Erewhon Revisited Twenty Years Later, Both by the Original Discoverer of the Country and by His Son

CHAPTER XIII: A VISIT TO THE PROVINCIAL DEFORMATORY AT FAIRMEAD

Having finished his early dinner, and not fearing that he should be either recognised at Fairmead or again enquired after from Sunch’ston, my father went out for a stroll round the town, to see what else he could find that should be new and strange to him.  He had not gone far before he saw a large building with an inscription saying that it was the Provincial Deformatory for Boys.  Underneath the larger inscription there was a smaller one—one of those corrupt versions of my father’s sayings, which, on dipping into the Sayings of the Sunchild, he had found to be so vexatiously common.  The inscription ran:-

“When the righteous man turneth away from the righteousness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is a little naughty and wrong, he will generally be found to have gained in amiability what he has lost in righteousness.”  Sunchild Sayings, chap. xxii. v. 15.

The case of the little girl that he had watched earlier in the day had filled him with a great desire to see the working of one of these curious institutions; he therefore resolved to call on the headmaster (whose name he found to be Turvey), and enquire about terms, alleging that he had a boy whose incorrigible rectitude was giving him much anxiety.  The information he had gained in the forenoon would be enough to save him from appearing to know nothing of the system.  On having rung the bell, he announced himself to the servant as a Mr. Senoj, and asked if he could see the Principal.

Almost immediately he was ushered into the presence of a beaming, dapper-looking, little old gentleman, quick of speech and movement, in spite of some little portliness.

“Ts, ts, ts,” he said, when my father had enquired about terms and asked whether he might see the system at work.  “How unfortunate that you should have called on a Saturday afternoon.  We always have a half-holiday.  But stay—yes—that will do very nicely; I will send for them into school as a means of stimulating their refractory system.”

He called his servant and told him to ring the boys into school.  Then, turning to my father he said, “Stand here, sir, by the window; you will see them all come trooping in.  H’m, h’m, I am sorry to see them still come back as soon as they hear the bell.  I suppose I shall ding some recalcitrancy into them some day, but it is uphill work.  Do you see the head-boy—the third of those that are coming up the path?  I shall have to get rid of him.  Do you see him? he is going back to whip up the laggers—and now he has boxed a boy’s ears: that boy is one of the most hopeful under my care.  I feel sure he has been using improper language, and my head-boy has checked him instead of encouraging him.”  And so on till the boys were all in school.

“You see, my dear sir,” he said to my father, “we are in an impossible position.  We have to obey instructions from the Grand Council of Education at Bridgeford, and they have established these institutions in consequence of the Sunchild’s having said that we should aim at promoting the greatest happiness of the greatest number.  This, no doubt, is a sound principle, and the greatest number are by nature somewhat dull, conceited, and unscrupulous.  They do not like those who are quick, unassuming, and sincere; how, then, consistently with the first principles either of morality or political economy as revealed to us by the Sunchild, can we encourage such people if we can bring sincerity and modesty fairly home to them?  We cannot do so.  And we must correct the young as far as possible from forming habits which, unless indulged in with the greatest moderation, are sure to ruin them.

“I cannot pretend to consider myself very successful.  I do my best, but I can only aim at making my school a reflection of the outside world.  In the outside world we have to tolerate much that is prejudicial to the greatest happiness of the greatest number, partly because we cannot always discover in time who may be let alone as being genuinely insincere, and who are in reality masking sincerity under a garb of flippancy, and partly also because we wish to err on the side of letting the guilty escape, rather than of punishing the innocent.  Thus many people who are perfectly well known to belong to the straightforward classes are allowed to remain at large, and may be even seen hobnobbing with the guardians of public immorality.  Indeed it is not in the public interest that straightforwardness should be extirpated root and branch, for the presence of a small modicum of sincerity acts as a wholesome irritant to the academicism of the greatest number, stimulating it to consciousness of its own happy state, and giving it something to look down upon.  Moreover, we hold it useful to have a certain number of melancholy examples, whose notorious failure shall serve as a warning to those who neglect cultivating that power of immoral self-control which shall prevent them from saying, or even thinking, anything that shall not immediately and palpably minister to the happiness, and hence meet the approval, of the greatest number.”

By this time the boys were all in school.  “There is not one prig in the whole lot,” said the headmaster sadly.  “I wish there was, but only those boys come here who are notoriously too good to become current coin in the world unless they are hardened with an alloy of vice.  I should have liked to show you our gambling, book-making, and speculation class, but the assistant-master who attends to this branch of our curriculum is gone to Sunch’ston this afternoon.  He has friends who have asked him to see the dedication of the new temple, and he will not be back till Monday.  I really do not know what I can do better for you than examine the boys in Counsels of Imperfection.”

So saying, he went into the schoolroom, over the fireplace of which my father’s eye caught an inscription, “Resist good, and it will fly from you.  Sunchild’s Sayings, xvii. 2.”  Then, taking down a copy of the work just named from a shelf above his desk, he ran his eye over a few of its pages.

He called up a class of about twenty boys.

“Now, my boys,” he said, “Why is it so necessary to avoid extremes of truthfulness?”

“It is not necessary, sir,” said one youngster, “and the man who says that it is so is a scoundrel.”

“Come here, my boy, and hold out your hand.”  When he had done so, Mr. Turvey gave him two sharp cuts with a cane.  “There now, go down to the bottom of the class and try not to be so extremely truthful in future.”  Then, turning to my father, he said, “I hate caning them, but it is the only way to teach them.  I really do believe that boy will know better than to say what he thinks another time.”

He repeated his question to the class, and the head-boy answered, “Because, sir, extremes meet, and extreme truth will be mixed with extreme falsehood.”

“Quite right, my boy.  Truth is like religion; it has only two enemies—the too much and the too little.  Your answer is more satisfactory than some of your recent conduct had led me to expect.”

“But, sir, you punished me only three weeks ago for telling you a lie.”

“Oh yes; why, so I did; I had forgotten.  But then you overdid it.  Still it was a step in the right direction.”

“And now, my boy,” he said to a very frank and ingenuous youth about half way up the class, “and how is truth best reached?”

“Through the falling out of thieves, sir.”

“Quite so.  Then it will be necessary that the more earnest, careful, patient, self-sacrificing, enquirers after truth should have a good deal of the thief about them, though they are very honest people at the same time.  Now what does the man” (who on enquiry my father found to be none other than Mr. Turvey himself) “say about honesty?”

“He says, sir, that honesty does not consist in never stealing, but in knowing how and where it will be safe to do so.”

“Remember,” said Mr. Turvey to my father, “how necessary it is that we should have a plentiful supply of thieves, if honest men are ever to come by their own.”

He spoke with the utmost gravity, evidently quite easy in his mind that his scheme was the only one by which truth could be successfully attained.

“But pray let me have any criticism you may feel inclined to make.”

