awaiting you."

"Very good! very good indeed," I said, much relieved by so practical a

suggestion on a point which had begun to trouble me. "If your people

are really so much interested in the nineteenth century, there will

indeed be an occupation ready-made for me. I don't think there is

anything else that I could possibly earn my salt at, but I certainly

may claim without conceit to have some special qualifications for such

a post as you describe."

Chapter 17

I found the processes at the warehouse quite as interesting as Edith

had described them, and became even enthusiastic over the truly

remarkable illustration which is seen there of the prodigiously

multiplied efficiency which perfect organization can give to labor. It

is like a gigantic mill, into the hopper of which goods are being

constantly poured by the train-load and shipload, to issue at the other

end in packages of pounds and ounces, yards and inches, pints and

gallons, corresponding to the infinitely complex personal needs of half

a million people. Dr. Leete, with the assistance of data furnished by

me as to the way goods were sold in my day, figured out some astounding

results in the way of the economies effected by the modern system.

As we set out homeward, I said: "After what I have seen to-day,

together with what you have told me, and what I learned under Miss

Leete's tutelage at the sample store, I have a tolerably clear idea of

your system of distribution, and how it enables you to dispense with a

circulating medium. But I should like very much to know something more

about your system of production. You have told me in general how your

industrial army is levied and organized, but who directs its efforts?

What supreme authority determines what shall be done in every

department, so that enough of everything is produced and yet no labor

wasted? It seems to me that this must be a wonderfully complex and

difficult function, requiring very unusual endowments."

"Does it indeed seem so to you?" responded Dr. Leete. "I assure you

that it is nothing of the kind, but on the other hand so simple, and

depending on principles so obvious and easily applied, that the

functionaries at Washington to whom it is trusted require to be nothing

more than men of fair abilities to discharge it to the entire

satisfaction of the nation. The machine which they direct is indeed a

vast one, but so logical in its principles and direct and simple in its

workings, that it all but runs itself; and nobody but a fool could

derange it, as I think you will agree after a few words of explanation.

Since you already have a pretty good idea of the working of the

distributive system, let us begin at that end. Even in your day

statisticians were able to tell you the number of yards of cotton,

velvet, woolen, the number of barrels of flour, potatoes, butter,

number of pairs of shoes, hats, and umbrellas annually consumed by the

nation. Owing to the fact that production was in private hands, and

that there was no way of getting statistics of actual distribution,

these figures were not exact, but they were nearly so. Now that every

pin which is given out from a national warehouse is recorded, of course

the figures of consumption for any week, month, or year, in the

possession of the department of distribution at the end of that period,

are precise. On these figures, allowing for tendencies to increase or

decrease and for any special causes likely to affect demand, the

estimates, say for a year ahead, are based. These estimates, with a

proper margin for security, having been accepted by the general

administration, the responsibility of the distributive department

ceases until the goods are delivered to it. I speak of the estimates

being furnished for an entire year ahead, but in reality they cover

that much time only in case of the great staples for which the demand

can be calculated on as steady. In the great majority of smaller

industries for the product of which popular taste fluctuates, and

novelty is frequently required, production is kept barely ahead of

consumption, the distributive department furnishing frequent estimates

based on the weekly state of demand.

"Now the entire field of productive and constructive industry is

divided into ten great departments, each representing a group of allied

industries, each particular industry being in turn represented by a

subordinate bureau, which has a complete record of the plant and force

under its control, of the present product, and means of increasing it.

The estimates of the distributive department, after adoption by the

administration, are sent as mandates to the ten great departments,

which allot them to the subordinate bureaus representing the particular

industries, and these set the men at work. Each bureau is responsible

for the task given it, and this responsibility is enforced by

departmental oversight and that of the administration; nor does the

distributive department accept the product without its own inspection;

while even if in the hands of the consumer an article turns out unfit,

the system enables the fault to be traced back to the original workman.

The production of the commodities for actual public consumption does

not, of course, require by any means all the national force of workers.

After the necessary contingents have been detailed for the various

industries, the amount of labor left for other employment is expended

in creating fixed capital, such as buildings, machinery, engineering

works, and so forth."

"One point occurs to me," I said, "on which I should think there might

be dissatisfaction. Where there is no opportunity for private

enterprise, how is there any assurance that the claims of small

minorities of the people to have articles produced, for which there is

no wide demand, will be respected? An official decree at any moment may

deprive them of the means of gratifying some special taste, merely

because the majority does not share it."

"That would be tyranny indeed," replied Dr. Leete, "and you may be very

sure that it does not happen with us, to whom liberty is as dear as

equality or fraternity. As you come to know our system better, you will

see that our officials are in fact, and not merely in name, the agents

and servants of the people. The administration has no power to stop the

production of any commodity for which there continues to be a demand.

Suppose the demand for any article declines to such a point that its

production becomes very costly. The price has to be raised in

proportion, of course, but as long as the consumer cares to pay it, the

production goes on. Again, suppose an article not before produced is

demanded. If the administration doubts the reality of the demand, a

popular petition guaranteeing a certain basis of consumption compels it

to produce the desired article. A government, or a majority, which

should undertake to tell the people, or a minority, what they were to

eat, drink, or wear, as I believe governments in America did in your

day, would be regarded as a curious anachronism indeed. Possibly you

had reasons for tolerating these infringements of personal

independence, but we should not think them endurable. I am glad you

raised this point, for it has given me a chance to show you how much

more direct and efficient is the control over production exercised by

the individual citizen now than it was in your day, when what you

called private initiative prevailed, though it should have been called

capitalist initiative, for the average private citizen had little

enough share in it."

"You speak of raising the price of costly articles," I said. "How can

prices be regulated in a country where there is no competition between

buyers or sellers?"

"Just as they were with you," replied Dr. Leete. "You think that needs

explaining," he added, as I looked incredulous, "but the explanation

need not be long; the cost of the labor which produced it was

recognized as the legitimate basis of the price of an article in your

day, and so it is in ours. In your day, it was the difference in wages

that made the difference in the cost of labor; now it is the relative

number of hours constituting a day's work in different trades, the

maintenance of the worker being equal in all cases. The cost of a man's

work in a trade so difficult that in order to attract volunteers the

hours have to be fixed at four a day is twice as great as that in a

trade where the men work eight hours. The result as to the cost of

labor, you see, is just the same as if the man working four hours were

paid, under your system, twice the wages the others get. This

calculation applied to the labor employed in the various processes of a

manufactured article gives its price relatively to other articles.

Besides the cost of production and transportation, the factor of

scarcity affects the prices of some commodities. As regards the great

staples of life, of which an abundance can always be secured, scarcity

is eliminated as a factor. There is always a large surplus kept on hand

from which any fluctuations of demand or supply can be corrected, even

in most cases of bad crops. The prices of the staples grow less year by

year, but rarely, if ever, rise. There are, however, certain classes of

articles permanently, and others temporarily, unequal to the demand,

as, for example, fresh fish or dairy products in the latter category,

and the products of high skill and rare materials in the other. All

that can be done here is to equalize the inconvenience of the scarcity.

This is done by temporarily raising the price if the scarcity be

temporary, or fixing it high if it be permanent. High prices in your

day meant restriction of the articles affected to the rich, but

nowadays, when the means of all are the same, the effect is only that

those to whom the articles seem most desirable are the ones who

purchase them. Of course the nation, as any other caterer for the

public needs must be, is frequently left with small lots of goods on

its hands by changes in taste, unseasonable weather and various other

causes. These it has to dispose of at a sacrifice just as merchants

often did in your day, charging up the loss to the expenses of the

business. Owing, however, to the vast body of consumers to which such

lots can be simultaneously offered, there is rarely any difficulty in

getting rid of them at trifling loss. I have given you now some general

notion of our system of production; as well as distribution. Do you

find it as complex as you expected?"

I admitted that nothing could be much simpler.

"I am sure," said Dr. Leete, "that it is within the truth to say that

the head of one of the myriad private businesses of your day, who had

to maintain sleepless vigilance against the fluctuations of the market,

the machinations of his rivals, and the failure of his debtors, had a

far more trying task than the group of men at Washington who nowadays

direct the industries of the entire nation. All this merely shows, my

dear fellow, how much easier it is to do things the right way than the

wrong. It is easier for a general up in a balloon, with perfect survey

of the field, to manoeuvre a million men to victory than for a sergeant

to manage a platoon in a thicket."

"The general of this army, including the flower of the manhood of the

nation, must be the foremost man in the country, really greater even

than the President of the United States," I said.

"He is the President of the United States," replied Dr. Leete, "or

rather the most important function of the presidency is the headship of

the industrial army."

"How is he chosen?" I asked.

"I explained to you before," replied Dr. Leete, "when I was describing

the force of the motive of emulation among all grades of the industrial

army, that the line of promotion for the meritorious lies through three

grades to the officer's grade, and thence up through the lieutenancies

to the captaincy or foremanship, and superintendency or colonel's rank.

Next, with an intervening grade in some of the larger trades, comes the

general of the guild, under whose immediate control all the operations

of the trade are conducted. This officer is at the head of the national

bureau representing his trade, and is responsible for its work to the

administration. The general of his guild holds a splendid position, and

one which amply satisfies the ambition of most men, but above his rank,

which may be compared--to follow the military analogies familiar to

you--to that of a general of division or major-general, is that of the

chiefs of the ten great departments, or groups of allied trades. The

chiefs of these ten grand divisions of the industrial army may be

compared to your commanders of army corps, or lieutenant-generals, each

having from a dozen to a score of generals of separate guilds reporting

to him. Above these ten great officers, who form his council, is the

general-in-chief, who is the President of the United States.

"The general-in-chief of the industrial army must have passed through

all the grades below him, from the common laborers up. Let us see how

he rises. As I have told you, it is simply by the excellence of his

record as a worker that one rises through the grades of the privates

and becomes a candidate for a lieutenancy. Through the lieutenancies he

rises to the colonelcy, or superintendent's position, by appointment

from above, strictly limited to the candidates of the best records. The

general of the guild appoints to the ranks under him, but he himself is

not appointed, but chosen by suffrage."

"By suffrage!" I exclaimed. "Is not that ruinous to the discipline of

the guild, by tempting the candidates to intrigue for the support of

the workers under them?"

"So it would be, no doubt," replied Dr. Leete, "if the workers had any

suffrage to exercise, or anything to say about the choice. But they

have nothing. Just here comes in a peculiarity of our system. The

general of the guild is chosen from among the superintendents by vote

of the honorary members of the guild, that is, of those who have served

their time in the guild and received their discharge. As you know, at

the age of forty-five we are mustered out of the army of industry, and

have the residue of life for the pursuit of our own improvement or

recreation. Of course, however, the associations of our active lifetime

retain a powerful hold on us. The companionships we formed then remain

our companionships till the end of life. We always continue honorary

members of our former guilds, and retain the keenest and most jealous

interest in their welfare and repute in the hands of the following

generation. In the clubs maintained by the honorary members of the

several guilds, in which we meet socially, there are no topics of

conversation so common as those which relate to these matters, and the

young aspirants for guild leadership who can pass the criticism of us

old fellows are likely to be pretty well equipped. Recognizing this

fact, the nation entrusts to the honorary members of each guild the

election of its general, and I venture to claim that no previous form

of society could have developed a body of electors so ideally adapted

to their office, as regards absolute impartiality, knowledge of the

special qualifications and record of candidates, solicitude for the

best result, and complete absence of self-interest.

"Each of the ten lieutenant-generals or heads of departments is himself

elected from among the generals of the guilds grouped as a department,

by vote of the honorary members of the guilds thus grouped. Of course

there is a tendency on the part of each guild to vote for its own

general, but no guild of any group has nearly enough votes to elect a

man not supported by most of the others. I assure you that these

elections are exceedingly lively."

"The President, I suppose, is selected from among the ten heads of the

great departments," I suggested.

"Precisely, but the heads of departments are not eligible to the

presidency till they have been a certain number of years out of office.

It is rarely that a man passes through all the grades to the headship

of a department much before he is forty, and at the end of a five

years' term he is usually forty-five. If more, he still serves through

his term, and if less, he is nevertheless discharged from the

industrial army at its termination. It would not do for him to return

to the ranks. The interval before he is a candidate for the presidency

is intended to give time for him to recognize fully that he has

returned into the general mass of the nation, and is identified with it

rather than with the industrial army. Moreover, it is expected that he

will employ this period in studying the general condition of the army,

instead of that of the special group of guilds of which he was the

head. From among the former heads of departments who may be eligible at

the time, the President is elected by vote of all the men of the nation

who are not connected with the industrial army."

"The army is not allowed to vote for President?"

"Certainly not. That would be perilous to its discipline, which it is

the business of the President to maintain as the representative of the

nation at large. His right hand for this purpose is the inspectorate, a

highly important department of our system; to the inspectorate come all

complaints or information as to defects in goods, insolence or

inefficiency of officials, or dereliction of any sort in the public

service. The inspectorate, however, does not wait for complaints. Not

only is it on the alert to catch and sift every rumor of a fault in the

service, but it is its business, by systematic and constant oversight

and inspection of every branch of the army, to find out what is going

wrong before anybody else does. The President is usually not far from

fifty when elected, and serves five years, forming an honorable

exception to the rule of retirement at forty-five. At the end of his

term of office, a national Congress is called to receive his report and

approve or condemn it. If it is approved, Congress usually elects him

to represent the nation for five years more in the international

council. Congress, I should also say, passes on the reports of the

outgoing heads of departments, and a disapproval renders any one of

them ineligible for President. But it is rare, indeed, that the nation

has occasion for other sentiments than those of gratitude toward its

high officers. As to their ability, to have risen from the ranks, by

tests so various and severe, to their positions, is proof in itself of

extraordinary qualities, while as to faithfulness, our social system

leaves them absolutely without any other motive than that of winning

the esteem of their fellow citizens. Corruption is impossible in a

society where there is neither poverty to be bribed nor wealth to

bribe, while as to demagoguery or intrigue for office, the conditions

of promotion render them out of the question."

"One point I do not quite understand," I said. "Are the members of the

liberal professions eligible to the presidency? and if so, how are they

ranked with those who pursue the industries proper?"

"They have no ranking with them," replied Dr. Leete. "The members of

the technical professions, such as engineers and architects, have a

ranking with the constructive guilds; but the members of the liberal

professions, the doctors and teachers, as well as the artists and men

of letters who obtain remissions of industrial service, do not belong

to the industrial army. On this ground they vote for the President, but

are not eligible to his office. One of its main duties being the

control and discipline of the industrial army, it is essential that the

President should have passed through all its grades to understand his

business."

"That is reasonable," I said; "but if the doctors and teachers do not

know enough of industry to be President, neither, I should think, can

the President know enough of medicine and education to control those

departments."

"No more does he," was the reply. "Except in the general way that he is

responsible for the enforcement of the laws as to all classes, the

President has nothing to do with the faculties of medicine and

education, which are controlled by boards of regents of their own, in

which the President is ex-officio chairman, and has the casting vote.

These regents, who, of course, are responsible to Congress, are chosen

by the honorary members of the guilds of education and medicine, the

retired teachers and doctors of the country."

"Do you know," I said, "the method of electing officials by votes of

the retired members of the guilds is nothing more than the application

on a national scale of the plan of government by alumni, which we used

to a slight extent occasionally in the management of our higher

educational institutions."

"Did you, indeed?" exclaimed Dr. Leete, with animation. "That is quite

new to me, and I fancy will be to most of us, and of much interest as

well. There has been great discussion as to the germ of the idea, and

we fancied that there was for once something new under the sun. Well!

well! In your higher educational institutions! that is interesting

indeed. You must tell me more of that."

"Truly, there is very little more to tell than I have told already," I

replied. "If we had the germ of your idea, it was but as a germ."

Chapter 18

That evening I sat up for some time after the ladies had retired,

talking with Dr. Leete about the effect of the plan of exempting men

from further service to the nation after the age of forty-five, a point

brought up by his account of the part taken by the retired citizens in

the government.

"At forty-five," said I, "a man still has ten years of good manual

labor in him, and twice ten years of good intellectual service. To be

superannuated at that age and laid on the shelf must be regarded rather

as a hardship than a favor by men of energetic dispositions."

"My dear Mr. West," exclaimed Dr. Leete, beaming upon me, "you cannot

have any idea of the piquancy your nineteenth century ideas have for us

of this day, the rare quaintness of their effect. Know, O child of

another race and yet the same, that the labor we have to render as our

part in securing for the nation the means of a comfortable physical

existence is by no means regarded as the most important, the most

interesting, or the most dignified employment of our powers. We look

upon it as a necessary duty to be discharged before we can fully devote

ourselves to the higher exercise of our faculties, the intellectual and

spiritual enjoyments and pursuits which alone mean life. Everything

possible is indeed done by the just distribution of burdens, and by all

manner of special attractions and incentives to relieve our labor of

irksomeness, and, except in a comparative sense, it is not usually

irksome, and is often inspiring. But it is not our labor, but the

higher and larger activities which the performance of our task will

leave us free to enter upon, that are considered the main business of

existence.

"Of course not all, nor the majority, have those scientific, artistic,

literary, or scholarly interests which make leisure the one thing

valuable to their possessors. Many look upon the last half of life

chiefly as a period for enjoyment of other sorts; for travel, for

social relaxation in the company of their life-time friends; a time for

the cultivation of all manner of personal idiosyncrasies and special

tastes, and the pursuit of every imaginable form of recreation; in a

word, a time for the leisurely and unperturbed appreciation of the good

things of the world which they have helped to create. But, whatever the

differences between our individual tastes as to the use we shall put

our leisure to, we all agree in looking forward to the date of our

discharge as the time when we shall first enter upon the full enjoyment

of our birthright, the period when we shall first really attain our

majority and become enfranchised from discipline and control, with the

fee of our lives vested in ourselves. As eager boys in your day

anticipated twenty-one, so men nowadays look forward to forty-five. At

twenty-one we become men, but at forty-five we renew youth. Middle age

and what you would have called old age are considered, rather than

youth, the enviable time of life. Thanks to the better conditions of

existence nowadays, and above all the freedom of every one from care,

old age approaches many years later and has an aspect far more benign

than in past times. Persons of average constitution usually live to

eighty-five or ninety, and at forty-five we are physically and mentally

younger, I fancy, than you were at thirty-five. It is a strange

reflection that at forty-five, when we are just entering upon the most

enjoyable period of life, you already began to think of growing old and

to look backward. With you it was the forenoon, with us it is the

afternoon, which is the brighter half of life."

After this I remember that our talk branched into the subject of

popular sports and recreations at the present time as compared with

those of the nineteenth century.

"In one respect," said Dr. Leete, "there is a marked difference. The

professional sportsmen, which were such a curious feature of your day,

we have nothing answering to, nor are the prizes for which our athletes

contend money prizes, as with you. Our contests are always for glory

only. The generous rivalry existing between the various guilds, and the

loyalty of each worker to his own, afford a constant stimulation to all

sorts of games and matches by sea and land, in which the young men take

scarcely more interest than the honorary guildsmen who have served

their time. The guild yacht races off Marblehead take place next week,

and you will be able to judge for yourself of the popular enthusiasm

which such events nowadays call out as compared with your day. The

demand for 'panem ef circenses' preferred by the Roman populace is

recognized nowadays as a wholly reasonable one. If bread is the first

necessity of life, recreation is a close second, and the nation caters

for both. Americans of the nineteenth century were as unfortunate in

lacking an adequate provision for the one sort of need as for the

other. Even if the people of that period had enjoyed larger leisure,

they would, I fancy, have often been at a loss how to pass it

agreeably. We are never in that predicament."

Chapter 19

In the course of an early morning constitutional I visited Charlestown.

Among the changes, too numerous to attempt to indicate, which mark the

lapse of a century in that quarter, I particularly noted the total

disappearance of the old state prison.

"That went before my day, but I remember hearing about it," said Dr.

