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THE UNPOPULAR REVIEW

VOL. II, NO. 3

JULY-SEPTEMBER, 1914

Published Quarterly at 35 West 32d Street, New York, by

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

CONTENTS

Unsocial Investments A.S. Johnson
A Stubborn Relic of Feudalism The Editor
An Experiment in Syndicalism Hugh H. Lusk
Labor: "True Demand" and Immigrant Supply Arthur J. Todd
The Way to Flatland Fabian Franklin
The Disfranchisement of Property David McGregor Means
Railway Junctions Clayton Hamilton
Minor Uses of the Middling Rich F.J. Mather, Jr.
Lecturing at Chautauqua Clayton Hamilton
Academic Leadership Paul Elmer More
Hypnotism, Telepathy, and Dreams The Editor
The Muses on the Hearth Mrs F.G. Allinson
The Land of the Sleepless Watchdog David Starr Jordan
En Casserole
Special to our Readers–Philosophy in Fly Time–Setting Bounds
to Laughter (A.S. Johnson)–A Post-Graduate School for Academic
Donors (F.J. Mather, Jr.)–A Suggestion Regarding
Vacations–Advertisement–Simplified Spelling

UNSOCIAL INVESTMENTS

The "new social conscience" is essentially a class phenomenon. While it
pretends to the rôle of inner monitor and guide to conduct for all
mankind, it interprets good and evil in class terms. It manifests a
special solicitude for the welfare of one social group, and a mute
hostility toward another. Labor is its Esau, Capital its Jacob. Let strife
arise between workingmen and their employers, and you will see the new
social conscience aligning itself with the former, accepting at face value
all the claims of labor, reiterating all labor's formulæ. The suggestion
that judgment should be suspended until the facts at issue are established
is repudiated as the prompting of a secret sin. For, to paraphrase a
recent utterance of the _Survey_, one of the foremost organs of the new
conscience, is it not true that the workers are fighting for their
livings, while the employers are fighting only for their profits? It would
appear, then, that there can be no question as to the side to which
justice inclines. A living is more sacred than a profit.

It is virtually never true, however, that the workers are fighting for
their "living." Contrary to Marx's exploded "iron law" they probably had
that and more before the trouble began. But of course we would not wish to
restrict them to a living, if they can produce more, and want all who
can't produce that much to be provided with it–and something more at the
expense of others.

It may be urged that the employer's profits also represent the livings of
a number of human beings; but this passes nowadays for a reactionary view.
"We stand for man as against the dollar." If you say that the "dollar" is
metonymy for "the man possessed of a dollar," with rights to defend, and
reasonable expectations to be realized, you convict yourself of reaction.
"These gentry" (I quote from the May _Atlantic_) "suppose themselves to be
discussing the rights of man, when all they are discussing is the rights
of stockholders." The true view, the progressive view, is obviously that
the possessors of the dollar, the recipients of profits and dividends, are
excluded from the communion of humanity. Labor is mankind.

The present instance is of course not the only instance in human history
of the substitution of class criteria of judgment for social criteria.
Such manifestations of class conscience are doubtless justified in the
large economy of human affairs; an individual must often claim all in
order to gain anything, and the same may be true of a class. Besides, the
ultimate arbitration of the claims of the classes is not a matter for the
rational judgment. What is subject to rational analysis, however, are the
methods of gaining its ends proposed by the new social conscience. Of
these methods one of wide acceptance is that of fixing odium upon certain
property interests, with a view to depriving them immediately of the
respect still granted to property interests in general, and ultimately of
the protection of the laws. It is with the rationality of what may be
called the excommunication and outlawing of special property interests,
that the present paper is concerned.

In passing, it is worth noting that the same ethical spirit that insists
upon fixing the responsibility for social ills upon particular property
interests–or property owners–insists with equal vehemence upon absolving
the propertyless evil-doer from personal responsibility for his acts. The
Los Angeles dynamiters were but victims: the crime in which they were
implicated was institutional, not personal. Their punishment was rank
injustice; inexpedient, moreover, as provocative of further crime, instead
of a means of repression. On the other hand, when it appears that the
congestion of the slum produces vice and disease, we are not urged by the
spokesmen of this ethical creed, to blame the chain of institutional
causes typified by scarcity of land, high prices of building materials,
the incapacity of a raw immigrant population to pay for better
habitations, or to appreciate the need for light and air. Rather, we are
urged to fix responsibility upon the individual owner who receives rent
from slum tenements. Perhaps we can not imprison him for his misdeeds, but
we can make him an object of public reproach; expel him from social
intercourse (if that, so often talked about, is ever done); fasten his
iniquities upon him if ever he seeks a post of trust or honor; and
ultimately we can deprive him of his property. Let him and his anti-social
interests be forever excommunicate, outlawed.

II

In the country at large the property interests involved in the production
and sale of alcoholic beverages are already excommunicated. The unreformed
"best society" may still tolerate the presence of persons whose fortunes
are derived from breweries or distilleries; but the great mass of the
social-minded would deny them fire and water. In how many districts would
a well organized political machine urge persons thus enriched as
candidates for Congress, the bench or even the school board? In the
prohibition territory excommunication of such property interests has been
followed by outlawry. The saloon in Maine and Kansas exists by the same
title as did Robin Hood: the inefficiency of the law. On the road to
excommunication is private property in the wretched shacks that shelter
the city's poor. Outlawry is not far distant. "These tenements must go."
Will they go? Ask of the police, who pick over the wreckage upon the
subsidence of a wave of reform. Many a rookery, officially abolished, will
be found still tenanted, and yielding not one income, but two, one for the
owner and another for the police. The property represented by enterprises
paying low wages, working men for long hours or under unhealthful
conditions, or employing children, is almost ripe for excommunication.
Pillars of society and the church have already been seen tottering on
account of revelations of working conditions in factories from which they
receive dividends. Property "affected by a public use," that is,
investments in the instrumentalities of public service, is becoming a
compromising possession. We are already somewhat suspicious of the
personal integrity and political honor of those who receive their incomes
from railways or electric lighting plants; and the odor of gas stocks is
unmistakable. Even the land, once the retreat of high birth and serene
dignity, is beginning to exhale a miasma of corruption. "Enriched by
unearned increment"–who wishes such an epitaph? A convention is to be
held in a western city in this very year, to announce to the world that
the delegates and their constituencies–all honest lovers of mankind–will
refuse in future to recognize any private title to land or other natural
resources. Holders of such property, by continuing to be such, will place
themselves beyond the pale of human society, and will forfeit all claim to
sympathy when the day dawns for the universal confiscation of land.

III

The existence of categories of property interests resting under a growing
weight of social disapprobation, is giving rise to a series of problems in
private ethics that seem almost to demand a rehabilitation of the art of
casuistry. A very intelligent and conscientious lady of the writer's
acquaintance became possessed, by inheritance, of a one-fourth interest in
a Minneapolis building the ground floor of which is occupied by a saloon.
Her first endeavor was to persuade her partners to secure a cancellation
of the liquor dealer's lease. This they refused to do, on the ground that
the building in question is, by location, eminently suited to its present
use, but very ill suited to any other; and that, moreover, the lessee
would immediately reopen his business on the opposite corner. To yield to
their partner's desire would therefore result in a reduction of their own
profits, but would advance the public welfare not one whit. Disheartened
by her partners' obstinacy, my friend is seeking to dispose of her
interest in the building. As she is willing to incur a heavy sacrifice in
order to get rid of her complicity in what she considers an unholy
business, the transfer will doubtless soon be made. Her soul will be
lightened of the profits from property put to an anti-social use. But the
property will still continue in such use, and profits from it will still
accrue to someone with a soul to lose or to save.

In her fascinating book, _Twenty Years at Hull House_, Miss Jane Addams
tells of a visit to a western state where she had invested a sum of money
in farm mortgages. "I was horrified," she says, "by the wretched
conditions among the farmers, which had resulted from a long period of
drought, and one forlorn picture was fairly burned into my mind…. The
farmer's wife [was] a picture of despair, as she stood in the door of the
bare, crude house, and the two children behind her, whom she vainly tried
to keep out of sight, continually thrust forward their faces, almost
covered by masses of coarse, sunburned hair, and their little bare feet so
black, so hard, the great cracks so filled with dust, that they looked
like flattened hoofs. The children could not be compared to anything so
joyous as satyrs, although they appeared but half-human. It seemed to me
quite impossible to receive interest from mortgages upon farms which might
at any season be reduced to such conditions, and with great inconvenience
to my agent and doubtless with hardship to the farmers, as speedily as
possible I withdrew all my investment." And thereby made the supply of
money for such farmers that much less and consequently that much dearer.
This is quite a fair example of much current philanthropy.

We may safely assume that, however much this action may have lightened
Miss Addams's conscience, it did not lighten the burden of debt upon the
farmer, or make the periodic interest payments less painful, and it
certainly did put them to the trouble and contingent expenses of a new
mortgage. The moral burden was shifted, to the ease of the philanthropist,
and this seems to exhaust the sum of the good results of one well
intentioned deed. Do they outweigh the bad ones?

So, doubtless, there are among our friends persons who, upon proof that
factories in which they have been interested pay starvation wages, have
withdrawn their investments. And others who, stumbling upon a state
legislature among the productive assets of a railway corporation, have
sold their bonds and invested the proceeds elsewhere. It is a modern way
of obeying the injunction, "Sell all thou hast and follow me." And not a
very painful way, since the irreproachable investments pay almost, if not
quite, as well as those that are suspect.

It is not, however, impossible to conceive of a property owner driven from
one position to another, in order to satisfy this new requirement of the
social conscience, without ever finding peace. Miss Addams put the money
withdrawn from those hideous farm mortgages into a flock of "innocent
looking sheep." Alas, they were not so innocent as they seemed. "The sight
of two hundred sheep with four rotting hoofs each was not reassuring to
one whose conscience craved economic peace. A fortunate series of sales of
mutton, wool and farm enabled the partners to end the enterprise without
loss." Sales of mutton? Let us hope those eight hundred infected hoofs are
well printed on the butcher's conscience.

And the net result of all these moral strivings? The evil investments
still continue to be evil, and still yield profits. Doubtless they rest,
in the end, upon less sensitive consciences. Marvellous moral gain!

IV

We are bound to the wheel, say the sociological fatalists. All our efforts
are of no avail; the Wheel revolves as it was destined. Not so. Our
strivings for purity in investments, puny as may be their results in the
individual instance, may compose a sum that is imposing in its
effectiveness. How their influence may be exerted will best appear from an
analogy.

It is a settled conviction among Americans of Puritan antecedents, and
among all other Americans, native born or alien, that have come under
Puritan influence, that the dispensing of alcoholic beverages is a
degrading function. This conviction has not, to be sure, notably impaired
the performance of the function. But it has none the less produced a
striking effect. It has set apart for the function in question those
elements in the population that place the lowest valuation upon the esteem
of the public, and that are, on the whole, least worthy of it. In
consequence the American saloon is, by common consent, the very worst
institution of its kind in the world. Such is the immediate result of good
intentions working by the method of excommunication of a trade.

This degradation of the personnel and the institution proceeds at an
accelerated rate as public opinion grows more bitter. In the end the evil
becomes so serious, so intimately associated with all other evils, social
and political, that you hear men over their very cups rise to proclaim,
with husky voices, "The saloon must go!" At this point the community is
ripe for prohibition: accordingly, it would seem that the initial stages
in the process, unpleasant as were their consequences, were not
ill-advised, after all. But prohibition does not come without a political
struggle, in which the enemy, selected for brazenness and schooled in
corruption, employs methods that leave lasting scars upon the body
politic. And even when vanquished, the enemy retreats into the morasses of
"unenforcible laws," to conduct a guerilla warfare that knows no rules.
Let us grant that the ultimate gain is worth all it costs: are we sure
that we have taken the best possible means to achieve our ends?

In the poorer quarters of most great American cities, there is much
property that it is difficult for a man to hold without losing the respect
of the enlightened. Old battered tenements, dingy and ill lighted
tumbledown shacks, the despair of the city reformer. Let us say that the
proximity of gas tanks or noisy railways or smoky factories consign such
quarters to the habitation of the very poor. Quite possibly, then, the
replacement of the existing buildings by better ones would represent a
heavy financial loss. The increasing social disapprobation of property
vested in such wretched forms leads to the gradual substitution of owners
who hold the social approval in contempt, for those who manifest a certain
degree of sensitiveness. The tenants certainly gain nothing from the
change. What is more likely to happen, is a screwing up of rents, an
increasing promptness of evictions. Public opinion will in the end be
roused against the landlords; the more timid among them will sell their
holdings to others not less ruthless, but bolder and more astute. Attempts
at public regulation will be fought with infinitely greater
resourcefulness than could possibly have been displayed by respectable
owners. Perhaps the final outcome will be that more drastic regulations
are adopted than would have been the case had the shifting in ownership
not taken place. There would still remain the possibility of the evasion
of the law, and it is not at all improbable that the progress in the
technique of evasion would outstrip the progress in regulation, thus
leaving the tenant with a balance of disadvantage from the process as a
whole.

The most illuminating instance of a business interest subjected first to
excommunication–literally–and then to outlawry, is that of the usurer,
or, in modern parlance, the loan shark. To the mediæval mind there was
something distinctly immoral in an income from property devoted to the
furnishing of personal loans. We need not stop to defend the mediæval
position or to attack it; all that concerns us here is that an opportunity
for profit–that is, a potential property interest–was outlawed. In
consequence it became impossible for reputable citizens to engage in the
business. Usury therefore came to be monopolized by aliens, exempt from
the current ethical formulation, who were "protected," for a
consideration, by the prince, just as dubious modern property interests
may be protected by the political boss.

Let us summarize the results of eight hundred years of experience in this
method of dealing with the usurer's trade. The business shifted from the
control of citizens to that of aliens; from the hands of those who were
aliens merely in a narrow, national sense, to the hands of those who are
alien to our common humanity. Such lawless, tricky, extortionate loan
sharks as now infest our cities were probably not to be found at all in
mediæval or early modern times. They are a product of a secular process of
selection. Their ability to evade the laws directed against them is
consummate. It is true that from time to time we do succeed in catching
one and fining him, or even imprisoning him. For which risk the small
borrower is forced to pay, at a usurer's rate.

Social improvement through the excommunication of property interests is
inevitably a disorderly process. Wherever it is in operation we are sure
to find the successive stages indicated in the foregoing examples. First,
a gradual substitution of the conscienceless property holder for the one
responsive to public sentiment. Next, under the threat of hostile popular
action, the timid and resourceless property owner gives way to the
resourceful and the bold. The third stage in the process is a vigorous
political movement towards drastic regulation or abolition, evoking a
desperate attempt on the part of the interests threatened to protect
themselves by political means–that is, by gross corruption; or, if the
menaced interest is a vast one, dominating a defensible territory, by
armed rebellion, as in our own Civil War. If the interest is finally
overwhelmed politically, and placed completely under the ban of the law,
it has been given ample time to develop an unscrupulousness of personnel
and an art of corruption that long enable it to exist illegally, a lasting
reproach to the constituted authorities.

V

Suppression of anti-social interests by the methods in vogue amounts to
little more than their banishment to the underworld. And we can well
imagine the joy with which the denizens of the underworld receive such new
accessions to their numbers and power. For in the nature of the case, it
is inevitable that all varieties of outcasts and outlaws should join
forces. The religious schismatic makes common cause with the pariah; the
political offender with the thief and robber. Such association of elements
vastly increases the difficulty of repressing crime. The band of thieves
and robbers in the cave of Adullam doubtless found their powers of preying
vastly increased through the acquisition of such a leader as David. The
problem of mediæval vagabondage was rendered well-nigh incapable of
solution by the fact that any beggar's rags might conceal a holy but
excommunicated friar.

Let us once more review our experience with the usurer. As an outcast he
offers his support to other outcasts, and is in turn supported by them.
The pawnbroker and the pickpocket are closely allied: without the
pawnshop, pocketpicking would offer but a precarious living; without the
picking of pockets, many pawnshops would find it impossible to meet
expenses. The salary loan shark often works hand in glove with the
professional gambler; each procures victims for the other. The
"hole-in-the-wall" or "blind tiger" provides a rendezvous for all the
outcasts of society. "Boot-legging" is a common subsidiary occupation for
the pander, the thief and the cracksman. Where it flourishes, it serves to
bridge over many a period of slack trade. Franchises whose validity is
subject to political attack, bring to the aid of the underworld some of
the most powerful interests in the community. The police are almost
helpless when confronted by a coalition of persons of wealth and
respectability with professional politicians commanding a motley array of
yeggs and thugs, pimps and card-sharpers.

Let us suppose that the developing social conscience places under the ban
receipt of private income from land and other natural resources, and that
a powerful movement aiming at the confiscation of such resources is under
way. It is superfluous to point out that the vast interests threatened
would offer a desperate resistance. The warfare against an incomparably
lesser interest, the liquor trade, has taxed all the resources of the
modern democratic state–on the whole the most absolute political
organization known. In no instance has the state come out of the struggle
completely victorious; the proscribed interest is yielding ground, if at
all, only very slowly. What, then, would be the outcome of a struggle
against the vastly greater landed interest? Perhaps the state would be
victorious in the end. But for generations the landed interest would
survive, if not by title of common law, at least by title of common
corruption. And in the course of the conflict, we can not doubt that
political disorder would flourish as never before, and that under its
shelter private vice and crime would develop almost unchecked.

We should disabuse ourselves of the notion that the will of a mere
majority is absolute in the state. The law is a reality only when the
outlawed interests represent an insignificant minority. Arbitrarily to
increase the outlawed interests is to undermine the very foundations of
society.

VI

The trend of the foregoing discussion, it will be said, is reactionary in
the extreme. There are, as all must admit, private interests that are
prejudicial to the public interest. Are they to be left in possession of
the privilege of trading upon the public disaster–entrenching themselves,
rendering still more difficult the future task of the reformer? By no
means. The writer opposes no criticism to the extinction of anti-social
private interests; on the contrary, he would have the state proceed
against them with far greater vigor than it has hitherto displayed. It is
important, however, to be sure first that a private interest is
anti-social. Then the question is merely one of method. It is the author's
contention that the method of excommunication and outlawry is the very
worst conceivable.

We are wont to hold up to scorn the British method of compensating liquor
sellers for licenses revoked. It is an expensive method. But let us weigh
its corresponding advantages. The licensee does not find himself in a
position in which he must choose between personal destitution and the
public interest. He dares not employ methods of resistance that would
subject him to the risk of forfeiting the right to compensation. He may
resist by fair means, but if he is intelligent, he will keep his skirts
clear of foul. If his establishment is closed, he is not left, a ruined
and desperate man, to project methods for carrying on his trade illicitly.
On the contrary, the act of compensation has placed in his hands funds in
which he might be mulcted if convicted of violation of the law. And if
natural perversity should drive him to illegal practices, he would not
find himself an object of sympathy on the part of that considerable
minority that resent injustice even to those whom they regard as
evil-doers.

There can be little doubt that by the adoption of the principle of
adequate compensation, an American commonwealth could extinguish any
property interest that majority opinion pronounces anti-social. We may
have industries that menace the public health. Under existing conditions
the interests involved exert themselves to the utmost to suppress
information relative to the dangers of such industries. With the principle
of compensation in operation, these very interests would be the foremost
in exposing the evils in question. It is no hardship to sell your interest
to the public. Does any one feel aggrieved when the public decides to
appropriate his land to a public use? On the contrary, every possessor of
a site at all suited for a public building or playground does everything
in his power to display its advantages in the most favorable light.

And with this we have admitted a disadvantage of the compensation
principle–over-compensation. We do pay excessively for property rights
extinguished in the public interest. But this is largely because the
principle is employed with such relative infrequency that we have not as
yet developed a technique of compensation. German cities have learned how
to acquire property for public use without either plundering the private
owner or excessively enriching him. The British application of the Small
Holdings Acts has duly protected the interests of the large landholder,
without making of him a vociferous champion of the Acts.

Progressive public morality readers one private interest after another
indefensible. Let the public extinguish such interests, by all means. But
let the public be moral at its own expense.

A revolting doctrine, it will be said. Because men have been permitted,
through gross defect in the laws, to build up interests in dealing out
poisons to the public, are they to be compensated, like the purveyors of
wholesome products, when the public decrees that their destructive
activities shall cease? Because a corrupt legislature once gave away
valuable franchises, are we and our children, and our children's children,
forever to pay tribute, in the shape of interest on compensation funds, to
the heirs of the shameless grantees? Because the land of a country was
parcelled out, in a lawless age, among the unworthy retainers of a
predatory prince, must we forever pay rent on every loaf we eat–as we
should do, in fact, even if we transformed great landed estates into
privately held funds? Did we not abolish human slavery, without
compensation, and is there any one to question the justice of the act?

We did indeed extinguish slavery without compensation to the slave owners.
But if no one had ever conceived of such a policy we should have been a
richer nation and a happier one. We paid for the slaves, in blood and
treasure, many times the sum that would have made every slave owner eager
to part with his slaves. Such enrichment of the slave owner would have
been an act of social injustice, it may be said. The saying would be open
to grave doubt, but the doctrine here advanced runs, not in terms of
justice, but in terms of social expediency.

And expediency is commonly regarded as a cheap substitute for justice. It
is wrongly so regarded. Social justice, as usually conceived, looks to the
past for its validity. Its preoccupation is the correction of ancient
wrongs. Social expediency looks to the future: its chief concern is the
prevention of future wrongs. As a guide to political action, the
superiority of the claims of social expediency is indisputable.

VII

In the foregoing argument it has been deliberately assumed that the
interests to be extinguished are, for the most part, universally
recognized as anti-social. Slavery, health-destroying adulteration, the
maintenance of tenements that menace life and morals, these at least
represent interests so abominable that all must agree upon the wisdom of
extinguishing them. The only point in dispute must be one of method. It is
the contention of the present writer that when even such interests have
had time to become clothed with an appearance of regularity, the method of
extinction should be through compensation. By its tolerance of such
interests, the public has made itself an accomplice in the mischief to
which they give rise, and accordingly has not even an equitable right to
throw the whole responsibility upon the private persons concerned.

Interests thus universally recognized to be evil are necessarily few. In
the vast majority of cases the establishment of interests we now seek to
proscribe took place in an epoch in which no evil was imputed to them. At
first a small minority, usually regarded as fanatics, attack the interests
in question. This minority increases, and in the end transforms itself
into a majority. But long after majority opinion has become adverse, there
remains a vigorous minority opinion defending the menaced interests. A
hundred years ago the distilling of spirituous liquors was almost
universally regarded as an entirely legitimate industry. The enemies of
the industry were few and of no political consequence. Today in many
communities the industry is utterly condemned by majority opinion. There
is, however, no community in which a minority honestly defending the
industry is absolutely wanting. Admitting that the majority opinion is
right, it remains none the less true that adherents of the minority
opinion would regard themselves as most grievously wronged if the majority
proceeded to a destruction of their interests.

Where moral issues alone are involved, we may perhaps accept the view that
the well considered opinion of the majority is as near as may be to
infallibility. But it is very rarely the case that the question of the
legitimacy of a property interest can be reduced to a purely moral issue.
Usually there are also at stake, technical and broad economic issues in
which majority judgment is notoriously fallible. Thus we have at times had
large minorities who believed that the bank as an institution is wholly
evil, and ought to be abolished. This was the majority opinion in one
period of the history of Texas, and in accordance with it, established
banking interests were destroyed by law. It is only within the last
fifteen years that the majority of the citizens of that commonwealth have
admitted the error of the earlier view.

In the course of the last twenty-five years, notable progress has been
made in the art of preserving perishable foods through refrigeration.
There are differences of opinion as to the effect upon the public health
of food so preserved; and further differences as to the effect of the cold
storage system upon the cost of living. On neither the physiological nor
the economic questions involved is majority opinion worthy of special
consideration. None the less, legislative measures directed against the
storage interests have been seriously considered in a large number of
states, and were it not for the difficulties inherent in the regulation of
interstate commerce, we should doubtless see the practice of cold storage
prohibited in some jurisdictions. Those whose property would thus be
destroyed would accept their losses with much bitterness, in view of the
fact that the weight of expert opinion holds their industry to be in the
public interest.

What still further exacerbates the feeling of injury on the part of those
whose interests are proscribed, is the fact that the purity of motives of
the persons most active in the campaign of proscription is not always
clear. Not many years ago we had a thriving manufacture of artificial
butter. The persons engaged in the industry claimed that their product was
as wholesome as that produced according to the time-honored process, and
that its cheapness promised an important advance in the adequate
provisioning of the people. We destroyed the industry, very largely
because of our strong bent toward conservatism in all matters pertaining
to the table. But among the influences that were most active in taxing
artificial butter out of existence, was the competing dairymen's interest.

It is asserted by those who would shift the whole burden of taxation onto
land that they are animated by the most unselfish motives, whereas their
opponents are defending their selfish interests alone. Yet a common Single
Tax appeal to the large manufacturer and the small house-owner takes the
form of a computation demonstrating that those classes would gain more
through the reduction in the burden on improvements than they would lose
through increase in burden on the land. Let it be granted that personal
advantage is not incompatible with purity of motives. The association of
ideas does not, however, inspire confidence, especially in the breasts of
those whose interests are threatened.

Extinction of property interests without compensation necessarily makes
our legislative bodies the battleground of conflicting interests. Honest
motives are combined with crooked ones in the attack upon an interest;
crooked and honest motives combine in its defense. Out of the disorder
issues a legislative determination that may be in the public interest or
may be prejudicial to it. And most likely the law is inadequately
supported by machinery of enforcement: it is effective in controlling the
scrupulous; to the unscrupulous it is mere paper. In many instances its
net effect is only to increase the risks connected with the conduct of a
business.

When England prohibited importation of manufactures from France, the
import trade continued none the less, under the form of smuggling. The
risk of seizure was merely added to the risk of fire and flood. Just as
one could insure against the latter risks, so the practice arose of
insuring against seizure. At one time, at any rate, in the French ports
were to be found brokers who would insure the evasion of a cargo of goods
for a premium of fifteen per cent. At the safe distance of a century and a
half, the absurd prohibition and its incompetent administration are
equally comic. At the time, however, there was nothing comic in the
contempt for law and order thus engendered, in the feeling of outrage on
the part of those ruined by seizures, and in the alliance of respectable
merchants with the thieves and footpads enlisted for the smuggling trade.

VIII

It is a common observation of present day social reformers that an
excessive regard is displayed by our governmental organs for security of
property, while security of non-property rights is neglected. And this
would indeed be a serious indictment of the existing order if there were
in fact a natural antithesis between the security of property and security
of the person. There is, however, no such antithesis. In the course of
history the establishment of security of property has, as a rule, preceded
the establishment of personal security, and has provided the conditions in
which personal security becomes possible. Adequate policing is essential
to any form of security. Property can pay for policing; the person can
not. This is a crude and materialistic interpretation of the facts, but it
is essentially sound.

How much personal security existed in England, five centuries and a half
ago, when it was possible for Richard to carve his way through human flesh
to the throne? The lowly, certainly, enjoyed no greater security than the
high born. How much personal security exists in the late Macedonian
provinces of the Turkish Empire, or in northern Mexico? It is safe to
issue a challenge to all the world to produce an instance, contemporary or
historical, of a country in which property is insecure and in which human
life and human happiness are not still more insecure. On the other hand,
it is difficult to produce an instance of a state in which security of
property has long been established, in which there is not a progressive
sensitiveness about the non-propertied rights of man. It is in the
countries where the sacredness of private property is a fetich, that one
finds recognition of a universal right to education, of a right to
protection against violence and against epidemic disease, of a right to
relief in destitution. These are perhaps meagre rights; but they represent
an expanding category. The right to support in time of illness and in old
age is making rapid progress. The development of such rights is not only
not incompatible with security of property, but it is, in large measure, a
corollary of property security. Personal rights shape themselves upon the
analogy of property rights; they utilize the same channels of thought and
habit. One of the most powerful arguments for "social insurance" is its
very name. Insurance is recognized as an essential to the security of
property; it is therefore easy to make out a case for the application of
the principle to non-propertied claims.

Some may claim that the security of property has now fulfilled its
mission; that we can safely allow the principle to decay in order to
concentrate our attention upon the task of establishing non-propertied
rights. But let us remember that we are not removed from barbarism by the
length of a universe. The crust of orderly civilization is deep under our
feet: but not six hundred years deep. The primitive fires still smoke on
our Mexican borders and in the Balkans. And blow holes open from time to
time through our own seemingly solid crust–in Colorado, in West Virginia,
in the Copper Country. It is evidently premature to affirm that the
security of property has fulfilled its mission.

IX

The question at issue, is not, however, the rights of property against the
rights of man–or more honestly–the rights of labor. The claims of labor
upon the social income may advance at the expense of the claims of
property. In the institutional struggle between the propertied and the
propertyless, the sympathies of the writer are with the latter party. It
is his hope and belief that an ever increasing share of the social income
will assume the form of rewards for personal effort.

But this is an altogether different matter from the crushing of one
private property interest after another, in the name of the social welfare
or the social morality. Such detailed attacks upon property interests are,
in the end, to the injury of both social classes. Frequently they amount
to little more than a large loss to one property interest, and a small
gain to another. They increase the element of insecurity in all forms of
property; for who shall say which form is immune from attack? Now it is
the slum tenement, obvious corollary of our social inequalities; next it
may be the marble mansion or gilded hotel, equally obvious corollaries of
the same institutional situation. Now it is the storage of meat that is
under attack; it may next be the storage of flour. The fact is, our mass
of income yielding possessions is essentially an organic whole. The
irreproachable incomes are not exactly what they would be if those subject
to reproach did not exist. If some property incomes are dirty, all
property incomes become turbid.

The cleansing of property incomes, therefore, is a first obligation of the
institution of property as a whole. The compensation principle throws the
cost of the cleansing upon the whole mass, since, in the last analysis,
any considerable burden of taxation will distribute itself over the mass.
The principle is therefore consonant with justice. What is not less
important, the principle, systematically developed, would go far toward
freeing the legislature from the graceless function of arbitrating between
selfish interests, and the administration from the necessity of putting
down powerful interests outlawed by legislative act. It would give us a
State working smoothly, and therefore an efficient instrument for social
ends. Most important of all, it would promote that security of economic
interests which is essential to social progress.

A STUBBORN RELIC OF FEUDALISM

There is a persistent question regarding the distribution of property
which is of peculiar interest in the season of automobile tours and summer
hotels. Most thinking people acknowledge a good deal of perplexity over
this question, while on most parallel ones they are generally
cock-sure–on whichever is the side of their personal interests. But in
this question the bias of personal interest is not very large, and
therefore it may be considered with more chance of agreement than can the
larger questions of the same class which parade under various disguises.

The little question is that of tipping. After we have squeezed out of it
such antitoxic serum as we can, we will briefly indicate the application
of it to larger questions.

Tipping is plainly a survival of the feudal relation, long before the
humbler men had risen from the condition of status to that of contract,
when fixed pay in the ordinary sense was unknown, and where the relation
between servant and master was one of ostensible voluntary service and
voluntary support, was for life, and in its best aspect was a relation of
mutual dependence and kindness. Then the spasmodic payment was, as tips
are now, essential to the upper man's dignity, and very especially to the
dignity of his visitor. This feudal relation survives in England today to
such an extent that poor men refrain from visiting their rich relations
because of the tips. In the great country-houses the tips are expected to
be in gold, at least so I was told some years ago. And in England and out
of it, Don Cesar's bestowal of his last shilling on the man who had served
him, still thrills the audience, at least the tipped portion of it.

Europe being on the whole less removed from feudal institutions than we
are, tipping is not only more firmly established there, but more
systematized. It is more nearly the rule that servants' places in hotels
are paid for, and they are apt to be dependent entirely upon tips. The
greater wealth of America, on the other hand, and the extravagance of the
_nouveaux riches_, has led in some institutions to more extravagant
tipping than is dreamed of in Europe, and consequently has scattered
through the community a number of servants from Europe who, when here,
receive with gratitude from a foreigner, a tip which they would scorn from
an American.

In the midst of general relations of contract–of agreed pay for agreed
service, tipping is an anomaly and a constant puzzle.

It would seem strange, if it were not true of the greater questions of the
same kind, that in the chronic discussion of this one, so little
attention, if any, has been paid to what may be the fundamental line of
division between the two sides–namely, the distinction between ideal
ethics and practical ethics.

An illustration or two will help explain that distinction:

First illustration: "Thou shalt not kill" which is ideal ethics in an
ideal world of peace. Practical ethics in the real world are illustrated
in Washington and Lee, who for having killed their thousands, are placed
beside the saints!

Second illustration: Obey the laws and tell the truth. This is ideal
ethics, which our very legislatures do much to prevent being practical.
For instance; they ignore the fact that in the present state of morality,
taxes on personal property can be collected from virtually nobody but
widows and orphans who have no one to evade the taxes for them. So the
legislatures continue the attempt to tax personal property, and a judge on
the bench says that a man who lies about his personal taxes shall not on
that account be held an unreliable witness in other matters.

Or to take an illustration less radical: it is not in legal testimony
alone that ideal ethics require everybody to tell the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth–that the world should have as much truth
as possible; and if the world were perfectly kind, perfectly honest and
perfectly wise (which last involves the first two), that ideal could be
realized. For instance, in our imperfect world a man telling people when
he did not like them, would be constantly giving needless pain and making
needless enemies, whereas in an ideal world–made up of perfect people,
there would be nobody to dislike, or, pardon the Hibernicism, if there
were, the whole truth could be told without causing pain or enmity. Or
again, in a world where there are dishonest people, a man telling
everything about his schemes, would have them run away with by others,
though in an ideal world, where there were no dishonest people, he could
speak freely. In fact, the necessity of reticence in this connection does
not even depend on the existence of dishonesty: for in a world where
people have to look out for themselves, instead of everybody looking out
for everybody else, a man exposing his plans might hurry the execution of
competing plans on the part of perfectly honest people.

Farther illustration may be sufficiently furnished by the topic in hand.

In the case of most poor folks other than servants, what to do about it
has lately been pretty distinctly settled: the religion of pauperization
is pretty generally set aside: almsgiving, the authorities on ethics now
generally hold, should be restricted to deserving cases–to people
incapacitated by constitution or circumstance from taking proper care of
themselves.

Now is tipping almsgiving, and are servants among the deserving classes?

How many people have asked themselves these simple questions, and how many
who are educated up to habitually refusing alms unless the last of the
questions is affirmatively answered, just as habitually tip servants?

Is tipping almsgiving? Not in the same sense that alms are given without
any show of anything in return: the servant does something for the tipper.
Yes, but he is paid for it by his employer. True, but only sometimes: at
other times he is only partly paid, depending for the rest on tips; and
sometimes the tips are so valuable that the servant pays his alleged
employer for the opportunity to get them. Yet I know one hotel in Germany,
and probably there are others, there and elsewhere, where the menus and
other stationery bear requests against tipping. But in that one hotel I
know tipping to be as rife as in hotels generally: the customers are not
educated up to the landlord's standard. And here we come to the
fundamental remedy for all questionable practices–the education of the
people beyond them. But this is simply the ideal condition in which ideal
ethics could prevail. Meanwhile we must determine the practical ethics of
the actual world.

The servant's position is different from that of most other wage-earners,
in that he is in direct contact with the person who is to benefit from his
work. The man who butchers your meat or grinds your flour, you probably
never see; but the man who brushes your clothes or waits on your table,
holds to you a personal relation, and he can do his work so as merely to
meet a necessity, or so as to rise beyond mere necessity into comfort or
luxury. Outside of home servants, the necessity is all that, in the
present state of human nature, his regular stipend is apt to provide; the
comfort or the luxury, the feeling of personal interest, the atmosphere of
promptness and cheerfulness and ease, is apt to respond only to the tip.
Only in the ideal world will it be spontaneous. In the real world it must
be paid for.

And why should it not be–why is it not as legitimate to pay for having
your wine well cooled or carefully tempered and decanted, as to pay for
the wine itself? The objection apt to be first urged is that it degrades
the servant. But does it? He is not an ideal man in an ideal world,
already doing his best or paid to do his best. You are not degrading him
from any such standard as that, into the lower one of requiring tips: you
are simply taking him as he is. True, if he got no tips, he would not
depend upon them; but without them he would not do all you want him to;
before he will do that, he must be developed into a different man–he must
become a creature of an ideal world. You may in the course of ages develop
him into that, and as you do, he will work better and better, and tips may
grow smaller and smaller, until he does his best spontaneously, and tips
have dwindled to nothing. But to withdraw them now would simply make him
sulky, and lead to his doing worse than now.

Another objection urged against tips is that they put the rich tipper at
an advantage over the poor one. But the rich man is at an advantage in
nearly everything else, why not here? The idea of depriving him of his
advantages, is rank communism, which destroys the stimulus to energy and
ingenuity that, in the present state of human nature, is needed to keep
the world moving. In an ideal state of human nature, the man with ability
to create wealth may find stimulus enough, as some do to a considerable
extent now, in the delight of distributing wealth for the general good;
but we are considering what is practicable in the present state of human
nature.

Another aspect of the case, or at least a wider aspect, is the more
sentimental one where the tip is prompted as reciprocation for spontaneous
kindness.

But in the service of private families, as distinct from service to the
general public or to visitors it is notorious that constant tipping is
ruinous. Occasional holidays and treats and presents at Christmas and on
special occasions are useful, as promoting the general feeling of
reciprocation. But from visitors the tip is generally essential to
ensuring the due meed of respect. Yet we can reasonably imagine a time
when it may not be; and even now, for the casual service of holding a
horse or brushing off the dust, a hearty "thank you" is perhaps on the
whole better than a tip.

Considering the morality of the question all around–the practical ethics
as well as the ideal, the underlying facts are that no man ought to be a
servant in the servile sense, and indeed no man ought to be poor; and in
an ideal world no man would be one or the other. Just how we are to get a
world without servants or servile people, is perhaps a little more plain
than how we are to get Mr. Bellamy's world without poor people, which,
however, amounts to nearly the same thing. At least we will get a less
servile world, as machinery and organization make service less and less
personal. Bread has long been to a great extent made away from home; much
of the washing is also done away in great laundries, and organizations
have lately been started to call for men's outer clothes, and keep them
cleaned, repaired and pressed. There is a noticeable rise, too, in the
dignity of personal service: witness the college students at the summer
hotels, and the self-respecting Jap in the private family. These
influences are making for the ideal world in relation to service, and
_when_ we get it, no man will take tips, and nobody will offer them.

But in our stage of evolution, the tip, like the larger prizes, is part of
the general stimulus to the best exertion and the best feeling, and is
therefore legitimate; but it, like every other stimulus, should not be
applied in excess, and the tendency should be to abolish it. The rich man
often is led by good taste and good morals to restrain his expenditure in
many directions, and there are few directions, if any, in which good taste
and good morals more commend the happy medium than in tips. Excess in
them, however, is not always prompted by good nature and generosity and
reciprocation of spontaneous kindness, but often by desire for comfort,
and even by ostentation. But all such promptings require regulation for
the same reason that, it is now becoming generally recognized, the
promptings of even charity itself require regulation.

The head of one of the leading Fifth Avenue restaurants once said to the
writer, substantially: "We don't like tips: they demoralize our men. But
what can we do about it? We can't stop it, or even keep it within bounds.
Our customers will give them, and people who have too much money or too
little sense, give not only dollar bills or five dollar bills, but fifty
dollar bills and even hundred dollar bills. We have tried to stave off
customers who do such things: we believe that in the long run it would pay
us to; but we can't."

When all the promptings of liberality or selfishness or ostentation are
well regulated, we will be in the ideal world. Until then, in the actual
world, it is the part of wisdom to regulate ideal ethics by practical
ethics–and tip, but tip temperately.

* * * * *

And now to apply our principles to a wider field.

The ideal is that all men should have what they produce. The ideal is also
that all men should have full shares of the good things of life. These two
ideals inevitably combine into a third–that all men should produce full
shares of the good things of life. But the plain fact is that they
cannot–that no amount of opportunity or appliances will enable the
average day laborer to produce what Mr. Edison or Mr. Hill or even the
average deviser of work and guide of labor does. Then even ideal ethics
cannot say in this actual world: Let both have the same. That would simply
be Robin Hood ethics: rob the man who produces much, and give the plunder
to the man who produces little. Hence comes the disguising of the schemes
to do it, even so that they often deceive their own devisers. What then do
practical ethics say? They can't say anything more than: Help the less
capable to become capable, so that he may produce more. But that is at
least as slow a process as raising the servant beyond the stage of tips.
Meantime the socialists are unwilling to wait, and propose to rob the
present owners of the means of production, and take the control of
industry from the men who manage it now, and put it in the hands of the
men who merely can influence votes. These men certainly are no less
selfish and dishonest than the captains of industry, and are vastly less
able to select the profitable fields of industry, and organize and
economize industry; whatever product they might squeeze out would be
vastly less than now, and it would stick to their own fingers no less than
does what the politicians handle now. Dividing whatever might reach the
people, without reference to those who produced it, could yield the
average man no more than he gets now. That's very simple mathematics. One
of the saddest sights of the day is the number of good people to whom
these facts are not self-evident.

In no state of human nature that any persons now living, or the grandchild
of any person now living, will witness, could such conditions be
permanent. Their temporary realization might be accomplished; but if it
were, the able men would not be satisfied with either the low grade of
civilization inevitable unless they worked, or with being robbed of the
large share of production that must result from their work. The more
intelligent of the rank and file, too, would rebel against the conditions
inevitably lowering the general prosperity, and they would soon realize
the difference in industrial leadership between "political generals" and
natural generals. Insurrection would follow, and then anarchy, after which
things would start again on their present basis, but some generations
behind.

But I for one do not expect these experiences, especially in America: for
here probably enough men have already become property holders to make a
sufficient balance of power for the preservation of property. If not, the
first step toward ensuring civilization, is helping enough men to develop
into property holders, and _continue_ property holders, which general
experience declares that they will not unless they develop their property
themselves.

AN EXPERIMENT IN SYNDICALISM

During the last twenty years New Zealand has tried many social and
economic experiments; these experiments have been made by her own
Legislature, and her own people; and as a rule they have been remarkably
successful: during the last few months she has had the experience of a new
one conducted by strangers, and made at her expense. Fortunately there is
reason to believe that this one will be found to have resulted in benefit
to New Zealand and its people, while it may prove of service to older and
larger countries. It is probable that the most widely known of New
Zealand's experiments is that which aimed at doing justice to employers
and employees alike by the substitution for the Industrial strike of a
Court of Arbitration, fairly constituted, on which both Workers and
Employers were equally represented. This law has been branded by the
supporters of the usual Strike policy with the name of "Compulsory
Arbitration," the object being to discredit it in the eyes of the workers,
as an infringement of their liberty. The title is unfair and misleading.
Unlike most laws, it never has been of universal application either to
Workers or Employers, but only to those among them that chose to form
themselves into industrial Unions, and to register those Unions as subject
to the provisions of the Statute. The purpose of the Statute was an appeal
to the common sense of the people, by offering them an alternative method
of settling disputes and securing that fair-play for both parties which
experience had shown could seldom be secured by the strike. The law, which
was first introduced in 1894, had gradually appealed both to workers and
employers, as worth trying, and before the close of the last century it
had rendered the country prosperous, and had attracted the attention of
thoughtful people in many other parts of the world to the "Country Without
Strikes." Efforts were made in several countries to introduce the
principle of the New Zealand Statute, but with very little success, as it
was generally opposed both by workers and employers:–the workers feeling
confident they could obtain greater concessions by the forceful methods of
the strike, and the employers suspecting that any Court of Arbitration
would be likely to give the workers more than, without arbitration, they
could compel the employers to surrender.

In the mean time the statutory substitute for the strike continued to
succeed in New Zealand. Nearly every class of town workers, and some in
the country, had formed Unions, and registered them under the arbitration
law. With a single trifling exception, that was speedily put an end to by
the punishment of the Union with the alternative of heavy fine or
imprisonment, the country was literally as well as nominally a country
without a strike. And it was something more than that: its prosperity
increased year by year, and its production of goods–agricultural,
pastoral, and manufactured–increased at a pace unequalled elsewhere. Yet
the prosperity was most apparent in its effect on the conditions of the
workers: under the successive awards of the arbitration court, wages had
steadily increased until they had reached a point as high as in similar
trades in America, while the cost of living was very little more than half
the rate in any town in the United States. To all intelligent observers
these facts were evident, and could not be concealed from the workers in
other countries, especially in Australia, as the nearest geographically to
New Zealand and commercially the most closely connected.

The effect, however, on the workers of Australia was not what might have
been expected. Attempts had been made by some of the State Legislatures to
introduce arbitration laws more or less like the New Zealand statute, but
with very partial success. From the first these laws were opposed by the
leaders of the Labor Unions, who naturally saw a menace to their influence
in the fact that they became subject to punishment if they attempted to
use their accustomed powers over their fellow unionists. The example of
New Zealand was lauded in the Australian Legislatures and newspapers, and
even in the courts, till at last a feeling of strong antagonism was
developed among the more advanced class of socialistic Labor men, and it
was decided by their leaders to undertake a campaign in the neighboring
Dominion against the system of settling industrial questions by courts,
and in favor of substituting the system of strikes, with their attendant
power and profit to the Labor leaders. The first steps taken were sending
men from Australia or England on lecturing tours through New Zealand, to
create dissatisfaction with the Arbitration Courts by representing them as
leaning to the side of the employers, and ignoring the claims of the
workers. When this had gone on for about a year, workers of various
classes were induced to cross from Australia, and join the Unions in New
Zealand, for the purpose of influencing their fellow unionists to
disloyalty towards the system under which they were registered. These men
were generally competent workers and clever agitators, and many of them
soon obtained prominence and official position in the Unions. As was
natural, a good many of these new-comers were miners–either for coal or
gold–and many of them joined the miners' union at the great gold mine
known as the Waihi, from which upwards of thirty million dollars worth of
gold had been dug, and which was still yielding between three and four
million dollars a year. There were nearly a thousand miners employed
there, and all of them were members of a Union that was duly registered
under the Arbitration statute.