“I have none,” said my father.  “Your system commends itself to common sense; it is the one adopted in the law courts, and it lies at the very foundation of party government.  If your academic bodies can supply the country with a sufficient number of thieves—which I have no doubt they can—there seems no limit to the amount of truth that may be attained.  If, however, I may suggest the only difficulty that occurs to me, it is that academic thieves shew no great alacrity in falling out, but incline rather to back each other up through thick and thin.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Turvey, “there is that difficulty; nevertheless circumstances from time to time arise to get them by the ears in spite of themselves.  But from whatever point of view you may look at the question, it is obviously better to aim at imperfection than perfection; for if we aim steadily at imperfection, we shall probably get it within a reasonable time, whereas to the end of our days we should never reach perfection.  Moreover, from a worldly point of view, there is no mistake so great as that of being always right.”  He then turned to his class and said—

“And now tell me what did the Sunchild tell us about God and Mammon?”

The head-boy answered: “He said that we must serve both, for no man can serve God well and truly who does not serve Mammon a little also; and no man can serve Mammon effectually unless he serve God largely at the same time.”

“What were his words?”

“He said, ‘Cursed be they that say, “Thou shalt not serve God and Mammon, for it is the whole duty of man to know how to adjust the conflicting claims of these two deities.”’”

Here my father interposed.  “I knew the Sunchild; and I more than once heard him speak of God and Mammon.  He never varied the form of the words he used, which were to the effect that a man must serve either God or Mammon, but that he could not serve both.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Turvey, “that no doubt was his exoteric teaching, but Professors Hanky and Panky have assured me most solemnly that his esoteric teaching was as I have given it.  By the way, these gentlemen are both, I understand, at Sunch’ston, and I think it quite likely that I shall have a visit from them this afternoon.  If you do not know them I should have great pleasure in introducing you to them; I was at Bridgeford with both of them.”

“I have had the pleasure of meeting them already,” said my father, “and as you are by no means certain that they will come, I will ask you to let me thank you for all that you have been good enough to shew me, and bid you good-afternoon.  I have a rather pressing engagement—”

“My dear sir, you must please give me five minutes more.  I shall examine the boys in the Musical Bank Catechism.”  He pointed to one of them and said, “Repeat your duty towards your neighbour.”

“My duty towards my neighbour,” said the boy, “is to be quite sure that he is not likely to borrow money of me before I let him speak to me at all, and then to have as little to do with him as—”

At this point there was a loud ring at the door bell.  “Hanky and Panky come to see me, no doubt,” said Mr. Turvey.  “I do hope it is so.  You must stay and see them.”

“My dear sir,” said my father, putting his handkerchief up to his face, “I am taken suddenly unwell and must positively leave you.”  He said this in so peremptory a tone that Mr. Turvey had to yield.  My father held his handkerchief to his face as he went through the passage and hall, but when the servant opened the door he took it down, for there was no Hanky or Panky—no one, in fact, but a poor, wizened old man who had come, as he did every other Saturday afternoon, to wind up the Deformatory clocks.

Nevertheless, he had been scared, and was in a very wicked-fleeth-when-no-man-pursueth frame of mind.  He went to his inn, and shut himself up in his room for some time, taking notes of all that had happened to him in the last three days.  But even at his inn he no longer felt safe.  How did he know but that Hanky and Panky might have driven over from Sunch’ston to see Mr. Turvey, and might put up at this very house? or they might even be going to spend the night here.  He did not venture out of his room till after seven by which time he had made rough notes of as much of the foregoing chapters as had come to his knowledge so far.  Much of what I have told as nearly as I could in the order in which it happened, he did not learn till later.  After giving the merest outline of his interview with Mr. Turvey, he wrote a note as follows:—“I suppose I must have held forth about the greatest happiness of the greatest number, but I had quite forgotten it, though I remember repeatedly quoting my favourite proverb, ‘Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.’  To this they have paid no attention.”

By seven his panic about Hanky and Panky ended, for if they had not come by this time, they were not likely to do so.  Not knowing that they were staying at the Mayor’s, he had rather settled it that they would now stroll up to the place where they had left their hoard and bring it down as soon as night had fallen.  And it is quite possible that they might have found some excuse for doing this, when dinner was over, if their hostess had not undesignedly hindered them by telling them about the Sunchild.  When the conversation recorded in the preceding chapter was over, it was too late for them to make any plausible excuse for leaving the house; we may be sure, therefore, that much more had been said than Yram and George were able to remember and report to my father.

After another stroll about Fairmead, during which he saw nothing but what on a larger scale he had already seen at Sunch’ston, he returned to his inn at about half-past eight, and ordered supper in a public room that corresponded with the coffee-room of an English hotel.

CHAPTER XIV: MY FATHER MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MR. BALMY, AND WALKS WITH HIM NEXT DAY TO SUNCH’STON

Up to this point, though he had seen enough to shew him the main drift of the great changes that had taken place in Erewhonian opinions, my father had not been able to glean much about the history of the transformation.  He could see that it had all grown out of the supposed miracle of his balloon ascent, and he could understand that the ignorant masses had been so astounded by an event so contrary to all their experience, that their faith in experience was utterly routed and demoralised.  If a man and a woman might rise from the earth and disappear into the sky, what else might not happen?  If they had been wrong in thinking such a thing impossible, in how much else might they not be mistaken also?  The ground was shaken under their very feet.

It was not as though the thing had been done in a corner.  Hundreds of people had seen the ascent; and even if only a small number had been present, the disappearance of the balloon, of my mother, and of my father himself, would have confirmed their story.  My father, then, could understand that a single incontrovertible miracle of the first magnitude should uproot the hedges of caution in the minds of the common people, but he could not understand how such men as Hanky and Panky, who evidently did not believe that there had been any miracle at all, had been led to throw themselves so energetically into a movement so subversive of all their traditions, when, as it seemed to him, if they had held out they might have pricked the balloon bubble easily enough, and maintained everything in statu quo.

How, again, had they converted the King—if they had converted him?  The Queen had had full knowledge of all the preparations for the ascent.  The King had had everything explained to him.  The workmen and workwomen who had made the balloon and the gas could testify that none but natural means had been made use of—means which, if again employed any number of times, would effect a like result.  How could it be that when the means of resistance were so ample and so easy, the movement should nevertheless have been irresistible?  For had it not been irresistible, was it to be believed that astute men like Hanky and Panky would have let themselves be drawn into it?

What then had been its inner history?  My father had so fully determined to make his way back on the following evening, that he saw no chance of getting to know the facts—unless, indeed, he should be able to learn something from Hanky’s sermon; he was therefore not sorry to find an elderly gentleman of grave but kindly aspect seated opposite to him when he sat down to supper.

