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Title: Looking Backward, 2000 to 1887

Author: Edward Bellamy

Release date: August 1, 1996 [eBook #624]
Most recently updated: October 12, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/624

Credits: Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOOKING
BACKWARD, 2000 TO 1887 ***

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.

CONTENTS
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 5 Chapter 5
Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10
Chapter 10 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 15 Chapter 16
Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20
Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25
Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28

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.

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