There had been several questions in dispute between the miners and the
owners, and these had been referred to the Arbitration Court some time
before the arrival of the new Australian miners. The result, while it
favored the Union in some respects, favored the Company in others, and
this fact was used by the new-comers to convince the older hands that the
Court had been unfair, and that they could secure much better terms for
themselves if they would cease work, and so inflict immense loss by
permitting the lower levels of the mine to become flooded. After a few
months the Union decided to take advantage of the provision of the law
which enabled any registered Union to withdraw its registration at six
months' notice. When the time had expired, the Union repeated the demand
which had been refused by the Court, and on the refusal of the Company to
agree, a strike was at once declared, and the whole of the miners ceased
work. This had the effect, within a very short time, of rendering all the
deeper levels of the mine unworkable. Close to the mine was a prosperous
little town occupied chiefly by the miners and their families, most of the
houses being the property of the mining company, and the men continued to
occupy the houses while the strike was in progress. Other miners were
found who were ready to take their places, but the men in possession
refused to move out, and threatened with violence any miners that should
attempt to work the mine. The men who had been prepared to work, finding
this to be the position, withdrew. As there was no actual violence shown,
there seemed to be a difficulty in the way of any interference by the
Government: so several months passed, during which the mine lay idle while
the miners on strike continued to occupy the houses and pay the very
moderate rents demanded from employees of the company. This they were able
to do partly from their savings, partly from the sympathetic contributions
from Australia, and partly by some of the miners having scattered over the
country and got work on the farms, and throwing their earnings into the
common fund.

After repeated appeals by the mine-owners to the Government, an
arrangement was made that the Company should employ miners willing to
become members of a new Union registered under the Arbitration statute,
and that the Government should send a police force sufficient to protect
these in working the mine, and also to enforce the judgment of the local
court in dispossessing the occupants of the houses belonging to the
Company. An attempt was made by the strikers to defy this police force and
prevent the new Union from working the mine; but when most of the new
unionists had been sworn in as special constables, and a number of the
militant strikers had been arrested, the others saw that they could not
continue the struggle, and within a week or two abandoned the district,
giving place to the members of the arbitration Union in both the mine and
town.

Thus the first strike organized by the "Federation of Labor" in New
Zealand resulted in a failure, but the miners thus defeated and driven
from the little town that had been their home, in many cases for a good
many years, were naturally embittered by their failure, and became an
element of mischief in other districts, and especially in the coal mines,
to which they turned when they found it hard to obtain employment in any
of the gold mines.

The Australian Federation of Labor and its branch in New Zealand fully
appreciated the fact that their first attempt to establish a system of
Unionism opposed to the one recognized by the law, having proved a
failure, it was necessary either to give up the attempt altogether or to
make it more deliberately and on a much wider scale. The method they
adopted was one that did credit to their foresight and determination. The
Australian Federation is, and has always been, highly socialistic in its
policy, and latterly its leaders have adopted and preached syndicalism, as
promising to give the workers the control of society. New Zealand, alone
among self-governing countries, having struck at the very root of their
policy by trying to substitute a statute and a Court for the will of the
associated workers, was a very tempting country for syndicalism. An island
country which, owing to climate and soil, was specially suited for the
production of all kinds of agricultural wealth beyond the needs of its own
people, must depend on free access to the ports of other countries. This,
it seemed plain, could be prevented by well managed syndicalism. It would
be only necessary to organize the seamen who worked the vessels that kept
the smaller harbors of such a country in touch with the larger ports at
which the ocean going ships loaded and unloaded; and to organize also the
stevedores at the larger ports. The bitterness of feeling that had
followed the destruction of the Waihi Union, and the loss to its members
not only of a good many months of good wages but of the homes they and
their families had occupied for years, was a valuable asset in such a
campaign. At first, of course, some of the working classes blamed the
agents of "The Federation of Labor" who were responsible for the
disastrous strike, but it was not difficult to turn attention from the
past failure of a single strike, to the certain success that must attend a
great syndical strike that would involve all the industries of the
country. Most, indeed nearly all, of the disappointed Waihi strikers were
ready to join with enthusiasm in carrying out the plans of The Federation,
and removed to the places where they could be most effective in preparing
the way for what they looked upon as a great revenge. Thus they either
joined the old Unions at the principal ports, especially Auckland and
Wellington, or formed new Unions, no longer registered under the
Arbitration statute, but openly affiliated to The Federation of Labor,
which had been established in New Zealand, but was really a branch of the
Australian Federation. The four principal ports of New Zealand, indeed the
only ports much frequented by the large export and import vessels, are
Auckland, Wellington, Lyttleton, and Dunedin, the two first named being in
the north island, and the other two in the south. Auckland is considerably
the largest city in The Dominion, containing at least 25,000 more
inhabitants than Wellington, which is not only the capital of the
Dominion, but also the great distributing centre for the South island and
the southern part of the North island, at the southern extremity of which
it is situated. The remarkable situation of Auckland, on a very narrow
isthmus about a hundred and eighty miles from the northern point of the
country, is no doubt largely responsible for the growth of the city, which
is the chief centre of the young manufactures of the Dominion, and the
largest port of export for almost all the country produces, except wool
and mutton, which are mainly raised in the South island. Thus it happens
that Auckland and Wellington are at present the chief shipping ports of
the Dominion, and it was to them that the Federation of Labor turned its
chief attention when its leaders had definitely decided to undertake the
campaign of syndicalism against the system of arbitration which had
prevailed for sixteen years.

There had already been formed Unions of Waterside Workers and Seamen at
each of these ports; but they were in all cases registered under the
arbitration law, and of course subject to its penalties against both
officials and members in cases of any breach of the statute. The
Federation's agents proceeded to collect the members of these unions who
were in any way dissatisfied with the existing awards of the Arbitration
Courts, and to form them into new Unions outside the statute. They had
little difficulty in persuading the men that the new Unions would be free
to act in many directions that were barred to the members of the old
Unions. A good many of the men were thus persuaded to resign their
membership in the existing Unions, and as they were very often the most
active members, they gradually persuaded others to leave with them. There
was nothing either in the law or custom of the ports to prevent unionists
and non-unionists working together on the wharves or the coasting vessels;
so within a comparatively short time the members of the new Federation
Unions were more numerous than those that clung to the older ones. When
this became the case, the officials of the new Unions approached the
shipping companies with proposals for an agreement between them and the
Federation Unions in some respects more favorable to the employers than
the arbitration award under which the older Unions were working, and in
this way gained a position which enabled them to undermine the old Unions,
till they either died out for want of members or withdrew their
registration, and at the end of their six months' notice merged their
Unions in those of The Federation. The Federation's plans had been so
carefully prepared that there was little or no suspicion on the part of
the employers or of the public generally as to the true meaning of the
movement. It was evident, of course, that it indicated a revolt against
the arbitration law, but as the new unions appeared ready to give the
employers rather better terms than the old ones, many reasons were found
by employers for defending what began to be called the "Free Unions." In
this way things had gone on at the shipping ports for about two years from
the failure of the gold miners' strike at Waihi, before anything happened
to open the eyes of the public to the real meaning of what The Federation
of Labor had been doing. In that time the new Unions at each of the
principal ports of the country had quietly obtained the entire control of
the hands at waterside and local shipping, as well as of the Carters
Unions. The time had arrived when the syndicalists believed themselves
able to compel the public to submit to any demands they might see fit to
make.

The occasion finally arose, as might have been expected, at Wellington,
where the Federation of Labor had established its head-quarters. There was
no definite dispute between the employers and workers, but for a few weeks
there had been an uneasy feeling in relation to the Waterside Workers who,
it was said, were growing more lazy and slovenly in handling cargo on the
wharves and piers. A meeting had been called by The Federation to discuss
some grievances of the coal miners at Westport, from which most of the
coal landed in Wellington is brought. The meeting was called for the noon
dinner hour, and a number of the waterside workers engaged in discharging
cargo from a steamer about to sail, at once went to the meeting, and did
not return to work in the afternoon. The shipping company at once engaged
other men to finish their work, and when the men came back some hours
later, they found their places filled up. The new men belonged to the same
Union, but the men dispossessed demanded that the new ones should be
dismissed at once. When the company refused the demand, the men appealed
to the Council of the Federation, who at once called on the Waterside
Workers and Seamens Unions at Wellington to cease work. Within a few days
the position looked so serious that the Premier invited both parties to a
conference, at which he presided in person, in the hope of bringing about
an agreement to refer the matters in dispute to an arbitrator to be
mutually agreed upon. The officials of The Federation, however, said there
was nothing to submit to an arbitrator: they had made a demand, and unless
it was complied with by the shipping company and the Union of merchants at
Wellington who were in league with the Company in victimizing the men who
took part in the meeting in aid of the Coal-miners, the strike must go on.
The Merchants and Shipping Company's Unions pointed out that what had been
done was in direct opposition to the terms of the formal agreement signed
less than a year before, and they refused to have anything more to do with
the Federation on any terms. The conference thus ended in an open
declaration of war. The time had evidently come for the Federation of
Labor to make good the assertions so often made by its lecturers and
agitators, of its power to force the rest of the community to submission.
It would be difficult to imagine a more favorable position for carrying
such a policy into effect: New Zealand, it must be borne in mind, is a
country without an army. For some years past, it is true, a system of
military training for all her young men between eighteen and twenty-five
has been enforced by law, but except for training purposes, there is no
military force in the Dominion, either of regulars or militia; and it is
now forty-five years since the last company of British soldiers left its
shores. Law has been maintained, and order enforced, by a police force
under the control of the Government of the Dominion, and while the force
is undoubtedly a good and trustworthy one, its numbers have never been
large in proportion to the population. This year the entire force
throughout the country is very little more than 850, which includes
officers as well as men. It can hardly be wondered at that the officials
of The Federation of Labor were convinced that, if they could arrange a
general strike of the workers, the police force would be powerless to deal
with it. On the failure of the attempt of the Premier to bring about a
settlement between the parties by arbitration, the Federation proclaimed a
general strike of all Unions affiliated to themselves throughout the
country, and of all other Unions that were in sympathy with them in their
policy of giving united Labor the control of society. The order to cease
work was at once obeyed, as a matter of course, by all the Federation
Unions, which practically meant all the workers engaged on vessels
registered in the Dominion and trading on the coast, all workers on
wharves and piers, carters in the cities, and coal miners throughout the
country. The appeal for sympathetic assistance from Unions unconnected
with the Federation was largely successful in the chief centres, though it
was, of course, a direct defiance of the arbitration law under which they
were registered. It has since been discovered that in nearly every case it
was brought about by the unprincipled scheming of the secretaries,
assisted by a few of the officials, who called meetings, of which notice
was given only to a selected minority, and at which the question of
joining a sympathetic strike was settled by a large majority of those
present, but in fact in many cases a small minority of the whole
membership. The sympathetic strike of Arbitration Unions was mainly
confined to the cities, and Auckland, as the largest city, was the most
affected by it. In Auckland the members of practically every Union ceased
work, somewhere about ten thousand persons going on strike simultaneously.

The result during the first days of the strike seemed likely to confirm
the expectations of the Federation orators. Industry was practically dead.
At every port vessels lay at anchor, having been withdrawn from the
wharves before they were deserted by their crews, and the wharves were in
the possession of the Waterside strikers. The streets of the cities were
empty, and a large proportion of the stores were closed, partly owing to
want of business, and partly from fear of violence in case they kept open.
These first few days in both New Zealand and Australia were days of
triumph for the Federation leaders but the triumph was a short-lived one.
The Government of the Dominion did not interfere, indeed, but the public,
through their municipal authorities, did. The people of New Zealand have
throughout their history been accustomed to manage their own affairs, and
within four days of the declaration of war by the syndical Federation,
steps were taken to meet the emergency. At Auckland and Wellington it had
been evident from the first that the small police force available could
not safely attempt to cope with the main body of strikers, or do more than
prevent acts of aggressive violence to the citizens and their property.
The local authorities, however, had confidence in the general public, and
at Auckland, and afterwards at Wellington, the Mayor of the city appealed
to the public to come forward as volunteers to maintain law and order, by
acting as Special Constables. In both cities the appeal was responded to
readily, nearly two thousand young men coming forward at Auckland in
twenty-four hours, and upwards of a thousand at Wellington. These were at
once sworn in as special constables, and armed with serviceable batons,
while all the fire-arms and ammunition for sale in the city was taken
charge of and withdrawn from sale by the municipal authorities. In this
way the maintenance of order was fairly provided for, and the temporary
closing of all licensed hotels by order of the city magistrates removed
the danger of riot as the result of intemperance.

There had been some rioting in Wellington, though with little serious
injury, but there was nothing that could be called a riot in Auckland. The
Federation Unions waited, under the impression that time was on their
side, owing to the impossibility of doing anything or getting anything
done without the help of the associated workers. This had been the basis
of their scheme, but like all such schemes it failed to take into account
the instinct of self-preservation on the part of the people outside the
Unions. As long as the strike leaders could point to the fleet of vessels
lying idle in the harbor, the mills silent, and the street railroads
without a moving car, and almost deserted by carts, it was easy for them
to persuade their followers that complete victory was only a matter of
days, or at most of weeks; they had not remembered that there were others
besides themselves and their fellow townsmen interested in the question of
a paralyzed industry. The trade that has been making the people of New
Zealand increasingly rich during the last twenty years has been mainly
derived from the land. Small holdings and close settlement have been the
rule, and the rate of production has been increasingly rapid. The
exports–mainly the produce of the land–have grown in proportions quite
unknown in any other country, and the farmers knew that the prosperity of
the country, and most directly of all the workers on the land, depended on
the freedom and facilities for shipment of their ports. It was the workers
on the land, accordingly, that came to the rescue, and solved the
industrial problem. An offer was made by the President of The Farmers'
Cooperative Union to bring a sufficient number of the members into the
cities to work the shipping and to prevent any interruption of the work by
the men on strike. The offer was at once accepted by the municipal
authorities at Auckland and Wellington, and within two days fully eighteen
hundred mounted farmers rode into Auckland, and nearly a thousand into
Wellington, all prepared to carry on the work and protect the workers.
Their arrival practically settled the question. New Waterside Unions were
formed at every port, and registered under the provisions of the
Arbitration Statute; such of the country workers as were able to do so,
enrolled themselves as members of the new Unions; the wharves and water
fronts were taken possession of and guarded by the special constables
enlisted in the cities, while the streets were patrolled by parties of the
mounted volunteers. Within twenty-four hours of their arrival, some of the
vessels in harbor had been brought to the wharves, and the work of
unloading them was begun.

At first there were many threats of violent opposition on the part of the
strikers, and crowds assembled in the principal streets and in the
neighborhood of the wharves; but these were dispersed before they became
dangerous, by the mounted constables, and a proclamation having been
issued by the mayor calling attention to the fact that collections of
people that obstructed traffic in the streets were contrary to law, the
police and mounted constables cleared the streets, and forcibly arrested
any persons who attempted opposition. Within two or three days, at each of
the principal cities, new Unions of seamen and of carters had been formed
and registered under the arbitration law, and those members of the old
Federation Unions who were not enthusiastic, and began to see that the
assurances of success were not likely to be realized, began to resign and
apply for admission to the new Unions. After about two weeks the Council
of The Federation of Labor, recognizing the failure of the sympathetic
strike, invited the Unions that were not connected with them to declare
the strike at an end, and tried by confining the strike to their own
members, to maintain a solid front, which, with the help of the Australian
Federation both in money for the strikers and in refusing to handle any
goods either from or for New Zealand, they still hoped would carry them to
at least a compromise, if not to the victory they had expected. The hopes
of the Federation of Labor were not realized. Within a week or two a large
proportion of the members of their own Unions, seeing their places filled,
and their work being done, not by free labor, which they might hope to
deal with, but by new Unions, whose members would be entitled, under the
arbitration law, to preference and many other privileges, began to desert
and to seek admission to the Arbitration Unions that had taken their
place. For a time this was fiercely denied by the Federation officials,
but as the days went on, and business of every kind was resumed in the
cities, the groups of strikers at street corners and around the Federation
head-quarters dwindled away; the hotels were reopened, the shops and
stores were busy, the mills were at work, and even the coastal steamers
were manned and running, and the federationists were forced to admit that
they were hopelessly defeated. For a time they still hoped that the
Australian Boycott might save them from absolute disaster, and the Labor
Ministry of New South Wales tried to help the Federation by making an
appeal to the New Zealand Government to arrange an arbitration to settle
the dispute between The Wellington Waterside Workers and the merchants and
shipping companies. The absolute refusal of the New Zealand Government to
recognize The Federation of Labor, or to interfere with the new Unions
under the Arbitration Act that had taken their place, finally settled the
question, and completed the defeat of the strikers. The officials of the
Federation declared the strike at an end, and the Australian Federation
announced that the boycott was also at an end.

* * * * *

At first sight it may seem that, after all, the experiment in syndicalism
was on a small scale, and that its lesson can hardly be of great value to
a country like America. A little consideration may correct such a
misapprehension. New Zealand was deliberately selected by the Syndicalists
as a test case, for two reasons. In the first place it was the only
country that had for years adopted a policy of justice according to law
for both workers and employers, and from the syndicalist's point of view
it was therefore the only country that seriously attacked their own policy
by showing that it was unnecessary. In the second place New Zealand was
the only country with a population of British origin that could be dealt
with practically by itself. With the aid of an Australian boycott it
seemed as if her people must be helpless in the hands of the Federation.
The result proved to be not only the defeat of the principle of lawless
syndicalism, but the destruction of the industrial association that
represented it in the country. No compromise was accepted, and except it
may be in name, no Union attached to the Federation of Labor remains at
work. The question, of course, suggests itself: What was the reason? Minor
reasons may be found, no doubt, to account for failure where success was
so confidently expected; but there can be little doubt that the real cause
is the policy pursued by the Legislature and people of New Zealand for the
last twenty years. Syndicalism, like all plans for the over turn, or
reform, as their advocates would perhaps prefer to call it, of existing
institutions, depends for success on the existence of wrongs by which part
of the people is impoverished, while another, and very small part, has
more than enough. The workers of our own race, at any rate, have enough
common-sense to understand, at least when they are not hysterically
excited, that imaginary wrongs are not a sufficient reason for great
sacrifices. New Zealand's legislation has not created an ideal society, it
is true; but for twenty years it has proceeded step by step in the
direction of righting the wrongs of the past, and giving opportunity to
that part of its people that needed it most, on the single condition that
they would use it, and respect the rights of others. To such a people,
increasing steadily, year by year, in all that makes for well-being, the
wild denunciations, and if possible wilder promises, of paid agitators can
have little attraction. It may be possible by careful generalship to stir
a small section of such a people to the hysterical excitement of an
industrial war, but the mass of the people would be certain to resent it,
and the movement will be doomed to a speedy collapse.

Other countries have been less enlightened and less fortunate than New
Zealand in their legislation, and perhaps still less fortunate in the
administration of the laws passed for the betterment of the masses of
their people. They have done little to convince the great majority that
they are aware of the wrongs that have been done that majority in the
supposed interest of the small class of the over rich. They have not
provided opportunity for those who hitherto have had none, nor have they
even provided a reasonable alternative for industrial warfare. Had they
done these things in the past, or were they even to begin honestly to
provide for them in the future, they might confidently expect that the
reign of industrial warfare, which exasperates their people, and retards
the prosperity of their nation, would be as easily and effectually
suppressed as the experiment of the Syndicalists has just been in New
Zealand.

LABOR: "TRUE DEMAND" AND IMMIGRANT SUPPLY

A RESTATEMENT OF THE ECONOMIC ASPECTS OF IMMIGRATION POLICY

Recent historians and economists have been showing that it was anything
but pure and unadulterated sense of brotherhood that prompted many of our
forefathers' fine speeches about opening the doors of America to the
down-trodden and oppressed of Europe. Emerson, fifty years ago, in his
essay on _Fate_ noted the current exploitation of the immigrant: "The
German and Irish millions, like the Negro, have a great deal of guano in
their destiny. They are ferried over the Atlantic, and carted over
America, to ditch and to drudge, to make corn cheap, and then to lie down
prematurely to make a spot of green grass on the prairie." Indeed it would
not be hard to show that there was always a real or potential social
surplus back of our national hospitality to the alien.

The process began long before our great nineteenth century era of
industrial expansion. Colonial policies with regard to the immigrant
varied according to latitude and longitude. Most of the New England
colonies viewed the foreigner with distrust as a menace to Puritan
theocracy. New York, Pennsylvania, and some of the Southern colonies were
much more hospitable, for economic reasons. That this hospitality
sometimes resembled that of the spider to the fly is evident from
observations of contemporary writers. That it included whites as well as
negroes in its ambiguous welcome is equally evident.

John Woolman writes in his _Journal_ (1741-2): "In a few months after I
came here my master bought several Scotchmen as servants, from on board a
vessel, and brought them to Mount Holly to sell." Isaac Weld, traveling in
the United States in the last decade of the eighteenth century, noted
methods of securing aliens in the town of York, Pennsylvania: "The
inhabitants of this town as well as those of Lancaster and the adjoining
country consist principally of Dutch and German immigrants and their
descendants. Great numbers of these people emigrate to America every year
and the importation of them forms a very considerable branch of commerce.
They are for the most part brought from the Hanse towns and Rotterdam. The
vessels sail thither from America laden with different kinds of produce
and the masters of them on arriving there entice as many of these people
on board as they can persuade to leave their native country, without
demanding any money for their passages. When the vessel arrives in America
an advertisement is put into the paper mentioning the different kinds of
people on board whether smiths, tailors, carpenters, laborers, or the like
and the people that are in want of such men flock down to the vessel.
These poor Germans are then sold to the highest bidder and the captain of
the vessel or the ship holder puts the money into his pocket."

These may be, it is true, extreme cases of the economic motive for
immigration. But they are quite in line with eighteenth century
Mercantilist economic philosophy. Josiah Tucker, for example, in his
_Essay on Trade_, 1753, urges the encouragement of immigration from
France, and cites the value of Huguenot refugees. "Great was the outcry
against them at their first coming. Poor England would be ruined!
Foreigners encouraged! And our own people starving! This was the popular
cry of the times. But the looms in Spittle-Fields, and the shops on
Ludgate-Hill have at last sufficiently taught us another lesson … these
_Hugonots_ have … partly got, and partly saved, in the space of fifty
years, a balance in our favour of, at least, fifty millions sterling….
And as England and France are rivals to each other, and competitors in
almost all branches of commerce, every single manufacturer so coming over,
would be our gain, and a double loss to France."

The obverse side of the case appears in British hindrances to the free
emigration of artisans during the eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries. Laws forbade any British subject who had been employed in the
manufacture of wool, cotton, iron, brass, steel, or any other metal, of
clocks, watches, etc., or who might come under the general denomination of
artificer or manufacturer, to leave his own country for the purpose of
residing in a foreign country out of the dominion of His Britannic
Majesty. Recall the difficulty early American manufacturers encountered in
introducing new English improvements in cotton manufacture; a virtual
embargo was laid upon the migration of either men or machinery. Recall,
too, an expression of American resentment in our Declaration of
Independence at this English attitude: "He has endeavored to prevent the
population of these states; for that purpose, obstructing the laws for
naturalization of foreigners, refusing to pass others to encourage
migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations of
lands."

On the whole, the economic motive seems to have been uppermost in the
minds of both those who fostered and those who opposed foreign immigration
into the United States, up to, say, 1870. Likewise in perhaps more than
ninety-nine of every hundred cases the economic motive holds in the mind
of the present day immigrant, or his protagonist. Escape from political
tyranny or religious persecution, at least since the revolutionary period
of 1848, has operated only as a secondary motive. The industrial impulse
is all the more striking in the so-called "new immigration" from the
Mediterranean and South-Eastern Europe. The temporary migrant laborer, the
"bird of passage," roams about seeking his fortunes in much the same
spirit that certain Middle Age Knights or Crusades camp followers sought
theirs. This is in no way to his discredit. It is simply a fact that we
are to reckon with when called upon to work out a satisfactory immigration
policy. At least its recognition would eliminate a good deal of wordy
sentimentality from discussions of the immigration problem.

Professor Fairchild discovered that three things attract the Greek
immigrant. First and foremost, financial opportunities. Second, corollary
to the first, citizenship papers which will enable him to return to
Turkey, there to carry on business under the greater protection which such
citizenship confers. There is a hint here to the effect that mere
naturalization does not mean assimilation and permanent acceptance of the
status and responsibilities of American citizenship. Third, enjoyment of
certain more or less factitious "comforts of civilization."

But the Greeks are by no means untypical. The conclusion of the
Immigration Commission as to the causes of the new immigration is that
while "social conditions affect the situation in some countries, the
present immigration from Europe to the United States is in the largest
measure due to economic causes. It should be stated, however, that
emigration from Europe is not now an absolute economic necessity, and as a
rule those who emigrate to the United States are impelled by a desire for
betterment rather than by the necessity of escaping intolerable
conditions. This fact should largely modify the natural incentive to treat
the immigration movement from the standpoint of sentiment, and permit its
consideration primarily as an economic problem. In other words, the
economic and social welfare of the United States should now ordinarily be
the determining factor in the immigration policy of the Government."

This delimitation of the immigration problem to its economic aspects led
the Immigration Commission to recommend a somewhat restrictionist policy.
That they were not without warrant in so delimiting it is evident from the
utterances of such ardent opponents of restriction as Dr. Peter Roberts
and Max J. Kohler. The latter, writing in the _American Economic Review_
(March, 1912) said: "In fact, the immigrant laborer is indispensable to
our economic progress today, and we can rely upon no one else to build our
houses, railroads and subways, and mine our ores for us." Dr. Roberts'
plea is almost identical.

What a glaring misconception of the whole economic and social problem is
here involved will appear if we add a clause or two to Mr. Kohler's
sentence. He should have said: "We can rely upon no one else to build our
houses, railroads and subways, and mine our ores for us _at $455 a year;
for workers of native birth but of foreign fathers would cost us $566, and
native born White Americans $666 a year_." (See Abstracts of Rep. of
Immigr. Comm. vol. i., pp. 405-8.) These are the facts. This is the social
situation as it should be stated if a candid discussion of the problem is
sought.

Now what are the economic arguments for restricting somewhat the tide of
immigration? Several studies of standards of living among American
workingmen within the past ten years have shown that a large proportion of
American wage earners fall below a minimum efficiency standard. Studies of
American wages indicate that only a little over ten per cent of American
wage earners receive enough to maintain an average family in full social
efficiency. The average daily wage for the year ranges from $1.50 to $2.
One-half of all American wage earners get less than $600 a year;
three-quarters less than $750; only one-tenth more than $1,000.

Take in connection with these wage figures the statistics for
unemployment. The proportion of idleness to work ranges from one-third in
mining industries to one-fifth in other industries. In Massachusetts,
1908, manufacturers were unemployed twelve per cent of the working time.
Professor Streightoff estimated three years ago that the average annual
loss in this country through unemployment is 1,000,000 years of working
time. Perhaps one-tenth of working time might be taken as a very
conservative general average loss. But the worst feature of the whole
problem is that, in certain industries at least, the tendency to seasonal
unemployment is increasing. Ex-Commissioner Neill in his report on the
Lawrence strike said: "… it is a fact that the tendency in many lines of
industry, including textiles, is to become more and more seasonal and to
build to meet maximum demands and competitive trade conditions more
effectively. This necessarily brings it about that a large number of
employés are required for the industry during its period of maximum
activity who are accordingly of necessity left idle during the period of
slackness." (Senate Document 870, 62d Cong., 2d sess., 1912.)

If we recall still further that the casual laborer, who suffers most from
seasonal unemployment, is the chief stumbling block in the way to a
solution of the problem of poverty; that he furnishes the human power in
"sweated trades:" that immigrants form the majority of unskilled and
sweated laborers; if we remember that there is not a shred of evidence
(except the well-meant enthusiasm of the protagonists of the immigrant) to
show that immigration has "forced-up" the American laborer and his
standard of living, instead of displacing him downward; if we remember
that probably 10,000,000 of our people are in poverty, and that though the
immigrant may not seek charity in any larger proportions than the poor of
native stock, yet he does contribute heavily to our burden of relief for
dependents and defectives: we are justified in assuming that an analysis
of the causes of poverty confirms the evidence from studies of wages and
standards of living as to the depressing effect of the new immigration, in
particular, upon working conditions for the American laborer.

Consider, too, the question of "social surplus." Several American
economists, among them Professors Hollander, Patten and Devine, agree that
we are creating annually in the United States a substantial social
surplus. But it is evident from the figures of wages and standards of
living quoted above that the American laborer is not participating as he
might expect to participate in this economic advantage. Three factors
conspire against him. First, we have yet no adequate machinery for
determining exactly what the surplus is, or how to distribute it
equitably. Mr. Babson with his "composite statistical charts" has made a
beginning in the mathematical determination of prosperity; but it is only
a beginning. Second, organized labor is not yet sufficiently organized nor
sufficiently self-conscious to perceive and demand its opportunity for a
larger share. The significant point here is that recent immigration has
hampered and hindered the development of labor organizations, and thus
indirectly held back the normal tendency of wages to rise. Third,
inadequate education, particularly economic and social education. The
adult illiterate constitutes a tremendous educational problem. Over 35 per
cent of the "new immigration" of 1913 was illiterate, and this new
immigration included over two-thirds of the total. Ignorance prevents the
laborer from demanding the very education that would give him a better
place in the economic system; it hinders the play of intelligent
self-interest; and it actually prevents effective labor-organization,
which is one of the surest means of labor-education. Jenks and Lauck,
after experience with the Immigration Commission, concluded that "the fact
that recent immigrants are usually of non-English speaking races, and
their high degree of illiteracy, have made their absorption by the labor
organizations very slow and expensive. In many cases, too, the conscious
policy of the employers of mixing the races in different departments and
divisions of labor, in order, by a diversity of tongues, to prevent
concerted action on the part of employés, has made unionization of the
immigrant almost impossible."

For these reasons, and others, we are driven to the conclusion that future
policies of immigration must be based on sound principles of social
welfare and social economy, and not upon the economic advantage of certain
special industries. Whether we want the brawn of the immigrant must be
determined by what it will contribute to the general social surplus, and
not by what it adds to A's railroads or B's iron mines.

We are told that the three classes of our population demanding
unrestricted immigration are large employers of unskilled labor,
transportation companies, and revolutionary anarchists. Since this is by
definition an economic and not a philosophical question, we may neglect
the third class. To the other two classes should be directed certain brief
tests of economic good faith. Take at its face value their claim that
European brawn by the ship-load is indispensable to American industry. It
is becoming an accepted maxim that industry should bear its own charges,
should pay its own way. American industry has long fought the
contract-labor exclusion feature in current immigration law. Suppose we
frankly admit that it is much better for the immigrant to come over here
to a definite job than to wander about for weeks after he arrives, a prey
to immigrant banks, fake employment agents, and other sharks. Suppose,
accordingly, we repeal the laws against contract-labor. Let the employer
contract for as many foreign laborers as he likes or says he needs. But
make the contractor liable for support and deportation costs if the
laborers become public charges. Also require him to assume the cost of
unemployment insurance. Exact a bond for the faithful performance of these
terms, guaranteed in somewhat the same way that National Banks are
safeguarded. Immigration authorities now commonly require a bond from the
relatives of admitted aliens who seem likely to become public charges, but
who are allowed to enter with the benefit of the doubt. Customs and
revenue rules admit dutiable goods in bond. Hence the principle of the
bond is perfectly familiar, and its application to contract-immigrants
would be in no sense an untried or dangerous experiment. It would
establish no new precedent: for precedents, and successful ones, are
already established, accepted and approved. It would be understood that
all admissions of aliens can be only provisional, with no time limit on
deportation. It would be understood further–and the plan would work
automatically if the contractor were made such a deeply interested
party–that intending immigrants must be rigidly inspected, that they be
required to produce consular certificates of clean police record, freedom
from chronic disease, insanity, etc.

The result of such a scheme would probably cut away entirely
contract-labor; for it would not longer pay. But this does not mean
barring the gate to all foreign labor. As an aid to the employer and to
our own native workingman, we must, sooner or later, and the sooner the
better, establish a chain of labor bureaus throughout the Union. The
system must be placed under Federal direction, largely because the
Department of Labor would be charged, _ex officio_, with ascertaining the
"true demand" for immigrant labor, and it could only accomplish this end
effectively through such an employment clearing system. This true demand
would, of course, be based not only upon mere numerical excess of calls
for labor over demands for jobs, but would also take into account the
nature of the work, working conditions, and above all the prevailing level
of wages. According to this true demand the Department would adjust a
sliding scale of admissions of immigrant laborers.

Much might be said in favor of an absolute embargo upon all immigration
until such a body as the Industrial Relations Commission has time to make
an authoritative economic survey of the whole country, or until the
Unemployment Research Commission recently called for by Miss Kellor could
make the three years' study contemplated by her as the only way out of the
unemployment morass. Twenty years ago men of the type of General Walker
frankly urged that the immigration gates be closed for a flat period of
ten years or so. But the sliding scale plan contemplates no such radical
step. Indeed it is radical in no sense whatever. The proposed immigration
act now before Congress (The Burnett Bill, H.R. 6060) paves the way for
it, and provides a working principle, which apparently is accepted on all
sides. Section 3 includes this clause: "That skilled labor, if otherwise
admissible, may be imported if labor of like kind unemployed can not be
found in this country, and the question of the necessity of importing such
skilled labor in any particular instance may be determined by the
Secretary of Labor…." A really workable test for immigration, superior
by far to the literacy test or any other so far suggested, might easily be
developed by simply enlarging the scope of this clause, making it include
unskilled as well as skilled labor. No machinery other than that
contemplated by the present act would be required.

The immigration problem can never be satisfactorily handled until we fix
upon some such means of determining just what the economic need is. There
is no danger of hindering legitimate industrial expansion in times of
sudden business prosperity: for the transportation companies may be safely
trusted to supply in three or four weeks aliens enough to fill all the
gaps in the industrial army. Neither would injustice be done to the
immigrant himself. On the contrary, he would be assured of a job and
respectful consideration when he arrived. The "dago" or the "bohunk" would
acquire a new dignity and a more enviable status than he now occupies. The
selective process thus involved would much improve the quality of the
immigrant admitted, and would incidentally render assimilation of the
foreigner all the easier.

The precise details of selection, and the machinery, are mere matters of
detail. But the consular service, as long ago suggested by Catlin,
Schuyler and others, seems to offer the proper base of operations. We have
already recommended charging consuls with viséing certificates from
police, medical, and poor-relief authorities. We should further require
that declarations of intention to migrate be published (somewhat as
marriage banns are published) at local administrative centers
(arrondissement, Bezirk, etc.) and at United States consular offices; the
consular declaration should be obligatory; perhaps the other might be
optional, though in all probability foreign governments would coöperate in
demanding it. These validated declarations of intention should be filed in
the consular offices. When notice comes from the United States Department
of Labor that so many laborers will be admitted from such and such
district, the declarations are to be taken up in the order of their
filing, and the proper number of persons certified for admission. The
apportionment of admissions from each country might be calculated on a
basis of its population, also upon the nature of the employment offered,
and upon the desirability of the alien himself, his general
assimilability, his willingness to become naturalized, to adopt the
English language and the American standard of living among efficient
workers, etc.,–all as proved by past experience with his countrymen. This
plan, in so far as it provides for a sliding scale of admissions, is in
line with that proposed by Professor Gulick. He advocates making all
nations eligible for admission and citizenship, but would admit them only
in proportion as they can be readily assimilated. This would admit
annually, say, five per cent of those already naturalized, with their
American children. The principle here seems to be that we can assimilate
from any land in, and only in, proportion to the number already
assimilated from that land. But the difficulty of applying such a test
lies in the complexity of the assimilative process. No measure yet exists
for assimilation. Anthropologists are convinced that various strains in
the populations, for example of France, or Great Britain, which have been
dwelling together for centuries, are not by any means assimilated. Mere
naturalization is not a sufficient test of assimilation; it is only the
expression of a desire to be assimilated; and it may only be a device for
the promotion of business success here or in foreign parts, as we have
already indicated in the case of the Greeks. Hence in working out the
basis of a sound immigration policy, it would seem more practicable to
consider first the question of economic utilization rather than
assimilation. This, of course, does not exclude from the Secretary of
Labor's judgment the category of assimilability as one of the factors in
determining the apportionment of admissions.

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The Unpopular Review

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the one in which their articles appear.

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
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CONTENTS OF THE PRECEDING NUMBER (18, for April-June, 1918)

WHY AMERICA LAGS, Alvin S. Johnson, Professor in Stanford
University.
ON GOING AFOOT, Charles S. Brooks.
THE PROBLEM OF ALSACE-LORRAINE, C. D. Hazen, Professor in
Columbia University.
VISCOUNT MORLEY, Paul Elmer More, Advisory Editor of _The
Nation_.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRAINING CAMP, George R. MacMinn,
Professor in University of California.
HALF SOLES, Herbert Wilson Smith.
PRICE FIXING BY GOVERNMENT, David McGregor Means.
TURKEY UNDER GERMAN TUTELAGE, Rufus W. Lane.
MACHINE AND MAN, Grant Showerman, Professor in University of
Wisconsin.
THE ATHLETIC HABIT OF MIND, Edward F. Hayward.
ARBITERS OF FATE, Virginia Clippinger.
FOOD CONSERVATION AND THE WOMAN, Mary Austin.
SOME REFLECTIONS ON REVOLUTION, T. Lothrop Stoddard.
THE JOB AND THE OUTSIDER, H. W. Boynton.
DURCHALTEN! Vernon L. Kellogg, Professor in Stanford
University.
A NEW PSYCHIC SENSITIVE, The Editor.
CORRESPONDENCE: "The Obscurity of Philosophers"–Our Tax
Troubles Again.
EN CASSEROLE: Concerning these Hasty War Marriages–Bergson
and the Yellow Peril–A Problematic Personality–"Clause" and
"Phrase."

CONTENTS

FOR JULY-SEPTEMBER, 1918

NATURALIZATION IN THE SPOTLIGHT OF WAR 1
WAR PROPHETS 19
MY FRIEND THE JAY 33
THE FLEMISH QUESTION 43
IMMORTALITY IN LITERATURE 56
CARLYLE AND KULTUR 66
THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS 79
THE CONDITIONS OF TOLERANCE 94
THE NEO-PARNASSIANS 106
HUMANISM AND DEMOCRACY 114
THE MODERN MEDICINE MAN 127
"THE PUREST OF HUMAN PLEASURES" 140
WAR FOR EVOLUTION'S SAKE 146
JOHN FISKE 160
PLEASE EXPLAIN THESE DREAMS 190
CORRESPONDENCE 201
More Freedom from Hereditary Bias
EN CASSEROLE 202
If We are Late–The Kindly and Modest German–What the Cat
Thinks of the Dog–A Hunting-Ground of Ignorance–Maximum
Price-Fixing in Ancient Rome–Darwin on His Own
Discoveries–Reflections of an Old-Maid Aunt–An Obscure
Source of Education–Heart-to-Heart Advertising–The Curse of
Fall Elections–Larrovitch–Our Index

The Unpopular Review

NO. 19 JULY-SEPTEMBER VOL. X

NATURALIZATION IN THE SPOTLIGHT OF WAR

Amid the manifold uncertainties into which the war has plunged us, one
fact stands out with increased definiteness–that in our midst, and even
voting on our policies, of life or death,–we have had for many years
large numbers of people who at best give only a divided allegiance to
this country, and at worst are devoted and violent partisans of some
foreign state. The evidence of this truth has been of the most
diversified character, including the destruction of warehouses, docks,
and munitions factories, the burning of immense quantities of food, the
manufacture of ineffective torpedoes, the attempted blowing up of war
ships, and the dissemination of disease germs among children, soldiers,
and cattle. The uniform object of all these activities has been the
decrease of the war efficiency of the United States. The indications
seem conclusive that the perpetrators have been, not special German
spies or agents sent over here after our entry into the war or in
anticipation of it, but among the candidates for Mr. Gerard's five
thousand lampposts–persons who have lived in our midst for long
periods, and have been accepted as belonging to us.

So suddenly overwhelming has been the demonstration since the war began,
and particularly since the United States entered the war, that there is
great danger that the impression will become established that the war
created the situation, that the danger is a war danger, and that the
problem will automatically solve itself when the war is over. Nothing
could be more prejudicial to a correct understanding of the situation,
and to a sound solution of the national problems which will confront us
when the war is over. The war has not created the danger from
alien-hearted members of the body politic, it has merely revealed it.
The situation is the creation of our traditional policy toward
foreigners, and the menace inherent in the situation existed, and was
discerned by many close students of political affairs, long before the
war was dreamed of. Although then the manifestations of this danger were
less spectacular, the danger itself was no less persistent, pervasive,
and insidious. When Carl Petersen is triumphantly inducted into
municipal office, not because he is a Republican or a Democrat, not
because he stands thus and so on important public questions, but because
he is a Swede; when Patrick O'Donnell is made detective sergeant, not
because he has the highest qualifications of all the men available, but
because he belongs to the same Irish lodge as the chief of police; when
Salvini, and Goldberg, and Trcka receive political preferment or
judicial favor because of the race from which they spring or the nation
from which they come, the essence of the peril is exactly the same as
when Hans Ahlberg tries to sink an American merchantman because its
cargo of wheat is destined for England instead of Germany.

The peril in question is the peril of having in a democracy large groups
of voters actuated by racial and national affiliations other than those
of the country in which they live: in other words, large elements of
unassimilated foreigners. The assertion of this danger does not
necessarily carry the implication of any inferiority, mental, physical,
or moral, on the part of the foreigners. Difference without inferiority
is dangerous, difference coupled with inferiority is definitely
injurious. There is no need to reiterate the manifold evils which have
already developed, and which threaten to develop, from immigration of
the poor quality which our selective tests have not sufficed to prevent.
Undoubtedly the physical and mental average of our people, possibly also
the moral average, has already been definitely reduced, and the progress
of the working classes toward a reasonably high standard of living has
been checked, but the point which needs emphasis here is that difference
in itself is dangerous. The immigrant who is still a foreigner in
sympathy and character exerts a prejudicial influence upon the life of
the nation at every point of contact. It is impossible for him to
function as a normal unit in the social complex. If by naturalization he
acquires the right to participate in political affairs, the opportunity
for injury is multiplied. He cannot possibly approach public questions
as if his allegiance were wholly with the country of his residence.
These facts are particularly illustrated with us by the very large
element known as "birds of passage." The only way these evils can be
overcome is through genuine assimilation.

Assimilation is a spiritual metamorphosis. It manifests itself in many
changes of dress, of language, of manners, and of conduct. But these
outward semblances are not assimilation. An alien is thoroughly
assimilated into a new society only when he becomes completely imbued
with its spiritual heritage. He must cease to think and feel and imagine
in ways determined by his old social environment, and must respond to
the stimuli of social contact in all ways exactly as if from the very
beginning he had developed under the influence of his adopted society.
And this involves, of course, the entire abandonment of any sympathy,
affection, or loyalty different from that which might be felt by any
native of his new home for the country of his origin or the people of
that country. Complete assimilation so defined may seem impossible to
the adult immigrant. This is almost universally the truth. The spiritual
impress of the environment of one's infancy, childhood, and youth, can
seldom be eradicated during the later years of life. Realizing this,
those who hate to admit that our immigrants are not being assimilated,
hasten to modify the definition. But this does not help the case,
because it does not alter the situation.

In this respect, the war has already rendered a distinct service to this
country. No longer can we blind ourselves to the fact that national
unity does not exist. Professor William Graham Sumner used often to
remark that the United States had no just claim to the name of nation,
because of the presence of the negroes within its borders. Whether that
particular definition of "nation" is adopted or not, there can be no
doubt that real national homogeneity is wholly lacking, and that the
negro is by no means the only discordant element. In fact, in many ways
the immigration problem is more imminent and menacing than the negro
problem: for the negro problem is in a sense static, since it is not
aggravated by continuous accessions from without. We know what the negro
problem is, and can state it in terms which will be relatively
permanent. But the immigration problem presents constantly changing
aspects, not only because of its growing numerical proportions, but
because of the diversity of its elements, and the uncertainty as to its
future developments.