Leete, when I alluded to the fact at the breakfast table. "We have no

jails nowadays. All cases of atavism are treated in the hospitals."

"Of atavism!" I exclaimed, staring.

"Why, yes," replied Dr. Leete. "The idea of dealing punitively with

those unfortunates was given up at least fifty years ago, and I think

more."

"I don't quite understand you," I said. "Atavism in my day was a word

applied to the cases of persons in whom some trait of a remote ancestor

recurred in a noticeable manner. Am I to understand that crime is

nowadays looked upon as the recurrence of an ancestral trait?"

"I beg your pardon," said Dr. Leete with a smile half humorous, half

deprecating, "but since you have so explicitly asked the question, I am

forced to say that the fact is precisely that."

After what I had already learned of the moral contrasts between the

nineteenth and the twentieth centuries, it was doubtless absurd in me

to begin to develop sensitiveness on the subject, and probably if Dr.

Leete had not spoken with that apologetic air and Mrs. Leete and Edith

shown a corresponding embarrassment, I should not have flushed, as I

was conscious I did.

"I was not in much danger of being vain of my generation before," I

said; "but, really--"

"This is your generation, Mr. West," interposed Edith. "It is the one

in which you are living, you know, and it is only because we are alive

now that we call it ours."

"Thank you. I will try to think of it so," I said, and as my eyes met

hers their expression quite cured my senseless sensitiveness. "After

all," I said, with a laugh, "I was brought up a Calvinist, and ought

not to be startled to hear crime spoken of as an ancestral trait."

"In point of fact," said Dr. Leete, "our use of the word is no

reflection at all on your generation, if, begging Edith's pardon, we

may call it yours, so far as seeming to imply that we think ourselves,

apart from our circumstances, better than you were. In your day fully

nineteen twentieths of the crime, using the word broadly to include all

sorts of misdemeanors, resulted from the inequality in the possessions

of individuals; want tempted the poor, lust of greater gains, or the

desire to preserve former gains, tempted the well-to-do. Directly or

indirectly, the desire for money, which then meant every good thing,

was the motive of all this crime, the taproot of a vast poison growth,

which the machinery of law, courts, and police could barely prevent

from choking your civilization outright. When we made the nation the

sole trustee of the wealth of the people, and guaranteed to all

abundant maintenance, on the one hand abolishing want, and on the other

checking the accumulation of riches, we cut this root, and the poison

tree that overshadowed your society withered, like Jonah's gourd, in a

day. As for the comparatively small class of violent crimes against

persons, unconnected with any idea of gain, they were almost wholly

confined, even in your day, to the ignorant and bestial; and in these

days, when education and good manners are not the monopoly of a few,

but universal, such atrocities are scarcely ever heard of. You now see

why the word 'atavism' is used for crime. It is because nearly all

forms of crime known to you are motiveless now, and when they appear

can only be explained as the outcropping of ancestral traits. You used

to call persons who stole, evidently without any rational motive,

kleptomaniacs, and when the case was clear deemed it absurd to punish

them as thieves. Your attitude toward the genuine kleptomaniac is

precisely ours toward the victim of atavism, an attitude of compassion

and firm but gentle restraint."

"Your courts must have an easy time of it," I observed. "With no

private property to speak of, no disputes between citizens over

business relations, no real estate to divide or debts to collect, there

must be absolutely no civil business at all for them; and with no

offenses against property, and mighty few of any sort to provide

criminal cases, I should think you might almost do without judges and

lawyers altogether."

"We do without the lawyers, certainly," was Dr. Leete's reply. "It

would not seem reasonable to us, in a case where the only interest of

the nation is to find out the truth, that persons should take part in

the proceedings who had an acknowledged motive to color it."

"But who defends the accused?"

"If he is a criminal he needs no defense, for he pleads guilty in most

instances," replied Dr. Leete. "The plea of the accused is not a mere

formality with us, as with you. It is usually the end of the case."

"You don't mean that the man who pleads not guilty is thereupon

discharged?"

"No, I do not mean that. He is not accused on light grounds, and if he

denies his guilt, must still be tried. But trials are few, for in most

cases the guilty man pleads guilty. When he makes a false plea and is

clearly proved guilty, his penalty is doubled. Falsehood is, however,

so despised among us that few offenders would lie to save themselves."

"That is the most astounding thing you have yet told me," I exclaimed.

"If lying has gone out of fashion, this is indeed the 'new heavens and

the new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness,' which the prophet

foretold."

"Such is, in fact, the belief of some persons nowadays," was the

doctor's answer. "They hold that we have entered upon the millennium,

and the theory from their point of view does not lack plausibility. But

as to your astonishment at finding that the world has outgrown lying,

there is really no ground for it. Falsehood, even in your day, was not

common between gentlemen and ladies, social equals. The lie of fear was

the refuge of cowardice, and the lie of fraud the device of the cheat.

The inequalities of men and the lust of acquisition offered a constant

premium on lying at that time. Yet even then, the man who neither

feared another nor desired to defraud him scorned falsehood. Because we

are now all social equals, and no man either has anything to fear from

another or can gain anything by deceiving him, the contempt of

falsehood is so universal that it is rarely, as I told you, that even a

criminal in other respects will be found willing to lie. When, however,

a plea of not guilty is returned, the judge appoints two colleagues to

state the opposite sides of the case. How far these men are from being

like your hired advocates and prosecutors, determined to acquit or

convict, may appear from the fact that unless both agree that the

verdict found is just, the case is tried over, while anything like bias

in the tone of either of the judges stating the case would be a

shocking scandal."

"Do I understand," I said, "that it is a judge who states each side of

the case as well as a judge who hears it?"

"Certainly. The judges take turns in serving on the bench and at the

bar, and are expected to maintain the judicial temper equally whether

in stating or deciding a case. The system is indeed in effect that of

trial by three judges occupying different points of view as to the

case. When they agree upon a verdict, we believe it to be as near to

absolute truth as men well can come."

"You have given up the jury system, then?"

"It was well enough as a corrective in the days of hired advocates, and

a bench sometimes venal, and often with a tenure that made it

dependent, but is needless now. No conceivable motive but justice could

actuate our judges."

"How are these magistrates selected?"

"They are an honorable exception to the rule which discharges all men

from service at the age of forty-five. The President of the nation

appoints the necessary judges year by year from the class reaching that

age. The number appointed is, of course, exceedingly few, and the honor

so high that it is held an offset to the additional term of service

which follows, and though a judge's appointment may be declined, it

rarely is. The term is five years, without eligibility to

reappointment. The members of the Supreme Court, which is the guardian

of the constitution, are selected from among the lower judges. When a

vacancy in that court occurs, those of the lower judges, whose terms

expire that year, select, as their last official act, the one of their

colleagues left on the bench whom they deem fittest to fill it."

"There being no legal profession to serve as a school for judges," I

said, "they must, of course, come directly from the law school to the

bench."

"We have no such things as law schools," replied the doctor smiling.

"The law as a special science is obsolete. It was a system of casuistry

which the elaborate artificiality of the old order of society

absolutely required to interpret it, but only a few of the plainest and

simplest legal maxims have any application to the existing state of the

world. Everything touching the relations of men to one another is now

simpler, beyond any comparison, than in your day. We should have no

sort of use for the hair-splitting experts who presided and argued in

your courts. You must not imagine, however, that we have any disrespect

for those ancient worthies because we have no use for them. On the

contrary, we entertain an unfeigned respect, amounting almost to awe,

for the men who alone understood and were able to expound the

interminable complexity of the rights of property, and the relations of

commercial and personal dependence involved in your system. What,

indeed, could possibly give a more powerful impression of the intricacy

and artificiality of that system than the fact that it was necessary to

set apart from other pursuits the cream of the intellect of every

generation, in order to provide a body of pundits able to make it even

vaguely intelligible to those whose fates it determined. The treatises

of your great lawyers, the works of Blackstone and Chitty, of Story and

Parsons, stand in our museums, side by side with the tomes of Duns

Scotus and his fellow scholastics, as curious monuments of intellectual

subtlety devoted to subjects equally remote from the interests of

modern men. Our judges are simply widely informed, judicious, and

discreet men of ripe years.

"I should not fail to speak of one important function of the minor

judges," added Dr. Leete. "This is to adjudicate all cases where a

private of the industrial army makes a complaint of unfairness against

an officer. All such questions are heard and settled without appeal by

a single judge, three judges being required only in graver cases. The

efficiency of industry requires the strictest discipline in the army of

labor, but the claim of the workman to just and considerate treatment

is backed by the whole power of the nation. The officer commands and

the private obeys, but no officer is so high that he would dare display

an overbearing manner toward a workman of the lowest class. As for

churlishness or rudeness by an official of any sort, in his relations

to the public, not one among minor offenses is more sure of a prompt

penalty than this. Not only justice but civility is enforced by our

judges in all sorts of intercourse. No value of service is accepted as

a set-off to boorish or offensive manners."

It occurred to me, as Dr. Leete was speaking, that in all his talk I

had heard much of the nation and nothing of the state governments. Had

the organization of the nation as an industrial unit done away with the

states? I asked.

"Necessarily," he replied. "The state governments would have interfered

with the control and discipline of the industrial army, which, of

course, required to be central and uniform. Even if the state

governments had not become inconvenient for other reasons, they were

rendered superfluous by the prodigious simplification in the task of

government since your day. Almost the sole function of the

administration now is that of directing the industries of the country.

Most of the purposes for which governments formerly existed no longer

remain to be subserved. We have no army or navy, and no military

organization. We have no departments of state or treasury, no excise or

revenue services, no taxes or tax collectors. The only function proper

of government, as known to you, which still remains, is the judiciary

and police system. I have already explained to you how simple is our

judicial system as compared with your huge and complex machine. Of

course the same absence of crime and temptation to it, which make the

duties of judges so light, reduces the number and duties of the police

to a minimum."

"But with no state legislatures, and Congress meeting only once in five

years, how do you get your legislation done?"

"We have no legislation," replied Dr. Leete, "that is, next to none. It

is rarely that Congress, even when it meets, considers any new laws of

consequence, and then it only has power to commend them to the

following Congress, lest anything be done hastily. If you will consider

a moment, Mr. West, you will see that we have nothing to make laws

about. The fundamental principles on which our society is founded

settle for all time the strifes and misunderstandings which in your day

called for legislation.

"Fully ninety-nine hundredths of the laws of that time concerned the

definition and protection of private property and the relations of

buyers and sellers. There is neither private property, beyond personal

belongings, now, nor buying and selling, and therefore the occasion of

nearly all the legislation formerly necessary has passed away.

Formerly, society was a pyramid poised on its apex. All the

gravitations of human nature were constantly tending to topple it over,

and it could be maintained upright, or rather upwrong (if you will

pardon the feeble witticism), by an elaborate system of constantly

renewed props and buttresses and guy-ropes in the form of laws. A

central Congress and forty state legislatures, turning out some twenty

thousand laws a year, could not make new props fast enough to take the

place of those which were constantly breaking down or becoming

ineffectual through some shifting of the strain. Now society rests on

its base, and is in as little need of artificial supports as the

everlasting hills."

"But you have at least municipal governments besides the one central

authority?"

"Certainly, and they have important and extensive functions in looking

out for the public comfort and recreation, and the improvement and

embellishment of the villages and cities."

"But having no control over the labor of their people, or means of

hiring it, how can they do anything?"

"Every town or city is conceded the right to retain, for its own public

works, a certain proportion of the quota of labor its citizens

contribute to the nation. This proportion, being assigned it as so much

credit, can be applied in any way desired."

Chapter 20

That afternoon Edith casually inquired if I had yet revisited the

underground chamber in the garden in which I had been found.

"Not yet," I replied. "To be frank, I have shrunk thus far from doing

so, lest the visit might revive old associations rather too strongly

for my mental equilibrium."

"Ah, yes!" she said, "I can imagine that you have done well to stay

away. I ought to have thought of that."

"No," I said, "I am glad you spoke of it. The danger, if there was any,

existed only during the first day or two. Thanks to you, chiefly and

always, I feel my footing now so firm in this new world, that if you

will go with me to keep the ghosts off, I should really like to visit

the place this afternoon."

Edith demurred at first, but, finding that I was in earnest, consented

to accompany me. The rampart of earth thrown up from the excavation was

visible among the trees from the house, and a few steps brought us to

the spot. All remained as it was at the point when work was interrupted

by the discovery of the tenant of the chamber, save that the door had

been opened and the slab from the roof replaced. Descending the sloping

sides of the excavation, we went in at the door and stood within the

dimly lighted room.

Everything was just as I had beheld it last on that evening one hundred

and thirteen years previous, just before closing my eyes for that long

sleep. I stood for some time silently looking about me. I saw that my

companion was furtively regarding me with an expression of awed and

sympathetic curiosity. I put out my hand to her and she placed hers in

it, the soft fingers responding with a reassuring pressure to my clasp.

Finally she whispered, "Had we not better go out now? You must not try

yourself too far. Oh, how strange it must be to you!"

"On the contrary," I replied, "it does not seem strange; that is the

strangest part of it."

"Not strange?" she echoed.

"Even so," I replied. "The emotions with which you evidently credit me,

and which I anticipated would attend this visit, I simply do not feel.

I realize all that these surroundings suggest, but without the

agitation I expected. You can't be nearly as much surprised at this as

I am myself. Ever since that terrible morning when you came to my help,

I have tried to avoid thinking of my former life, just as I have

avoided coming here, for fear of the agitating effects. I am for all

the world like a man who has permitted an injured limb to lie

motionless under the impression that it is exquisitely sensitive, and

on trying to move it finds that it is paralyzed."

"Do you mean your memory is gone?"

"Not at all. I remember everything connected with my former life, but

with a total lack of keen sensation. I remember it for clearness as if

it had been but a day since then, but my feelings about what I remember

are as faint as if to my consciousness, as well as in fact, a hundred

years had intervened. Perhaps it is possible to explain this, too. The

effect of change in surroundings is like that of lapse of time in

making the past seem remote. When I first woke from that trance, my

former life appeared as yesterday, but now, since I have learned to

know my new surroundings, and to realize the prodigious changes that

have transformed the world, I no longer find it hard, but very easy, to

realize that I have slept a century. Can you conceive of such a thing

as living a hundred years in four days? It really seems to me that I

have done just that, and that it is this experience which has given so

remote and unreal an appearance to my former life. Can you see how such

a thing might be?"

"I can conceive it," replied Edith, meditatively, "and I think we ought

all to be thankful that it is so, for it will save you much suffering,

I am sure."

"Imagine," I said, in an effort to explain, as much to myself as to

her, the strangeness of my mental condition, "that a man first heard of

a bereavement many, many years, half a lifetime perhaps, after the

event occurred. I fancy his feeling would be perhaps something as mine

is. When I think of my friends in the world of that former day, and the

sorrow they must have felt for me, it is with a pensive pity, rather

than keen anguish, as of a sorrow long, long ago ended."

"You have told us nothing yet of your friends," said Edith. "Had you

many to mourn you?"

"Thank God, I had very few relatives, none nearer than cousins," I

replied. "But there was one, not a relative, but dearer to me than any

kin of blood. She had your name. She was to have been my wife soon. Ah

me!"

"Ah me!" sighed the Edith by my side. "Think of the heartache she must

have had."

Something in the deep feeling of this gentle girl touched a chord in my

benumbed heart. My eyes, before so dry, were flooded with the tears

that had till now refused to come. When I had regained my composure, I

saw that she too had been weeping freely.

"God bless your tender heart," I said. "Would you like to see her

picture?"

A small locket with Edith Bartlett's picture, secured about my neck

with a gold chain, had lain upon my breast all through that long sleep,

and removing this I opened and gave it to my companion. She took it

with eagerness, and after poring long over the sweet face, touched the

picture with her lips.

"I know that she was good and lovely enough to well deserve your

tears," she said; "but remember her heartache was over long ago, and

she has been in heaven for nearly a century."

It was indeed so. Whatever her sorrow had once been, for nearly a

century she had ceased to weep, and, my sudden passion spent, my own

tears dried away. I had loved her very dearly in my other life, but it

was a hundred years ago! I do not know but some may find in this

confession evidence of lack of feeling, but I think, perhaps, that none

can have had an experience sufficiently like mine to enable them to

judge me. As we were about to leave the chamber, my eye rested upon the

great iron safe which stood in one corner. Calling my companion's

attention to it, I said:

"This was my strong room as well as my sleeping room. In the safe

yonder are several thousand dollars in gold, and any amount of

securities. If I had known when I went to sleep that night just how

long my nap would be, I should still have thought that the gold was a

safe provision for my needs in any country or any century, however

distant. That a time would ever come when it would lose its purchasing

power, I should have considered the wildest of fancies. Nevertheless,

here I wake up to find myself among a people of whom a cartload of gold

will not procure a loaf of bread."

As might be expected, I did not succeed in impressing Edith that there

was anything remarkable in this fact. "Why in the world should it?" she

merely asked.

Chapter 21

It had been suggested by Dr. Leete that we should devote the next

morning to an inspection of the schools and colleges of the city, with

some attempt on his own part at an explanation of the educational

system of the twentieth century.

"You will see," said he, as we set out after breakfast, "many very

important differences between our methods of education and yours, but

the main difference is that nowadays all persons equally have those

opportunities of higher education which in your day only an

infinitesimal portion of the population enjoyed. We should think we had

gained nothing worth speaking of, in equalizing the physical comfort of

men, without this educational equality."

"The cost must be very great," I said.

"If it took half the revenue of the nation, nobody would grudge it,"

replied Dr. Leete, "nor even if it took it all save a bare pittance.

But in truth the expense of educating ten thousand youth is not ten nor

five times that of educating one thousand. The principle which makes

all operations on a large scale proportionally cheaper than on a small

scale holds as to education also."

"College education was terribly expensive in my day," said I.

"If I have not been misinformed by our historians," Dr. Leete answered,

"it was not college education but college dissipation and extravagance

which cost so highly. The actual expense of your colleges appears to

have been very low, and would have been far lower if their patronage

had been greater. The higher education nowadays is as cheap as the

lower, as all grades of teachers, like all other workers, receive the

same support. We have simply added to the common school system of

compulsory education, in vogue in Massachusetts a hundred years ago, a

half dozen higher grades, carrying the youth to the age of twenty-one

and giving him what you used to call the education of a gentleman,

instead of turning him loose at fourteen or fifteen with no mental

equipment beyond reading, writing, and the multiplication table."

"Setting aside the actual cost of these additional years of education,"

I replied, "we should not have thought we could afford the loss of time

from industrial pursuits. Boys of the poorer classes usually went to

work at sixteen or younger, and knew their trade at twenty."

"We should not concede you any gain even in material product by that

plan," Dr. Leete replied. "The greater efficiency which education gives

to all sorts of labor, except the rudest, makes up in a short period

for the time lost in acquiring it."

"We should also have been afraid," said I, "that a high education,

while it adapted men to the professions, would set them against manual

labor of all sorts."

"That was the effect of high education in your day, I have read,"

replied the doctor; "and it was no wonder, for manual labor meant

association with a rude, coarse, and ignorant class of people. There is

no such class now. It was inevitable that such a feeling should exist

then, for the further reason that all men receiving a high education

were understood to be destined for the professions or for wealthy

leisure, and such an education in one neither rich nor professional was

a proof of disappointed aspirations, an evidence of failure, a badge of

inferiority rather than superiority. Nowadays, of course, when the

highest education is deemed necessary to fit a man merely to live,

without any reference to the sort of work he may do, its possession

conveys no such implication."

"After all," I remarked, "no amount of education can cure natural

dullness or make up for original mental deficiencies. Unless the

average natural mental capacity of men is much above its level in my

day, a high education must be pretty nearly thrown away on a large

element of the population. We used to hold that a certain amount of

susceptibility to educational influences is required to make a mind

worth cultivating, just as a certain natural fertility in soil is

required if it is to repay tilling."