The expression on this man’s face was much like that of the early Christians as shewn in the S. Giovanni Laterano bas-reliefs at Rome, and again, though less aggressively self-confident, like that on the faces of those who have joined the Salvation Army.  If he had been in England, my father would have set him down as a Swedenborgian; this being impossible, he could only note that the stranger bowed his head, evidently saying a short grace before he began to eat, as my father had always done when he was in Erewhon before.  I will not say that my father had never omitted to say grace during the whole of the last twenty years, but he said it now, and unfortunately forgetting himself, he said it in the English language, not loud, but nevertheless audibly.

My father was alarmed at what he had done, but there was no need, for the stranger immediately said, “I hear, sir, that you have the gift of tongues.  The Sunchild often mentioned it to us, as having been vouchsafed long since to certain of the people, to whom, for our learning, he saw fit to feign that he belonged.  He thus foreshadowed prophetically its manifestation also among ourselves.  All which, however, you must know as well as I do.  Can you interpret?”

My father was much shocked, but he remembered having frequently spoken of the power of speaking in unknown tongues which was possessed by many of the early Christians, and he also remembered that in times of high religious enthusiasm this power had repeatedly been imparted, or supposed to be imparted, to devout believers in the middle ages.  It grated upon him to deceive one who was so obviously sincere, but to avoid immediate discomfiture he fell in with what the stranger had said.

“Alas! sir,” said he, “that rarer and more precious gift has been withheld from me; nor can I speak in an unknown tongue, unless as it is borne in upon me at the moment.  I could not even repeat the words that have just fallen from me.”

“That,” replied the stranger, “is almost invariably the case.  These illuminations of the spirit are beyond human control.  You spoke in so low a tone that I cannot interpret what you have just said, but should you receive a second inspiration later, I shall doubtless be able to interpret it for you.  I have been singularly gifted in this respect—more so, perhaps, than any other interpreter in Erewhon.”

My father mentally vowed that no second inspiration should be vouchsafed to him, but presently remembering how anxious he was for information on the points touched upon at the beginning of this chapter, and seeing that fortune had sent him the kind of man who would be able to enlighten him, he changed his mind; nothing, he reflected, would be more likely to make the stranger talk freely with him, than the affording him an opportunity for showing off his skill as an interpreter.

Something, therefore, he would say, but what?  No one could talk more freely when the train of his thoughts, or the conversation of others, gave him his cue, but when told to say an unattached “something,” he could not even think of “How do you do this morning? it is a very fine day;” and the more he cudgelled his brains for “something,” the more they gave no response.  He could not even converse further with the stranger beyond plain “yes” and “no”; so he went on with his supper, and in thinking of what he was eating and drinking for the moment forgot to ransack his brain.  No sooner had he left off ransacking it, than it suggested something—not, indeed, a very brilliant something, but still something.  On having grasped it, he laid down his knife and fork, and with the air of one distraught he said—

“My name is Norval, on the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flock—a frugal swain.”

“I heard you,” exclaimed the stranger, “and I can interpret every word of what you have said, but it would not become me to do so, for you have conveyed to me a message more comforting than I can bring myself to repeat even to him who has conveyed it.”

Having said this he bowed his head, and remained for some time wrapped in meditation.  My father kept a respectful silence, but after a little time he ventured to say in a low tone, how glad he was to have been the medium through whom a comforting assurance had been conveyed.  Presently, on finding himself encouraged to renew the conversation, he threw out a deferential feeler as to the causes that might have induced Mr. Balmy to come to Fairmead.  “Perhaps,” he said, “you, like myself, have come to these parts in order to see the dedication of the new temple; I could not get a lodging in Sunch’ston, so I walked down here this morning.”

This, it seemed, had been Mr. Balmy’s own case, except that he had not yet been to Sunch’ston.  Having heard that it was full to overflowing, he had determined to pass the night at Fairmead, and walk over in the morning—starting soon after seven, so as to arrive in good time for the dedication ceremony.  When my father heard this, he proposed that they should walk together, to which Mr. Balmy gladly consented; it was therefore arranged that they should go to bed early, breakfast soon after six, and then walk to Sunch’ston.  My father then went to his own room, where he again smoked a surreptitious pipe up the chimney.

Next morning the two men breakfasted together, and set out as the clock was striking seven.  The day was lovely beyond the power of words, and still fresh—for Fairmead was some 2500 feet above the sea, and the sun did not get above the mountains that overhung it on the east side, till after eight o’clock.  Many persons were also starting for Sunch’ston, and there was a procession got up by the Musical Bank Managers of the town, who walked in it, robed in rich dresses of scarlet and white embroidered with much gold thread.  There was a banner displaying an open chariot in which the Sunchild and his bride were seated, beaming with smiles, and in attitudes suggesting that they were bowing to people who were below them.  The chariot was, of course, drawn by the four black and white horses of which the reader has already heard, and the balloon had been ignored.  Readers of my father’s book will perhaps remember that my mother was not seen at all—she was smuggled into the car of the balloon along with sundry rugs, under which she lay concealed till the balloon had left the earth.  All this went for nothing.  It has been said that though God cannot alter the past, historians can; it is perhaps because they can be useful to Him in this respect that He tolerates their existence.  Painters, my father now realised, can do all that historians can, with even greater effect.

Women headed the procession—the younger ones dressed in white, with veils and chaplets of roses, blue cornflower, and pheasant’s eye Narcissus, while the older women were more soberly attired.  The Bank Managers and the banner headed the men, who were mostly peasants, but among them were a few who seemed to be of higher rank, and these, for the most part, though by no means all of them, wore their clothes reversed—as I have forgotten to say was done also by Mr. Balmy.  Both men and women joined in singing a litany the words of which my father could not catch; the tune was one he had been used to play on his apology for a flute when he was in prison, being, in fact, none other than “Home, Sweet Home.”  There was no harmony; they never got beyond the first four bars, but these they must have repeated, my father thought, at least a hundred times between Fairmead and Sunch’ston.  “Well,” said he to himself, “however little else I may have taught them, I at any rate gave them the diatonic scale.”

He now set himself to exploit his fellow-traveller, for they soon got past the procession.

“The greatest miracle,” said he, “in connection with this whole matter, has been—so at least it seems to me—not the ascent of the Sunchild with his bride, but the readiness with which the people generally acknowledged its miraculous character.  I was one of those that witnessed the ascent, but I saw no signs that the crowd appreciated its significance.  They were astounded, but they did not fall down and worship.”

“Ah,” said the other, “but you forget the long drought and the rain that the Sunchild immediately prevailed on the air-god to send us.  He had announced himself as about to procure it for us; it was on this ground that the King assented to the preparation of those material means that were necessary before the horses of the sun could attach themselves to the chariot into which the balloon was immediately transformed.  Those horses might not be defiled by contact with this gross earth.  I too witnessed the ascent; at the moment, I grant you, I saw neither chariot nor horses, and almost all those present shared my own temporary blindness; the whole action from the moment when the balloon left the earth, moved so rapidly, that we were flustered, and hardly knew what it was that we were really seeing.  It was not till two or three years later that I found the scene presenting itself to my soul’s imaginary sight in the full splendour which was no doubt witnessed, but not apprehended, by my bodily vision.”