One of the striking manifestations of this new recognition of our
dangerous situation is the change of front of those who are opposed to
the restriction of immigration. The stock answer to the warnings of the
restrictionists used to be the assertion that assimilation was taking
place with perfectly satisfactory rapidity and completeness. America was
the great "melting-pot" of the nations, out of which was to flow–was,
in fact, actually flowing–a new and better type of man, purged of all
slag and dross. As conclusive proofs of this claim, were advanced all
those superficial adaptations to new surroundings which the immigrant
and his children make with so much display and gusto. The assimilating
power of the American People was asserted to be unlimited, and if there
were any hitches in the process, they could all be remedied by
distribution. How suddenly has this elaborate erection of analogies,
metaphors, and pseudo-arguments been shown up for the flimsy camouflage
that it really was! Miss Grace Abbott, the avowed champion of the
immigrant, is forced to admit that "unity of religion, unity of race,
unity of ideals, do not exist in the United States. We are many
nationalities scattered across a continent." Miss Frances Kellor writes
a book on _Straight America_, in which she confesses the failure of
assimilation in the past, and turns to universal military service as a
last resort. Mrs. Mary Antin remains discreetly silent, and Mr. Isaac A.
Hourwich is less in the public eye than formerly.

* * * * *

But even yet the opponents of restriction are not willing to submit to
the logic of the situation, and instead of admitting the present need of
true restriction, come forward with a new substitute. This substitute
goes by the general name of "Americanization," and is urged upon us as
the appropriate and adequate remedy for the ills which none can longer
deny. The essence of this movement is that those who embody the true
American ideas and ideals–a group seldom named or definitely described,
but usually vaguely referred to as "we"–should bend all their energies
toward the assimilation of our foreign population, and should seek by
artificial and purposive expedients to accomplish that cultural
transmutation for which the natural and unconscious relationships of the
immigrant have proved wholly inadequate. And it must be freely granted
that many of the specific proposals of the "Americanizers" are
intrinsically meritorious and worthy of adoption. When it is suggested
that our foreign populations ought to be better housed, fed, clothed,
educated and amused, we all rise in assent–provided he will do his
share toward it; yet in self-defence we must do more than ours. When we
are urged to assist the immigrant to learn the English language and
familiarize himself with the political history and government of this
nation, our common sense gives ready response. The gross absurdity of
the movement lies in the assumption that any or all of these things,
good as they are, constitute assimilation, or will, in the natural
course of their accomplishment, produce assimilation. Who will undertake
to show that those persons of foreign birth who, in the last three and a
half years, have most flagrantly violated their obligations to the
country of their adoption, are on the whole less well educated, less
familiar with the English language, less prosperous, or even less versed
in American institutions, than those who have remained loyal at heart,
or at least in conduct? By all means let us have as small a proportion
of our people as possible who cannot read and write, who do not
understand the English language, who treat their women according to the
code of mediaeval semi-barbarism, and who are content with living
conditions something lower than what we consider proper for domestic
animals. But let us not imagine that those who have freed themselves
from these anomalies are therefore true Americans.

* * * * *

However, the crowning insult offered to the intelligence of the American
people by the Americanization movement is the soberly uttered and
persistently reiterated proposition that the best way to cure the evils
of a heterogeneous population is to naturalize the foreigners! In the
voluminous literature issued by the group of organizations directly
connected with this movement, the three injunctions to the foreigner
which appear with the greatest frequency and emphasis are: "Attend night
school," "Learn the English language," "Become an American citizen." As
already stated, no fault can be found with the first two admonitions in
themselves. But the third calls for close scrutiny, particularly as it
involves a fundamental question which is sure to rise to prominence when
the war is over. What benefits can be expected from our hasty
naturalization of aliens? What is the effect upon the aliens and upon
the country, of this urgent invitation to become citizens? Ought it to
be made easier or harder to acquire citizenship?

The first step in the answer to the foregoing questions is the
examination of the real meaning of naturalization, and the process by
which it is achieved in the United States. Naturalization is the act of
conferring citizenship by a certain state upon a certain individual who
hitherto has been a citizen or subject of another state. Citizenship
implies rights and privileges, allegiance and obligations. The only
difference that may be looked for in an individual after naturalization
is that he now enjoys such rights and privileges, and owes such duties
and obligations as appertain to State B instead of State A. The act of
naturalization is not a developmental experience or process, but merely
the registry of a change of status. Any transformations in the character
of the individual which are regarded as essential to fitness for
citizenship in State B should have taken place before naturalization.
The act of naturalization will not produce them, nor is there adequate
ground for assuming that they will generally follow that act. The only
question which concerns the naturalizing official is whether the
candidate is already affiliated at heart with the new country instead of
the old, and the tests imposed upon the candidate are theoretically
designed to determine or guarantee that affiliation. If, therefore, the
foreigner was in any degree dangerous to his adopted country while an
alien, there is no reason to suppose that he will be materially less so
as a naturalized citizen. On the contrary, he is in a position to do
much greater harm, because of the new powers and opportunities which
naturalization confers, and because of the new confidence and trust
which he enjoys through his citizenship.

The harm thus done by naturalized but unassimilated citizens may be
malicious and intentional or incidental. Many of the notorious election
scandals of the past have been made possible by large numbers of
foreigners who, having sought citizenship for narrowly selfish reasons,
have used it in unscrupulous ways. It is true that they have frequently
been abetted by native-born politicians; but the foreigners furnished
the material. The injury done involuntarily, however, by
well-intentioned voters who simply are not Americans, is even more
serious because more extensive and more insidious. These are the men who
have taken the oath of allegiance in all sincerity, supposing themselves
to be as much in tune with the spirit of American life as the occasion
called for. They have lived up to their lights as consistently, perhaps,
as the majority of native-born voters of the same class. But their
participation in public affairs has constantly been colored by racial or
national affiliations, by a foreign outlook on life, and by incapacity
to appreciate the true genius of the American nation. Their influence
has therefore been to neutralize or thwart the efforts of conscientious
intelligent Americans to grapple with national problems. An interesting
case in point is the naturalized German referred to in "A Family Letter"
in the December _Atlantic Monthly_, who refused to buy an inch of land
in this country, in order that he might be free at any time to return to
Germany. It has taken the emergency of a war to reveal to many
naturalized citizens how mistaken they were (this at least is the most
charitable interpretation) when they supposed that the old allegiance
had been thoroughly subordinated.

It is a most extraordinary inversion of logic, this mental process by
which people persuade themselves that rushing our aliens through the
naturalization courts will better our national situation. The line of
argument seems to be something like this: A foreign resident of the
United States who desires to participate fully in the life of the
nation, and who is sincerely devoted to the best interests of the
country, will wish to become a citizen; therefore, every naturalized
citizen desires to participate fully in the life of the nation and is
sincerely devoted to its best interests. Or perhaps a slightly less
fantastic process of cerebration might be this: Naturalization is
conferred upon foreigners who have fitted themselves to be received into
citizenship; therefore, to accelerate the process of naturalization is
to reduce the number of foreigners unfitted for citizenship.

If our naturalization laws were so strict, and the courts which
administer them so scrupulous, that no alien could acquire citizenship
except upon a convincing demonstration of his assimilation, it would do
less positive harm to urge aliens to become citizens, because they would
know, or would in time learn, that to do so they must bring themselves
into complete harmony with the spirit of the nation. It is therefore
essential to examine the prescribed qualifications for naturalization,
and see exactly what citizenship papers stand for.

* * * * *

The requirements are simply stated. The candidate must be a free white
person, or a person of African nativity or African descent. He must be
twenty-one years of age. He must have resided continuously five years in
the United States, and one year in the State in which he makes
application. He must have had his "first paper" at least two years, but
not more than seven years. He must be of good moral character, must be
attached to the principles of the Constitution of the United States, and
must be able to speak English (unless registered under the Homestead
Laws) and to sign his name. He must not be an anarchist or a polygamist.
He must renounce any hereditary title or order of nobility, and all
allegiance and fidelity to any foreign potentate, prince, city, or state
of which he is a subject. He must affirm his intention to reside
permanently in the United States, and must declare on oath that he will
"support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States
against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and bear true faith and
allegiance to the same." He must have as witnesses two citizens of the
United States who testify as to his residence in the United States, his
moral character, his attachment to the Constitution, and his general
fitness (in their opinion) to be admitted to citizenship.

Now, assuming for the time being that the court officials apply the law
with the utmost possible rigor, what is there in the foregoing list of
requirements that guarantees that the newly made citizen is free from
any lingering attachment to any other country, and ready to enter
single-heartedly into the life of the nation, ready to share its burdens
and the responsibility of grappling with its problems, in a way at all
comparable to the native-born citizen?

The qualifications in question fall into two groups: first, those which
are matters of demonstrable fact, and second those which are mere
asseverations of the candidate himself, or of his witnesses. Most
important in the first category is the period of residence. With the aid
of the records of the immigration bureau this fact can be definitely
established. But what of it? What does a residence of five years mean as
to assimilation? Under modern conditions almost nothing. This provision
was written into the law over a century ago, after heated debate, and
has never been changed, though in the middle of the nineteenth century
it was subjected to vigorous attacks by powerful parties who wished the
period raised to twenty-one years. In a simpler organization of society,
there was some meaning in the five-year requirement. When communities
were small, when foreigners were few, when the United States still
preserved some of the character of mediaeval society, of which it has
been said, "the essence … was that, in every manor, every one knew
everything about his neighbor," it was scarcely possible for an alien to
reside five years in the country without becoming well known to a number
of native citizens in his community, and establishing many points of
contact with Americanizing influences. But in twentieth century America
conditions are completely reversed. It is not only possible, but in
innumerable cases the fact, that an alien may live, not only five nor
twenty-one, but forty or fifty years in the midst of an American
community without experiencing more than the most infinitesimal molding
from a definitely American environment. In fact, the majority of recent
immigrants do not really live in America at all, in anything more than a
strictly geographical sense, but in communities almost as foreign as
those from which they came. The mere physical fact of five years
residence of itself signifies absolutely nothing as to the fitness of
the alien to share in controlling the destiny of the nation. Let us
therefore examine the other requirements in this group.

The candidate must be twenty-one years of age. This is reasonable and
desirable, but tells us nothing of the alien's fitness for citizenship.
The period of at least two years intervening between the issue of the
first and second papers was presumably designed to give opportunity for
investigation of the candidate's fitness, but rarely serves that purpose
now. There remain, then, three positive requirements of fact–race, and
ability to speak English and to sign one's name. The general question of
the greater desirability of one race over another, as material for
American citizenship, is too involved to be adequately treated in this
connection; clearly there is nothing here to indicate the fitness of the
individual. This leaves just two tests of real assimilation, viz.,
ability to speak English and to sign one's name. These are assuredly
among the minimum requirements for citizenship, but they do not go very
far.

Turning then to the qualifications which rest upon the statements of the
candidate and his witnesses, we find that he must be of good moral
character, and not a polygamist nor an anarchist. Assuming that the
truth is told, these requisites are beyond objection, but what do they
tell us of the fitness of the alien for American citizenship? To
renounce hereditary titles is a proper enough requirement, but one that
throws no light upon the candidacy of the majority of modern immigrants.
The statement of intention of permanent residence in this country is
meant as a guarantee of the good purposes of the alien in becoming a
citizen. But naturally this will be treated most lightly by those who
need it most, and it is a question whether a foreigner whose motives are
questionable is any more desirable in the country than out of it.
Anyway, the destination of good intentions is proverbial. Finally, then,
the alien must renounce all foreign allegiance and fidelity, and swear
to his attachment to the principles of the Constitution of this country,
and engage to support and defend it and the laws against all enemies.

Remembering that, whatever may have been the efficacy of the provision
about witnesses in the early stages of our history, it has degenerated
into a sorry farce in modern times, when professional witnesses hang
about the courts, ready to swear to anything for anybody, what does the
whole naturalization procedure, as stipulated by law, amount to?
Practically to nothing more than the statement by the alien himself that
he wishes to transfer his allegiance from a foreign state to this, and
the swearing of fidelity. We virtually offer citizenship freely to any
alien who can meet certain arbitrary requirements as to residence, race,
etc., and is willing to take the oath of allegiance. The one tangible
thing is the oath, and the unreliability of the oath as a guarantee of
undivided allegiance has been demonstrated over and over again in past
decades, and most emphatically by the traitorous behavior of some of our
naturalized citizens since 1914.

In practice, officials may or may not add to the requirements of the law
a brief examination designed to reveal the candidate's knowledge of the
workings of the federal and state governments. But even at best, these
questions and their appropriate answers occupy only half a dozen pages
or so in a convenient little textbook, which assures the alien that if
he "thoroughly familiarizes himself with the meaning of the questions
and with the answers thereto, he will be sufficiently qualified to be
admitted to citizenship," even though the order in which the questions
are asked should be varied a little. To cram up on this examination
could hardly occupy an intelligent high school boy a couple of hours.

Since we thus offer citizenship almost for the asking to any white or
African alien who has resided here five years, it follows that the
issuance of naturalization papers does not guarantee any degree of
assimilation, and to urge aliens to become naturalized is in no sense
equivalent to urging them to fit themselves for the responsibilities of
citizenship. There is accordingly absolutely nothing to be said in
defense of the notion that urging naturalization upon our aliens will
improve our domestic situation.

* * * * *

But what of the opposite side of the case? Are there any positive
objections to the propaganda in question? The answer involves an
analysis of the probable effects upon the alien of such vigorous
encouragement, and the probable effects upon the United States of a
large increase of naturalized citizens. The latter problem practically
resolves itself into the query whether an unassimilated foreigner is
less dangerous as citizen than as an alien. This has already been
answered. Because of the added power, opportunity, and protection which
the naturalized citizen enjoys, and because of the greater demands he
may make upon the government, he is in a position to do much more harm,
maliciously or otherwise, as a citizen than as an alien. It is true that
federal naturalization does not give him the right to vote. The suffrage
is a matter of states' rights. Most states require federal
naturalization; some require additional qualifications, such as
literacy, while about fifteen allow even unnaturalized aliens to vote.

In the absence of guarantees to the contrary, it is quite possible, not
only that the alien may not be fitted for citizenship, but that he may
desire citizenship for unworthy or ulterior purposes. Until stopped by a
recent law, it was a common practice for subjects of backward or
despotic foreign countries to come to the United States, remain five
years and take out their citizenship papers, with no intention of even
remaining longer, but with the definite purpose of returning to their
native land and there carrying on their various businesses in the
enjoyment of the greater facilities and protection given by the American
flag.

Another common motive is to qualify for a better municipal or state job.
Among the documents issued by the Americanizing agencies is a poster,
bordered in red, white, and blue, and illustrated by a representation of
Uncle Sam, his right hand clasping that of a sturdy immigrant, while his
left points invitingly to the judge who is issuing naturalization
papers. After the customary plea to become a citizen, the legend
continues: "It means a better opportunity and a better home in America.
It means a better job. It means a better chance for your children. It
means a better America." (Why not add, "It means a chance to turn a few
honest dollars on election day?") If these statements were true, the
case would be bad enough, as, with the exception of the last, they
appeal to a decidedly low motive for seeking citizenship. But they are
not true. The newly made citizen in time finds out that they are not
true, and then he feels cheated. When the better home and better job
fail to materialize, any budding sense of obligation to his new country
receives a sad shock.

Urging citizenship upon the alien must inevitably produce an attitude of
mind exactly the opposite from that which would make him a useful
citizen. That which comes easily is lightly regarded, and that which is
presented in such a way that the taking of it appears a favor, is not
looked upon with great reverence or respect. In this respect much of the
literature of the Americanization movement is most pernicious. Moreover
the emphasis is all on the personal advantages of citizenship, not at
all on its duties or responsibilities.

In this particular our forefathers were much wiser than we. They
recognized that American citizenship was a thing of great value, to be
regarded as a boon, procurable only by earnest endeavor and true merit.
They could not have comprehended how the liberties for which the
Revolutionary heroes fought and bled could ever be so degraded as to be
hawked about the market place. We would do well to follow their example.
We esteem the United States most highly of all nations. We believe that
it owes a peculiar debt to posterity, that those entrusted with its
career should be imbued with the most profound respect for it, the
deepest sense of their responsibility to it, and the most thorough
equipment for the adequate performance of their duties with respect to
it. To participate in the control of the destiny of this great democracy
is an undertaking of the gravest sort; and five years residence and the
other requirements of the naturalization law are no more a fit
preparation for it than five years of service in the office of a
corporation and familiarity with the office routine fit the office boy
to become a director.

Any propaganda directed toward our aliens should therefore take the form
of urging, even to the point of insistence, that they _fit themselves_
for citizenship. This will make them more useful and less troublesome
residents, whether they are eventually naturalized or not. But
citizenship itself should be held aloft, portrayed to them as a
priceless boon, to be won only as a reward of long and patient effort,
and a complete demonstration of their fitness. If this results in
discouraging some foreigners from coming to this country, no harm will
be done. If it results in increasing the proportion of residents who do
not share in the government, and if this is in itself an evil, the
remedy is to be applied at the ports of entry, and not in the
naturalization courts.

It is emphatically true that changes in our naturalization procedure are
needed. But they should be in the direction of greater strictness, not
of greater laxity. It is not the purpose of this paper to discuss in
detail what these changes should be, but to emphasize the necessity that
in general the requirements should be more inclusive, more positive,
more significant of the assimilation and fitness of the candidate, more
determinative of his good intentions in presenting his petition. One
change that is certainly called for is the modification of state laws,
by federal coercion if necessary, so as to make it impossible for aliens
to vote. As social organization becomes more complex, the influence of
government upon the life of the individual becomes more extensive, more
intimate, and more vital; and as the sphere of government expands, the
responsibilities of the electorate become heavier and more intricate.
When peace is restored, and the period of reconstruction commences, the
demands upon the intelligence, fidelity, and conscience of the voter
will be vastly greater than ever before in the world's history. It is
essential to the maintenance of democracy and the progress of humanity
that the United States face this critical period with the most efficient
and harmonious electorate possible.

Does emphasis upon national homogeneity and solidarity seem too
reactionary in this crisis of the world's history? Does it appear that
laying stress on the differentiation of nationalities within our borders
will prevent the United States from playing its appropriate part in the
coming period of reconstruction, which, we are told, must involve
recognition of the principle of internationality? A moment's thought
will make it clear that this position is a mistaken one when the war is
over. Nations will still exist, nor will they pass out of existence with
the progress of any revolutionary international adjustments that may be
made. Whatever action is taken in the direction of a world federation
must be made by self-conscious units, and must rest upon the basis of
well-knit nations. The recent unusually sound and suggestive piece of
sociological thinking, _Community_, by Mr. R. M. Maciver, contains a
most timely chapter on "Co-ordination of Community." In the course of
his study of the way the principle of association and common action is
extended, the author observes:

Whether the ideal of nationality grows stronger or weaker in
the future, the fact of nationality … will always remain….
Understanding the service and limits of nationality, we are
now in a position to consider how nations both are and can be
co-ordinated within the wider community which they build. Such
co-ordination can be directly achieved only through the State,
which is the primary association corresponding to the
nation…. It is true that the limits of nations and States
are still far from being coincident, but the great historical
movements have been leading towards that ideal. In any case it
must be the co-operation of States, whether they do or do not
coincide with nations, which will bring order into the still
existing chaos of the nations.

In the period following the war, the necessity will be greater than ever
before that the government of the United States shall be able to deal
with intricate and far reaching problems with intelligence, unity,
harmony, and force. This can be done only through an electorate that is
intelligent, homogeneous, sympathetic, and free from divisions into
antagonistic or incongruous groups.

An extreme but significant illustration of this principle is furnished
by the present situation in Russia. If a general truce were declared
tomorrow, and the nations sought to get together to discuss a permanent
basis of settlement, one of the greatest obstacles in the way of success
would be Russia, simply for the reason that at present there is no
Russia in the sense that a nation must exist to participate in such a
council as that supposed. There is no danger that the United States will
fall into any such state of disruption as Russia. But there is a
distinct danger that it may suffer from a lesser degree of the same
malady, the existence of discordant elements in the body politic, and
consequent inability to exert her maximum force in attacking the
problems of reconstruction.

The period following the war will be a time for new things. Easier than
ever before will it be to shake off the trammels of tradition and
precedent, and inaugurate approved though novel political policies.
Foremost among the matters which the United States will be called upon
to see to will be the reconsideration of our entire attitude toward
aliens, and their naturalization. The time to prepare for that
reconsideration is now.

WAR PROPHETS

The war is generating prophets as the Nile generated frogs under the
mandate of Moses, and there is a similarity in the speech of both
products. The prophets are too cautious to risk their reputation in
predicting the events of the war; their forecasts relate to the sort of
a world we shall find ourselves in after peace returns. But even this
measure of prediction is a by-product of the soothsayers who, whether
their lips have been touched with a coal from off the altar, or not,
certainly wield the pen of the ready writer. The main industry of the
busy prophets is to expound to us the meaning of the war, and to
disclose to us those causes of the war which we should never have
discovered for ourselves.

The ordinary uninspired man feels when he has read the diplomatic
correspondence of a couple of weeks at the end of July and the beginning
of August, 1914, that he knows fairly well what were the immediate
causes of the war, and where the responsibility lies. If he carries his
reading back as far as the annexation of Bosnia in 1908, he is satisfied
that he has a pretty comprehensive view of the forces that precipitated
the war. And if he has read pretty abundant selections from the
Pan-German literature and the panegyrics on war–such a literature as no
branch of the human race, Christian or pagan, ever produced before–he
thinks he understands how it was possible to plunge the German nation
into this attack on the world.

But all this is merely a matter of reading and reflection. Any one can
reach such conclusions. The prophet must reach some different conclusion
in order to sustain his claim to inspiration:

If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be.

The prophet has got to attribute the war to causes that would not have
occurred to the common mortal, and see in it meanings that ordinary eyes
cannot trace, or abdicate his tripod.

It is equally unreasonable and equally immoral to say that the war
proves that Christianity is a failure, and to say that it proves
Christianity has never been tried. Because if either of these hypotheses
be correct, one set of belligerents is as deep in the mud as the other
is in the mire, and there is no personal culpability for this war, and
no national culpability either. We are all guilty of not being
Christians, or all unfortunate in having grown up in ignorance of
revelation, and beyond that there is no blame for the war.

If this war is not the result of certain perfectly well known
individuals using their own nations for an attack on others, but is the
result of impersonal enmity between Teuton and Slav, then no person or
persons are responsible for the war, there is no more blame on one side
than there is on the other, and the moral element is as lacking as it is
in an encounter between the inhabitants of the jungle. It is a curious
thing that the prophet assumes the role of a moral censor, and devotes
much the greater part of his energies to confusing the moral issues, to
obliterating moral distinctions, and to blunting the ethical sense.

To condemn all war, which is a congenial theme for a moralist, is rank
immorality; for it puts the nation that attacks, and the nation that
repels the invader, in the same category, and refuses to make any
distinction between the burglar, the householder who resists him, and
the policeman who overpowers him and drags him away to jail.

The prophet readily drops his eye on armies, and at once announces that
it is their existence that accounts for the war. If there were no armies
there would possibly be no wars, but we have shown more than once that
armies can be pretty rapidly extemporized. Besides, this, too, confuses
the moral issues. All nations have armies, and if America and England
had relatively small armies before this war, they had the largest navy
in the world and the navy which ranked second or third. The highwayman
carries a pistol, and so does the paymaster who is obliged to transport
a treasure chest. If the possession of a revolver was the cause of the
homicide that occurred, the guilt lies equally on the souls of both.

We are told that no truth is more certain than that "if you create a
vast fighting machine it will sooner or later compel you to fight,
whether you want to fight or not"–which is about as dubious a truth as
was ever paraded as an axiom–that "these vast machines, whether armies
or engines of war, are made to be used," and that "the military machine
will overpower the minds which have called it into being." Then their
responsibility is not for the ensuing war, but for carelessness in
leaving a war weapon around. But if these vast military machines were
made to be used, then why complicate the question of responsibility by
representing the machine as overpowering its careless but really
peaceful creator, and compelling him to fight whether he wants to fight
or not?

If the Kaiser and the Crown Prince and the General Staff and the
military caste and the Pan-German element created the army to use
against other nations, in accordance with Bernhardi's alternative of
"world domination or decline," and if all the professors and preachers
and pamphleteers had taught the people that war was a high, holy, and
beautiful thing, and–more particularly–that Germany could beat any
other nation in a few weeks, and the armies would return loaded down
with spoils and indemnities and title deeds to new provinces, and that
"our good old German God" had specially deputized the German nation to
overpower all the rest of the world, make German the universal tongue,
and the primitive moral code of Germany the ethical law of the world,
then we know precisely who is guilty of this war. But if the German army
compelled the German Government to back Austria in an attack on Servia,
and on its own account to invade Russia, Belgium and France, we are very
much at sea about the place where the moral burden is to be laid.

* * * * *

The prophet is particularly prone to find the causes of the war in a
material civilization, in our existing industrial system, and especially
in greed. The prophet and the political orator are equally stern in
their denunciation of greed. At a time when prophets were so accustomed
to physical exercise that they could run ahead of Ahab's chariot, and in
the absence of normal sources of supply, were fed by the ravens, their
indignation at greed, their contempt for commerce, and their superiority
to a material civilization, was free from incongruity. The modern
prophet does not live on locusts and wild honey, nor is his wardrobe
limited to a belt of camel's hair. His uncompromising denunciation of
his age is somewhat impaired by the obvious fact that he has "some of
the pork."

The deliverances of the prophet on this class of themes are rather
tiresome in their iteration, and distinctly irritating in their oblivion
to history. There is no civilization that does not rest upon the
possession and acquisition of property; there is no clime or time in
which men have not worked for their living, and sought the means of
buying the things which their tastes, coarse or refined, craved, in
which there have not been rich and poor, and in which it has not been
much pleasanter to be the former than the latter. The earliest social
satirist, like the latest, berated the accursed greed for gold, and
castigated his contemporaries for their love of luxury and their eager
pursuit of money. It would seem as if the prophet might recognize that
it is a very old sermon he is preaching, and familiarize himself with
the extraordinary age of those evils of his own day which he feels it
his mission to chastise.

What distinguishes this age from others, and our own country from others
is that here and now wealth is acquired more easily and more rapidly
than at other times and places. This being the very obvious fact, it
shakes our confidence in the whole fraternity of prophets that they
should, one and all, attribute the larger fortunes made here and now to
the greater love of money, or its more assiduous pursuit. The rich man
is more successful in amassing wealth than the poor man, but he is not
more mercenary. Two men try equally hard to get rich; one succeeds, and
the other fails; the man who failed is quite likely to be more eager for
money than the man who succeeded.

The industrial system never meets the approval of the prophet. An
occasional prediction is that the war will destroy our deplorable
economic life, in which every man is trying to get as high wages or as
large a salary or as ample profits as possible, and will usher in the
golden age, in which such base considerations as pecuniary compensation
will have a very secondary place in every man's mind. Before this war
came, the most eminent educator in America assured the workingman that
he ought to work for the pleasure of it, and not for the contents of his
Saturday night envelope. Such admonitions have occurred, in one form or
another, in the literature of the sages, for centuries and millenniums.
But it was never evolved by a man who was digging postholes, and a noble
ambition to mine the very best coal cannot carry a miner far when he is
obliged to cut such coal as there is in front of him.

It is barely possible that by devoting some weeks to the task, a man
could produce a pair of shoes notably superior to the ordinary run of
shoes, and his professional pride as a devout follower of St. Crispin
might take keen delight in the work of his hands; in the fact that he
had made the very finest pair of shoes in the world. But, after all, he
needs food, and possibly he is obliged to pay rent, and he ought to have
a wife to make comfortable, and children to send to school in
presentable form: so something besides pride in his work is necessary.
If he is to be adequately compensated for his labor on that pair of
shoes, their price will be such that only the rich–if the rich are to
be permitted to survive–can buy them; and if such shoemakers prevail,
the greater part of mankind will go barefoot. For does not the prophet
who has poured out the phials of his wrath upon an economic system that
makes quantity and cheapness, instead of real excellence, its ideals,
recognize that the purpose of quantity is to supply the wants of a
greater number of human beings, and the purpose of cheapness is to
enable human beings to supply more of their needs? For certainly if the
shoes which are the very best shoes in the whole world, and whose
excellence affords the keenest satisfaction to the soul of the
shoemaker, cost $50, then it is quite certain that the customer who
carries them home will go without many other things that he ought to
have. If the shoes are made by machinery and sold for $3, they may not
be quite so beautiful or durable as the artistic product of hand labor,
regardless of time, and yet be in the interest of the customer and the
community.

After the prophet has got through with his ravings at the present
industrial system, the fact will remain that there are a good many
millions of us on this earth, and that we have got to earn our livings,
and that the agriculture and industries of the Middle Ages would not
keep all of us alive. In addition to which, we may also venture to
suggest that the people of the Middle Ages were not quite as honest as
we are, and were not less particular about getting a financial return
for their exertions. The modern industrial system was not created by
capital for capitalists; it is the result of the efforts of the
community as a whole to supply the needs of all of its members, and to
afford employment to all of them. Hunting and fishing are pleasanter
than most of the industries, but 100,000,000 of civilized people are
living and are equipped with intellectual and moral accessories, where a
quarter of a million Indians once roamed. And although they toiled not
(systematically), neither did they spin (much), they were not happier or
better than we are.

One prophet of more discrimination than most of his clan admits that the
industry and thrift which produce capital are valuable qualities
morally, but he is still confident that the great wealth of the modern
world is thoroughly demoralizing. Whence it appears that the safe course
for the world to pursue is to work hard and save carefully and burn up
its accumulations every year in order to keep itself poor but pious,
like the parents of the subjects of a style of religious biography now
quite out of date. Of course this prophet would prefer the wiser course
of not earning enough to afford wealth to accumulate. If we would only
adopt his system and work for the pleasure of working, and for the
satisfaction of producing absolutely perfect products of our own skill,
there would be no danger of our sinking our souls into perdition with a
load of gold. Noah and his sons appear to have built the Ark by the
processes of domestic industry, in distinction from the accursed factory
or capitalist system. How their support was provided for during the 120
years has not been recorded, but if one man undertook to build a
locomotive, instead of merely making repetitions of a single part, it
would be necessary to make arrangement for this. And when we are trying
to replace the vessels destroyed by German submarines, it seems
necessary to use more rapid methods of construction than sufficed before
the Deluge.

Will some prophet please tell us how poor we must be in order to be
virtuous and pacific, and how virtuous and pacific the world was before
it became prosperous? Were there no wars before the Twentieth Century?
The extent of this war is scarcely a result of the world's opulence,
when Sir Edward, now Viscount, Grey, offered to keep England out of it
if Germany would limit the war to the Balkans or to Russia. The war has
involved most of the world because Germany began it by attacking France
and Belgium, and followed that up by attacking Americans on the high
seas, where they had as much right to be as at home.

This argument that the war is the result of wealth is immoral, because
it makes the guilt of America and England even greater than that of
Germany (for they are richer); and because it is the argument of the
communist–that theft is not wrong, because it is the inevitable
consequence of private property: if no one has any right to anything,
then no one will steal anything.

* * * * *

Nothing holds the attention of the prophet better than the idea that the
war is the result of commercial competition. This also is an invention
of the devil to exculpate Germany. All of us are in business for gain;
we are actuated by greed; we are making cotton cloth to cover Africans
for the profit that we can get out of it; we ought to think only of
clothing the naked, and if we would only give the cotton cloth to the
Hottentots without material return, we should have the proud
satisfaction of seeing them draped in chintzes, and we should be safe
from that wealth which is so certain to make us wicked. On those terms
there would be very little competition in supplying the Hottentots, and
no danger whatever that any nation would fight us to gain that portion
of the export trade.

But the "peaceful penetration" of all other countries by German industry
and commerce had been going on for thirty years before the war. England
had stamped "Made in Germany" upon the imports from that country under
the delusion that people would not buy them if they knew they were not
made by domestic industry, but the only result was to advertise German
business. Shipping interests at Antwerp, factories in France, hotels in
Switzerland, iron works in Italy, commercial establishments in China and
South America, the trade and transportation of Turkey, passed into
German hands, and no nation offered armed resistance. No less a witness
than Prince von Buelow testifies that England could easily have stopped
German naval expansion, but did not do so. German commercial expansion
did not cause the war, unless Great Britain, the principal sufferer from
German business success, attacked Germany in 1914. And this is the
German official explanation of the war supplied for domestic
consumption. And yet it is repudiated by the highest witness who could
be put upon the stand. No less a person than Prince Lichnowsky, who was
German Ambassador in London at the outbreak of the war, traces the war
to Austrian projects in the Balkans, with the "blank check" of Germany,
together with irritation in Russia caused by Germany's own efforts to
establish a dominating influence in Constantinople. This leaves nothing
of the story invented for the German people, and propagated by the
university professors, that England attacked Germany because the latter
was getting its trade away from it. And this falsehood, invented to
shield the guilty nation, has a special fascination for the prophets. It
looks so much like taking a broad and general and impartial view of the
world. Satan is very liberal; it pains him to have guilt attached to any
individual. It is more in accord with his philosophic and humane ideas
to regard crime as a product of social conditions, and war as the result
of trade competition.

* * * * *

But the guilt of Germany is betrayed by the selection by Germans of Sir
Edward Grey as the especial subject of hatred among all the hated
British race. Nothing but the consciousness of guilt can explain the
extraordinary vituperation of the British Minister who did in 1914
precisely what he was highly praised for doing in 1913 in a speech in
the Reichstag by Chancellor von Bethmann-Hollweg. That was the speech
calling on the Reichstag for an increase of about 136,000 men in the
German army, an addition of $50,000,000 a year to the military budget,
and a non-recurring capital tax for military purposes of $250,000,000.
The difference between 1913 and 1914 was not in anything that Sir Edward
did, but in the fact that before the army increase of 1913 Germany was
not prepared for war and supported Sir Edward's efforts for peace. After
that increase Germany was prepared for war, and would do nothing to
support Sir Edward's efforts to avert war, and the coarse abuse of Sir
Edward is a "smoke box" designed to conceal the changed position of
Germany.

Dr. von Jagow, Foreign Minister from 1913 to 1916, has been put forward
to reply to Prince Lichnowsky, but agrees with the Prince that England
did not desire war, and that Sir Edward Grey, who is described by a
German divine as having "a cancerous tumor in place of a heart," acted
in good faith in his efforts to find a peaceful solution for the
difficulty. One American writer finds the origin of the war in the rival
interests of Germany and England in the Bagdad Railway, but Dr. Paul
Rohrbach, now or recently of the German Colonial Office, has admitted
that just before the war opened the interests of the two nations were
settled by a treaty, in which England made surprisingly large
concessions. This is also stated by Prince Lichnowsky. So that the
testimony of three particularly eminent Germans destroys the fiction
that England attacked Germany because it was jealous of German
commercial expansion.

The fundamental trouble with the whole race of war prophets is that they
think the war is a new thing, and they feel called upon to tell the rest
of us what to make of it. War is about the oldest human industry. This
is the greatest of all wars, but that does not alter the meaning of war.
Nor does it necessarily alter the results of war. While it is the
greatest of all wars, it is not yet a long war, and in proportion to the
population it is not certain that it is greater than other wars. It is
not even certain that in proportion to the men involved, it is more
bloody than other wars. We have no means of getting at the figures
except in the loosest way, because the several Governments do not tell
how many men they have at any given time or place, or the casualties in
any individual engagements. But some approximations have been made, and
they do not indicate that the great war is decidedly more bloody, in
proportion to the armies, than other wars have been. Our Civil War
lasted full four years; the War of Independence occupied seven. Before
that was the seven years of the French and Indian war, and one war is
known as the Thirty Years War. From the beginning of the French
Revolution to Waterloo was more than quarter of a century, and at the
end of that period another Bourbon was on the throne of France. Our
Civil War made nearly, if not quite, as heavy a draft upon the
population as the present war has made upon the population of England or
France.

The moral and religious questions involved in war are not notably
different in the greatest of all wars and in wars which are not quite so
great. Most of them are involved in the ordinary administration of the
criminal law by which an orderly community protects itself from its
predatory members. Doubtless there will be social and political results
from this war, but if other wars have not created a new heaven and a new
earth, why should this one? The prediction that this war will produce
great changes in the direction of democracy and of applied religion are
probably well founded. But the war will act only as an accelerator.
These changes have been going on for a long time; the movements for
fifteen or twenty years before the war opened were very evident. Woman
suffrage and prohibition seem impending, but they are not the products
of this war: they had made great progress between 1900 and 1914.

None of the prophets betray any knowledge of history, or see things in
any perspective. The great war is the first great cataclysm that they
seem to be aware of, and they are rushing to and fro, like the
Chaldeans, to find explanations of it, and to impress the public by
their ability to forecast its consequences.

But when peace comes it will leave us face to face with greed and
materialism, and an industrial system in which some men prosper and
others do not, and an obligation to labor from which no important
fraction of mankind can escape, and wants will multiply as fast as the
means of satisfying them increase, and for the greater part of us the
weekly pay envelope and the possibilities of a competence, and the
demand from the other side of the world for the grain we produce, will
continue to be our principal incentives to work.

Progress, intellectual and moral as well as material, has been made in
the past, but the world has not taken great leaps ahead as the result of
great wars, and still less has it changed the direction of its movement
as the result of wars. The one thing of which the vastness of this war
gives us a fairly good assurance, is that no nation will again be
trained from infancy to old age to regard war as a high, holy and
beautiful process of attaining its manifest destiny to rule the rest of
mankind. For generations no statesman will purpose a war, and no monarch
will again have the power of hurling his people at neighboring nations.
If Germany fails in its present effort, neither Germany nor any other
nation will repeat the experiment of 1914.

But the prophets will have no chance to point with pride to the great
religious, moral and economic revolutions whose advent they pointed out
amid the clash of arms. We have found our soul, the prophets love to
tell us. They disagree on some things, and those who have no revelation
upbraid the others for not giving us a spiritual interpretation and
getting a vision of the future from the carnage of the war, as the
augurs pretended to see the future when they were only looking at the
viscera of their victims. But all of them agree that we have found our
soul. When did we lose our soul? When Mr. Roosevelt was President he was
very apprehensive that we had lost our "fighting edge." Is any one
worried now about our lack of a "fighting edge?" Possibly our soul was
never lost. We betrayed some evidences of possessing a soul very early
in the war.

The charge that we had lost our soul, or, at least, had mislaid it,
rests on two facts. One is that we are prosperous. That fatal
alliteration of poverty and piety has a fearful hold upon the soul of
the prophet. The other is that we did not go to the rescue of Belgium
when it was invaded. But Mr. Roosevelt himself did not realize that we
ought to have gone to the rescue of Belgium, till March, 1916. He is on
record in September, 1914, as satisfied with the course of the
Administration, and convinced that we should not have entered the war
when our own interests were not touched. And it ought to be forgiven a
statesman, if he is very reluctant to plunge his country into war, and
declines to put his Government in the position of a knight errant,
wandering around the world in search of maidens to be delivered from
donjons. And furthermore, as the Monroe Doctrine is the corner stone of
our foreign policy, we were properly slow about intruding into a
European quarrel, until it became unmistakable that it was much more
than a European quarrel–that it was an attack upon civilization and
popular Government. We were also justified in assuming that Great
Britain, France and Russia, three of the five guarantors of Belgian
neutrality, were capable of punishing the two guarantors who violated
their pledge, several times renewed by Germany, even up to the day
before Germany invaded the country it had pledged its honor to protect.

But our soul, whether it was lost or not, is now in our possession. Let
us be thankful that the prophets recognize that encouraging fact. And if
our mind is also in our possession, we may look forward to a world not
entirely different from the one we have known, but unquestionably less
likely to play with firearms, and quite certainly one in which the
common people will have much greater control of their political
destinies, and one in which no War Lord, with chatter about shining
swords and shining armor and mailed fists, will be able to hurl his
nation against the others in a desperate effort to establish for himself
an overlordship of the world. Nor will any nation ever be likely to
rhapsodize over carnage, and feed its sordid soul with thoughts of the
territories and indemnities to be got by war, or intoxicate itself with
the delusion that it is a race of supermen charged by the Almighty with
the duty of forcing its harsh language and its brutal habits upon all
other nations.

MY FRIEND THE JAY

"Every man who comes into the world has need of friends." What Ursa
Major thus profoundly observes of mankind, from China to Peru, might be
applied with special force to the blue jay, at least to those jays that
come into the world. Of the rest "deponent saith not." For by common
consent the blue jay is a rascal, nay even a villain; and to deepen his
turpitude to an infinity of wickedness, I have heard one uncherished
female with a disposition slightly acid liken him to a Man. Indeed, were
some of his detractors to be believed, there is scarcely a crime in the
whole avian calendar that has not been meditated upon and hatched in his
nest.

It is true that there are people of such impinging personality that
merely mild dislike with respect to them seems impossible. The reactions
they produce are violent. Their admirers, when they have any, pursue
their loyalty to an _O Altitudo!_ their enemies (and such are usually
legion) make of their names a hissing, and spit them out of the mouth.
To particularize, I might refer to a gentleman who was vigorously active
in the political unpleasantness of 1912. His friends saw in him a
Godefroy, come to lead the politically pure against the hordes of the
standpat infidels; his enemies, when they had wiped the froth from their
lips, turned the vocabulary of prayer to evil uses, and accused him of
being in league with the devil.

But these are merely individuals. The cases in which an indictment is
drawn up against a whole people are comparatively rare,–the Goths,
perhaps, the Turks, and the bloodthirsty Belgians, to bring it down to
modern times, will serve as examples. Just such an inclusive indictment
is brought against the jay. "I fear," says one amiable and authoritative
writer on bird life, "that the blue jay is a reprobate"; and in this
opinion most authorities concur. Are there not, then, three righteous
jays in all Israel? No, say his judges. Peradventure one? "Only in the
museums of natural history," they inexorably answer. All living jays are
impudent, profane, mischievous, cannibalistic, "the hul cussed tribe of
'em," as one exasperated gardener wrathfully declared to me.

Dear, dear! This is a terrible situation. Like Fuzzy Wuzzy, the poor
blue jay "'asn't got no papers of his own." Nor can he follow the
example of those benevolent corporations whose judicious investments in
advertising space temper the unshorn lamb to receive the shears in a
docile mood, and at the same time protect them from too close scrutiny
by the newspapers. He must bear the slings and air-guns of outrageous
boyhood with scarcely a voice raised in his behalf. It seems hardly
fair.

It is true that the jay is not delicate in his appetite. He cannot, like
the ethereal maiden whom Burton mentions, subsist for months on the
smell of a rose. I knew one old gentleman, to be sure, who secured a
brief respite from care, and achieved a state of mild hilarity, by
applying his nose to the mouth of a whiskey jug. But the jay enjoys not
these olfactive refections. He needs more substantial food. He is
omnivorous; and out of that important characteristic springs his most
reprehensible trait: he eats little birds.

One morning last summer I got up rather earlier than usual to transplant
some asters before the sun should come out hot. It was a calm,
breezeless morning, with scarcely a sound to disturb the cool quietude,
except the song of a robin on the top of the old maple. Heaven be
praised! we have no trolley cars in our village, and no factories.
Suddenly there broke out in the alley, the wildest commotion imaginable.
It sounded as though the sparrows from five counties were there, and had
eaten of the insane root. The air was filled with shrill cries, chirps,
and excited chatterings. I rushed to the fence, my fingers all mud, and
looked over. In the midst of a flock of sparrows forty or more in
number, all hopping about distractedly but none daring to attack him,
stood a big blue jay with his crest militantly erect. From time to time
he pecked at something, but what that something was, like Peterkin, I
could not well make out. At every stroke of his strong black beak the
cries of the sparrows shrilled louder; whenever he paused and looked
around in his truculent contempt, their frenzied crescendos somewhat
abated.

Curious, I drew nearer and discovered that the object of his unpleasant
attention was a young sparrow, a mere fledgeling, scarcely old enough to
be out of the nest. He was murderously pecking it in the eye. The wee
helpless thing fluttered weakly in its agony and cheeped piteously. I
grabbed up an empty fruit jar that had protected a rose cutting from the
blasts of winter, and hurled it at the jay. He flew screaming to a sour
cherry tree a short distance away, from which safe vantage point he
cursed me with every oath and revilement in his scandalous vocabulary.
The little sparrow I put out of its misery.

As I went back to my asters, I could not help reflecting on the scene I
had witnessed. I seemed to see in it a small counterpart of what had
happened in Europe. Here was little Servia in the person of this young
sparrow–something of a nuisance, perhaps, yet comparatively
defenseless. And here in the arrogant, domineering jay, relentless and
powerful, was Austria. A similitude might likewise be made out for
Belgium and Germany. And where, I wondered, did my own country come in?
With almost sinister significance a sleek bronze grackle, plump and
round, his eyes standing out with fatness, emerged leisurely from among
the currant bushes and gobbled up a worm. I had been vaguely aware of
his presence from the first, and now as I noted his well-fed
complacency, and remembered that he had been foraging around utterly
oblivious of the little tragedy being enacted in the alley, I lost my
patience and let fly a good-sized clod.

But jays are jays, and it were unfair to demand from them a standard of
conduct that even human beings, with all their centuries of moral
education, find it hard to apply. As a matter of fact the only jay I
ever caught red-beaked at such murderous work was the one in the alley,
and my field of observation has extended clear from the coast of Maine
part way to the Rocky Mountains. Yet if a man from Mars were to pick up
a bundle of newspapers, and could make out the strange little characters
imprinted thereon, he would probably infer that murder was a trade
common enough among human beings, particularly to-day. He would see it
as a highly organized and severely technical activity carried on by
whole nations under the direction of their respective governments. It
must be said, however, that although the sensitive nerve of national
honor seems oftenest to reside in the national belly, nations rarely
murder with the object of eating their victims. And those jays that
murder are censurable chiefly in this: they have learned so little from
humanity's civilized forbearance.