"Ah," said Dr. Leete, "I am glad you used that illustration, for it is

just the one I would have chosen to set forth the modern view of

education. You say that land so poor that the product will not repay

the labor of tilling is not cultivated. Nevertheless, much land that

does not begin to repay tilling by its product was cultivated in your

day and is in ours. I refer to gardens, parks, lawns, and, in general,

to pieces of land so situated that, were they left to grow up to weeds

and briers, they would be eyesores and inconveniencies to all about.

They are therefore tilled, and though their product is little, there is

yet no land that, in a wider sense, better repays cultivation. So it is

with the men and women with whom we mingle in the relations of society,

whose voices are always in our ears, whose behavior in innumerable ways

affects our enjoyment--who are, in fact, as much conditions of our

lives as the air we breathe, or any of the physical elements on which

we depend. If, indeed, we could not afford to educate everybody, we

should choose the coarsest and dullest by nature, rather than the

brightest, to receive what education we could give. The naturally

refined and intellectual can better dispense with aids to culture than

those less fortunate in natural endowments.

"To borrow a phrase which was often used in your day, we should not

consider life worth living if we had to be surrounded by a population

of ignorant, boorish, coarse, wholly uncultivated men and women, as was

the plight of the few educated in your day. Is a man satisfied, merely

because he is perfumed himself, to mingle with a malodorous crowd?

Could he take more than a very limited satisfaction, even in a palatial

apartment, if the windows on all four sides opened into stable yards?

And yet just that was the situation of those considered most fortunate

as to culture and refinement in your day. I know that the poor and

ignorant envied the rich and cultured then; but to us the latter,

living as they did, surrounded by squalor and brutishness, seem little

better off than the former. The cultured man in your age was like one

up to the neck in a nauseous bog solacing himself with a smelling

bottle. You see, perhaps, now, how we look at this question of

universal high education. No single thing is so important to every man

as to have for neighbors intelligent, companionable persons. There is

nothing, therefore, which the nation can do for him that will enhance

so much his own happiness as to educate his neighbors. When it fails to

do so, the value of his own education to him is reduced by half, and

many of the tastes he has cultivated are made positive sources of pain.

"To educate some to the highest degree, and leave the mass wholly

uncultivated, as you did, made the gap between them almost like that

between different natural species, which have no means of

communication. What could be more inhuman than this consequence of a

partial enjoyment of education! Its universal and equal enjoyment

leaves, indeed, the differences between men as to natural endowments as

marked as in a state of nature, but the level of the lowest is vastly

raised. Brutishness is eliminated. All have some inkling of the

humanities, some appreciation of the things of the mind, and an

admiration for the still higher culture they have fallen short of. They

have become capable of receiving and imparting, in various degrees, but

all in some measure, the pleasures and inspirations of a refined social

life. The cultured society of the nineteenth century--what did it

consist of but here and there a few microscopic oases in a vast,

unbroken wilderness? The proportion of individuals capable of

intellectual sympathies or refined intercourse, to the mass of their

contemporaries, used to be so infinitesimal as to be in any broad view

of humanity scarcely worth mentioning. One generation of the world

to-day represents a greater volume of intellectual life than any five

centuries ever did before.

"There is still another point I should mention in stating the grounds

on which nothing less than the universality of the best education could

now be tolerated," continued Dr. Leete, "and that is, the interest of

the coming generation in having educated parents. To put the matter in

a nutshell, there are three main grounds on which our educational

system rests: first, the right of every man to the completest education

the nation can give him on his own account, as necessary to his

enjoyment of himself; second, the right of his fellow-citizens to have

him educated, as necessary to their enjoyment of his society; third,

the right of the unborn to be guaranteed an intelligent and refined

parentage."

I shall not describe in detail what I saw in the schools that day.

Having taken but slight interest in educational matters in my former

life, I could offer few comparisons of interest. Next to the fact of

the universality of the higher as well as the lower education, I was

most struck with the prominence given to physical culture, and the fact

that proficiency in athletic feats and games as well as in scholarship

had a place in the rating of the youth.

"The faculty of education," Dr. Leete explained, "is held to the same

responsibility for the bodies as for the minds of its charges. The

highest possible physical, as well as mental, development of every one

is the double object of a curriculum which lasts from the age of six to

that of twenty-one."

The magnificent health of the young people in the schools impressed me

strongly. My previous observations, not only of the notable personal

endowments of the family of my host, but of the people I had seen in my

walks abroad, had already suggested the idea that there must have been

something like a general improvement in the physical standard of the

race since my day, and now, as I compared these stalwart young men and

fresh, vigorous maidens with the young people I had seen in the schools

of the nineteenth century, I was moved to impart my thought to Dr.

Leete. He listened with great interest to what I said.

"Your testimony on this point," he declared, "is invaluable. We believe

that there has been such an improvement as you speak of, but of course

it could only be a matter of theory with us. It is an incident of your

unique position that you alone in the world of to-day can speak with

authority on this point. Your opinion, when you state it publicly,

will, I assure you, make a profound sensation. For the rest it would be

strange, certainly, if the race did not show an improvement. In your

day, riches debauched one class with idleness of mind and body, while

poverty sapped the vitality of the masses by overwork, bad food, and

pestilent homes. The labor required of children, and the burdens laid

on women, enfeebled the very springs of life. Instead of these

maleficent circumstances, all now enjoy the most favorable conditions

of physical life; the young are carefully nurtured and studiously cared

for; the labor which is required of all is limited to the period of

greatest bodily vigor, and is never excessive; care for one's self and

one's family, anxiety as to livelihood, the strain of a ceaseless

battle for life--all these influences, which once did so much to wreck

the minds and bodies of men and women, are known no more. Certainly, an

improvement of the species ought to follow such a change. In certain

specific respects we know, indeed, that the improvement has taken

place. Insanity, for instance, which in the nineteenth century was so

terribly common a product of your insane mode of life, has almost

disappeared, with its alternative, suicide."

Chapter 22

We had made an appointment to meet the ladies at the dining-hall for

dinner, after which, having some engagement, they left us sitting at

table there, discussing our wine and cigars with a multitude of other

matters.

"Doctor," said I, in the course of our talk, "morally speaking, your

social system is one which I should be insensate not to admire in

comparison with any previously in vogue in the world, and especially

with that of my own most unhappy century. If I were to fall into a

mesmeric sleep tonight as lasting as that other and meanwhile the

course of time were to take a turn backward instead of forward, and I

were to wake up again in the nineteenth century, when I had told my

friends what I had seen, they would every one admit that your world was

a paradise of order, equity, and felicity. But they were a very

practical people, my contemporaries, and after expressing their

admiration for the moral beauty and material splendor of the system,

they would presently begin to cipher and ask how you got the money to

make everybody so happy; for certainly, to support the whole nation at

a rate of comfort, and even luxury, such as I see around me, must

involve vastly greater wealth than the nation produced in my day. Now,

while I could explain to them pretty nearly everything else of the main

features of your system, I should quite fail to answer this question,

and failing there, they would tell me, for they were very close

cipherers, that I had been dreaming; nor would they ever believe

anything else. In my day, I know that the total annual product of the

nation, although it might have been divided with absolute equality,

would not have come to more than three or four hundred dollars per

head, not very much more than enough to supply the necessities of life

with few or any of its comforts. How is it that you have so much more?"

"That is a very pertinent question, Mr. West," replied Dr. Leete, "and

I should not blame your friends, in the case you supposed, if they

declared your story all moonshine, failing a satisfactory reply to it.

It is a question which I cannot answer exhaustively at any one sitting,

and as for the exact statistics to bear out my general statements, I

shall have to refer you for them to books in my library, but it would

certainly be a pity to leave you to be put to confusion by your old

acquaintances, in case of the contingency you speak of, for lack of a

few suggestions.

"Let us begin with a number of small items wherein we economize wealth

as compared with you. We have no national, state, county, or municipal

debts, or payments on their account. We have no sort of military or

naval expenditures for men or materials, no army, navy, or militia. We

have no revenue service, no swarm of tax assessors and collectors. As

regards our judiciary, police, sheriffs, and jailers, the force which

Massachusetts alone kept on foot in your day far more than suffices for

the nation now. We have no criminal class preying upon the wealth of

society as you had. The number of persons, more or less absolutely lost

to the working force through physical disability, of the lame, sick,

and debilitated, which constituted such a burden on the able-bodied in

your day, now that all live under conditions of health and comfort, has

shrunk to scarcely perceptible proportions, and with every generation

is becoming more completely eliminated.

"Another item wherein we save is the disuse of money and the thousand

occupations connected with financial operations of all sorts, whereby

an army of men was formerly taken away from useful employments. Also

consider that the waste of the very rich in your day on inordinate

personal luxury has ceased, though, indeed, this item might easily be

over-estimated. Again, consider that there are no idlers now, rich or

poor--no drones.

"A very important cause of former poverty was the vast waste of labor

and materials which resulted from domestic washing and cooking, and the

performing separately of innumerable other tasks to which we apply the

cooperative plan.

"A larger economy than any of these--yes, of all together--is effected

by the organization of our distributing system, by which the work done

once by the merchants, traders, storekeepers, with their various grades

of jobbers, wholesalers, retailers, agents, commercial travelers, and

middlemen of all sorts, with an excessive waste of energy in needless

transportation and interminable handlings, is performed by one tenth

the number of hands and an unnecessary turn of not one wheel. Something

of what our distributing system is like you know. Our statisticians

calculate that one eightieth part of our workers suffices for all the

processes of distribution which in your day required one eighth of the

population, so much being withdrawn from the force engaged in

productive labor."

"I begin to see," I said, "where you get your greater wealth."

"I beg your pardon," replied Dr. Leete, "but you scarcely do as yet.

The economies I have mentioned thus far, in the aggregate, considering

the labor they would save directly and indirectly through saving of

material, might possibly be equivalent to the addition to your annual

production of wealth of one half its former total. These items are,

however, scarcely worth mentioning in comparison with other prodigious

wastes, now saved, which resulted inevitably from leaving the

industries of the nation to private enterprise. However great the

economies your contemporaries might have devised in the consumption of

products, and however marvelous the progress of mechanical invention,

they could never have raised themselves out of the slough of poverty so

long as they held to that system.

"No mode more wasteful for utilizing human energy could be devised, and

for the credit of the human intellect it should be remembered that the

system never was devised, but was merely a survival from the rude ages

when the lack of social organization made any sort of cooperation

impossible."

"I will readily admit," I said, "that our industrial system was

ethically very bad, but as a mere wealth-making machine, apart from

moral aspects, it seemed to us admirable."

"As I said," responded the doctor, "the subject is too large to discuss

at length now, but if you are really interested to know the main

criticisms which we moderns make on your industrial system as compared

with our own, I can touch briefly on some of them.

"The wastes which resulted from leaving the conduct of industry to

irresponsible individuals, wholly without mutual understanding or

concert, were mainly four: first, the waste by mistaken undertakings;

second, the waste from the competition and mutual hostility of those

engaged in industry; third, the waste by periodical gluts and crises,

with the consequent interruptions of industry; fourth, the waste from

idle capital and labor, at all times. Any one of these four great

leaks, were all the others stopped, would suffice to make the

difference between wealth and poverty on the part of a nation.

"Take the waste by mistaken undertakings, to begin with. In your day

the production and distribution of commodities being without concert or

organization, there was no means of knowing just what demand there was

for any class of products, or what was the rate of supply. Therefore,

any enterprise by a private capitalist was always a doubtful

experiment. The projector having no general view of the field of

industry and consumption, such as our government has, could never be

sure either what the people wanted, or what arrangements other

capitalists were making to supply them. In view of this, we are not

surprised to learn that the chances were considered several to one in

favor of the failure of any given business enterprise, and that it was

common for persons who at last succeeded in making a hit to have failed

repeatedly. If a shoemaker, for every pair of shoes he succeeded in

completing, spoiled the leather of four or five pair, besides losing

the time spent on them, he would stand about the same chance of getting

rich as your contemporaries did with their system of private

enterprise, and its average of four or five failures to one success.

"The next of the great wastes was that from competition. The field of

industry was a battlefield as wide as the world, in which the workers

wasted, in assailing one another, energies which, if expended in

concerted effort, as to-day, would have enriched all. As for mercy or

quarter in this warfare, there was absolutely no suggestion of it. To

deliberately enter a field of business and destroy the enterprises of

those who had occupied it previously, in order to plant one's own

enterprise on their ruins, was an achievement which never failed to

command popular admiration. Nor is there any stretch of fancy in

comparing this sort of struggle with actual warfare, so far as concerns

the mental agony and physical suffering which attended the struggle,

and the misery which overwhelmed the defeated and those dependent on

them. Now nothing about your age is, at first sight, more astounding to

a man of modern times than the fact that men engaged in the same

industry, instead of fraternizing as comrades and co-laborers to a

common end, should have regarded each other as rivals and enemies to be

throttled and overthrown. This certainly seems like sheer madness, a

scene from bedlam. But more closely regarded, it is seen to be no such

thing. Your contemporaries, with their mutual throat-cutting, knew very

well what they were at. The producers of the nineteenth century were

not, like ours, working together for the maintenance of the community,

but each solely for his own maintenance at the expense of the

community. If, in working to this end, he at the same time increased

the aggregate wealth, that was merely incidental. It was just as

feasible and as common to increase one's private hoard by practices

injurious to the general welfare. One's worst enemies were necessarily

those of his own trade, for, under your plan of making private profit

the motive of production, a scarcity of the article he produced was

what each particular producer desired. It was for his interest that no

more of it should be produced than he himself could produce. To secure

this consummation as far as circumstances permitted, by killing off and

discouraging those engaged in his line of industry, was his constant

effort. When he had killed off all he could, his policy was to combine

with those he could not kill, and convert their mutual warfare into a

warfare upon the public at large by cornering the market, as I believe

you used to call it, and putting up prices to the highest point people

would stand before going without the goods. The day dream of the

nineteenth century producer was to gain absolute control of the supply

of some necessity of life, so that he might keep the public at the

verge of starvation, and always command famine prices for what he

supplied. This, Mr. West, is what was called in the nineteenth century

a system of production. I will leave it to you if it does not seem, in

some of its aspects, a great deal more like a system for preventing

production. Some time when we have plenty of leisure I am going to ask

you to sit down with me and try to make me comprehend, as I never yet

could, though I have studied the matter a great deal how such shrewd

fellows as your contemporaries appear to have been in many respects

ever came to entrust the business of providing for the community to a

class whose interest it was to starve it. I assure you that the wonder

with us is, not that the world did not get rich under such a system,

but that it did not perish outright from want. This wonder increases as

we go on to consider some of the other prodigious wastes that

characterized it.

"Apart from the waste of labor and capital by misdirected industry, and

that from the constant bloodletting of your industrial warfare, your

system was liable to periodical convulsions, overwhelming alike the

wise and unwise, the successful cut-throat as well as his victim. I

refer to the business crises at intervals of five to ten years, which

wrecked the industries of the nation, prostrating all weak enterprises

and crippling the strongest, and were followed by long periods, often

of many years, of so-called dull times, during which the capitalists

slowly regathered their dissipated strength while the laboring classes

starved and rioted. Then would ensue another brief season of

prosperity, followed in turn by another crisis and the ensuing years of

exhaustion. As commerce developed, making the nations mutually

dependent, these crises became world-wide, while the obstinacy of the

ensuing state of collapse increased with the area affected by the

convulsions, and the consequent lack of rallying centres. In proportion

as the industries of the world multiplied and became complex, and the

volume of capital involved was increased, these business cataclysms

became more frequent, till, in the latter part of the nineteenth

century, there were two years of bad times to one of good, and the

system of industry, never before so extended or so imposing, seemed in

danger of collapsing by its own weight. After endless discussions, your

economists appear by that time to have settled down to the despairing

conclusion that there was no more possibility of preventing or

controlling these crises than if they had been drouths or hurricanes.

It only remained to endure them as necessary evils, and when they had

passed over to build up again the shattered structure of industry, as

dwellers in an earthquake country keep on rebuilding their cities on

the same site.

"So far as considering the causes of the trouble inherent in their

industrial system, your contemporaries were certainly correct. They

were in its very basis, and must needs become more and more maleficent

as the business fabric grew in size and complexity. One of these causes

was the lack of any common control of the different industries, and the

consequent impossibility of their orderly and coordinate development.

It inevitably resulted from this lack that they were continually

getting out of step with one another and out of relation with the

demand.

"Of the latter there was no criterion such as organized distribution

gives us, and the first notice that it had been exceeded in any group

of industries was a crash of prices, bankruptcy of producers, stoppage

of production, reduction of wages, or discharge of workmen. This

process was constantly going on in many industries, even in what were

called good times, but a crisis took place only when the industries

affected were extensive. The markets then were glutted with goods, of

which nobody wanted beyond a sufficiency at any price. The wages and

profits of those making the glutted classes of goods being reduced or

wholly stopped, their purchasing power as consumers of other classes of

goods, of which there were no natural glut, was taken away, and, as a

consequence, goods of which there was no natural glut became

artificially glutted, till their prices also were broken down, and

their makers thrown out of work and deprived of income. The crisis was

by this time fairly under way, and nothing could check it till a

nation's ransom had been wasted.

"A cause, also inherent in your system, which often produced and always

terribly aggravated crises, was the machinery of money and credit.

Money was essential when production was in many private hands, and

buying and selling was necessary to secure what one wanted. It was,

however, open to the obvious objection of substituting for food,

clothing, and other things a merely conventional representative of

them. The confusion of mind which this favored, between goods and their

representative, led the way to the credit system and its prodigious

illusions. Already accustomed to accept money for commodities, the

people next accepted promises for money, and ceased to look at all

behind the representative for the thing represented. Money was a sign

of real commodities, but credit was but the sign of a sign. There was a

natural limit to gold and silver, that is, money proper, but none to

credit, and the result was that the volume of credit, that is, the

promises of money, ceased to bear any ascertainable proportion to the

money, still less to the commodities, actually in existence. Under such

a system, frequent and periodical crises were necessitated by a law as

absolute as that which brings to the ground a structure overhanging its

centre of gravity. It was one of your fictions that the government and

the banks authorized by it alone issued money; but everybody who gave a

dollar's credit issued money to that extent, which was as good as any

to swell the circulation till the next crises. The great extension of

the credit system was a characteristic of the latter part of the

nineteenth century, and accounts largely for the almost incessant

business crises which marked that period. Perilous as credit was, you

could not dispense with its use, for, lacking any national or other

public organization of the capital of the country, it was the only

means you had for concentrating and directing it upon industrial

enterprises. It was in this way a most potent means for exaggerating

the chief peril of the private enterprise system of industry by

enabling particular industries to absorb disproportionate amounts of

the disposable capital of the country, and thus prepare disaster.

Business enterprises were always vastly in debt for advances of credit,

both to one another and to the banks and capitalists, and the prompt

withdrawal of this credit at the first sign of a crisis was generally

the precipitating cause of it.

"It was the misfortune of your contemporaries that they had to cement

their business fabric with a material which an accident might at any

moment turn into an explosive. They were in the plight of a man

building a house with dynamite for mortar, for credit can be compared

with nothing else.