“There,” said my father, “you confirm an opinion that I have long held.—Nothing is so misleading as the testimony of eye-witnesses.”

“A spiritual enlightenment from within,” returned Mr. Balmy, “is more to be relied on than any merely physical affluence from external objects.  Now, when I shut my eyes, I see the balloon ascend a little way, but almost immediately the heavens open, the horses descend, the balloon is transformed, and the glorious pageant careers onward till it vanishes into the heaven of heavens.  Hundreds with whom I have conversed assure me that their experience has been the same as mine.  Has yours been different?”

“Oh no, not at all; but I always see some storks circling round the balloon before I see any horses.”

“How strange!  I have heard others also say that they saw the storks you mention; but let me do my utmost I cannot force them into my mental image of the scene.  This shows, as you were saying just now, how incomplete the testimony of an eye-witness often is.  It is quite possible that the storks were there, but the horses and the chariot have impressed themselves more vividly on my mind than anything else has.”

“Quite so; and I am not without hope that even at this late hour some further details may yet be revealed to us.”

“It is possible, but we should be as cautious in accepting any fresh details as in rejecting them.  Should some heresy obtain wide acceptance, visions will perhaps be granted to us that may be useful in refuting it, but otherwise I expect nothing more.”

“Neither do I, but I have heard people say that inasmuch as the Sunchild said he was going to interview the air-god in order to send us rain, he was more probably son to the air-god than to the sun.  Now here is a heresy which—”

“But, my dear sir,” said Mr. Balmy, interrupting him with great warmth, “he spoke of his father in heaven as endowed with attributes far exceeding any that can be conceivably ascribed to the air-god.  The power of the air-god does not extend beyond our own atmosphere.”

“Pray believe me,” said my father, who saw by the ecstatic gleam in his companion’s eye that there was nothing to be done but to agree with him, “that I accept—”

“Hear me to the end,” replied Mr. Balmy.  “Who ever heard the Sunchild claim relationship with the air-god?  He could command the air-god, and evidently did so, halting no doubt for this beneficent purpose on his journey towards his ultimate destination.  Can we suppose that the air-god, who had evidently intended withholding the rain from us for an indefinite period, should have so immediately relinquished his designs against us at the intervention of any less exalted personage than the sun’s own offspring?  Impossible!”

“I quite agree with you,” exclaimed my father, “it is out of the—”

“Let me finish what I have to say.  When the rain came so copiously for days, even those who had not seen the miraculous ascent found its consequences come so directly home to them, that they had no difficulty in accepting the report of others.  There was not a farmer or cottager in the land but heaved a sigh of relief at rescue from impending ruin, and they all knew it was the Sunchild who had promised the King that he would make the air-god send it.  So abundantly, you will remember, did it come, that we had to pray to him to stop it, which in his own good time he was pleased to do.”

“I remember,” said my father, who was at last able to edge in a word, “that it nearly flooded me out of house and home.  And yet, in spite of all this, I hear that there are many at Bridgeford who are still hardened unbelievers.”

“Alas! you speak too truly.  Bridgeford and the Musical Banks for the first three years fought tooth and nail to blind those whom it was their first duty to enlighten.  I was a Professor of the hypothetical language, and you may perhaps remember how I was driven from my chair on account of the fearlessness with which I expounded the deeper mysteries of Sunchildism.”

“Yes, I remember well how cruelly—” but my father was not allowed to get beyond “cruelly.”

“It was I who explained why the Sunchild had represented himself as belonging to a people in many respects analogous to our own, when no such people can have existed.  It was I who detected that the supposed nation spoken of by the Sunchild was an invention designed in order to give us instruction by the light of which we might more easily remodel our institutions.  I have sometimes thought that my gift of interpretation was vouchsafed to me in recognition of the humble services that I was hereby allowed to render.  By the way, you have received no illumination this morning, have you?”

“I never do, sir, when I am in the company of one whose conversation I find supremely interesting.  But you were telling me about Bridgeford: I live hundreds of miles from Bridgeford, and have never understood the suddenness, and completeness, with which men like Professors Hanky and Panky and Dr. Downie changed front.  Do they believe as you and I do, or did they merely go with the times?  I spent a couple of hours with Hanky and Panky only two evenings ago, and was not so much impressed as I could have wished with the depth of their religious fervour.”

“They are sincere now—more especially Hanky—but I cannot think I am judging them harshly, if I say that they were not so at first.  Even now, I fear, that they are more carnally than spiritually minded.  See how they have fought for the aggrandisement of their own order.  It is mainly their doing that the Musical Banks have usurped the spiritual authority formerly exercised by the straighteners.”

“But the straighteners,” said my father, “could not co-exist with Sunchildism, and it is hard to see how the claims of the Banks can be reasonably gainsaid.”

“Perhaps; and after all the Banks are our main bulwark against the evils that I fear will follow from the repeal of the laws against machinery.  This has already led to the development of a materialism which minimizes the miraculous element in the Sunchild’s ascent, as our own people minimize the material means that were the necessary prologue to the miraculous.”

Thus did they converse; but I will not pursue their conversation further.  It will be enough to say that in further floods of talk Mr. Balmy confirmed what George had said about the Banks having lost their hold upon the masses.  That hold was weak even in the time of my father’s first visit; but when the people saw the hostility of the Banks to a movement which far the greater number of them accepted, it seemed as though both Bridgeford and the Banks were doomed, for Bridgeford was heart and soul with the Banks.  Hanky, it appeared, though under thirty, and not yet a Professor, grasped the situation, and saw that Bridgeford must either move with the times, or go.  He consulted some of the most sagacious Heads of Houses and Professors, with the result that a committee of enquiry was appointed, which in due course reported that the evidence for the Sunchild’s having been the only child of the sun was conclusive.  It was about this time—that is to say some three years after his ascent—that “Higgsism,” as it had been hitherto called, became “Sunchildism,” and “Higgs” the “Sunchild.”

My father also learned the King’s fury at his escape (for he would call it nothing else) with my mother.  This was so great that though he had hitherto been, and had ever since proved himself to be, a humane ruler, he ordered the instant execution of all who had been concerned in making either the gas or the balloon; and his cruel orders were carried out within a couple of hours.  At the same time he ordered the destruction by fire of the Queen’s workshops, and of all remnants of any materials used in making the balloon.  It is said the Queen was so much grieved and outraged (for it was her doing that the material ground-work, so to speak, had been provided for the miracle) that she wept night and day without ceasing three whole months, and never again allowed her husband to embrace her, till he had also embraced Sunchildism.