* * * * *

To tell the truth, the jay is not the fiercely courageous and militantly
aggressive biped his harsh cries and erected crest might lead one to
suppose. His aspect is doubtless frightful to some small birds, but most
of them recognize in him much of the Pistolian braggart. I have seen a
house-wren, about the size of a large colored gentleman's thumb, drive
him away from her vine-shaded dwelling. Robins quickly put him to
flight, and so, too, do catbirds and cardinals. Even the mourning dove
(gentlest of birds) does not fear to measure her mild weapons with his;
and one of the most amusing spectacles I ever witnessed was the comical
bluff of a dove who puffed out her breast, fierce as a lamb, and
literally pushed the swash-buckling blue jay clean off the feed board.

That the jay does not always exercise the discretion of which the timid
proverb speaks, the crown of my head can very well testify. One pleasant
afternoon, while I was breathlessly pursuing the phantom of an idea
through the syntactical mazes of a freshman theme, I became aware of the
sharp screaming of a pair of jays directly beneath my open window. I
glanced out and saw (item) one baby jay squatting all hunched up on the
close-cut lawn in the sunlight; (item) one long, lithe, black cat in the
shadow of the syringa bush, blinking its greedy yellow eyes and moving
its tail with a gentle, snaky, anticipatory motion; and (item) two
frantic parent jays darting viciously at the black sphinx, and shrieking
like a couple of suffragettes in the hands of a pair of miserable London
bobbies. I watched the little drama until I saw the cat quivering for
the spring; whereupon, forsaking the role of spectator, I threw my
bottle of red ink and drove the dark marauder from the field. Surely
never was preceptorial red ink put to more humane uses.

As I turned back to my themes, it occurred to me that here was the very
opportunity I had been looking for. My favorite hobby is taking bird
pictures, and I had long desired a picture of a young jay. Most
fledgelings bear a ludicrous likeness to very old men. They wear an
expression of solemn and pessimistic wisdom such as comes only to those
who have looked long on the vanities of mankind. And it has always
seemed to me that the infant jay bears a weird resemblance to England's
Grand Old Man, Mr. Gladstone, after he had passed the prime of old age.
Out of regard, then, for the great Liberal minister, and also because I
am no rifler of nests, I seized my old black hat and a camera, and
dashed downstairs. My plan was to drop the hat over the unsuspecting
fledgeling so that I could pick him up without any fuss, and pose him on
the grape-vine behind the house. But the young rascal, divining my
intention, hopped away, and kept with exasperating nicety just out of
reach. Finally, by dint of much scrambling along on my knees, taking
care to preserve as innocent an expression as I could, I managed to clap
the hat over him. But as I took him out from the sudden gloom, he gave
one terrified shriek, and the next instant BING! something sharp,
something penetrating, something entirely unexpected, struck me on the
head. It was the marvellously efficient beak of Mr. Jay.

I did not try to reason with him or placate him in wheedling tones. The
ambient air was too full of a shrapnel burst of screaming, darting,
pecking, whirling, shrieking blue jay. His shrill and angry cries,
moreover, called to his aid three other jays, and such a stream of
feathered Billingsgate followed as, I felt sure, must fix the eyes of
all the neighborhood upon me. And so I retreated to the house,
endeavoring in my gait to preserve that dignity of bearing which is
generally supposed to be the fruit of an academic life. But the jay,
with the uncomfortable persistence of a bee or a small heel-snapping
terrier, pursued me to the very door, and might have chased me upstairs
had it not been for the screen. After that I decided never again to
attempt kidnapping a jay without the protection of a policeman's helmet.

But the fierce detractors of the blue jay will doubtless scoff at this
as evidence of a sometimes resolute daring. I do not resent the implied
aspersion of my own courage; I am content to leave that to the judgment
of my readers. There is, however, one bit of commendation to which even
they must "assent with civil ear," as a freshman of mine put it. The
blue jay is almost humanly intelligent. Mind, I do not argue that he
can, offhand, give you the distinction between free verse and a page
from a real poet's note-book, or that he can explain precisely why
certain matters are deleted by the British censors. But with the
intrepidity of a new Congressman delivering a speech in the _Record_, I
dare assert, "without fear of _successful_ contradiction," that the blue
jay is among the most intelligent of feathered bipeds.

Not long ago, during a particularly sharp attack of bitter weather, with
frosty bayonets in the air but no snow on the ground, I was holding a
conference in the English office with one of my students, a girl whose
sweet deep eyes gave no flicker of understanding as I tried to make
clear to her the difference between a sentence and a clause. To conceal
my sorrow I stepped to the window and gazed off through the grayish-blue
beeches with their dead brown leaves shivering in the keen air, trying,
meanwhile, to recall what principle of pedagogic efficiency I had failed
to employ. Presently a blue jay with something white in its beak
alighted upon the twisted limb of a maple not a rod from the window, and
began a close inspection of the rough bark. He found what he was looking
for, a hole; and into this he thrust the white substance which he
carried in his beak, suet possibly, from the feed-board below, or a bit
of bread. He cocked his head on one side and eyed the little cache in a
thoughtful manner. Then he dropped to the ground.

I thought that was the end, but I was mistaken. Soon he shot up to the
limb, this time with a dead leaf in his beak. I watched intently and saw
him carefully lay the leaf over the hole where he had hidden the suet. A
gust of wind, however, blew the leaf off the limb, and sent it swirling
to the ground. Quick as a hawk the jay swooped after it in an
ineffectual attempt to capture it while it was still in the air. They
reached the ground together. Convinced apparently that the leaf was too
large, he selected another, much smaller, and carried it up to the limb.
This time he did not merely lay the leaf over the hole; he had learned
his lesson. Instead, he rammed the leaf into the hole on top of the
suet, a really difficult job, and packed it firmly with his beak. It was
safe from the other jays if not from the inquisitive redheaded
woodpecker who lived only a few branches away. Now all you host of
cocksure psychologists, was it instinct or reason that led the jay?

I know it has been argued that since a jay will attack a stuffed owl
placed near his nest, he must be without the power of reason. The test
seems hardly fair, for the ghoulish mystery of the taxidermist is known
to no animal but man. Thus at the very start the jay is laid under an
unreasonable handicap. Consider, too, the ingeniously cruel nature of
this test; it pierces him as it were in the eye of his most sensitive
instinct. Even human parents, faced by an ordeal at all comparable to
this in sudden poignancy, would scarcely act in a manner calmly
rational. What mother, leaving her infant slumbering in the cradle, and
suddenly returning to find a brutal visaged mannikin bent over it in a
posture of menace, would expend the millionth of a second in the
psychologist's reflective delay? Like the jay, she would act in such a
situation from instinct alone, nor would we consider her deficient in
intelligence.

But even if the jay were as stupid as an old-model political
prison-warden, or an English official in Ireland, which he indubitably
is not, I would still look upon him with an indulgent eye. The redbird
excepted, he is the sole bit of lively color in our winter landscape. No
matter how sharp the wind or deep the snow, you will find him foraging
among the low bushes or uttering his cheerfully vigorous _jay! jay!
jay!_ from the airy chambers of some tall, bare maple. And if you are of
that generous company who share their winter bounty with the birds, from
none of your feathered charity scholars will you receive more evident
tokens of full appreciation than from the maligned jay. He is as prompt
to the feeding board as an impecunious college professor to the bursar's
office at the end of the first quarter. To be sure, his table manners
are somewhat rude, but what he lacks in elegance he more than atones for
with a certain robust beef-and-pudding gusto that I have somehow come to
associate with Lord Macaulay.

It is in the spring, however, in the days of warm sunshine and clear
air, when the grass begins to quicken along the walks and around the
roots of the big elm-trees, when the vanguard of the crocus legions have
thrust their green spear-heads up through the sere lawn, and the buds on
the lilac bushes along the garden fence have begun to swell, that the
jay reveals how really amiable he can be. To many who do not know him
well it will come as a surprise to learn that he possesses vocal
attainments far beyond the harsh cry from which he takes his name. Under
the spell of love he becomes truly melodic. He will sit for ten minutes
at a time in the old black cherry-tree, and beginning with a soft,
prelusory, ventriloquial whistle, as though he were a musician testing
his flute, he will run through a series of little musical snatches
surprising in their mimetic variety. Now it will seem like a baby's
silver rattle, or like clear water gurgling over a sunny bed of pebbles;
again you will hear a note or two of the robin, or a plaintive echo of
the bluebird's song, or even the beautiful sliding legato of the
cardinal,–with a crack in it, perhaps.

As the head of a family the blue jay is exemplary. He is not one of
those who think they perform the whole duty of husbands when they preen
their gay feathers in the sunlight, or lift their voices in flattering
song, while their plain little wives build the nest, hatch the eggs, and
go in search of the nourishing worm. Not much! He believes that marriage
is a partnership involving equal duties and responsibilities; and so,
during the nesting season, you will see him busily at work, searching
for the best twigs, paper, string, tendrils, and rootlets obtainable. I
once saw a nest that had a piece of yellow paper sticking out of its
side, with the cryptic legend–_otes for wom_–plainly legible on it,
but I am not sure that it had any real significance. Feeding the young
jays, too, he considers part of his fatherly duties, and sometimes,
though not often, he even treats Mrs. Jay to a specially delicate tidbit
of bug or worm. If the latter should happen to be fuzzy, he will follow
his careful wife's example and thoroughly wipe the fuzz off on the rough
bark of some tree.

And he likes his bath; no monocled Englishman better. Indeed, if you
really wish to enjoy a treat, set a rusty shallow pan of water on your
lawn, not _too_ near the tulip-bed or shrubbery (Cats!), and see what
follows. If you have been thoughtful enough to place a stone or a piece
of brick near the rim of the pan, Mr. and Mrs. Jay will step right in
and enjoy a thorough wetting without much preliminary skirmishing. But
little Willie Jay and his four brothers will exhibit all the delicious
trepidation of childhood. While their parents are in the bath, they will
be bold enough, even to running up and allowing themselves to be
splashed on; but when it comes to actually entering the water, ugh! They
will linger around the edge of the pan, fluttering their wings, hop
across it, dip their beaks into the water, turn around, and splash the
water with their tails–in short, go through all the motions of a small
boy having his first "duck under" without the assuring grasp of his
father's strong hand. But once let them get in, and oh, what a joyous
splashing ensues, what a ruffling of feathers, what a beating of wings,
what a fan-like fluttering of the tail! Like most small boys, too, they
will stay in until they are thoroughly soaked, scarcely able, in fact,
to fly up to some sunny limb where they may preen themselves and dry off
out of harm's reach.

No, the jay is not an unprincipled scoundrel, not the bloodthirsty
reprobate he is sometimes made out to be. He has his faults, it is true,
properly censurable; but he has some very commendable virtues as well.
And I am sure that if the reader will watch his career as carefully as I
have, from his fledgeling childhood to his gay and dashing cavalier
youth, he will agree with me that the imaginations of the blue jay's
heart are not wholly evil.

THE FLEMISH QUESTION

_Divide ut imperes_–make a faction among your enemies, and thus
overcome them. This is German policy all over the world. By it the Danes
of Slesvig have been to a large extent robbed of their own language and
national traditions. By it the Prussian intruders have, with
characteristic inability to understand foreign souls, endeavored, in
their periods of repose after acts of brutality, to alienate from France
the French-speaking and French-minded inhabitants of Alsace and
Lorraine. It has failed not only there, but notoriously also in Posen or
Prussian Poland, where it was long ago abandoned in favor of a system of
downright and unscrupulous repression. It has succeeded, for the moment
at least, in Russia, which now lies dismembered at the feet of a
triumphant betrayer. What was a year ago Russia is now dissolved into
Lithuania, Livonia, Esthonia, Courland, Finland, Poland, the Ukraine,
the country of the Don Cossacks, the Caucasus, and the vague and
fluctuating realm of Bolshevism. Historic memories, linguistic
variations, religious differences, local jealousies, class feeling, and
commercial rivalries have been emphasized by German agents behind the
frontier, and through the gaps thus made the German sword has pushed its
point, breaking up the old mortar of loyalty and union. One typical
example of the method employed may be cited here. According to the
Berlin _Lokal Anzeiger_ of March 26, 1917, Zimmermann, the German
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, our Zimmermann, welcomed a
delegation of Lithuanians and piped sweetly to them about the tender
interest his government took in the welfare of their people, promising
to satisfy various local desires. We have seen the result.

German intrigue of the same sort has long been at work in India, where
it has happily been baffled by the good sense of the Indian population
who appreciate the fact that with all their numerous languages, races,
and religions, they owe their concord to the light rule of Britain and
to her even-handed justice. One of the boldest, meanest, and cruelest
instances of the same policy of treacherous penetration was the effort
to cause a rebellion in Ireland, for the Germans knew that rebellion
meant the destruction of their own tools and Ireland's shame and ruin.
As Americans, we have reason to keep our eyes upon the large German
colonies in southern Brazil and upon the outposts of German imperialism
in Mexico, Chile, and Argentina, and still greater reason to look out
for the thin wedges of Prussian intrigue insinuating themselves among
our own many racial and confessional varieties.

The most thinly disguised of all German attempts to conquer by division
is also one of the latest to be disclosed, although it began at least
three years ago. "Love me," says the Kaiser to the outraged daughters of
the Belgian household; "or if you will not both love me, I shall take
the likelier of you, and give her a seat at the royal feast, and put my
ring upon her finger, and make her sister serve us in our mirth."

As is well known, there is no such thing as a Belgian language, and the
people of Belgium speak one or both of two languages, French and
Flemish. Both French and Flemish are and have long been officially
recognized by the Belgian government, and are used in Parliament, in
public documents, in the courts, and in the national schools. The French
spoken and written by educated Belgians is standard or central French,
differing in no essential respect from the language of France; but among
the people who have French as their native tongue, the Walloons, there
is employed a dialect of French, just as the people of many parts of
France, and indeed of all countries, have their local dialects. The
Walloons differ from the rest of the Belgians chiefly in language and in
the fact that they inhabit the southern and southeastern parts of the
kingdom, where mining and metallurgical industry are highly developed.
They also have more points of contact with France, both geographically
and morally. If you take a map of Belgium and draw a line from Vise, the
point where the Meuse passes into Holland, almost straight west through
Brussels, Audenarde, and Courtrai, or a little south of these cities,
you will have traced the northern boundary of the Walloon country.
Almost anywhere along this imaginary line, one can, by going a short
distance south, be among people who nearly all speak French or the
Walloon dialect of French, and, by going a little way north, be among
people who, though they may write French and speak it as an acquired
language, use Flemish as their native tongue. Nevertheless, in this
densely populated, busy, rich, and closely unified kingdom, the various
elements of the population were happily mingled. Thousands of Belgian
families are part Walloon and part Flemish. When a Walloon family moves
north into a Flemish village it usually changes its language in the
second generation, and vice versa. Many Walloons have Flemish names;
many Flemings have Walloon names.

Flemish is scarcely distinguishable from Dutch. Although philologically
they may be regarded as twin dialects of one tongue, they are for
practical purposes the same. There are, to be sure, a few slight
differences of idiom, and numerous differences of vocabulary, even
between standard written Flemish and standard written Dutch, but
scarcely more important than those between the English of Mr. Howells
and the English of Mr. Hardy. In popular speech the gap is naturally
wider, and perhaps justifies the view that Flemish and Dutch are
separate dialects of one language, though "dialect" may really be too
strong a word. From my own observation in East Flanders, I should say
that a Dutchman would be in about the same situation there with regard
to difference of speech as a New Englander in Virginia.

According to the census of 1910, there were in Belgium about 3,832,000
persons speaking French or belonging to French-speaking families, and
about 4,153,000 speaking Flemish or belonging to Flemish families. The
Flemish population, being to a larger extent agricultural, has for many
years been increasing faster than the Walloons. Yet French, being by
acquisition or second-nature a language perfectly familiar to all
educated Belgians, appears to have, and really has, an immense advantage
over Flemish. The literature of the French language is enriched and
glorified with the names of many great authors, from Jean Froissart and
Philippe de Comines to Maeterlinck and Verhaeren, who belong by birth or
residence to what we now call Belgium.

But the Flemish had, and probably always will have, a pride of their
own. In the Middle Ages their cities were among the first in Northern
Europe to emerge from obscurity. The names of Flemish towns strike the
ear with a strange ruggedness in the liquid lapse of Dante's lines, but
a stranger thing it is that even in the thirteenth century these
vigorous municipalities were looked to for independence, and called upon
for vengeance on tyranny; we hear, in the Purgatorio, of "the evil plant
that overshadows all the Christian land," and are told that "if Douai,
Lille, Ghent and Bruges had power, there would soon be vengeance taken."
A curious example this of "ancestral voices prophesying war."

In the sixteenth century Flanders was the scene of tragic resistance to
Spain and the Inquisition. Liberty was lost and recovered and lost
again; but prosperity still bloomed from the ashes of destroyed
commerce, the language and institutions of the land were redeemed with a
fearful price, civilization was preserved with blood and sorrow, art
flourished in the midst of horrors; and how all this came to pass is
explained only by the stubbornness with which the people kept up their
local patriotism. The visible signs of this municipal pride and glory
were, until four years ago, and in part still are, the great churches,
town-halls, and guild-houses of Flanders. Among the most impressive of
these monuments were the Cloth Hall at Ypres, the Belfry of Bruges, the
Town-halls of Audenarde, Alost, Termonde, Louvain, Brussels, and Ghent,
the Cathedrals of Antwerp and Malines, the quaint Beguinages or cities
of retirement for religious women, and many another less renowned but
hardly less beautiful expression of ancient faith and community of
enterprise.

The Austrian yoke was shaken off at the time of the French Revolution,
and after a short period of republican government Belgium, together with
France, came under the domination of Napoleon. At the Congress of
Vienna, in 1815, Belgium and Holland were united under the name of the
Kingdom of the Netherlands, in an ill-assorted combination which lasted
only till 1830, when the present Kingdom of Belgium was established.
From that year to 1914 the Flemish people of Belgium, though more than
satisfied to live in political union with the Walloons, and indeed being
the more prosperous and rapidly growing part of the population, were
solicitous to preserve their local customs and particularly their own
language. Societies were formed for the cultivation of Flemish
literature. Endowments for the same purpose were established. One of the
parliamentary aims of political parties in the provinces of East and
West Flanders and Antwerp and the northern sections of Brabant and
Limbourg was the safe-guarding of Flemish as one of the official
languages and a medium of instruction. There was not the slightest
flavor of disloyalty in this desire. It was entirely constitutional. It
expressed itself openly, and had no need for secrecy. The tendency thus
created was called the Flamingant movement. No one connected with it, so
far as I can discover, entertained the slightest notion of appealing to
Germany for countenance or support. The Flemings in general and the
Flamingants in particular would have been the last people in the world
to admit that their language was a dialect of _German_ or that their
manifest destiny was absorption in the German Empire. The unity of
Belgium was as precious to them as to the Walloons, and was placed above
every consideration of race and speech. But there is no country under
the sun in which local self-government and community interests are so
highly developed as in Belgium. Under the Belgian constitution the
communes enjoy the maximum of freedom. Civic pride nowhere else burns so
bright. It is the habit of local self-government, the strong
personalities developed under this system, and the spirit of the
communes that have saved Belgium from starvation during the war. As
every one of Mr. Hoover's American delegates in Belgium will testify,
the spectacle was and is magnificent. As early as October, 1914, when
the wave of invasion had passed over Belgium, the communes stood firm,
and in all of them committees with almost absolute power, and enjoying
the perfect confidence of the people, were formed and got to work
commandeering the visible supply of food and distributing it prudently.

Within a very short time after the invasion the Germans showed that they
intended to take advantage of the difference between Flemings and
Walloons, a difference which, as we have seen, was purely domestic, and
concerned with no really vital political issue. Among the offices of his
hated administration, Governor-General von Bissing established a bureau
for dealing with "the Flemish question," a bureau consisting of German
specialists in philology and discord. For about seven months, this
commission, which was working in secret, attracted hardly any attention.
Then it began to operate visibly. In the summer of 1915, I was
stationed, as delegate of the Hoover commission, in Ghent, the capital
of East Flanders, and witnessed the beginning of German coquetry. As may
be imagined, it was very clumsy and ineffectual. One day an attempt
would be made to flatter the local pride of the peasants by printing
official notices and war bulletins in Flemish and German only, instead
of Flemish, German, and French, as had previously been the practice; the
next day they would be informed, in these same posters, that they must
surrender their hay-crop to the German military authorities. The Germans
appeared to be as much detested in Flanders as anywhere else in Belgium.
I saw the wife of a distinguished citizen of Ghent burst into tears of
vexation and anxiety because a German officer of high rank spoke to her
in a restaurant. She said she feared she would be distrusted for the
rest of her life by her fellow-citizens for having listened to a German
officer. Yet he was evidently a gentleman, behaved with propriety, and
had the excuse for addressing her that he was quartered in her house. I
have known persons in Ghent to go willingly to prison rather than comply
with German rules or pay fines into the German treasury. "Do you see
that man?" said to me an acquaintance in Ghent one day, pointing to a
German in uniform who was speaking Flemish to some peasants. "He lived
here before the war; he will not be able to live here after the war; his
life will not be safe."

Before the war there were four universities in Belgium: the Catholic
university of Louvain, the liberal or non-sectarian university of
Brussels, and the two state universities of Liege and Ghent. The
instruction was given entirely in French, except that there were certain
courses at Louvain and Ghent which were paralleled, rather expensively,
one would think, by courses in Flemish. In 1911 a bill was introduced in
the Belgian Parliament looking to the gradual transformation of the
University of Ghent into an institution completely Flemish. In 1912 this
proposal was again discussed, and was reported favorably in the Chamber
of Representatives. The war of course put an end to the project.

Now the Germans have taken it up with enthusiasm, trying to harvest for
their own purposes the sympathies that were formerly cultivated in its
favor. Whether they annex all or part or none of Belgium, they desire to
pose as the liberators of Flanders, and to foment a permanent jealousy
between the Flemish-speaking people and the rest of the Belgian
population. This is precisely like their conduct in the south of
Ireland, in the Province of Quebec, and in Russia. They have their eye
on Antwerp, which they intend to keep, whatever happens, and they
realize that Flanders would be a good basis for the eventual absorption
of Holland.

On December 2, 1915, it became known in Belgium that the German
authorities purposed to reopen the University of Ghent, which of course
had been closed, and to make Flemish the language of instruction. Their
design was instantly understood by everybody, including the leaders of
the old Flamingant movement, who, instead of falling in with it, met it
with a vigorous protest. This was disregarded, and on the 31st of
December the decree was promulgated. A commission of German professors
was empowered to draw up regulations for carrying out the plan of
transformation. Meanwhile, in order to encourage as many Belgian young
men as possible to escape from the country and find their way into the
Belgian army, the real authorities of the four universities were keeping
these institutions closed. Their passive resistance enraged the Germans,
who, on March 18, 1916, arrested the two most celebrated professors of
Ghent, Henri Pirenne, and Paul Fredericq, eminent historians, and sent
them to prison-camps in Germany, where they have been treated with
disgusting brutality. The colleagues of these two brave men were not
less courageous themselves, and signed a second protest. Thereupon the
Germans made up a ridiculous little faculty of their own, and imposed it
upon the university, which, we must remember had no students. There were
at first seven of these professors, of whom one was a German, another a
native of the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg, and five were Belgians without
distinction in the learned world or respectability as citizens. To these
were later added a number of equally insignificant Dutch and German
teachers of minor rank, and a very few Belgians. Opinion in Holland rose
in disgust, and an unpleasant life awaits the Dutch instructors if they
ever dare return to the land of their birth. They have been canny enough
to make sure of pensions from the German government, in view of the
probability that they will in the near future be men without a country.

On April 5, 1916, the German Chancellor, making a curious mixture of
cynicism and hypocrisy, in a speech before the Reichstag, promised that
the Imperial Government would help the Flemish population to free itself
from "the preponderance of French culture." The Germans no doubt
expected some backing from the Flamingant societies, the trustees of the
Flemish endowment funds, and the former political supporters of the
Flemish movement. In this they have been disappointed, for their conduct
has aroused protest upon protest from all these quarters. It is
difficult to determine, from the boasts in the German newspapers and the
denials of exiled Belgians, just how many teachers and students had been
scraped together by the beginning of 1917, but the faculty was a motley
collection of German, Dutch and Belgian nonentities, and there were less
than three students for every teacher. To-day there is only one student
in agriculture, the subject that would naturally be most sought in a
Flemish university. Of all the war-babies, this University of Ghent is
surely the most anaemic. Yet if we are to believe General von Bissing in
the speech in which he declared it alive and viable, "The God of War
held it at the baptismal font with naked sword in hand!" This is _echt
Deutsch_ in taste and feeling. And while these proceedings were solemnly
going on, the deportation of workmen from Ghent was beginning; on the
very day of inauguration, husbands and fathers were being torn from
their families to suffocate in German salt-mines, to sweat and faint in
German collieries, to dig and die in German trenches. Has the world ever
seen a more revolting instance of hypocrisy? I happened to be in
Courtrai one morning when a number of Flemish wives and mothers were
herded into the jail there, from the village of Sweveghem, because their
men had refused to make barbed wire for the Germans. International law
forbids a conqueror to compel the vanquished to produce munitions of
war, but what of that!

Parallel with the ludicrous pretence of enriching Belgium with a
Germano-Flemish university, close observers of Belgian affairs, by
reading the Dutch and German newspapers, have watched the development of
another German scheme for producing discord. On February 14, 1917,
thirty Belgian tools of the German military authorities set themselves
up, or rather were set up by German backers, as a "Council of Flanders,"
with the avowed purpose of creating an autonomous state out of the
Flemish-speaking portion of Belgium. The plot began to culminate in
Baron von Bissing's decree of March 21, 1917, establishing two
administrative regions, one Flemish, the other Walloon. Brussels was to
be the capital of the former, Namur of the latter. This decree sent
consternation into the hearts of all true Belgians, and has led finally
to an ominous result, the resignation of nearly all the Belgian
judiciary. Up to this time, protected by international law and by the
national constitution, which even the Germans professed to respect, the
magistrates of Belgium had continued to perform some of their functions,
thereby shielding the people to a certain extent from direct contact
with German judges and police officers, and no doubt saving the country
from bloody and useless insurrections: for if the minute and daily
administration of local affairs, such as the collection of private debts
and the enforcement of town ordinances, had been all this time in German
hands, the irritation would have been unbearable.

With a few delightful exceptions, newspapers in Belgium, even though
appearing under their old names and in French, are controlled by the
Germans. I used to amuse myself, in 1915, by translating passages from
_Le Bruxellois_, ostensibly a real Belgian journal, back into the German
in which they were originally written or thought. The style betrayed a
Teutonic source. The delightful exceptions are the brave little
clandestine _Libre Belgique_ and other papers of a similar character,
which keep up the spirits of the Belgian people and drive the Germans to
impotent fury.

In this case, as in that of the University of Ghent, the Germans
professed to be responding to Belgian desires. They point to the
so-called Council of Flanders, in reality a collection of renegade
Belgians who were brought together by German influence, and protected by
German arms from the violence of Flemish mobs, who dared to hiss them
and insult them. A delegation of these worthies was conducted to Berlin,
where they presented a humble request for the strangulation of Belgian
liberty and the partition of their native land. Against this plot all
Belgium has risen. How can Belgium have risen? The answer will give some
idea of the bravery of those people, even in the isolation and darkness
and hunger of their present life. Last June between four and five
hundred Belgian magistrates and members of the bar signed a fruitless
petition to the German Chancellor against the decree. Judges and local
administrative officials gave up their functions and their livelihood.
For this, many of them were arrested and deported to Germany. Against
the decree of separation, and in favor of "the Belgian Fatherland, Free
and Indivisible," petitions have been signed by nearly all the former
senators and deputies remaining in Belgium, by the Flamingant leaders,
by municipal councils, and by the heroic Cardinal Mercier. The Cardinal
especially drew attention to the fact that international law demands
that the domestic administration of an invaded country shall be allowed
to proceed unmolested, if military necessity permits. To this point
Baron von Falkenhausen, the German Governor-General, made the following
insolent rejoinder: "Your Eminence addressed to me on the 6th of June a
letter in which, taking your stand on the principles of international
law, you criticize certain of my official acts. I must respectfully
reply to your Eminence that I refuse to enter with you upon a discussion
of this subject."

Decree has followed decree with steady insistence. The courts, even in
Brussels, which is mainly a French-speaking city, must hold their
sessions in Flemish; official correspondence north of the imaginary line
must be in Flemish; the Official Bulletin of German Laws and Decrees in
Occupied Belgium is printed in German and Flemish for one part of the
country and in German and French for the other. On August 9, 1917, von
Falkenhausen issued an edict declaring that in the Flemish
administrative region "Flemish must be the exclusive official language
of all the authorities and all the functionaries of the state, the
provinces, and the communes, as well as their establishments, including
educational institutions and the teachers therein." On October 6 the
communes in the Province of Brabant were ordered immediately to organize
courses in Flemish for the instruction of their employees who did not
know that language.

All of the original Project Gutenberg Etexts from the
1970's were produced in ALL CAPS, no lower case. The
computers we used then didn't have lower case at all.

***

The following edition of The Consitution of the United States of America
has been based on many hours of study of a variety of editions, and will
include certain variant spellings, punctuation, and captialization as we
have been able to reasonable ascertain belonged to the orginal. In case
of internal discrepancies in these matters, most or all have been left.

In our orginal editions the letters were all CAPITALS, and we did not do
anything about capitalization, consistent or otherwise, nor with most of
the punctuation, since we had limited punctionation in those days.

This document does NOT include the amendments, as the Bill of Rights was
one of our earlier Project Gutenberg Etexts, and the others will be sent
in a separate posting.

***

We would ask that any Consitutional scholars would please take a minute,
or longer, to send us a note concerning possible corrections.

***

THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 1787

We the people of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union,
establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence,
promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves
and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the
United States of America.

Article 1

Section 1. All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a
Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and
House of Representatives.

Section 2. The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members
chosen every second Year by the People of the several States,
and the electors in each State shall have the qualifications requisite
for electors of the most numerous branch of the State legislature.

No Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to the
Age of twenty five Years, and been seven Years a citizen of the United States,
and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State in which
he shall be chosen.

Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among
the several States which may be included within this Union,
according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined
by adding to the whole number of free Persons, including those
bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed,
three fifths of all other Persons. The actual Enumeration shall be made
within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the
United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years,
in such Manner as they shall by law Direct. The number of
Representatives shall not exceed one for every thirty Thousand,
but each State shall have at least one Representative;
and until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshire
shall be entitled to chuse three, Massachusetts eight, Rhode Island
and Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six,
New Jersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six,
Virginia ten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five, and Georgia three.

When vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, the Executive
Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill such Vacancies.

The House of Representatives shall chuse their Speaker and other Officers;
and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment.

Section 3. The Senate of the United States shall be composed of
two Senators from each State, chosen by the legislature thereof,
for six Years; and each Senator shall have one Vote.

Immediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the first Election,
they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes. The Seats of
the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at the expiration of the
second Year, of the second Class at the expiration of the fourth Year,
and of the third Class at the expiration of the sixth Year, so that one third
may be chosen every second Year; and if vacancies happen by Resignation,
or otherwise, during the recess of the Legislature of any State,
the Executive thereof may make temporary Appointments until the
next meeting of the Legislature, which shall then fill such Vacancies.

No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of
thirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States,
and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State
for which he shall be chosen.

The Vice-President of the United States shall be President of the Senate,
but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided.

The Senate shall choose their other Officers, and also a President
pro tempore, in the Absence of the Vice-President, or when he shall
exercise the Office of President of the United States.

The Senate shall have the sole Power to try all Impeachments.
When sitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation.
When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice
shall preside: And no Person shall be convicted without the Concurrence
of two thirds of the Members present.

Judgment in cases of Impeachment shall not extend further than to removal
from Office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of honor,
Trust or Profit under the United States: but the Party convicted shall
nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and
Punishment, according to Law.

Section 4. The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for Senators and
Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by the Legislature thereof;
but the Congress may at any time by Law make or alter such Regulations,
except as to the Places of chusing Senators.

The Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year,
and such Meeting shall be on the first Monday in December,
unless they shall by law appoint a different Day.

Section 5. Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections,
Returns and Qualifications of its own Members, and a
Majority of each shall constitute a Quorum to do Business;
but a smaller Number may adjourn from day to day,
and may be authorized to compel the Attendance of absent Members,
in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each House may provide.

Each house may determine the Rules of its Proceedings,
punish its Members for disorderly Behavior, and, with the
Concurrence of two-thirds, expel a Member.

Each house shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings,
and from time to time publish the same, excepting such Parts as may
in their Judgment require Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the
Members of either House on any question shall, at the Desire of
one fifth of those Present, be entered on the Journal.

Neither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without the
Consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to
any other Place than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.

Section 6. The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation
for their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the Treasury
of the United States. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony and
Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance
at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning
from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House,
they shall not be questioned in any other Place.

No Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he was elected,
be appointed to any civil Office under the authority of the United States,
which shall have been created, or the Emoluments whereof shall have been
increased during such time; and no Person holding any Office under the
United States, shall be a Member of either House during his Continuance
in Office.

Section 7. All Bills for raising Revenue shall originate in the
House of Representatives; but the Senate may propose or concur with
Amendments as on other Bills.

Every Bill which shall have passed the House of Representatives and
the Senate, shall, before it become a Law, be presented to the
President of the United States; If he approve he shall sign it,
but if not he shall return it, with his Objections to that House
in which it shall have originated, who shall enter the Objections
at large on their Journal, and proceed to reconsider it.
If after such Reconsideration two thirds of that house
shall agree to pass the Bill, it shall be sent,
together with the Objections, to the other House, by which
it shall likewise be reconsidered, and if approved by two thirds
of that House, it shall become a law. But in all such Cases
the Votes of both Houses shall be determined by Yeas and Nays,
and the Names of the Persons voting for and against the Bill shall be
entered on the Journal of each House respectively. If any Bill
shall not be returned by the President within ten Days (Sundays excepted)
after it shall have been presented to him, the Same shall be a Law,
in like Manner as if he had signed it, unless the Congress by their
Adjournment prevent its Return, in which case it shall not be a Law.

Every Order, Resolution, or Vote to which the Concurrence of the Senate
and House of Representatives may be necessary (except on a question
of Adjournment) shall be presented to the President of the United States;
and before the Same shall take Effect, shall be approved by him,
or being disapproved by him, shall be repassed by two thirds of
the Senate and House of Representatives, according to the Rules
and Limitations prescribed in the Case of a Bill.

Section 8. The Congress shall have Power to lay and collect Taxes, Duties,
Imposts and Excises, to pay the Debts and provide for the common Defence
and general Welfare of the United States; but all Duties, Imposts and Excises
shall be uniform throughout the United States;

To borrow Money on the credit of the United States;

To regulate Commerce with foreign Nations, and among the several States,
and with the Indian Tribes;

To establish an uniform Rule of Naturalization, and uniform Laws
on the subject of Bankruptcies throughout the United States;

To coin Money, regulate the Value thereof, and of foreign Coin,
and fix the Standard of Weights and Measures;

To provide for the Punishment of counterfeiting the Securities
and current Coin of the United States;

To establish Post Offices and Post Roads;

To promote the Progress of Science and useful Arts, by securing
for limited Times to Authors and Inventors the exclusive Right
to their respective Writings and Discoveries;

To constitute Tribunals inferior to the supreme Court;

To define and punish Piracies and Felonies committed on the high Seas,
and Offenses against the Law of Nations;

To declare War, grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal,
and make Rules concerning Captures on Land and Water;

To raise and support Armies, but no Appropriation of Money to that Use
shall be for a longer term than two Years;

To provide and maintain a Navy;

To make Rules for the Government and Regulation of the land and naval Forces;

To provide for calling forth the Militia to execute the Laws of the Union,
suppress Insurrections and repel Invasions;

To provide for organizing, arming, and disciplining, the Militia, and for
governing such Part of them as may be employed in the Service of the
United States, reserving to the States respectively, the Appointment
of the Officers, and the Authority of training the militia according
to the discipline prescribed by Congress;

To exercise exclusive Legislation in all Cases whatsoever,
over such District (not exceeding ten Miles square) as may,
by Cession of particular States, and the Acceptance of Congress,
become the Seat of the Government of the United States, and to
exercise like Authority over all Places purchased by the Consent
of the Legislature of the State in which the Same shall be,
for the Erection of Forts, Magazines, Arsenals, Dockyards,
and other needful Buildings;–And

To make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying
into Execution the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested
by this Constitution in the Government of the United States,
or in any Department or Officer thereof.

Section 9. The Migration or Importation of such Persons as any
of the States now existing shall think proper to admit, shall not
be prohibited by the Congress prior to the Year one thousand eight
hundred and eight, but a Tax or Duty may be imposed on such Importation,
not exceeding ten dollars for each Person.

The Privilege of the Writ of Habeas Corpus shall not be suspended, unless
when in Cases of Rebellion or Invasion the public Safety may require it.

No Bill of Attainder or ex post facto Law shall be passed.

No Capitation, or other direct, Tax shall be laid, unless in Proportion
to the Census or Enumeration herein before directed to be taken.

No Tax or Duty shall be laid on Articles exported from any State.

No Preference shall be given by any Regulation of Commerce or Revenue
to the Ports of one State over those of another: nor shall Vessels bound to,
or from, one State, be obliged to enter, clear, or pay Duties in another.

No Money shall be drawn from the Treasury, but in Consequence
of Appropriations made by Law; and a regular Statement and Account
of the Receipts and Expenditures of all public Money shall be
published from time to time.

No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States;
and no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall,
without the Consent of the Congress, accept of any present, Emolument,
Office, or Title, of any kind whatever, from any King, Prince,
or foreign State.

Section 10. No State shall enter into any Treaty, Alliance, or
Confederation; grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal; coin Money;
emit Bills of Credit; make any Thing but gold and silver Coin a Tender
in Payment of Debts; pass any Bill of Attainder, ex post facto Law,
or Law impairing the Obligation of Contracts, or grant any Title of Nobility.

No State shall, without the Consent of the Congress, lay any Imposts or Duties
on Imports or Exports, except what may be absolutely necessary for executing
it's inspection Laws: and the net Produce of all Duties and Imposts,
laid by any State on Imports or Exports, shall be for the Use of the Treasury
of the United States; and all such Laws shall be subject to the Revision
and Controul of the Congress.

No State shall, without the Consent of Congress, lay any Duty of
Tonnage, keep Troops, or Ships of War in time of Peace, enter into any
Agreement or Compact with another State, or with a foreign Power, or
engage in War, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent Danger
as will not admit of delay.

ARTICLE 2

Section 1. The executive Power shall be vested in a President
of the United States of America. He shall hold his Office during
the Term of four Years, and, together with the Vice President
chosen for the same Term, be elected, as follows:

Each State shall appoint, in such Manner as the Legislature thereof may direct,
a Number of Electors, equal to the whole Number of Senators and Representatives
to which the State may be entitled in the Congress: but no Senator or
Representative, or Person holding an Office of Trust or Profit under
the United States, shall be appointed an Elector.

The Electors shall meet in their respective States, and vote by Ballot
for two Persons, of whom one at least shall not be an Inhabitant of
the same State with themselves. And they shall make a List of
all the Persons voted for, and of the Number of Votes for each;
which List they shall sign and certify, and transmit sealed to
the Seat of the Government of the United States, directed to the
President of the Senate. The President of the Senate shall,
in the Presence of the Senate and House of Representatives,
open all the Certificates, and the Votes shall then be counted.
The Person having the greatest Number of Votes shall be the President,
if such Number be a Majority of the whole Number of Electors appointed;
and if there be more than one who have such Majority, and have an equal
Number of votes, then the House of Representatives shall immediately
chuse by Ballot one of them for President; and if no Person have
a Majority, then from the five highest on the List the said House
shall in like Manner chuse the President. But in chusing the President,
the Votes shall be taken by States, the Representation from each State
having one Vote; a Quorum for this Purpose shall consist of a Member
or Members from two thirds of the States, and a Majority of all the
States shall be necessary to a Choice. In every Case, after the Choice
of the President, the Person having the greatest Number of Votes of
the Electors shall be the Vice President. But if there should remain
two or more who have equal Votes, the Senate shall chuse from them
by Ballot the Vice President.

The Congress may determine the Time of chusing the Electors,
and the Day on which they shall give their Votes; which Day
shall be the same throughout the United States.

No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States,
at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to
the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that
Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years,
and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.

In Case of the Removal of the President from Office, or of his Death,
Resignation, or Inability to discharge the Powers and Duties of the
said Office, the Same shall devolve on the Vice President, and the
Congress may by Law provide for the Case of Removal, Death, Resignation
or Inability, both of the President and Vice President, declaring what
Officer shall then act as President, and such Officer shall act accordingly,
until the Disability be removed, or a President shall be elected.

The President shall, at stated Times, receive for his Services,
a Compensation, which shall neither be encreased nor diminished during
the Period for which he shall have been elected, and he shall not receive
within that Period any other Emolument from the United States, or any of them.

Before he enter on the Execution of his Office, he shall take the
following Oath or Affirmation:–"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that
I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,
and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the
Constitution of the United States."

Section 2. The President shall be Commander in Chief of the Army
and Navy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States,
when called into the actual Service of the United States;
he may require the Opinion, in writing, of the principal Officer
in each of the executive Departments, upon any Subject relating to
the Duties of their respective Offices, and he shall have Power
to grant Reprieves and Pardons for Offenses against the United States,
except in Cases of impeachment.

He shall have Power, by and with the Advice and Consent of the
Senate, to make Treaties, provided two thirds of the Senators
present concur; and he shall nominate, and by and with the Advice
and Consent of the Senate, shall appoint Ambassadors, other public
Ministers and Consuls, Judges of the supreme Court, and all other
Officers of the United States, whose Appointments are not herein
otherwise provided for, and which shall be established by Law:
but the Congress may by Law vest the Appointment of such inferior Officers,
as they think proper, in the President alone, in the Courts of Law,
or in the Heads of Departments.

The President shall have Power to fill up all Vacancies that may happen
during the Recess of the Senate, by granting Commissions which shall
expire at the End of their next session.

Section 3. He shall from time to time give to the Congress
Information of the State of the Union, and recommend to their
Consideration such Measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient;
he may, on extraordinary Occasions, convene both Houses, or either
of them, and in Case of Disagreement between them, with Respect to
the Time of Adjournment, he may adjourn them to such Time as he shall
think proper; he shall receive Ambassadors and other public Ministers;
he shall take Care that the Laws be faithfully executed, and shall
Commission all the Officers of the United States.

Section 4. The President, Vice President and all civil Officers of the
United States, shall be removed from Office on Impeachment for,
and Conviction of, Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.

ARTICLE THREE

Section 1. The judicial Power of the United States, shall be vested
in one supreme Court, and in such inferior Courts as the Congress may
from time to time ordain and establish. The Judges, both of the supreme
and inferior Courts, shall hold their Offices during good behavior,
and shall, at stated Times, receive for their Services, a Compensation,
which shall not be diminished during their Continuance in Office.

Section 2. The judicial Power shall extend to all Cases, in Law and Equity,
arising under this Constitution, the Laws of the United States, and Treaties
made, or which shall be made, under their Authority;–to all Cases affecting
Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls;–to all Cases of admiralty
and maritime Jurisdiction;–to Controversies to which the United States
shall be a Party;–to Controversies between two or more States;–between a
State and Citizens of another State;–between Citizens of different States;
–between Citizens of the same State claiming Lands under Grants of
different States, and between a State, or the Citizens thereof,
and foreign States, Citizens or Subjects.

In all cases affecting Ambassadors, other public Ministers and Consuls,
and those in which a State shall be Party, the supreme Court shall have
original Jurisdiction. In all the other Cases before mentioned, the
supreme Court shall have appellate Jurisdiction, both as to Law and Fact,
with such Exceptions, and under such Regulations as the Congress shall make.

The Trial of all Crimes, except in Cases of Impeachment, shall be by Jury;
and such Trial shall be held in the State where the said Crimes shall
have been committed; but when not committed within any State, the Trial
shall be at such Place or Places as the Congress may by Law have directed.

Section 3. Treason against the United States, shall consist only in
levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them
Aid and Comfort. No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on
the Testimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession
in open Court.

The Congress shall have power to declare the punishment of Treason,
but no Attainder of Treason shall work Corruption of Blood,
or Forfeiture except during the Life of the Person attainted.

ARTICLE FOUR

Section 1. Full Faith and Credit shall be given in each State to the
public Acts, Records, and judicial Proceedings of every other State.
And the Congress may by general Laws prescribe the Manner in which such Acts,
Records, and Proceedings shall be proved, and the Effect thereof.

Section 2. The Citizens of each State shall be entitled to all
Privileges and Immunities of Citizens in the several States.

A Person charged in any State with Treason, Felony, or other Crime,
who shall flee from Justice, and be found in another State,
shall on Demand of the executive Authority of the State from
which he fled, be delivered up, to be removed to the State having
Jurisdiction of the Crime.

No person held to Service or Labor in one State, under the Laws thereof,
escaping into another, shall, in Consequence of any Law or Regulation therein,
be discharged from such Service or Labor, But shall be delivered up on Claim
of the Party to whom such Service or Labor may be due.