"If you would see how needless were these convulsions of business which

I have been speaking of, and how entirely they resulted from leaving

industry to private and unorganized management, just consider the

working of our system. Overproduction in special lines, which was the

great hobgoblin of your day, is impossible now, for by the connection

between distribution and production supply is geared to demand like an

engine to the governor which regulates its speed. Even suppose by an

error of judgment an excessive production of some commodity. The

consequent slackening or cessation of production in that line throws

nobody out of employment. The suspended workers are at once found

occupation in some other department of the vast workshop and lose only

the time spent in changing, while, as for the glut, the business of the

nation is large enough to carry any amount of product manufactured in

excess of demand till the latter overtakes it. In such a case of

over-production, as I have supposed, there is not with us, as with you,

any complex machinery to get out of order and magnify a thousand times

the original mistake. Of course, having not even money, we still less

have credit. All estimates deal directly with the real things, the

flour, iron, wood, wool, and labor, of which money and credit were for

you the very misleading representatives. In our calculation of cost

there can be no mistakes. Out of the annual product the amount

necessary for the support of the people is taken, and the requisite

labor to produce the next year's consumption provided for. The residue

of the material and labor represents what can be safely expended in

improvements. If the crops are bad, the surplus for that year is less

than usual, that is all. Except for slight occasional effects of such

natural causes, there are no fluctuations of business; the material

prosperity of the nation flows on uninterruptedly from generation to

generation, like an ever broadening and deepening river.

"Your business crises, Mr. West," continued the doctor, "like either of

the great wastes I mentioned before, were enough, alone, to have kept

your noses to the grindstone forever; but I have still to speak of one

other great cause of your poverty, and that was the idleness of a great

part of your capital and labor. With us it is the business of the

administration to keep in constant employment every ounce of available

capital and labor in the country. In your day there was no general

control of either capital or labor, and a large part of both failed to

find employment. 'Capital,' you used to say, 'is naturally timid,' and

it would certainly have been reckless if it had not been timid in an

epoch when there was a large preponderance of probability that any

particular business venture would end in failure. There was no time

when, if security could have been guaranteed it, the amount of capital

devoted to productive industry could not have been greatly increased.

The proportion of it so employed underwent constant extraordinary

fluctuations, according to the greater or less feeling of uncertainty

as to the stability of the industrial situation, so that the output of

the national industries greatly varied in different years. But for the

same reason that the amount of capital employed at times of special

insecurity was far less than at times of somewhat greater security, a

very large proportion was never employed at all, because the hazard of

business was always very great in the best of times.

"It should be also noted that the great amount of capital always

seeking employment where tolerable safety could be insured terribly

embittered the competition between capitalists when a promising opening

presented itself. The idleness of capital, the result of its timidity,

of course meant the idleness of labor in corresponding degree.

Moreover, every change in the adjustments of business, every slightest

alteration in the condition of commerce or manufactures, not to speak

of the innumerable business failures that took place yearly, even in

the best of times, were constantly throwing a multitude of men out of

employment for periods of weeks or months, or even years. A great

number of these seekers after employment were constantly traversing the

country, becoming in time professional vagabonds, then criminals. 'Give

us work!' was the cry of an army of the unemployed at nearly all

seasons, and in seasons of dullness in business this army swelled to a

host so vast and desperate as to threaten the stability of the

government. Could there conceivably be a more conclusive demonstration

of the imbecility of the system of private enterprise as a method for

enriching a nation than the fact that, in an age of such general

poverty and want of everything, capitalists had to throttle one another

to find a safe chance to invest their capital and workmen rioted and

burned because they could find no work to do?

"Now, Mr. West," continued Dr. Leete, "I want you to bear in mind that

these points of which I have been speaking indicate only negatively the

advantages of the national organization of industry by showing certain

fatal defects and prodigious imbecilities of the systems of private

enterprise which are not found in it. These alone, you must admit,

would pretty well explain why the nation is so much richer than in your

day. But the larger half of our advantage over you, the positive side

of it, I have yet barely spoken of. Supposing the system of private

enterprise in industry were without any of the great leaks I have

mentioned; that there were no waste on account of misdirected effort

growing out of mistakes as to the demand, and inability to command a

general view of the industrial field. Suppose, also, there were no

neutralizing and duplicating of effort from competition. Suppose, also,

there were no waste from business panics and crises through bankruptcy

and long interruptions of industry, and also none from the idleness of

capital and labor. Supposing these evils, which are essential to the

conduct of industry by capital in private hands, could all be

miraculously prevented, and the system yet retained; even then the

superiority of the results attained by the modern industrial system of

national control would remain overwhelming.

"You used to have some pretty large textile manufacturing

establishments, even in your day, although not comparable with ours. No

doubt you have visited these great mills in your time, covering acres

of ground, employing thousands of hands, and combining under one roof,

under one control, the hundred distinct processes between, say, the

cotton bale and the bale of glossy calicoes. You have admired the vast

economy of labor as of mechanical force resulting from the perfect

interworking with the rest of every wheel and every hand. No doubt you

have reflected how much less the same force of workers employed in that

factory would accomplish if they were scattered, each man working

independently. Would you think it an exaggeration to say that the

utmost product of those workers, working thus apart, however amicable

their relations might be, was increased not merely by a percentage, but

many fold, when their efforts were organized under one control? Well

now, Mr. West, the organization of the industry of the nation under a

single control, so that all its processes interlock, has multiplied the

total product over the utmost that could be done under the former

system, even leaving out of account the four great wastes mentioned, in

the same proportion that the product of those millworkers was increased

by cooperation. The effectiveness of the working force of a nation,

under the myriad-headed leadership of private capital, even if the

leaders were not mutual enemies, as compared with that which it attains

under a single head, may be likened to the military efficiency of a

mob, or a horde of barbarians with a thousand petty chiefs, as compared

with that of a disciplined army under one general--such a fighting

machine, for example, as the German army in the time of Von Moltke."

"After what you have told me," I said, "I do not so much wonder that

the nation is richer now than then, but that you are not all Croesuses."

"Well," replied Dr. Leete, "we are pretty well off. The rate at which

we live is as luxurious as we could wish. The rivalry of ostentation,

which in your day led to extravagance in no way conducive to comfort,

finds no place, of course, in a society of people absolutely equal in

resources, and our ambition stops at the surroundings which minister to

the enjoyment of life. We might, indeed, have much larger incomes,

individually, if we chose so to use the surplus of our product, but we

prefer to expend it upon public works and pleasures in which all share,

upon public halls and buildings, art galleries, bridges, statuary,

means of transit, and the conveniences of our cities, great musical and

theatrical exhibitions, and in providing on a vast scale for the

recreations of the people. You have not begun to see how we live yet,

Mr. West. At home we have comfort, but the splendor of our life is, on

its social side, that which we share with our fellows. When you know

more of it you will see where the money goes, as you used to say, and I

think you will agree that we do well so to expend it."

"I suppose," observed Dr. Leete, as we strolled homeward from the

dining hall, "that no reflection would have cut the men of your

wealth-worshiping century more keenly than the suggestion that they did

not know how to make money. Nevertheless that is just the verdict

history has passed on them. Their system of unorganized and

antagonistic industries was as absurd economically as it was morally

abominable. Selfishness was their only science, and in industrial

production selfishness is suicide. Competition, which is the instinct

of selfishness, is another word for dissipation of energy, while

combination is the secret of efficient production; and not till the

idea of increasing the individual hoard gives place to the idea of

increasing the common stock can industrial combination be realized, and

the acquisition of wealth really begin. Even if the principle of share

and share alike for all men were not the only humane and rational basis

for a society, we should still enforce it as economically expedient,

seeing that until the disintegrating influence of self-seeking is

suppressed no true concert of industry is possible."

Chapter 23

That evening, as I sat with Edith in the music room, listening to some

pieces in the programme of that day which had attracted my notice, I

took advantage of an interval in the music to say, "I have a question

to ask you which I fear is rather indiscreet."

"I am quite sure it is not that," she replied, encouragingly.

"I am in the position of an eavesdropper," I continued, "who, having

overheard a little of a matter not intended for him, though seeming to

concern him, has the impudence to come to the speaker for the rest."

"An eavesdropper!" she repeated, looking puzzled.

"Yes," I said, "but an excusable one, as I think you will admit."

"This is very mysterious," she replied.

"Yes," said I, "so mysterious that often I have doubted whether I

really overheard at all what I am going to ask you about, or only

dreamed it. I want you to tell me. The matter is this: When I was

coming out of that sleep of a century, the first impression of which I

was conscious was of voices talking around me, voices that afterwards I

recognized as your father's, your mother's, and your own. First, I

remember your father's voice saying, "He is going to open his eyes. He

had better see but one person at first." Then you said, if I did not

dream it all, "Promise me, then, that you will not tell him." Your

father seemed to hesitate about promising, but you insisted, and your

mother interposing, he finally promised, and when I opened my eyes I

saw only him."

I had been quite serious when I said that I was not sure that I had not

dreamed the conversation I fancied I had overheard, so incomprehensible

was it that these people should know anything of me, a contemporary of

their great-grandparents, which I did not know myself. But when I saw

the effect of my words upon Edith, I knew that it was no dream, but

another mystery, and a more puzzling one than any I had before

encountered. For from the moment that the drift of my question became

apparent, she showed indications of the most acute embarrassment. Her

eyes, always so frank and direct in expression, had dropped in a panic

before mine, while her face crimsoned from neck to forehead.

"Pardon me," I said, as soon as I had recovered from bewilderment at

the extraordinary effect of my words. "It seems, then, that I was not

dreaming. There is some secret, something about me, which you are

withholding from me. Really, doesn't it seem a little hard that a

person in my position should not be given all the information possible

concerning himself?"

"It does not concern you--that is, not directly. It is not about you

exactly," she replied, scarcely audibly.

"But it concerns me in some way," I persisted. "It must be something

that would interest me."

"I don't know even that," she replied, venturing a momentary glance at

my face, furiously blushing, and yet with a quaint smile flickering

about her lips which betrayed a certain perception of humor in the

situation despite its embarrassment,--"I am not sure that it would even

interest you."

"Your father would have told me," I insisted, with an accent of

reproach. "It was you who forbade him. He thought I ought to know."

She did not reply. She was so entirely charming in her confusion that I

was now prompted, as much by the desire to prolong the situation as by

my original curiosity, to importune her further.

"Am I never to know? Will you never tell me?" I said.

"It depends," she answered, after a long pause.

"On what?" I persisted.

"Ah, you ask too much," she replied. Then, raising to mine a face which

inscrutable eyes, flushed cheeks, and smiling lips combined to render

perfectly bewitching, she added, "What should you think if I said that

it depended on--yourself?"

"On myself?" I echoed. "How can that possibly be?"

"Mr. West, we are losing some charming music," was her only reply to

this, and turning to the telephone, at a touch of her finger she set

the air to swaying to the rhythm of an adagio. After that she took good

care that the music should leave no opportunity for conversation. She

kept her face averted from me, and pretended to be absorbed in the

airs, but that it was a mere pretense the crimson tide standing at

flood in her cheeks sufficiently betrayed.

When at length she suggested that I might have heard all I cared to,

for that time, and we rose to leave the room, she came straight up to

me and said, without raising her eyes, "Mr. West, you say I have been

good to you. I have not been particularly so, but if you think I have,

I want you to promise me that you will not try again to make me tell

you this thing you have asked to-night, and that you will not try to

find it out from any one else,--my father or mother, for instance."

To such an appeal there was but one reply possible. "Forgive me for

distressing you. Of course I will promise," I said. "I would never have

asked you if I had fancied it could distress you. But do you blame me

for being curious?"

"I do not blame you at all."

"And some time," I added, "if I do not tease you, you may tell me of

your own accord. May I not hope so?"

"Perhaps," she murmured.

"Only perhaps?"

Looking up, she read my face with a quick, deep glance. "Yes," she

said, "I think I may tell you--some time": and so our conversation

ended, for she gave me no chance to say anything more.

That night I don't think even Dr. Pillsbury could have put me to sleep,

till toward morning at least. Mysteries had been my accustomed food for

days now, but none had before confronted me at once so mysterious and

so fascinating as this, the solution of which Edith Leete had forbidden

me even to seek. It was a double mystery. How, in the first place, was

it conceivable that she should know any secret about me, a stranger

from a strange age? In the second place, even if she should know such a

secret, how account for the agitating effect which the knowledge of it

seemed to have upon her? There are puzzles so difficult that one cannot

even get so far as a conjecture as to the solution, and this seemed one

of them. I am usually of too practical a turn to waste time on such

conundrums; but the difficulty of a riddle embodied in a beautiful

young girl does not detract from its fascination. In general, no doubt,

maidens' blushes may be safely assumed to tell the same tale to young

men in all ages and races, but to give that interpretation to Edith's

crimson cheeks would, considering my position and the length of time I

had known her, and still more the fact that this mystery dated from

before I had known her at all, be a piece of utter fatuity. And yet she

was an angel, and I should not have been a young man if reason and

common sense had been able quite to banish a roseate tinge from my

dreams that night.

Chapter 24

In the morning I went down stairs early in the hope of seeing Edith

alone. In this, however, I was disappointed. Not finding her in the

house, I sought her in the garden, but she was not there. In the course

of my wanderings I visited the underground chamber, and sat down there

to rest. Upon the reading table in the chamber several periodicals and

newspapers lay, and thinking that Dr. Leete might be interested in

glancing over a Boston daily of 1887, I brought one of the papers with

me into the house when I came.

At breakfast I met Edith. She blushed as she greeted me, but was

perfectly self-possessed. As we sat at table, Dr. Leete amused himself

with looking over the paper I had brought in. There was in it, as in

all the newspapers of that date, a great deal about the labor troubles,

strikes, lockouts, boycotts, the programmes of labor parties, and the

wild threats of the anarchists.

"By the way," said I, as the doctor read aloud to us some of these

items, "what part did the followers of the red flag take in the

establishment of the new order of things? They were making considerable

noise the last thing that I knew."

"They had nothing to do with it except to hinder it, of course,"

replied Dr. Leete. "They did that very effectually while they lasted,

for their talk so disgusted people as to deprive the best considered

projects for social reform of a hearing. The subsidizing of those

fellows was one of the shrewdest moves of the opponents of reform."

"Subsidizing them!" I exclaimed in astonishment.

"Certainly," replied Dr. Leete. "No historical authority nowadays

doubts that they were paid by the great monopolies to wave the red flag

and talk about burning, sacking, and blowing people up, in order, by

alarming the timid, to head off any real reforms. What astonishes me

most is that you should have fallen into the trap so unsuspectingly."

"What are your grounds for believing that the red flag party was

subsidized?" I inquired.

"Why simply because they must have seen that their course made a

thousand enemies of their professed cause to one friend. Not to suppose

that they were hired for the work is to credit them with an

inconceivable folly.[1] In the United States, of all countries, no

party could intelligently expect to carry its point without first

winning over to its ideas a majority of the nation, as the national

party eventually did."

"The national party!" I exclaimed. "That must have arisen after my day.

I suppose it was one of the labor parties."

"Oh no!" replied the doctor. "The labor parties, as such, never could

have accomplished anything on a large or permanent scale. For purposes

of national scope, their basis as merely class organizations was too

narrow. It was not till a rearrangement of the industrial and social

system on a higher ethical basis, and for the more efficient production

of wealth, was recognized as the interest, not of one class, but

equally of all classes, of rich and poor, cultured and ignorant, old

and young, weak and strong, men and women, that there was any prospect

that it would be achieved. Then the national party arose to carry it

out by political methods. It probably took that name because its aim

was to nationalize the functions of production and distribution.

Indeed, it could not well have had any other name, for its purpose was

to realize the idea of the nation with a grandeur and completeness

never before conceived, not as an association of men for certain merely

political functions affecting their happiness only remotely and

superficially, but as a family, a vital union, a common life, a mighty

heaven-touching tree whose leaves are its people, fed from its veins,

and feeding it in turn. The most patriotic of all possible parties, it

sought to justify patriotism and raise it from an instinct to a

rational devotion, by making the native land truly a father land, a

father who kept the people alive and was not merely an idol for which

they were expected to die."

[1] I fully admit the difficulty of accounting for the course of the

anarchists on any other theory than that they were subsidized by the

capitalists, but at the same time, there is no doubt that the theory is

wholly erroneous. It certainly was not held at the time by any one,

though it may seem so obvious in the retrospect.

Chapter 25

The personality of Edith Leete had naturally impressed me strongly ever

since I had come, in so strange a manner, to be an inmate of her

father's house, and it was to be expected that after what had happened

the night previous, I should be more than ever preoccupied with

thoughts of her. From the first I had been struck with the air of

serene frankness and ingenuous directness, more like that of a noble

and innocent boy than any girl I had ever known, which characterized

her. I was curious to know how far this charming quality might be

peculiar to herself, and how far possibly a result of alterations in

the social position of women which might have taken place since my

time. Finding an opportunity that day, when alone with Dr. Leete, I

turned the conversation in that direction.

"I suppose," I said, "that women nowadays, having been relieved of the

burden of housework, have no employment but the cultivation of their

charms and graces."

"So far as we men are concerned," replied Dr. Leete, "we should

consider that they amply paid their way, to use one of your forms of

expression, if they confined themselves to that occupation, but you may

be very sure that they have quite too much spirit to consent to be mere

beneficiaries of society, even as a return for ornamenting it. They

did, indeed, welcome their riddance from housework, because that was

not only exceptionally wearing in itself, but also wasteful, in the

extreme, of energy, as compared with the cooperative plan; but they

accepted relief from that sort of work only that they might contribute

in other and more effectual, as well as more agreeable, ways to the

common weal. Our women, as well as our men, are members of the

industrial army, and leave it only when maternal duties claim them. The

result is that most women, at one time or another of their lives, serve

industrially some five or ten or fifteen years, while those who have no

children fill out the full term."

"A woman does not, then, necessarily leave the industrial service on

marriage?" I queried.

"No more than a man," replied the doctor. "Why on earth should she?

Married women have no housekeeping responsibilities now, you know, and

a husband is not a baby that he should be cared for."

"It was thought one of the most grievous features of our civilization

that we required so much toil from women," I said; "but it seems to me

you get more out of them than we did."

Dr. Leete laughed. "Indeed we do, just as we do out of our men. Yet the

women of this age are very happy, and those of the nineteenth century,

unless contemporary references greatly mislead us, were very miserable.

The reason that women nowadays are so much more efficient colaborers

with the men, and at the same time are so happy, is that, in regard to

their work as well as men's, we follow the principle of providing every

one the kind of occupation he or she is best adapted to. Women being

inferior in strength to men, and further disqualified industrially in

special ways, the kinds of occupation reserved for them, and the

conditions under which they pursue them, have reference to these facts.

The heavier sorts of work are everywhere reserved for men, the lighter

occupations for women. Under no circumstances is a woman permitted to

follow any employment not perfectly adapted, both as to kind and degree

of labor, to her sex. Moreover, the hours of women's work are

considerably shorter than those of men's, more frequent vacations are

granted, and the most careful provision is made for rest when needed.

The men of this day so well appreciate that they owe to the beauty and

grace of women the chief zest of their lives and their main incentive

to effort, that they permit them to work at all only because it is

fully understood that a certain regular requirement of labor, of a sort

adapted to their powers, is well for body and mind, during the period

of maximum physical vigor. We believe that the magnificent health which

distinguishes our women from those of your day, who seem to have been

so generally sickly, is owing largely to the fact that all alike are

furnished with healthful and inspiriting occupation."

"I understood you," I said, "that the women-workers belong to the army

of industry, but how can they be under the same system of ranking and

discipline with the men, when the conditions of their labor are so

different?"

"They are under an entirely different discipline," replied Dr. Leete,

"and constitute rather an allied force than an integral part of the

army of the men. They have a woman general-in-chief and are under

exclusively feminine regime. This general, as also the higher officers,

is chosen by the body of women who have passed the time of service, in

correspondence with the manner in which the chiefs of the masculine

army and the President of the nation are elected. The general of the

women's army sits in the cabinet of the President and has a veto on

measures respecting women's work, pending appeals to Congress. I should

have said, in speaking of the judiciary, that we have women on the

bench, appointed by the general of the women, as well as men. Causes in

which both parties are women are determined by women judges, and where

a man and a woman are parties to a case, a judge of either sex must

consent to the verdict."

"Womanhood seems to be organized as a sort of imperium in imperio in

your system," I said.