When the rain came, public indignation at the King’s action was raised almost to revolution pitch, and the King was frightened at once by the arrival of the promised downfall and the displeasure of his subjects.  But he still held out, and it was only after concessions on the part of the Bridgeford committee, that he at last consented to the absorption of Sunchildism into the Musical Bank system, and to its establishment as the religion of the country.  The far-reaching changes in Erewhonian institutions with which the reader is already acquainted followed as a matter of course.

“I know the difficulty,” said my father presently, “with which the King was persuaded to allow the way in which the Sunchild’s dress should be worn to be a matter of opinion, not dogma.  I see we have adopted different fashions.  Have you any decided opinions upon the subject?”

“I have; but I will ask you not to press me for them.  Let this matter remain as the King has left it.”

My father thought that he might now venture on a shot.  So he said, “I have always understood, too, that the King forced the repeal of the laws against machinery on the Bridgeford committee, as another condition of his assent?”

“Certainly.  He insisted on this, partly to gratify the Queen, who had not yet forgiven him, and who had set her heart on having a watch, and partly because he expected that a development of the country’s resources, in consequence of a freer use of machinery, would bring more money into his exchequer.  Bridgeford fought hard and wisely here, but they had gained so much by the Musical Bank Managers being recognised as the authorised exponents of Sunchildism, that they thought it wise to yield—apparently with a good grace—and thus gild the pill which his Majesty was about to swallow.  But even then they feared the consequences that are already beginning to appear, all which, if I mistake not, will assume far more serious proportions in the future.”

“See,” said my father suddenly, “we are coming to another procession, and they have got some banners, let us walk a little quicker and overtake it.”

“Horrible!” replied Mr. Balmy fiercely.  “You must be short-sighted, or you could never have called my attention to it.  Let us get it behind us as fast as possible, and not so much as look at it.”

“Oh yes, yes,” said my father, “it is indeed horrible, I had not seen what it was.”

He had not the faintest idea what the matter was, but he let Mr. Balmy walk a little ahead of him, so that he could see the banners, the most important of which he found to display a balloon pure and simple, with one figure in the car.  True, at the top of the banner there was a smudge which might be taken for a little chariot, and some very little horses, but the balloon was the only thing insisted on.  As for the procession, it consisted entirely of men, whom a smaller banner announced to be workmen from the Fairmead iron and steel works.  There was a third banner, which said, “Science as well as Sunchildism.”

CHAPTER XV: THE TEMPLE IS DEDICATED TO MY FATHER, AND CERTAIN EXTRACTS ARE READ FROM HIS SUPPOSED SAYINGS

“It is enough to break one’s heart,” said Mr. Balmy when he had outstripped the procession, and my father was again beside him.  “‘As well as,’ indeed!  We know what that means.  Wherever there is a factory there is a hot-bed of unbelief.  ‘As well as’!  Why it is a defiance.”

“What, I wonder,” said my father innocently, “must the Sunchild’s feelings be, as he looks down on this procession.  For there can be little doubt that he is doing so.”

“There can be no doubt at all,” replied Mr. Balmy, “that he is taking note of it, and of all else that is happening this day in Erewhon.  Heaven grant that he be not so angered as to chastise the innocent as well as the guilty.”

“I doubt,” said my father, “his being so angry even with this procession, as you think he is.”

Here, fearing an outburst of indignation, he found an excuse for rapidly changing the conversation.  Moreover he was angry with himself for playing upon this poor good creature.  He had not done so of malice prepense; he had begun to deceive him, because he believed himself to be in danger if he spoke the truth; and though he knew the part to be an unworthy one, he could not escape from continuing to play it, if he was to discover things that he was not likely to discover otherwise.

Often, however, he had checked himself.  It had been on the tip of his tongue to be illuminated with the words,

Sukoh and Sukop were two pretty men,
They lay in bed till the clock struck ten,

and to follow it up with,

Now with the drops of this most Yknarc time
My love looks fresh,

in order to see how Mr. Balmy would interpret the assertion here made about the Professors, and what statement he would connect with his own Erewhonian name; but he had restrained himself.

The more he saw, and the more he heard, the more shocked he was at the mischief he had done.  See how he had unsettled the little mind this poor, dear, good gentleman had ever had, till he was now a mere slave to preconception.  And how many more had he not in like manner brought to the verge of idiocy?  How many again had he not made more corrupt than they were before, even though he had not deceived them—as for example, Hanky and Panky.  And the young? how could such a lie as that a chariot and four horses came down out of the clouds enter seriously into the life of any one, without distorting his mental vision, if not ruining it?

And yet, the more he reflected, the more he also saw that he could do no good by saying who he was.  Matters had gone so far that though he spoke with the tongues of men and angels he would not be listened to; and even if he were, it might easily prove that he had added harm to that which he had done already.  No.  As soon as he had heard Hanky’s sermon, he would begin to work his way back, and if the Professors had not yet removed their purchase, he would recover it; but he would pin a bag containing about five pounds worth of nuggets on to the tree in which they had hidden it, and, if possible, he would find some way of sending the rest to George.

He let Mr. Balmy continue talking, glad that this gentleman required little more than monosyllabic answers, and still more glad, in spite of some agitation, to see that they were now nearing Sunch’ston, towards which a great concourse of people was hurrying from Clearwater, and more distant towns on the main road.  Many whole families were coming,—the fathers and mothers carrying the smaller children, and also their own shoes and stockings, which they would put on when nearing the town.  Most of the pilgrims brought provisions with them.  All wore European costumes, but only a few of them wore it reversed, and these were almost invariably of higher social status than the great body of the people, who were mainly peasants.

When they reached the town, my father was relieved at finding that Mr. Balmy had friends on whom he wished to call before going to the temple.  He asked my father to come with him, but my father said that he too had friends, and would leave him for the present, while hoping to meet him again later in the day.  The two, therefore, shook hands with great effusion, and went their several ways.  My father’s way took him first into a confectioner’s shop, where he bought a couple of Sunchild buns, which he put into his pocket, and refreshed himself with a bottle of Sunchild cordial and water.  All shops except those dealing in refreshments were closed, and the town was gaily decorated with flags and flowers, often festooned into words or emblems proper for the occasion.

My father, it being now a quarter to eleven, made his way towards the temple, and his heart was clouded with care as he walked along.  Not only was his heart clouded, but his brain also was oppressed, and he reeled so much on leaving the confectioner’s shop, that he had to catch hold of some railings till the faintness and giddiness left him.  He knew the feeling to be the same as what he had felt on the Friday evening, but he had no idea of the cause, and as soon as the giddiness left him he thought there was nothing the matter with him.