Section 3. New States may be admitted by the Congress into this Union;
but no new States shall be formed or erected within the Jurisdiction
of any other State; nor any State be formed by the Junction of two
or more States, or Parts of States, without the Consent of the
Legislatures of the States concerned as well as of the Congress.

The Congress shall have Power to dispose of and make all needful Rules
and Regulations respecting the Territory or other Property belonging
to the United States; and nothing in this Constitution shall be so
construed as to Prejudice any Claims of the United States,
or of any particular State.

Section 4. The United States shall guarantee to every State in this Union
a Republican Form of Government, and shall protect each of them against
Invasion; and on Application of the Legislature, or of the Executive
(when the Legislature cannot be convened) against domestic Violence.

ARTICLE FIVE

The Congress, whenever two thirds of both Houses shall deem it necessary,
shall propose Amendments to this Constitution, or, on the Application of
the Legislatures of two thirds of the several States, shall call a Convention
for proposing Amendments, which, in either Case, shall be valid to all Intents
and Purposes, as Part of this Constitution, when ratified by the Legislatures
of three fourths of the several States, or by Conventions in three fourths
thereof, as the one or the other Mode of Ratification may be proposed by
the Congress; Provided that no Amendment which may be made prior to the
Year one thousand eight hundred and eight shall in any Manner affect
the first and fourth Clauses in the ninth Section of the first Article;
and that no State, without its Consent, shall be deprived of it's
equal Suffrage in the Senate.

ARTICLE SIX

All Debts contracted and Engagements entered into, before the Adoption
of this Constitution, shall be as valid against the United States
under this Constitution, as under the Confederation.

This Constitution, and the Laws of the United States which shall be made
in Pursuance thereof; and all Treaties made, or which shall be made,
under the Authority of the United States, shall be the supreme
Law of the Land; and the Judges in every State shall be bound thereby,
any Thing in the Constitution or Laws of any State to the Contrary
notwithstanding.

The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the
several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers,
both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound
by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution; but no religious
Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust
under the United States

ARTICLE SEVEN

The Ratification of the Conventions of nine States, shall be sufficient for the
Establishment of this Constitution between the States so ratifying the Same.

Done in Convention by the Unanimous Consent of the States present
the Seventeenth Day of September in the Year of our Lord one
thousand seven hundred and eighty seven and of the Independence of the
United States of America the Twelfth In Witness whereof We have
hereunto subscribed our Names,

Go. WASHINGTON–
Presid. and deputy from Virginia

New Hampshire

John Langdon
Nicholas Gilman

Massachusetts

Nathaniel Gorham
Rufus King

Connecticut

Wm. Saml. Johnson
Roger Sherman

New York

Alexander Hamilton

New Jersey

Wil: Livingston
David Brearley
Wm. Paterson
Jona: Dayton

Pennsylvania

B Franklin
Thomas Mifflin
Robt Morris
Geo. Clymer
Thos FitzSimons
Jared Ingersoll
James Wilson
Gouv Morris

Delaware

Geo: Read
Gunning Bedford jun
John Dickinson
Richard Bassett
Jaco: Broom

Maryland

James Mchenry
Dan of St Thos. Jenifer
Danl Carroll

Virginia

John Blair–
James Madison Jr.

North Carolina

Wm. Blount
Rich'd Dobbs Spaight
Hu Williamson

South Carolina

J. Rutledge
Charles Cotesworth Pinckney
Charles Pinckney
Pierce Butler

Georgia

William Few
Abr Baldwin

Attest:
William Jackson, Secretary

The United States Bill of Rights.

The Ten Original Amendments to the Constitution of the United States
Passed by Congress September 25, 1789
Ratified December 15, 1791

I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion,
or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech,
or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble,
and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

II

A well-regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free State,
the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.

III
No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house,
without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war,
but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

IV

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers,
and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated,
and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath
or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched,
and the persons or things to be seized.

V

No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime,
unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising
in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service
in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for
the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb;
nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself,
nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law;
nor shall private property be taken for public use without just compensation.

VI

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a
speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district
wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have
been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature
and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him;
to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor,
and to have the assistance of counsel for his defense.

VII

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed
twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved,
and no fact tried by a jury shall be otherwise re-examined in any court
of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

VIII

Excessive bail shall not be required nor excessive fines imposed,
nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

IX

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights,
shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

X

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution,
nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively,
or to the people.

The Time Machine

An Invention

by H. G. Wells

CONTENTS

I Introduction
II The Machine
III The Time Traveller Returns
IV Time Travelling
V In the Golden Age
VI The Sunset of Mankind
VII A Sudden Shock
VIII Explanation
IX The Morlocks
X When Night Came
XI The Palace of Green Porcelain
XII In the Darkness
XIII The Trap of the White Sphinx
XIV The Further Vision
XV The Time Traveller’s Return
XVI After the Story
Epilogue

I.
Introduction

The Time Traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him)
was expounding a recondite matter to us. His grey eyes shone and
twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated. The
fire burnt brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent
lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and
passed in our glasses. Our chairs, being his patents, embraced and
caressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that
luxurious after-dinner atmosphere, when thought runs gracefully free
of the trammels of precision. And he put it to us in this way—marking
the points with a lean forefinger—as we sat and lazily admired his
earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it) and his fecundity.

“You must follow me carefully. I shall have to controvert one or two
ideas that are almost universally accepted. The geometry, for instance,
they taught you at school is founded on a misconception.”

“Is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?” said
Filby, an argumentative person with red hair.

“I do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonable ground
for it. You will soon admit as much as I need from you. You know of
course that a mathematical line, a line of thickness _nil_, has no real
existence. They taught you that? Neither has a mathematical plane.
These things are mere abstractions.”

“That is all right,” said the Psychologist.

“Nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cube have a
real existence.”

“There I object,” said Filby. “Of course a solid body may exist. All
real things—”

“So most people think. But wait a moment. Can an _instantaneous_ cube
exist?”

“Don’t follow you,” said Filby.

“Can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a real
existence?”

Filby became pensive. “Clearly,” the Time Traveller proceeded, “any
real body must have extension in _four_ directions: it must have
Length, Breadth, Thickness, and—Duration. But through a natural
infirmity of the flesh, which I will explain to you in a moment, we
incline to overlook this fact. There are really four dimensions, three
which we call the three planes of Space, and a fourth, Time. There is,
however, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction between the former
three dimensions and the latter, because it happens that our
consciousness moves intermittently in one direction along the latter
from the beginning to the end of our lives.”

“That,” said a very young man, making spasmodic efforts to relight his
cigar over the lamp; “that . . . very clear indeed.”

“Now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively overlooked,”
continued the Time Traveller, with a slight accession of cheerfulness.
“Really this is what is meant by the Fourth Dimension, though some
people who talk about the Fourth Dimension do not know they mean it. It
is only another way of looking at Time. _There is no difference between
Time and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our
consciousness moves along it_. But some foolish people have got hold of
the wrong side of that idea. You have all heard what they have to say
about this Fourth Dimension?”

“_I_ have not,” said the Provincial Mayor.

“It is simply this. That Space, as our mathematicians have it, is
spoken of as having three dimensions, which one may call Length,
Breadth, and Thickness, and is always definable by reference to three
planes, each at right angles to the others. But some philosophical
people have been asking why _three_ dimensions particularly—why not
another direction at right angles to the other three?—and have even
tried to construct a Four-Dimensional geometry. Professor Simon Newcomb
was expounding this to the New York Mathematical Society only a month
or so ago. You know how on a flat surface, which has only two
dimensions, we can represent a figure of a three-dimensional solid, and
similarly they think that by models of three dimensions they could
represent one of four—if they could master the perspective of the
thing. See?”

“I think so,” murmured the Provincial Mayor; and, knitting his brows,
he lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as one who
repeats mystic words. “Yes, I think I see it now,” he said after some
time, brightening in a quite transitory manner.

“Well, I do not mind telling you I have been at work upon this geometry
of Four Dimensions for some time. Some of my results are curious. For
instance, here is a portrait of a man at eight years old, another at
fifteen, another at seventeen, another at twenty-three, and so on. All
these are evidently sections, as it were, Three-Dimensional
representations of his Four-Dimensioned being, which is a fixed and
unalterable thing.”

“Scientific people,” proceeded the Time Traveller, after the pause
required for the proper assimilation of this, “know very well that Time
is only a kind of Space. Here is a popular scientific diagram, a
weather record. This line I trace with my finger shows the movement of
the barometer. Yesterday it was so high, yesterday night it fell, then
this morning it rose again, and so gently upward to here. Surely the
mercury did not trace this line in any of the dimensions of Space
generally recognised? But certainly it traced such a line, and that
line, therefore, we must conclude, was along the Time-Dimension.”

“But,” said the Medical Man, staring hard at a coal in the fire, “if
Time is really only a fourth dimension of Space, why is it, and why has
it always been, regarded as something different? And why cannot we move
about in Time as we move about in the other dimensions of Space?”

The Time Traveller smiled. “Are you so sure we can move freely in
Space? Right and left we can go, backward and forward freely enough,
and men always have done so. I admit we move freely in two dimensions.
But how about up and down? Gravitation limits us there.”

“Not exactly,” said the Medical Man. “There are balloons.”

“But before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and the
inequalities of the surface, man had no freedom of vertical movement.”

“Still they could move a little up and down,” said the Medical Man.

“Easier, far easier down than up.”

“And you cannot move at all in Time, you cannot get away from the
present moment.”

“My dear sir, that is just where you are wrong. That is just where the
whole world has gone wrong. We are always getting away from the present
moment. Our mental existences, which are immaterial and have no
dimensions, are passing along the Time-Dimension with a uniform
velocity from the cradle to the grave. Just as we should travel _down_
if we began our existence fifty miles above the earth’s surface.”

“But the great difficulty is this,” interrupted the Psychologist. “You
_can_ move about in all directions of Space, but you cannot move about
in Time.”

“That is the germ of my great discovery. But you are wrong to say that
we cannot move about in Time. For instance, if I am recalling an
incident very vividly I go back to the instant of its occurrence: I
become absent-minded, as you say. I jump back for a moment. Of course
we have no means of staying back for any length of Time, any more than
a savage or an animal has of staying six feet above the ground. But a
civilised man is better off than the savage in this respect. He can go
up against gravitation in a balloon, and why should he not hope that
ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the
Time-Dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way?”

“Oh, _this_,” began Filby, “is all—”

“Why not?” said the Time Traveller.

“It’s against reason,” said Filby.

“What reason?” said the Time Traveller.

“You can show black is white by argument,” said Filby, “but you will
never convince me.”

“Possibly not,” said the Time Traveller. “But now you begin to see the
object of my investigations into the geometry of Four Dimensions. Long
ago I had a vague inkling of a machine—”

“To travel through Time!” exclaimed the Very Young Man.

“That shall travel indifferently in any direction of Space and Time, as
the driver determines.”

Filby contented himself with laughter.

“But I have experimental verification,” said the Time Traveller.

“It would be remarkably convenient for the historian,” the Psychologist
suggested. “One might travel back and verify the accepted account of
the Battle of Hastings, for instance!”

“Don’t you think you would attract attention?” said the Medical Man.
“Our ancestors had no great tolerance for anachronisms.”

“One might get one’s Greek from the very lips of Homer and Plato,” the
Very Young Man thought.

“In which case they would certainly plough you for the Little-go. The
German scholars have improved Greek so much.”

“Then there is the future,” said the Very Young Man. “Just think! One
might invest all one’s money, leave it to accumulate at interest, and
hurry on ahead!”

“To discover a society,” said I, “erected on a strictly communistic
basis.”

“Of all the wild extravagant theories!” began the Psychologist.

“Yes, so it seemed to me, and so I never talked of it until—”

“Experimental verification!” cried I. “You are going to verify _that_?”

“The experiment!” cried Filby, who was getting brain-weary.

“Let’s see your experiment anyhow,” said the Psychologist, “though it’s
all humbug, you know.”

The Time Traveller smiled round at us. Then, still smiling faintly, and
with his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he walked slowly out of
the room, and we heard his slippers shuffling down the long passage to
his laboratory.

The Psychologist looked at us. “I wonder what he’s got?”

“Some sleight-of-hand trick or other,” said the Medical Man, and Filby
tried to tell us about a conjuror he had seen at Burslem, but before he
had finished his preface the Time Traveller came back, and Filby’s
anecdote collapsed.

II.
The Machine

The thing the Time Traveller held in his hand was a glittering metallic
framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and very delicately
made. There was ivory in it, and some transparent crystalline
substance. And now I must be explicit, for this that follows—unless
his explanation is to be accepted—is an absolutely unaccountable
thing. He took one of the small octagonal tables that were scattered
about the room, and set it in front of the fire, with two legs on the
hearthrug. On this table he placed the mechanism. Then he drew up a
chair, and sat down. The only other object on the table was a small
shaded lamp, the bright light of which fell full upon the model. There
were also perhaps a dozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks upon
the mantel and several in sconces, so that the room was brilliantly
illuminated. I sat in a low arm-chair nearest the fire, and I drew
this forward so as to be almost between the Time Traveller and the
fireplace. Filby sat behind him, looking over his shoulder. The Medical
Man and the Provincial Mayor watched him in profile from the right,
the Psychologist from the left. The Very Young Man stood behind the
Psychologist. We were all on the alert. It appears incredible to me
that any kind of trick, however subtly conceived and however adroitly
done, could have been played upon us under these conditions.

The Time Traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism. “Well?”
said the Psychologist.

“This little affair,” said the Time Traveller, resting his elbows upon
the table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus, “is only
a model. It is my plan for a machine to travel through time. You will
notice that it looks singularly askew, and that there is an odd
twinkling appearance about this bar, as though it was in some way
unreal.” He pointed to the part with his finger. “Also, here is one
little white lever, and here is another.”

The Medical Man got up out of his chair and peered into the thing.
“It’s beautifully made,” he said.

“It took two years to make,” retorted the Time Traveller. Then, when we
had all imitated the action of the Medical Man, he said: “Now I want
you clearly to understand that this lever, being pressed over, sends
the machine gliding into the future, and this other reverses the
motion. This saddle represents the seat of a time traveller. Presently
I am going to press the lever, and off the machine will go. It will
vanish, pass into future Time, and disappear. Have a good look at the
thing. Look at the table too, and satisfy yourselves there is no
trickery. I don’t want to waste this model, and then be told I’m a
quack.”

There was a minute’s pause perhaps. The Psychologist seemed about to
speak to me, but changed his mind. Then the Time Traveller put forth
his finger towards the lever. “No,” he said suddenly. “Lend me your
hand.” And turning to the Psychologist, he took that individual’s hand
in his own and told him to put out his forefinger. So that it was the
Psychologist himself who sent forth the model Time Machine on its
interminable voyage. We all saw the lever turn. I am absolutely certain
there was no trickery. There was a breath of wind, and the lamp flame
jumped. One of the candles on the mantel was blown out, and the little
machine suddenly swung round, became indistinct, was seen as a ghost
for a second perhaps, as an eddy of faintly glittering brass and ivory;
and it was gone—vanished! Save for the lamp the table was bare.

Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Filby said he was damned.

The Psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly looked under
the table. At that the Time Traveller laughed cheerfully. “Well?” he
said, with a reminiscence of the Psychologist. Then, getting up, he
went to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with his back to us began to
fill his pipe.

We stared at each other. “Look here,” said the Medical Man, “are you in
earnest about this? Do you seriously believe that that machine has
travelled into time?”

“Certainly,” said the Time Traveller, stooping to light a spill at the
fire. Then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at the Psychologist’s
face. (The Psychologist, to show that he was not unhinged, helped
himself to a cigar and tried to light it uncut.) “What is more, I have
a big machine nearly finished in there”—he indicated the
laboratory—“and when that is put together I mean to have a journey on
my own account.”

“You mean to say that that machine has travelled into the future?” said
Filby.

“Into the future or the past—I don’t, for certain, know which.”

After an interval the Psychologist had an inspiration. “It must have
gone into the past if it has gone anywhere,” he said.

“Why?” said the Time Traveller.

“Because I presume that it has not moved in space, and if it travelled
into the future it would still be here all this time, since it must
have travelled through this time.”

“But,” said I, “If it travelled into the past it would have been
visible when we came first into this room; and last Thursday when we
were here; and the Thursday before that; and so forth!”

“Serious objections,” remarked the Provincial Mayor, with an air of
impartiality, turning towards the Time Traveller.

“Not a bit,” said the Time Traveller, and, to the Psychologist: “You
think. _You_ can explain that. It’s presentation below the threshold,
you know, diluted presentation.”

“Of course,” said the Psychologist, and reassured us. “That’s a simple
point in psychology. I should have thought of it. It’s plain enough,
and helps the paradox delightfully. We cannot see it, nor can we
appreciate this machine, any more than we can the spoke of a wheel
spinning, or a bullet flying through the air. If it is travelling
through time fifty times or a hundred times faster than we are, if it
gets through a minute while we get through a second, the impression it
creates will of course be only one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it
would make if it were not travelling in time. That’s plain enough.” He
passed his hand through the space in which the machine had been. “You
see?” he said, laughing.

We sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so. Then the Time
Traveller asked us what we thought of it all.

“It sounds plausible enough tonight,” said the Medical Man; “but wait
until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”

“Would you like to see the Time Machine itself?” asked the Time
Traveller. And therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he led the way
down the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory. I remember vividly
the flickering light, his queer, broad head in silhouette, the dance of
the shadows, how we all followed him, puzzled but incredulous, and how
there in the laboratory we beheld a larger edition of the little
mechanism which we had seen vanish from before our eyes. Parts were of
nickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of
rock crystal. The thing was generally complete, but the twisted
crystalline bars lay unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of
drawings, and I took one up for a better look at it. Quartz it seemed
to be.

“Look here,” said the Medical Man, “are you perfectly serious? Or is
this a trick—like that ghost you showed us last Christmas?”

“Upon that machine,” said the Time Traveller, holding the lamp aloft,
“I intend to explore time. Is that plain? I was never more serious in
my life.”

None of us quite knew how to take it.

I caught Filby’s eye over the shoulder of the Medical Man, and he
winked at me solemnly.

III.
The Time Traveller Returns

I think that at that time none of us quite believed in the Time
Machine. The fact is, the Time Traveller was one of those men who are
too clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him;
you always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush,
behind his lucid frankness. Had Filby shown the model and explained the
matter in the Time Traveller’s words, we should have shown _him_ far
less scepticism. For we should have perceived his motives: a
pork-butcher could understand Filby. But the Time Traveller had more
than a touch of whim among his elements, and we distrusted him. Things
that would have made the fame of a less clever man seemed tricks in his
hands. It is a mistake to do things too easily. The serious people who
took him seriously never felt quite sure of his deportment; they were
somehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him was
like furnishing a nursery with eggshell china. So I don’t think any of
us said very much about time travelling in the interval between that
Thursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, in
most of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical
incredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter
confusion it suggested. For my own part, I was particularly preoccupied
with the trick of the model. That I remember discussing with the
Medical Man, whom I met on Friday at the Linnæan. He said he had seen a
similar thing at Tübingen, and laid considerable stress on the
blowing-out of the candle. But how the trick was done he could not
explain.

The next Thursday I went again to Richmond—I suppose I was one of the
Time Traveller’s most constant guests—and, arriving late, found four or
five men already assembled in his drawing-room. The Medical Man was
standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his
watch in the other. I looked round for the Time Traveller, and—“It’s
half-past seven now,” said the Medical Man. “I suppose we’d better have
dinner?”

“Where’s——?” said I, naming our host.

“You’ve just come? It’s rather odd. He’s unavoidably detained. He asks
me in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he’s not back. Says
he’ll explain when he comes.”

“It seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,” said the Editor of a
well-known daily paper; and thereupon the Doctor rang the bell.

The Psychologist was the only person besides the Doctor and myself who
had attended the previous dinner. The other men were Blank, the Editor
aforementioned, a certain journalist, and another—a quiet, shy man with
a beard—whom I didn’t know, and who, as far as my observation went,
never opened his mouth all the evening. There was some speculation at
the dinner-table about the Time Traveller’s absence, and I suggested
time travelling, in a half-jocular spirit. The Editor wanted that
explained to him, and the Psychologist volunteered a wooden account of
the “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed that day week. He
was in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor
opened slowly and without noise. I was facing the door, and saw it
first. “Hallo!” I said. “At last!” And the door opened wider, and the
Time Traveller stood before us. I gave a cry of surprise. “Good
heavens! man, what’s the matter?” cried the Medical Man, who saw him
next. And the whole tableful turned towards the door.

He was in an amazing plight. His coat was dusty and dirty, and smeared
with green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed to
me greyer—either with dust and dirt or because its colour had actually
faded. His face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on it—a cut
half-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intense
suffering. For a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been
dazzled by the light. Then he came into the room. He walked with just
such a limp as I have seen in footsore tramps. We stared at him in
silence, expecting him to speak.

He said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion
towards the wine. The Editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed it
towards him. He drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he looked
round the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his
face. “What on earth have you been up to, man?” said the Doctor. The
Time Traveller did not seem to hear. “Don’t let me disturb you,” he
said, with a certain faltering articulation. “I’m all right.” He
stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught.
“That’s good,” he said. His eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came
into his cheeks. His glance flickered over our faces with a certain
dull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room. Then
he spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words. “I’m
going to wash and dress, and then I’ll come down and explain things….
Save me some of that mutton. I’m starving for a bit of meat.”

He looked across at the Editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he
was all right. The Editor began a question. “Tell you presently,” said
the Time Traveller. “I’m—funny! Be all right in a minute.”

He put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door. Again I
remarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and
standing up in my place, I saw his feet as he went out. He had nothing
on them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks. Then the door
closed upon him. I had half a mind to follow, till I remembered how he
detested any fuss about himself. For a minute, perhaps, my mind was
wool-gathering. Then, “Remarkable Behaviour of an Eminent Scientist,” I
heard the Editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines. And this
brought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.

“What’s the game?” said the Journalist. “Has he been doing the Amateur
Cadger? I don’t follow.” I met the eye of the Psychologist, and read my
own interpretation in his face. I thought of the Time Traveller limping
painfully upstairs. I don’t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.

The first to recover completely from this surprise was the Medical Man,
who rang the bell—the Time Traveller hated to have servants waiting at
dinner—for a hot plate. At that the Editor turned to his knife and fork
with a grunt, and the Silent Man followed suit. The dinner was resumed.
Conversation was exclamatory for a little while with gaps of
wonderment; and then the Editor got fervent in his curiosity. “Does our
friend eke out his modest income with a crossing? or has he his
Nebuchadnezzar phases?” he inquired. “I feel assured it’s this business
of the Time Machine,” I said, and took up the Psychologist’s account of
our previous meeting. The new guests were frankly incredulous. The
Editor raised objections. “What _was_ this time travelling? A man
couldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?”
And then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature.
Hadn’t they any clothes-brushes in the Future? The Journalist too,
would not believe at any price, and joined the Editor in the easy work
of heaping ridicule on the whole thing. They were both the new kind of
journalist—very joyous, irreverent young men. “Our Special
Correspondent in the Day after Tomorrow reports,” the Journalist was
saying—or rather shouting—when the Time Traveller came back. He was
dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look
remained of the change that had startled me.

“I say,” said the Editor hilariously, “these chaps here say you have
been travelling into the middle of next week! Tell us all about little
Rosebery, will you? What will you take for the lot?”

The Time Traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word.
He smiled quietly, in his old way. “Where’s my mutton?” he said. “What
a treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!”

“Story!” cried the Editor.

“Story be damned!” said the Time Traveller. “I want something to eat. I
won’t say a word until I get some peptone into my arteries. Thanks. And
the salt.”

“One word,” said I. “Have you been time travelling?”

“Yes,” said the Time Traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.

“I’d give a shilling a line for a verbatim note,” said the Editor. The
Time Traveller pushed his glass towards the Silent Man and rang it with
his fingernail; at which the Silent Man, who had been staring at his
face, started convulsively, and poured him wine. The rest of the dinner
was uncomfortable. For my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to
my lips, and I dare say it was the same with the others. The Journalist
tried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes of Hettie Potter. The
Time Traveller devoted his attention to his dinner, and displayed the
appetite of a tramp. The Medical Man smoked a cigarette, and watched
the Time Traveller through his eyelashes. The Silent Man seemed even
more clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity and
determination out of sheer nervousness. At last the Time Traveller
pushed his plate away, and looked round us. “I suppose I must
apologise,” he said. “I was simply starving. I’ve had a most amazing
time.” He reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end. “But come
into the smoking-room. It’s too long a story to tell over greasy
plates.” And ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the
adjoining room.

“You have told Blank, and Dash, and Chose about the machine?” he said
to me, leaning back in his easy-chair and naming the three new guests.

“But the thing’s a mere paradox,” said the Editor.

“I can’t argue tonight. I don’t mind telling you the story, but I can’t
argue. I will,” he went on, “tell you the story of what has happened to
me, if you like, but you must refrain from interruptions. I want to
tell it. Badly. Most of it will sound like lying. So be it! It’s
true—every word of it, all the same. I was in my laboratory at four
o’clock, and since then … I’ve lived eight days … such days as no human
being ever lived before! I’m nearly worn out, but I shan’t sleep till
I’ve told this thing over to you. Then I shall go to bed. But no
interruptions! Is it agreed?”

“Agreed,” said the Editor, and the rest of us echoed “Agreed.” And with
that the Time Traveller began his story as I have set it forth. He sat
back in his chair at first, and spoke like a weary man. Afterwards he
got more animated. In writing it down I feel with only too much
keenness the inadequacy of pen and ink—and, above all, my own
inadequacy—to express its quality. You read, I will suppose,
attentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker’s white, sincere
face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation
of his voice. You cannot know how his expression followed the turns of
his story! Most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in the
smoking-room had not been lighted, and only the face of the Journalist
and the legs of the Silent Man from the knees downward were
illuminated. At first we glanced now and again at each other. After a
time we ceased to do that, and looked only at the Time Traveller’s
face.

IV.
Time Travelling

“I told some of you last Thursday of the principles of the Time
Machine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the
workshop. There it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and one of the
ivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of it’s
sound enough. I expected to finish it on Friday; but on Friday, when
the putting together was nearly done, I found that one of the nickel
bars was exactly one inch too short, and this I had to get remade; so
that the thing was not complete until this morning. It was at ten
o’clock today that the first of all Time Machines began its career. I
gave it a last tap, tried all the screws again, put one more drop of
oil on the quartz rod, and sat myself in the saddle. I suppose a
suicide who holds a pistol to his skull feels much the same wonder at
what will come next as I felt then. I took the starting lever in one
hand and the stopping one in the other, pressed the first, and almost
immediately the second. I seemed to reel; I felt a nightmare sensation
of falling; and, looking round, I saw the laboratory exactly as before.
Had anything happened? For a moment I suspected that my intellect had
tricked me. Then I noted the clock. A moment before, as it seemed, it
had stood at a minute or so past ten; now it was nearly half-past
three!

“I drew a breath, set my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both
hands, and went off with a thud. The laboratory got hazy and went dark.
Mrs. Watchett came in and walked, apparently without seeing me, towards
the garden door. I suppose it took her a minute or so to traverse the
place, but to me she seemed to shoot across the room like a rocket. I
pressed the lever over to its extreme position. The night came like the
turning out of a lamp, and in another moment came tomorrow. The
laboratory grew faint and hazy, then fainter and ever fainter. Tomorrow
night came black, then day again, night again, day again, faster and
faster still. An eddying murmur filled my ears, and a strange, dumb
confusedness descended on my mind.

“I am afraid I cannot convey the peculiar sensations of time
travelling. They are excessively unpleasant. There is a feeling exactly
like that one has upon a switchback—of a helpless headlong motion! I
felt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent smash. As I
put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing. The
dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me,
and I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every
minute, and every minute marking a day. I supposed the laboratory had
been destroyed and I had come into the open air. I had a dim impression
of scaffolding, but I was already going too fast to be conscious of any
moving things. The slowest snail that ever crawled dashed by too fast
for me. The twinkling succession of darkness and light was excessively
painful to the eye. Then, in the intermittent darknesses, I saw the
moon spinning swiftly through her quarters from new to full, and had a
faint glimpse of the circling stars. Presently, as I went on, still
gaining velocity, the palpitation of night and day merged into one
continuous greyness; the sky took on a wonderful deepness of blue, a
splendid luminous colour like that of early twilight; the jerking sun
became a streak of fire, a brilliant arch, in space; the moon a fainter
fluctuating band; and I could see nothing of the stars, save now and
then a brighter circle flickering in the blue.

“The landscape was misty and vague. I was still on the hillside upon
which this house now stands, and the shoulder rose above me grey and
dim. I saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour, now brown,
now green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away. I saw huge
buildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams. The whole
surface of the earth seemed changed—melting and flowing under my eyes.
The little hands upon the dials that registered my speed raced round
faster and faster. Presently I noted that the sun belt swayed up and
down, from solstice to solstice, in a minute or less, and that
consequently my pace was over a year a minute; and minute by minute the
white snow flashed across the world, and vanished, and was followed by
the bright, brief green of spring.

“The unpleasant sensations of the start were less poignant now. They
merged at last into a kind of hysterical exhilaration. I remarked,
indeed, a clumsy swaying of the machine, for which I was unable to
account. But my mind was too confused to attend to it, so with a kind
of madness growing upon me, I flung myself into futurity. At first I
scarce thought of stopping, scarce thought of anything but these new
sensations. But presently a fresh series of impressions grew up in my
mind—a certain curiosity and therewith a certain dread—until at last
they took complete possession of me. What strange developments of
humanity, what wonderful advances upon our rudimentary civilisation, I
thought, might not appear when I came to look nearly into the dim
elusive world that raced and fluctuated before my eyes! I saw great and
splendid architecture rising about me, more massive than any buildings
of our own time, and yet, as it seemed, built of glimmer and mist. I
saw a richer green flow up the hillside, and remain there, without any
wintry intermission. Even through the veil of my confusion the earth
seemed very fair. And so my mind came round to the business of
stopping.

“The peculiar risk lay in the possibility of my finding some substance
in the space which I, or the machine, occupied. So long as I travelled
at a high velocity through time, this scarcely mattered: I was, so to
speak, attenuated—was slipping like a vapour through the interstices of
intervening substances! But to come to a stop involved the jamming of
myself, molecule by molecule, into whatever lay in my way; meant
bringing my atoms into such intimate contact with those of the obstacle
that a profound chemical reaction—possibly a far-reaching
explosion—would result, and blow myself and my apparatus out of all
possible dimensions—into the Unknown. This possibility had occurred to
me again and again while I was making the machine; but then I had
cheerfully accepted it as an unavoidable risk—one of the risks a man
has got to take! Now the risk was inevitable, I no longer saw it in the
same cheerful light. The fact is that, insensibly, the absolute
strangeness of everything, the sickly jarring and swaying of the
machine, above all, the feeling of prolonged falling, had absolutely
upset my nerves. I told myself that I could never stop, and with a gust
of petulance I resolved to stop forthwith. Like an impatient fool, I
lugged over the lever, and incontinently the thing went reeling over,
and I was flung headlong through the air.

“There was the sound of a clap of thunder in my ears. I may have been
stunned for a moment. A pitiless hail was hissing round me, and I was
sitting on soft turf in front of the overset machine. Everything still
seemed grey, but presently I remarked that the confusion in my ears was
gone. I looked round me. I was on what seemed to be a little lawn in a
garden, surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and I noticed that their
mauve and purple blossoms were dropping in a shower under the beating
of the hailstones. The rebounding, dancing hail hung in a little cloud
over the machine, and drove along the ground like smoke. In a moment I
was wet to the skin. ‘Fine hospitality,’ said I, ‘to a man who has
travelled innumerable years to see you.’

“Presently I thought what a fool I was to get wet. I stood up and
looked round me. A colossal figure, carved apparently in some white
stone, loomed indistinctly beyond the rhododendrons through the hazy
downpour. But all else of the world was invisible.

“My sensations would be hard to describe. As the columns of hail grew
thinner, I saw the white figure more distinctly. It was very large, for
a silver birch-tree touched its shoulder. It was of white marble, in
shape something like a winged sphinx, but the wings, instead of being
carried vertically at the sides, were spread so that it seemed to
hover. The pedestal, it appeared to me, was of bronze, and was thick
with verdigris. It chanced that the face was towards me; the sightless
eyes seemed to watch me; there was the faint shadow of a smile on the
lips. It was greatly weather-worn, and that imparted an unpleasant
suggestion of disease. I stood looking at it for a little space—half a
minute, perhaps, or half an hour. It seemed to advance and to recede as
the hail drove before it denser or thinner. At last I tore my eyes from
it for a moment, and saw that the hail curtain had worn threadbare, and
that the sky was lightening with the promise of the sun.

“I looked up again at the crouching white shape, and the full temerity
of my voyage came suddenly upon me. What might appear when that hazy
curtain was altogether withdrawn? What might not have happened to men?
What if cruelty had grown into a common passion? What if in this
interval the race had lost its manliness, and had developed into
something inhuman, unsympathetic, and overwhelmingly powerful? I might
seem some old-world savage animal, only the more dreadful and
disgusting for our common likeness—a foul creature to be incontinently
slain.

“Already I saw other vast shapes—huge buildings with intricate parapets
and tall columns, with a wooded hillside dimly creeping in upon me
through the lessening storm. I was seized with a panic fear. I turned
frantically to the Time Machine, and strove hard to readjust it. As I
did so the shafts of the sun smote through the thunderstorm. The grey
downpour was swept aside and vanished like the trailing garments of a
ghost. Above me, in the intense blue of the summer sky, some faint
brown shreds of cloud whirled into nothingness. The great buildings
about me stood out clear and distinct, shining with the wet of the
thunderstorm, and picked out in white by the unmelted hailstones piled
along their courses. I felt naked in a strange world. I felt as perhaps
a bird may feel in the clear air, knowing the hawk wings above and will
swoop. My fear grew to frenzy. I took a breathing space, set my teeth,
and again grappled fiercely, wrist and knee, with the machine. It gave
under my desperate onset and turned over. It struck my chin violently.
One hand on the saddle, the other on the lever, I stood panting heavily
in attitude to mount again.

“But with this recovery of a prompt retreat my courage recovered. I
looked more curiously and less fearfully at this world of the remote
future. In a circular opening, high up in the wall of the nearer house,
I saw a group of figures clad in rich soft robes. They had seen me, and
their faces were directed towards me.

“Then I heard voices approaching me. Coming through the bushes by the
White Sphinx were the heads and shoulders of men running. One of these
emerged in a pathway leading straight to the little lawn upon which I
stood with my machine. He was a slight creature—perhaps four feet
high—clad in a purple tunic, girdled at the waist with a leather belt.
Sandals or buskins—I could not clearly distinguish which—were on his
feet; his legs were bare to the knees, and his head was bare. Noticing
that, I noticed for the first time how warm the air was.

“He struck me as being a very beautiful and graceful creature, but
indescribably frail. His flushed face reminded me of the more beautiful
kind of consumptive—that hectic beauty of which we used to hear so
much. At the sight of him I suddenly regained confidence. I took my
hands from the machine.

V.
In the Golden Age

“In another moment we were standing face to face, I and this fragile
thing out of futurity. He came straight up to me and laughed into my
eyes. The absence from his bearing of any sign of fear struck me at
once. Then he turned to the two others who were following him and spoke
to them in a strange and very sweet and liquid tongue.

“There were others coming, and presently a little group of perhaps
eight or ten of these exquisite creatures were about me. One of them
addressed me. It came into my head, oddly enough, that my voice was too
harsh and deep for them. So I shook my head, and, pointing to my ears,
shook it again. He came a step forward, hesitated, and then touched my
hand. Then I felt other soft little tentacles upon my back and
shoulders. They wanted to make sure I was real. There was nothing in
this at all alarming. Indeed, there was something in these pretty
little people that inspired confidence—a graceful gentleness, a certain
childlike ease. And besides, they looked so frail that I could fancy
myself flinging the whole dozen of them about like ninepins. But I made
a sudden motion to warn them when I saw their little pink hands feeling
at the Time Machine. Happily then, when it was not too late, I thought
of a danger I had hitherto forgotten, and reaching over the bars of the
machine I unscrewed the little levers that would set it in motion, and
put these in my pocket. Then I turned again to see what I could do in
the way of communication.

“And then, looking more nearly into their features, I saw some further
peculiarities in their Dresden china type of prettiness. Their hair,
which was uniformly curly, came to a sharp end at the neck and cheek;
there was not the faintest suggestion of it on the face, and their ears
were singularly minute. The mouths were small, with bright red, rather
thin lips, and the little chins ran to a point. The eyes were large and
mild; and—this may seem egotism on my part—I fancied even that there
was a certain lack of the interest I might have expected in them.

“As they made no effort to communicate with me, but simply stood round
me smiling and speaking in soft cooing notes to each other, I began the
conversation. I pointed to the Time Machine and to myself. Then,
hesitating for a moment how to express Time, I pointed to the sun. At
once a quaintly pretty little figure in chequered purple and white
followed my gesture, and then astonished me by imitating the sound of
thunder.

“For a moment I was staggered, though the import of his gesture was
plain enough. The question had come into my mind abruptly: were these
creatures fools? You may hardly understand how it took me. You see, I
had always anticipated that the people of the year Eight Hundred and
Two Thousand odd would be incredibly in front of us in knowledge, art,
everything. Then one of them suddenly asked me a question that showed
him to be on the intellectual level of one of our five-year-old
children—asked me, in fact, if I had come from the sun in a
thunderstorm! It let loose the judgment I had suspended upon their
clothes, their frail light limbs, and fragile features. A flow of
disappointment rushed across my mind. For a moment I felt that I had
built the Time Machine in vain.

“I nodded, pointed to the sun, and gave them such a vivid rendering of
a thunderclap as startled them. They all withdrew a pace or so and
bowed. Then came one laughing towards me, carrying a chain of beautiful
flowers altogether new to me, and put it about my neck. The idea was
received with melodious applause; and presently they were all running
to and fro for flowers, and laughingly flinging them upon me until I
was almost smothered with blossom. You who have never seen the like can
scarcely imagine what delicate and wonderful flowers countless years of
culture had created. Then someone suggested that their plaything should
be exhibited in the nearest building, and so I was led past the sphinx
of white marble, which had seemed to watch me all the while with a
smile at my astonishment, towards a vast grey edifice of fretted stone.
As I went with them the memory of my confident anticipations of a
profoundly grave and intellectual posterity came, with irresistible
merriment, to my mind.

“The building had a huge entry, and was altogether of colossal
dimensions. I was naturally most occupied with the growing crowd of
little people, and with the big open portals that yawned before me
shadowy and mysterious. My general impression of the world I saw over
their heads was a tangled waste of beautiful bushes and flowers, a long
neglected and yet weedless garden. I saw a number of tall spikes of
strange white flowers, measuring a foot perhaps across the spread of
the waxen petals. They grew scattered, as if wild, among the variegated
shrubs, but, as I say, I did not examine them closely at this time. The
Time Machine was left deserted on the turf among the rhododendrons.

“The arch of the doorway was richly carved, but naturally I did not
observe the carving very narrowly, though I fancied I saw suggestions
of old Phœnician decorations as I passed through, and it struck me that
they were very badly broken and weather-worn. Several more brightly
clad people met me in the doorway, and so we entered, I, dressed in
dingy nineteenth-century garments, looking grotesque enough, garlanded
with flowers, and surrounded by an eddying mass of bright,
soft-coloured robes and shining white limbs, in a melodious whirl of
laughter and laughing speech.

“The big doorway opened into a proportionately great hall hung with
brown. The roof was in shadow, and the windows, partially glazed with
coloured glass and partially unglazed, admitted a tempered light. The
floor was made up of huge blocks of some very hard white metal, not
plates nor slabs—blocks, and it was so much worn, as I judged by the
going to and fro of past generations, as to be deeply channelled along
the more frequented ways. Transverse to the length were innumerable
tables made of slabs of polished stone, raised, perhaps, a foot from
the floor, and upon these were heaps of fruits. Some I recognised as a
kind of hypertrophied raspberry and orange, but for the most part they
were strange.

“Between the tables was scattered a great number of cushions. Upon
these my conductors seated themselves, signing for me to do likewise.
With a pretty absence of ceremony they began to eat the fruit with
their hands, flinging peel and stalks, and so forth, into the round
openings in the sides of the tables. I was not loath to follow their
example, for I felt thirsty and hungry. As I did so I surveyed the hall
at my leisure.

“And perhaps the thing that struck me most was its dilapidated look.
The stained-glass windows, which displayed only a geometrical pattern,
were broken in many places, and the curtains that hung across the lower
end were thick with dust. And it caught my eye that the corner of the
marble table near me was fractured. Nevertheless, the general effect
was extremely rich and picturesque. There were, perhaps, a couple of
hundred people dining in the hall, and most of them, seated as near to
me as they could come, were watching me with interest, their little
eyes shining over the fruit they were eating. All were clad in the same
soft, and yet strong, silky material.

“Fruit, by the bye, was all their diet. These people of the remote
future were strict vegetarians, and while I was with them, in spite of
some carnal cravings, I had to be frugivorous also. Indeed, I found
afterwards that horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, had followed the
Ichthyosaurus into extinction. But the fruits were very delightful;
one, in particular, that seemed to be in season all the time I was
there—a floury thing in a three-sided husk—was especially good, and I
made it my staple. At first I was puzzled by all these strange fruits,
and by the strange flowers I saw, but later I began to perceive their
import.

“However, I am telling you of my fruit dinner in the distant future
now. So soon as my appetite was a little checked, I determined to make
a resolute attempt to learn the speech of these new men of mine.
Clearly that was the next thing to do. The fruits seemed a convenient
thing to begin upon, and holding one of these up I began a series of
interrogative sounds and gestures. I had some considerable difficulty
in conveying my meaning. At first my efforts met with a stare of
surprise or inextinguishable laughter, but presently a fair-haired
little creature seemed to grasp my intention and repeated a name. They
had to chatter and explain the business at great length to each other,
and my first attempts to make the exquisite little sounds of their
language caused an immense amount of genuine, if uncivil, amusement.
However, I felt like a schoolmaster amidst children, and persisted, and
presently I had a score of noun substantives at least at my command;
and then I got to demonstrative pronouns, and even the verb ‘to eat.’
But it was slow work, and the little people soon tired and wanted to
get away from my interrogations, so I determined, rather of necessity,
to let them give their lessons in little doses when they felt inclined.
And very little doses I found they were before long, for I never met
people more indolent or more easily fatigued.

VI.
The Sunset of Mankind

“A queer thing I soon discovered about my little hosts, and that was
their lack of interest. They would come to me with eager cries of
astonishment, like children, but, like children they would soon stop
examining me, and wander away after some other toy. The dinner and my
conversational beginnings ended, I noted for the first time that almost
all those who had surrounded me at first were gone. It is odd, too, how
speedily I came to disregard these little people. I went out through
the portal into the sunlit world again as soon as my hunger was
satisfied. I was continually meeting more of these men of the future,
who would follow me a little distance, chatter and laugh about me, and,
having smiled and gesticulated in a friendly way, leave me again to my
own devices.

“The calm of evening was upon the world as I emerged from the great
hall, and the scene was lit by the warm glow of the setting sun. At
first things were very confusing. Everything was so entirely different
from the world I had known—even the flowers. The big building I had
left was situated on the slope of a broad river valley, but the Thames
had shifted, perhaps, a mile from its present position. I resolved to
mount to the summit of a crest, perhaps a mile and a half away, from
which I could get a wider view of this our planet in the year Eight
Hundred and Two Thousand Seven Hundred and One, A.D. For that, I should
explain, was the date the little dials of my machine recorded.

“As I walked I was watching for every impression that could possibly
help to explain the condition of ruinous splendour in which I found the
world—for ruinous it was. A little way up the hill, for instance, was a
great heap of granite, bound together by masses of aluminium, a vast
labyrinth of precipitous walls and crumpled heaps, amidst which were
thick heaps of very beautiful pagoda-like plants—nettles possibly—but
wonderfully tinted with brown about the leaves, and incapable of
stinging. It was evidently the derelict remains of some vast structure,
to what end built I could not determine. It was here that I was
destined, at a later date, to have a very strange experience—the first
intimation of a still stranger discovery—but of that I will speak in
its proper place.

“Looking round, with a sudden thought, from a terrace on which I rested
for a while, I realised that there were no small houses to be seen.
Apparently the single house, and possibly even the household, had
vanished. Here and there among the greenery were palace-like buildings,
but the house and the cottage, which form such characteristic features
of our own English landscape, had disappeared.

“‘Communism,’ said I to myself.

“And on the heels of that came another thought. I looked at the
half-dozen little figures that were following me. Then, in a flash, I
perceived that all had the same form of costume, the same soft hairless
visage, and the same girlish rotundity of limb. It may seem strange,
perhaps, that I had not noticed this before. But everything was so
strange. Now, I saw the fact plainly enough. In costume, and in all the
differences of texture and bearing that now mark off the sexes from
each other, these people of the future were alike. And the children
seemed to my eyes to be but the miniatures of their parents. I judged
then that the children of that time were extremely precocious,
physically at least, and I found afterwards abundant verification of my
opinion.