"To some extent," Dr. Leete replied; "but the inner imperium is one

from which you will admit there is not likely to be much danger to the

nation. The lack of some such recognition of the distinct individuality

of the sexes was one of the innumerable defects of your society. The

passional attraction between men and women has too often prevented a

perception of the profound differences which make the members of each

sex in many things strange to the other, and capable of sympathy only

with their own. It is in giving full play to the differences of sex

rather than in seeking to obliterate them, as was apparently the effort

of some reformers in your day, that the enjoyment of each by itself and

the piquancy which each has for the other, are alike enhanced. In your

day there was no career for women except in an unnatural rivalry with

men. We have given them a world of their own, with its emulations,

ambitions, and careers, and I assure you they are very happy in it. It

seems to us that women were more than any other class the victims of

your civilization. There is something which, even at this distance of

time, penetrates one with pathos in the spectacle of their ennuied,

undeveloped lives, stunted at marriage, their narrow horizon, bounded

so often, physically, by the four walls of home, and morally by a petty

circle of personal interests. I speak now, not of the poorer classes,

who were generally worked to death, but also of the well-to-do and

rich. From the great sorrows, as well as the petty frets of life, they

had no refuge in the breezy outdoor world of human affairs, nor any

interests save those of the family. Such an existence would have

softened men's brains or driven them mad. All that is changed to-day.

No woman is heard nowadays wishing she were a man, nor parents desiring

boy rather than girl children. Our girls are as full of ambition for

their careers as our boys. Marriage, when it comes, does not mean

incarceration for them, nor does it separate them in any way from the

larger interests of society, the bustling life of the world. Only when

maternity fills a woman's mind with new interests does she withdraw

from the world for a time. Afterward, and at any time, she may return

to her place among her comrades, nor need she ever lose touch with

them. Women are a very happy race nowadays, as compared with what they

ever were before in the world's history, and their power of giving

happiness to men has been of course increased in proportion."

"I should imagine it possible," I said, "that the interest which girls

take in their careers as members of the industrial army and candidates

for its distinctions might have an effect to deter them from marriage."

Dr. Leete smiled. "Have no anxiety on that score, Mr. West," he

replied. "The Creator took very good care that whatever other

modifications the dispositions of men and women might with time take

on, their attraction for each other should remain constant. The mere

fact that in an age like yours, when the struggle for existence must

have left people little time for other thoughts, and the future was so

uncertain that to assume parental responsibilities must have often

seemed like a criminal risk, there was even then marrying and giving in

marriage, should be conclusive on this point. As for love nowadays, one

of our authors says that the vacuum left in the minds of men and women

by the absence of care for one's livelihood has been entirely taken up

by the tender passion. That, however, I beg you to believe, is

something of an exaggestion. For the rest, so far is marriage from

being an interference with a woman's career, that the higher positions

in the feminine army of industry are intrusted only to women who have

been both wives and mothers, as they alone fully represent their sex."

"Are credit cards issued to the women just as to the men?"

"Certainly."

"The credits of the women, I suppose, are for smaller sums, owing to

the frequent suspension of their labor on account of family

responsibilities."

"Smaller!" exclaimed Dr. Leete, "oh, no! The maintenance of all our

people is the same. There are no exceptions to that rule, but if any

difference were made on account of the interruptions you speak of, it

would be by making the woman's credit larger, not smaller. Can you

think of any service constituting a stronger claim on the nation's

gratitude than bearing and nursing the nation's children? According to

our view, none deserve so well of the world as good parents. There is

no task so unselfish, so necessarily without return, though the heart

is well rewarded, as the nurture of the children who are to make the

world for one another when we are gone."

"It would seem to follow, from what you have said, that wives are in no

way dependent on their husbands for maintenance."

"Of course they are not," replied Dr. Leete, "nor children on their

parents either, that is, for means of support, though of course they

are for the offices of affection. The child's labor, when he grows up,

will go to increase the common stock, not his parents', who will be

dead, and therefore he is properly nurtured out of the common stock.

The account of every person, man, woman, and child, you must

understand, is always with the nation directly, and never through any

intermediary, except, of course, that parents, to a certain extent, act

for children as their guardians. You see that it is by virtue of the

relation of individuals to the nation, of their membership in it, that

they are entitled to support; and this title is in no way connected

with or affected by their relations to other individuals who are fellow

members of the nation with them. That any person should be dependent

for the means of support upon another would be shocking to the moral

sense as well as indefensible on any rational social theory. What would

become of personal liberty and dignity under such an arrangement? I am

aware that you called yourselves free in the nineteenth century. The

meaning of the word could not then, however, have been at all what it

is at present, or you certainly would not have applied it to a society

of which nearly every member was in a position of galling personal

dependence upon others as to the very means of life, the poor upon the

rich, or employed upon employer, women upon men, children upon parents.

Instead of distributing the product of the nation directly to its

members, which would seem the most natural and obvious method, it would

actually appear that you had given your minds to devising a plan of

hand to hand distribution, involving the maximum of personal

humiliation to all classes of recipients.

"As regards the dependence of women upon men for support, which then

was usual, of course, natural attraction in case of marriages of love

may often have made it endurable, though for spirited women I should

fancy it must always have remained humiliating. What, then, must it

have been in the innumerable cases where women, with or without the

form of marriage, had to sell themselves to men to get their living?

Even your contemporaries, callous as they were to most of the revolting

aspects of their society, seem to have had an idea that this was not

quite as it should be; but, it was still only for pity's sake that they

deplored the lot of the women. It did not occur to them that it was

robbery as well as cruelty when men seized for themselves the whole

product of the world and left women to beg and wheedle for their share.

Why--but bless me, Mr. West, I am really running on at a remarkable

rate, just as if the robbery, the sorrow, and the shame which those

poor women endured were not over a century since, or as if you were

responsible for what you no doubt deplored as much as I do."

"I must bear my share of responsibility for the world as it then was,"

I replied. "All I can say in extenuation is that until the nation was

ripe for the present system of organized production and distribution,

no radical improvement in the position of woman was possible. The root

of her disability, as you say, was her personal dependence upon man for

her livelihood, and I can imagine no other mode of social organization

than that you have adopted, which would have set woman free of man at

the same time that it set men free of one another. I suppose, by the

way, that so entire a change in the position of women cannot have taken

place without affecting in marked ways the social relations of the

sexes. That will be a very interesting study for me."

"The change you will observe," said Dr. Leete, "will chiefly be, I

think, the entire frankness and unconstraint which now characterizes

those relations, as compared with the artificiality which seems to have

marked them in your time. The sexes now meet with the ease of perfect

equals, suitors to each other for nothing but love. In your time the

fact that women were dependent for support on men made the woman in

reality the one chiefly benefited by marriage. This fact, so far as we

can judge from contemporary records, appears to have been coarsely

enough recognized among the lower classes, while among the more

polished it was glossed over by a system of elaborate conventionalities

which aimed to carry the precisely opposite meaning, namely, that the

man was the party chiefly benefited. To keep up this convention it was

essential that he should always seem the suitor. Nothing was therefore

considered more shocking to the proprieties than that a woman should

betray a fondness for a man before he had indicated a desire to marry

her. Why, we actually have in our libraries books, by authors of your

day, written for no other purpose than to discuss the question whether,

under any conceivable circumstances, a woman might, without discredit

to her sex, reveal an unsolicited love. All this seems exquisitely

absurd to us, and yet we know that, given your circumstances, the

problem might have a serious side. When for a woman to proffer her love

to a man was in effect to invite him to assume the burden of her

support, it is easy to see that pride and delicacy might well have

checked the promptings of the heart. When you go out into our society,

Mr. West, you must be prepared to be often cross-questioned on this

point by our young people, who are naturally much interested in this

aspect of old-fashioned manners."[1]

"And so the girls of the twentieth century tell their love."

"If they choose," replied Dr. Leete. "There is no more pretense of a

concealment of feeling on their part than on the part of their lovers.

Coquetry would be as much despised in a girl as in a man. Affected

coldness, which in your day rarely deceived a lover, would deceive him

wholly now, for no one thinks of practicing it."

"One result which must follow from the independence of women I can see

for myself," I said. "There can be no marriages now except those of

inclination."

"That is a matter of course," replied Dr. Leete.

"Think of a world in which there are nothing but matches of pure love!

Ah me, Dr. Leete, how far you are from being able to understand what an

astonishing phenomenon such a world seems to a man of the nineteenth

century!"

"I can, however, to some extent, imagine it," replied the doctor. "But

the fact you celebrate, that there are nothing but love matches, means

even more, perhaps, than you probably at first realize. It means that

for the first time in human history the principle of sexual selection,

with its tendency to preserve and transmit the better types of the

race, and let the inferior types drop out, has unhindered operation.

The necessities of poverty, the need of having a home, no longer tempt

women to accept as the fathers of their children men whom they neither

can love nor respect. Wealth and rank no longer divert attention from

personal qualities. Gold no longer 'gilds the straitened forehead of

the fool.' The gifts of person, mind, and disposition; beauty, wit,

eloquence, kindness, generosity, geniality, courage, are sure of

transmission to posterity. Every generation is sifted through a little

finer mesh than the last. The attributes that human nature admires are

preserved, those that repel it are left behind. There are, of course, a

great many women who with love must mingle admiration, and seek to wed

greatly, but these not the less obey the same law, for to wed greatly

now is not to marry men of fortune or title, but those who have risen

above their fellows by the solidity or brilliance of their services to

humanity. These form nowadays the only aristocracy with which alliance

is distinction.

"You were speaking, a day or two ago, of the physical superiority of

our people to your contemporaries. Perhaps more important than any of

the causes I mentioned then as tending to race purification has been

the effect of untrammeled sexual selection upon the quality of two or

three successive generations. I believe that when you have made a

fuller study of our people you will find in them not only a physical,

but a mental and moral improvement. It would be strange if it were not

so, for not only is one of the great laws of nature now freely working

out the salvation of the race, but a profound moral sentiment has come

to its support. Individualism, which in your day was the animating idea

of society, not only was fatal to any vital sentiment of brotherhood

and common interest among living men, but equally to any realization of

the responsibility of the living for the generation to follow. To-day

this sense of responsibility, practically unrecognized in all previous

ages, has become one of the great ethical ideas of the race,

reinforcing, with an intense conviction of duty, the natural impulse to

seek in marriage the best and noblest of the other sex. The result is,

that not all the encouragements and incentives of every sort which we

have provided to develop industry, talent, genius, excellence of

whatever kind, are comparable in their effect on our young men with the

fact that our women sit aloft as judges of the race and reserve

themselves to reward the winners. Of all the whips, and spurs, and

baits, and prizes, there is none like the thought of the radiant faces

which the laggards will find averted.

"Celibates nowadays are almost invariably men who have failed to acquit

themselves creditably in the work of life. The woman must be a

courageous one, with a very evil sort of courage, too, whom pity for

one of these unfortunates should lead to defy the opinion of her

generation--for otherwise she is free--so far as to accept him for a

husband. I should add that, more exacting and difficult to resist than

any other element in that opinion, she would find the sentiment of her

own sex. Our women have risen to the full height of their

responsibility as the wardens of the world to come, to whose keeping

the keys of the future are confided. Their feeling of duty in this

respect amounts to a sense of religious consecration. It is a cult in

which they educate their daughters from childhood."

After going to my room that night, I sat up late to read a romance of

Berrian, handed me by Dr. Leete, the plot of which turned on a

situation suggested by his last words, concerning the modern view of

parental responsibility. A similar situation would almost certainly

have been treated by a nineteenth century romancist so as to excite the

morbid sympathy of the reader with the sentimental selfishness of the

lovers, and his resentment toward the unwritten law which they

outraged. I need not describe--for who has not read "Ruth Elton"?--how

different is the course which Berrian takes, and with what tremendous

effect he enforces the principle which he states: "Over the unborn our

power is that of God, and our responsibility like His toward us. As we

acquit ourselves toward them, so let Him deal with us."

[1] I may say that Dr. Leete's warning has been fully justified by my

experience. The amount and intensity of amusement which the young

people of this day, and the young women especially, are able to extract

from what they are pleased to call the oddities of courtship in the

nineteenth century, appear unlimited.

Chapter 26

I think if a person were ever excusable for losing track of the days of

the week, the circumstances excused me. Indeed, if I had been told that

the method of reckoning time had been wholly changed and the days were

now counted in lots of five, ten, or fifteen instead of seven, I should

have been in no way surprised after what I had already heard and seen

of the twentieth century. The first time that any inquiry as to the

days of the week occurred to me was the morning following the

conversation related in the last chapter. At the breakfast table Dr.

Leete asked me if I would care to hear a sermon.

"Is it Sunday, then?" I exclaimed.

"Yes," he replied. "It was on Friday, you see, when we made the lucky

discovery of the buried chamber to which we owe your society this

morning. It was on Saturday morning, soon after midnight, that you

first awoke, and Sunday afternoon when you awoke the second time with

faculties fully regained."

"So you still have Sundays and sermons," I said. "We had prophets who

foretold that long before this time the world would have dispensed with

both. I am very curious to know how the ecclesiastical systems fit in

with the rest of your social arrangements. I suppose you have a sort of

national church with official clergymen."

Dr. Leete laughed, and Mrs. Leete and Edith seemed greatly amused.

"Why, Mr. West," Edith said, "what odd people you must think us. You

were quite done with national religious establishments in the

nineteenth century, and did you fancy we had gone back to them?"

"But how can voluntary churches and an unofficial clerical profession

be reconciled with national ownership of all buildings, and the

industrial service required of all men?" I answered.

"The religious practices of the people have naturally changed

considerably in a century," replied Dr. Leete; "but supposing them to

have remained unchanged, our social system would accommodate them

perfectly. The nation supplies any person or number of persons with

buildings on guarantee of the rent, and they remain tenants while they

pay it. As for the clergymen, if a number of persons wish the services

of an individual for any particular end of their own, apart from the

general service of the nation, they can always secure it, with that

individual's own consent, of course, just as we secure the service of

our editors, by contributing from their credit cards an indemnity to

the nation for the loss of his services in general industry. This

indemnity paid the nation for the individual answers to the salary in

your day paid to the individual himself; and the various applications

of this principle leave private initiative full play in all details to

which national control is not applicable. Now, as to hearing a sermon

to-day, if you wish to do so, you can either go to a church to hear it

or stay at home."

"How am I to hear it if I stay at home?"

"Simply by accompanying us to the music room at the proper hour and

selecting an easy chair. There are some who still prefer to hear

sermons in church, but most of our preaching, like our musical

performances, is not in public, but delivered in acoustically prepared

chambers, connected by wire with subscribers' houses. If you prefer to

go to a church I shall be glad to accompany you, but I really don't

believe you are likely to hear anywhere a better discourse than you

will at home. I see by the paper that Mr. Barton is to preach this

morning, and he preaches only by telephone, and to audiences often

reaching 150,000."

"The novelty of the experience of hearing a sermon under such

circumstances would incline me to be one of Mr. Barton's hearers, if

for no other reason," I said.

An hour or two later, as I sat reading in the library, Edith came for

me, and I followed her to the music room, where Dr. and Mrs. Leete were

waiting. We had not more than seated ourselves comfortably when the

tinkle of a bell was heard, and a few moments after the voice of a man,

at the pitch of ordinary conversation, addressed us, with an effect of

proceeding from an invisible person in the room. This was what the

voice said:

MR. BARTON'S SERMON

"We have had among us, during the past week, a critic from the

nineteenth century, a living representative of the epoch of our

great-grandparents. It would be strange if a fact so extraordinary had

not somewhat strongly affected our imaginations. Perhaps most of us

have been stimulated to some effort to realize the society of a century

ago, and figure to ourselves what it must have been like to live then.

In inviting you now to consider certain reflections upon this subject

which have occurred to me, I presume that I shall rather follow than

divert the course of your own thoughts."

Edith whispered something to her father at this point, to which he

nodded assent and turned to me.

"Mr. West," he said, "Edith suggests that you may find it slightly

embarrassing to listen to a discourse on the lines Mr. Barton is laying

down, and if so, you need not be cheated out of a sermon. She will

connect us with Mr. Sweetser's speaking room if you say so, and I can

still promise you a very good discourse."

"No, no," I said. "Believe me, I would much rather hear what Mr. Barton

has to say."

"As you please," replied my host.

When her father spoke to me Edith had touched a screw, and the voice of

Mr. Barton had ceased abruptly. Now at another touch the room was once

more filled with the earnest sympathetic tones which had already

impressed me most favorably.

"I venture to assume that one effect has been common with us as a

result of this effort at retrospection, and that it has been to leave

us more than ever amazed at the stupendous change which one brief

century has made in the material and moral conditions of humanity.

"Still, as regards the contrast between the poverty of the nation and

the world in the nineteenth century and their wealth now, it is not

greater, possibly, than had been before seen in human history, perhaps

not greater, for example, than that between the poverty of this country

during the earliest colonial period of the seventeenth century and the

relatively great wealth it had attained at the close of the nineteenth,

or between the England of William the Conqueror and that of Victoria.

Although the aggregate riches of a nation did not then, as now, afford

any accurate criterion of the masses of its people, yet instances like

these afford partial parallels for the merely material side of the

contrast between the nineteenth and the twentieth centuries. It is when

we contemplate the moral aspect of that contrast that we find ourselves

in the presence of a phenomenon for which history offers no precedent,

however far back we may cast our eye. One might almost be excused who

should exclaim, 'Here, surely, is something like a miracle!'

Nevertheless, when we give over idle wonder, and begin to examine the

seeming prodigy critically, we find it no prodigy at all, much less a

miracle. It is not necessary to suppose a moral new birth of humanity,

or a wholesale destruction of the wicked and survival of the good, to

account for the fact before us. It finds its simple and obvious

explanation in the reaction of a changed environment upon human nature.

It means merely that a form of society which was founded on the pseudo

self-interest of selfishness, and appealed solely to the anti-social

and brutal side of human nature, has been replaced by institutions

based on the true self-interest of a rational unselfishness, and

appealing to the social and generous instincts of men.

"My friends, if you would see men again the beasts of prey they seemed

in the nineteenth century, all you have to do is to restore the old

social and industrial system, which taught them to view their natural

prey in their fellow-men, and find their gain in the loss of others. No

doubt it seems to you that no necessity, however dire, would have

tempted you to subsist on what superior skill or strength enabled you

to wrest from others equally needy. But suppose it were not merely your

own life that you were responsible for. I know well that there must

have been many a man among our ancestors who, if it had been merely a

question of his own life, would sooner have given it up than nourished

it by bread snatched from others. But this he was not permitted to do.

He had dear lives dependent on him. Men loved women in those days, as

now. God knows how they dared be fathers, but they had babies as sweet,

no doubt, to them as ours to us, whom they must feed, clothe, educate.

The gentlest creatures are fierce when they have young to provide for,

and in that wolfish society the struggle for bread borrowed a peculiar

desperation from the tenderest sentiments. For the sake of those

dependent on him, a man might not choose, but must plunge into the foul

fight--cheat, overreach, supplant, defraud, buy below worth and sell

above, break down the business by which his neighbor fed his young

ones, tempt men to buy what they ought not and to sell what they should

not, grind his laborers, sweat his debtors, cozen his creditors. Though

a man sought it carefully with tears, it was hard to find a way in

which he could earn a living and provide for his family except by

pressing in before some weaker rival and taking the food from his

mouth. Even the ministers of religion were not exempt from this cruel

necessity. While they warned their flocks against the love of money,

regard for their families compelled them to keep an outlook for the

pecuniary prizes of their calling. Poor fellows, theirs was indeed a

trying business, preaching to men a generosity and unselfishness which

they and everybody knew would, in the existing state of the world,

reduce to poverty those who should practice them, laying down laws of

conduct which the law of self-preservation compelled men to break.