Turning down a side street that led into the main square of the town, he found himself opposite the south end of the temple, with its two lofty towers that flanked the richly decorated main entrance.  I will not attempt to describe the architecture, for my father could give me little information on this point.  He only saw the south front for two or three minutes, and was not impressed by it, save in so far as it was richly ornamented—evidently at great expense—and very large.  Even if he had had a longer look, I doubt whether I should have got more out of him, for he knew nothing of architecture, and I fear his test whether a building was good or bad, was whether it looked old and weather-beaten or no.  No matter what a building was, if it was three or four hundred years old he liked it, whereas, if it was new, he would look to nothing but whether it kept the rain out.  Indeed I have heard him say that the mediaeval sculpture on some of our great cathedrals often only pleases us because time and weather have set their seals upon it, and that if we could see it as it was when it left the mason’s hands, we should find it no better than much that is now turned out in the Euston Road.

The ground plan here given will help the reader to understand the few following pages more easily.

a.  Table with cashier’s seat on either side, and alms-box in front.  The picture is exhibited on a scaffolding behind it.

b.  The reliquary.

c.  The President’s chair.

d.  Pulpit and lectern.

i.  Yram’s seat.

k.  Seats of George and the Sunchild.

o’  Pillars.

A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, blocks of seats.

I.  Steps leading from the apse to the nave.

K and L.  Towers.

M.  Steps and main entrance.

N.  Robing-room.

The building was led up to by a flight of steps (M), and on entering it my father found it to consist of a spacious nave, with two aisles and an apse which was raised some three feet above the nave and aisles.  There were no transepts.  In the apse there was the table (a), with the two bowls of Musical Bank money mentioned on an earlier page, as also the alms-box in front of it.

At some little distance in front of the table stood the President’s chair (c), or I might almost call it throne.  It was so placed that his back would be turned towards the table, which fact again shews that the table was not regarded as having any greater sanctity than the rest of the temple.

Behind the table, the picture already spoken of was raised aloft.  There was no balloon; some clouds that hung about the lower part of the chariot served to conceal the fact that the painter was uncertain whether it ought to have wheels or no.  The horses were without driver, and my father thought that some one ought to have had them in hand, for they were in far too excited a state to be left safely to themselves.  They had hardly any harness, but what little there was was enriched with gold bosses.  My mother was in Erewhonian costume, my father in European, but he wore his clothes reversed.  Both he and my mother seemed to be bowing graciously to an unseen crowd beneath them, and in the distance, near the bottom of the picture, was a fairly accurate representation of the Sunch’ston new temple.  High up, on the right hand, was a disc, raised and gilt, to represent the sun; on it, in low relief, there was an indication of a gorgeous palace, in which, no doubt, the sun was supposed to live; though how they made it all out my father could not conceive.

On the right of the table there was a reliquary (b) of glass, much adorned with gold, or more probably gilding, for gold was so scarce in Erewhon that gilding would be as expensive as a thin plate of gold would be in Europe: but there is no knowing.  The reliquary was attached to a portable stand some five feet high, and inside it was the relic already referred to.  The crowd was so great that my father could not get near enough to see what it contained, but I may say here, that when, two days later, circumstances compelled him to have a close look at it, he saw that it consisted of about a dozen fine coprolites, deposited by some antediluvian creature or creatures, which, whatever else they may have been, were certainly not horses.

In the apse there were a few cross benches (G and H) on either side, with an open space between them, which was partly occupied by the President’s seat already mentioned.  Those on the right, as one looked towards the apse, were for the Managers and Cashiers of the Bank, while those on the left were for their wives and daughters.

In the centre of the nave, only a few feet in front of the steps leading to the apse, was a handsome pulpit and lectern (d).  The pulpit was raised some feet above the ground, and was so roomy that the preacher could walk about in it.  On either side of it there were cross benches with backs (E and F); those on the right were reserved for the Mayor, civic functionaries, and distinguished visitors, while those on the left were for their wives and daughters.

Benches with backs (A, B, C, D) were placed about half-way down both nave and aisles—those in the nave being divided so as to allow a free passage between them.  The rest of the temple was open space, about which people might walk at their will.  There were side doors (e, j, and f, h) at the upper and lower end of each aisle.  Over the main entrance was a gallery in which singers were placed.

As my father was worming his way among the crowd, which was now very dense, he was startled at finding himself tapped lightly on the shoulder, and turning round in alarm was confronted by the beaming face of George.

“How do you do, Professor Panky?” said the youth—who had decided thus to address him.  “What are you doing here among the common people?  Why have you not taken your place in one of the seats reserved for our distinguished visitors?  I am afraid they must be all full by this time, but I will see what I can do for you.  Come with me.”

“Thank you,” said my father.  His heart beat so fast that this was all he could say, and he followed meek as a lamb.

With some difficulty the two made their way to the right-hand corner seats of block C, for every seat in the reserved block was taken.  The places which George wanted for my father and for himself were already occupied by two young men of about eighteen and nineteen, both of them well-grown, and of prepossessing appearance.  My father saw by the truncheons they carried that they were special constables, but he took no notice of this, for there were many others scattered about the crowd.  George whispered a few words to one of them, and to my father’s surprise they both gave up their seats, which appear on the plan as (k).

It afterwards transpired that these two young men were George’s brothers, who by his desire had taken the seats some hours ago, for it was here that George had determined to place himself and my father if he could find him.  He chose these places because they would be near enough to let his mother (who was at i, in the middle of the front row of block E, to the left of the pulpit) see my father without being so near as to embarrass him; he could also see and be seen by Hanky, and hear every word of his sermon; but perhaps his chief reason had been the fact that they were not far from the side-door at the upper end of the right-hand aisle, while there was no barrier to interrupt rapid egress should this prove necessary.

It was now high time that they should sit down, which they accordingly did.  George sat at the end of the bench, and thus had my father on his left.  My father was rather uncomfortable at seeing the young men whom they had turned out, standing against a column close by, but George said that this was how it was to be, and there was nothing to be done but to submit.  The young men seemed quite happy, which puzzled my father, who of course had no idea that their action was preconcerted.

Panky was in the first row of block F, so that my father could not see his face except sometimes when he turned round.  He was sitting on the Mayor’s right hand, while Dr. Downie was on his left; he looked at my father once or twice in a puzzled way, as though he ought to have known him, but my father did not think he recognised him.  Hanky was still with President Gurgoyle and others in the robing-room, N; Yram had already taken her seat: my father knew her in a moment, though he pretended not to do so when George pointed her out to him.  Their eyes met for a second; Yram turned hers quickly away, and my father could not see a trace of recognition in her face.  At no time during the whole ceremony did he catch her looking at him again.

“Why, you stupid man,” she said to him later on in the day with a quick, kindly smile, “I was looking at you all the time.  As soon as the President or Hanky began to talk about you I knew you would stare at him, and then I could look.  As soon as they left off talking about you I knew you would be looking at me, unless you went to sleep—and as I did not know which you might be doing, I waited till they began to talk about you again.”