“Seeing the ease and security in which these people were living, I felt
that this close resemblance of the sexes was after all what one would
expect; for the strength of a man and the softness of a woman, the
institution of the family, and the differentiation of occupations are
mere militant necessities of an age of physical force. Where population
is balanced and abundant, much childbearing becomes an evil rather than
a blessing to the State; where violence comes but rarely and offspring
are secure, there is less necessity—indeed there is no necessity—for an
efficient family, and the specialisation of the sexes with reference to
their children’s needs disappears. We see some beginnings of this even
in our own time, and in this future age it was complete. This, I must
remind you, was my speculation at the time. Later, I was to appreciate
how far it fell short of the reality.

“While I was musing upon these things, my attention was attracted by a
pretty little structure, like a well under a cupola. I thought in a
transitory way of the oddness of wells still existing, and then resumed
the thread of my speculations. There were no large buildings towards
the top of the hill, and as my walking powers were evidently
miraculous, I was presently left alone for the first time. With a
strange sense of freedom and adventure I pushed on up to the crest.

“There I found a seat of some yellow metal that I did not recognise,
corroded in places with a kind of pinkish rust and half smothered in
soft moss, the arm-rests cast and filed into the resemblance of
griffins’ heads. I sat down on it, and I surveyed the broad view of our
old world under the sunset of that long day. It was as sweet and fair a
view as I have ever seen. The sun had already gone below the horizon
and the west was flaming gold, touched with some horizontal bars of
purple and crimson. Below was the valley of the Thames, in which the
river lay like a band of burnished steel. I have already spoken of the
great palaces dotted about among the variegated greenery, some in ruins
and some still occupied. Here and there rose a white or silvery figure
in the waste garden of the earth, here and there came the sharp
vertical line of some cupola or obelisk. There were no hedges, no signs
of proprietary rights, no evidences of agriculture; the whole earth had
become a garden.

“So watching, I began to put my interpretation upon the things I had
seen, and as it shaped itself to me that evening, my interpretation was
something in this way. (Afterwards I found I had got only a half
truth—or only a glimpse of one facet of the truth.)

“It seemed to me that I had happened upon humanity upon the wane. The
ruddy sunset set me thinking of the sunset of mankind. For the first
time I began to realise an odd consequence of the social effort in
which we are at present engaged. And yet, come to think, it is a
logical consequence enough. Strength is the outcome of need; security
sets a premium on feebleness. The work of ameliorating the conditions
of life—the true civilising process that makes life more and more
secure—had gone steadily on to a climax. One triumph of a united
humanity over Nature had followed another. Things that are now mere
dreams had become projects deliberately put in hand and carried
forward. And the harvest was what I saw!

“After all, the sanitation and the agriculture of today are still in
the rudimentary stage. The science of our time has attacked but a
little department of the field of human disease, but, even so, it
spreads its operations very steadily and persistently. Our agriculture
and horticulture destroy a weed just here and there and cultivate
perhaps a score or so of wholesome plants, leaving the greater number
to fight out a balance as they can. We improve our favourite plants and
animals—and how few they are—gradually by selective breeding; now a new
and better peach, now a seedless grape, now a sweeter and larger
flower, now a more convenient breed of cattle. We improve them
gradually, because our ideals are vague and tentative, and our
knowledge is very limited; because Nature, too, is shy and slow in our
clumsy hands. Some day all this will be better organised, and still
better. That is the drift of the current in spite of the eddies. The
whole world will be intelligent, educated, and co-operating; things
will move faster and faster towards the subjugation of Nature. In the
end, wisely and carefully we shall readjust the balance of animal and
vegetable life to suit our human needs.

“This adjustment, I say, must have been done, and done well; done
indeed for all Time, in the space of Time across which my machine had
leapt. The air was free from gnats, the earth from weeds or fungi;
everywhere were fruits and sweet and delightful flowers; brilliant
butterflies flew hither and thither. The ideal of preventive medicine
was attained. Diseases had been stamped out. I saw no evidence of any
contagious diseases during all my stay. And I shall have to tell you
later that even the processes of putrefaction and decay had been
profoundly affected by these changes.

“Social triumphs, too, had been effected. I saw mankind housed in
splendid shelters, gloriously clothed, and as yet I had found them
engaged in no toil. There were no signs of struggle, neither social nor
economical struggle. The shop, the advertisement, traffic, all that
commerce which constitutes the body of our world, was gone. It was
natural on that golden evening that I should jump at the idea of a
social paradise. The difficulty of increasing population had been met,
I guessed, and population had ceased to increase.

“But with this change in condition comes inevitably adaptations to the
change. What, unless biological science is a mass of errors, is the
cause of human intelligence and vigour? Hardship and freedom:
conditions under which the active, strong, and subtle survive and the
weaker go to the wall; conditions that put a premium upon the loyal
alliance of capable men, upon self-restraint, patience, and decision.
And the institution of the family, and the emotions that arise therein,
the fierce jealousy, the tenderness for offspring, parental
self-devotion, all found their justification and support in the
imminent dangers of the young. _Now_, where are these imminent dangers?
There is a sentiment arising, and it will grow, against connubial
jealousy, against fierce maternity, against passion of all sorts;
unnecessary things now, and things that make us uncomfortable, savage
survivals, discords in a refined and pleasant life.

“I thought of the physical slightness of the people, their lack of
intelligence, and those big abundant ruins, and it strengthened my
belief in a perfect conquest of Nature. For after the battle comes
Quiet. Humanity had been strong, energetic, and intelligent, and had
used all its abundant vitality to alter the conditions under which it
lived. And now came the reaction of the altered conditions.

“Under the new conditions of perfect comfort and security, that
restless energy, that with us is strength, would become weakness. Even
in our own time certain tendencies and desires, once necessary to
survival, are a constant source of failure. Physical courage and the
love of battle, for instance, are no great help—may even be
hindrances—to a civilised man. And in a state of physical balance and
security, power, intellectual as well as physical, would be out of
place. For countless years I judged there had been no danger of war or
solitary violence, no danger from wild beasts, no wasting disease to
require strength of constitution, no need of toil. For such a life,
what we should call the weak are as well equipped as the strong, are
indeed no longer weak. Better equipped indeed they are, for the strong
would be fretted by an energy for which there was no outlet. No doubt
the exquisite beauty of the buildings I saw was the outcome of the last
surgings of the now purposeless energy of mankind before it settled
down into perfect harmony with the conditions under which it lived—the
flourish of that triumph which began the last great peace. This has
ever been the fate of energy in security; it takes to art and to
eroticism, and then come languor and decay.

“Even this artistic impetus would at last die away—had almost died in
the Time I saw. To adorn themselves with flowers, to dance, to sing in
the sunlight: so much was left of the artistic spirit, and no more.
Even that would fade in the end into a contented inactivity. We are
kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity, and it seemed to me
that here was that hateful grindstone broken at last!

“As I stood there in the gathering dark I thought that in this simple
explanation I had mastered the problem of the world—mastered the whole
secret of these delicious people. Possibly the checks they had devised
for the increase of population had succeeded too well, and their
numbers had rather diminished than kept stationary. That would account
for the abandoned ruins. Very simple was my explanation, and plausible
enough—as most wrong theories are!

VII.
A Sudden Shock

“As I stood there musing over this too perfect triumph of man, the full
moon, yellow and gibbous, came up out of an overflow of silver light in
the north-east. The bright little figures ceased to move about below, a
noiseless owl flitted by, and I shivered with the chill of the night. I
determined to descend and find where I could sleep.

“I looked for the building I knew. Then my eye travelled along to the
figure of the White Sphinx upon the pedestal of bronze, growing
distinct as the light of the rising moon grew brighter. I could see the
silver birch against it. There was the tangle of rhododendron bushes,
black in the pale light, and there was the little lawn. I looked at the
lawn again. A queer doubt chilled my complacency. ‘No,’ said I stoutly
to myself, ‘that was not the lawn.’

“But it _was_ the lawn. For the white leprous face of the sphinx was
towards it. Can you imagine what I felt as this conviction came home to
me? But you cannot. The Time Machine was gone!

“At once, like a lash across the face, came the possibility of losing
my own age, of being left helpless in this strange new world. The bare
thought of it was an actual physical sensation. I could feel it grip me
at the throat and stop my breathing. In another moment I was in a
passion of fear and running with great leaping strides down the slope.
Once I fell headlong and cut my face; I lost no time in stanching the
blood, but jumped up and ran on, with a warm trickle down my cheek and
chin. All the time I ran I was saying to myself: ‘They have moved it a
little, pushed it under the bushes out of the way.’ Nevertheless, I ran
with all my might. All the time, with the certainty that sometimes
comes with excessive dread, I knew that such assurance was folly, knew
instinctively that the machine was removed out of my reach. My breath
came with pain. I suppose I covered the whole distance from the hill
crest to the little lawn, two miles perhaps, in ten minutes. And I am
not a young man. I cursed aloud, as I ran, at my confident folly in
leaving the machine, wasting good breath thereby. I cried aloud, and
none answered. Not a creature seemed to be stirring in that moonlit
world.

“When I reached the lawn my worst fears were realised. Not a trace of
the thing was to be seen. I felt faint and cold when I faced the empty
space among the black tangle of bushes. I ran round it furiously, as if
the thing might be hidden in a corner, and then stopped abruptly, with
my hands clutching my hair. Above me towered the sphinx, upon the
bronze pedestal, white, shining, leprous, in the light of the rising
moon. It seemed to smile in mockery of my dismay.

“I might have consoled myself by imagining the little people had put
the mechanism in some shelter for me, had I not felt assured of their
physical and intellectual inadequacy. That is what dismayed me: the
sense of some hitherto unsuspected power, through whose intervention my
invention had vanished. Yet, for one thing I felt assured: unless some
other age had produced its exact duplicate, the machine could not have
moved in time. The attachment of the levers—I will show you the method
later—prevented anyone from tampering with it in that way when they
were removed. It had moved, and was hid, only in space. But then, where
could it be?

“I think I must have had a kind of frenzy. I remember running violently
in and out among the moonlit bushes all round the sphinx, and startling
some white animal that, in the dim light, I took for a small deer. I
remember, too, late that night, beating the bushes with my clenched
fist until my knuckles were gashed and bleeding from the broken twigs.
Then, sobbing and raving in my anguish of mind, I went down to the
great building of stone. The big hall was dark, silent, and deserted. I
slipped on the uneven floor, and fell over one of the malachite tables,
almost breaking my shin. I lit a match and went on past the dusty
curtains, of which I have told you.

“There I found a second great hall covered with cushions, upon which,
perhaps, a score or so of the little people were sleeping. I have no
doubt they found my second appearance strange enough, coming suddenly
out of the quiet darkness with inarticulate noises and the splutter and
flare of a match. For they had forgotten about matches. ‘Where is my
Time Machine?’ I began, bawling like an angry child, laying hands upon
them and shaking them up together. It must have been very queer to
them. Some laughed, most of them looked sorely frightened. When I saw
them standing round me, it came into my head that I was doing as
foolish a thing as it was possible for me to do under the
circumstances, in trying to revive the sensation of fear. For,
reasoning from their daylight behaviour, I thought that fear must be
forgotten.

“Abruptly, I dashed down the match, and knocking one of the people over
in my course, went blundering across the big dining-hall again, out
under the moonlight. I heard cries of terror and their little feet
running and stumbling this way and that. I do not remember all I did as
the moon crept up the sky. I suppose it was the unexpected nature of my
loss that maddened me. I felt hopelessly cut off from my own kind—a
strange animal in an unknown world. I must have raved to and fro,
screaming and crying upon God and Fate. I have a memory of horrible
fatigue, as the long night of despair wore away; of looking in this
impossible place and that; of groping among moonlit ruins and touching
strange creatures in the black shadows; at last, of lying on the ground
near the sphinx and weeping with absolute wretchedness, even anger at
the folly of leaving the machine having leaked away with my strength. I
had nothing left but misery. Then I slept, and when I woke again it was
full day, and a couple of sparrows were hopping round me on the turf
within reach of my arm.

“I sat up in the freshness of the morning, trying to remember how I had
got there, and why I had such a profound sense of desertion and
despair. Then things came clear in my mind. With the plain, reasonable
daylight, I could look my circumstances fairly in the face. I saw the
wild folly of my frenzy overnight, and I could reason with myself.
‘Suppose the worst?’ I said. ‘Suppose the machine altogether
lost—perhaps destroyed? It behoves me to be calm and patient, to learn
the way of the people, to get a clear idea of the method of my loss,
and the means of getting materials and tools; so that in the end,
perhaps, I may make another.’ That would be my only hope, a poor hope,
perhaps, but better than despair. And, after all, it was a beautiful
and curious world.

“But probably the machine had only been taken away. Still, I must be
calm and patient, find its hiding-place, and recover it by force or
cunning. And with that I scrambled to my feet and looked about me,
wondering where I could bathe. I felt weary, stiff, and travel-soiled.
The freshness of the morning made me desire an equal freshness. I had
exhausted my emotion. Indeed, as I went about my business, I found
myself wondering at my intense excitement overnight. I made a careful
examination of the ground about the little lawn. I wasted some time in
futile questionings, conveyed, as well as I was able, to such of the
little people as came by. They all failed to understand my gestures;
some were simply stolid, some thought it was a jest and laughed at me.
I had the hardest task in the world to keep my hands off their pretty
laughing faces. It was a foolish impulse, but the devil begotten of
fear and blind anger was ill curbed and still eager to take advantage
of my perplexity. The turf gave better counsel. I found a groove ripped
in it, about midway between the pedestal of the sphinx and the marks of
my feet where, on arrival, I had struggled with the overturned machine.
There were other signs of removal about, with queer narrow footprints
like those I could imagine made by a sloth. This directed my closer
attention to the pedestal. It was, as I think I have said, of bronze.
It was not a mere block, but highly decorated with deep framed panels
on either side. I went and rapped at these. The pedestal was hollow.
Examining the panels with care I found them discontinuous with the
frames. There were no handles or keyholes, but possibly the panels, if
they were doors, as I supposed, opened from within. One thing was clear
enough to my mind. It took no very great mental effort to infer that my
Time Machine was inside that pedestal. But how it got there was a
different problem.

“I saw the heads of two orange-clad people coming through the bushes
and under some blossom-covered apple-trees towards me. I turned smiling
to them, and beckoned them to me. They came, and then, pointing to the
bronze pedestal, I tried to intimate my wish to open it. But at my
first gesture towards this they behaved very oddly. I don’t know how to
convey their expression to you. Suppose you were to use a grossly
improper gesture to a delicate-minded woman—it is how she would look.
They went off as if they had received the last possible insult. I tried
a sweet-looking little chap in white next, with exactly the same
result. Somehow, his manner made me feel ashamed of myself. But, as you
know, I wanted the Time Machine, and I tried him once more. As he
turned off, like the others, my temper got the better of me. In three
strides I was after him, had him by the loose part of his robe round
the neck, and began dragging him towards the sphinx. Then I saw the
horror and repugnance of his face, and all of a sudden I let him go.

“But I was not beaten yet. I banged with my fist at the bronze panels.
I thought I heard something stir inside—to be explicit, I thought I
heard a sound like a chuckle—but I must have been mistaken. Then I got
a big pebble from the river, and came and hammered till I had flattened
a coil in the decorations, and the verdigris came off in powdery
flakes. The delicate little people must have heard me hammering in
gusty outbreaks a mile away on either hand, but nothing came of it. I
saw a crowd of them upon the slopes, looking furtively at me. At last,
hot and tired, I sat down to watch the place. But I was too restless to
watch long; I am too Occidental for a long vigil. I could work at a
problem for years, but to wait inactive for twenty-four hours—that is
another matter.

“I got up after a time, and began walking aimlessly through the bushes
towards the hill again. ‘Patience,’ said I to myself. ‘If you want your
machine again you must leave that sphinx alone. If they mean to take
your machine away, it’s little good your wrecking their bronze panels,
and if they don’t, you will get it back as soon as you can ask for it.
To sit among all those unknown things before a puzzle like that is
hopeless. That way lies monomania. Face this world. Learn its ways,
watch it, be careful of too hasty guesses at its meaning. In the end
you will find clues to it all.’ Then suddenly the humour of the
situation came into my mind: the thought of the years I had spent in
study and toil to get into the future age, and now my passion of
anxiety to get out of it. I had made myself the most complicated and
the most hopeless trap that ever a man devised. Although it was at my
own expense, I could not help myself. I laughed aloud.

“Going through the big palace, it seemed to me that the little people
avoided me. It may have been my fancy, or it may have had something to
do with my hammering at the gates of bronze. Yet I felt tolerably sure
of the avoidance. I was careful, however, to show no concern and to
abstain from any pursuit of them, and in the course of a day or two
things got back to the old footing. I made what progress I could in the
language, and in addition I pushed my explorations here and there.
Either I missed some subtle point or their language was excessively
simple—almost exclusively composed of concrete substantives and verbs.
There seemed to be few, if any, abstract terms, or little use of
figurative language. Their sentences were usually simple and of two
words, and I failed to convey or understand any but the simplest
propositions. I determined to put the thought of my Time Machine and
the mystery of the bronze doors under the sphinx, as much as possible
in a corner of memory, until my growing knowledge would lead me back to
them in a natural way. Yet a certain feeling, you may understand,
tethered me in a circle of a few miles round the point of my arrival.

VIII.
Explanation

“So far as I could see, all the world displayed the same exuberant
richness as the Thames valley. From every hill I climbed I saw the same
abundance of splendid buildings, endlessly varied in material and
style, the same clustering thickets of evergreens, the same
blossom-laden trees and tree ferns. Here and there water shone like
silver, and beyond, the land rose into blue undulating hills, and so
faded into the serenity of the sky. A peculiar feature, which presently
attracted my attention, was the presence of certain circular wells,
several, as it seemed to me, of a very great depth. One lay by the path
up the hill which I had followed during my first walk. Like the others,
it was rimmed with bronze, curiously wrought, and protected by a little
cupola from the rain. Sitting by the side of these wells, and peering
down into the shafted darkness, I could see no gleam of water, nor
could I start any reflection with a lighted match. But in all of them I
heard a certain sound: a thud—thud—thud, like the beating of some big
engine; and I discovered, from the flaring of my matches, that a steady
current of air set down the shafts. Further, I threw a scrap of paper
into the throat of one, and, instead of fluttering slowly down, it was
at once sucked swiftly out of sight.

“After a time, too, I came to connect these wells with tall towers
standing here and there upon the slopes; for above them there was often
just such a flicker in the air as one sees on a hot day above a
sun-scorched beach. Putting things together, I reached a strong
suggestion of an extensive system of subterranean ventilation, whose
true import it was difficult to imagine. I was at first inclined to
associate it with the sanitary apparatus of these people. It was an
obvious conclusion, but it was absolutely wrong.

“And here I must admit that I learnt very little of drains and bells
and modes of conveyance, and the like conveniences, during my time in
this real future. In some of these visions of Utopias and coming times
which I have read, there is a vast amount of detail about building, and
social arrangements, and so forth. But while such details are easy
enough to obtain when the whole world is contained in one’s
imagination, they are altogether inaccessible to a real traveller amid
such realities as I found here. Conceive the tale of London which a
negro, fresh from Central Africa, would take back to his tribe! What
would he know of railway companies, of social movements, of telephone
and telegraph wires, of the Parcels Delivery Company, and postal orders
and the like? Yet we, at least, should be willing enough to explain
these things to him! And even of what he knew, how much could he make
his untravelled friend either apprehend or believe? Then, think how
narrow the gap between a negro and a white man of our own times, and
how wide the interval between myself and these of the Golden Age! I was
sensible of much which was unseen, and which contributed to my comfort;
but save for a general impression of automatic organisation, I fear I
can convey very little of the difference to your mind.

“In the matter of sepulture, for instance, I could see no signs of
crematoria nor anything suggestive of tombs. But it occurred to me
that, possibly, there might be cemeteries (or crematoria) somewhere
beyond the range of my explorings. This, again, was a question I
deliberately put to myself, and my curiosity was at first entirely
defeated upon the point. The thing puzzled me, and I was led to make a
further remark, which puzzled me still more: that aged and infirm among
this people there were none.

“I must confess that my satisfaction with my first theories of an
automatic civilisation and a decadent humanity did not long endure. Yet
I could think of no other. Let me put my difficulties. The several big
palaces I had explored were mere living places, great dining-halls and
sleeping apartments. I could find no machinery, no appliances of any
kind. Yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics that must at
times need renewal, and their sandals, though undecorated, were fairly
complex specimens of metalwork. Somehow such things must be made. And
the little people displayed no vestige of a creative tendency. There
were no shops, no workshops, no sign of importations among them. They
spent all their time in playing gently, in bathing in the river, in
making love in a half-playful fashion, in eating fruit and sleeping. I
could not see how things were kept going.

“Then, again, about the Time Machine: something, I knew not what, had
taken it into the hollow pedestal of the White Sphinx. _Why?_ For the
life of me I could not imagine. Those waterless wells, too, those
flickering pillars. I felt I lacked a clue. I felt—how shall I put it?
Suppose you found an inscription, with sentences here and there in
excellent plain English, and interpolated therewith, others made up of
words, of letters even, absolutely unknown to you? Well, on the third
day of my visit, that was how the world of Eight Hundred and Two
Thousand Seven Hundred and One presented itself to me!

“That day, too, I made a friend—of a sort. It happened that, as I was
watching some of the little people bathing in a shallow, one of them
was seized with cramp and began drifting downstream. The main current
ran rather swiftly, but not too strongly for even a moderate swimmer.
It will give you an idea, therefore, of the strange deficiency in these
creatures, when I tell you that none made the slightest attempt to
rescue the weakly crying little thing which was drowning before their
eyes. When I realised this, I hurriedly slipped off my clothes, and,
wading in at a point lower down, I caught the poor mite and drew her
safe to land. A little rubbing of the limbs soon brought her round, and
I had the satisfaction of seeing she was all right before I left her. I
had got to such a low estimate of her kind that I did not expect any
gratitude from her. In that, however, I was wrong.

“This happened in the morning. In the afternoon I met my little woman,
as I believe it was, as I was returning towards my centre from an
exploration, and she received me with cries of delight and presented me
with a big garland of flowers—evidently made for me and me alone. The
thing took my imagination. Very possibly I had been feeling desolate.
At any rate I did my best to display my appreciation of the gift. We
were soon seated together in a little stone arbour, engaged in
conversation, chiefly of smiles. The creature’s friendliness affected
me exactly as a child’s might have done. We passed each other flowers,
and she kissed my hands. I did the same to hers. Then I tried talk, and
found that her name was Weena, which, though I don’t know what it
meant, somehow seemed appropriate enough. That was the beginning of a
queer friendship which lasted a week, and ended—as I will tell you!

“She was exactly like a child. She wanted to be with me always. She
tried to follow me everywhere, and on my next journey out and about it
went to my heart to tire her down, and leave her at last, exhausted and
calling after me rather plaintively. But the problems of the world had
to be mastered. I had not, I said to myself, come into the future to
carry on a miniature flirtation. Yet her distress when I left her was
very great, her expostulations at the parting were sometimes frantic,
and I think, altogether, I had as much trouble as comfort from her
devotion. Nevertheless she was, somehow, a very great comfort. I
thought it was mere childish affection that made her cling to me. Until
it was too late, I did not clearly know what I had inflicted upon her
when I left her. Nor until it was too late did I clearly understand
what she was to me. For, by merely seeming fond of me, and showing in
her weak, futile way that she cared for me, the little doll of a
creature presently gave my return to the neighbourhood of the White
Sphinx almost the feeling of coming home; and I would watch for her
tiny figure of white and gold so soon as I came over the hill.

“It was from her, too, that I learnt that fear had not yet left the
world. She was fearless enough in the daylight, and she had the oddest
confidence in me; for once, in a foolish moment, I made threatening
grimaces at her, and she simply laughed at them. But she dreaded the
dark, dreaded shadows, dreaded black things. Darkness to her was the
one thing dreadful. It was a singularly passionate emotion, and it set
me thinking and observing. I discovered then, among other things, that
these little people gathered into the great houses after dark, and
slept in droves. To enter upon them without a light was to put them
into a tumult of apprehension. I never found one out of doors, or one
sleeping alone within doors, after dark. Yet I was still such a
blockhead that I missed the lesson of that fear, and in spite of
Weena’s distress, I insisted upon sleeping away from these slumbering
multitudes.

“It troubled her greatly, but in the end her odd affection for me
triumphed, and for five of the nights of our acquaintance, including
the last night of all, she slept with her head pillowed on my arm. But
my story slips away from me as I speak of her. It must have been the
night before her rescue that I was awakened about dawn. I had been
restless, dreaming most disagreeably that I was drowned, and that sea
anemones were feeling over my face with their soft palps. I woke with a
start, and with an odd fancy that some greyish animal had just rushed
out of the chamber. I tried to get to sleep again, but I felt restless
and uncomfortable. It was that dim grey hour when things are just
creeping out of darkness, when everything is colourless and clear cut,
and yet unreal. I got up, and went down into the great hall, and so out
upon the flagstones in front of the palace. I thought I would make a
virtue of necessity, and see the sunrise.

“The moon was setting, and the dying moonlight and the first pallor of
dawn were mingled in a ghastly half-light. The bushes were inky black,
the ground a sombre grey, the sky colourless and cheerless. And up the
hill I thought I could see ghosts. Three several times, as I scanned
the slope, I saw white figures. Twice I fancied I saw a solitary white,
ape-like creature running rather quickly up the hill, and once near the
ruins I saw a leash of them carrying some dark body. They moved
hastily. I did not see what became of them. It seemed that they
vanished among the bushes. The dawn was still indistinct, you must
understand. I was feeling that chill, uncertain, early-morning feeling
you may have known. I doubted my eyes.

“As the eastern sky grew brighter, and the light of the day came on and
its vivid colouring returned upon the world once more, I scanned the
view keenly. But I saw no vestige of my white figures. They were mere
creatures of the half-light. ‘They must have been ghosts,’ I said; ‘I
wonder whence they dated.’ For a queer notion of Grant Allen’s came
into my head, and amused me. If each generation die and leave ghosts,
he argued, the world at last will get overcrowded with them. On that
theory they would have grown innumerable some Eight Hundred Thousand
Years hence, and it was no great wonder to see four at once. But the
jest was unsatisfying, and I was thinking of these figures all the
morning, until Weena’s rescue drove them out of my head. I associated
them in some indefinite way with the white animal I had startled in my
first passionate search for the Time Machine. But Weena was a pleasant
substitute. Yet all the same, they were soon destined to take far
deadlier possession of my mind.

“I think I have said how much hotter than our own was the weather of
this Golden Age. I cannot account for it. It may be that the sun was
hotter, or the earth nearer the sun. It is usual to assume that the sun
will go on cooling steadily in the future. But people, unfamiliar with
such speculations as those of the younger Darwin, forget that the
planets must ultimately fall back one by one into the parent body. As
these catastrophes occur, the sun will blaze with renewed energy; and
it may be that some inner planet had suffered this fate. Whatever the
reason, the fact remains that the sun was very much hotter than we know
it.

“Well, one very hot morning—my fourth, I think—as I was seeking shelter
from the heat and glare in a colossal ruin near the great house where I
slept and fed, there happened this strange thing. Clambering among
these heaps of masonry, I found a narrow gallery, whose end and side
windows were blocked by fallen masses of stone. By contrast with the
brilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me. I
entered it groping, for the change from light to blackness made spots
of colour swim before me. Suddenly I halted spellbound. A pair of eyes,
luminous by reflection against the daylight without, was watching me
out of the darkness.

“The old instinctive dread of wild beasts came upon me. I clenched my
hands and steadfastly looked into the glaring eyeballs. I was afraid to
turn. Then the thought of the absolute security in which humanity
appeared to be living came to my mind. And then I remembered that
strange terror of the dark. Overcoming my fear to some extent, I
advanced a step and spoke. I will admit that my voice was harsh and
ill-controlled. I put out my hand and touched something soft. At once
the eyes darted sideways, and something white ran past me. I turned
with my heart in my mouth, and saw a queer little ape-like figure, its
head held down in a peculiar manner, running across the sunlit space
behind me. It blundered against a block of granite, staggered aside,
and in a moment was hidden in a black shadow beneath another pile of
ruined masonry.

“My impression of it is, of course, imperfect; but I know it was a dull
white, and had strange large greyish-red eyes; also that there was
flaxen hair on its head and down its back. But, as I say, it went too
fast for me to see distinctly. I cannot even say whether it ran on all
fours, or only with its forearms held very low. After an instant’s
pause I followed it into the second heap of ruins. I could not find it
at first; but, after a time in the profound obscurity, I came upon one
of those round well-like openings of which I have told you, half closed
by a fallen pillar. A sudden thought came to me. Could this Thing have
vanished down the shaft? I lit a match, and, looking down, I saw a
small, white, moving creature, with large bright eyes which regarded me
steadfastly as it retreated. It made me shudder. It was so like a human
spider! It was clambering down the wall, and now I saw for the first
time a number of metal foot and hand rests forming a kind of ladder
down the shaft. Then the light burned my fingers and fell out of my
hand, going out as it dropped, and when I had lit another the little
monster had disappeared.

“I do not know how long I sat peering down that well. It was not for
some time that I could succeed in persuading myself that the thing I
had seen was human. But, gradually, the truth dawned on me: that Man
had not remained one species, but had differentiated into two distinct
animals: that my graceful children of the Upper World were not the sole
descendants of our generation, but that this bleached, obscene,
nocturnal Thing, which had flashed before me, was also heir to all the
ages.

“I thought of the flickering pillars and of my theory of an underground
ventilation. I began to suspect their true import. And what, I
wondered, was this Lemur doing in my scheme of a perfectly balanced
organisation? How was it related to the indolent serenity of the
beautiful Overworlders? And what was hidden down there, at the foot of
that shaft? I sat upon the edge of the well telling myself that, at any
rate, there was nothing to fear, and that there I must descend for the
solution of my difficulties. And withal I was absolutely afraid to go!
As I hesitated, two of the beautiful upperworld people came running in
their amorous sport across the daylight in the shadow. The male pursued
the female, flinging flowers at her as he ran.

“They seemed distressed to find me, my arm against the overturned
pillar, peering down the well. Apparently it was considered bad form to
remark these apertures; for when I pointed to this one, and tried to
frame a question about it in their tongue, they were still more visibly
distressed and turned away. But they were interested by my matches, and
I struck some to amuse them. I tried them again about the well, and
again I failed. So presently I left them, meaning to go back to Weena,
and see what I could get from her. But my mind was already in
revolution; my guesses and impressions were slipping and sliding to a
new adjustment. I had now a clue to the import of these wells, to the
ventilating towers, to the mystery of the ghosts; to say nothing of a
hint at the meaning of the bronze gates and the fate of the Time
Machine! And very vaguely there came a suggestion towards the solution
of the economic problem that had puzzled me.

“Here was the new view. Plainly, this second species of Man was
subterranean. There were three circumstances in particular which made
me think that its rare emergence above ground was the outcome of a
long-continued underground habit. In the first place, there was the
bleached look common in most animals that live largely in the dark—the
white fish of the Kentucky caves, for instance. Then, those large eyes,
with that capacity for reflecting light, are common features of
nocturnal things—witness the owl and the cat. And last of all, that
evident confusion in the sunshine, that hasty yet fumbling awkward
flight towards dark shadow, and that peculiar carriage of the head
while in the light—all reinforced the theory of an extreme
sensitiveness of the retina.

“Beneath my feet, then, the earth must be tunnelled enormously, and
these tunnellings were the habitat of the New Race. The presence of
ventilating shafts and wells along the hill slopes—everywhere, in fact,
except along the river valley—showed how universal were its
ramifications. What so natural, then, as to assume that it was in this
artificial Underworld that such work as was necessary to the comfort of
the daylight race was done? The notion was so plausible that I at once
accepted it, and went on to assume the _how_ of this splitting of the
human species. I dare say you will anticipate the shape of my theory;
though, for myself, I very soon felt that it fell far short of the
truth.

“At first, proceeding from the problems of our own age, it seemed clear
as daylight to me that the gradual widening of the present merely
temporary and social difference between the Capitalist and the Labourer
was the key to the whole position. No doubt it will seem grotesque
enough to you—and wildly incredible!—and yet even now there are
existing circumstances to point that way. There is a tendency to
utilise underground space for the less ornamental purposes of
civilisation; there is the Metropolitan Railway in London, for
instance, there are new electric railways, there are subways, there are
underground workrooms and restaurants, and they increase and multiply.
Evidently, I thought, this tendency had increased till Industry had
gradually lost its birthright in the sky. I mean that it had gone
deeper and deeper into larger and ever larger underground factories,
spending a still-increasing amount of its time therein, till, in the
end—! Even now, does not an East-end worker live in such artificial
conditions as practically to be cut off from the natural surface of the
earth?

“Again, the exclusive tendency of richer people—due, no doubt, to the
increasing refinement of their education, and the widening gulf between
them and the rude violence of the poor—is already leading to the
closing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of
the land. About London, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country
is shut in against intrusion. And this same widening gulf—which is due
to the length and expense of the higher educational process and the
increased facilities for and temptations towards refined habits on the
part of the rich—will make that exchange between class and class, that
promotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of
our species along lines of social stratification, less and less
frequent. So, in the end, above ground you must have the Haves,
pursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the
Have-nots, the Workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of
their labour. Once they were there, they would no doubt have to pay
rent, and not a little of it, for the ventilation of their caverns; and
if they refused, they would starve or be suffocated for arrears. Such
of them as were so constituted as to be miserable and rebellious would
die; and, in the end, the balance being permanent, the survivors would
become as well adapted to the conditions of underground life, and as
happy in their way, as the Overworld people were to theirs. As it
seemed to me, the refined beauty and the etiolated pallor followed
naturally enough.

“The great triumph of Humanity I had dreamed of took a different shape
in my mind. It had been no such triumph of moral education and general
co-operation as I had imagined. Instead, I saw a real aristocracy,
armed with a perfected science and working to a logical conclusion the
industrial system of today. Its triumph had not been simply a triumph
over Nature, but a triumph over Nature and the fellow-man. This, I must
warn you, was my theory at the time. I had no convenient cicerone in
the pattern of the Utopian books. My explanation may be absolutely
wrong. I still think it is the most plausible one. But even on this
supposition the balanced civilisation that was at last attained must
have long since passed its zenith, and was now far fallen into decay.
The too-perfect security of the Overworlders had led them to a slow
movement of degeneration, to a general dwindling in size, strength, and
intelligence. That I could see clearly enough already. What had
happened to the Undergrounders I did not yet suspect; but, from what I
had seen of the Morlocks—that, by the bye, was the name by which these
creatures were called—I could imagine that the modification of the
human type was even far more profound than among the ‘Eloi,’ the
beautiful race that I already knew.

“Then came troublesome doubts. Why had the Morlocks taken my Time
Machine? For I felt sure it was they who had taken it. Why, too, if the
Eloi were masters, could they not restore the machine to me? And why
were they so terribly afraid of the dark? I proceeded, as I have said,
to question Weena about this Underworld, but here again I was
disappointed. At first she would not understand my questions, and
presently she refused to answer them. She shivered as though the topic
was unendurable. And when I pressed her, perhaps a little harshly, she
burst into tears. They were the only tears, except my own, I ever saw
in that Golden Age. When I saw them I ceased abruptly to trouble about
the Morlocks, and was only concerned in banishing these signs of her
human inheritance from Weena’s eyes. And very soon she was smiling and
clapping her hands, while I solemnly burnt a match.

IX.
The Morlocks

“It may seem odd to you, but it was two days before I could follow up
the new-found clue in what was manifestly the proper way. I felt a
peculiar shrinking from those pallid bodies. They were just the
half-bleached colour of the worms and things one sees preserved in
spirit in a zoological museum. And they were filthily cold to the
touch. Probably my shrinking was largely due to the sympathetic
influence of the Eloi, whose disgust of the Morlocks I now began to
appreciate.

“The next night I did not sleep well. Probably my health was a little
disordered. I was oppressed with perplexity and doubt. Once or twice I
had a feeling of intense fear for which I could perceive no definite
reason. I remember creeping noiselessly into the great hall where the
little people were sleeping in the moonlight—that night Weena was among
them—and feeling reassured by their presence. It occurred to me even
then, that in the course of a few days the moon must pass through its
last quarter, and the nights grow dark, when the appearances of these
unpleasant creatures from below, these whitened Lemurs, this new vermin
that had replaced the old, might be more abundant. And on both these
days I had the restless feeling of one who shirks an inevitable duty. I
felt assured that the Time Machine was only to be recovered by boldly
penetrating these mysteries of underground. Yet I could not face the
mystery. If only I had had a companion it would have been different.
But I was so horribly alone, and even to clamber down into the darkness
of the well appalled me. I don’t know if you will understand my
feeling, but I never felt quite safe at my back.

“It was this restlessness, this insecurity, perhaps, that drove me
farther and farther afield in my exploring expeditions. Going to the
south-westward towards the rising country that is now called Combe
Wood, I observed far-off, in the direction of nineteenth-century
Banstead, a vast green structure, different in character from any I had
hitherto seen. It was larger than the largest of the palaces or ruins I
knew, and the façade had an Oriental look: the face of it having the
lustre, as well as the pale-green tint, a kind of bluish-green, of a
certain type of Chinese porcelain. This difference in aspect suggested
a difference in use, and I was minded to push on and explore. But the
day was growing late, and I had come upon the sight of the place after
a long and tiring circuit; so I resolved to hold over the adventure for
the following day, and I returned to the welcome and the caresses of
little Weena. But next morning I perceived clearly enough that my
curiosity regarding the Palace of Green Porcelain was a piece of
self-deception, to enable me to shirk, by another day, an experience I
dreaded. I resolved I would make the descent without further waste of
time, and started out in the early morning towards a well near the
ruins of granite and aluminium.

“Little Weena ran with me. She danced beside me to the well, but when
she saw me lean over the mouth and look downward, she seemed strangely
disconcerted. ‘Good-bye, little Weena,’ I said, kissing her; and then
putting her down, I began to feel over the parapet for the climbing
hooks. Rather hastily, I may as well confess, for I feared my courage
might leak away! At first she watched me in amazement. Then she gave a
most piteous cry, and running to me, she began to pull at me with her
little hands. I think her opposition nerved me rather to proceed. I
shook her off, perhaps a little roughly, and in another moment I was in
the throat of the well. I saw her agonised face over the parapet, and
smiled to reassure her. Then I had to look down at the unstable hooks
to which I clung.

“I had to clamber down a shaft of perhaps two hundred yards. The
descent was effected by means of metallic bars projecting from the
sides of the well, and these being adapted to the needs of a creature
much smaller and lighter than myself, I was speedily cramped and
fatigued by the descent. And not simply fatigued! One of the bars bent
suddenly under my weight, and almost swung me off into the blackness
beneath. For a moment I hung by one hand, and after that experience I
did not dare to rest again. Though my arms and back were presently
acutely painful, I went on clambering down the sheer descent with as
quick a motion as possible. Glancing upward, I saw the aperture, a
small blue disc, in which a star was visible, while little Weena’s head
showed as a round black projection. The thudding sound of a machine
below grew louder and more oppressive. Everything save that little disc
above was profoundly dark, and when I looked up again Weena had
disappeared.

“I was in an agony of discomfort. I had some thought of trying to go up
the shaft again, and leave the Underworld alone. But even while I
turned this over in my mind I continued to descend. At last, with
intense relief, I saw dimly coming up, a foot to the right of me, a
slender loophole in the wall. Swinging myself in, I found it was the
aperture of a narrow horizontal tunnel in which I could lie down and
rest. It was not too soon. My arms ached, my back was cramped, and I
was trembling with the prolonged terror of a fall. Besides this, the
unbroken darkness had had a distressing effect upon my eyes. The air
was full of the throb and hum of machinery pumping air down the shaft.

“I do not know how long I lay. I was roused by a soft hand touching
my face. Starting up in the darkness I snatched at my matches and,
hastily striking one, I saw three stooping white creatures similar to
the one I had seen above ground in the ruin, hastily retreating before
the light. Living, as they did, in what appeared to me impenetrable
darkness, their eyes were abnormally large and sensitive, just as are
the pupils of the abysmal fishes, and they reflected the light in the
same way. I have no doubt they could see me in that rayless obscurity,
and they did not seem to have any fear of me apart from the light. But,
so soon as I struck a match in order to see them, they fled
incontinently, vanishing into dark gutters and tunnels, from which
their eyes glared at me in the strangest fashion.

“I tried to call to them, but the language they had was apparently
different from that of the Overworld people; so that I was needs left
to my own unaided efforts, and the thought of flight before exploration
was even then in my mind. But I said to myself, ‘You are in for it
now,’ and, feeling my way along the tunnel, I found the noise of
machinery grow louder. Presently the walls fell away from me, and I
came to a large open space, and striking another match, saw that I had
entered a vast arched cavern, which stretched into utter darkness
beyond the range of my light. The view I had of it was as much as one
could see in the burning of a match.

“Necessarily my memory is vague. Great shapes like big machines rose
out of the dimness, and cast grotesque black shadows, in which dim
spectral Morlocks sheltered from the glare. The place, by the bye, was
very stuffy and oppressive, and the faint halitus of freshly-shed blood
was in the air. Some way down the central vista was a little table of
white metal, laid with what seemed a meal. The Morlocks at any rate
were carnivorous! Even at the time, I remember wondering what large
animal could have survived to furnish the red joint I saw. It was all
very indistinct: the heavy smell, the big unmeaning shapes, the obscene
figures lurking in the shadows, and only waiting for the darkness to
come at me again! Then the match burnt down, and stung my fingers, and
fell, a wriggling red spot in the blackness.

“I have thought since how particularly ill-equipped I was for such an
experience. When I had started with the Time Machine, I had started
with the absurd assumption that the men of the Future would certainly
be infinitely ahead of ourselves in all their appliances. I had come
without arms, without medicine, without anything to smoke—at times I
missed tobacco frightfully!—even without enough matches. If only I had
thought of a Kodak! I could have flashed that glimpse of the Underworld
in a second, and examined it at leisure. But, as it was, I stood there
with only the weapons and the powers that Nature had endowed me
with—hands, feet, and teeth; these, and four safety-matches that still
remained to me.

“I was afraid to push my way in among all this machinery in the dark,
and it was only with my last glimpse of light I discovered that my
store of matches had run low. It had never occurred to me until that
moment that there was any need to economise them, and I had wasted
almost half the box in astonishing the Overworlders, to whom fire was a
novelty. Now, as I say, I had four left, and while I stood in the dark,
a hand touched mine, lank fingers came feeling over my face, and I was
sensible of a peculiar unpleasant odour. I fancied I heard the
breathing of a crowd of those dreadful little beings about me. I felt
the box of matches in my hand being gently disengaged, and other hands
behind me plucking at my clothing. The sense of these unseen creatures
examining me was indescribably unpleasant. The sudden realisation of my
ignorance of their ways of thinking and doing came home to me very
vividly in the darkness. I shouted at them as loudly as I could. They
started away, and then I could feel them approaching me again. They
clutched at me more boldly, whispering odd sounds to each other. I
shivered violently, and shouted again—rather discordantly. This time
they were not so seriously alarmed, and they made a queer laughing
noise as they came back at me. I will confess I was horribly
frightened. I determined to strike another match and escape under the
protection of its glare. I did so, and eking out the flicker with a
scrap of paper from my pocket, I made good my retreat to the narrow
tunnel. But I had scarce entered this when my light was blown out and
in the blackness I could hear the Morlocks rustling like wind among
leaves, and pattering like the rain, as they hurried after me.

“In a moment I was clutched by several hands, and there was no
mistaking that they were trying to haul me back. I struck another
light, and waved it in their dazzled faces. You can scarce imagine how
nauseatingly inhuman they looked—those pale, chinless faces and great,
lidless, pinkish-grey eyes!—as they stared in their blindness and
bewilderment. But I did not stay to look, I promise you: I retreated
again, and when my second match had ended, I struck my third. It had
almost burnt through when I reached the opening into the shaft. I lay
down on the edge, for the throb of the great pump below made me giddy.
Then I felt sideways for the projecting hooks, and, as I did so, my
feet were grasped from behind, and I was violently tugged backward. I
lit my last match … and it incontinently went out. But I had my hand on
the climbing bars now, and, kicking violently, I disengaged myself from
the clutches of the Morlocks, and was speedily clambering up the shaft,
while they stayed peering and blinking up at me: all but one little
wretch who followed me for some way, and well-nigh secured my boot as a
trophy.

“That climb seemed interminable to me. With the last twenty or thirty
feet of it a deadly nausea came upon me. I had the greatest difficulty
in keeping my hold. The last few yards was a frightful struggle against
this faintness. Several times my head swam, and I felt all the
sensations of falling. At last, however, I got over the well-mouth
somehow, and staggered out of the ruin into the blinding sunlight. I
fell upon my face. Even the soil smelt sweet and clean. Then I remember
Weena kissing my hands and ears, and the voices of others among the
Eloi. Then, for a time, I was insensible.

X.
When Night Came

“Now, indeed, I seemed in a worse case than before. Hitherto, except
during my night’s anguish at the loss of the Time Machine, I had felt a
sustaining hope of ultimate escape, but that hope was staggered by
these new discoveries. Hitherto I had merely thought myself impeded by
the childish simplicity of the little people, and by some unknown
forces which I had only to understand to overcome; but there was an
altogether new element in the sickening quality of the Morlocks—a
something inhuman and malign. Instinctively I loathed them. Before, I
had felt as a man might feel who had fallen into a pit: my concern was
with the pit and how to get out of it. Now I felt like a beast in a
trap, whose enemy would come upon him soon.