Looking on the inhuman spectacle of society, these worthy men bitterly

bemoaned the depravity of human nature; as if angelic nature would not

have been debauched in such a devil's school! Ah, my friends, believe

me, it is not now in this happy age that humanity is proving the

divinity within it. It was rather in those evil days when not even the

fight for life with one another, the struggle for mere existence, in

which mercy was folly, could wholly banish generosity and kindness from

the earth.

"It is not hard to understand the desperation with which men and women,

who under other conditions would have been full of gentleness and

truth, fought and tore each other in the scramble for gold, when we

realize what it meant to miss it, what poverty was in that day. For the

body it was hunger and thirst, torment by heat and frost, in sickness

neglect, in health unremitting toil; for the moral nature it meant

oppression, contempt, and the patient endurance of indignity, brutish

associations from infancy, the loss of all the innocence of childhood,

the grace of womanhood, the dignity of manhood; for the mind it meant

the death of ignorance, the torpor of all those faculties which

distinguish us from brutes, the reduction of life to a round of bodily

functions.

"Ah, my friends, if such a fate as this were offered you and your

children as the only alternative of success in the accumulation of

wealth, how long do you fancy would you be in sinking to the moral

level of your ancestors?

"Some two or three centuries ago an act of barbarity was committed in

India, which, though the number of lives destroyed was but a few score,

was attended by such peculiar horrors that its memory is likely to be

perpetual. A number of English prisoners were shut up in a room

containing not enough air to supply one-tenth their number. The

unfortunates were gallant men, devoted comrades in service, but, as the

agonies of suffocation began to take hold on them, they forgot all

else, and became involved in a hideous struggle, each one for himself,

and against all others, to force a way to one of the small apertures of

the prison at which alone it was possible to get a breath of air. It

was a struggle in which men became beasts, and the recital of its

horrors by the few survivors so shocked our forefathers that for a

century later we find it a stock reference in their literature as a

typical illustration of the extreme possibilities of human misery, as

shocking in its moral as its physical aspect. They could scarcely have

anticipated that to us the Black Hole of Calcutta, with its press of

maddened men tearing and trampling one another in the struggle to win a

place at the breathing holes, would seem a striking type of the society

of their age. It lacked something of being a complete type, however,

for in the Calcutta Black Hole there were no tender women, no little

children and old men and women, no cripples. They were at least all

men, strong to bear, who suffered.

"When we reflect that the ancient order of which I have been speaking

was prevalent up to the end of the nineteenth century, while to us the

new order which succeeded it already seems antique, even our parents

having known no other, we cannot fail to be astounded at the suddenness

with which a transition so profound beyond all previous experience of

the race must have been effected. Some observation of the state of

men's minds during the last quarter of the nineteenth century will,

however, in great measure, dissipate this astonishment. Though general

intelligence in the modern sense could not be said to exist in any

community at that time, yet, as compared with previous generations, the

one then on the stage was intelligent. The inevitable consequence of

even this comparative degree of intelligence had been a perception of

the evils of society, such as had never before been general. It is

quite true that these evils had been even worse, much worse, in

previous ages. It was the increased intelligence of the masses which

made the difference, as the dawn reveals the squalor of surroundings

which in the darkness may have seemed tolerable. The key-note of the

literature of the period was one of compassion for the poor and

unfortunate, and indignant outcry against the failure of the social

machinery to ameliorate the miseries of men. It is plain from these

outbursts that the moral hideousness of the spectacle about them was,

at least by flashes, fully realized by the best of the men of that

time, and that the lives of some of the more sensitive and generous

hearted of them were rendered well nigh unendurable by the intensity of

their sympathies.

"Although the idea of the vital unity of the family of mankind, the

reality of human brotherhood, was very far from being apprehended by

them as the moral axiom it seems to us, yet it is a mistake to suppose

that there was no feeling at all corresponding to it. I could read you

passages of great beauty from some of their writers which show that the

conception was clearly attained by a few, and no doubt vaguely by many

more. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that the nineteenth century

was in name Christian, and the fact that the entire commercial and

industrial frame of society was the embodiment of the anti-Christian

spirit must have had some weight, though I admit it was strangely

little, with the nominal followers of Jesus Christ.

"When we inquire why it did not have more, why, in general, long after

a vast majority of men had agreed as to the crying abuses of the

existing social arrangement, they still tolerated it, or contented

themselves with talking of petty reforms in it, we come upon an

extraordinary fact. It was the sincere belief of even the best of men

at that epoch that the only stable elements in human nature, on which a

social system could be safely founded, were its worst propensities.

They had been taught and believed that greed and self-seeking were all

that held mankind together, and that all human associations would fall

to pieces if anything were done to blunt the edge of these motives or

curb their operation. In a word, they believed--even those who longed

to believe otherwise--the exact reverse of what seems to us

self-evident; they believed, that is, that the anti-social qualities of

men, and not their social qualities, were what furnished the cohesive

force of society. It seemed reasonable to them that men lived together

solely for the purpose of overreaching and oppressing one another, and

of being overreached and oppressed, and that while a society that gave

full scope to these propensities could stand, there would be little

chance for one based on the idea of cooperation for the benefit of all.

It seems absurd to expect any one to believe that convictions like

these were ever seriously entertained by men; but that they were not

only entertained by our great-grandfathers, but were responsible for

the long delay in doing away with the ancient order, after a conviction

of its intolerable abuses had become general, is as well established as

any fact in history can be. Just here you will find the explanation of

the profound pessimism of the literature of the last quarter of the

nineteenth century, the note of melancholy in its poetry, and the

cynicism of its humor.

"Feeling that the condition of the race was unendurable, they had no

clear hope of anything better. They believed that the evolution of

humanity had resulted in leading it into a cul de sac, and that there

was no way of getting forward. The frame of men's minds at this time is

strikingly illustrated by treatises which have come down to us, and may

even now be consulted in our libraries by the curious, in which

laborious arguments are pursued to prove that despite the evil plight

of men, life was still, by some slight preponderance of considerations,

probably better worth living than leaving. Despising themselves, they

despised their Creator. There was a general decay of religious belief.

Pale and watery gleams, from skies thickly veiled by doubt and dread,

alone lighted up the chaos of earth. That men should doubt Him whose

breath is in their nostrils, or dread the hands that moulded them,

seems to us indeed a pitiable insanity; but we must remember that

children who are brave by day have sometimes foolish fears at night.

The dawn has come since then. It is very easy to believe in the

fatherhood of God in the twentieth century.

"Briefly, as must needs be in a discourse of this character, I have

adverted to some of the causes which had prepared men's minds for the

change from the old to the new order, as well as some causes of the

conservatism of despair which for a while held it back after the time

was ripe. To wonder at the rapidity with which the change was completed

after its possibility was first entertained is to forget the

intoxicating effect of hope upon minds long accustomed to despair. The

sunburst, after so long and dark a night, must needs have had a

dazzling effect. From the moment men allowed themselves to believe that

humanity after all had not been meant for a dwarf, that its squat

stature was not the measure of its possible growth, but that it stood

upon the verge of an avatar of limitless development, the reaction must

needs have been overwhelming. It is evident that nothing was able to

stand against the enthusiasm which the new faith inspired.

"Here, at last, men must have felt, was a cause compared with which the

grandest of historic causes had been trivial. It was doubtless because

it could have commanded millions of martyrs, that none were needed. The

change of a dynasty in a petty kingdom of the old world often cost more

lives than did the revolution which set the feet of the human race at

last in the right way.

"Doubtless it ill beseems one to whom the boon of life in our

resplendent age has been vouchsafed to wish his destiny other, and yet

I have often thought that I would fain exchange my share in this serene

and golden day for a place in that stormy epoch of transition, when

heroes burst the barred gate of the future and revealed to the kindling

gaze of a hopeless race, in place of the blank wall that had closed its

path, a vista of progress whose end, for very excess of light, still

dazzles us. Ah, my friends! who will say that to have lived then, when

the weakest influence was a lever to whose touch the centuries

trembled, was not worth a share even in this era of fruition?

"You know the story of that last, greatest, and most bloodless of

revolutions. In the time of one generation men laid aside the social

traditions and practices of barbarians, and assumed a social order

worthy of rational and human beings. Ceasing to be predatory in their

habits, they became co-workers, and found in fraternity, at once, the

science of wealth and happiness. 'What shall I eat and drink, and

wherewithal shall I be clothed?' stated as a problem beginning and

ending in self, had been an anxious and an endless one. But when once

it was conceived, not from the individual, but the fraternal

standpoint, 'What shall we eat and drink, and wherewithal shall we be

clothed?'--its difficulties vanished.

"Poverty with servitude had been the result, for the mass of humanity,

of attempting to solve the problem of maintenance from the individual

standpoint, but no sooner had the nation become the sole capitalist and

employer than not alone did plenty replace poverty, but the last

vestige of the serfdom of man to man disappeared from earth. Human

slavery, so often vainly scotched, at last was killed. The means of

subsistence no longer doled out by men to women, by employer to

employed, by rich to poor, was distributed from a common stock as among

children at the father's table. It was impossible for a man any longer

to use his fellow-men as tools for his own profit. His esteem was the

only sort of gain he could thenceforth make out of him. There was no

more either arrogance or servility in the relations of human beings to

one another. For the first time since the creation every man stood up

straight before God. The fear of want and the lust of gain became

extinct motives when abundance was assured to all and immoderate

possessions made impossible of attainment. There were no more beggars

nor almoners. Equity left charity without an occupation. The ten

commandments became well nigh obsolete in a world where there was no

temptation to theft, no occasion to lie either for fear or favor, no

room for envy where all were equal, and little provocation to violence

where men were disarmed of power to injure one another. Humanity's

ancient dream of liberty, equality, fraternity, mocked by so many ages,

at last was realized.

"As in the old society the generous, the just, the tender-hearted had

been placed at a disadvantage by the possession of those qualities; so

in the new society the cold-hearted, the greedy, and self-seeking found

themselves out of joint with the world. Now that the conditions of life

for the first time ceased to operate as a forcing process to develop

the brutal qualities of human nature, and the premium which had

heretofore encouraged selfishness was not only removed, but placed upon

unselfishness, it was for the first time possible to see what

unperverted human nature really was like. The depraved tendencies,

which had previously overgrown and obscured the better to so large an

extent, now withered like cellar fungi in the open air, and the nobler

qualities showed a sudden luxuriance which turned cynics into

panegyrists and for the first time in human history tempted mankind to

fall in love with itself. Soon was fully revealed, what the divines and

philosophers of the old world never would have believed, that human

nature in its essential qualities is good, not bad, that men by their

natural intention and structure are generous, not selfish, pitiful, not

cruel, sympathetic, not arrogant, godlike in aspirations, instinct with

divinest impulses of tenderness and self-sacrifice, images of God

indeed, not the travesties upon Him they had seemed. The constant

pressure, through numberless generations, of conditions of life which

might have perverted angels, had not been able to essentially alter the

natural nobility of the stock, and these conditions once removed, like

a bent tree, it had sprung back to its normal uprightness.

"To put the whole matter in the nutshell of a parable, let me compare

humanity in the olden time to a rosebush planted in a swamp, watered

with black bog-water, breathing miasmatic fogs by day, and chilled with

poison dews at night. Innumerable generations of gardeners had done

their best to make it bloom, but beyond an occasional half-opened bud

with a worm at the heart, their efforts had been unsuccessful. Many,

indeed, claimed that the bush was no rosebush at all, but a noxious

shrub, fit only to be uprooted and burned. The gardeners, for the most

part, however, held that the bush belonged to the rose family, but had

some ineradicable taint about it, which prevented the buds from coming

out, and accounted for its generally sickly condition. There were a

few, indeed, who maintained that the stock was good enough, that the

trouble was in the bog, and that under more favorable conditions the

plant might be expected to do better. But these persons were not

regular gardeners, and being condemned by the latter as mere theorists

and day dreamers, were, for the most part, so regarded by the people.

Moreover, urged some eminent moral philosophers, even conceding for the

sake of the argument that the bush might possibly do better elsewhere,

it was a more valuable discipline for the buds to try to bloom in a bog

than it would be under more favorable conditions. The buds that

succeeded in opening might indeed be very rare, and the flowers pale

and scentless, but they represented far more moral effort than if they

had bloomed spontaneously in a garden.

"The regular gardeners and the moral philosophers had their way. The

bush remained rooted in the bog, and the old course of treatment went

on. Continually new varieties of forcing mixtures were applied to the

roots, and more recipes than could be numbered, each declared by its

advocates the best and only suitable preparation, were used to kill the

vermin and remove the mildew. This went on a very long time.

Occasionally some one claimed to observe a slight improvement in the

appearance of the bush, but there were quite as many who declared that

it did not look so well as it used to. On the whole there could not be

said to be any marked change. Finally, during a period of general

despondency as to the prospects of the bush where it was, the idea of

transplanting it was again mooted, and this time found favor. 'Let us

try it,' was the general voice. 'Perhaps it may thrive better

elsewhere, and here it is certainly doubtful if it be worth cultivating

longer.' So it came about that the rosebush of humanity was

transplanted, and set in sweet, warm, dry earth, where the sun bathed

it, the stars wooed it, and the south wind caressed it. Then it

appeared that it was indeed a rosebush. The vermin and the mildew

disappeared, and the bush was covered with most beautiful red roses,

whose fragrance filled the world.

"It is a pledge of the destiny appointed for us that the Creator has

set in our hearts an infinite standard of achievement, judged by which

our past attainments seem always insignificant, and the goal never

nearer. Had our forefathers conceived a state of society in which men

should live together like brethren dwelling in unity, without strifes

or envying, violence or overreaching, and where, at the price of a

degree of labor not greater than health demands, in their chosen

occupations, they should be wholly freed from care for the morrow and

left with no more concern for their livelihood than trees which are

watered by unfailing streams,--had they conceived such a condition, I

say, it would have seemed to them nothing less than paradise. They

would have confounded it with their idea of heaven, nor dreamed that

there could possibly lie further beyond anything to be desired or

striven for.

"But how is it with us who stand on this height which they gazed up to?

Already we have well nigh forgotten, except when it is especially

called to our minds by some occasion like the present, that it was not

always with men as it is now. It is a strain on our imaginations to

conceive the social arrangements of our immediate ancestors. We find

them grotesque. The solution of the problem of physical maintenance so

as to banish care and crime, so far from seeming to us an ultimate

attainment, appears but as a preliminary to anything like real human

progress. We have but relieved ourselves of an impertinent and needless

harassment which hindered our ancestor from undertaking the real ends

of existence. We are merely stripped for the race; no more. We are like

a child which has just learned to stand upright and to walk. It is a

great event, from the child's point of view, when he first walks.

Perhaps he fancies that there can be little beyond that achievement,

but a year later he has forgotten that he could not always walk. His

horizon did but widen when he rose, and enlarge as he moved. A great

event indeed, in one sense, was his first step, but only as a

beginning, not as the end. His true career was but then first entered

on. The enfranchisement of humanity in the last century, from mental

and physical absorption in working and scheming for the mere bodily

necessities, may be regarded as a species of second birth of the race,

without which its first birth to an existence that was but a burden

would forever have remained unjustified, but whereby it is now

abundantly vindicated. Since then, humanity has entered on a new phase

of spiritual development, an evolution of higher faculties, the very

existence of which in human nature our ancestors scarcely suspected. In

place of the dreary hopelessness of the nineteenth century, its

profound pessimism as to the future of humanity, the animating idea of

the present age is an enthusiastic conception of the opportunities of

our earthly existence, and the unbounded possibilities of human nature.

The betterment of mankind from generation to generation, physically,

mentally, morally, is recognized as the one great object supremely

worthy of effort and of sacrifice. We believe the race for the first

time to have entered on the realization of God's ideal of it, and each

generation must now be a step upward.

"Do you ask what we look for when unnumbered generations shall have

passed away? I answer, the way stretches far before us, but the end is

lost in light. For twofold is the return of man to God 'who is our

home,' the return of the individual by the way of death, and the return

of the race by the fulfillment of the evolution, when the divine secret

hidden in the germ shall be perfectly unfolded. With a tear for the

dark past, turn we then to the dazzling future, and, veiling our eyes,

press forward. The long and weary winter of the race is ended. Its

summer has begun. Humanity has burst the chrysalis. The heavens are

before it."

Chapter 27

I never could tell just why, but Sunday afternoon during my old life

had been a time when I was peculiarly subject to melancholy, when the

color unaccountably faded out of all the aspects of life, and

everything appeared pathetically uninteresting. The hours, which in

general were wont to bear me easily on their wings, lost the power of

flight, and toward the close of the day, drooping quite to earth, had

fairly to be dragged along by main strength. Perhaps it was partly

owing to the established association of ideas that, despite the utter

change in my circumstances, I fell into a state of profound depression

on the afternoon of this my first Sunday in the twentieth century.

It was not, however, on the present occasion a depression without

specific cause, the mere vague melancholy I have spoken of, but a

sentiment suggested and certainly quite justified by my position. The

sermon of Mr. Barton, with its constant implication of the vast moral

gap between the century to which I belonged and that in which I found

myself, had had an effect strongly to accentuate my sense of loneliness

in it. Considerately and philosophically as he had spoken, his words

could scarcely have failed to leave upon my mind a strong impression of

the mingled pity, curiosity, and aversion which I, as a representative

of an abhorred epoch, must excite in all around me.

The extraordinary kindness with which I had been treated by Dr. Leete

and his family, and especially the goodness of Edith, had hitherto

prevented my fully realizing that their real sentiment toward me must

necessarily be that of the whole generation to which they belonged. The

recognition of this, as regarded Dr. Leete and his amiable wife,

however painful, I might have endured, but the conviction that Edith

must share their feeling was more than I could bear.

The crushing effect with which this belated perception of a fact so

obvious came to me opened my eyes fully to something which perhaps the

reader has already suspected,--I loved Edith.

Was it strange that I did? The affecting occasion on which our intimacy

had begun, when her hands had drawn me out of the whirlpool of madness;

the fact that her sympathy was the vital breath which had set me up in

this new life and enabled me to support it; my habit of looking to her

as the mediator between me and the world around in a sense that even

her father was not,--these were circumstances that had predetermined a

result which her remarkable loveliness of person and disposition would

alone have accounted for. It was quite inevitable that she should have

come to seem to me, in a sense quite different from the usual

experience of lovers, the only woman in this world. Now that I had

become suddenly sensible of the fatuity of the hopes I had begun to

cherish, I suffered not merely what another lover might, but in

addition a desolate loneliness, an utter forlornness, such as no other

lover, however unhappy, could have felt.

My hosts evidently saw that I was depressed in spirits, and did their

best to divert me. Edith especially, I could see, was distressed for

me, but according to the usual perversity of lovers, having once been

so mad as to dream of receiving something more from her, there was no

longer any virtue for me in a kindness that I knew was only sympathy.

Toward nightfall, after secluding myself in my room most of the

afternoon, I went into the garden to walk about. The day was overcast,

with an autumnal flavor in the warm, still air. Finding myself near the

excavation, I entered the subterranean chamber and sat down there.

"This," I muttered to myself, "is the only home I have. Let me stay

here, and not go forth any more." Seeking aid from the familiar

surroundings, I endeavored to find a sad sort of consolation in

reviving the past and summoning up the forms and faces that were about

me in my former life. It was in vain. There was no longer any life in

them. For nearly one hundred years the stars had been looking down on

Edith Bartlett's grave, and the graves of all my generation.

The past was dead, crushed beneath a century's weight, and from the

present I was shut out. There was no place for me anywhere. I was

neither dead nor properly alive.

"Forgive me for following you."

I looked up. Edith stood in the door of the subterranean room,

regarding me smilingly, but with eyes full of sympathetic distress.

"Send me away if I am intruding on you," she said; "but we saw that you

were out of spirits, and you know you promised to let me know if that

were so. You have not kept your word."

I rose and came to the door, trying to smile, but making, I fancy,

rather sorry work of it, for the sight of her loveliness brought home

to me the more poignantly the cause of my wretchedness.