My father had hardly taken note of his surroundings when the choir began singing, accompanied by a few feeble flutes and lutes, or whatever the name of the instrument should be, but with no violins, for he knew nothing of the violin, and had not been able to teach the Erewhonians anything about it.  The voices were all in unison, and the tune they sang was one which my father had taught Yram to sing; but he could not catch the words.

As soon as the singing began, a procession, headed by the venerable Dr. Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks of the province, began to issue from the robing-room, and move towards the middle of the apse.  The President was sumptuously dressed, but he wore no mitre, nor anything to suggest an English or European Bishop.  The Vice-President, Head Manager, Vice-Manager, and some Cashiers of the Bank, now ranged themselves on either side of him, and formed an impressive group as they stood, gorgeously arrayed, at the top of the steps leading from the apse to the nave.  Here they waited till the singers left off singing.

When the litany, or hymn, or whatever it should be called, was over, the Head Manager left the President’s side and came down to the lectern in the nave, where he announced himself as about to read some passages from the Sunchild’s Sayings.  Perhaps because it was the first day of the year according to their new calendar, the reading began with the first chapter, the whole of which was read.  My father told me that he quite well remembered having said the last verse, which he still held as true; hardly a word of the rest was ever spoken by him, though he recognised his own influence in almost all of it.  The reader paused, with good effect, for about five seconds between each paragraph, and read slowly and very clearly.  The chapter was as follows:-

These are the words of the Sunchild about God and man.  He said—

1.  God is the baseless basis of all thoughts, things, and deeds.

2.  So that those who say that there is a God, lie, unless they also mean that there is no God; and those who say that there is no God, lie, unless they also mean that there is a God.

3.  It is very true to say that man is made after the likeness of God; and yet it is very untrue to say this.

4.  God lives and moves in every atom throughout the universe.  Therefore it is wrong to think of Him as ‘Him’ and ‘He,’ save as by the clutching of a drowning man at a straw.

5.  God is God to us only so long as we cannot see Him.  When we are near to seeing Him He vanishes, and we behold Nature in His stead.

6.  We approach Him most nearly when we think of Him as our expression for Man’s highest conception, of goodness, wisdom, and power.  But we cannot rise to Him above the level of our own highest selves.

7.  We remove ourselves most far from Him when we invest Him with human form and attributes.

8.  My father the sun, the earth, the moon, and all planets that roll round my father, are to God but as a single cell in our bodies to ourselves.

9.  He is as much above my father, as my father is above men and women.

10.  The universe is instinct with the mind of God.  The mind of God is in all that has mind throughout all worlds.  There is no God but the Universe, and man, in this world is His prophet.

11.  God’s conscious life, nascent, so far as this world is concerned, in the infusoria, adolescent in the higher mammals, approaches maturity on this earth in man.  All these living beings are members one of another, and of God.

12.  Therefore, as man cannot live without God in the world, so neither can God live in this world without mankind.

13.  If we speak ill of God in our ignorance it may be forgiven us; but if we speak ill of His Holy Spirit indwelling in good men and women it may not be forgiven us.

The Head Manager now resumed his place by President Gurgoyle’s side, and the President in the name of his Majesty the King declared the temple to be hereby dedicated to the contemplation of the Sunchild and the better exposition of his teaching.  This was all that was said.  The reliquary was then brought forward and placed at the top of the steps leading from the apse to the nave; but the original intention of carrying it round the temple was abandoned for fear of accidents through the pressure round it of the enormous multitudes who were assembled.  More singing followed of a simple but impressive kind; during this I am afraid I must own that my father, tired with his walk, dropped off into a refreshing slumber, from which he did not wake till George nudged him and told him not to snore, just as the Vice-Manager was going towards the lectern to read another chapter of the Sunchild’s Sayings—which was as follows:-

The Sunchild also spoke to us a parable about the unwisdom of the children yet unborn, who though they know so much, yet do not know as much as they think they do.

He said:-

“The unborn have knowledge of one another so long as they are unborn, and this without impediment from walls or material obstacles.  The unborn children in any city form a population apart, who talk with one another and tell each other about their developmental progress.

“They have no knowledge, and cannot even conceive the existence of anything that is not such as they are themselves.  Those who have been born are to them what the dead are to us.  They can see no life in them, and know no more about them than they do of any stage in their own past development other than the one through which they are passing at the moment.  They do not even know that their mothers are alive—much less that their mothers were once as they now are.  To an embryo, its mother is simply the environment, and is looked upon much as our inorganic surroundings are by ourselves.

“The great terror of their lives is the fear of birth,—that they shall have to leave the only thing that they can think of as life, and enter upon a dark unknown which is to them tantamount to annihilation.

“Some, indeed, among them have maintained that birth is not the death which they commonly deem it, but that there is a life beyond the womb of which they as yet know nothing, and which is a million fold more truly life than anything they have yet been able even to imagine.  But the greater number shake their yet unfashioned heads and say they have no evidence for this that will stand a moment’s examination.

“‘Nay,’ answer the others, ‘so much work, so elaborate, so wondrous as that whereon we are now so busily engaged must have a purpose, though the purpose is beyond our grasp.’

“‘Never,’ reply the first speakers; ‘our pleasure in the work is sufficient justification for it.  Who has ever partaken of this life you speak of, and re-entered into the womb to tell us of it?  Granted that some few have pretended to have done this, but how completely have their stories broken down when subjected to the tests of sober criticism.  No.  When we are born we are born, and there is an end of us.’

“But in the hour of birth, when they can no longer re-enter the womb and tell the others, Behold! they find that it is not so.”

Here the reader again closed his book and resumed his place in the apse.

CHAPTER XVI: PROFESSOR HANKY PREACHES A SERMON, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH MY FATHER DECLARES HIMSELF TO BE THE SUNCHILD

Professor Hanky then went up into the pulpit, richly but soberly robed in vestments the exact nature of which I cannot determine.  His carriage was dignified, and the harsh lines on his face gave it a strong individuality, which, though it did not attract, conveyed an impression of power that could not fail to interest.  As soon as he had given attention time to fix itself upon him, he began his sermon without text or preliminary matter of any kind, and apparently without notes.

He spoke clearly and very quietly, especially at the beginning; he used action whenever it could point his meaning, or give it life and colour, but there was no approach to staginess or even oratorical display.  In fact, he spoke as one who meant what he was saying, and desired that his hearers should accept his meaning, fully confident in his good faith.  His use of pause was effective.  After the word “mistake,” at the end of the opening sentence, he held up his half-bent hand and paused for full three seconds, looking intently at his audience as he did so.  Every one felt the idea to be here enounced that was to dominate the sermon.