“The enemy I dreaded may surprise you. It was the darkness of the new
moon. Weena had put this into my head by some at first incomprehensible
remarks about the Dark Nights. It was not now such a very difficult
problem to guess what the coming Dark Nights might mean. The moon was
on the wane: each night there was a longer interval of darkness. And I
now understood to some slight degree at least the reason of the fear of
the little Upperworld people for the dark. I wondered vaguely what foul
villainy it might be that the Morlocks did under the new moon. I felt
pretty sure now that my second hypothesis was all wrong. The Upperworld
people might once have been the favoured aristocracy, and the Morlocks
their mechanical servants: but that had long since passed away. The two
species that had resulted from the evolution of man were sliding down
towards, or had already arrived at, an altogether new relationship. The
Eloi, like the Carlovignan kings, had decayed to a mere beautiful
futility. They still possessed the earth on sufferance: since the
Morlocks, subterranean for innumerable generations, had come at last to
find the daylit surface intolerable. And the Morlocks made their
garments, I inferred, and maintained them in their habitual needs,
perhaps through the survival of an old habit of service. They did it as
a standing horse paws with his foot, or as a man enjoys killing animals
in sport: because ancient and departed necessities had impressed it on
the organism. But, clearly, the old order was already in part reversed.
The Nemesis of the delicate ones was creeping on apace. Ages ago,
thousands of generations ago, man had thrust his brother man out of the
ease and the sunshine. And now that brother was coming back—changed!
Already the Eloi had begun to learn one old lesson anew. They were
becoming reacquainted with Fear. And suddenly there came into my head
the memory of the meat I had seen in the Underworld. It seemed odd how
it floated into my mind: not stirred up as it were by the current of my
meditations, but coming in almost like a question from outside. I tried
to recall the form of it. I had a vague sense of something familiar,
but I could not tell what it was at the time.

“Still, however helpless the little people in the presence of their
mysterious Fear, I was differently constituted. I came out of this age
of ours, this ripe prime of the human race, when Fear does not paralyse
and mystery has lost its terrors. I at least would defend myself.
Without further delay I determined to make myself arms and a fastness
where I might sleep. With that refuge as a base, I could face this
strange world with some of that confidence I had lost in realising to
what creatures night by night I lay exposed. I felt I could never sleep
again until my bed was secure from them. I shuddered with horror to
think how they must already have examined me.

“I wandered during the afternoon along the valley of the Thames, but
found nothing that commended itself to my mind as inaccessible. All the
buildings and trees seemed easily practicable to such dexterous
climbers as the Morlocks, to judge by their wells, must be. Then the
tall pinnacles of the Palace of Green Porcelain and the polished gleam
of its walls came back to my memory; and in the evening, taking Weena
like a child upon my shoulder, I went up the hills towards the
south-west. The distance, I had reckoned, was seven or eight miles, but
it must have been nearer eighteen. I had first seen the place on a
moist afternoon when distances are deceptively diminished. In addition,
the heel of one of my shoes was loose, and a nail was working through
the sole—they were comfortable old shoes I wore about indoors—so that I
was lame. And it was already long past sunset when I came in sight of
the palace, silhouetted black against the pale yellow of the sky.

“Weena had been hugely delighted when I began to carry her, but after a
while she desired me to let her down, and ran along by the side of me,
occasionally darting off on either hand to pick flowers to stick in my
pockets. My pockets had always puzzled Weena, but at the last she had
concluded that they were an eccentric kind of vases for floral
decoration. At least she utilised them for that purpose. And that
reminds me! In changing my jacket I found…”

_The Time Traveller paused, put his hand into his pocket, and silently
placed two withered flowers, not unlike very large white mallows, upon
the little table. Then he resumed his narrative._

“As the hush of evening crept over the world and we proceeded over the
hill crest towards Wimbledon, Weena grew tired and wanted to return to
the house of grey stone. But I pointed out the distant pinnacles of the
Palace of Green Porcelain to her, and contrived to make her understand
that we were seeking a refuge there from her Fear. You know that great
pause that comes upon things before the dusk? Even the breeze stops in
the trees. To me there is always an air of expectation about that
evening stillness. The sky was clear, remote, and empty save for a few
horizontal bars far down in the sunset. Well, that night the
expectation took the colour of my fears. In that darkling calm my
senses seemed preternaturally sharpened. I fancied I could even feel
the hollowness of the ground beneath my feet: could, indeed, almost see
through it the Morlocks on their ant-hill going hither and thither and
waiting for the dark. In my excitement I fancied that they would
receive my invasion of their burrows as a declaration of war. And why
had they taken my Time Machine?

“So we went on in the quiet, and the twilight deepened into night. The
clear blue of the distance faded, and one star after another came out.
The ground grew dim and the trees black. Weena’s fears and her fatigue
grew upon her. I took her in my arms and talked to her and caressed
her. Then, as the darkness grew deeper, she put her arms round my neck,
and, closing her eyes, tightly pressed her face against my shoulder. So
we went down a long slope into a valley, and there in the dimness I
almost walked into a little river. This I waded, and went up the
opposite side of the valley, past a number of sleeping houses, and by a
statue—a Faun, or some such figure, _minus_ the head. Here too were
acacias. So far I had seen nothing of the Morlocks, but it was yet
early in the night, and the darker hours before the old moon rose were
still to come.

“From the brow of the next hill I saw a thick wood spreading wide and
black before me. I hesitated at this. I could see no end to it, either
to the right or the left. Feeling tired—my feet, in particular, were
very sore—I carefully lowered Weena from my shoulder as I halted, and
sat down upon the turf. I could no longer see the Palace of Green
Porcelain, and I was in doubt of my direction. I looked into the
thickness of the wood and thought of what it might hide. Under that
dense tangle of branches one would be out of sight of the stars. Even
were there no other lurking danger—a danger I did not care to let my
imagination loose upon—there would still be all the roots to stumble
over and the tree-boles to strike against. I was very tired, too, after
the excitements of the day; so I decided that I would not face it, but
would pass the night upon the open hill.

“Weena, I was glad to find, was fast asleep. I carefully wrapped her in
my jacket, and sat down beside her to wait for the moonrise. The
hillside was quiet and deserted, but from the black of the wood there
came now and then a stir of living things. Above me shone the stars,
for the night was very clear. I felt a certain sense of friendly
comfort in their twinkling. All the old constellations had gone from
the sky, however: that slow movement which is imperceptible in a
hundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar
groupings. But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same
tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore. Southward (as I judged it)
was a very bright red star that was new to me; it was even more
splendid than our own green Sirius. And amid all these scintillating
points of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the
face of an old friend.

“Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the
gravities of terrestrial life. I thought of their unfathomable
distance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the
unknown past into the unknown future. I thought of the great
precessional cycle that the pole of the earth describes. Only forty
times had that silent revolution occurred during all the years that I
had traversed. And during these few revolutions all the activity, all
the traditions, the complex organisations, the nations, languages,
literatures, aspirations, even the mere memory of Man as I knew him,
had been swept out of existence. Instead were these frail creatures who
had forgotten their high ancestry, and the white Things of which I went
in terror. Then I thought of the Great Fear that was between the two
species, and for the first time, with a sudden shiver, came the clear
knowledge of what the meat I had seen might be. Yet it was too
horrible! I looked at little Weena sleeping beside me, her face white
and starlike under the stars, and forthwith dismissed the thought.

“Through that long night I held my mind off the Morlocks as well as I
could, and whiled away the time by trying to fancy I could find signs
of the old constellations in the new confusion. The sky kept very
clear, except for a hazy cloud or so. No doubt I dozed at times. Then,
as my vigil wore on, came a faintness in the eastward sky, like the
reflection of some colourless fire, and the old moon rose, thin and
peaked and white. And close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing
it, the dawn came, pale at first, and then growing pink and warm. No
Morlocks had approached us. Indeed, I had seen none upon the hill that
night. And in the confidence of renewed day it almost seemed to me that
my fear had been unreasonable. I stood up and found my foot with the
loose heel swollen at the ankle and painful under the heel; so I sat
down again, took off my shoes, and flung them away.

“I awakened Weena, and we went down into the wood, now green and
pleasant instead of black and forbidding. We found some fruit wherewith
to break our fast. We soon met others of the dainty ones, laughing and
dancing in the sunlight as though there was no such thing in nature as
the night. And then I thought once more of the meat that I had seen. I
felt assured now of what it was, and from the bottom of my heart I
pitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity. Clearly,
at some time in the Long-Ago of human decay the Morlocks’ food had run
short. Possibly they had lived on rats and such-like vermin. Even now
man is far less discriminating and exclusive in his food than he
was—far less than any monkey. His prejudice against human flesh is no
deep-seated instinct. And so these inhuman sons of men——! I tried to
look at the thing in a scientific spirit. After all, they were less
human and more remote than our cannibal ancestors of three or four
thousand years ago. And the intelligence that would have made this
state of things a torment had gone. Why should I trouble myself? These
Eloi were mere fatted cattle, which the ant-like Morlocks preserved and
preyed upon—probably saw to the breeding of. And there was Weena
dancing at my side!

“Then I tried to preserve myself from the horror that was coming upon
me, by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human selfishness. Man
had been content to live in ease and delight upon the labours of his
fellow-man, had taken Necessity as his watchword and excuse, and in the
fullness of time Necessity had come home to him. I even tried a
Carlyle-like scorn of this wretched aristocracy in decay. But this
attitude of mind was impossible. However great their intellectual
degradation, the Eloi had kept too much of the human form not to claim
my sympathy, and to make me perforce a sharer in their degradation and
their Fear.

“I had at that time very vague ideas as to the course I should pursue.
My first was to secure some safe place of refuge, and to make myself
such arms of metal or stone as I could contrive. That necessity was
immediate. In the next place, I hoped to procure some means of fire, so
that I should have the weapon of a torch at hand, for nothing, I knew,
would be more efficient against these Morlocks. Then I wanted to
arrange some contrivance to break open the doors of bronze under the
White Sphinx. I had in mind a battering ram. I had a persuasion that if
I could enter those doors and carry a blaze of light before me I should
discover the Time Machine and escape. I could not imagine the Morlocks
were strong enough to move it far away. Weena I had resolved to bring
with me to our own time. And turning such schemes over in my mind I
pursued our way towards the building which my fancy had chosen as our
dwelling.

XI.
The Palace of Green Porcelain

“I found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about
noon, deserted and falling into ruin. Only ragged vestiges of glass
remained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had
fallen away from the corroded metallic framework. It lay very high upon
a turfy down, and looking north-eastward before I entered it, I was
surprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where I judged
Wandsworth and Battersea must once have been. I thought then—though I
never followed up the thought—of what might have happened, or might be
happening, to the living things in the sea.

“The material of the Palace proved on examination to be indeed
porcelain, and along the face of it I saw an inscription in some
unknown character. I thought, rather foolishly, that Weena might help
me to interpret this, but I only learnt that the bare idea of writing
had never entered her head. She always seemed to me, I fancy, more
human than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human.

“Within the big valves of the door—which were open and broken—we found,
instead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows.
At the first glance I was reminded of a museum. The tiled floor was
thick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was
shrouded in the same grey covering. Then I perceived, standing strange
and gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of
a huge skeleton. I recognised by the oblique feet that it was some
extinct creature after the fashion of the Megatherium. The skull and
the upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place,
where rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing
itself had been worn away. Further in the gallery was the huge skeleton
barrel of a Brontosaurus. My museum hypothesis was confirmed. Going
towards the side I found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and
clearing away the thick dust, I found the old familiar glass cases of
our own time. But they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair
preservation of some of their contents.

“Clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day South Kensington!
Here, apparently, was the Palæontological Section, and a very splendid
array of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of
decay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the
extinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its
force, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness
at work again upon all its treasures. Here and there I found traces of
the little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or
threaded in strings upon reeds. And the cases had in some instances
been bodily removed—by the Morlocks, as I judged. The place was very
silent. The thick dust deadened our footsteps. Weena, who had been
rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came,
as I stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside
me.

“And at first I was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an
intellectual age that I gave no thought to the possibilities it
presented. Even my preoccupation about the Time Machine receded a
little from my mind.

“To judge from the size of the place, this Palace of Green Porcelain
had a great deal more in it than a Gallery of Palæontology; possibly
historical galleries; it might be, even a library! To me, at least in
my present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than
this spectacle of old-time geology in decay. Exploring, I found another
short gallery running transversely to the first. This appeared to be
devoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind
running on gunpowder. But I could find no saltpetre; indeed, no
nitrates of any kind. Doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago. Yet the
sulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking. As for the
rest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the
best preserved of all I saw, I had little interest. I am no specialist
in mineralogy, and I went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel
to the first hall I had entered. Apparently this section had been
devoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of
recognition. A few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once
been stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held
spirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all! I was sorry for
that, because I should have been glad to trace the patient
readjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been
attained. Then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but
singularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle
from the end at which I entered. At intervals white globes hung from
the ceiling—many of them cracked and smashed—which suggested that
originally the place had been artificially lit. Here I was more in my
element, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big
machines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still
fairly complete. You know I have a certain weakness for mechanism, and
I was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part
they had the interest of puzzles, and I could make only the vaguest
guesses at what they were for. I fancied that if I could solve their
puzzles I should find myself in possession of powers that might be of
use against the Morlocks.

“Suddenly Weena came very close to my side. So suddenly that she
startled me. Had it not been for her I do not think I should have
noticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all. [Footnote: It may
be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was
built into the side of a hill.—ED.] The end I had come in at was quite
above ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows. As you went down
the length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last
there was a pit like the ‘area‘ of a London house before each, and only
a narrow line of daylight at the top. I went slowly along, puzzling
about the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the
gradual diminution of the light, until Weena’s increasing apprehensions
drew my attention. Then I saw that the gallery ran down at last into a
thick darkness. I hesitated, and then, as I looked round me, I saw that
the dust was less abundant and its surface less even. Further away
towards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small
narrow footprints. My sense of the immediate presence of the Morlocks
revived at that. I felt that I was wasting my time in this academic
examination of machinery. I called to mind that it was already far
advanced in the afternoon, and that I had still no weapon, no refuge,
and no means of making a fire. And then down in the remote blackness of
the gallery I heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises I had
heard down the well.

“I took Weena’s hand. Then, struck with a sudden idea, I left her and
turned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a
signal-box. Clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my
hands, I put all my weight upon it sideways. Suddenly Weena, deserted
in the central aisle, began to whimper. I had judged the strength of
the lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute’s strain, and
I rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, I judged,
for any Morlock skull I might encounter. And I longed very much to kill
a Morlock or so. Very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing
one’s own descendants! But it was impossible, somehow, to feel any
humanity in the things. Only my disinclination to leave Weena, and a
persuasion that if I began to slake my thirst for murder my Time
Machine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the
gallery and killing the brutes I heard.

“Well, mace in one hand and Weena in the other, I went out of that
gallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first
glance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags. The
brown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, I presently
recognised as the decaying vestiges of books. They had long since
dropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them. But here
and there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the
tale well enough. Had I been a literary man I might, perhaps, have
moralised upon the futility of all ambition. But as it was, the thing
that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to
which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified. At the time I
will confess that I thought chiefly of the _Philosophical Transactions_
and my own seventeen papers upon physical optics.

“Then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a
gallery of technical chemistry. And here I had not a little hope of
useful discoveries. Except at one end where the roof had collapsed,
this gallery was well preserved. I went eagerly to every unbroken case.
And at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, I found a box of
matches. Very eagerly I tried them. They were perfectly good. They were
not even damp. I turned to Weena. ‘Dance,’ I cried to her in her own
tongue. For now I had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we
feared. And so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting
of dust, to Weena’s huge delight, I solemnly performed a kind of
composite dance, whistling _The Land of the Leal_ as cheerfully as I
could. In part it was a modest _cancan_, in part a step dance, in part
a skirt dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original.
For I am naturally inventive, as you know.

“Now, I still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the
wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was
a most fortunate, thing. Yet, oddly enough, I found a far unlikelier
substance, and that was camphor. I found it in a sealed jar, that by
chance, I suppose, had been really hermetically sealed. I fancied at
first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly. But
the odour of camphor was unmistakable. In the universal decay this
volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many
thousands of centuries. It reminded me of a sepia painting I had once
seen done from the ink of a fossil Belemnite that must have perished
and become fossilised millions of years ago. I was about to throw it
away, but I remembered that it was inflammable and burnt with a good
bright flame—was, in fact, an excellent candle—and I put it in my
pocket. I found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down
the bronze doors. As yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing I
had chanced upon. Nevertheless I left that gallery greatly elated.

“I cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon. It would
require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all
the proper order. I remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms,
and how I hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword. I
could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against
the bronze gates. There were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles. The
most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still
fairly sound. But any cartridges or powder there may once have been had
rotted into dust. One corner I saw was charred and shattered; perhaps,
I thought, by an explosion among the specimens. In another place was a
vast array of idols—Polynesian, Mexican, Grecian, Phœnician, every
country on earth, I should think. And here, yielding to an irresistible
impulse, I wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from South
America that particularly took my fancy.

“As the evening drew on, my interest waned. I went through gallery
after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes
mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher. In one place I
suddenly found myself near the model of a tin mine, and then by the
merest accident I discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite
cartridges! I shouted ‘Eureka!’ and smashed the case with joy. Then
came a doubt. I hesitated. Then, selecting a little side gallery, I
made my essay. I never felt such a disappointment as I did in waiting
five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came. Of course
the things were dummies, as I might have guessed from their presence. I
really believe that had they not been so, I should have rushed off
incontinently and blown Sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my
chances of finding the Time Machine, all together into non-existence.

“It was after that, I think, that we came to a little open court within
the palace. It was turfed, and had three fruit-trees. So we rested and
refreshed ourselves. Towards sunset I began to consider our position.
Night was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still
to be found. But that troubled me very little now. I had in my
possession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against
the Morlocks—I had matches! I had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a
blaze were needed. It seemed to me that the best thing we could do
would be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire. In the
morning there was the getting of the Time Machine. Towards that, as
yet, I had only my iron mace. But now, with my growing knowledge, I
felt very differently towards those bronze doors. Up to this, I had
refrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the
other side. They had never impressed me as being very strong, and I
hoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work.

XII.
In the Darkness

“We emerged from the Palace while the sun was still in part above the
horizon. I was determined to reach the White Sphinx early the next
morning, and ere the dusk I purposed pushing through the woods that had
stopped me on the previous journey. My plan was to go as far as
possible that night, and then, building a fire, to sleep in the
protection of its glare. Accordingly, as we went along I gathered any
sticks or dried grass I saw, and presently had my arms full of such
litter. Thus loaded, our progress was slower than I had anticipated,
and besides Weena was tired. And I, also, began to suffer from
sleepiness too; so that it was full night before we reached the wood.
Upon the shrubby hill of its edge Weena would have stopped, fearing the
darkness before us; but a singular sense of impending calamity, that
should indeed have served me as a warning, drove me onward. I had been
without sleep for a night and two days, and I was feverish and
irritable. I felt sleep coming upon me, and the Morlocks with it.

“While we hesitated, among the black bushes behind us, and dim against
their blackness, I saw three crouching figures. There was scrub and
long grass all about us, and I did not feel safe from their insidious
approach. The forest, I calculated, was rather less than a mile across.
If we could get through it to the bare hillside, there, as it seemed to
me, was an altogether safer resting-place; I thought that with my
matches and my camphor I could contrive to keep my path illuminated
through the woods. Yet it was evident that if I was to flourish matches
with my hands I should have to abandon my firewood; so, rather
reluctantly, I put it down. And then it came into my head that I would
amaze our friends behind by lighting it. I was to discover the
atrocious folly of this proceeding, but it came to my mind as an
ingenious move for covering our retreat.

“I don’t know if you have ever thought what a rare thing flame must be
in the absence of man and in a temperate climate. The sun’s heat is
rarely strong enough to burn, even when it is focused by dewdrops, as
is sometimes the case in more tropical districts. Lightning may blast
and blacken, but it rarely gives rise to widespread fire. Decaying
vegetation may occasionally smoulder with the heat of its fermentation,
but this rarely results in flame. In this decadence, too, the art of
fire-making had been forgotten on the earth. The red tongues that went
licking up my heap of wood were an altogether new and strange thing to
Weena.

“She wanted to run to it and play with it. I believe she would have
cast herself into it had I not restrained her. But I caught her up, and
in spite of her struggles, plunged boldly before me into the wood. For
a little way the glare of my fire lit the path. Looking back presently,
I could see, through the crowded stems, that from my heap of sticks the
blaze had spread to some bushes adjacent, and a curved line of fire was
creeping up the grass of the hill. I laughed at that, and turned again
to the dark trees before me. It was very black, and Weena clung to me
convulsively, but there was still, as my eyes grew accustomed to the
darkness, sufficient light for me to avoid the stems. Overhead it was
simply black, except where a gap of remote blue sky shone down upon us
here and there. I lit none of my matches because I had no hand free.
Upon my left arm I carried my little one, in my right hand I had my
iron bar.

“For some way I heard nothing but the crackling twigs under my feet,
the faint rustle of the breeze above, and my own breathing and the
throb of the blood-vessels in my ears. Then I seemed to know of a
pattering behind me. I pushed on grimly. The pattering grew more
distinct, and then I caught the same queer sound and voices I had heard
in the Underworld. There were evidently several of the Morlocks, and
they were closing in upon me. Indeed, in another minute I felt a tug at
my coat, then something at my arm. And Weena shivered violently, and
became quite still.

“It was time for a match. But to get one I must put her down. I did so,
and, as I fumbled with my pocket, a struggle began in the darkness
about my knees, perfectly silent on her part and with the same peculiar
cooing sounds from the Morlocks. Soft little hands, too, were creeping
over my coat and back, touching even my neck. Then the match scratched
and fizzed. I held it flaring, and saw the white backs of the Morlocks
in flight amid the trees. I hastily took a lump of camphor from my
pocket, and prepared to light it as soon as the match should wane. Then
I looked at Weena. She was lying clutching my feet and quite
motionless, with her face to the ground. With a sudden fright I stooped
to her. She seemed scarcely to breathe. I lit the block of camphor and
flung it to the ground, and as it split and flared up and drove back
the Morlocks and the shadows, I knelt down and lifted her. The wood
behind seemed full of the stir and murmur of a great company!

“She seemed to have fainted. I put her carefully upon my shoulder and
rose to push on, and then there came a horrible realisation. In
manœuvring with my matches and Weena, I had turned myself about several
times, and now I had not the faintest idea in what direction lay my
path. For all I knew, I might be facing back towards the Palace of
Green Porcelain. I found myself in a cold sweat. I had to think rapidly
what to do. I determined to build a fire and encamp where we were. I
put Weena, still motionless, down upon a turfy bole, and very hastily,
as my first lump of camphor waned, I began collecting sticks and
leaves. Here and there out of the darkness round me the Morlocks’ eyes
shone like carbuncles.

“The camphor flickered and went out. I lit a match, and as I did so,
two white forms that had been approaching Weena dashed hastily away.
One was so blinded by the light that he came straight for me, and I
felt his bones grind under the blow of my fist. He gave a whoop of
dismay, staggered a little way, and fell down. I lit another piece of
camphor, and went on gathering my bonfire. Presently I noticed how dry
was some of the foliage above me, for since my arrival on the Time
Machine, a matter of a week, no rain had fallen. So, instead of casting
about among the trees for fallen twigs, I began leaping up and dragging
down branches. Very soon I had a choking smoky fire of green wood and
dry sticks, and could economise my camphor. Then I turned to where
Weena lay beside my iron mace. I tried what I could to revive her, but
she lay like one dead. I could not even satisfy myself whether or not
she breathed.

“Now, the smoke of the fire beat over towards me, and it must have made
me heavy of a sudden. Moreover, the vapour of camphor was in the air.
My fire would not need replenishing for an hour or so. I felt very
weary after my exertion, and sat down. The wood, too, was full of a
slumbrous murmur that I did not understand. I seemed just to nod and
open my eyes. But all was dark, and the Morlocks had their hands upon
me. Flinging off their clinging fingers I hastily felt in my pocket for
the match-box, and—it had gone! Then they gripped and closed with me
again. In a moment I knew what had happened. I had slept, and my fire
had gone out, and the bitterness of death came over my soul. The forest
seemed full of the smell of burning wood. I was caught by the neck, by
the hair, by the arms, and pulled down. It was indescribably horrible
in the darkness to feel all these soft creatures heaped upon me. I felt
as if I was in a monstrous spider’s web. I was overpowered, and went
down. I felt little teeth nipping at my neck. I rolled over, and as I
did so my hand came against my iron lever. It gave me strength. I
struggled up, shaking the human rats from me, and, holding the bar
short, I thrust where I judged their faces might be. I could feel the
succulent giving of flesh and bone under my blows, and for a moment I
was free.

“The strange exultation that so often seems to accompany hard fighting
came upon me. I knew that both I and Weena were lost, but I determined
to make the Morlocks pay for their meat. I stood with my back to a
tree, swinging the iron bar before me. The whole wood was full of the
stir and cries of them. A minute passed. Their voices seemed to rise to
a higher pitch of excitement, and their movements grew faster. Yet none
came within reach. I stood glaring at the blackness. Then suddenly came
hope. What if the Morlocks were afraid? And close on the heels of that
came a strange thing. The darkness seemed to grow luminous. Very dimly
I began to see the Morlocks about me—three battered at my feet—and then
I recognised, with incredulous surprise, that the others were running,
in an incessant stream, as it seemed, from behind me, and away through
the wood in front. And their backs seemed no longer white, but reddish.
As I stood agape, I saw a little red spark go drifting across a gap of
starlight between the branches, and vanish. And at that I understood
the smell of burning wood, the slumbrous murmur that was growing now
into a gusty roar, the red glow, and the Morlocks’ flight.

“Stepping out from behind my tree and looking back, I saw, through the
black pillars of the nearer trees, the flames of the burning forest. It
was my first fire coming after me. With that I looked for Weena, but
she was gone. The hissing and crackling behind me, the explosive thud
as each fresh tree burst into flame, left little time for reflection.
My iron bar still gripped, I followed in the Morlocks’ path. It was a
close race. Once the flames crept forward so swiftly on my right as I
ran that I was outflanked and had to strike off to the left. But at
last I emerged upon a small open space, and as I did so, a Morlock came
blundering towards me, and past me, and went on straight into the fire!

“And now I was to see the most weird and horrible thing, I think, of
all that I beheld in that future age. This whole space was as bright as
day with the reflection of the fire. In the centre was a hillock or
tumulus, surmounted by a scorched hawthorn. Beyond this was another arm
of the burning forest, with yellow tongues already writhing from it,
completely encircling the space with a fence of fire. Upon the hillside
were some thirty or forty Morlocks, dazzled by the light and heat, and
blundering hither and thither against each other in their bewilderment.
At first I did not realise their blindness, and struck furiously at
them with my bar, in a frenzy of fear, as they approached me, killing
one and crippling several more. But when I had watched the gestures of
one of them groping under the hawthorn against the red sky, and heard
their moans, I was assured of their absolute helplessness and misery in
the glare, and I struck no more of them.

“Yet every now and then one would come straight towards me, setting
loose a quivering horror that made me quick to elude him. At one time
the flames died down somewhat, and I feared the foul creatures would
presently be able to see me. I was thinking of beginning the fight by
killing some of them before this should happen; but the fire burst out
again brightly, and I stayed my hand. I walked about the hill among
them and avoided them, looking for some trace of Weena. But Weena was
gone.

“At last I sat down on the summit of the hillock, and watched this
strange incredible company of blind things groping to and fro, and
making uncanny noises to each other, as the glare of the fire beat on
them. The coiling uprush of smoke streamed across the sky, and through
the rare tatters of that red canopy, remote as though they belonged to
another universe, shone the little stars. Two or three Morlocks came
blundering into me, and I drove them off with blows of my fists,
trembling as I did so.

“For the most part of that night I was persuaded it was a nightmare. I
bit myself and screamed in a passionate desire to awake. I beat the
ground with my hands, and got up and sat down again, and wandered here
and there, and again sat down. Then I would fall to rubbing my eyes and
calling upon God to let me awake. Thrice I saw Morlocks put their heads
down in a kind of agony and rush into the flames. But, at last, above
the subsiding red of the fire, above the streaming masses of black
smoke and the whitening and blackening tree stumps, and the diminishing
numbers of these dim creatures, came the white light of the day.

“I searched again for traces of Weena, but there were none. It was
plain that they had left her poor little body in the forest. I cannot
describe how it relieved me to think that it had escaped the awful fate
to which it seemed destined. As I thought of that, I was almost moved
to begin a massacre of the helpless abominations about me, but I
contained myself. The hillock, as I have said, was a kind of island in
the forest. From its summit I could now make out through a haze of
smoke the Palace of Green Porcelain, and from that I could get my
bearings for the White Sphinx. And so, leaving the remnant of these
damned souls still going hither and thither and moaning, as the day
grew clearer, I tied some grass about my feet and limped on across
smoking ashes and among black stems that still pulsated internally with
fire, towards the hiding-place of the Time Machine. I walked slowly,
for I was almost exhausted, as well as lame, and I felt the intensest
wretchedness for the horrible death of little Weena. It seemed an
overwhelming calamity. Now, in this old familiar room, it is more like
the sorrow of a dream than an actual loss. But that morning it left me
absolutely lonely again—terribly alone. I began to think of this house
of mine, of this fireside, of some of you, and with such thoughts came
a longing that was pain.

“But, as I walked over the smoking ashes under the bright morning sky,
I made a discovery. In my trouser pocket were still some loose matches.
The box must have leaked before it was lost.

XIII.
The Trap of the White Sphinx

“About eight or nine in the morning I came to the same seat of yellow
metal from which I had viewed the world upon the evening of my arrival.
I thought of my hasty conclusions upon that evening and could not
refrain from laughing bitterly at my confidence. Here was the same
beautiful scene, the same abundant foliage, the same splendid palaces
and magnificent ruins, the same silver river running between its
fertile banks. The gay robes of the beautiful people moved hither and
thither among the trees. Some were bathing in exactly the place where I
had saved Weena, and that suddenly gave me a keen stab of pain. And
like blots upon the landscape rose the cupolas above the ways to the
Underworld. I understood now what all the beauty of the Overworld
people covered. Very pleasant was their day, as pleasant as the day of
the cattle in the field. Like the cattle, they knew of no enemies and
provided against no needs. And their end was the same.

“I grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had
been. It had committed suicide. It had set itself steadfastly towards
comfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as
its watchword, it had attained its hopes—to come to this at last. Once,
life and property must have reached almost absolute safety. The rich
had been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his
life and work. No doubt in that perfect world there had been no
unemployed problem, no social question left unsolved. And a great quiet
had followed.

“It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is
the compensation for change, danger, and trouble. An animal perfectly
in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism. Nature never
appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless. There is
no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change. Only
those animals partake of intelligence that have to meet a huge variety
of needs and dangers.

“So, as I see it, the Upperworld man had drifted towards his feeble
prettiness, and the Underworld to mere mechanical industry. But that
perfect state had lacked one thing even for mechanical
perfection—absolute permanency. Apparently as time went on, the feeding
of an Underworld, however it was effected, had become disjointed.
Mother Necessity, who had been staved off for a few thousand years,
came back again, and she began below. The Underworld being in contact
with machinery, which, however perfect, still needs some little thought
outside habit, had probably retained perforce rather more initiative,
if less of every other human character, than the Upper. And when other
meat failed them, they turned to what old habit had hitherto forbidden.
So I say I saw it in my last view of the world of Eight Hundred and Two
Thousand Seven Hundred and One. It may be as wrong an explanation as
mortal wit could invent. It is how the thing shaped itself to me, and
as that I give it to you.

“After the fatigues, excitements, and terrors of the past days, and in
spite of my grief, this seat and the tranquil view and the warm
sunlight were very pleasant. I was very tired and sleepy, and soon my
theorising passed into dozing. Catching myself at that, I took my own
hint, and spreading myself out upon the turf I had a long and
refreshing sleep.

“I awoke a little before sunsetting. I now felt safe against being
caught napping by the Morlocks, and, stretching myself, I came on down
the hill towards the White Sphinx. I had my crowbar in one hand, and
the other hand played with the matches in my pocket.

“And now came a most unexpected thing. As I approached the pedestal of
the sphinx I found the bronze valves were open. They had slid down into
grooves.

“At that I stopped short before them, hesitating to enter.

“Within was a small apartment, and on a raised place in the corner of
this was the Time Machine. I had the small levers in my pocket. So
here, after all my elaborate preparations for the siege of the White
Sphinx, was a meek surrender. I threw my iron bar away, almost sorry
not to use it.

“A sudden thought came into my head as I stooped towards the portal.
For once, at least, I grasped the mental operations of the Morlocks.
Suppressing a strong inclination to laugh, I stepped through the bronze
frame and up to the Time Machine. I was surprised to find it had been
carefully oiled and cleaned. I have suspected since that the Morlocks
had even partially taken it to pieces while trying in their dim way to
grasp its purpose.

“Now as I stood and examined it, finding a pleasure in the mere touch
of the contrivance, the thing I had expected happened. The bronze
panels suddenly slid up and struck the frame with a clang. I was in the
dark—trapped. So the Morlocks thought. At that I chuckled gleefully.

“I could already hear their murmuring laughter as they came towards me.
Very calmly I tried to strike the match. I had only to fix on the
levers and depart then like a ghost. But I had overlooked one little
thing. The matches were of that abominable kind that light only on the
box.

“You may imagine how all my calm vanished. The little brutes were close
upon me. One touched me. I made a sweeping blow in the dark at them
with the levers, and began to scramble into the saddle of the machine.
Then came one hand upon me and then another. Then I had simply to fight
against their persistent fingers for my levers, and at the same time
feel for the studs over which these fitted. One, indeed, they almost
got away from me. As it slipped from my hand, I had to butt in the dark
with my head—I could hear the Morlock’s skull ring—to recover it. It
was a nearer thing than the fight in the forest, I think, this last
scramble.

“But at last the lever was fixed and pulled over. The clinging hands
slipped from me. The darkness presently fell from my eyes. I found
myself in the same grey light and tumult I have already described.

XIV.
The Further Vision

“I have already told you of the sickness and confusion that comes with
time travelling. And this time I was not seated properly in the saddle,
but sideways and in an unstable fashion. For an indefinite time I clung
to the machine as it swayed and vibrated, quite unheeding how I went,
and when I brought myself to look at the dials again I was amazed to
find where I had arrived. One dial records days, and another thousands
of days, another millions of days, and another thousands of millions.
Now, instead of reversing the levers, I had pulled them over so as to
go forward with them, and when I came to look at these indicators I
found that the thousands hand was sweeping round as fast as the seconds
hand of a watch—into futurity.

“As I drove on, a peculiar change crept over the appearance of things.
The palpitating greyness grew darker; then—though I was still
travelling with prodigious velocity—the blinking succession of day and
night, which was usually indicative of a slower pace, returned, and
grew more and more marked. This puzzled me very much at first. The
alternations of night and day grew slower and slower, and so did the
passage of the sun across the sky, until they seemed to stretch through
centuries. At last a steady twilight brooded over the earth, a twilight
only broken now and then when a comet glared across the darkling sky.
The band of light that had indicated the sun had long since
disappeared; for the sun had ceased to set—it simply rose and fell in
the west, and grew ever broader and more red. All trace of the moon had
vanished. The circling of the stars, growing slower and slower, had
given place to creeping points of light. At last, some time before I
stopped, the sun, red and very large, halted motionless upon the
horizon, a vast dome glowing with a dull heat, and now and then
suffering a momentary extinction. At one time it had for a little while
glowed more brilliantly again, but it speedily reverted to its sullen
red heat. I perceived by this slowing down of its rising and setting
that the work of the tidal drag was done. The earth had come to rest
with one face to the sun, even as in our own time the moon faces the
earth. Very cautiously, for I remembered my former headlong fall, I
began to reverse my motion. Slower and slower went the circling hands
until the thousands one seemed motionless and the daily one was no
longer a mere mist upon its scale. Still slower, until the dim outlines
of a desolate beach grew visible.

“I stopped very gently and sat upon the Time Machine, looking round.
The sky was no longer blue. North-eastward it was inky black, and out
of the blackness shone brightly and steadily the pale white stars.
Overhead it was a deep Indian red and starless, and south-eastward it
grew brighter to a glowing scarlet where, cut by the horizon, lay the
huge hull of the sun, red and motionless. The rocks about me were of a
harsh reddish colour, and all the trace of life that I could see at
first was the intensely green vegetation that covered every projecting
point on their south-eastern face. It was the same rich green that one
sees on forest moss or on the lichen in caves: plants which like these
grow in a perpetual twilight.

“The machine was standing on a sloping beach. The sea stretched away to
the south-west, to rise into a sharp bright horizon against the wan
sky. There were no breakers and no waves, for not a breath of wind was
stirring. Only a slight oily swell rose and fell like a gentle
breathing, and showed that the eternal sea was still moving and living.
And along the margin where the water sometimes broke was a thick
incrustation of salt—pink under the lurid sky. There was a sense of
oppression in my head, and I noticed that I was breathing very fast.
The sensation reminded me of my only experience of mountaineering, and
from that I judged the air to be more rarefied than it is now.

“Far away up the desolate slope I heard a harsh scream, and saw a thing
like a huge white butterfly go slanting and fluttering up into the sky
and, circling, disappear over some low hillocks beyond. The sound of
its voice was so dismal that I shivered and seated myself more firmly
upon the machine. Looking round me again, I saw that, quite near, what
I had taken to be a reddish mass of rock was moving slowly towards me.
Then I saw the thing was really a monstrous crab-like creature. Can you
imagine a crab as large as yonder table, with its many legs moving
slowly and uncertainly, its big claws swaying, its long antennæ, like
carters’ whips, waving and feeling, and its stalked eyes gleaming at
you on either side of its metallic front? Its back was corrugated and
ornamented with ungainly bosses, and a greenish incrustation blotched
it here and there. I could see the many palps of its complicated mouth
flickering and feeling as it moved.

“As I stared at this sinister apparition crawling towards me, I felt a
tickling on my cheek as though a fly had lighted there. I tried to
brush it away with my hand, but in a moment it returned, and almost
immediately came another by my ear. I struck at this, and caught
something threadlike. It was drawn swiftly out of my hand. With a
frightful qualm, I turned, and I saw that I had grasped the antenna of
another monster crab that stood just behind me. Its evil eyes were
wriggling on their stalks, its mouth was all alive with appetite, and
its vast ungainly claws, smeared with an algal slime, were descending
upon me. In a moment my hand was on the lever, and I had placed a month
between myself and these monsters. But I was still on the same beach,
and I saw them distinctly now as soon as I stopped. Dozens of them
seemed to be crawling here and there, in the sombre light, among the
foliated sheets of intense green.

“I cannot convey the sense of abominable desolation that hung over the
world. The red eastern sky, the northward blackness, the salt Dead Sea,
the stony beach crawling with these foul, slow-stirring monsters, the
uniform poisonous-looking green of the lichenous plants, the thin air
that hurts one’s lungs: all contributed to an appalling effect. I moved
on a hundred years, and there was the same red sun—a little larger, a
little duller—the same dying sea, the same chill air, and the same
crowd of earthy crustacea creeping in and out among the green weed and
the red rocks. And in the westward sky, I saw a curved pale line like a
vast new moon.

“So I travelled, stopping ever and again, in great strides of a
thousand years or more, drawn on by the mystery of the earth’s fate,
watching with a strange fascination the sun grow larger and duller in
the westward sky, and the life of the old earth ebb away. At last, more
than thirty million years hence, the huge red-hot dome of the sun had
come to obscure nearly a tenth part of the darkling heavens. Then I
stopped once more, for the crawling multitude of crabs had disappeared,
and the red beach, save for its livid green liverworts and lichens,
seemed lifeless. And now it was flecked with white. A bitter cold
assailed me. Rare white flakes ever and again came eddying down. To the
north-eastward, the glare of snow lay under the starlight of the sable
sky, and I could see an undulating crest of hillocks pinkish white.
There were fringes of ice along the sea margin, with drifting masses
farther out; but the main expanse of that salt ocean, all bloody under
the eternal sunset, was still unfrozen.

“I looked about me to see if any traces of animal life remained. A
certain indefinable apprehension still kept me in the saddle of the
machine. But I saw nothing moving, in earth or sky or sea. The green
slime on the rocks alone testified that life was not extinct. A shallow
sandbank had appeared in the sea and the water had receded from the
beach. I fancied I saw some black object flopping about upon this bank,
but it became motionless as I looked at it, and I judged that my eye
had been deceived, and that the black object was merely a rock. The
stars in the sky were intensely bright and seemed to me to twinkle very
little.

“Suddenly I noticed that the circular westward outline of the sun had
changed; that a concavity, a bay, had appeared in the curve. I saw this
grow larger. For a minute perhaps I stared aghast at this blackness
that was creeping over the day, and then I realised that an eclipse was
beginning. Either the moon or the planet Mercury was passing across the
sun’s disk. Naturally, at first I took it to be the moon, but there is
much to incline me to believe that what I really saw was the transit of
an inner planet passing very near to the earth.

“The darkness grew apace; a cold wind began to blow in freshening gusts
from the east, and the showering white flakes in the air increased in
number. From the edge of the sea came a ripple and whisper. Beyond
these lifeless sounds the world was silent. Silent? It would be hard to
convey the stillness of it. All the sounds of man, the bleating of
sheep, the cries of birds, the hum of insects, the stir that makes the
background of our lives—all that was over. As the darkness thickened,
the eddying flakes grew more abundant, dancing before my eyes; and the
cold of the air more intense. At last, one by one, swiftly, one after
the other, the white peaks of the distant hills vanished into
blackness. The breeze rose to a moaning wind. I saw the black central
shadow of the eclipse sweeping towards me. In another moment the pale
stars alone were visible. All else was rayless obscurity. The sky was
absolutely black.

“A horror of this great darkness came on me. The cold, that smote to my
marrow, and the pain I felt in breathing, overcame me. I shivered, and
a deadly nausea seized me. Then like a red-hot bow in the sky appeared
the edge of the sun. I got off the machine to recover myself. I felt
giddy and incapable of facing the return journey. As I stood sick and
confused I saw again the moving thing upon the shoal—there was no
mistake now that it was a moving thing—against the red water of the
sea. It was a round thing, the size of a football perhaps, or, it may
be, bigger, and tentacles trailed down from it; it seemed black against
the weltering blood-red water, and it was hopping fitfully about. Then
I felt I was fainting. But a terrible dread of lying helpless in that
remote and awful twilight sustained me while I clambered upon the
saddle.

XV.
The Time Traveller’s Return

“So I came back. For a long time I must have been insensible upon the
machine. The blinking succession of the days and nights was resumed,
the sun got golden again, the sky blue. I breathed with greater
freedom. The fluctuating contours of the land ebbed and flowed. The
hands spun backward upon the dials. At last I saw again the dim shadows
of houses, the evidences of decadent humanity. These, too, changed and
passed, and others came. Presently, when the million dial was at zero,
I slackened speed. I began to recognise our own pretty and familiar
architecture, the thousands hand ran back to the starting-point, the
night and day flapped slower and slower. Then the old walls of the
laboratory came round me. Very gently, now, I slowed the mechanism
down.

“I saw one little thing that seemed odd to me. I think I have told you
that when I set out, before my velocity became very high, Mrs. Watchett
had walked across the room, travelling, as it seemed to me, like a
rocket. As I returned, I passed again across that minute when she
traversed the laboratory. But now her every motion appeared to be the
exact inversion of her previous ones. The door at the lower end opened,
and she glided quietly up the laboratory, back foremost, and
disappeared behind the door by which she had previously entered. Just
before that I seemed to see Hillyer for a moment; but he passed like a
flash.

“Then I stopped the machine, and saw about me again the old familiar
laboratory, my tools, my appliances just as I had left them. I got off
the thing very shakily, and sat down upon my bench. For several minutes
I trembled violently. Then I became calmer. Around me was my old
workshop again, exactly as it had been. I might have slept there, and
the whole thing have been a dream.

“And yet, not exactly! The thing had started from the south-east corner
of the laboratory. It had come to rest again in the north-west, against
the wall where you saw it. That gives you the exact distance from my
little lawn to the pedestal of the White Sphinx, into which the
Morlocks had carried my machine.

“For a time my brain went stagnant. Presently I got up and came through
the passage here, limping, because my heel was still painful, and
feeling sorely begrimed. I saw the _Pall Mall Gazette_ on the table by
the door. I found the date was indeed today, and looking at the
timepiece, saw the hour was almost eight o’clock. I heard your voices
and the clatter of plates. I hesitated—I felt so sick and weak. Then I
sniffed good wholesome meat, and opened the door on you. You know the
rest. I washed, and dined, and now I am telling you the story.

XVI.
After the Story

“I know,” he said, after a pause, “that all this will be absolutely
incredible to you, but to me the one incredible thing is that I am here
tonight in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces and
telling you these strange adventures.” He looked at the Medical Man.
“No. I cannot expect you to believe it. Take it as a lie—or a prophecy.
Say I dreamed it in the workshop. Consider I have been speculating upon
the destinies of our race, until I have hatched this fiction. Treat my
assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest.
And taking it as a story, what do you think of it?”