"I was feeling a little lonely, that is all," I said. "Has it never

occurred to you that my position is so much more utterly alone than any

human being's ever was before that a new word is really needed to

describe it?"

"Oh, you must not talk that way--you must not let yourself feel that

way--you must not!" she exclaimed, with moistened eyes. "Are we not

your friends? It is your own fault if you will not let us be. You need

not be lonely."

"You are good to me beyond my power of understanding," I said, "but

don't you suppose that I know it is pity merely, sweet pity, but pity

only. I should be a fool not to know that I cannot seem to you as other

men of your own generation do, but as some strange uncanny being, a

stranded creature of an unknown sea, whose forlornness touches your

compassion despite its grotesqueness. I have been so foolish, you were

so kind, as to almost forget that this must needs be so, and to fancy I

might in time become naturalized, as we used to say, in this age, so as

to feel like one of you and to seem to you like the other men about

you. But Mr. Barton's sermon taught me how vain such a fancy is, how

great the gulf between us must seem to you."

"Oh that miserable sermon!" she exclaimed, fairly crying now in her

sympathy, "I wanted you not to hear it. What does he know of you? He

has read in old musty books about your times, that is all. What do you

care about him, to let yourself be vexed by anything he said? Isn't it

anything to you, that we who know you feel differently? Don't you care

more about what we think of you than what he does who never saw you?

Oh, Mr. West! you don't know, you can't think, how it makes me feel to

see you so forlorn. I can't have it so. What can I say to you? How can

I convince you how different our feeling for you is from what you

think?"

As before, in that other crisis of my fate when she had come to me, she

extended her hands toward me in a gesture of helpfulness, and, as then,

I caught and held them in my own; her bosom heaved with strong emotion,

and little tremors in the fingers which I clasped emphasized the depth

of her feeling. In her face, pity contended in a sort of divine spite

against the obstacles which reduced it to impotence. Womanly compassion

surely never wore a guise more lovely.

Such beauty and such goodness quite melted me, and it seemed that the

only fitting response I could make was to tell her just the truth. Of

course I had not a spark of hope, but on the other hand I had no fear

that she would be angry. She was too pitiful for that. So I said

presently, "It is very ungrateful in me not to be satisfied with such

kindness as you have shown me, and are showing me now. But are you so

blind as not to see why they are not enough to make me happy? Don't you

see that it is because I have been mad enough to love you?"

At my last words she blushed deeply and her eyes fell before mine, but

she made no effort to withdraw her hands from my clasp. For some

moments she stood so, panting a little. Then blushing deeper than ever,

but with a dazzling smile, she looked up.

"Are you sure it is not you who are blind?" she said.

That was all, but it was enough, for it told me that, unaccountable,

incredible as it was, this radiant daughter of a golden age had

bestowed upon me not alone her pity, but her love. Still, I half

believed I must be under some blissful hallucination even as I clasped

her in my arms. "If I am beside myself," I cried, "let me remain so."

"It is I whom you must think beside myself," she panted, escaping from

my arms when I had barely tasted the sweetness of her lips. "Oh! oh!

what must you think of me almost to throw myself in the arms of one I

have known but a week? I did not mean that you should find it out so

soon, but I was so sorry for you I forgot what I was saying. No, no;

you must not touch me again till you know who I am. After that, sir,

you shall apologize to me very humbly for thinking, as I know you do,

that I have been over quick to fall in love with you. After you know

who I am, you will be bound to confess that it was nothing less than my

duty to fall in love with you at first sight, and that no girl of

proper feeling in my place could do otherwise."

As may be supposed, I would have been quite content to waive

explanations, but Edith was resolute that there should be no more

kisses until she had been vindicated from all suspicion of precipitancy

in the bestowal of her affections, and I was fain to follow the lovely

enigma into the house. Having come where her mother was, she blushingly

whispered something in her ear and ran away, leaving us together.

It then appeared that, strange as my experience had been, I was now

first to know what was perhaps its strangest feature. From Mrs. Leete I

learned that Edith was the great-granddaughter of no other than my lost

love, Edith Bartlett. After mourning me for fourteen years, she had

made a marriage of esteem, and left a son who had been Mrs. Leete's

father. Mrs. Leete had never seen her grandmother, but had heard much

of her, and, when her daughter was born, gave her the name of Edith.

This fact might have tended to increase the interest which the girl

took, as she grew up, in all that concerned her ancestress, and

especially the tragic story of the supposed death of the lover, whose

wife she expected to be, in the conflagration of his house. It was a

tale well calculated to touch the sympathy of a romantic girl, and the

fact that the blood of the unfortunate heroine was in her own veins

naturally heightened Edith's interest in it. A portrait of Edith

Bartlett and some of her papers, including a packet of my own letters,

were among the family heirlooms. The picture represented a very

beautiful young woman about whom it was easy to imagine all manner of

tender and romantic things. My letters gave Edith some material for

forming a distinct idea of my personality, and both together sufficed

to make the sad old story very real to her. She used to tell her

parents, half jestingly, that she would never marry till she found a

lover like Julian West, and there were none such nowadays.

Now all this, of course, was merely the daydreaming of a girl whose

mind had never been taken up by a love affair of her own, and would

have had no serious consequence but for the discovery that morning of

the buried vault in her father's garden and the revelation of the

identity of its inmate. For when the apparently lifeless form had been

borne into the house, the face in the locket found upon the breast was

instantly recognized as that of Edith Bartlett, and by that fact, taken

in connection with the other circumstances, they knew that I was no

other than Julian West. Even had there been no thought, as at first

there was not, of my resuscitation, Mrs. Leete said she believed that

this event would have affected her daughter in a critical and life-long

manner. The presumption of some subtle ordering of destiny, involving

her fate with mine, would under all circumstances have possessed an

irresistible fascination for almost any woman.

Whether when I came back to life a few hours afterward, and from the

first seemed to turn to her with a peculiar dependence and to find a

special solace in her company, she had been too quick in giving her

love at the first sign of mine, I could now, her mother said, judge for

myself. If I thought so, I must remember that this, after all, was the

twentieth and not the nineteenth century, and love was, no doubt, now

quicker in growth, as well as franker in utterance than then.

From Mrs. Leete I went to Edith. When I found her, it was first of all

to take her by both hands and stand a long time in rapt contemplation

of her face. As I gazed, the memory of that other Edith, which had been

affected as with a benumbing shock by the tremendous experience that

had parted us, revived, and my heart was dissolved with tender and

pitiful emotions, but also very blissful ones. For she who brought to

me so poignantly the sense of my loss was to make that loss good. It

was as if from her eyes Edith Bartlett looked into mine, and smiled

consolation to me. My fate was not alone the strangest, but the most

fortunate that ever befell a man. A double miracle had been wrought for

me. I had not been stranded upon the shore of this strange world to

find myself alone and companionless. My love, whom I had dreamed lost,

had been reembodied for my consolation. When at last, in an ecstasy of

gratitude and tenderness, I folded the lovely girl in my arms, the two

Ediths were blended in my thought, nor have they ever since been

clearly distinguished. I was not long in finding that on Edith's part

there was a corresponding confusion of identities. Never, surely, was

there between freshly united lovers a stranger talk than ours that

afternoon. She seemed more anxious to have me speak of Edith Bartlett

than of herself, of how I had loved her than how I loved herself,

rewarding my fond words concerning another woman with tears and tender

smiles and pressures of the hand.

"You must not love me too much for myself," she said. "I shall be very

jealous for her. I shall not let you forget her. I am going to tell you

something which you may think strange. Do you not believe that spirits

sometimes come back to the world to fulfill some work that lay near

their hearts? What if I were to tell you that I have sometimes thought

that her spirit lives in me--that Edith Bartlett, not Edith Leete, is

my real name. I cannot know it; of course none of us can know who we

really are; but I can feel it. Can you wonder that I have such a

feeling, seeing how my life was affected by her and by you, even before

you came. So you see you need not trouble to love me at all, if only

you are true to her. I shall not be likely to be jealous."

Dr. Leete had gone out that afternoon, and I did not have an interview

with him till later. He was not, apparently, wholly unprepared for the

intelligence I conveyed, and shook my hand heartily.

"Under any ordinary circumstances, Mr. West, I should say that this

step had been taken on rather short acquaintance; but these are

decidedly not ordinary circumstances. In fairness, perhaps I ought to

tell you," he added smilingly, "that while I cheerfully consent to the

proposed arrangement, you must not feel too much indebted to me, as I

judge my consent is a mere formality. From the moment the secret of the

locket was out, it had to be, I fancy. Why, bless me, if Edith had not

been there to redeem her great-grandmother's pledge, I really apprehend

that Mrs. Leete's loyalty to me would have suffered a severe strain."

That evening the garden was bathed in moonlight, and till midnight

Edith and I wandered to and fro there, trying to grow accustomed to our

happiness.

"What should I have done if you had not cared for me?" she exclaimed.

"I was afraid you were not going to. What should I have done then, when

I felt I was consecrated to you! As soon as you came back to life, I

was as sure as if she had told me that I was to be to you what she

could not be, but that could only be if you would let me. Oh, how I

wanted to tell you that morning, when you felt so terribly strange

among us, who I was, but dared not open my lips about that, or let

father or mother----"

"That must have been what you would not let your father tell me!" I

exclaimed, referring to the conversation I had overheard as I came out

of my trance.

"Of course it was," Edith laughed. "Did you only just guess that?

Father being only a man, thought that it would make you feel among

friends to tell you who we were. He did not think of me at all. But

mother knew what I meant, and so I had my way. I could never have

looked you in the face if you had known who I was. It would have been

forcing myself on you quite too boldly. I am afraid you think I did

that to-day, as it was. I am sure I did not mean to, for I know girls

were expected to hide their feelings in your day, and I was dreadfully

afraid of shocking you. Ah me, how hard it must have been for them to

have always had to conceal their love like a fault. Why did they think

it such a shame to love any one till they had been given permission? It

is so odd to think of waiting for permission to fall in love. Was it

because men in those days were angry when girls loved them? That is not

the way women would feel, I am sure, or men either, I think, now. I

don't understand it at all. That will be one of the curious things

about the women of those days that you will have to explain to me. I

don't believe Edith Bartlett was so foolish as the others."

After sundry ineffectual attempts at parting, she finally insisted that

we must say good night. I was about to imprint upon her lips the

positively last kiss, when she said, with an indescribable archness:

"One thing troubles me. Are you sure that you quite forgive Edith

Bartlett for marrying any one else? The books that have come down to us

make out lovers of your time more jealous than fond, and that is what

makes me ask. It would be a great relief to me if I could feel sure

that you were not in the least jealous of my great-grandfather for

marrying your sweetheart. May I tell my great-grandmother's picture

when I go to my room that you quite forgive her for proving false to

you?"

Will the reader believe it, this coquettish quip, whether the speaker

herself had any idea of it or not, actually touched and with the

touching cured a preposterous ache of something like jealousy which I

had been vaguely conscious of ever since Mrs. Leete had told me of

Edith Bartlett's marriage. Even while I had been holding Edith

Bartlett's great-granddaughter in my arms, I had not, till this moment,

so illogical are some of our feelings, distinctly realized that but for

that marriage I could not have done so. The absurdity of this frame of

mind could only be equalled by the abruptness with which it dissolved

as Edith's roguish query cleared the fog from my perceptions. I laughed

as I kissed her.

"You may assure her of my entire forgiveness," I said, "although if it

had been any man but your great-grandfather whom she married, it would

have been a very different matter."

On reaching my chamber that night I did not open the musical telephone

that I might be lulled to sleep with soothing tunes, as had become my

habit. For once my thoughts made better music than even twentieth

century orchestras discourse, and it held me enchanted till well toward

morning, when I fell asleep.

Chapter 28

"It's a little after the time you told me to wake you, sir. You did not

come out of it as quick as common, sir."

The voice was the voice of my man Sawyer. I started bolt upright in bed

and stared around. I was in my underground chamber. The mellow light of

the lamp which always burned in the room when I occupied it illumined

the familiar walls and furnishings. By my bedside, with the glass of

sherry in his hand which Dr. Pillsbury prescribed on first rousing from

a mesmeric sleep, by way of awakening the torpid physical functions,

stood Sawyer.

"Better take this right off, sir," he said, as I stared blankly at him.

"You look kind of flushed like, sir, and you need it."

I tossed off the liquor and began to realize what had happened to me.

It was, of course, very plain. All that about the twentieth century had

been a dream. I had but dreamed of that enlightened and care-free race

of men and their ingeniously simple institutions, of the glorious new

Boston with its domes and pinnacles, its gardens and fountains, and its

universal reign of comfort. The amiable family which I had learned to

know so well, my genial host and Mentor, Dr. Leete, his wife, and their

daughter, the second and more beauteous Edith, my betrothed--these,

too, had been but figments of a vision.

For a considerable time I remained in the attitude in which this

conviction had come over me, sitting up in bed gazing at vacancy,

absorbed in recalling the scenes and incidents of my fantastic

experience. Sawyer, alarmed at my looks, was meanwhile anxiously

inquiring what was the matter with me. Roused at length by his

importunities to a recognition of my surroundings, I pulled myself

together with an effort and assured the faithful fellow that I was all

right. "I have had an extraordinary dream, that's all, Sawyer," I said,

"a most-ex-traor-dinary dream."

I dressed in a mechanical way, feeling light-headed and oddly uncertain

of myself, and sat down to the coffee and rolls which Sawyer was in the

habit of providing for my refreshment before I left the house. The

morning newspaper lay by the plate. I took it up, and my eye fell on

the date, May 31, 1887. I had known, of course, from the moment I

opened my eyes that my long and detailed experience in another century

had been a dream, and yet it was startling to have it so conclusively

demonstrated that the world was but a few hours older than when I had

lain down to sleep.

Glancing at the table of contents at the head of the paper, which

reviewed the news of the morning, I read the following summary:

FOREIGN AFFAIRS.--The impending war between France and Germany. The

French Chambers asked for new military credits to meet Germany's

increase of her army. Probability that all Europe will be involved in

case of war.--Great suffering among the unemployed in London. They

demand work. Monster demonstration to be made. The authorities

uneasy.--Great strikes in Belgium. The government preparing to repress

outbreaks. Shocking facts in regard to the employment of girls in

Belgium coal mines.--Wholesale evictions in Ireland.

"HOME AFFAIRS.--The epidemic of fraud unchecked. Embezzlement of half a

million in New York.--Misappropriation of a trust fund by executors.

Orphans left penniless.--Clever system of thefts by a bank teller;

$50,000 gone.--The coal barons decide to advance the price of coal and

reduce production.--Speculators engineering a great wheat corner at

Chicago.--A clique forcing up the price of coffee.--Enormous land-grabs

of Western syndicates.--Revelations of shocking corruption among

Chicago officials. Systematic bribery.--The trials of the Boodle

aldermen to go on at New York.--Large failures of business houses.

Fears of a business crisis.--A large grist of burglaries and

larcenies.--A woman murdered in cold blood for her money at New

Haven.--A householder shot by a burglar in this city last night.--A man

shoots himself in Worcester because he could not get work. A large

family left destitute.--An aged couple in New Jersey commit suicide

rather than go to the poor-house.--Pitiable destitution among the women

wage-workers in the great cities.--Startling growth of illiteracy in

Massachusetts.--More insane asylums wanted.--Decoration Day addresses.

Professor Brown's oration on the moral grandeur of nineteenth century

civilization."

It was indeed the nineteenth century to which I had awaked; there could

be no kind of doubt about that. Its complete microcosm this summary of

the day's news had presented, even to that last unmistakable touch of

fatuous self-complacency. Coming after such a damning indictment of the

age as that one day's chronicle of world-wide bloodshed, greed, and

tyranny, was a bit of cynicism worthy of Mephistopheles, and yet of all

whose eyes it had met this morning I was, perhaps, the only one who

perceived the cynicism, and but yesterday I should have perceived it no

more than the others. That strange dream it was which had made all the

difference. For I know not how long, I forgot my surroundings after

this, and was again in fancy moving in that vivid dream-world, in that

glorious city, with its homes of simple comfort and its gorgeous public

palaces. Around me were again faces unmarred by arrogance or servility,

by envy or greed, by anxious care or feverish ambition, and stately

forms of men and women who had never known fear of a fellow man or

depended on his favor, but always, in the words of that sermon which

still rang in my ears, had "stood up straight before God."

With a profound sigh and a sense of irreparable loss, not the less

poignant that it was a loss of what had never really been, I roused at

last from my reverie, and soon after left the house.

A dozen times between my door and Washington Street I had to stop and

pull myself together, such power had been in that vision of the Boston

of the future to make the real Boston strange. The squalor and

malodorousness of the town struck me, from the moment I stood upon the

street, as facts I had never before observed. But yesterday, moreover,

it had seemed quite a matter of course that some of my fellow-citizens

should wear silks, and others rags, that some should look well fed, and

others hungry. Now on the contrary the glaring disparities in the dress

and condition of the men and women who brushed each other on the

sidewalks shocked me at every step, and yet more the entire

indifference which the prosperous showed to the plight of the

unfortunate. Were these human beings, who could behold the wretchedness

of their fellows without so much as a change of countenance? And yet,

all the while, I knew well that it was I who had changed, and not my

contemporaries. I had dreamed of a city whose people fared all alike as

children of one family and were one another's keepers in all things.

Another feature of the real Boston, which assumed the extraordinary

effect of strangeness that marks familiar things seen in a new light,

was the prevalence of advertising. There had been no personal

advertising in the Boston of the twentieth century, because there was

no need of any, but here the walls of the buildings, the windows, the

broadsides of the newspapers in every hand, the very pavements,

everything in fact in sight, save the sky, were covered with the

appeals of individuals who sought, under innumerable pretexts, to

attract the contributions of others to their support. However the

wording might vary, the tenor of all these appeals was the same:

"Help John Jones. Never mind the rest. They are frauds. I, John Jones,

am the right one. Buy of me. Employ me. Visit me. Hear me, John Jones.

Look at me. Make no mistake, John Jones is the man and nobody else. Let

the rest starve, but for God's sake remember John Jones!"

Whether the pathos or the moral repulsiveness of the spectacle most

impressed me, so suddenly become a stranger in my own city, I know not.

Wretched men, I was moved to cry, who, because they will not learn to

be helpers of one another, are doomed to be beggars of one another from

the least to the greatest! This horrible babel of shameless

self-assertion and mutual depreciation, this stunning clamor of

conflicting boasts, appeals, and adjurations, this stupendous system of

brazen beggary, what was it all but the necessity of a society in which

the opportunity to serve the world according to his gifts, instead of

being secured to every man as the first object of social organization,

had to be fought for!

I reached Washington Street at the busiest point, and there I stood and

laughed aloud, to the scandal of the passers-by. For my life I could

not have helped it, with such a mad humor was I moved at sight of the

interminable rows of stores on either side, up and down the street so

far as I could see--scores of them, to make the spectacle more utterly

preposterous, within a stone's throw devoted to selling the same sort

of goods. Stores! stores! stores! miles of stores! ten thousand stores

to distribute the goods needed by this one city, which in my dream had

been supplied with all things from a single warehouse, as they were

ordered through one great store in every quarter, where the buyer,

without waste of time or labor, found under one roof the world's

assortment in whatever line he desired. There the labor of distribution

had been so slight as to add but a scarcely perceptible fraction to the

cost of commodities to the user. The cost of production was virtually

all he paid. But here the mere distribution of the goods, their

handling alone, added a fourth, a third, a half and more, to the cost.

All these ten thousand plants must be paid for, their rent, their

staffs of superintendence, their platoons of salesmen, their ten

thousand sets of accountants, jobbers, and business dependents, with

all they spent in advertising themselves and fighting one another, and

the consumers must do the paying. What a famous process for beggaring a

nation!