The sermon—so much of it as I can find room for—was as follows:-

“My friends, let there be no mistake.  At such a time, as this, it is well we should look back upon the path by which we have travelled, and forward to the goal towards which we are tending.  As it was necessary that the material foundations of this building should be so sure that there shall be no subsidence in the superstructure, so is it not less necessary to ensure that there shall be no subsidence in the immaterial structure that we have raised in consequence of the Sunchild’s sojourn among us.  Therefore, my friends, I again say, ‘Let there be no mistake.’  Each stone that goes towards the uprearing of this visible fane, each human soul that does its part in building the invisible temple of our national faith, is bearing witness to, and lending its support to, that which is either the truth of truths, or the baseless fabric of a dream.

“My friends, this is the only possible alternative.  He in whose name we are here assembled, is either worthy of more reverential honour than we can ever pay him, or he is worthy of no more honour than any other honourable man among ourselves.  There can be no halting between these two opinions.  The question of questions is, was he the child of the tutelary god of this world—the sun, and is it to the palace of the sun that he returned when he left us, or was he, as some amongst us still do not hesitate to maintain, a mere man, escaping by unusual but strictly natural means to some part of this earth with which we are unacquainted.  My friends, either we are on a right path or on a very wrong one, and in a matter of such supreme importance—there must be no mistake.

“I need not remind those of you whose privilege it is to live in Sunch’ston, of the charm attendant on the Sunchild’s personal presence and conversation, nor of his quick sympathy, his keen intellect, his readiness to adapt himself to the capacities of all those who came to see him while he was in prison.  He adored children, and it was on them that some of his most conspicuous miracles were performed.  Many a time when a child had fallen and hurt itself, was he known to make the place well by simply kissing it.  Nor need I recall to your minds the spotless purity of his life—so spotless that not one breath of slander has ever dared to visit it.  I was one of the not very many who had the privilege of being admitted to the inner circle of his friends during the later weeks that he was amongst us.  I loved him dearly, and it will ever be the proudest recollection of my life that he deigned to return me no small measure of affection.”

My father, furious as he was at finding himself dragged into complicity with this man’s imposture, could not resist a smile at the effrontery with which he lowered his tone here, and appeared unwilling to dwell on an incident which he could not recall without being affected almost to tears, and mere allusion to which, had involved an apparent self-display that was above all things repugnant to him.  What a difference between the Hanky of Thursday evening with its “never set eyes on him and hope I never shall,” and the Hanky of Sunday morning, who now looked as modest as Cleopatra might have done had she been standing godmother to a little blue-eyed girl—Bellerophon’s first-born baby.

Having recovered from his natural, but promptly repressed, emotion, the Professor continued:-

“I need not remind you of the purpose for which so many of us, from so many parts of our kingdom, are here assembled.  We know what we have come hither to do: we are come each one of us to sign and seal by his presence the bond of his assent to those momentous changes, which have found their first great material expression in the temple that you see around you.

“You all know how, in accordance with the expressed will of the Sunchild, the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks began as soon as he had left us to examine, patiently, carefully, earnestly, and without bias of any kind, firstly the evidences in support of the Sunchild’s claim to be the son of the tutelar deity of this world, and secondly the precise nature of his instructions as regards the future position and authority of the Musical Banks.

“My friends, it is easy to understand why the Sunchild should have given us these instructions.  With that foresight which is the special characteristic of divine, as compared with human, wisdom, he desired that the evidences in support of his superhuman character should be collected, sifted, and placed on record, before anything was either lost through the death of those who could alone substantiate it, or unduly supplied through the enthusiasm of over-zealous visionaries.  The greater any true miracle has been, the more certainly will false ones accrete round it; here, then, we find the explanation of the command the Sunchild gave to us to gather, verify, and record, the facts of his sojourn here in Erewhon.  For above all things he held it necessary to ensure that there should be neither mistake, nor even possibility of mistake.

“Consider for a moment what differences of opinion would infallibly have arisen, if the evidences for the miraculous character of the Sunchild’s mission had been conflicting—if they had rested on versions each claiming to be equally authoritative, but each hopelessly irreconcilable on vital points with every single other.  What would future generations have said in answer to those who bade them fling all human experience to the winds, on the strength of records written they knew not certainly by whom, nor how long after the marvels that they recorded, and of which all that could be certainly said was that no two of them told the same story?

“Who that believes either in God or man—who with any self-respect, or respect for the gift of reason with which God had endowed him, either would, or could, believe that a chariot and four horses had come down from heaven, and gone back again with human or quasi-human occupants, unless the evidences for the fact left no loophole for escape?  If a single loophole were left him, he would be unpardonable, not for disbelieving the story, but for believing it.  The sin against God would lie not in want of faith, but in faith.

“My friends, there are two sins in matters of belief.  There is that of believing on too little evidence, and that of requiring too much before we are convinced.  The guilt of the latter is incurred, alas! by not a few amongst us at the present day, but if the testimony to the truth of the wondrous event so faithfully depicted on the picture that confronts you had been less contemporaneous, less authoritative, less unanimous, future generations—and it is for them that we should now provide—would be guilty of the first-named, and not less heinous sin if they believed at all.

“Small wonder, then, that the Sunchild, having come amongst us for our advantage, not his own, would not permit his beneficent designs to be endangered by the discrepancies, mythical developments, idiosyncracies, and a hundred other defects inevitably attendant on amateur and irresponsible recording.  Small wonder, then, that he should have chosen the officials of the Musical Banks, from the Presidents and Vice-Presidents downwards to be the authoritative exponents of his teaching, the depositaries of his traditions, and his representatives here on earth till he shall again see fit to visit us.  For he will come.  Nay it is even possible that he may be here amongst us at this very moment, disguised so that none may know him, and intent only on watching our devotion towards him.  If this be so, let me implore him, in the name of the sun his father, to reveal himself.”

Now Hanky had already given my father more than one look that had made him uneasy.  He had evidently recognised him as the supposed ranger of last Thursday evening.  Twice he had run his eye like a searchlight over the front benches opposite to him, and when the beam had reached my father there had been no more searching.  It was beginning to dawn upon my father that George might have discovered that he was not Professor Panky; was it for this reason that these two young special constables, though they gave up their places, still kept so close to him?  Was George only waiting his opportunity to arrest him—not of course even suspecting who he was—but as a foreign devil who had tried to pass himself off as Professor Panky?  Had this been the meaning of his having followed him to Fairmead?  And should he have to be thrown into the Blue Pool by George after all?  “It would serve me,” said he to himself, “richly right.”

These fears which had been taking shape for some few minutes were turned almost to certainties by the half-contemptuous glance Hanky threw towards him as he uttered what was obviously intended as a challenge.  He saw that all was over, and was starting to his feet to declare himself, and thus fall into the trap that Hanky was laying for him, when George gripped him tightly by the knee and whispered, “Don’t—you are in great danger.”  And he smiled kindly as he spoke.