He took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap
with it nervously upon the bars of the grate. There was a momentary
stillness. Then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the
carpet. I took my eyes off the Time Traveller’s face, and looked round
at his audience. They were in the dark, and little spots of colour swam
before them. The Medical Man seemed absorbed in the contemplation of
our host. The Editor was looking hard at the end of his cigar—the
sixth. The Journalist fumbled for his watch. The others, as far as I
remember, were motionless.

The Editor stood up with a sigh. “What a pity it is you’re not a writer
of stories!” he said, putting his hand on the Time Traveller’s
shoulder.

“You don’t believe it?”

“Well——”

“I thought not.”

The Time Traveller turned to us. “Where are the matches?” he said. He
lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing. “To tell you the truth… I
hardly believe it myself….. And yet…”

His eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon
the little table. Then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and I
saw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.

The Medical Man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers. “The
gynæceum’s odd,” he said. The Psychologist leant forward to see,
holding out his hand for a specimen.

“I’m hanged if it isn’t a quarter to one,” said the Journalist. “How
shall we get home?”

“Plenty of cabs at the station,” said the Psychologist.

“It’s a curious thing,” said the Medical Man; “but I certainly don’t
know the natural order of these flowers. May I have them?”

The Time Traveller hesitated. Then suddenly: “Certainly not.”

“Where did you really get them?” said the Medical Man.

The Time Traveller put his hand to his head. He spoke like one who was
trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him. “They were put into my
pocket by Weena, when I travelled into Time.” He stared round the room.
“I’m damned if it isn’t all going. This room and you and the atmosphere
of every day is too much for my memory. Did I ever make a Time Machine,
or a model of a Time Machine? Or is it all only a dream? They say life
is a dream, a precious poor dream at times—but I can’t stand another
that won’t fit. It’s madness. And where did the dream come from? … I
must look at that machine. If there is one!”

He caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the
door into the corridor. We followed him. There in the flickering light
of the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a
thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz. Solid
to the touch—for I put out my hand and felt the rail of it—and with
brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon
the lower parts, and one rail bent awry.

The Time Traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand
along the damaged rail. “It’s all right now,” he said. “The story I
told you was true. I’m sorry to have brought you out here in the cold.”
He took up the lamp, and, in an absolute silence, we returned to the
smoking-room.

He came into the hall with us and helped the Editor on with his coat.
The Medical Man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation,
told him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely. I
remember him standing in the open doorway, bawling good-night.

I shared a cab with the Editor. He thought the tale a “gaudy lie.” For
my own part I was unable to come to a conclusion. The story was so
fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober. I lay
awake most of the night thinking about it. I determined to go next day
and see the Time Traveller again. I was told he was in the laboratory,
and being on easy terms in the house, I went up to him. The laboratory,
however, was empty. I stared for a minute at the Time Machine and put
out my hand and touched the lever. At that the squat
substantial-looking mass swayed like a bough shaken by the wind. Its
instability startled me extremely, and I had a queer reminiscence of
the childish days when I used to be forbidden to meddle. I came back
through the corridor. The Time Traveller met me in the smoking-room. He
was coming from the house. He had a small camera under one arm and a
knapsack under the other. He laughed when he saw me, and gave me an
elbow to shake. “I’m frightfully busy,” said he, “with that thing in
there.”

“But is it not some hoax?” I said. “Do you really travel through time?”

“Really and truly I do.” And he looked frankly into my eyes. He
hesitated. His eye wandered about the room. “I only want half an hour,”
he said. “I know why you came, and it’s awfully good of you. There’s
some magazines here. If you’ll stop to lunch I’ll prove you this time
travelling up to the hilt, specimens and all. If you’ll forgive my
leaving you now?”

I consented, hardly comprehending then the full import of his words,
and he nodded and went on down the corridor. I heard the door of the
laboratory slam, seated myself in a chair, and took up a daily paper.
What was he going to do before lunch-time? Then suddenly I was reminded
by an advertisement that I had promised to meet Richardson, the
publisher, at two. I looked at my watch, and saw that I could barely
save that engagement. I got up and went down the passage to tell the
Time Traveller.

As I took hold of the handle of the door I heard an exclamation, oddly
truncated at the end, and a click and a thud. A gust of air whirled
round me as I opened the door, and from within came the sound of broken
glass falling on the floor. The Time Traveller was not there. I seemed
to see a ghostly, indistinct figure sitting in a whirling mass of black
and brass for a moment—a figure so transparent that the bench behind
with its sheets of drawings was absolutely distinct; but this phantasm
vanished as I rubbed my eyes. The Time Machine had gone. Save for a
subsiding stir of dust, the further end of the laboratory was empty. A
pane of the skylight had, apparently, just been blown in.

I felt an unreasonable amazement. I knew that something strange had
happened, and for the moment could not distinguish what the strange
thing might be. As I stood staring, the door into the garden opened,
and the man-servant appeared.

We looked at each other. Then ideas began to come. “Has Mr. —— gone out
that way?” said I.

“No, sir. No one has come out this way. I was expecting to find him
here.”

At that I understood. At the risk of disappointing Richardson I stayed
on, waiting for the Time Traveller; waiting for the second, perhaps
still stranger story, and the specimens and photographs he would bring
with him. But I am beginning now to fear that I must wait a lifetime.
The Time Traveller vanished three years ago. And, as everybody knows
now, he has never returned.

Epilogue

One cannot choose but wonder. Will he ever return? It may be that he
swept back into the past, and fell among the blood-drinking, hairy
savages of the Age of Unpolished Stone; into the abysses of the
Cretaceous Sea; or among the grotesque saurians, the huge reptilian
brutes of the Jurassic times. He may even now—if I may use the
phrase—be wandering on some plesiosaurus-haunted Oolitic coral reef, or
beside the lonely saline seas of the Triassic Age. Or did he go
forward, into one of the nearer ages, in which men are still men, but
with the riddles of our own time answered and its wearisome problems
solved? Into the manhood of the race: for I, for my own part, cannot
think that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory,
and mutual discord are indeed man’s culminating time! I say, for my own
part. He, I know—for the question had been discussed among us long
before the Time Machine was made—thought but cheerlessly of the
Advancement of Mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilisation
only a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy
its makers in the end. If that is so, it remains for us to live as
though it were not so. But to me the future is still black and blank—is
a vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by the memory of his
story. And I have by me, for my comfort, two strange white
flowers—shrivelled now, and brown and flat and brittle—to witness that
even when mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness
still lived on in the heart of man.

[Illustration]

The Strange Case of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

by Robert Louis Stevenson

TO
KATHARINE DE MATTOS.

It’s ill to loose the bands that God decreed to bind;
Still will we be the children of the heather and the wind.
Far away from home, O it’s still for you and me
That the broom is blowing bonnie in the north countrie.

Contents

STORY OF THE DOOR
SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE
DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE
THE CAREW MURDER CASE
INCIDENT OF THE LETTER
REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON
INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW
THE LAST NIGHT
DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE
HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was
never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty and embarrassed in discourse;
backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow
lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste,
something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which
never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these
silent symbols of the after-dinner face, but more often and loudly in
the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he
was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the
theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had
an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with
envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and
in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to
Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the
devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune
to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in
the lives of down-going men. And to such as these, so long as they came
about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour.

No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative
at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar
catholicity of good-nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept
his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that
was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those
whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the
growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt,
the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman,
the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what
these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in
common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday
walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail
with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two
men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief
jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but
even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them
uninterrupted.

It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a
by-street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is
called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week-days. The
inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to
do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry;
so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of
invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it
veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage,
the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a
fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished
brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught
and pleased the eye of the passenger.

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was
broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain
sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It
was two stories high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower
story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore
in every feature, the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The
door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered
and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on
the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried
his knife on the mouldings; and for close on a generation, no one had
appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their
ravages.

Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but
when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and
pointed.

“Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had
replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he,
“with a very odd story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what
was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from
some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black
winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was
literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all
the folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a
procession and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that
state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the
sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man
who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of
maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross
street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the
corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man
trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the
ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’t
like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view-halloa,
took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where
there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was
perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly
that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had
turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for
whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not
much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there
you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one
curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first
sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the
doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry
apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh
accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the
rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones
turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his
mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the
question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make
such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end
of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we
undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were
pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we
could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such
hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of
black, sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying
it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of
this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally helpless. No gentleman but
wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed
him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have
clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us
that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get
the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with
the door?— whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the
matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s,
drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention,
though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least
very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the
signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took
the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business
looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a
cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another
man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and
sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till
the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, the
doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed
the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had
breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the check myself,
and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of
it. The cheque was genuine.”

“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For
my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really
damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of
the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your
fellows who do what they call good. Black-mail, I suppose; an honest
man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth.
Black-Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in
consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,”
he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing.

From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And
you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?”

“A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have
noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir: I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about
putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of
judgment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit
quietly on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others;
and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of)
is knocked on the head in his own back-garden and the family have to
change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks
like Queer Street, the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It
seems scarcely a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or
out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my
adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first
floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And
then there is a chimney which is generally smoking; so somebody must
live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed
together about that court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and
another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence; and then, “Enfield,”
said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to
ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a
man of the name of Hyde.”

“H’m,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his
appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I
never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be
deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I
couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary-looking man, and yet
I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand
of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare
I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a
weight of consideration.

“You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last.

“My dear sir…” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact
is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I
know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have
been inexact in any point, you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned me,” returned the other, with a touch of
sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The
fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it,
not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but said never a word; and the young man
presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I
am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to
this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.”

SEARCH FOR MR. HYDE

That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre
spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a
Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of
some dry divinity on his reading-desk, until the clock of the
neighbouring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go
soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night, however, as soon as the
cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his
business-room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private
part of it a document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will,
and sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was
holograph, for Mr. Utterson, though he took charge of it now that it
was made, had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it;
it provided not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll,
M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass
into the hands of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in
case of Dr. Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any
period exceeding three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should
step into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free
from any burthen or obligation, beyond the payment of a few small sums
to the members of the doctor’s household. This document had long been
the lawyer’s eyesore. It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover
of the sane and customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the
immodest. And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had
swelled his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge.
It was already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he
could learn no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with
detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists
that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite
presentment of a fiend.

“I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper
in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”

With that he blew out his candle, put on a great-coat, and set forth in
the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his
friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding
patients. “If any one knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought.

The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage
of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr.
Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper,
red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a
boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson, he sprang up
from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was
the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed
on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at
school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each
other, and, what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed
each other’s company.

After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so
disagreeably pre-occupied his mind.

“I suppose, Lanyon,” said he “you and I must be the two oldest friends
that Henry Jekyll has?”

“I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose
we are. And what of that? I see little of him now.”

“Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.”

“We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry
Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind;
and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old
sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the
man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly
purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.”

This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson.
“They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and
being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of
conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave
his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached
the question he had come to put. “Did you ever come across a protege of
his—one Hyde?” he asked.

“Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.”

That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with
him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the
small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of
little ease to his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged
by questions.

Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently
near to Mr. Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the
problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone;
but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he
lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained
room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted
pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal
city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child
running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that human
Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams.
Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay
asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that
room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the
sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to
whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do
its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all
night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide
more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and
still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of
lamplighted city, and at every street-corner crush a child and leave
her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know
it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and
melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew
apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate,
curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but
once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps
roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well
examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or
bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of
the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man
who was without bowels of mercy: a face which had but to show itself to
raise up, in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield, a spirit of
enduring hatred.

From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the
by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when
business was plenty, and time scarce, at night under the face of the
fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or
concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post.

“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”

And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost
in the air; the streets as clean as a ballroom floor; the lamps,
unshaken, by any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow.
By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very
solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very
silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses
were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of
the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson
had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd, light
footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had
long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of
a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out
distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention
had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was
with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into
the entry of the court.

The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they
turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry,
could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and
very plainly dressed, and the look of him, even at that distance, went
somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made
straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he
came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home.

Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Mr. Hyde, I think?”

Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear
was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face,
he answered coolly enough: “That is my name. What do you want?”

“I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. “I am an old friend of
Dr. Jekyll’s—Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street—you must have heard my name;
and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.”

“You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. Hyde,
blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but still without looking up,
“How did you know me?” he asked.

“On your side,” said Mr. Utterson, “will you do me a favour?”

“With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?”

“Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer.

Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden
reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared
at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall know you
again,” said Mr. Utterson. “It may be useful.”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “it is as well we have, met; and _à propos_,
you should have my address.” And he gave a number of a street in Soho.

“Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson, “can he, too, have been thinking of
the will?” But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in
acknowledgment of the address.

“And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?”

“By description,” was the reply.

“Whose description?”

“We have common friends,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Common friends?” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. “Who are they?”

“Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer.

“He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. “I did not
think you would have lied.”

“Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.”

The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with
extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into
the house.

The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of
disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every
step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental
perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a
class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an
impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a
displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of
murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky,
whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against
him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown
disgust, loathing, and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him.
“There must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There is
something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man
seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? or can it be
the old story of Dr. Fell? or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul
that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The
last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s
signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.”

Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient,
handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate
and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men:
map-engravers, architects, shady lawyers, and the agents of obscure
enterprises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still
occupied entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of
wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for
the fan-light, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed,
elderly servant opened the door.

“Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?” asked the lawyer.

“I will see, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he
spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall, paved with flags,
warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire,
and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. “Will you wait here by the
fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining room?”

“Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the
tall fender. This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy
of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of
it as the pleasantest room in London. But to-night there was a shudder
in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what
was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of
his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the
firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the
shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently
returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out.

“I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting-room door, Poole,” he said.
“Is that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?”

“Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. “Mr. Hyde has a
key.”

“Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man,
Poole,” resumed the other musingly.

“Yes, sir, he do indeed,” said Poole. “We have all orders to obey him.”

“I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson.

“O, dear no, sir. He never _dines_ here,” replied the butler. “Indeed
we see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes
and goes by the laboratory.”

“Well, good-night, Poole.”

“Good-night, Mr. Utterson.”

And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry
Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep waters! He was
wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of
God, there is no statute of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost
of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment
coming, _pede claudo_, years after memory has forgotten and self-love
condoned the fault.” And the lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded a
while on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, lest by
chance some Jack-in-the-Box of an old iniquity should leap to light
there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of
their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by
the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and
fearful gratitude by the many that he had come so near to doing, yet
avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a
spark of hope. “This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he,
“must have secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him;
secrets compared to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine.
Things cannot continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this
creature stealing like a thief to Harry’s bedside; poor Harry, what a
wakening! And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence
of the will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ay, I must put my
shoulder to the wheel if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll
will only let me.” For once more he saw before his mind’s eye, as clear
as a transparency, the strange clauses of the will.

DR. JEKYLL WAS QUITE AT EASE

A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of
his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent,
reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so
contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This
was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of
times. Where Utterson was liked, he was liked well. Hosts loved to
detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had
already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit a while in his
unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in
the man’s rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this
rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite
side of the fire—a large, well-made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with
something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and
kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson
a sincere and warm affection.

“I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll,” began the latter. “You
know that will of yours?”

A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful;
but the doctor carried it off gaily. “My poor Utterson,” said he, “you
are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as
you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at
what he called my scientific heresies. Oh, I know he’s a good
fellow—you needn’t frown—an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see
more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant
pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon.”

“You know I never approved of it,” pursued Utterson, ruthlessly
disregarding the fresh topic.

“My will? Yes, certainly, I know that,” said the doctor, a trifle
sharply. “You have told me so.”

“Well, I tell you so again,” continued the lawyer. “I have been
learning something of young Hyde.”

The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and
there came a blackness about his eyes. “I do not care to hear more,”
said he. “This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop.”

“What I heard was abominable,” said Utterson.

“It can make no change. You do not understand my position,” returned
the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. “I am painfully
situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a very strange one.
It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking.”

“Jekyll,” said Utterson, “you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a
clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you
out of it.”

“My good Utterson,” said the doctor, “this is very good of you, this is
downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I
believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before
myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn’t what you fancy;
it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I
will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde.
I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I
will just add one little word, Utterson, that I’m sure you’ll take in
good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep.”

Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire.

“I have no doubt you are perfectly right,” he said at last, getting to
his feet.

“Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last
time I hope,” continued the doctor, “there is one point I should like
you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I
know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But, I
do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and
if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will
bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you
knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise.”

“I can’t pretend that I shall ever like him,” said the lawyer.

“I don’t ask that,” pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other’s
arm; “I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake,
when I am no longer here.”

Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. “Well,” said he, “I promise.”

THE CAREW MURDER CASE

Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18——, London was startled
by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by
the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A
maid servant living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone
up-stairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in
the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the
lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the
full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon
her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a
dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she
narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all
men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became
aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near
along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small
gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come
within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man
bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness.
It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great
importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he
were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he
spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such
an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something
high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered
to the other, and she was surprised to recognise in him a certain Mr.
Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a
dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling;
but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an
ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a
great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and
carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman
took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle
hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to
the earth. And next moment, with ape-like fury, he was trampling his
victim under foot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the
bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At
the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted.

It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police.
The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle
of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been
done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had
broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and
one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other,
without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a
gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a
sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the
post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson.

This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of
bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances,
than he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing till I have seen
the body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to
wait while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried
through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body
had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded.

“Yes,” said he, “I recognise him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir
Danvers Carew.”

“Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the next
moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. “This will make a
deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to the man.” And
he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken
stick.

Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the
stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and
battered as it was, he recognised it for one that he had himself
presented many years before to Henry Jekyll.

“Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired.

“Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid
calls him,” said the officer.

Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come
with me in my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.”

It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the
season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the
wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so
that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a
marvellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be
dark like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich,
lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here,
for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of
daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal
quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy
ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been
extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful
re-invasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district
of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of
the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive,
he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s
officers, which may at times assail the most honest.

As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a
little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French
eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and twopenny
salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of
different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning
glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part,
as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings.
This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to
a quarter of a million sterling.

An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an
evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes,
she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in
that night very late, but had gone away again in less than an hour;
there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and
he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she
had seen him till yesterday.

“Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when
the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you
who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland
Yard.”

A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she,
“he is in trouble! What has he done?”

Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a very
popular character,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just
let me and this gentleman have a look about us.”

In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained
otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these
were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled with
wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung
upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who
was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and
agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark
of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the
floor, with their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and
on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had
been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt-end
of a green cheque-book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the
other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched
his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the
bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the
murderer’s credit, completed his gratification.

“You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my
hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick
or, above all, burned the cheque-book. Why, money’s life to the man. We
have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the
handbills.”

This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had
numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant-maid had only
seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been
photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as
common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that
was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive
impressed his beholders.

INCIDENT OF THE LETTER

It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr.
Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down
by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden,
to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the
dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a
celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than
anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of
the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in
that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless
structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of
strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students
and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical
apparatus, the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing
straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the
further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red
baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the
doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses,
furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business
table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred
with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the
chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and
there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He
did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him
welcome in a changed voice.

“And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have
heard the news?”

The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I
heard them in my dining-room.”

“One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and
I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide
this fellow?”

“Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will
never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done
with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not
want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite
safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.”

The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish
manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I
hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.”

“I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty
that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you
may advise me. I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss
whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in
your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so
great a trust in you.”

“You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” asked the
lawyer.

“No,” said the other. “I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I
am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this
hateful business has rather exposed.”

Utterson ruminated a while; he was surprised at his friend’s
selfishness, and yet relieved by it. “Well,” said he, at last, “let me
see the letter.”

The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward
Hyde”: and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor,
Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand
generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had
means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked
this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he
had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions.

“Have you the envelope?” he asked.

“I burned it,” replied Jekyll, “before I thought what I was about. But
it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.”

“Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” asked Utterson.

“I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. “I have lost
confidence in myself.”

“Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. “And now one word more:
it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that
disappearance?”

The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness: he shut his mouth
tight and nodded.

“I knew it,” said Utterson. “He meant to murder you. You have had a
fine escape.”

“I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor
solemnly: “I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have
had!” And he covered his face for a moment with his hands.

On his way out, the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole.
“By the by,” said he, “there was a letter handed in to-day: what was
the messenger like?” But Poole was positive nothing had come except by
post; “and only circulars by that,” he added.

This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the
letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been
written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently
judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went,
were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition.
Shocking murder of an M. P.” That was the funeral oration of one friend
and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good
name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It
was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and
self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for
advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it
might be fished for.

Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest,
his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely
calculated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine
that had long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog
still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps
glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these
fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in
through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the
room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago
resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, As the colour grows
richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on
hillside vineyards was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs of
London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he
kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he
kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the
doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr.
Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it
not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery
to rights? and above all since Guest, being a great student and critic
of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The
clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a
document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson
might shape his future course.

“This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said.

“Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,”
returned Guest. “The man, of course, was mad.”

“I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. “I have a
document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce
know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there
it is; quite in your way a murderer’s autograph.”

Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with
passion. “No, sir,” he said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.”

“And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer.

Just then the servant entered with a note.

“Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew
the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?”

“Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?”

“One moment. I thank you, sir”; and the clerk laid the two sheets of
paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you,
sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting
autograph.”

There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself.
“Why did you compare them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly.

“Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular
resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only
differently sloped.”

“Rather quaint,” said Utterson.

“It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest.

“I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master.

“No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.”

But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note
into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. “What!” he
thought. “Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold in
his veins.

REMARKABLE INCIDENT OF DR. LANYON

Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death
of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had
disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never
existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable:
tales came out of the man’s cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of
his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to
have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a
whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of
the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on,
Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to
grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his
way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde.
Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for
Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his
friends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and
whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less
distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air,
he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward
consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was
at peace.

On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small
party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from
one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable
friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against
the lawyer. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and
saw no one.” On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and
having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost
daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The
fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook
himself to Dr. Lanyon’s.

There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he
was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor’s
appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The
rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly
balder and older; and yet it was not so much, these tokens of a swift
physical decay that arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye
and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror
of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet
that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he
is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted;
and the knowledge is more than he can bear.” And yet when Utterson
remarked on his ill-looks, it was with an air of greatness that Lanyon
declared himself a doomed man.

“I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a
question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir,
I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more
glad to get away.”

“Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?”

But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to
see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice.
“I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any
allusion to one whom I regard as dead.”

“Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause,
“Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends,
Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.”

“Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.”

“He will not see me,” said the lawyer.

“I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after
I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I
cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me
of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep
clear of this accursed topic, then, in God’s name, go, for I cannot
bear it.”

As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll,
complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of
this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long
answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious
in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. “I do not blame our
old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never
meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you
must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is
often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I
have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If
I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also. I could
not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors
so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this
destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the
dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to
his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with
every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment,
friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were
wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in
view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper
ground.

A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less
than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he
had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room,
and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set
before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal
of his dead friend. “PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE and
in case of his predecease _to be destroyed unread_,” so it was
emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the
contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this
should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as a
disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure,
likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till
the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not
trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad
will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the
idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But in
the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man
Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible.
Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity
came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to
the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his
dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the
inmost corner of his private safe.

It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may
be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his
surviving friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but
his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but
he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart,
he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by
the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into
that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its
inscrutable recluse. Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to
communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined
himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes
even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not
read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so
used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off
little by little in the frequency of his visits.

INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW

It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr.
Enfield, that their way lay once again through the by-street; and that
when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it.

“Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never
see more of Mr. Hyde.”

“I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him,
and shared your feeling of repulsion?”

“It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield.
“And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that
this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that
I found it out, even when I did.”

“So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we
may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the
truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if
the presence of a friend might do him good.”

The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature
twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with
sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and
sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of
mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.

“What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.”

“I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor, drearily, “very low. It
will not last long, thank God.”

“You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out,
whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my
cousin—Mr. Enfield—Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and take a
quick turn with us.”

“You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but
no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I
am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask
you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”

“Why then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do
is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.”

“That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the
doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the
smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such
abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen
below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly
thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and
left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the
by-street; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring
thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings
of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion.
They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes.

“God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson.

But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on once
more in silence.

THE LAST NIGHT

Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when
he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole.

“Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a
second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?”

“Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.”

“Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer.
“Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.”

“You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts
himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like
it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid
of?”

“I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly
disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.”

The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered
for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced
his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he
sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed
to a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated.

“Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see
there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

“I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely.

“Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather
inclined to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play? What does the
man mean?”

“I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me
and see for yourself?”

Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and great-coat;
but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared
upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was
still untasted when he set it down to follow.

It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying
on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and a flying wrack of
the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult,
and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the
streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought
he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished
it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a
wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might,
there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity.
The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and the
thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing.
Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in
the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took
off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for
all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that
he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his
face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken.

“Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing
wrong.”

“Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer.

Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was
opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you,
Poole?”

“It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.”

The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was
built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and
women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of
Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the
cook, crying out, “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to
take him in her arms.

“What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very
irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.”

“They’re all afraid,” said Poole.

Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted up her
voice and now wept loudly.

“Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that
testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so
suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and
turned toward the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And
now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a
candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” And then he begged
Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back-garden.

“Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to
hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any
chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.”

Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk
that nearly threw him from his balance; but he re-collected his courage
and followed the butler into the laboratory building and through the
surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of
the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen;
while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and
obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a
somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door.

“Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did
so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear.

A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see any one,” it said
complainingly.

“Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in
his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across
the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the
beetles were leaping on the floor.

“Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “was that my master’s
voice?”

“It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look
for look.

“Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty
years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir;
master’s made away with; he was made, away with eight days ago, when we
heard him cry out upon the name of God; and _who’s_ in there instead of
him, and _why_ it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr.
Utterson!”

“This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale, my
man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you
suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could
induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend
itself to reason.”

“Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it
yet,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it, or
whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and
day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was
sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet
of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week
back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left
there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day,
ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and
complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists
in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another
paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another
order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir,
whatever for.”

“Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson.

Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the
lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents
ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He
assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his
present purpose. In the year 18——, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large
quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the most
sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, to forward
it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this
to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run
composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the
writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he had added,
“find me some of the old.”

“This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do
you come to have it open?”

“The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like
so much dirt,” returned Poole.

“This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the
lawyer.

“I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and
then, with another voice, “But what matters hand-of-write?” he said.
“I’ve seen him!”

“Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

“That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the
theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this
drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was
at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when
I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped up-stairs into the cabinet.
It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my
head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon
his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run
from me? I have served him long enough. And then…” The man paused and
passed his hand over his face.

“These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I
think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized
with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer;
hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask
and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this
drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate
recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it
is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain
and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant
alarms.”

“Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that
thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he
looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man,
and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,”
cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years?
Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door,
where I saw him every morning of my life? No, Sir, that thing in the
mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr.
Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.”

“Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty
to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much
as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still
alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.”

“Ah Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler.

“And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to
do it?”

“Why, you and me,” was the undaunted reply.

“That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of
it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”

“There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take
the kitchen poker for yourself.”

The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and
balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I
are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?”

“You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler.

“It is well, then, that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both
think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked
figure that you saw, did you recognise it?”

“Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that
I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it
Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see, it was much of the same
bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who
else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir
that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But
that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if ever you met this Mr.
Hyde?”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.”

“Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something
queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t
know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt it in your
marrow kind of cold and thin.”

“I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson.

“Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a
monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it
went down my spine like ice. Oh, I know it’s not evidence, Mr.
Utterson. I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings,
and I give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!”

“Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I
fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay, truly, I
believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer
(for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s
room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.”

The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous.

“Pull yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I
know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make
an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the
cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the
blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any
malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round
the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the
laboratory door. We give you ten minutes to get to your stations.”

As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let
us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the
way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now
quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that
deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about
their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where
they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but
nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a
footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor.

“So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better
part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist,
there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an
enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it!
But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr.
Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?”

The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they
went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread
of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he
asked.

Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!”

“Weeping? how that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of
horror.

“Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away
with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.”

But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from
under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest
table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath
to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in
the quiet of the night.

“Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He
paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our
suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if
not by fair means, then by foul! if not of your consent, then by brute
force!”

“Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!”

“Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with
the door, Poole!”

Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and
the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal
screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the
axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four
times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of
excellent workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock
burst in sunder and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet.

The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had
succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet
before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and
chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer
or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business-table, and nearer
the fire, the things laid out for tea: the quietest room, you would
have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most
commonplace that night in London.

Right in the midst there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and
still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and
beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large
for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still
moved with a semblance of life, but life was quite gone; and by the
crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung
upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a
self-destroyer.

“We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish.
Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the
body of your master.”

The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre,
which filled almost the whole ground story and was lighted from above,
and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story at one end and looked
upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the
by-street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a
second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a
spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet
needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell
from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was
filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon
who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they
were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a
perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance.
Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive.

Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “He must be buried here,”
he said, hearkening to the sound.

“Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door
in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they
found the key, already stained with rust.

“This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.

“Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? much as if a
man had stamped on it.”

“Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two
men looked at each other with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said
the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.”

They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional
awe-struck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to
examine the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of
chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on
glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had
been prevented.

“That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and
even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over.

This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn
cosily up, and the tea-things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the
very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay
beside the tea-things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy
of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great
esteem, annotated, in his own hand, with startling blasphemies.

Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came
to the cheval glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary
horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow
playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along
the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful
countenances stooping to look in.

“This glass have seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole.

“And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same
tones. “For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a
start, and then conquering the weakness—“what could Jekyll want with
it?” he said.

“You may say that!” said Poole. Next they turned to the business-table.
On the desk among the neat array of papers, a large envelope was
uppermost, and bore, in the doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson.
The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. The
first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he
had returned six months before, to serve as a testament in case of
death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but, in place of
the name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amazement, read
the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole, and then back at
the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the
carpet.

“My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in
possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see
himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.”

He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand
and dated at the top. “O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and
here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space, he
must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? and how?
and in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? Oh, we must
be careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire
catastrophe.”

“Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole.

“Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “God grant I have no
cause for it!” And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read
as follows:

“My dear Utterson,—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have
disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to
foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless
situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and
first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your
hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of

“Your unworthy and unhappy friend,
“HENRY JEKYLL.”

“There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson.

“Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet
sealed in several places.

The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper. If
your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. It is
now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall
be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.”

They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and
Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the fire in the
hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which
this mystery was now to be explained.

DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE

On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening
delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague
and old school-companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by
this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had
seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could
imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of
registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the
letter ran:

“10th December, 18——

“Dear Lanyon,—You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may
have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at
least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day
when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason,
depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you.
Lanyon, my life, my honour my reason, are all at your mercy; if you
fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that
I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for
yourself.

“I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night—ay, even if
you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless
your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in
your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my
butler, has his orders; you will find, him waiting your arrival with a
locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to
go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand,
breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, _with all its
contents as they stand_, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is
the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of
wind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in
error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a
phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you
to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands.

“That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should
be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before
midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the
fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor
foreseen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be
preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to
ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own
hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to
place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from
my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude
completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation,
you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital
importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they
must appear, you might have charged your conscience with my death or
the shipwreck of my reason.

“Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart
sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility.
Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a
blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware
that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away
like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save

“Your friend,
“H. J.

“P. S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my
soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter
not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear
Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the
course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It
may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event,
you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll.”

Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane;
but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound
to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less
I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded
could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose
accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to
Jekyll’s house. The butler was awaiting my arrival; he had received by
the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent
at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we
were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman’s surgical
theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll’s private
cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the
lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and
have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was
near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hours’
work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took
out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and
returned with it to Cavendish Square.

Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly
enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so
that it was plain they were of Jekyll’s private manufacture; and when I
opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple
crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned
my attention, might have been about half-full of a blood-red liquor,
which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to
contain phosphorus and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I
could make no guess. The book was an ordinary version-book and
contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many
years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and
quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date,
usually no more than a single word: “double” occurring perhaps six
times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the
list and followed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!”
All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was
definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and
the record of a series of experiments that had led (like too many of
Jekyll’s investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could
the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour,
the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could
go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some
impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The
more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a
case of cerebral disease: and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I
loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of
self-defence.

Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded
very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a
small man crouching against the pillars of the portico.

“Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked.

He told me “yes” by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him
enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the
darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing
with his bull’s eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor
started and made greater haste.

These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed
him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready
on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing him. I
had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as
I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his
face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and
great apparent debility of constitution, and—last but not least— with
the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore
some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked
sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic,
personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the
symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much
deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the
principle of hatred.

This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance,
struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was
dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable;
his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober
fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement—the
trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the
ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar
sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous
accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was
something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature
that now faced me— something seizing, surprising, and revolting—this
fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that
to my interest in the man’s nature and character, there was added a
curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the
world.

These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set
down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on
fire with sombre excitement.

“Have you got it?” he cried. “Have you got it?” And so lively was his
impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake
me.

I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my
blood. “Come, sir,” said I. “You forget that I have not yet the
pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.” And I showed
him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as
fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness
of the hour, the nature of my pre-occupations, and the horror I had of
my visitor, would suffer me to muster.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied civilly enough. “What you
say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my
politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry
Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I understood…” He
paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his
collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the
hysteria—“I understood, a drawer…”

But here I took pity on my visitor’s suspense, and some perhaps on my
own growing curiosity.

“There it is, sir,” said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the
floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet.

He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I
could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and
his face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life
and reason.

“Compose yourself,” said I.

He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of
despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered
one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next
moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, “Have
you a graduated glass?” he asked.

I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he
asked.

He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red
tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first
of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to
brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes
of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and
the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to
a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a
keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned
and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny.

“And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise? will you
be guided? will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go
forth from your house without further parley? or has the greed of
curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it
shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you
were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service
rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches
of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of
knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you,
here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted
by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.”

“Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly
possessing, “you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I
hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too
far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end.”

“It is well,” replied my visitor. “Lanyon, you remember your vows: what
follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so
long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have
denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your
superiors— behold!”

He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he
reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with
injected eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I
thought, a change—he seemed to swell— his face became suddenly black
and the features seemed to melt and alter—and the next moment, I had
sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to
shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror.

“O God!” I screamed, and “O God!” again and again; for there before my
eyes—pale and shaken, and half-fainting, and groping before him with
his hands, like a man restored from death— there stood Henry Jekyll!

What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on
paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at
it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if
I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots;
sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the
day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I must die;
and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man
unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory,
dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing,
Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be
more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was,
on Jekyll’s own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in
every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew.

HASTIE LANYON

HENRY JEKYLL’S FULL STATEMENT OF THE CASE

I was born in the year 18—— to a large fortune, endowed besides with
excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of
the wise and good among my fellow-men, and thus, as might have been
supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished
future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient
gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such
as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my
head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the
public. Hence it came about that I concealed my pleasures; and that
when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take
stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood already
committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even
blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high
views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost
morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my
aspirations than any particular degradation in my faults, that made me
what I was and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men,
severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound
man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and
inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of
religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Though
so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides
of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside
restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of
day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and
suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies,
which led wholly toward the mystic and the transcendental, re-acted and
shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my
members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the
moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth,
by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful
shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because
the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others
will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard
the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of
multifarious, incongruous, and independent denizens. I, for my part,
from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in
one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person,
that I learned to recognise the thorough and primitive duality of man;
I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my
consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was
only because I was radically both; and from an early date, even before
the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most
naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with
pleasure, as a beloved day-dream, on the thought of the separation of
these elements. If each, I told myself, could but be housed in separate
identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the
unjust might go his way, delivered from the aspirations and remorse of
his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely
on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his
pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands
of this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these
incongruous fagots were thus bound together that in the agonised womb
of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling.
How, then, were they dissociated?

I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side-light began
to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table. I began to
perceive more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling
immateriality, the mist-like transience of this seemingly so solid body
in which we walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to
shake and to pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might
toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter
deeply into this scientific branch of my confession. First, because I
have been made to learn that the doom and burthen of our life is bound
for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it
off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful
pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too
evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough, then, that I not only
recognised my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain
of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by
which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a
second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me
because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements
in my soul.

I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I
knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled
and shook the very fortress of identity, might by the least scruple of
an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition,
utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to
change. But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at
last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my
tincture; I purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a
large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from my experiments,
to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I
compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the
glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of
courage, drank off the potion.

The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly
nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour
of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I
came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something
strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its
very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in
body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of
disordered sensual images running like a mill-race in my fancy, a
solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent
freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new
life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my
original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me
like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these
sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in
stature.

There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside
me as I write, was brought there later on and for the very purpose of
these transformations. The night, however, was far gone into the
morning—the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the
conception of the day—the inmates of my house were locked in the most
rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope
and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I
crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I
could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that
their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through
the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw
for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but
that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side of my nature,
to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust
and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in
the course of my life, which had been, after all, nine-tenths a life of
effort, virtue, and control, it had been much less exercised and much
less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde
was so much smaller, slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as
good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly
and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still
believe to be the lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint
of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in
the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of
welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes
it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and
single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto
accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have
observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come
near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as
I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are
commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of
mankind, was pure evil.

I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive
experiment had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had
lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a
house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once
more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of
dissolution, and came to myself once more with the character, the
stature, and the face of Henry Jekyll.

That night I had come to the fatal cross-roads. Had I approached my
discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while
under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been
otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth
an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it
was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the
prison-house of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that
which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my
evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the
occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence,
although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was
wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that
incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already
learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly toward the worse.

Even at that time, I had not yet conquered my aversion to the dryness
of a life of study. I would still be merrily disposed at times; and as
my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and I was not only
well known and highly considered, but growing toward the elderly man,
this incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on
this side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had
but to drink the cup, to doff at once the body of the noted professor,
and to assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the
notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humorous; and I made my
preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished that
house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by the police; and engaged as
housekeeper a creature whom I well knew to be silent and unscrupulous.
On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr. Hyde (whom I
described) was to have full liberty and power about my house in the
square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made myself a familiar
object, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which you
so much objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr.
Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without pecuniary loss.
And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit by
the strange immunities of my position.

Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own
person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did
so for his pleasures. I was the first that could thus plod in the
public eye with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like
a schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea
of liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was
complete. Think of it—I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my
laboratory door, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the
draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done,
Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and
there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp in his
study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry
Jekyll.

The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have
said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands
of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn toward the monstrous. When I
would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind
of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of
my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being
inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centred on
self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture
to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times
aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from
ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was
Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse;
he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even
make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And
thus his conscience slumbered.

Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I
can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of entering; I
mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with which
my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it
brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of
cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I
recognised the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and
the child’s family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my
life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward
Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in
the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated from
the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward
Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied
my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate.

Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out for
one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke the next
day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about
me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room
in the square; in vain that I recognised the pattern of the
bed-curtains and the design of the mahogany frame; something still kept
insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not wakened where I
seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to
sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself, and, in my
psychological way began lazily to inquire into the elements of this
illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a
comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my
more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry
Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size:
it was large, firm, white, and comely. But the hand which I now saw,
clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half
shut on the bed-clothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor
and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of
Edward Hyde.

I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the
mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my breast as sudden
and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed, I
rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was
changed into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed
Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained?
I asked myself, and then, with another bound of terror—how was it to be
remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my
drugs were in the cabinet—a long journey down two pairs of stairs,
through the back passage, across the open court and through the
anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struck. It
might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that,
when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then
with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind
that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my
second self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of
my own size: had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared
and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange
array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape
and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of
breakfasting.

Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal
of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the
wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to
reflect more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities
of my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of
projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed
to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature,
as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous
tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that, if this were much
prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown,
the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of Edward
Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been always
equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed
me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double,
and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these
rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment.
Now, however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to
remark that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw
off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but decidedly
transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to
point to this: that I was slowly losing hold of my original and better
self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and worse.

Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had
memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared
between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive
apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the
pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll,
or but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in
which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s
interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot
with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly
indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was
to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a
blow and for ever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear
unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for
while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde
would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my
circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace
as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any
tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with
so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was
found wanting in the strength to keep to it.

Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by
friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to
the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses
and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I
made this choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I
neither gave up the house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward
Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, I
was true to my determination; for two months I led a life of such
severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the
compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to
obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began
to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and
longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour
of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the
transforming draught.

I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his
vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that
he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I,
long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the
complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which
were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I
was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was
conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more
furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that
stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to
the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before God,
no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so
pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit
than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had
voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which
even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness
among temptations; and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was
to fall.

Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of
glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow;
and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was
suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a
cold thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit;
and fled from the scene of these excesses, at once glorying and
trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life
screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make
assurance doubly sure) destroyed my papers; thence I set out through
the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind, gloating on
my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, and yet still
hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger.
Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he
drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not
done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of
gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped
hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot, I
saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood,
when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying
toils of my professional life, to arrive again and again, with the same
sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the evening. I could have
screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the
crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against
me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity
stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die
away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was
solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was
now confined to the better part of my existence; and oh, how I rejoiced
to think it! with what willing humility, I embraced anew the
restrictions of natural life! with what sincere renunciation, I locked
the door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key
under my heel!

The next day, came the news that the murder not had been overlooked,
that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that the victim was
a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a
tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have
my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the
scaffold. Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an
instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him.

I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with
honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good. You know yourself
how earnestly in the last months of last year, I laboured to relieve
suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days
passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I
wearied of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead that I
daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my
duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the
lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to
growl for licence. Not that I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare
idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person,
that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was
as an ordinary secret sinner, that I at last fell before the assaults
of temptation.

There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled
at last; and this brief condescension to evil finally destroyed the
balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural,
like a return to the old days before I had made discovery. It was a
fine, clear, January day, wet under foot where the frost had melted,
but cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s Park was full of winter
chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench;
the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a
little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to
begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I
smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill
with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that
vain-glorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the
most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then
as in its turn the faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change
in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger,
a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung
formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was
corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had
been safe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved—the cloth laying for
me in the dining-room at home; and now I was the common quarry of
mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to the gallows.

My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than
once observed that, in my second character, my faculties seemed
sharpened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came
about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the
importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my
cabinet; how was I to reach them? That was the problem that (crushing
my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I
had closed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would
consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another hand, and
thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? how persuaded? Supposing
that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into
his presence? and how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor,
prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague,
Dr. Jekyll? Then I remembered that of my original character, one part
remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived
that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from
end to end.

Thereupon, I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a
passing hansom, drove to an hotel in Portland Street, the name of which
I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical
enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could
not conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of
devilish fury; and the smile withered from his face—happily for him—yet
more happily for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged
him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so
black a countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they
exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a
private room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of
his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger, strung
to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was
astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his
two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he
might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with
directions that they should be registered.

Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the private room,
gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fears, the
waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when the night was
fully come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven
to and fro about the streets of the city. He, I say—I cannot say, I.
That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and
hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow
suspicious, he discharged the cab and ventured on foot, attired in his
misfitting clothes, an object marked out for observation, into the
midst of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions raged within
him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to
himself, skulking through the less-frequented thoroughfares, counting
the minutes that still divided him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to
him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote her in the face, and
she fled.

When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps
affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the
sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A
change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it
was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s
condemnation partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came
home to my own house and got into bed. I slept after the prostration of
the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the
nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the morning
shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought
of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of course forgotten
the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home,
in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape
shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of
hope.

I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the
chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized again with those
indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the
time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging
and freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a
double dose to recall me to myself; and alas! Six hours after, as I sat
looking sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be
re-administered. In short, from that day forth it seemed only by a
great effort as of gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation
of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all
hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the premonitory
shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair,
it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this
continually-impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now
condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I
became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever,
languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one
thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the
virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition
(for the pangs of transformation grew daily less marked) into the
possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling
with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to
contain the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have
grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now
divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of
vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature
that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was
co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which
in themselves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought
of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish
but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit
seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated
and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the
offices of life. And this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to
him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh,
where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every
hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against
him and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll, was of
a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to
commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a
part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the
despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the
dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the ape-like tricks
that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the
pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of
my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would
long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But
his love of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze
at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of
this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off
by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him.

It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this
description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice;
and yet even to these, habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain
callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my
punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity
which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face
and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed
since the date of the first experiment, began to run low. I sent out
for a fresh supply, and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and
the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was
without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London
ransacked; it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply
was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy
to the draught.

About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under
the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last
time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts
or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I
delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has
hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great
prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in
the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time
shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness
and Circumscription to the moment will probably save it once again from
the action of his ape-like spite. And indeed the doom that is closing
on us both, has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now,
when I shall again and for ever re-indue that hated personality, I know
how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with
the most strained and fear-struck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and
down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of
menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? or will he find courage to
release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is
my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than
myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my
confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.