Were these serious men I saw about me, or children, who did their

business on such a plan? Could they be reasoning beings, who did not

see the folly which, when the product is made and ready for use, wastes

so much of it in getting it to the user? If people eat with a spoon

that leaks half its contents between bowl and lip, are they not likely

to go hungry?

I had passed through Washington Street thousands of times before and

viewed the ways of those who sold merchandise, but my curiosity

concerning them was as if I had never gone by their way before. I took

wondering note of the show windows of the stores, filled with goods

arranged with a wealth of pains and artistic device to attract the eye.

I saw the throngs of ladies looking in, and the proprietors eagerly

watching the effect of the bait. I went within and noted the hawk-eyed

floor-walker watching for business, overlooking the clerks, keeping

them up to their task of inducing the customers to buy, buy, buy, for

money if they had it, for credit if they had it not, to buy what they

wanted not, more than they wanted, what they could not afford. At times

I momentarily lost the clue and was confused by the sight. Why this

effort to induce people to buy? Surely that had nothing to do with the

legitimate business of distributing products to those who needed them.

Surely it was the sheerest waste to force upon people what they did not

want, but what might be useful to another. The nation was so much the

poorer for every such achievement. What were these clerks thinking of?

Then I would remember that they were not acting as distributors like

those in the store I had visited in the dream Boston. They were not

serving the public interest, but their immediate personal interest, and

it was nothing to them what the ultimate effect of their course on the

general prosperity might be, if but they increased their own hoard, for

these goods were their own, and the more they sold and the more they

got for them, the greater their gain. The more wasteful the people

were, the more articles they did not want which they could be induced

to buy, the better for these sellers. To encourage prodigality was the

express aim of the ten thousand stores of Boston.

Nor were these storekeepers and clerks a whit worse men than any others

in Boston. They must earn a living and support their families, and how

were they to find a trade to do it by which did not necessitate placing

their individual interests before those of others and that of all? They

could not be asked to starve while they waited for an order of things

such as I had seen in my dream, in which the interest of each and that

of all were identical. But, God in heaven! what wonder, under such a

system as this about me--what wonder that the city was so shabby, and

the people so meanly dressed, and so many of them ragged and hungry!

Some time after this it was that I drifted over into South Boston and

found myself among the manufacturing establishments. I had been in this

quarter of the city a hundred times before, just as I had been on

Washington Street, but here, as well as there, I now first perceived

the true significance of what I witnessed. Formerly I had taken pride

in the fact that, by actual count, Boston had some four thousand

independent manufacturing establishments; but in this very multiplicity

and independence I recognized now the secret of the insignificant total

product of their industry.

If Washington Street had been like a lane in Bedlam, this was a

spectacle as much more melancholy as production is a more vital

function than distribution. For not only were these four thousand

establishments not working in concert, and for that reason alone

operating at prodigious disadvantage, but, as if this did not involve a

sufficiently disastrous loss of power, they were using their utmost

skill to frustrate one another's effort, praying by night and working

by day for the destruction of one another's enterprises.

The roar and rattle of wheels and hammers resounding from every side

was not the hum of a peaceful industry, but the clangor of swords

wielded by foemen. These mills and shops were so many forts, each under

its own flag, its guns trained on the mills and shops about it, and its

sappers busy below, undermining them.

Within each one of these forts the strictest organization of industry

was insisted on; the separate gangs worked under a single central

authority. No interference and no duplicating of work were permitted.

Each had his allotted task, and none were idle. By what hiatus in the

logical faculty, by what lost link of reasoning, account, then, for the

failure to recognize the necessity of applying the same principle to

the organization of the national industries as a whole, to see that if

lack of organization could impair the efficiency of a shop, it must

have effects as much more disastrous in disabling the industries of the

nation at large as the latter are vaster in volume and more complex in

the relationship of their parts.

People would be prompt enough to ridicule an army in which there were

neither companies, battalions, regiments, brigades, divisions, or army

corps--no unit of organization, in fact, larger than the corporal's

squad, with no officer higher than a corporal, and all the corporals

equal in authority. And yet just such an army were the manufacturing

industries of nineteenth century Boston, an army of four thousand

independent squads led by four thousand independent corporals, each

with a separate plan of campaign.

Knots of idle men were to be seen here and there on every side, some

idle because they could find no work at any price, others because they

could not get what they thought a fair price. I accosted some of the

latter, and they told me their grievances. It was very little comfort I

could give them. "I am sorry for you," I said. "You get little enough,

certainly, and yet the wonder to me is, not that industries conducted

as these are do not pay you living wages, but that they are able to pay

you any wages at all."

Making my way back again after this to the peninsular city, toward

three o'clock I stood on State Street, staring, as if I had never seen

them before, at the banks and brokers' offices, and other financial

institutions, of which there had been in the State Street of my vision

no vestige. Business men, confidential clerks, and errand boys were

thronging in and out of the banks, for it wanted but a few minutes of

the closing hour. Opposite me was the bank where I did business, and

presently I crossed the street, and, going in with the crowd, stood in

a recess of the wall looking on at the army of clerks handling money,

and the cues of depositors at the tellers' windows. An old gentleman

whom I knew, a director of the bank, passing me and observing my

contemplative attitude, stopped a moment.

"Interesting sight, isn't it, Mr. West," he said. "Wonderful piece of

mechanism; I find it so myself. I like sometimes to stand and look on

at it just as you are doing. It's a poem, sir, a poem, that's what I

call it. Did you ever think, Mr. West, that the bank is the heart of

the business system? From it and to it, in endless flux and reflux, the

life blood goes. It is flowing in now. It will flow out again in the

morning"; and pleased with his little conceit, the old man passed on

smiling.

Yesterday I should have considered the simile apt enough, but since

then I had visited a world incomparably more affluent than this, in

which money was unknown and without conceivable use. I had learned that

it had a use in the world around me only because the work of producing

the nation's livelihood, instead of being regarded as the most strictly

public and common of all concerns, and as such conducted by the nation,

was abandoned to the hap-hazard efforts of individuals. This original

mistake necessitated endless exchanges to bring about any sort of

general distribution of products. These exchanges money effected--how

equitably, might be seen in a walk from the tenement house districts to

the Back Bay--at the cost of an army of men taken from productive labor

to manage it, with constant ruinous breakdowns of its machinery, and a

generally debauching influence on mankind which had justified its

description, from ancient time, as the "root of all evil."

Alas for the poor old bank director with his poem! He had mistaken the

throbbing of an abscess for the beating of the heart. What he called "a

wonderful piece of mechanism" was an imperfect device to remedy an

unnecessary defect, the clumsy crutch of a self-made cripple.

After the banks had closed I wandered aimlessly about the business

quarter for an hour or two, and later sat a while on one of the benches

of the Common, finding an interest merely in watching the throngs that

passed, such as one has in studying the populace of a foreign city, so

strange since yesterday had my fellow citizens and their ways become to

me. For thirty years I had lived among them, and yet I seemed to have

never noted before how drawn and anxious were their faces, of the rich

as of the poor, the refined, acute faces of the educated as well as the

dull masks of the ignorant. And well it might be so, for I saw now, as

never before I had seen so plainly, that each as he walked constantly

turned to catch the whispers of a spectre at his ear, the spectre of

Uncertainty. "Do your work never so well," the spectre was

whispering--"rise early and toil till late, rob cunningly or serve

faithfully, you shall never know security. Rich you may be now and

still come to poverty at last. Leave never so much wealth to your

children, you cannot buy the assurance that your son may not be the

servant of your servant, or that your daughter will not have to sell

herself for bread."

A man passing by thrust an advertising card in my hand, which set forth

the merits of some new scheme of life insurance. The incident reminded

me of the only device, pathetic in its admission of the universal need

it so poorly supplied, which offered these tired and hunted men and

women even a partial protection from uncertainty. By this means, those

already well-to-do, I remembered, might purchase a precarious

confidence that after their death their loved ones would not, for a

while at least, be trampled under the feet of men. But this was all,

and this was only for those who could pay well for it. What idea was

possible to these wretched dwellers in the land of Ishmael, where every

man's hand was against each and the hand of each against every other,

of true life insurance as I had seen it among the people of that dream

land, each of whom, by virtue merely of his membership in the national

family, was guaranteed against need of any sort, by a policy

underwritten by one hundred million fellow countrymen.

Some time after this it was that I recall a glimpse of myself standing

on the steps of a building on Tremont Street, looking at a military

parade. A regiment was passing. It was the first sight in that dreary

day which had inspired me with any other emotions than wondering pity

and amazement. Here at last were order and reason, an exhibition of

what intelligent cooperation can accomplish. The people who stood

looking on with kindling faces,--could it be that the sight had for

them no more than but a spectacular interest? Could they fail to see

that it was their perfect concert of action, their organization under

one control, which made these men the tremendous engine they were, able

to vanquish a mob ten times as numerous? Seeing this so plainly, could

they fail to compare the scientific manner in which the nation went to

war with the unscientific manner in which it went to work? Would they

not query since what time the killing of men had been a task so much

more important than feeding and clothing them, that a trained army

should be deemed alone adequate to the former, while the latter was

left to a mob?

It was now toward nightfall, and the streets were thronged with the

workers from the stores, the shops, and mills. Carried along with the

stronger part of the current, I found myself, as it began to grow dark,

in the midst of a scene of squalor and human degradation such as only

the South Cove tenement district could present. I had seen the mad

wasting of human labor; here I saw in direst shape the want that waste

had bred.

From the black doorways and windows of the rookeries on every side came

gusts of fetid air. The streets and alleys reeked with the effluvia of

a slave ship's between-decks. As I passed I had glimpses within of pale

babies gasping out their lives amid sultry stenches, of hopeless-faced

women deformed by hardship, retaining of womanhood no trait save

weakness, while from the windows leered girls with brows of brass. Like

the starving bands of mongrel curs that infest the streets of Moslem

towns, swarms of half-clad brutalized children filled the air with

shrieks and curses as they fought and tumbled among the garbage that

littered the court-yards.

There was nothing in all this that was new to me. Often had I passed

through this part of the city and witnessed its sights with feelings of

disgust mingled with a certain philosophical wonder at the extremities

mortals will endure and still cling to life. But not alone as regarded

the economical follies of this age, but equally as touched its moral

abominations, scales had fallen from my eyes since that vision of

another century. No more did I look upon the woful dwellers in this

Inferno with a callous curiosity as creatures scarcely human. I saw in

them my brothers and sisters, my parents, my children, flesh of my

flesh, blood of my blood. The festering mass of human wretchedness

about me offended not now my senses merely, but pierced my heart like a

knife, so that I could not repress sighs and groans. I not only saw but

felt in my body all that I saw.

Presently, too, as I observed the wretched beings about me more

closely, I perceived that they were all quite dead. Their bodies were

so many living sepulchres. On each brutal brow was plainly written the

hic jacet of a soul dead within.

As I looked, horror struck, from one death's head to another, I was

affected by a singular hallucination. Like a wavering translucent

spirit face superimposed upon each of these brutish masks I saw the

ideal, the possible face that would have been the actual if mind and

soul had lived. It was not till I was aware of these ghostly faces, and

of the reproach that could not be gainsaid which was in their eyes,

that the full piteousness of the ruin that had been wrought was

revealed to me. I was moved with contrition as with a strong agony, for

I had been one of those who had endured that these things should be. I

had been one of those who, well knowing that they were, had not desired

to hear or be compelled to think much of them, but had gone on as if

they were not, seeking my own pleasure and profit. Therefore now I

found upon my garments the blood of this great multitude of strangled

souls of my brothers. The voice of their blood cried out against me

from the ground. Every stone of the reeking pavements, every brick of

the pestilential rookeries, found a tongue and called after me as I

fled: What hast thou done with thy brother Abel?

I have no clear recollection of anything after this till I found myself

standing on the carved stone steps of the magnificent home of my

betrothed in Commonwealth Avenue. Amid the tumult of my thoughts that

day, I had scarcely once thought of her, but now obeying some

unconscious impulse my feet had found the familiar way to her door. I

was told that the family were at dinner, but word was sent out that I

should join them at table. Besides the family, I found several guests

present, all known to me. The table glittered with plate and costly

china. The ladies were sumptuously dressed and wore the jewels of

queens. The scene was one of costly elegance and lavish luxury. The

company was in excellent spirits, and there was plentiful laughter and

a running fire of jests.

To me it was as if, in wandering through the place of doom, my blood

turned to tears by its sights, and my spirit attuned to sorrow, pity,

and despair, I had happened in some glade upon a merry party of

roisterers. I sat in silence until Edith began to rally me upon my

sombre looks, What ailed me? The others presently joined in the playful

assault, and I became a target for quips and jests. Where had I been,

and what had I seen to make such a dull fellow of me?

"I have been in Golgotha," at last I answered. "I have seen Humanity

hanging on a cross! Do none of you know what sights the sun and stars

look down on in this city, that you can think and talk of anything

else? Do you not know that close to your doors a great multitude of men

and women, flesh of your flesh, live lives that are one agony from

birth to death? Listen! their dwellings are so near that if you hush

your laughter you will hear their grievous voices, the piteous crying

of the little ones that suckle poverty, the hoarse curses of men sodden

in misery turned half-way back to brutes, the chaffering of an army of

women selling themselves for bread. With what have you stopped your

ears that you do not hear these doleful sounds? For me, I can hear

nothing else."

Silence followed my words. A passion of pity had shaken me as I spoke,

but when I looked around upon the company, I saw that, far from being

stirred as I was, their faces expressed a cold and hard astonishment,

mingled in Edith's with extreme mortification, in her father's with

anger. The ladies were exchanging scandalized looks, while one of the

gentlemen had put up his eyeglass and was studying me with an air of

scientific curiosity. When I saw that things which were to me so

intolerable moved them not at all, that words that melted my heart to

speak had only offended them with the speaker, I was at first stunned

and then overcome with a desperate sickness and faintness at the heart.

What hope was there for the wretched, for the world, if thoughtful men

and tender women were not moved by things like these! Then I bethought

myself that it must be because I had not spoken aright. No doubt I had

put the case badly. They were angry because they thought I was berating

them, when God knew I was merely thinking of the horror of the fact

without any attempt to assign the responsibility for it.

I restrained my passion, and tried to speak calmly and logically that I

might correct this impression. I told them that I had not meant to

accuse them, as if they, or the rich in general, were responsible for

the misery of the world. True indeed it was, that the superfluity which

they wasted would, otherwise bestowed, relieve much bitter suffering.

These costly viands, these rich wines, these gorgeous fabrics and

glistening jewels represented the ransom of many lives. They were

verily not without the guiltiness of those who waste in a land stricken

with famine. Nevertheless, all the waste of all the rich, were it

saved, would go but a little way to cure the poverty of the world.

There was so little to divide that even if the rich went share and

share with the poor, there would be but a common fare of crusts, albeit

made very sweet then by brotherly love.

The folly of men, not their hard-heartedness, was the great cause of

the world's poverty. It was not the crime of man, nor of any class of

men, that made the race so miserable, but a hideous, ghastly mistake, a

colossal world-darkening blunder. And then I showed them how four

fifths of the labor of men was utterly wasted by the mutual warfare,

the lack of organization and concert among the workers. Seeking to make

the matter very plain, I instanced the case of arid lands where the

soil yielded the means of life only by careful use of the watercourses

for irrigation. I showed how in such countries it was counted the most

important function of the government to see that the water was not

wasted by the selfishness or ignorance of individuals, since otherwise

there would be famine. To this end its use was strictly regulated and

systematized, and individuals of their mere caprice were not permitted

to dam it or divert it, or in any way to tamper with it.

The labor of men, I explained, was the fertilizing stream which alone

rendered earth habitable. It was but a scanty stream at best, and its

use required to be regulated by a system which expended every drop to

the best advantage, if the world were to be supported in abundance. But

how far from any system was the actual practice! Every man wasted the

precious fluid as he wished, animated only by the equal motives of

saving his own crop and spoiling his neighbor's, that his might sell

the better. What with greed and what with spite some fields were

flooded while others were parched, and half the water ran wholly to

waste. In such a land, though a few by strength or cunning might win

the means of luxury, the lot of the great mass must be poverty, and of

the weak and ignorant bitter want and perennial famine.

Let but the famine-stricken nation assume the function it had

neglected, and regulate for the common good the course of the

life-giving stream, and the earth would bloom like one garden, and none

of its children lack any good thing. I described the physical felicity,

mental enlightenment, and moral elevation which would then attend the

lives of all men. With fervency I spoke of that new world, blessed with

plenty, purified by justice and sweetened by brotherly kindness, the

world of which I had indeed but dreamed, but which might so easily be

made real. But when I had expected now surely the faces around me to

light up with emotions akin to mine, they grew ever more dark, angry,

and scornful. Instead of enthusiasm, the ladies showed only aversion

and dread, while the men interrupted me with shouts of reprobation and

contempt. "Madman!" "Pestilent fellow!" "Fanatic!" "Enemy of society!"

were some of their cries, and the one who had before taken his eyeglass

to me exclaimed, "He says we are to have no more poor. Ha! ha!"

"Put the fellow out!" exclaimed the father of my betrothed, and at the

signal the men sprang from their chairs and advanced upon me.

It seemed to me that my heart would burst with the anguish of finding

that what was to me so plain and so all important was to them

meaningless, and that I was powerless to make it other. So hot had been

my heart that I had thought to melt an iceberg with its glow, only to

find at last the overmastering chill seizing my own vitals. It was not

enmity that I felt toward them as they thronged me, but pity only, for

them and for the world.

Although despairing, I could not give over. Still I strove with them.

Tears poured from my eyes. In my vehemence I became inarticulate. I

panted, I sobbed, I groaned, and immediately afterward found myself

sitting upright in bed in my room in Dr. Leete's house, and the morning

sun shining through the open window into my eyes. I was gasping. The

tears were streaming down my face, and I quivered in every nerve.

As with an escaped convict who dreams that he has been recaptured and

brought back to his dark and reeking dungeon, and opens his eyes to see

the heaven's vault spread above him, so it was with me, as I realized

that my return to the nineteenth century had been the dream, and my

presence in the twentieth was the reality.

The cruel sights which I had witnessed in my vision, and could so well

confirm from the experience of my former life, though they had, alas!

once been, and must in the retrospect to the end of time move the

compassionate to tears, were, God be thanked, forever gone by. Long ago

oppressor and oppressed, prophet and scorner, had been dust. For

generations, rich and poor had been forgotten words.

But in that moment, while yet I mused with unspeakable thankfulness

upon the greatness of the world's salvation and my privilege in

beholding it, there suddenly pierced me like a knife a pang of shame,

remorse, and wondering self-reproach, that bowed my head upon my breast

and made me wish the grave had hid me with my fellows from the sun. For

I had been a man of that former time. What had I done to help on the

deliverance whereat I now presumed to rejoice? I who had lived in those

cruel, insensate days, what had I done to bring them to an end? I had

been every whit as indifferent to the wretchedness of my brothers, as

cynically incredulous of better things, as besotted a worshiper of

Chaos and Old Night, as any of my fellows. So far as my personal

influence went, it had been exerted rather to hinder than to help

forward the enfranchisement of the race which was even then preparing.

What right had I to hail a salvation which reproached me, to rejoice in

a day whose dawning I had mocked?

"Better for you, better for you," a voice within me rang, "had this

evil dream been the reality, and this fair reality the dream; better

your part pleading for crucified humanity with a scoffing generation,

than here, drinking of wells you digged not, and eating of trees whose

husbandmen you stoned"; and my spirit answered, "Better, truly."

When at length I raised my bowed head and looked forth from the window,

Edith, fresh as the morning, had come into the garden and was gathering

flowers. I hastened to descend to her. Kneeling before her, with my

face in the dust, I confessed with tears how little was my worth to

breathe the air of this golden century, and how infinitely less to wear

upon my breast its consummate flower. Fortunate is he who, with a case

so desperate as mine, finds a judge so merciful.